“But there could be a small fortune here!”
Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “It’s almost the hand of Providence intervening, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully. “I always say it’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow someone good.”
“Mrs. Pollifax, you’re being mysterious.”
“Yes, I am,” she acknowledged truthfully. “But now it’s time to go and meet Tsanko, and we mustn’t keep the blue car waiting.”
As Mrs. Pollifax and Debby advanced from the hotel steps to the curb the small blue car drew up, a young man leaned over to open the door for them and they climbed quickly into the rear seat. For fifteen minutes they toured the streets of Sofia and Mrs. Pollifax noted how frequently their driver checked his rearview mirror. Once he parked on a side street to allow cars to pass before he maneuvered out again to resume driving. It was half an hour before he abruptly pulled into a long alley, drove the length of it to an inside court, cut the engine and gestured toward a door ahead of them.
It was a rear door to a low, concrete-block warehouse. There were other warehouses and other doors emptying into the yard, all of them dark. Their escort unlocked the drab metal door with his own key and beckoned them to follow. They descended broad cement stairs and walked across an echoing expanse of floor piled high with wooden crates in neat rows. At the far end a door opened, emitting light, and Tsanko observed their arrival.
“Well, Amerikanski,” he said humorously.
“Well, Tsanko,” she said warmly.
“I was not sure I would see you again. I know that bad news brings you, but still I am delighted.”
“Very bad news,” Debby interrupted breathlessly. “They released Phil–cameras and newsmen and everything–and it wasn’t Phil at all.”
Tsanko nodded. “Yes, I learn this as soon as I returned to Sofia this afternoon. I learn more, too. Georgi–you have met Georgi? He is student at our university.”
“Hi,” Debby said.
Tsanko gave the young man instructions that sent him ahead into the room from which he’d emerged. Yet when they followed him inside the room was empty, which startled Mrs. Pollifax.
“We talk here, please.” He pulled out wooden crates and they each claimed one.
“We meet in strange places,” observed Mrs. Pollifax. “A cave, a furnace room–”
“About Phil,” said Debby impatiently.
Tsanko began speaking, but without looking at Debby, which Mrs. Pollifax thought ominous. “As I told you this morning, General Ignatov is in charge of this nasty situation now, and General Ignatov is a man of much resource. He has produced another Trenda–a stroke of genius, is it not?”
“But how?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.
“There is this young man, of a same physiological character, a promising young man highly trained in the Soviet Union to speak English, to accomplish various matters, but with the great misfortune to have become addicted to cocaine. You understand? A grave embarrassment.” Tsanko glanced at his watch. “He is just now landing in Belgrade to meet your press. He will be taken to a hotel. Tomorrow morning he will have performed usefully for his country–he will be found dead in his bed of a heart seizure.”
“Oh no,” she said sadly.
“Thus Philip Trenda will have been disposed of–but not in Bulgaria. Already it has been suggested to the senior Mr. Trenda in your United States that this is not his son. He knows, you understand? He will announce his departure for Europe to recover the body of his son. In truth he will proceed to Zurich to deposit the ransom money in a number account on Monday morning.” He stopped, still not looking at Debby.
“And Phil? They’ll release Phil then?” she asked in a hopeless voice.
Tsanko met her glance squarely at last, and after a terrible moment Debby covered her face with her hands.
“How did you find out all this?” asked Mrs. Pollifax quietly.
He didn’t reply; he said instead, “You see the situation. To free your friend would make too many Philip Trendas.”
There was silence, and then Mrs. Pollifax said in a stifled voice, “He’ll never see America again, then. He’ll die here?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s alive now?”
“Until Monday, when the ransom has been paid.”
He had never wanted to come to Bulgaria and now he would meet his death here. He couldn’t be more than twenty, she thought, and by Monday night he would be another statistic, another human being sacrificed to an insane political end. She thought of Philip’s father preparing to leave for Zurich, understanding the odds but praying that somehow his son might be allowed to live. She said, “His father will be hoping for a miracle.”
“There are no miracles in Bulgaria,” Tsanko told her. “Someone has said that in my country a happy ending is a battle where only five thousand Bulgars are sacrificed to save a hundred Turks or Russians.”
“Then we must make a miracle,” said Mrs. Pollifax fiercely. “Surely we can make a miracle? Just to stand by and let this happen …” She looked at Tsanko. “Your Underground group is somewhere nearby, aren’t they? Would you let me speak to them?”
Tsanko gave her a quick, startled glance. “You are always a surprise to me, Amerikanski. Yes, they are in the next room. They expect a report from me tonight about the passports.”
“I have a proposition to make to them.”
“Proposition? I do not know this word.”
“Let me put it this way. You mentioned a mental hospital in Sofia.”
“Panchevsky Institute, yes.”
“You said that several of your friends are there now. I happen to believe Philip’s there, too. That gives us a mutual interest in that prison, doesn’t it? And you have an Underground.”
His jaw dropped. “My dear Amerikanski, if you mean what I think you mean–”
“There’s the other factor, the political one,” she continued determinedly. “You don’t approve of General Ignatov–you said so–but if he succeeds with the ransom and with Philip’s murder then there’ll be no stopping him, isn’t that true?”
Tsanko stared at her from under his heavy brows. “You continue to surprise me, Amerikanski!”
Debby said, “Mrs. Pollifax, he seems to know, but I don’t. What are you talking about?”
Neither of them answered her. With an effort Tsanko wrenched his gaze from Mrs. Pollifax’s face. “You had better meet my ‘Underground’ before you develop ideas,” he said dryly, and he arose and moved behind the furnace. There he opened a small steel door and led them into a room that resembled a ship’s boiler room, its walls an abstract of crisscrossing pipes.
Four people turned to look at them in surprise. There was Kosta, whom they had last seen in Tarnovo, and Georgi, who had brought them here, and two other men, both of Tsanko’s vintage. “This is all?” said Mrs. Pollifax, startled.
“We are only amateurs–concerned citizens,” explained Tsanko. “We have never been militant revolutionists. It simply grew too much for us, seeing innocent friends threatened, misunderstood and sent to prison. Allow me to introduce you, putting aside last names, please. First I would like you to meet my old friend, Volko.”
Volko arose, beaming at her. He was very tall, a charmingly pear-shaped gentleman whose narrow shoulders sloped down to a swelling stomach hung with a gold watch chain. He wore a black suit and a stiff white collar. She’d not seen anyone dressed like that since her childhood, and then it had been a costume shared by bank presidents and morticians. He looked very proper, very dignified, but there was a sardonic glint to his black eyes that promised a sense of the absurd. “I am so much honored,” he said, very nearly clicking his heels as he bowed.
“Volko is the businessman in our group,” Tsanko explained gravely. “As a matter of fact this is his warehouse.”
“Volko,” she murmured, smiling and shaking his hand.
“And this is Boris.”
“Boris! The man who warned Shipkov on the street?”
Boris, to
o, arose, but languidly. He looked like a man who nursed a chronic case of exhaustion–once erect he slouched as if the effort of standing had depleted him. Every line of his face drooped with irony and her exclamation of pleasure at meeting him caused him to flinch, as if he’d been met by an unexpectedly strong wind. But the grasp of his hand was surprisingly firm.
“Kosta you have already met,” concluded Tsanko. “He has driven my car for me for many years.” If he had expected comment on the smallness of his group he was disappointed; Mrs. Pollifax was the more intrigued by the fact that in a socialist state Tsanko had his own personal driver.
“Hi,” said Debby, with a smile for Kosta.
“Does everyone speak English?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.
“All except Kosta.”
“Perhaps then you could explain to them what I’ve just suggested to you?”
“What have you suggested?” asked Tsanko bluntly.
Everyone had sat down and now they all looked at her expectantly. It was not quite the same as addressing the Garden Club at home, thought Mrs. Pollifax, and she anxiously cleared her throat. “I have an idea. A dangerous one,” she admitted frankly. “I’ve brought you eight passports from America which you can’t use because your friends have been taken to Panchevsky Institute. And there’s Philip Trenda–only a pawn, you know, a young American student who’s going to be murdered next week so that General Ignatov will keep his power. I think Philip’s at Panchevsky Institute, too. Here are all these people imprisoned in the same building. I think we should get them out.”
“Out?” echoed Debby in an awed voice.
“Out?” cried Georgi eagerly. “Oh–splendid!”
“Out,” mused Volko thoughtfully. “Hmmmm.”
“I have never heard such simplicity,” murmured Boris. “Just–out?” He snapped his fingers.
“Yes.”
Tsanko said, “Naturally we’d all enjoy very much rescuing our friends. Unfortunately none of us are magicians. No one escapes from Panchevsky Institute.”
“Then perhaps it’s time someone did,” she said. “What on earth is an Underground for if you don’t do things like that? I’ve never heard of an Underground just sitting around. They’re supposed to …”
“To what?”
She gestured helplessly. “I don’t know. Do things. Blow up trains, rescue people. That’s what they do in movies.”
“But this is not a movie,” pointed out Tsanko logically.
“But who else can get them out? What will you do with your group?”
“Rescue people when possible, yes, but not blow up trains.”
Mrs. Pollifax said, “I don’t see why you can’t rescue them while they’re in prison. If we all put our heads together–”
“You are naïve,” Tsanko told her bluntly.
“Not at all–I’m well aware of the risks and I’d insist upon sharing them. I’ve not come here empty-handed, either,” she told him heatedly. “Did you know that Mrs. Bemish works at Panchevsky Institute? She works nights in the kitchen from eight o’clock to six in the morning, and don’t forget that Philip is her nephew. She was utterly appalled to hear that he’s here in prison because of her husband.”
Tsanko said in astonishment, “You’ve seen her? You’ve told her?”
Mrs. Pollifax nodded. “Yes, of course, and I have every reason to believe she’ll help us. I think I can also promise you the help of Assen Radev.”
Tsanko looked at her in horror. “You know this Radev who followed you?”
“You explained him when you told me about the coat,” she said. “I think he’s a professional agent for the CIA.”
The reaction to this was rewarding to say the least. Tsanko said incredulously, “How is this?”
“I at once opened up the lining of my coat to see why it’s of such interest,” she told him, and brought out the sample bill, handing it to him. “This is what I found. It seems I’ve brought rather a lot of money into your country without knowing it. I think Assen Radev was supposed to exchange coats with me very quickly and quietly. He certainly tried–he must have been my burglar.”
Georgi said eagerly, “It is I who searched the valise. He walk around Sofia all the time carrying this bag. What a surprise, a coat so explicitly like yours.”
“It was a surprise for me, too,” said Mrs. Pollifax frankly.
“But this is Russian money,” Tsanko said in surprise.
She nodded.
He was considering this with a frown. “And even if Radev is a CIA agent it doesn’t promise his help.”
Mrs. Pollifax smiled at him forgivingly. “You might leave that to me,” she suggested gently.
Tsanko turned to the others and they began speaking excitedly together in Bulgarian. When he turned back to Mrs. Pollifax he said, “Georgi is eager, as only young people can be. Kosta is gloomy, Volko interested and Boris–”
“Dismayed,” said Boris heavily.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Pollifax.
He sighed. “I beg you to look at us, are we a group for violence? We have not even a gun among us. Have we?” he asked the others.
Volko said with a smile, “No, Boris.”
“You see?”
Volko added pleasantly, “But you forget, comrade, that my factory makes Very pistols, parachute flares and fireworks. Such things are made of explosives.”
“Splendid!” said Mrs. Pollifax, beaming at him.
Georgi said, “Boris, in class you teach us of violence, how is it you speak so negative now? You teach us how we fight the Turks and the Nazis–”
“But did I never point out we lose each time?” said Boris sarcastically.
Volko held up a hand. “Please, I would like to hear more of the Amerikanski’s plan.”
“Plan? How can there be a plan yet?” asked Mrs. Pollifax. “First we have to enlist Assen Radev and Mrs. Bemish, and then gather information about this Panchevsky Institute.”
Tsanko said grimly, “This last I give you now. It is impregnable, an ancient building, a castle. The Turks did their torturing in it. It is a large, square, stone building in the middle of the city. Around it has been built a high stone wall with sentry boxes and lights at each corner of the wall. Streets go right past it …”
Mrs. Pollifax said thoughtfully, “Why don’t we go and take a look at it right now? Is there a car available?”
The men exchanged glances. “Certainly not in a car,” Tsanko murmured. “We must not be seen together.”
“One of the trucks, perhaps?” said Volko. “There is one in the alley, a closed-up–how do you say, van? Georgi, you could wear coveralls and drive.”
“Ypa,” he said, grinning.
“It will be dangerous,” said Boris. “My God, if we are stopped …”
Tsanko laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “Then the Amerikanski will rescue you, too, from Panchevsky Institute, my friend. Come, shall we go?”
17
Crouched in the rear of the van, Mrs. Pollifax watched their progress over Georgi’s shoulder. It was early twilight. The lights of the cafes in the tourist district spilled out across the cobblestones along with the sound of strident nasal folk songs shouted into microphones that distorted the sound. A few people strolled along the pavement glancing into shop windows, but once they left the hotel area behind them all attempt at night life was abandoned and the streets were almost deserted.
They had driven for about ten minutes when Georgi said, “There it is ahead of us. The wall.”
It loomed in the distance, an anachronism in this newly created suburban boulevard, an ugly Chinese wall cutting across their path, bisecting the road and forcing it to split to right and to left. The boulevard had a mild downhill grade. At the bottom Georgi braked in the shadow of the wall and turned, following it to the right. They came out in a broad square–“This is the front, the entrance,” said Georgi–and Mrs. Pollifax peered over his shoulder at an expanse of flood-lit cobblestones, two shabby stone pillars embracing
the iron gate, and a sentry’s kiosk. Then the van passed, turning left to follow the wall down a narrow side street. On the opposite side from which they had entered the square, Georgi braked the van to a stop and they parked.
They were silent. The whole neighborhood was silent, as if crushed by this monstrosity of stone. Across this street on which they had parked, Mrs. Pollifax could look up at the wall as it rose fifteen or twenty feet above them. No actual light could be seen anywhere, yet an illumination like marsh mist hung over the compound, as though on the other side of the wall the sun had risen and it was noon.
“Damn,” said Debby in a stifled, angry voice.
Mrs. Pollifax realized that Tsanko and the others were waiting for her to speak, their faces turned toward her, and she could think of nothing to say. Her eyes followed the wall down the street, picking out the silhouette of the sentry box mounted on the wall at the corner, where it turned at right angles. It was a relatively primitive sentry box, no more than an enclosure against rain or snow, its windows glassless and open; as far as she could see there were no sentries inside. “Drive around the corner, Georgi, let’s look at the sentry box,” she said.
Volko said, “We should not go around all the way again, we have been the only traffic on the square.”
She nodded. “Once will do, surely.”
The car moved, and now other heads peered to look at the sentry station, too; Mrs. Pollifax could still see no men inside, although as they continued slowly along the last side of the square they met a guard ambling along the top of the wall, a machine gun strapped to his back. Then they were again on the boulevard from which they had entered the square; Georgi accelerated the car and they sped up the boulevard.
“Well?” said Tsanko, leaning over, and his eyes were kind. “You are ready to give it up now?”
Mrs. Pollifax looked at him and then looked away, not answering. The sight of the wall had sobered her; she was still stricken by the visual impact of its height, length, solidity, but above all by its officialness. Nor was this lessened by the knowledge that it was only a wall. There was nothing rational about a wall, whether it encircled Berlin, San Quentin or the ghettos of Warsaw. A wall was a symbol, fortified as much by the idea behind it as by bricks and guns.
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