Laugh of the Hyenas

by Ivan Roussetzki

  They climbed the stairs to a bare room furnished with two chairs and a table. A steeping pot of mint tea sat on the table. Lopié got right to the point.

  “Let me explain the situation. Several things have changed. First, we have all but confirmed that Germany is making preparations directed against Russia.”

  “But those are just rumors!” the doctor said. “Russia signed a pact with Germany, and so have we. The Bulgarians, I mean.”

  ”Manol, please. We haven’t much time, and I have much to tell you.”

  Jean Lopié’s stone face underscored the gravity of the situation.

  “Germany intends some kind of large-scale operation against Russia, either to intimidate them or for an actual attack. Ten German armored divisions—maybe more—have been ordered to the Bessarabian frontier in Romania. To defend their borders, the Russians have moved troops to the Moldavian Republic, so we know they are taking the German threat seriously.”

  “Hitler’s gone completely mad,” Belevski said. “He’s not expecting the Bulgarian Army to participate in an invasion of Russia, is he? Doesn’t he know that Bulgarians will sympathize with Russia, not Germany?”

  “No, we don’t think so, at least not yet. But that won’t prevent them from using Bulgaria as a staging area for their men and weapons.”

  “But that means that Sofia … Oh my God!”

  “Manol, listen carefully,” Lopié said. “This is your assignment. We want you to obtain military intelligence, photographs, and maps of coordinates and specific descriptions of various German anti-aircraft defenses and troop buildup in or near Sofia and in northern Bulgaria along the Romanian border. Find out anything you can about “Barbarossa,” the German code name for the invasion of Russia… and that’s not all.”

  Already dumbfounded, Belevski waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “We believe that German Intelligence is close to breaking your radio code, so we need to encrypt another code book with new key words and numbers. You must be even more careful when you make your transmissions, which you will double in frequency per week.”

  “Is that all?” Belevski scoffed. “Why not have me go to Berlin and assassinate Hitler and Himmler while I’m at it?”

  Lopié only smirked. “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”

  “And what if I refuse?” Belevski asked.

  Lopié shrugged his shoulders. “The good news is that there will be more money for you, and if I can get London’s approval to release you, this might be your last mission. But there is just one more thing, Manol.”

  Jean Lopié looked out the window at a pack of scruffy children playing in the street below.

  “Of course, you know of General George Milev, the Bulgarian Chief of the Secret Police,” he said.

  “Yes, in fact, I met General Milev before leaving for Istanbul.”

  Lopié’s jaw dropped.

  “You’ve met General George Milev?” He leaned closer. “When?”

  “Twice, actually,” Belevski said.

  “When, and what did you talk about, exactly?”

  When Jean Lopié removed a small notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket, Dr. Belevski could see his holster and revolver.

  “First when he came to my office for a back problem. After we discussed where it hurt, we talked some about the war and politics, but mostly about art and such.”

  “Art? What kind of art?” Lopié’s asked.

  “Painting, porcelain, sculpture, tapestries, furniture, rare books, manuscripts. Those sorts of things. Actually, it seems as though we have some common interests. Then Milev changed the subject and asked me about the Vice President’s boy. That’s when I told him I needed to return to Istanbul, and he kindly offered to help me with my visa application.”

  “I see,” Lopié said. “You said you met twice. When was the second time?”

  “When I picked up my visa at his office in the police station.”

  “Tell me what you saw and what you spoke about.”

  “His office wasn’t like a policeman’s or a bureaucrat’s office, but more like an art collector’s gallery. We had coffee and a rather friendly chat. He had a sixteenth-century round Italian end table that must have been worth a small fortune. It was most impressive. He said it was a gift from an Italian diplomat.”

  Lopié frowned and nodded his head for the doctor to continue.

  “When I commented on some of his unusual paintings Milev told me several were called ‘degenerate art’ by Hitler and that he got them, for a good price. I wondered why he told me that.

  Lopié wrote something in his notebook and underlined it twice. “What else?” he asked

  “He also warned me about spies while I was in Istanbul.”

  “Spies?” Belevski remembered Lopié’s habit of repeating whatever he had just said when he wanted more details.

  “Yes, spies. British spies, French spies, and, as he put it, beautiful women traveling alone. He cautioned me not to be ‘compromised’ and then asked me if I knew what he meant.”

  “Not an unreasonable suggestion, considering the source and the situation. And how did you respond to his advice?” Lopié asked.

  “I thanked him for his concern and told him I would be careful, especially when it came to beautiful women.”

  Lopié ignored the doctor’s glib remark.

  “Finally, the General told me─it sounded more like an order─to contact him after I return to Sofia.”

  “So, what was your impression of General George Milev?”

  “Given his frightening reputation, I found him rather interesting to talk to. He is an articulate, well-educated man, who honestly, didn’t look or behave like the monster some people have made him out to be.”

  Jean Lopié smiled. “You know that the Bulgarian Communists call Milev ‘The Butcher of Sofia’ because he has had so many party sympathizers killed in the basement of police headquarters?”

  “Yes, I had heard that rumor,” Belevski said, “and even more gruesome tales about his men’s methods of interrogation, rivaling those of the priests during the Inquisition. But these are rumors, mind you, and mostly from the lips of the Communists, whom his policemen constantly persecute. The thing is, I got the impression that Milev was not fond of the Nazis.”

  “No?” Lopié raised his eyebrows. “Maybe you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 33

  “What in God’s name was that?” Milev cried.

  The Sofia police station shook, and pieces of ceiling plaster fell onto Milev’s desk. He stood up and ran to the window just in time to see several bursts of light fill the night sky, accompanied by a string of explosions. Without really knowing what was happening for sure, he picked up the telephone and called his wife at home.

  “I think we’re being bombed! Take the girls and get down into the basement, and don’t come out until I get home!” He slammed the phone down, grabbed his briefcase, ran into the hall and barreled down the stairs.

  He heard Sergeant Letchkov yell, “We’re being attacked. Everyone, quickly get to the basement!”

  Milev, Sergeant Letchkov, and a dozen other policemen sat for the next hour listening to the bombs falling, too terrified to move. When a huge explosion rocked the building again, Milev was sure that Sofia had been erased from the map.

  After the bombing finally stopped, Milev mustered the courage to go outside and look at the damage. Numerous buildings were on fire or destroyed, and people were running every which way through the streets.

  “I saw the British planes!” A man screamed. “They blew up a train filled with ammunition! The whole city is in ruins!”

  Milev ran back down to the basement and told his men, “All right—it’s all over. Now get out there and restore order!”

  Once they had disappeared into the chaos, Milev raced home to find his wife and daughters safe, but frightened to death. For the rest of the night, they sat curled up together on their bed and thanked God for sparing their lives. The girls asked
him why they had been bombed, but it was difficult to explain.

  It had been a little over a month since the Luftwaffe joined with thousands of Bulgarian donkeys and German storm troopers at the Metaxas Line to overwhelm Greek defenses and plow into Greece and Yugoslavia. At the same time, Stukas and Messerschmitts bombed and strafed Belgrade, killing some 5,000 people. Lupus bragged that the Germans lost only one hundred fifty soldiers while capturing what was supposedly an “open city” on April 15.

  Meanwhile, Yugoslavian King Peter and most of his ministers fled to Greece, only to find that the Germans were bombing Athens, too. It took Hitler’s war machine only two more days to secure Yugoslavia’s official surrender, and less than three weeks to force what remained of the Greek army to retreat into Albania, while the British troops fled to Crete. On April 27, swastikas flew from the roof of the Acropolis, and Greece had become the latest country to fall victim to Hitler’s dark dream of ruling Europe.

  Bulgarian troops weren’t directly involved in the German invasion of Greece and Yugoslavia, but Milev knew that Sofia would become a target for the British because of its cooperation with the Germans. Apparently, the British pilots knew exactly what targets to bomb, because they had destroyed two ammunition dumps, three fully loaded ammunition trains, and a railroad line used to transport tanks and troops.

  The following afternoon, Milev met with Lupus in a small café that had survived the bombing. Lupus was livid.

  “Obviously there’s an agent right under our noses. How else would the British know where to drop their damn bombs? You promised me that you would find him!”

  “We’ve arrested dozens of suspects, Colonel,” Milev said. “We’re watching everyone with even the slightest contact with a western government. We will find him, you can be assured, but I need just a little more time.”

  Milev watched as the white skin on Lupus’s neck turn bright red and his jugular vein throbbed, giving the appearance that it was about to burst.

  “I’m telling you, George, for the last time, I want him,” Lupus said. “I want him now, and I want him alive. I’m sure that he can tell us a great deal about our other enemies here in Sofia.”

  He waved his hand as if to dismiss Milev, but instead Lupus’s face brightened.

  “Actually George, we have much to celebrate,” he said. “Our Führer has achieved several of his goals. We have dissolved Yugoslavia and recognized the independent state of Croatia. We have kicked the English dogs out of Greece and sent them running with their tails between their legs. And we have given you Bulgarians back the territories in Macedonia that are rightfully yours. Let us drink to the success of Germany and Bulgaria, and the wonderful times ahead.”

  Milev offered Lupus a smile, sipped his beer, and considered how these latest developments affected him. It was clear that the Germans had the upper hand and would likely win the war. This news might be good for Lupus and Germany, but not for him, at least not now that Helen Noverman and Jean Lopié knew about his secret dealings with British and French Intelligence. Milev wondered how much they had to do with the bombing of Sofia.

  “So George, when am I going to have my radio spy?” Lupus emptied his glass. “If you don’t find him soon, I’ll have you sent to the front to fight with the Italians, or maybe I’ll just have you shot for disobeying my orders.”

  

  Milev signaled for Sergeant Letchkov to follow him into his office. “So, what do you have to report?” he asked.

  Milev straighten one of several paintings hanging on the wall before sitting down. He and Lupus were tracking the same prey, only the German wanted to catch Helen Noverman and Jean Lopié alive—Milev only wanted them dead.

  “Was it worthwhile following Belevski to Istanbul?”

  “Yes sir,” Letchkov said.

  “Well, what did you find out? And don’t leave anything out! Come on sergeant, speak up!”

  “Y-y-yes sir. Ah, upon seeing Doctor Belevski exit the train in Istanbul, I observed a woman matching Helen Noverman’s description meet him and direct him into a waiting car. I jumped into a taxi and followed them to a small hotel in the city, where the woman left the doctor. From there, I followed the doctor to the Presidential Palace, where he stayed for about an hour.”

  “What did he do after that?” Milev asked. “For God’s sake, man, spit it out!”

  “Ah, yes sir. He went to the Beyoğlu and stopped in front of a small restaurant. He paused a moment, looked around, and then went upstairs and inside.”

  “Did you see anyone who looked suspicious?” Milev asked.

  “Well, sir, I’m not positive, but I think I saw Helen Noverman in the shop across the street.”

  “Ah ha! So I was right! What did you do then?”

  “Since you said not to let him out of my sight, I followed him inside.”

  “And?” Milev groaned, stood up and gave the young policeman a menacing look. “Oh for the love of ... What?”

  Letchkov looked like a dog about to get a beating.

  “I’m sorry sir, but I just caught a glimpse of Lopié and Belevski slipping out the back door of the café and down the stairs to the alley. By the time I got outside, they had disappeared.”

  Milev pounded his desk, “God damn that Lopié!” He fell back into his chair and grumbled as he thought over the situation and looked at the mess in his office. Milev could say now with a reasonable amount of certainty that Manol Belevski was an agent run by Jean Lopié and Helen Noverman, probably out of the Second Bureau of the French Secret Service. He also could say that Belevski was very likely the radio spy responsible for transmitting the intelligence about German troop movements, weapons stockpiles, and air defenses in and around Sofia.

  “Thanks to Dr. Belevski, our city is in ruins and my office is a disaster!” Milev said.

  Arresting Belevski could boost Milev’s reputation, but it could also prove fatal. If the doctor had the slightest knowledge of the policeman’s connection with Noverman and Lopié, it wouldn’t take long for Lupus to wring it out of him, and once he did, Milev’s goose would be cooked. Plus, Lopié and Noverman would surely figure out that it was Milev who sold out the doctor, and his escape route to the Allies and to the West would slam shut.

  All the facts pointed to a strategy of Milev keeping a close eye on Belevski but not arresting him or allowing him to fall into Lupus’s hands. This was going to be tricky, but the police chief couldn’t see any other way to handle the delicate situation.

  “Sergeant, I want you to keep an eye on Dr. Belevski twenty-four hours a day,” he said. “I want to know the minute the Gestapo gets close to him, do you understand? That’s all.”

  “Yes sir, but…” he hesitated.

  “What now, man? I’ve got work to do!”

  “He’s here, sir,” Letchkov said.

  “Who’s here? Letchkov, you’re getting on my nerves!”

  “It’s Dr. Belevski, and he asked to see you right away. He said it was an emergency.”

  “What? Belevski here?” Milev closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Where have you put him?”

  “He’s waiting in the storage room at the end of the hallway, sir. I thought it was best to keep him out of sight.”

  Milev felt the familiar knot growing in his stomach. “Oh shit, if Lupus shows up now, I’m dead.”

  “What, sir?” Letchkov asked, leaning forward so he could better hear his boss’s answer.

  “Nothing! Just bring him to me through the back entrance to my office, and put a blanket over his head. I don’t want anyone seeing him entering this room. Stand guard outside my door. You’re not to let anyone disturb us. Understand?”

  

  Dr. Belevski’s skin was as pale as a half-dead white fish, and his hands trembled. His eyes were red, and he looked as if he had been crying or had gone several nights without sleep.

  “What happened, Doctor Belevski?” Milev played dumb. “You look rather ill. Are you feeling unwell?”


  Dr. Belevski dropped into the chair in front of the police chief’s desk and asked him in a hushed voice, “Is it safe for us to talk in this room?”

  “What do you mean, Dr. Belevski, safe to talk?” Milev laughed. “Of course. What do you want to tell me?”

  “The Gestapo has ears everywhere, General.” Belevski looked around the room.

  “Perhaps they do, Doctor, but not in this room. Dr. Belevski, I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but with everything that has happened, I am very busy today. What can I do for you? Do you need another visa to Turkey?”

  Belevski stole a quick glance at the door and then leaned across Milev’s desk to get closer.

  “Three Gestapo agents came to my office at the hospital an hour ago and asked for me.” Milev could barely hear the doctor’s voice.

  “Fortunately, a nurse warned me so I could get away. I slipped out a back door of one of the wards and into an alley. I couldn’t go home because they might be waiting for me there. Someone … someone told me that … that you are a …‘friend.’”

  Milev’s face turned ashen. It was just as he had feared. Lupus moved on Belevski without informing him, and Belevski must know about his contact with Lopié and Noverman. Milev looked at this pathetic excuse for a man who only a short time ago was a local hero. He considered what to say.

  “The Gestapo wants to arrest you?” he managed to ask. “Whatever for?”

  For a long moment, Belevski stared at the police chief.

  “They said you were a friend … and that if I was in serious trouble to come to you, and you would help me.”

  Now Milev wondered if this was a trap set by Lupus to see which side he was really on. Milev decided to continue to play dumb a few moments longer.

  “You want me to help you escape from the Gestapo? Why would I want to do that? If the Gestapo wants to arrest you, they must have a good reason, don’t you think? Or perhaps I will just arrest you myself.”

  Belevski jumped up from the chair and looked Milev straight in the eyes.

  “I think not, Gospodin General, that is, unless you want me to tell the Gestapo the truth about you.”