Laugh of the Hyenas

by Ivan Roussetzki

  Belevski heard a sharp snap. A second later, the attacker collapsed onto the ground behind him. He didn’t need to see if the attacker was dead, because he knew from the sound that the garrote wire had broken the assailant’s neck.

  Without wasting another moment, Belevski ran back into the lodge. He threw on his sweater and coat and then slipped the hunting knife and blackjack into his coat pocket. The doctor knocked over the chair by the table as he stormed out of the lodge in the now-fading moonlight and ran into the forest, barely able to see what lay ahead of him.

  Belevski trudged through the wet trees and underbrush until he came to a muddy road. For the next hour, he walked along the road until an old truck filled with hay and firewood came along. The doctor waved, and the driver stopped. By the grace of God, the man was on his way to Sofia, and now, so was Dr. Belevski.

  When the man dropped Belevski off near the train station, it was nearly dawn. He quickly slipped inside the main waiting room, filled with dozens of people sleeping on benches or on the floor. The doctor found a dark, empty corner and sat on the cold concrete. He counted the minutes before he could go to the Central Post Office and contact the woman in black. He closed his eyes and begged God to forgive him for killing someone, even though it was in self-defense. The doctor wished that he could change his body, his face, and everything else that connected him to the man born Manol Belevski some fifty-two years ago. Knowing that request was impossible to grant, Dr. Belevski merely thanked God for keeping him alive another night.

  CHAPTER 35

  George Milev had returned to Sofia after depositing Dr. Belevski in his hunting lodge. He had no sooner sat down to an evening meal with his wife when the doorbell rang. When he opened the door, a tall Gestapo agent in a gray-green SS uniform snapped to attention and gave him the Nazi salute.

  “Standartenführer Wolff von Schjoderberg wants to see you immediately downstairs,” he said in German. “He’s waiting in his car.”

  Milev knew that this visit was not a social call—in fact, probably quite the contrary. Had Lupus learned that Dr. Manol Belevski was the radio spy and that Milev had helped the doctor narrowly escape the Gestapo by hustling him off to his hunting lodge? If so, Lupus had come to Milev’s home tonight with his death warrant signed and sealed. Milev kissed his wife goodbye for what might have been the last time, grabbed his raincoat, slipped his pistol into the inside pocket, and ran downstairs with the agent trailing close behind.

  Milev approached the black Mercedes parked beside the curb. His eyes slowly became accustomed to the dim street lights. Another Gestapo agent sat like a statue in the front seat with one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding a Luger. Lupus sat alone in the back seat. He was dressed in a black Gestapo uniform. An eagle-and-skull emblem glared from his peaked cap. A red swastika armband, epaulettes, oak-leaf collar patches, a belt buckle inscribed “My Honor Is Loyalty,” and polished knee-high boots completed his frightening attire.

  “Milev, get in the car,” Lupus ordered. “Helmut, go stand over there with Klaus until I tell you to come back.”

  Lupus grabbed Milev’s left forearm and squeezed it so hard that it cut off the circulation of blood to the Bulgarian’s hand.

  “I’ve been looking for you all day,” he said. The main vein in Milev’s arm bulged, and his hand ached. “Where have you been?” Lupus leaned close to Milev’s face and stared directly into his eyes. There was a heavy smell of vodka on Lupus’s breath.

  The police chief thought about reaching for the pistol in his coat, or if a full confession might save his life, but instead he decided to try blatant flattery.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, but I’ve been busy keeping Sofia under control, with the bombing and all,” he winced as his fingers throbbed with pain. “Bulgarians everywhere are rejoicing over Germany’s successes in Greece and the Balkans. We’re overjoyed that we’re finally getting back the land that rightfully belongs to us, which we have demanded for so long. All Bulgarians thank you and Germany for our wonderful rebirth.”

  When Lupus finally let go, Milev felt the blood rush through his arm to his throbbing fingers.

  “That’s all very well, George. I’ll pass on your gracious comments to The Führer himself when we next speak. Now shut up!”

  There was a moment of silence before Lupus bellowed, “He’s gone, Milev, gone!”

  When the waiting men heard Lupus shout, they moved toward the car with their guns drawn, but he waved them away.

  “Disappeared into thin air! I had him in my bare hands, and now he’s nowhere to be found! Himmler will make me pay for this mistake, Milev, and you have no idea how much. Do you realize what that damn son of a bitch Bulgarian doctor has done to my career? God damn him, God double-damn him, that bastard!”

  In the past, Milev had seen Lupus angry, but never to the point of losing his self control. If Milev wanted to step out of that car alive and see his wife and children again, he’d still have to play dumb.

  “Who is gone, sir?” Milev asked.

  “Dr. Belevski for God’s sake, you fool! That piece of shit is the radio operator we’ve been looking for, and now he’s gone.”

  “The famous Dr. Manol Belevski, a spy? You’re sure?” The police chief tried to look as surprised as possible.

  “Believe me, I know,” Lupus’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’re not the only one in this town with spies, George.”

  Milev held his breath and waited for what Lupus was going to say next. The German glared out the car window into the darkness. Then he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and removed his cigarette case. By the time Milev had fished his lighter from his coat pocket, Lupus was blowing smoke out the window.

  “What did you actually find out about Belevski?” Milev asked.

  “I have undeniable proof that he is the spy I’ve been looking for. My agents searched his house today and found his code book and his portable radio, but not him.”

  “I see.” Milev glanced through the window to see the two men still standing nearby. He was sure that any attempt to escape would end with him dead, face down in the gutter.

  “I had issued an arrest warrant for Belevski, but unfortunately, the idiots who I assigned to apprehend the doctor walked in the front door of his hospital and asked where they could find him. Needless to say, someone tipped off the doctor that Gestapo agents were looking for him, and so my bird has flown the coop.

  “And his wife and two daughters have disappeared, as well. The neighbors know nothing, and we have been unable to reach his wife’s brother. But I will deal with them later. Now, my prime objective is arresting Belevski.”

  Then Lupus spewed like a volcanic eruption. He shouted as though he were addressing a crowd of Brownshirts at a Nazi rally in Berlin. The men stepped nearer to the rear of the car, snapped to attention, and awaited orders.

  “I want him back, and I want him dead or alive, do you understand, George? Dead or alive! Himmler wants this spy, and I’m obligated to deliver him, even in the form of a lifeless body. Do I make myself clear?”

  Lupus’s neck bulged like an overripe tomato from beneath his brown shirt collar. Milev was sweating as if it were a hot summer night.

  “I want you, with all your power and authority, to launch a citywide search for that bastard Belevski. Turn this miserable town upside down, and torture every last man, woman and child in Sofia if you have to. I don’t care how you do it, but catch this pathetic worm. Catch him! Tell your men that I will triple their week’s pay if they bring me Belevski alive! And if they bring him to me dead, I’ll reward them handsomely for that, too, but I will not tolerate failure again!”

  After the last strained words left his mouth, Lupus stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. White specks of spittle had formed at one corner of his mouth, and his eyes flared. Lupus turned away from Milev, rolled down the window, and signaled to his men. When Lupus turned back around, Milev watched the German’s hands tremble with rage as he opened a fresh pack
of cigarettes and lit another smoke.

  “Do you realize how bad he has made me look?” Lupus said. “The Wehrmacht does not tolerate failure, and I warned you, neither will I. Now get out, and stand under the streetlight where I can see you.”

  Once Milev was out of the car, Lupus nodded to the larger of the two Gestapo agents, who in an instant grabbed the thumb of Milev’s left hand and twisted it until the middle knuckle snapped. The pain was so excruciating that Milev fell to his knees and nearly passed out, but his eyes were open enough to see Lupus’s smiling face through the car window just before the Mercedes disappeared around the corner.

  

  Milev’s wife, Veneta, was waiting in the hallway when he stumbled back into their apartment, cradling his twisted thumb in his right hand and holding it close to his chest.

  My God, what’s happened?” she cried.

  “Just get me a large towel. I need a sling. And hurry, I have to leave right away.”

  Using his right hand, Milev opened a closet by the front door and grabbed a semi-automatic rifle and box of ammunition from the highest shelf. Next he pulled his Luger from his coat, check to see that it was fully loaded, found another clip, and stuffed them back into his coat pocket. Veneta’s face filled with tears when she saw the weapons.

  “For God’s sake, woman, stop crying and help me with my boots!”

  He tried not to show how much pain he was feeling. “These are just a precaution, that’s all. Now listen carefully. If anyone asks you where I was tonight, you just say that I was asleep in our bed next to you—all night long. Do you understand? Please remember that. I’ll see you tomorrow, I promise.”

  He grabbed an unopened bottle of brandy, stuffed it in his other coat pocket, and ran out of their apartment.

  Milev’s thumb throbbed while he drove to his hunting lodge in the Plana Hills, but he was more concerned about how best to deal with Belevski. One thing was clear—the doctor’s days were numbered.

  “I knew I should have killed Belevski while I had the chance,” Milev said loudly as he gulped down a large swig of brandy. “And Lupus, that ungrateful, sadistic bastard! With heartless pricks like him, the Germans probably will conquer all of Europe in no time.”

  Milev thought about the defiant Winston Churchill. The British would fight Hitler to the death, and who knows, by the grace of God—or the Americans—they just might stop the Teutonic psychopath. Milev thought that perhaps he shouldn’t give up on Belevski quite so fast. Helping him get out of Bulgaria would guarantee Milev a friend or two in British Intelligence, just in case the Allies pulled it off. He sure as hell knew that he couldn’t trust Lupus to treat him any better than a stray dog.

  “Watch out, you damn idiot!” Milev jerked the steering wheel to the right to avoid an old man leading a scrawny herd of goats up into the dark hills. “Oh Jesus, my thumb, that bastard Nazi!”

  But Milev knew that his current pain would be nothing compared to what torture Lupus would inflict on him if he ever pried his secret from Belevski. And God knows it wouldn’t take long for Lupus to get answers that would cause him to break every bone in Milev’s body.

  “Come on, you old pile of scrap!” He pounded on the steering wheel. “Can’t you go any faster?”

  Milev wound his way up the mountain road to the hunting lodge in painful silence, consuming more than half the bottle of brandy in the process. About halfway there, he had decided to kill Belevski.

  “Dr. Belevski,” he would say, “Gestapo agents are watching for you at all the major border crossings into Turkey, Romania, Greece, and what is left of Yugoslavia. So, you must go east. A friend will smuggle you by truck to a town on the Black Sea coast. From there, you will board a waiting boat and go to Istanbul, where Jean Lopié and Helen Noverman will take care of you.”

  All lies, of course. Actually, Milev planned to drive Belevski to an abandoned fishing hut beside the Struma River, where he would put a bullet in the back of the doctor’s head. After he emptied Belevski’s pockets of anything of value, he’d throw the doctor into the water and let the river do the rest. When the body was discovered, Belevski’s death would be blamed on Romanian gypsies who robbed and murdered him and then dumped the body into the river.

  So what could Milev say when he came face to face with Jean Lopié, the French fool who sent poor Belevski straight into the police chief’s lair? He’d lie and set a trap for the Frenchman, too. Milev took another long draw on the bottle and acted out the conversation.

  “That was a cover story, Monsieur Lopié, as you probably guessed. In truth, Belevski was shot and wounded while fleeing from Gestapo agents at the Sofia Military Hospital. Thank God he wasn’t killed. He managed to escape and came to me for help. I’ve taken him to a safe place where the Gestapo will not think to look—at least for a while. But you must come quickly. I have entrusted a friend to give him medical attention, but he may not have much time left. He says he has vital intelligence about Barbarossa and will only tell you and Madam Noverman what it is.”

  Milev pulled another swig of brandy from the bottle.

  “Then, in one long blast from my semi-automatic, Jean Lopié and Helen Noverman will be dead. I’ll have killed not two, but three dangerous birds with one stone, and my secret will be forever safe.”

  Milev turned off the car’s headlights and drove the last mile to the hunting lodge by moonlight so as not to attract attention from any local villagers or to alert Belevski of his arrival. By the time he rolled up to the hunting lodge, the bottle of brandy was empty.

  “Good, the lodge is dark.” He slurred louder than he had intended. “At least the stupid bastard followed my orders not to burn any candles.”

  The lodge had only a screen door in front. Milev ran his fingers along the cold barrel of the pistol that lay waiting in his coat pocket. His mangled thumb throbbed, but the brandy had reduced the pain to a dull throb. A thin beam of light from his flashlight danced along the rickety porch to the window and finally rested on the screen door, which was ajar.

  “Dr. Belevski? It’s me, George Milev.”

  There was no answer. He tapped lightly on the door with the flashlight. A startled owl darted from its roost under the eaves. Still, there was no answer. A moment later Milev kicked the screen door open and scoured the empty room with his flashlight. A chair lay on its side. None of Belevski’s things were there. Only a half-eaten loaf of bread and some cheese were left on the small table. Milev’s heart sank—Belevski was gone.

  “Oh, you stupid son of a bitch! I help you to escape the Gestapo, and this is how you repay me? I want to help you!”

  He prayed that Belevski was hiding and would reveal himself after this performance. The only response was from a mouse that scurried across the floor and disappeared into a tiny hole in the wall. Milev walked outside and sat on the porch in the dark. He listened intently for a few moments, hoping that the doctor was somewhere nearby. He heard nothing but the night sounds of the mountains.

  “Oh Jesus,” Milev cried. “With Belevski on the loose, it will only be a matter of time before Lupus catches up with him. He can’t evade the Gestapo forever.”

  He walked around the side of the lodge where the darkness clung to the trees like a heavy cloak. That’s when he saw the shape of a person lying on the ground.

  “What? Who?” Milev leaned down, put his hand on the person’s shoulder, and shook him. “Belevski, wake up. Are you drunk and passed out or …?”

  The beam from his flashlight fell onto a familiar-looking felt hat. Milev groaned as he turned over the lifeless body.

  “Kostov! What are you doing here?”

  Without really knowing what he would do next, Milev ran to his car, jumped inside, flipped on the lights and started the motor in one smooth motion. The automobile roared to life, and the police chief flew down the mountain road back to Sofia as fast as the old wheels would carry him.

  CHAPTER 36

  I’m kneeling on the slanted roof of a tall brick house
, clutching part of a broken chimney for dear life. The gray-blue slate tiles of the roof are wet and slippery. The knees of my pants are caked with white clayish mud and green moss. A man and a woman stand beside me on the roof. They promise me I will be safe if I climb down a wooden ladder attached to the side of the house. I clutch the chimney even tighter as I look down to the ground. A few bricks from the chimney fall and just miss my head. They land on the ground far below with a thud.

  I look down and see a small man in front of the house. He is admiring a large white sheet splattered with dark red patches as if it were a painting. I’m dizzy from the height. I ask the woman if I can climb down through the hatch on the roof, but she says, “No, it’s nailed shut. There is only one way down.”

  A second later the house is surrounded by swampy green-brown water. I hear it slapping against the eaves. The woman climbs onto the ladder, and it floats away with her on it. The man says, “You’re next.” I climb down to the edge of the roof. My feet slip on the slimy slate roof tiles, and I slide helplessly into the murky water.

  “My glasses! I don’t want to lose my glasses,” I cry. I pull them from my face and try to put them in my shirt pocket, but I can’t find the opening.

  I am sinking underwater—gasping for air. With only one hand free and the other holding my glasses, I struggle to lift my head above the water, but something holds me down. At first, I think it’s the thin branches of a tree preventing me from reaching the surface, but I am wrong. It’s the man’s hand.

  

  Belevski opened his eyes to see that he was still alone in a dark corner on the cold floor of Sofia’s Central Railroad Station. Hazy streams of dim morning sunlight seeped through dirty windows into the large waiting room. The station was filling up with men, women, and children. Stacks of suitcases and bags and cages with chickens and rabbits lay strewn about as if they had been tossed off a truck. A family of ten or so Romanian gypsies slept entwined like animals, trying to stay warm. They reeked of garlic and sweat and could fight like a pack of wild dogs if threatened, but that wouldn’t prevent the police or soldiers from demanding to see their papers.