Like a voyeur, Helen shared this secret moment with these two young lovers. She found herself yearning for her youth, wishing that her adolescence had been rich and protected, like this girl on the cusp of becoming a woman.
“It would have been wonderful to blossom into a woman, aware of only the good things that life had to offer and not this,” Helen thought. “My God, it’s nearly time to meet Kostov, and here I am daydreaming about my lost youth!”
Helen quickly picked up her purse, paid the bill and headed across the street to the Bosfor Café. She spotted Kostov sitting at a table near the back of the room. He wore the same threadbare coat that he had worn when they had first met, but today he had on a dingy white shirt buttoned to the top and a pea-green tie, with no hat. His thinning faded brown hair, parted above his left ear, swept across the top of his oily head and came to rest just past his right ear.
According to Danev’s instructions, Helen was to look for the location of Kostov’s prized hat, an expensive brown felt derby. When Kostov placed the hat on a chair, it was safe to make contact. If he set the hat on the table in clear view, she must abort the meeting. Danev explained that the hat was more than Kostov’s prized possession—apparently someone in the government had given it to him in return for a favor.
When Kostov saw Helen, he locked his eyes onto hers. Then he glanced at his hat sitting on the chair next to him and offered her an ingratiating smile. He glanced about the café and nervously fingered several itinerant strands of hair that had fallen onto his forehead in dank, wayward locks. Kostov removed the hat from the chair with one hand, took a handkerchief from his pocket with the other, wiped a small circular area of the table clean, and carefully placed the hat on the polished spot. Satisfied that his precious derby was safe from any dirt or harm, he motioned for Helen Noverman to sit close to him.
“I have some news for you, Mademoiselle Gotie, that I think you will find most interesting.” Kostov played the informant’s role with considerable drama. “The two parties in question plan to meet tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. beside Vazov’s Tomb.” A smile spread over his face as he fiddled with the hat’s silk band and brushed away another microscopic particle of lint.
“How do you know that?” she asked. Jean and Helen expected to have a coded message from their informant—not the day, time and location in plain language. It appeared that in addition to being an informant, Kostov fancied himself an intelligence analyst as well. But her instincts and training told her to be cautious. Kostov came to them from a fairly reliable source, but these days one could never be sure.
Jean had warned Helen that moles often betray their original case officers for money or because they are threatened. Did Kostov do someone more than just a favor to earn his beloved hat? Was this a trap? Was he really a double agent working for the Bulgarians or the Germans? She pressed him further, listening for any hint of conspiracy.
“Mr. Kostov, isn’t it rather unusual for our friends to discuss their meeting plans so openly on the telephone? Tell me, please, exactly what did you hear?”
Kostov’s smile disappeared. He knew that she was testing the veracity of his report, so he went back to what he was being paid for—raw intelligence.
“Mademoiselle, unfortunately, I did not hear their entire conversation, but this is what I heard. They spoke in Bulgarian, not German, and didn’t use their usual convoluted sentences and coded words. And, the German’s voice was icy cold and impatient. I heard him say, ‘Do you understand what will happen if you fail?’ After he said the time and place of their meeting, as I have already told you, his voice became almost nice, if you can believe that. He said, ‘George, if you need help with this operation, just say so. I can lend you a few of my best men who know how to take care of this sort of thing.’ The other man was silent for several seconds. Then the Bulgarian said, ‘No thank you, Colonel, I can handle this on my own.’”
Kostov paid close attention to avoid using names as he continued.
“Mademoiselle, the Bulgarian went on to say, ‘I have enough men to follow and snatch anyone in all of Sofia.’ At that, the sausage-eater hung up before the Bulgarian could say anything else. That was all that I heard, word for word, Mademoiselle Gotie.”
Helen nearly kissed Kostov’s balding head, but its oily sheen made her hesitate long enough to change her mind. Returning to the business at hand, she kept her voice low and unemotional.
“Mr. Kostov, for your sake, I hope the information is correct.”
Without another word, Helen opened her purse, reached inside, and withdrew a dog-eared novel by Goethe. She handed the mole the shabby book.
“Thanks for lending me the book. It was all you said it was.”
No one in the café looked twice at this ordinary looking item that concealed an amount roughly equivalent to nearly six months of Kostov’s salary at the telephone company. Kostov bristled with pride as he took the book and tucked it into a large pocket sewn inside his coat. He picked up his precious derby and brushed away another speck of nonexistent lint from its pristine brim. He stood, carefully placed the hat onto his head and, with a polite bow, walked out of the café.
Helen practically flew back to Jean’s apartment like a mother bird taking a fat worm to her hungry fledglings. She did a careful check for anyone lurking about and then entered the building. Helen was so excited about the news that she ran directly upstairs and rang Jean’s apartment bell several times. Disappointed that he did not answer, she left the building by the back door. The only thing she could do now was wait on a bench across the street in the park.
After nearly an hour, Jean entered his apartment building, but she had to be sure that he wasn’t followed. After lingering for another agonizing thirty minutes, Helen walked across the park and went upstairs to his flat. When she entered the living room, Helen told Jean she had some good news. Then she reached around his neck and kissed him long and hard.
“We’ve got them, Jean! They’re meeting tomorrow.”
Jean listened intently while she told him every word of her conversation with Kostov. He constantly probed for a trap or an inconsistency as he plotted their next move.
“Let’s just hope that Kostov told you the truth. This is an extremely dangerous operation. Helen, I want you far away from the action. If there are any slip-ups, you’re to leave Sofia immediately, and that’s an order. If necessary, I’ll finish this nasty business alone.”
Helen kissed him on the lips and then said, “Jean, it’s my duty to see this operation through with you, and that is what I shall do.”
Jean stubbornly insisted that he’d do the “dirty work,” and that if he did not survive the assassination, Helen was to report the success or failure of their mission to headquarters. Once again, he adamantly opposed her direct involvement in the operation.
After a long moment of silence, she spoke.
“Jean, I appreciate your concern for my safety, but we have a job to perform. Our feelings for one another cannot interfere with our mission.”
Jean was silent as he looked deep into Helen’s eyes. He knew there was no point in arguing with her.
“So the issue’s settled,” she said. “We will do what needs to be done, and if that means getting my hands dirty too, then so be it.”
They both knew that no one else could be involved in the operation. Over the next several hours, as they discussed their plan in more detail, other obstacles emerged.
“We have only a few options,” Jean said. “Even if we had a bomb that could be detonated by remote control, we don’t have the time to plant it by tomorrow. Plus, I doubt they would stand in the same place for more than a few moments. There are too many things in the way to get a clear shot of them from a building rooftop.”
Jean paused to think, and she did not disturb him.
“I must somehow get close enough to finish them both off with a few quick shots before they or their bodyguards know what has hit them. I will dress as an old man riding a bicycle. I’ll use
a Sten Mark II submachine gun with a silencer. It’s light and holds thirty-two rounds; more than enough bullets for Milev, Lupus, and their bodyguards. I’ll carry it in a canvas bag, pull the cocking handle, and release the magazine catch before I get anywhere near them. Then, when I ride by, I’ll pull the trigger. That’s it, fast and clean.”
Jean looked at Helen with sad eyes. “Your job, my dear, will be to cover me in case their bodyguards start shooting before or after I do. You will be dressed as a widow walking nearby. We’ll hide another bicycle close by so you can get out of there quickly after the shooting is over.”
“And what about our escape from the country?” she asked. “Once the Gestapo and police figure out what has happened, it won’t take them long to close off the area and begin searching for us.”
Jean said nothing for a time. Helen broke the silence with a suggestion.
“If we visit Vazov’s Tomb today, then we can see exactly from where we can hit our targets. The spot may be under surveillance, but that is a risk I think we need to take.”
“Have you ever been there?” he asked.
“Twice. Ivan Vazov was one of Bulgaria’s greatest writers. I’ve taken my students to his tomb to discuss his works. Jean, let me tell you something about the Bulgarians and their country. History has not been kind to these people over the last several hundred years. When it comes to politics, their leaders always seem to align themselves with the wrong side, but they can be a dangerous enemy.
“The Bulgarian Chief of the Secret Police has to be a sly dog,” she went on. “We don’t even know what he looks like, and his name—George Milev—is as common as dirt. We must not underestimate him for a moment. Of course, we know that anyone in the Gestapo is a snake that needs to be cut into a hundred pieces before we can be sure he won’t rear his ugly head again. We’d better plan at least two escape routes from the park, too.”
Jean took another deep breath and then let out a little moan. “Where do you propose that we escape to so that no one will find us?” he asked.
“I’m sure the Gestapo and the police will have patrols searching for us on every train, truck and donkey heading south to Istanbul, but they’ll never think to look in the Bulgarian interior. So, I suggest that we take a car north to Pleven. It’s a quiet little place in the foothills not far from the Danube. We can lay low for a day and then head east by rail to the Black Sea and Varna, the home of vampires if you believe some of the locals. From there, we can head south to Burgas and hop a ferry back to Istanbul.”
“That’s good, Helen.” Jean pulled a small sheet of paper and a pen from his pocket, wrote something down, and handed it to her. “Memorize the information and then destroy this paper. It’s the name of a friend and the address of a safe house where we will meet after it’s all over. If anything goes wrong or we get separated, just go there and wait for me. Do you understand?”
Helen nodded, “Of course Jean. Whatever you say.”
It was nearly midnight by the time Helen returned to her apartment. She undressed, slipped into her robe, poured herself a drink, and sat on the bed. She was exhausted, but not in the least bit ready for sleep. Helen wanted to think. Think about the future. Think about the past. In a strange way, she was eager, even enthusiastic, about killing Lupus and Milev, despite the fact that she and Jean could lose their lives in the process. For years she had yearned to avenge her father’s death, and now she could hardly wait to offer him this sacrifice.
“My dearest Mama and Papa,” she whispered, “your spirits will be celebrating tomorrow, God willing.”
CHAPTER 13
Under a pale night sky, Milev sat on a dark empty bench in a deserted Alexander Nevsky Square and tried to assemble the pieces of this complicated puzzle. It was just past 10:00 p.m., but he could still hear the telephone conversation with Lupus earlier that morning ringing in his ear.
“Milev!” Lupus’s voice snapped like a frozen twig. “I want you to move quickly and arrest them.” When he asked who, Lupus barked, “Who do you think? Jean Lopié and Helen Noverman, you fool! And God damn it, I don’t want any mistakes. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” Milev said.
“If you catch them by tomorrow,” Lupus ranted, “I just might recommend you for a medal. Who knows, maybe I can even persuade the head of the SS to pin a decoration on your chest.”
“That would be ah…a great honor, Standartenführer,” Milev said.
“God help you, you’d better not let them get away!” he screamed. He ordered Milev to meet him the next day. “Do I need to paint you a picture of what will happen if you mess this up?”
When Lupus was angry, he became even more cruel and unpredictable. Obviously, he knew that Jean Lopié was in Sofia, but apparently his men had yet to find the Frenchman. Or did Lupus already knew of Lopié’s whereabouts, but he was setting a trap to catch not only two enemy spies, but also a Bulgarian double agent? After all, he was known as one of the more cunning men in this business. If Lupus had known that Milev had been following Lopié and Noverman for more than a few days, he would have had him shot.
As the Chief of the Bulgarian Secret Police sat on the bench and watched the clouds pass in front of the moon, he reached a crossroads. His double-agent plan had been in the works since the start of the war, and now he had to decide if he truly was going to implement it. True, the German Army seemed invincible, but Milev wasn’t totally convinced that they could win the war. If they did, he wanted to survive Hitler and his insane plans for Europe. At the same time, Milev had hedged his bets by feeding intelligence to the British and French just in case by some miracle they beat the German dictator.
Milev had other motives as well. He wanted to show the arrogant Lupus that Germans were not as smart as they thought. And finally, Milev wanted Helen Noverman to know that George Milev had saved her life, and that he wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever known.
Milev was certain that it was only a matter of time before Lupus and his henchmen would find Noverman and Lopié. Then he’d be out on his ear with no job, no power, no protection, and—with all his enemies in Sofia—probably not long to live. On the other hand, if Milev wanted to prove his allegiance to the British and the French, he’d have to do more than give them tidbits of military information. If he helped Lopié and Noverman escape from the Gestapo’s net, that would be the best proof he could offer of his loyalty to the Allies.
Of course, once Lupus discovered that Lopié and Noverman had slipped out of the country under their very noses, he’d smell a rat and probably look straight at Milev, but the police chief would be ready. Every spy and policeman knew that there was always the possibility of a mole in his organization.
Milev had already planted just enough incriminating evidence that would place the blame squarely on one particular Communist sympathizer who worked at the telephone company. He knew that there was a good reason that he’d kept that bald bastard Kostov around other than to inform Milev about the telephone calls that came into and went out of the police station. Milev was amazed by what some people would do for a fancy felt hat.
The question Milev asked himself now was to whom should he reveal his status as the mole in the Bulgarian Secret Police: Jean Lopié—who was his rival for Helen Noverman’s affections—or Helen Noverman herself? Of course, if Milev chose Noverman, she would tell Lopié of his warning to leave Sofia and his commitment to the Allies. But in her eyes, Milev would be even more than a double agent. He would be a hero risking his life for her.
Another possibility occurred to Milev. Why not let Lupus have the damn Frenchman? Milev could claim to the British and the French that he had tried to save both agents, but only succeeded in getting Noverman out of Bulgaria. Then, with Lopié dead or rotting in a Gestapo prison, Helen would need someone else to keep her warm at night. Milev’s obsession and perverse logic convinced him of what he most wanted to believe.
Milev reflected on his choices. After tonight, there would be no turning
back. No second-guessing. No wondering if he was right or wrong. What’s done will be done, and his fate will be sealed. Milev felt his Luger with its silencer weighing heavy in his coat pocket. Then he got up from the bench.
Milev walked into the street from Alexander Nevsky Square, the cold Sofia air stinging as it hit his hot face. He considered every possible combination of events that could unfold and readied himself for any of them—including a night of lurid sex with a grateful Helen Noverman.
“This is spying at its very best,” he said to himself. “God, how I love this dangerous game!” Milev had to admit that at that moment, he was more excited and scared than he had been in a long time. Again, he rehearsed every word he planned to say to Helen Noverman as though his life depended upon it—because it did.
CHAPTER 14
Helen Noverman and Jean Lopié did not know it, but they probably had less than twenty-four hours to live, and George Milev’s time to go over to the Allies was running out as well. By extricating them from Lupus’s swiftly closing net, Milev would be saving the lives of Noverman and Lopié as well as his own life, too. The time had finally arrived for him to come out of the shadows and let British Intelligence know the identity of their mole in Sofia. He would show everyone what Bulgarians were made of.
If Milev was going to reveal his secret to Helen Noverman, it was clear that he had to do it tonight, or else it would be too late. That meant going to her apartment as soon as possible and convincing her that he was a friend and that his true allegiance lay with the Allies. He would tell her that she and Jean Lopié were in imminent danger of being arrested by Lupus, and that they had to get out of Bulgaria as soon as possible. Obviously, she would be skeptical—after all, she was a spy and therefore accustomed to deceit and lies. But when she realized that Milev was telling her the truth about Lupus, he was sure she would give him what he wanted.
Laugh of the Hyenas Page 10
