Milev fantasized about being Helen’s knight in shining armor who, much like in medieval times, engaged in battle for love. He wanted to convince Noverman that his intentions were not just patriotic, but romantic as well. After they escaped, his status as a double agent for the British and the French would be sealed.
As Chief of the Secret Police, it was Milev’s job to be suspicious of everyone on the street, but after taking only a few steps, he had an uneasy feeling in his gut. He had been in the espionage business long enough to listen to his instincts. Milev sensed danger, and knowing Lupus, it was somewhere close. He was sure that Gestapo agents were following him. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion that two men lurked behind him in the dark.
Even though Lupus had ordered Milev to keep an eye on Noverman, his appearance in her building would have aroused the suspicion of the lurking Gestapo agents, who also hoped that Lopié might show up there. So, instead of going directly to Noverman’s apartment, he walked toward his house in downtown Sofia. All the while, Milev wondered how Noverman would react to his story about being a double agent.
After he entered the front doors of his apartment building, Milev stopped at the mailboxes. He reached into one pocket, then the other, feigning a search for his keys. While he fumbled, he saw one of the two men who had followed him standing across the street. The other man was nowhere to be seen, but was probably nearby. Although they were ruthless, the Germans were also as predictable as cuckoo clocks when it came to procedures and orders. Milev guessed that they would merely wait for him to make the next move, but they would be suspicious if he didn’t turn on the light.
Milev walked up one short flight of stairs to his apartment on the second floor. He quietly opened the front door, stepped inside, and removed his shoes so he wouldn’t awaken his wife or daughters. He flicked on a desk lamp in the front room facing the street, and just to make sure the Germans knew he was inside his apartment, he opened the shades and stood in clear view before pulling them closed again. After turning several more lights on and off, Milev was ready to leave for Noverman’s apartment. He donned a different coat and hat, cracked open the apartment door, and peeked out. To his horror, he caught a glimpse of the other Gestapo agent standing at the end of the hall.
“Shit! The swine followed me upstairs!” he whispered, silently closing the door.
With one Gestapo agent watching him from the front of the building and the other at the end of the hall, Milev could think of only one other way out of the apartment. A small airshaft beside their toilet extended from the building basement to the roof. Fortunately, someone upstairs had his bathroom light on, so he could see enough to climb out the airshaft window and inch his way down to the bottom floor by pushing his back against one wall and his feet against the other.
Once Milev got down to the bottom of the airshaft, he stood on a pile of trash as he opened the basement window and jumped inside. It was pitch black, so he lit a match and made his way to the door, which led from the basement to a small alley behind the building. Once in the alley, he slipped between the trash cans of the adjoining building into the back streets of Sofia. No one else was in sight so he headed to Helen Noverman’s apartment.
It was close to midnight when Milev turned onto Pop Bogomil Street. Most of the lights in Noverman’s apartment building were off. Although he didn’t see anyone around the building, he was sure that Lupus’s agents had the front entrance of Noverman’s apartment under surveillance. As Milev approached the building, he pulled his hat down tightly over his face and slipped around back and through the basement entrance, which was reserved for deliverymen and late-night lovers. Once inside the lobby, he skipped up the stairs to the second floor and crept down the hall to within a few feet of Noverman’s apartment. A soft yellow light spread from under her door. He leaned against the wall and listened for any sounds from inside her apartment.
Did I imagine it or did the door crack open? Light spills out and I see her and Lopié inside. They are naked. They wave me inside and shut the door. Taunting me with lewd smiles, they reveal pistols and then open fire, but I hear nothing except their heavy breathing. I am in agony as silent bullets tear through my body. I try to explain why I am here, but they laugh and mock me. I lay face up on the floor, spitting blood as they kiss and fondle each other. I plead for help, but they ignore me.
Finally, Noverman, shows me pity. She sits on my chest and leans down to kiss my bloodied mouth, her naked breasts swaying gently above my face. I say, “But I am your friend. I am here to save you.” She merely laughs and puts the muzzle of her gun into my mouth. When I see her delicate pink finger pull the trigger, I close my eyes. The pealing midnight bells from the ancient churches of St. George and St. Sofia interrupt the silent night.
The dark hall outside of Noverman’s apartment was quiet. There was no blood anywhere, and Milev was alone. How long he stood there paralyzed by this vision of death he did not know, but his scalp was full of sweat, and he felt as if a block of ice had settled into the pit of his stomach. The police chief was more frightened than he’d ever been in his life, but he was thankful to be alive.
Was the premonition a sign to abort his plan and simply arrest Noverman and Jean Lopié? Milev struggled with this idea for only a moment when he heard light footsteps from inside Noverman’s apartment, so he tapped on her door. Deciding that his fate had been sealed, he released the safety latch on his pistol, which was still concealed in his coat pocket. A second later, he tapped on her door again.
“Who is it?” Helen asked through the door.
Her hushed voice gave him the courage he needed to continue. Milev imagined her body only inches away from him behind the door without descending into another gory fantasy.
“Mademoiselle Noverman, it’s George Milev, Lora’s father. Please open the door.” She unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and scowled, “What is it? What do you want at this hour?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late, but I must talk to you. It’s urgent!”
For a moment, he stood silently before her and looked at the long silk red robe that clung to her shapely body.
“My apologies for disturbing you so late, but I . . . I must tell you that . . . that . . . my daughter is fine.”
“If your daughter is all right, then why have you come here? What is it you want?”
Milev hesitated again. He forced himself to concentrate on what he wanted to say. Seeing his gaze drift over her body, she blushed and pulled her robe around her more tightly.
“Mr. Milev, what are you doing here? It’s nearly midnight.”
He just spit it out. “You and Jean Lopié are in grave danger! You must leave immediately. You don’t have much time.”
If she was shocked by his words, she didn’t show it. Her reaction was cool and measured.
“What do you mean?” she said. “What are you talking about? Who is Jean Lopié?”
Milev knew that hearing Jean Lopié’s name was the key that secured her full attention, but her voice remained calm, and her expression revealed nothing.
“Mademoiselle Noverman, I want you to know that I come here as a friend to you and to Jean Lopié. You must trust me. Can we sit and talk for a few minutes, somewhere away from the door? Please, I beg you.”
She stared at him for what seemed like an eternity before she motioned for him to come inside. She led him through a dark hallway into the kitchen. When she turned around and offered him a chair, she put a hand into the pocket of her robe. Her eyes were as cold as the winter wind off Mt. Vitosha. Milev was sure she had her finger on the trigger of a hidden pistol.
She stood in the center of the room, with one hand still in her pocket. She tilted her head to one side and stared. Milev silently gazed at her in admiration. My god, this woman was one cool customer. What a professional! But how cool would she be when he laid his cards on the table? Milev had no idea if she would laugh or just shoot him. It
was too late to turn back now, so he plunged ahead.
“I must be blunt. I have a confession to make. I am not an engineer. I am Colonel George Milev, his Majesty’s Chief of the Secret Police.”
Noverman remained stone-faced and silent. Was she ready to fight or flee? Milev didn’t wait to find out.
“And you, Helen Noverman, you are not just my daughter’s teacher. I know that you are a foreign agent working in Bulgaria for British Intelligence. Jean Lopié is your contact in Istanbul, but he is now here in Sofia, staying in a flat at 18 Vrabtcha Street.”
When she shifted her weight ever so slightly, Milev was sure he saw the outline of the gun’s barrel in her pocket. He did not move, but the vision of his death in the hallway minutes before leapt into his mind. He was as vulnerable as a baby, but Noverman did nothing. Once again, she showed signs of a professional agent who stayed calm under pressure. She must have realized that if he wanted to arrest her, he would not have come here alone. Milev pressed on. After all, this was the command performance for which he had prepared. She was motionless, eyeing him like a coiled snake ready to strike.
“All I ask is that you give me a chance to explain,” Milev said. “Yes, I am the Chief of the Secret Police, but I am also an ally. I have come here tonight at great risk to save you and Jean Lopié from a Gestapo agent named Colonel Wolff von Schjoderberg. I know this may be difficult for you to believe coming from me, but you are in extreme danger, and you have precious little time to escape. Allow me five minutes to explain. After I have finished, then I will leave, and you are free to do as you wish—or you can shoot me if you choose.”
At first, she thought George Milev had come to seduce her, because, after all, he had made it quite clear when they first met that he wanted to get to know her better. But she quickly realized that this visit was of a far more serious nature. She didn’t say a word, simply nodding for him to continue.
CHAPTER 15
George Milev had spent less than ten minutes in Helen’s apartment, but that was enough to scare her half to death. After he left, Helen took the pistol from her robe pocket and checked again to see that it was loaded. Then she crept on her hands and knees up to the locked front door and listened at the keyhole for any other unexpected visitors. Satisfied that she was alone, at least for the moment, Helen slipped back into the bedroom and dropped onto a chair, shocked and trembling.
“Jesus Christ!” she gasped, “We’re going to assassinate him tomorrow!”
Did the Chief of the Secret Police really expect Jean Lopié and Helen to believe that he would betray the Gestapo? But why would Milev warn them about Lupus unless his story was true?
“Oh Lord, what should I do?” Helen shook her head and groaned.
She knew there was no time to waste. She took a deep breath, jumped up and tore off her robe. She threw on a skirt, a sweater, and the first pair of shoes she could find. She felt her heart beating so fast that she thought she might faint. After Helen grabbed her long black coat, hat, and bag from the hall tree, she ran out of her apartment, down the stairs, out the building door and into the dark street. By the time she saw the two men following behind her, she realized that she’d forgotten the pistol in her robe. She couldn’t take the chance to go back and get it, so she just kept on going.
With a strong wind at her back and raindrops stinging her face, Helen walked as fast as she could, but the men followed closely, lurking in the shadows behind her. Milev had warned her that Lupus wanted to arrest Jean Lopié, so she assumed that these men were hoping that she would lead them to him. Helen couldn’t let that happen.
She turned the corner and stepped into a dark doorway covered by a rusted awning with a torn canvas. The faded sign on the door said Hotel Seredika. Just then, another gust of wind caused the canvas to rip even more, and a large piece of the torn fabric nearly hit Helen’s head as it fell to the ground. She heard the footsteps of the men approaching. Helen was about to panic and run across the street when the door to the hotel cracked opened just enough for an old man to motion for her to quickly step inside, after which he silently closed the door.
“Hurry, follow me,” he said. “You can slip out the back.”
“But who are you and how did you …?”
“I saw they were after you,” he said. “Never mind who I am. Just hurry.”
The old man led Helen through a dark hall to a small kitchen that reeked of boiled cabbage. When he opened the back door, the smell of rotting garbage wafted into the room.
“Go to the end of the alley. Then turn right and you’ll be one street over. And watch out. There are a lot of police out tonight.”
After he closed the door, Helen followed his directions until she found herself alone in the street, and only a few blocks from Jean’s flat.
“Jean, my heart just about stopped when he said your name,” she said. “But after he told me about Lupus, I didn’t know whether to shoot him or hug him.”
Jean silently massaged Helen’s tense neck and shoulders, but she could still feel the hard knot in her stomach.
“It’s just so ironic,” Jean laughed.
“What in God’s name is so funny?” Helen gasped.
“We’ve been trying to find out the identity of that mole for months,” Jean said, “and who does it turn out to be? None other than Colonel George Milev, the Chief of the Bulgarian Secret Police! British Intelligence ordered us to kill the very agent who has provided us with some of our best information on German clandestine activities in Sofia.”
Jean lit a cigarette. He blew the smoke in a steady stream toward the ceiling and sat on the edge of the table.
“Do you think the Gestapo suspects Milev of double dealing?” he asked. “Perhaps this is a trap to catch all three of us. I wished to hell we knew what Lupus looked like. Oh well. At least you’d know this George Milev if you saw him again.”
Jean sat quietly for several minutes. She had already guessed what he was going to say next.
“Helen, we’ve got to get out of Sofia now. I’ll contact Lovely right away and tell him we need help. If George Milev is telling us the truth—and I believe he is—tomorrow will be too late.”
They hurried through the streets, away from Jean’s flat. According to Milev, Lupus was closing the net, and they had only a few more hours before he would corner them. The rain had stopped. A cold, thick fog had settled onto Sofia so that while they could see no more than a few feet in front of them, the sounds of their footsteps clattered on the paving stones.
“Where are we going?” Helen asked. “To the British Embassy?”
“No,” Jean said. “Too many Germans are keeping an eye on that place. We’d never get past them without being seen, even at this time of night.”
The minutes passed with agonizing slowness in an endless stream of right turns, left turns and double-backs. Finally, a large, shabby looking house appeared in the mist. Helen had no idea where they were, but she hoped that it was somewhere safe. They jumped over a short stone fence that separated the yard from the street and climbed among the bushes in the garden. Helen Noverman and Jean Lopié shivered silently, like two frightened rabbits hiding from a hungry wolf.
After another tortuous minute, Jean reached into his coat pockets. With one hand, he removed a small flashlight; with the other, he pulled out his pistol. Then he turned on the dim beam of light and motioned for Helen to follow him to the back of the house.
They tiptoed up to two beautifully carved French doors with thick panes of etched glass. Helen peeked through an exquisite lace curtain but couldn’t see anything inside the dark room. Jean softly hummed, “ba-da-da-daa,” and tapped the same rhythm—the opening notes to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—on the glass. He repeated this several times before somebody peeked out from behind the curtain.
“Theodora!” Jean said. “It’s me. Let us in, quickly!”
From behind the curtain emerged the angular face of a woman in her thirties. Helen saw her long
blond hair and broad cheekbones in the soft light of the oil lamp that she carried. The woman’s eyes were fierce, like a wildcat’s. After looking them over, she opened one door just wide enough for them to slip into the room.
“Inside, quickly,” she ordered in Bulgarian. She closed the door and motioned them away from the windows and into the shadowy parlor.
“Why have you come here at this hour? What’s wrong?”
She held up the lamp to Helen’s face and looked her over from head to toe.
“Who is she?” the woman asked Jean.
“Helen Noverman. She works for me,” Jean said as he leaned over and kissed the woman on both sides of her face. “Please, contact Lovely right away. We’ve got to get out of Sofia immediately.”
She smiled warmly at Jean, gave Helen another suspicious glance, nodded and said, “Follow me.”
Helen thought that the house must have belonged to someone in the royal family, because signs of wealth were displayed everywhere. In the dim light from the oil lamp, she could see the gray marble staircase and the deep red carpet covering it. It reminded her of the color of old bones and dried blood. Ornate fabric covered the walls and provided a rich backdrop for generations of family portraits and Byzantine paintings. Helen and Jean followed Theodora through several rooms with enormous crystal chandeliers, as stone and brass sculptures sat shrouded in the shadows.
Finally they reached the kitchen, and the woman unlocked a door. She led them down a flight of creaky wooden stairs to an area in the basement filled with boxes and old furniture. Hidden in one corner behind a rusty bed frame and a workbench piled high with boxes, Helen saw a small door. The woman opened it and motioned for Helen and Jean to bow their heads and follow her inside. They found themselves in another small room with a table, chairs, and a bed. A large pipe that must have served as an air vent extended from one of the walls.
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