“For God’s sake, man, I’m no spy!” the doctor said. “Who do you work for? I have a right to know!”
“Pardon me, Dr. Belevski. Perhaps I failed to make myself clear. I want to help you out of your present untenable situation. You do have a serious problem, do you not?”
Belevski nodded his head but said nothing.
“We all make mistakes, but I’m not here to lecture you. If you don’t want my help, I’ll leave and you can deal with the man who now holds those photographs. I haven’t seen them, but I can imagine what the newspapers here in Istanbul and in Sofia would do with them. What a shame it would be for you to throw away your successful career so those vultures can sell newspapers. They would ruin you and your family, and not even blink an eye. But what can I do about that if you choose not to take advantage of my offer?”
Belevski didn’t know whether this man, Jean Lopié, was a saint or a devil, but at this point, he had little choice but to agree.
“All right, all right! Please! I have a wife and children, and if they see those photos … Oh dear God, what do I have to do?”
“Everything in due time, Dr. Belevski. You’ll be home safe with your wonderful wife and children in no time, so don’t worry. There will be no scandals, no rumors, and nothing to be ashamed of. This little problem of yours will simply disappear, and everything will be just like it was before. And of course, we will pay you for your services.”
“But what about the Bulgarian Police? If they find out that I am a spy, they’ll arrest me! And what about my family? What will happen to them?”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Belevski. We take care of our people. I assure you, you and your family will be looked after.”
This Frenchman had made it all sound so easy, but Belevski knew the bitter truth. If the Germans or Bulgarians found out he had anything to do with the Allies, his life would be worthless. No one—no smooth-talking Frenchman or the goddamn whore, Helen Noverman—would come to his rescue. After all, they got him into this mess in the first place, so how in the world could he ever trust them?
Belevski thought that perhaps he could cooperate and play their game for a while, but once he was out of this godforsaken country and back home in Sofia, he’d figure out something else to get them off his back. But first, he had to get those pictures!
Just then came the dreaded knock at the door. Lopié opened it and motioned for the man to step inside. Whether they acted their parts or were truly negotiating for his life, Belevski did not know, as they spoke in Turkish. After several minutes of what sounded like marketplace haggling, Lopié reached into his inside coat pocket, removing a wallet and a large sum of Turkish money. The man’s cigarette-stained fingers reached for the wad of bills, but Lopié refused and instead pointed to the manila envelope. Reluctantly, the Turk handed it to Lopié, who opened the package and examined the photographs and negatives without as much as lifting an eyebrow or saying a word. Lopié then nodded his approval, put the items back into the envelope, and handed the man the money, who then counted the amount three times.
Satisfied with the exchange, the photographer turned to leave the room, but before he took a step, Lopié grabbed him by the collar of his wrinkled coat. The Frenchman stuck his hand into the Turk’s side pocket and removed one last photograph. The man looked embarrassed, shook his head and babbled as he waved his hands in the air. Then Lopié spoke directly into the man’s face. Whatever he said to the Turk caused the man to cover his mouth and emphatically shake his head. Then he hastily left the room without closing the door.
“He obviously can’t be trusted!” Belevski said. “What did you say?”
Lopié laughed. “I told him that if he tried to cheat me again or if I ever heard that those pictures showed up anywhere, I’d find him and stuff his mouth so full of pork that he would choke to death. You might call it a little insurance policy to keep him honest, protect you, and protect my investment.” Then his voice turned as cold as a Siberian winter wind.
“From this moment on, Dr. Belevski, you belong to me. You will obey my orders without question. Now please pack your bags quickly. We must leave this place immediately; neither of us is safe here. Follow me, and do not make a sound.”
Up until that moment, Belevski was a famous surgeon with a bright future, but no longer. As Lopié pushed him out of the hotel room, the doctor wondered what other dreadful events would happen to him. Would he become a dirty little informant who would live in constant fear and danger, not only for himself, but also for his family and everyone else who crossed his path or shared his friendship? Would he even survive this catastrophic turn in his life? As Belevski was about to burst into tears, the Frenchman snapped, “Come, doctor! We must hurry.”
Lopié led Belevski along the hotel balcony toward a staircase at the end of the building. For a brief moment, the doctor saw himself leap into the traffic rumbling through the streets below, his body broken and ruined. Perhaps a more honorable man would have jumped, but Belevski simply passed on the opportunity and trailed his new master down the stairs to a car waiting in the dark alley below.
CHAPTER 25
Jean Lopié and Dr. Manol Belevski sat at an old table in the sparsely decorated living room of a rundown house, isolated somewhere in the hills overlooking Istanbul’s Golden Horn. Through the dirty windows and standing pines that surrounded the house, Belevski could just see the southern end of the Galata Bridge. Under different circumstances, this hideaway might have been rather peaceful. However, its walls of peeling paint and its dusty floors recalled for the doctor the mess he had made of his life, not to mention the danger in which he had placed his wife and their daughters.
“Dr. Belevski, let’s begin,” Jean said as Belevski silently stared out the window.
“For the next week, I will teach you how to spy—and stay alive. As far as anyone else is concerned, after the operation, you took a few days off to relax at a hotel on the Aegean coast. Any questions?”
Belevski said nothing. He wasn’t going to make it easy for the Frenchman, not after what he and Helen Noverman had done to him.
“Now, Dr. Belevski, first and foremost, you must remember that every Friday in my radio transmission to you from Istanbul, I will mention one specific key word just before the end of the message. The word will always be an animal—for example, ‘cat,’ ‘bull,’ or ‘panther’ —and the word will be different each week. You must listen carefully to the content of the message as well as the weekly code word.”
Jean Lopié stopped and looked at Dr. Belevski, who was still gazing out the window.
“Are you listening, Dr. Belevski? I repeat, it is extremely important that you determine this code word for every transmission. Do you understand?”
Belevski supposed that it was important, although he didn’t know why, and he refused to ask. He had already resigned himself to say as little as possible to his new handler. Jean Lopié continued.
“After you receive the transmission, write the code word on a piece of paper, place it in an envelope, and on Saturday morning, take it here.”
Lopié placed his finger on a detailed map of Sofia.
“What is this building, Dr. Belevski?”
“The Central Whore House, what else?” he said.
Belevski had lived his entire life in Sofia and knew every inch of the city, but the man had the nerve to ask him if he knew the location of the Central Post Office? Did the Frenchman take him for a fool? Perhaps he was right, given what the doctor had thrown away.
It had taken Belevski twenty-three years of dedicated hard work to become Sofia’s leading surgeon and something of a celebrity in the medical field. He had spent twenty-three years in constant political battles and petty arguments with hospital bureaucrats and colleagues. Twenty-three years of overcoming the obstacles, stupidity, and jealousy that were rife among his peers. When the doctor thought of all the innovative medical procedures that he had introduced to his patients, it was no wonder other doctors envied him.
Then, when fate brought him to Istanbul to treat the Vice President’s injured boy, Belevski believed that God himself had seen fit to honor him. From then on, the doctor thought, life for him would be easy. He was sure that fortune let its golden light shine upon him. Belevski knew he would become rich and get everything he wanted and deserved—including his sexual fantasies.
The day he saved the boy’s life, the doctor became a national hero, and his face and name were plastered across the front pages of every newspaper in Turkey. By the next day, the name Dr. Manol Belevski was known throughout Europe. But when it came time to reap the reward of his twenty-three years of effort and enjoy his success, what had happened? A beautiful woman—a conniving woman who turned out to be a spy—seduced him, deceived him, and trapped him in a nightmare. That was a bitter pill for Belevski to swallow.
Lopié studied Belevski closely. Perhaps the Frenchman guessed that the doctor had been mentally replaying the events of the past few weeks, struggling to sort out what had brought him to this situation. Several minutes passed before the doctor looked Lopié in the eye. His jaws tensed, and the veins in his neck bulged with anger. When Lopié saw that he had the doctor’s attention again, he set a small envelope on the table.
“Inside the envelope is a key to mail box 174. Every Saturday morning—I repeat, every Saturday morning—you must collect the mail and also place an envelope containing the new code word from my Friday radio transmission inside the box. Do you understand, Dr. Belevski?”
The doctor said nothing.
“Dr. Belevski! Please concentrate.”
Lopié’s harsh tone stopped him—at least momentarily—from sinking further into the emotional abyss that threatened to swallow him every few minutes.
“The envelope in box 174 with the correct code word will tell us that you received our last radio transmission.”
He waited for Belevski to look him in the eyes before he continued.
“If, however, the envelope is not there, or if the code word is incorrect, we will assume that something is wrong or that you are in trouble.”
“Wrong? In trouble? What do you mean?” the doctor asked. “Like getting seduced by a whore?”
Lopié leaned so close to the doctor’s face that he could smell the Frenchman’s breath.
“Dr. Belevski, we are not playing games here. You’re not just a doctor anymore. You’re an agent spying on the occupying Germans and collaborating Bulgarian government officials.”
After he leaned back in his seat, he paused to light a cigarette.
“The Gestapo and the Bulgarian Secret Police are relentless in their pursuit and destruction of resistance fighters and enemy agents. One slip, one bad decision, one mistake, and you’re finished.”
Jean Lopié’s blunt warning created a dark scenario in Dr. Belevski’s mind. He was falling into a deep gorge, tumbling out of control, moments away from smashing onto the invisible rocks below. His illustrious medical career was on the brink of disaster, his family was in grave danger, and his life was about to become part of a real-life cat-and-mouse game, where he could easily end up as the dead mouse.
Belevski imagined spiteful Bulgarian policemen and cruel Nazis storming into his house, raping his wife and daughters, and hauling him away to be tortured and then shot. The doctor nearly screamed out loud when he envisioned the Gestapo setting his home afire as an example to his neighbors of what happened to those Bulgarians who resisted the Third Reich. When he thought of the pain and suffering his lust, stupidity and arrogance could bring upon his family, Belevski broke down and wept.
Lopié put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder.
“Manol,” he said. “I know you are angry and upset about what has happened to you, but you must trust us. I promise we will always help you in any way we can. We’re sorry we had to deceive you, but there was no other way, you must believe me. You and hundreds of other agents are fighting for a good cause—the right to live free! Without people like you, Hitler and his pack of hyenas will enslave all of Europe.”
The doctor was upset, but not so much so that he didn’t recognize a load of propaganda rubbish when he heard it. How did Lopié know that Belevski wasn’t a Communist and that he couldn’t care less about freedom or democracy? He realized that Lopié and Noverman’s plot against him began long before this trip to Istanbul. Even in Sofia, they must have known far more about him, his beliefs and his life than he could even guess.
“Yes, there are dangers, many dangers,” Lopié said, “but you are not our only agent in Sofia. There are others. That is why it’s so important that you listen carefully and focus on learning the things I must show you. Your ability to quickly master several difficult tasks over the next few days will determine whether you succeed or fail—survive or die.”
Belevski glared at Lopié but said nothing.
“In other words, Dr. Belevski, pay close attention, learn your lessons well, and you will live to tell your grandchildren about your heroic deeds. Otherwise, I guarantee that you won’t last one week once you return to Sofia. German Intelligence agents don’t make many mistakes, and you rarely get a second chance if you are careless. It is that simple. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Lopié’s stern warning refocused Belevski’s attention. He had no choice but to do what he was told for now. Lopié weighed at least fifty pounds less than Belevski, but the doctor knew the man had a gun and would probably use it if necessary. At some point, he would catch the Frenchman off guard—without his gun—and he would do what was best for him and his family. Then Jean Lopié, Helen Noverman, British Intelligence, and all the other bastards could go to hell for all he cared.
The doctor took a breath, swallowed his anger, and listened to Lopié.
“If you have a serious problem, are in danger, or need to get a message to us, leave a note in box 174. You’ll learn how to write messages in a code that Germans and the Bulgarian Police will not be able to easily decipher. Another agent will retrieve the envelope and messages from the box and pass them along to us.”
“And who might that agent be?” the doctor asked. “Don’t I have a right to know who I am entrusting my life to?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Belevski, but that I cannot tell you. The less you know about the other agents, the better it is for you—and them. Just remember that we can only help you if you remain in constant contact with us. Never miss a Saturday post. A good part of your training here is to keep you safe and out of trouble. We don’t have much time, and there is much for you to learn, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Jean Lopié was a precise and demanding teacher. The rest of Monday and all of Tuesday were devoted to Belevski learning to send coded radio signals using a Type B MK II suitcase radio that had a range of about 500 miles. He spent hours of intense practice before he could accurately send and receive no fewer than eighteen word messages per minute. He practiced encoding and decoding written messages and hiding cipher sheets or microfilm inside objects such as shoes, lead tubes of ointment, and even hollowed-out pencils. He was taught how to pass coded messages at dead drops, spot an enemy agent, and evade someone following him.
As the days progressed, Belevski actually began to enjoy learning how to become a spy. He seemed to have an aptitude for the job, particularly learning the Morse code. It was a little like performing surgery in that it required a good memory, a steady hand, and acute powers of concentration over long periods of time.
By Wednesday, Belevski was so determined to achieve the eighteen-word-per-minute goal on the radio that he stayed up all that night practicing on the training key. The following morning, he passed the test. Jean Lopié said that reaching a proficient level at Morse code often took several weeks or more of hard work, but that the doctor had mastered the feat in a fraction of the time.
When Lopié said he was proud of his progress, Belevski almost started to like the little Frenchman. Then he remembered who got him into this insane mess. In spite of Jean Lopi
é’s words of encouragement, Belevski became extremely depressed and angry. Nevertheless, with more persistent prodding from Lopié, the doctor buried his resentment and fear and resumed the work of mastering the skills that would keep him alive.
Learning the radio and codes took most of his time, but Lopié also insisted that the doctor learn how to defend himself, with and without a gun. Certainly Belevski knew how to use a pistol, but his experience with hand-to-hand combat was limited only to some childhood fisticuffs. After all, he was a doctor, not a soldier. He was dedicated to saving lives, not taking them. Even so, Lopié showed Belevski how to use a special weapon that was a gruesome combination of a blackjack, knife, and garrote.
“This weapon allows you to swiftly and silently overcome an attacker and escape with your life,” Lopié said.
He pushed a crosshatched half-inch button on one end of the tube, and the blade sprung from its housing and locked into place, ready to use. He pushed the button again and the dagger slid back out of view.
“This can be handy in a fight when you’re outnumbered.”
He held up the opposite end of the metal tube. On it sat an inch-and-a half round heavy blackjack that one could use as a club.
“Here is another handy little item.”
Jean Lopié pulled a six-inch garroting wire with a small weighted ball from a hole near one end of the tube. Then, to Belevski’s amazement, Lopié handed him the weapon.
“Okay, Dr. Belevski, now’s your chance to get even with me and get away.”
Lopié put his pistol next to a stack of money on the table.
“Here, come on, hit me with that god damn thing! That’s what it’s for, and you want to, don’t you? Come on! You hate me for ruining your life, so do something about it. You want to hit me, don’t you? What are you waiting for?”
Belevski had no idea what Lopié was playing at, but his taunts made Belevski’s eyes bulge. The doctor felt a rush of adrenaline in anticipation of a fight. His breathing and heart rate jumped, and a surge of strength pulsed through his body. This was the chance he had been waiting for. He could beat Lopié into oblivion, take the money and his gun, and escape back to Sofia.
Laugh of the Hyenas Page 17