Laugh of the Hyenas

by Ivan Roussetzki

  “Oh, but I’m being rude not to offer you any entertainment. Here is today’s newspaper. Smile for the camera! Would you care for some refreshment? You must be thirsty. And Radoj, you really should try to take better care of yourself. I’ll have one of my men bring you something to drink.”

  Danev stared at Milev and coughed. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  “What is it you want from me?”

  Without answering him, Milev left the room, knowing that under normal circumstances, Danev would never choose to betray his fellow Communists. He was no fool and figured that Milev didn’t really want him dead because then Comrade Radoj Danev would become a martyr. If that happened, no amount of state propaganda would be able to paint Danev as just another criminal who disappeared one night in the basement of Sofia’s Central Police Station.

  Alive, Danev’s charisma and political teachings had motivated intellectuals, students, and workers throughout Bulgaria. Dead, however, he would hold even more influence over these fanatics, who had shown that they were ready to sacrifice their lives for his leftist philosophy. The last thing in the world Milev needed now were more Communist troublemakers spreading chaos and discontent in his domain, especially with Lupus breathing down his neck.

  Milev had to be smart, because over the last few years, while he detested their political ideology, he had learned to respect the Communists for their tenacity. Fortunately, the Bulgarian policeman held another card that would, hopefully, loosen Danev’s tongue. Milev smiled.

  “Rosaline Ignatova is quite a beautiful and intelligent young lady, Comrade Danev. It would be a shame to limit the future of such a bright fourteen-year-old, don’t you agree?”

  Danev twisted his battered body in the chair. The rage in his eyes grew until Milev thought the man’s head would explode.

  “If you touch her, Milev, I swear, I’ll kill you with my own hands!”

  “Yes, of course. You know that I deplore violence,” Milev said. “Your daughter—yes I know that she is your daughter and living with her grandmother in the village of Slaveyno—will be safe, Comrade Danev. You have my word. That is, as long as you cooperate with me. If you do, I guarantee that no harm will come to her. However, if you do not ... Well, that choice is up to you.”

  If looks could kill, Milev would have died on the spot. Realizing that the policeman had the upper hand, Danev provided Milev with information that led to the arrest of seven Communist fugitives living in and around Sofia. As far as Danev was concerned, these seven comrades were expendable, particularly the one who told Milev about Rosaline’s identity and her whereabouts. Milev was happy, too, as these common criminals had been thorns in his side for the last three years.

  

  Minister Pavlov, the Bulgarian Chairman of the Government Security Committee, was so pleased with the recent crackdown on the Communists that he whispered a good word into Czar Boris’s ear on Milev’s behalf. As a result, George Milev was promoted to General at a ceremony in the Vrahja, the famous chateau of Czar Boris’s father, Ferdinard. The older Austrian Czar was notorious for his extravagant tastes and, in fact, was the first person to introduce the Bulgarians to a European style of monarchy.

  Milev waited in a special ceremonial room at the chateau along with three other officers from various branches of the army who were also being promoted. Dressed in his best official uniform, he straightened his red coat, adjusted his broad white belt, and brushed away specks of lint from his dark blue pants.

  The room in which they sat overflowed with opulent furniture from the French period of King Louis XIV. The spacious interior reflected Ferdinand’s love of fine jewels, precious metals and exquisite craftsmanship. Gold, silver, and gemstones seemed to sparkle from every corner. Countless miniature prisms from the crystal chandeliers cast light on the art-adorned walls and parquet floors. The largest painting by far was of the bearded old Czar Ferdinand himself. He was perched heroically upon a great horse as he rode the hills of Luleburgas during a battle of the First Balkan War in 1912.

  As the time approached for Milev to meet Czar Boris, he was so nervous that he could barely breathe. An official entered the room to make the eagerly awaited announcement.

  “Your attention, please. The Czar, Boris the Third Tarnovski!”

  Milev and the others in the room stood like statues as the Commander-in-Chief walked into the room wearing a dark green military uniform. Shinning gold and silver medals in the shape of large stars, colorful silk bands, and brown leather straps covered his chest, while his knee-high black boots glistened like polished glass. Boris was a short, balding man with a forehead that descended to a classic Roman nose. His well-trimmed mustache made him look like an aristocrat. His eyes were no larger than two bullet holes on his pale face. Minister Pavlov and the Chief of Staff, General Stoev, followed closely behind him.

  “Good day, Generals,” the Czar said. They saluted. “What a truly pleasant afternoon.”

  His Majesty stopped in front of each of them and gave another brisk salute.

  “Let the ceremony begin!” he announced. The audience applauded.

  Minister Pavlov and General Stoev gave short speeches describing each of their achievements. Four guardsmen then entered the room, bearing their golden epaulettes and swords.

  “I’m sure you are ready to die for me at this very moment, my Generals,” the Czar said, “but I’m ordering you to live a long life so that you can guard the Crown of the Bulgarian Kingdom.”

  “Long live the Czar!” Milev shouted along with the others, kneeling down before him. It was the proudest moment in his life when Czar Boris placed the pair of golden epaulettes on his shoulders and set the gleaming silver sword in his hands. Milev stood and kissed the ceremonial weapon as if it were a beautiful woman.

  The Czar smiled, turned to the musicians on a small balcony in the corner of the hall, and gave them a signal to play. At the same time, servants served drinks as the music of the Italian Romantic composer, Giuseppe Verdi and the sounds of clinking glasses of bubbling champagne filled the room. Milev had consumed his third glass when His Majesty casually sauntered along beside him.

  “Please join me for a short walk in the garden, General. I believe we could use some fresh air.”

  They crossed the stone terrace behind the chateau, entered the garden and stopped at a fountain to admire three beautifully carved marble dolphins.

  “You know, General Milev, my father was a botanist and a great admirer of nature. In fact, when I was a child, he insisted that I learn the scientific names for every plant and animal on our estate. Knowing a person’s true identity is important, isn’t that so, General?”

  Milev knew that the Czar’s roundabout conversation concerned more than the names of the flora and fauna in his garden, so he only smiled and nodded his head. A moment later, the King spoke again.

  “Of course, I have my own intelligence service, General, but I need your help in a different way—as a Bulgarian to a Bulgarian. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “I am always at your service, your Majesty.”

  “Of course you are, but not as another humble servant. I understand that you speak German rather well.”

  “I can carry on a conversation, your Majesty.”

  The Czar’s eyes narrowed as he raised one eyebrow. The corner of his mouth revealed a small grin.

  “Don’t be modest, General. You graduated from the Polytechnic Institute in Berlin on July 12, 1923, and earned your police credentials from the Dresden Police School on September 17, 1925. You must speak German like a true Berliner, I should imagine.”

  Czar Boris’s wit was as sharp as his ability to engage in a cunning game when it came to politics. Milev was flattered, but he wondered what, exactly, the Czar wanted him to do.

  “You are well informed, your Majesty.”

  “Not nearly enough, General, not nearly enough. For example, I know that for some time you have been helping a German agent known as ‘Lupus.’ I’m
told that he is with the Gestapo, but that is all I know about him.”

  Milev’s heart beat faster as he tried to guess where the conversation was going.

  “You understand that the Czar must know what is going on in his domain, eh, General? A poorly informed—or worse—incorrectly informed Czar is a blind leader. But to see and know everything, I need many eyes, many ears. I want you to be my personal eyes and ears, especially when it comes to the Germans. I want to know everything there is to know about this Lupus character. Whatever you learn must remain a secret between us until I decide otherwise. No one, not even Minister Pavlov or General Stoev, must know about your assignment. Do I make myself clear, General?”

  “Completely, your Highness!”

  “So can you do that for me, soldier?”

  “Absolutely!”

  The Czar smiled again as he took Milev’s elbow and spoke in a whisper.

  “Then let’s return for another glass of champagne before someone suspects us of treachery, shall we?”

  

  When Milev returned to police headquarters, he sat at his desk and admired his new sword and epaulettes. He was still working for Czar Boris, despite the fact that Lupus and the Germans were really in charge of the Bulgarian Secret Police. But a few days later, Lupus sent Milev a gift. It was a blackjack issued by the Gestapo. With its leather-covered shaft and lead-filled, leather-covered head, this nasty weapon could persuade even the most tight-lipped prisoner to talk, or, if necessary, deliver a fatal blow to the temple.

  It was one of Lupus’s favorite weapons, especially for eliciting information from reluctant captives. The weapon had been decorated with a swastika and inscribed with “The Third Reich or Hell.”

  A short note was enclosed: “Congratulations, General Milev. Never let the blind see again!”

  Deciphering Lupus’s motives was always tricky, but Milev could only guess that he had sent him the gift and note because he was concerned that their relationship might get complicated. After all, Lupus was a Gestapo Colonel issuing orders to a Bulgarian General. As for Milev, he was ecstatic over his recent victories over the Communists and his recent promotion.

  Two weeks of self-congratulations passed before lightning struck and set Milev’s straw house afire. During one of the now-regular secret sessions with Danev, who was back in his apartment recovering from an “automobile accident,” Milev inquired about the connections between British Intelligence and the Bulgarian Communist Party.

  Danev informed Milev that the Party had over the past year or so accepted some “independent contracting” from the British Intelligence Service. He assured Milev that this undercover work had Moscow’s blessing, and that they “work together with every anti-Nazi force in the country.” Danev then dropped a bombshell that sent Milev into a tailspin and changed everything he had worked for over the past year.

  “One night a few months ago a beautiful woman knocked on my apartment door, so of course I let her in. She told me that she represented a foreign intelligence service that wanted me to organize the assassination of the Bulgarian Chief of the Secret Police and the head of the Gestapo in Sofia.” Danev paused to let his words sink in and then added, “Perhaps if I had taken them up on their offer of money and weapons, I wouldn’t be here talking to you now.”

  Of course, Milev knew he had enemies; who wouldn’t in his position? However, as Danev described the woman—her long dark hair, slim figure, vivid eyes, and work on behalf of the British—there was no doubt as to her identity. She had to have been Helen Noverman.

  “Lopié and Noverman planned to murder me?” Milev said to himself. “And here I saved their heads from being lopped off by Lupus.”

  That was an insult Milev could not accept. British and French Intelligence were fools if they thought they could get rid of him that easily. Then Milev saw the true irony of his situation and his unfortunate predicament.

  Revealing his double-agent activities to Noverman could have fatal consequences. Now Milev couldn’t be sure that she actually believed his story when he went to her apartment that night in February, even though he’d helped her and Lopié avoid capture. But to this day, she was the only living witness to his confession of spying for the British. If Lupus ever found and questioned Noverman, she would most certainly reveal his secret visit to her that evening. If that happened, Milev’s life wouldn’t be worth a shriveled-up Vienna sausage.

  Danev’s revelation about Noverman and Lopié’s plot on Milev’s life altered his entire position. The Germans were winning the war, and Lupus was right—they were unstoppable. Obviously, the Allies had not valued Milev’s intelligence. It was clear that if he wanted to survive this war, he would have to remain loyal to the Germans—which meant that Helen Noverman had to die before Lupus discovered the truth.

  CHAPTER 28

  “What’s wrong, Manol?” asked Spasia. “You seem extremely nervous.”

  Manol Belevski couldn’t tell his wife that he was scared to death. Nor could the doctor reveal why he suddenly stopped being so friendly with their neighbors or why he constantly peered out from behind the window shade whenever someone passed their house. How could he tell her the real reason why he looked over his shoulder every few steps when he walked down the street?

  Did she believe her husband’s claim to be working late the night her brother, Major General Atanas Stankov, the commander of the 2nd Bulgarian Army in Pleven, came to visit them? Of course, Lopié would have wanted Belevski to pump his brother-in-law for information, but that was out of the question.

  “God help me if Atanas ever found out what kind of mess I had gotten myself and his sister into!”

  The doctor drank his glass of brandy in the nearly empty café. He no longer flirted with the nurses at the hospital because he thought they might be Gestapo agents or informants. He trusted no one and didn’t say much about his time in Istanbul other than how he helped the boy recover from his injuries. Normally Belevski would have gloated and bragged about his success.

  Whenever the doctor spoke on the telephone, he thought he heard someone listening, recording, and checking up on him. Instead of sharing a drink with his colleagues after work, he now went straight home and shut himself off in his study. Even when he was alone, he felt invisible eyes and ears observing and recording his every move, his every word—even his most private thoughts. Belevski was sure that enemy agents tracked him like a pack of wolves. He kept no secrets from his controllers—only from his wife, his friends, and his associates. He did not sleep or eat with any regularity because he was sure that the Gestapo or the Bulgarian police would burst into the hospital or his home at any moment and take him away.

  Perhaps Spasia had her own ideas about why her husband had tossed and turned restlessly every night since his return to Sofia nearly three weeks ago. Yes, she was right. He was nervous—very nervous. But at least the doctor had some money in his pocket. In fact, he had bought a car soon after his return to Sofia.

  Spasia opposed buying the car, considering it an extravagance, but when he promised to take her to her mother’s home every other weekend, she soon changed her mind. Of course, she didn’t know about Lopié’s order.

  “Dr. Belevski, if you are to stay one step ahead of the German and Bulgarian spy-catchers, you’ll need a car.”

  When he drove the small black Fiat up to their house for the first time, Spasia and his daughters gasped. The car was a few years old and in excellent condition. Belevski waved his family to get in. As he drove them through the streets, they squealed with delight as they rounded each corner. Since most people walked, rode bicycles, rode horse-drawn carriages or took public transportation in Sofia, pedestrians gawked at them as they motored by. The family laughed and waved back at them, happy to be together again. During those joyful moments, Dr. Belevski’s memories of Istanbul faded away, but not for long.

  Ironically, Fiat is the Latin word for “let it be done,” and it reminded the doctor of several key points that Lopié made d
uring his training.

  “Remember, find several places where you can carry out your radio duties—you need to keep the Gestapo guessing. Also, the places need to be situated high enough to transmit radio messages at a distance of about 500 miles. Plus, always be sure you can observe any approaching vehicles or people from where you transmit a message. Finally, you must choose places that have more than one way in and out, just in case you need to make a quick departure.”

  After a good deal of driving around, Belevski found the first location a few miles outside of Sofia, not far from the village of Boyana. He discovered the place when an old man who sat in a small garden near the famous Boyana Church waved to him as the doctor slowly drove by. He stopped his car and got out to chat with the fellow, who couldn’t have been a day younger than eighty years. The old man stood less than five feet tall, and his tiny clouded eyes, which rested under bushy brows, peered at the doctor through thick spectacles.

  He invited Belevski into a small building a few doors down from the church and offered him a glass of plum brandy. The doctor’s guess that the little old man was nearly blind was confirmed when he handed him the bottle and two glasses and asked the doctor to pour their drinks.

  “My name is Petar Valchev. I live down the road in a house behind the old church with my wife and my daughter, Olga.” The man took a long sip from his glass and sighed, “Olga’s husband died in the Great War, but that was a long time ago.” As the old man pointed to his house, through an open window Belevski heard two women singing a sad, Bulgarian folk song.

  When the deep melancholy tones and high warbles drifted past them, the dissonant melodies stirred feelings deep inside Belevski. Then he realized why the singing made him feel uneasy. The minor harmonies, incessant rhythms, and mocking words reminded him that Bulgaria had been at the mercy of larger foreign powers for over a thousand years.

  Christianity, Byzantium, five hundred years of Ottoman brutality, and the mystical culture of ancient Turkey had left their marks on the Bulgarian people. Now another force—the Germans—had decided to repeat the process yet again.