When Theodora lit another lamp on a small table, Helen saw an ashtray filled with several crushed cigarettes and an empty bottle of Rakia.
“You’ve had other visitors recently, Madam?” Helen asked politely.
She didn’t answer.
“Wait here, Jean,” Theodora said. “I’ll see what I can get you to eat.”
She quickly left, closing the door behind her. They both heard a key turn in the lock at the head of the stairs.
“Why is she locking the door?” Helen asked.
“Don’t worry. We’re safe with Theodora, at least for now.”
When Helen thought about how Jean had kissed this woman, jealousy replaced her fear, and she wondered how well they really knew each other.
“Jean, who is this Theodora? You’ve never mentioned her before.”
Jean looked straight into Helen’s eyes and explained that Theodora was a recent widow of a wealthy Austrian industrialist who had resided for part of the year in Sofia.
“After her husband’s ‘accidental’ death a year ago, she stayed in Bulgaria and met Michael Lovely at a state party hosted by Czar Boris. They share a certain political view, and now she frequently meets him for late dinners and whatever else pleases them. For this reason, she can walk in the front door of the British Embassy or call him anytime, day or night, without raising so much as an eyebrow from the Bulgarian police or soldiers guarding the entrance.”
Even as she listened to Jean’s description of Theodora and Michael Lovely’s relationship, Helen’s suspicions grew. She saw the trappings of an opulent style of living that revealed Theodora was well taken care of, but by whom? Was there more to Jean’s kiss on her cheeks than the typical French greeting? He seemed to know his way around her back yard. Had Jean paid her late night visits before, perhaps when Lovely was working late or roaming around Sofia? When Helen’s burning gaze fell onto Jean’s eyes, he must have read her mind.
“If you are wondering about my relationship with Theodora, rest assured that it is and always has been entirely professional.”
Even if Helen had wanted to probe deeper into the issue, the time wasn’t right, so she dropped the matter. They sat for what seemed to be an eternity, too nervous to speak or sleep until they heard the key unlock the door to the basement. Theodora came down the stairs and entered the secret room.
“Hello Jean,” she gave him a warm smile. “Mr. Lovely will be here tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. to take care of you. You’ll remain here for the night.” Theodora stared at Helen. “What is she to you?”
“Helen is trusted friend, like you, Theodora.”
After a skeptical glance, she said, “My servant will bring you something to drink and eat. I apologize, but we have only cold roasted venison and mushroom salad. Good night, Jean, and take care of yourself.”
A soft tapping on the door woke Helen from an unsettled sleep.
“I say, anyone home?” he said.
Jean motioned for Helen to remain absolutely silent. He pointed his pistol at the door as it slowly opened.
“May I come in?” a soft voice with a British accent inquired. Light seeped in from the small lamp in the basement. As Jean turned up the light from the oil lamp, Helen saw an elegantly dressed older man holding a Scottish wool cap. His ruddy cheeks made him appear as though he had just come in from a horseback ride in the countryside. His manicured gray mustache, wispy white hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, long-stemmed pipe and expensive tweed jacket gave him the appearance of a Cambridge scholar. Who could have guessed that this was Michael Lovely, the senior British diplomat who kept his eye on all covert operations in the Balkans?
“Sorry to stuff you down here in lower Slobovia, old things, but you never know who’s watching who in this bloody town. I didn’t want you to be anywhere that you might run into some of our unpleasant German or Bulgarian friends.” He tapped the tobacco in his pipe with a polished silver tool as he looked at them.
“Bit of luck, actually, that you caught me in Sofia at all. Seems that we have a security leak at the embassy, and it’s fallen onto my plate to figure out who that leak might be. Oh well, all part of the job, I suppose.”
He paused, looked at Jean, and then his eyes then flitted over Helen’s body. He bowed like a gentleman as he spoke.
“So you must be Helen Noverman. What a splendid surprise! I’ve seen your picture many times, but I must say it doesn’t do you justice. You are far more attractive in person. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Sir Michael Lovely, Madam, at your service.”
Michael Lovely dusted off a chair with his handkerchief and sat down.
“You’ll get out of Bulgaria and back to Istanbul dressed as railway workers on the Orient Express,” he explained. He then gave Jean a steward’s uniform and Helen a maid’s outfit. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out how he knew their correct sizes, but they looked as if they would fit perfectly.
“The train stops in Sofia just after midnight. I’ll drive you to the station minutes before it arrives, and you’ll board wearing these disguises. One of our men on the train will take you to a sleeping compartment where you can spend the night. He’ll also make sure you cross the border without a problem. By daybreak, you’ll be in Turkey, and you’ll be eating lunch in Istanbul by noon. That’s about it, except for one thing, Helen. I’m afraid that you will need to cut your beautiful black hair. It is far too elegant for a maid and rather gives you away. Pity. Here Jean, use these scissors.”
Helen knew it was a waste of time to argue about cutting her hair, and within a few minutes, Jean had snipped off most of her locks. When he finished, he took a tuft and put it in his wallet.
“A souvenir from my love,” Jean said. He gave her a long, warm kiss. “Now we’ve got to go.”
Theodora showed them through the kitchen to a door that led to the back yard. After she kissed Jean goodbye and curtly nodded to Helen, they slipped away into the darkness. Two blocks away, Lovely picked them up in his car and drove to the Central Railroad Station. Even at that time of night, the station was busy, as the Orient Express was still the primary lifeline between the West and the East.
They sat in the car and waited for the train to arrive. Lovely handed Jean and Helen each a long black raincoat to wear over their disguises. About ten minutes past midnight, the Orient Express slowly steamed into the station and stopped at the first platform. With Lovely at their side, they jumped out of the car, crossed the waiting room and approached the train. They followed him to a coach in the middle of the train. Then he told them to stay put and said he would return momentarily.
Squads of German soldiers and Bulgarian police patrolled the platform, stopping people and demanding their identification papers and visas. Two soldiers were harassing a young Bulgarian man no more than a few feet away when a fat old man in a red and black conductor’s uniform introduced himself to Jean and Helen.
“Quickly, my friends,” the conductor whispered as he glanced at the soldiers heading in their direction. “Come with me, and I’ll show you to your accommodations. Let us see what we can do for my new maid and steward.”
Helen hugged Lovely with all her might and thanked him. Jean cradled the old spy’s hands within his own and whispered something in his ear.
Half an hour later, the train had left the Sofia station. Helen watched the city’s lights fade into the night from a private sleeping compartment. She felt relieved that they were escaping Sofia on what, according to Milev, was to be their last night on Earth. Helen was still afraid, but with Jean beside her, she thought that everything was going to be okay. She sighed deeply and kissed him on the lips.
“Jean, I beg you never to leave me alone. Never, ever again.”
Jean fixed his blue eyes on her. His silence seemed to last for a long time.
“Helen, you are my Angel of Mercy. If I ever lost you, I’d have no reason to live.”
Behind him, below the window, beneath the train, the wheels
screeched on the rails. At that moment, Helen imagined that she saw the grim reaper pass above their heads. She almost felt his icy hands brushing against her shoulders, playing with her hair, and touching her skin.
Then Jean kissed her again, and for a moment, the frightening figure vanished in a burst of steam from the locomotive as the train chugged into the night toward Istanbul.
CHAPTER 16
Vazov’s Tomb lay in the heart of Sofia, although it was discretely hidden among high bushes behind the Aleksandär Nevski Church. Lupus chose this place for their most important discussions because it was quiet and secluded. In the past, Milev usually enjoyed their meetings because they gave him an opportunity to show off to his pompous German colleague. However, today he was afraid that the encounter would turn out to be unpleasant.
As planned, they met at 6:00 p.m., and to Milev’s surprise, Lupus was in excellent spirits. That was the first bad omen. Lupus returned Milev’s salute.
“It is a great day for both of us, George! I am happy to inform you that the Kingdom of Bulgaria and Germany have secretly signed a military agreement today. It is to be officially announced in March, but your country has joined the Axis Powers. We are now legitimate allies.”
“Ah, Standartenführer, that is good news!” Milev was shocked, but managed a phony smile.
There had been rumors in the city for months—lots of them. After all, Sofia was a cauldron of misinformation, and Milev was one of the main suppliers of the lies that filtered through the streets. But there had been no recent developments or any positive news that the Czar Boris was about to make such a decision. This news caught Milev off guard.
For months, foreign agents had pressured the Czar to secure the allegiance of Bulgaria for their side. The Czar, at least until now, had declared Bulgaria neutral. Just last week in a speech, he insisted that Bulgaria would remain neutral—that is, if Turkey did the same.
“Christ Almighty! And it isn’t even Tuesday!” Milev thought.
“When did it happen?” Milev asked.
“Last night. General Lukov ratified the agreement, and if they have properly informed me, promised to declare war against Britain and the United States. I wouldn’t worry too much about the English dogs, Milev. They have their own necks to worry about.”
Lupus cocked his head and gave Milev a condescending smile.
“You should be happy, Milev. Bulgaria has finally chosen the winning side in a war.”
If the Czar of Bulgaria had chosen the winning side, then Milev had made a gross miscalculation. He thought about his late night visit to Helen Noverman and how Bulgaria’s treaty with Germany affected his plans. It was clear to him now that he had acted too hastily. As the seconds passed, Milev strained to see the whole situation and how he was going to come out of it without losing his life. Lupus’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“Be at the German Embassy tonight at 10:00 p.m. We’ll celebrate the new era of friendship between our nations and our new jobs,” Lupus said, laughing.
“As of last night, I am the new commander of German Intelligence in Bulgaria. That means, of course, that you and all your men are now under my command.”
Lupus gave Milev a moment to let the significance of this news sink in before he continued.
“Congratulations, Colonel Milev! I hereby give you back your job as the Chief of the Bulgarian Secret Police!”
“Thank you, Standartenführer Wolff von Schjoderberg!” Milev barked and saluted. He hoped his face didn’t reveal his revulsion. The thought of being under the Gestapo’s official command made Milev cringe. Sure, he had been following Lupus’s wishes lately, but Milev always saw himself as the German’s professional equal, not one of his underlings. Now, thanks to Bulgaria’s fool of a Czar, Milev had to obey Lupus’s orders like one of his pitiful dogs.
Milev couldn’t believe it! For nearly his entire career as a police officer, he had managed to avoid working for bosses who liked to push their weight around. Milev’s present position was absolutely independent. He had only to answer to the Czar and a handful of his advisors. That wasn’t a problem, because Milev had enough embarrassing evidence on every one of those morons to keep them quiet and in his pocket. But not anymore! Now Lupus had his heavy paws on his throat, and Milev was sure that the German meant to keep them there.
Milev shuddered at the thought of what Lupus would do to him when he told him that Lopié and Noverman had disappeared. His situation had become highly dangerous, but what could he do about it now? Milev had to be extremely careful about every word he uttered and every move he made.
Pleased with himself as always, Lupus sat on the bench close to the large monument, under which lay the sacred bones of the great Bulgarian poet, writer and revolutionary. Lupus fixed his steely blue eyes on the epitaph.
“Tell me, George, do you know much about this man, Vazov?” Lupus asked. “How did he die? Was he killed, or did he die of natural causes?”
The question surprised Milev. It seemed out of character for Lupus to show an interest in a Bulgarian poet.
“He died of a heart attack, Standartenführer.” Milev said. Hoping to mollify his new boss, Milev recalled the popular story about the circumstances in which Ivan Vazov met his end.
“Although no one has ever proven it, people say that Vazov died in his bed making love to a beautiful young woman.”
“Really!” Lupus laughed loudly as he looked at the tomb with more interest.
“How old was he?”
“Eighty-one,” Milev answered. “Hah! Not bad, I’d say, considering the circumstances of how he left us. Imagine living to that ripe old age and still having enough strength to satisfy a young woman. He was a great poet, and all Bulgarians admire him.”
“A great poet?” Lupus snorted. “Eighty-one years old and still jumping on top of girls? Of course at his age, any woman was young! He sounds like a dirty old man to me, or perhaps he was seeking inspiration so he could write a love sonnet.”
Lupus was still laughing over his snide remarks about Bulgaria’s national hero when Milev saw an old woman emerge from an alley no more than a few paces away. She wore a long black coat and held an umbrella. She walked briskly toward them, dragging a young girl in tow close behind. The girl clutched a school bag in one hand and the old woman’s strong hand in the other. By the look on the old woman’s face, Milev could see that she was angry about something, but about what Milev could not be sure.
Knowing the Bulgarians’ sensitivity to this shrine and to Ivan Vazov’s reputation, Milev guessed that she had overheard their laughter and was upset because of Lupus’s irreverence in the presence of one of Bulgaria’s most revered patriots. Vazov’s Tomb was one of the few sacred places in Sofia where parents and teachers brought children to inspire Bulgarian nationalism and love of their country’s greatest heroes.
Professors held lectures, special celebrations and poetry readings to commemorate Vazov’s contribution to Bulgarian culture and encourage patriotism among anyone within earshot. For generations, intellectuals had made pilgrimages to Vazov’s Tomb to pay homage to him and his works.
In a matter of moments, Milev’s suspicions were confirmed when the old woman walked right up to Lupus and, without warning, threatened to hit him with her raised umbrella.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” she shouted.
Stunned by the remark, Lupus’s face turned to stone. His hand quickly reached into his coat pocket for the luger semiautomatic pistol that he always carried. Although he kept it concealed, Milev could see from the shape of the bulge that he had the barrel of the pistol pointed directly at her stomach. Lupus was always on guard and ready to kill an attacker, and more than once, Milev had seen him pull the trigger.
If this foolish woman moved one step closer and kept up her patriotic tirade, she and the young girl would end up with bullets in their bellies—and at the foot of Vazov’s Tomb, no less! Christ, if that happened there would be another revolution! Milev stepped forward
and held up his hand.
“Ah, Colonel, please forgive her harsh words, she’s only an ...”
The old woman cut him off and glowered at them both.
“This is the grave of the man who helped make Bulgaria the great nation it is today,” she howled, “and you dare to defile this holy place by laughing!” She looked straight into Lupus’s eyes.
“You foreigners have no respect for our heroes. Why don’t you go back to where you came from?” Then she turned her wrath on Milev and yelled, “And what kind of Bulgarian are you to stand here and listen to this outsider slander our beloved Vazov?”
Lupus, now sensing that the old woman was probably not an assassin, relaxed his grip on the pistol. Perhaps he even felt a bit embarrassed, not for insulting her national hero, but because, for a brief moment, he was actually afraid of the old woman. And knowing Lupus, Milev had no doubt that the Gestapo chief would have shot her without a moment’s hesitation or remorse.
In spite of the old woman’s rage, Milev was relieved that her intense display of pride was not going to turn bloody. Then, without warning, two of Lupus’s bodyguards jumped out from behind one of the bushes and pressed the barrels of their guns against the heads of the old woman and the girl. Too surprised and confused even to scream, both victims fell to their knees, with the two thugs standing over them, waiting for Lupus to give them orders to shoot.
Lupus said nothing for what must have seemed like an eternity to the kneeling old woman and girl. Then he casually tossed his head to one side in his typical condescending manner, signaling the men to step away and let them stand. Shaken by this unexpected brutality, the old woman stood up and glared hatefully at them as she straightened her clothing and that of her crying child.
As Milev watched the anger fill her face, he knew how stubborn Bulgarians could be when their pride had been hurt. Hoping to avoid any further violence, Milev appealed to Lupus’s sense of superiority.
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