Laugh of the Hyenas

by Ivan Roussetzki

  Belevski lunged at Lopié. But the next thing the doctor knew, he was laying flat on his back, the small man’s knee crammed into his groin. The strap of the blackjack was pressed firmly against the doctor’s Adam’s apple so that he could barely breathe. Belevski’s chest heaved when he desperately tried to suck air into his lungs. As their eyes met, beads of sweat poured from the doctor’s brow down onto his red-hot cheeks. Jean lifted the blackjack’s strap from Belevski’s throat.

  “You bastard!” Belevski rasped.

  At that moment Belevski hated Jean Lopié more than anyone he had ever known. Lopié smiled, stood up, and told the doctor to stand up.

  “Try it again,” he said.

  Belevski hesitated again, only this time for a different reason. He had to admit that he sorely underestimated the Frenchman’s physical abilities. He did not appear strong, yet he threw the doctor onto the floor as if he weighed no more than a child. Without thinking, Belevski lunged for the pistol on the table, but an instant later Lopié pointed the gun barrel at the doctor’s temple. The safety was off and the trigger was cocked.

  Once again Belevski was stunned and scared, but impressed. Lopié was as fast and as dangerous as a cobra, and his message was absolutely clear. With or without a gun, Lopié was always in control. At the Frenchman’s insistence, they repeated these and other hand-to-hand combat exercises for the next three hours and then every day until the doctor’s training ended. Belevski was full of bruises and pains, but he now knew how to defend himself in a fight.

  His lessons continued nearly every hour of the day, and although the doctor spent most of his time practicing on the radio key, he also learned how to use disguises, read topographical maps, and encrypt messages using his medical encyclopedia as a code book. Lopié even showed him how to use a simple pair of long metal pincers to remove and return a letter from an envelope without a trace.

  It was late Saturday night when Lopié told Belevski that he was near the end of his training, but there was one more thing he needed to know before he was finished. Lopié handed the doctor a one-inch long narrow brass tube and told him to open it. There was a small tablet inside.

  “Cyanide,” Lopié said. “Hide the tube up your ass whenever you operate the radio, or if you’re like some agents, keep it there all the time. If you’re arrested and decide to choose death over torture, then remove the tube, take the cyanide, and die a hero.”

  Ironically, that night Belevski slept like a baby. The next morning he awoke to the now familiar echo of the Muslim clerics calling the faithful to the first of their daily prayers. A cool mist surrounded the house, and the shafts of light that filtered through the trees made the wet ground look like a patchwork quilt. Lopié sat at the table in the room where they had spent the last week. He handed Belevski an envelope.

  “Here is enough money for you to buy a car when you return to Sofia, plus the first of many payments, Dr. Belevski. I hope that it in some way it makes up for the way we have inconvenienced you.”

  The doctor said nothing as he looked at the envelope. Although over the last week Belevski had grown to respect the Frenchman’s abilities, he still blamed him and hated Noverman for ruining his life. They laid the trap and fanned the flames of desire that led him astray. If any harm came to Belevski or his family, they bore the responsibility.

  “Soon you’ll be back in Sofia with your wife and daughters, and your life will return to normal, or at least it will appear normal,” he said. “But Dr. Belevski, you must never forget who you work for and whose orders you must follow. Just make sure you don’t forget who has those photos from the hotel in Istanbul.”

  How could he forget? What choice did Belevski have but to obey their orders? And that’s why he hated them; they took away his freedom. His life belonged to them. Whatever fondness he had for Lopié immediately evaporated.

  “You may not realize it now, but Helen Noverman and I are your only friends. Whether you like us or not does not matter. We will do everything we can to keep you alive and well. We want you to come out of this war a survivor—a winner and a hero. We know you won’t disappoint us.”

  Late that evening, Lopié and Belevski left the house in the hills and drove into the Old City in Istanbul, where they stopped in front of a dilapidated hotel. At first, the doctor didn’t recognize the woman who came out of the building and limped as she walked toward the car. She was dressed like a peasant and had a drab shawl covering her head and most of her face, but her eyes looked familiar. Lopié leaned over the seat and opened the back door. She quickly jumped in. A second later they sped down the nearly deserted street.

  “Hello, Manol. How are you?” the woman said.

  Her voice made his heart skip faster and his ears burn. She sounded as sweet as the first time they had met, although he heard sadness in her voice that he hadn’t noticed before. Belevski’s feelings for Helen boomeranged between hate and love, and at that moment he didn’t know what he felt or what to say, so once again, the doctor remained silent.

  No one spoke until they reached the train station. It was nearly midnight when Lopié handed Belevski a first-class ticket for Sofia and a suitcase. He reached behind the car seat and pulled out a bottle of champagne and three glasses. As they each held the sparkling glass of liquid in the dark cold night, Jean spoke with a sincerity that Belevski would never forget.

  “Whatever has passed between us is now history, and no one can change that. I propose a toast to the future and our work together, for without each other, none of us is likely to survive this war. Good luck, my friend, and don’t be afraid.”

  As the Orient Express chugged steadily through the night, Belevski lay awake in his first-class sleeping compartment, agonizing about his own downfall and uncertain future. It was nearly dawn when Sofia came into view. He dreaded what lay before him. The doctor could only think about Spasia, their daughters and what would become of them all?

  As the train pulled into the station, Belevski imagined himself kissing his wife and his daughters’ sweet faces. He pictured their delight when he gave them their presents and told them all about his trip to Istanbul and the happy boy whose life he had saved. Meanwhile, he would have to hide his true feelings and shame and ask himself over and over, “How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I listen to you, sweet Spasia?”

  In the misty morning light, Belevski felt so alone and hopeless that he honestly thought about taking the poison Lopié had given him. Then he heard the whistle blow, and the train pulled to a stop. Belevski was home.

  

  Part V

  March 1941

  CHAPTER 26

  When George Milev heard the news that German Field Marshal Wilhelm List’s 1st Division waded across the Danube and onto Bulgarian soil just before midnight on February 28, 1941, he just about had a heart attack. And then, to make matters even worse, the next day their Prime Minister, the puppet Professor Bogdan Filov, ratified the official agreement, the Tripartite Pact, thus forcing Bulgaria to join the Axis Powers.

  Milev watched from his office window as German troops and military brass bands paraded past Bulgarians lining the streets below. With their shouts of “Heil Hitler,” any doubts about his fate evaporated. Milev cursed himself for telling Helen Noverman about being a mole for the British and warning her about Lupus.

  “How in God’s name was I to know that Czar Boris would make a pact with Hitler?” he asked himself.

  Hundreds of German storm troopers marched past, and the crowds waved Nazi flags. Milev wondered, hadn’t Boris—an Austrian by birth—tried to resist joining the Axis Powers and Hitler’s march into Eastern Europe? His Majesty never approved of the German dictator, especially since Hitler had not one drop of “blue blood” in his veins. Didn’t the Czar also believe that German domination threatened his royal position, not to mention his safety?

  Asen Vlahov, a personal secretary for His Majesty’s Chancellery, told Milev that shortly after Prime Minister Filov ratified the Tripa
rtite Pact, Czar Boris cried, “What an end!” before locking himself in the palace library.

  Vlahov told Milev that the Czar was extremely surprised and upset by this development. But Czar Boris rejected a request from opposition leaders to deliver a petition to the government protesting Bulgaria’s participation in the Tripartite Pact.

  “Let them bring their petition to Prime Minister Filov, not me,” Boris said. “These cowardly politicians always want their Czar to do their dirty work. They destroyed my father; now they want to destroy me! Let them stand up against the conspirators on their own two feet!”

  Three days later, in a complete about face, the Czar gave a speech in the People’s Parliament that praised Prime Minister Filov’s signing of the agreement. The Czar even cheered along with the other delegates, “One hundred years of friendship with the Third Reich and its victorious leader.”

  Although some Bulgarian government bureaucrats and citizens welcomed the German army into their country with open arms, many felt less than enthusiastic about the new arrivals. But what could they do? As far as Milev was concerned, this turn of events was a total disaster. Officially, he too supported this volatile and questionable political alliance. After all, the Chief of the Bulgarian Secret Police wanted to keep his job and his life.

  Unofficially, however, the Germans threatened George Milev’s autonomy and authority because the Gestapo under Lupus’s command and the German General Staff with Field Marshal Wilhelm List wanted to run the secret police in Sofia. Milev hated the idea of the Germans breathing down his neck every minute, and he had little choice but to follow their orders. With each day, the German occupation in Bulgaria caused Milev more and more grief. In addition to German troops patrolling Sofia’s streets along with his men, Milev was perpetually at Field Marshall List’s disposal.

  Lupus had warned Milev, “You’re under his command and mine.”

  General List had made it absolutely clear who was in charge when he ordered Milev to come at once to his office. After making the Bulgarian wait for nearly an hour, the general shouted at Milev as if the Chief of the Bulgarian Secret Police were a lowly recruit.

  “Tell Prime Minister Filov that all government decisions will require my approval. And tell Czar Boris to stay put in the royal palace. Dismissed.”

  Milev marched out of German headquarters and fumed, “Who the hell does he think he’s talking to, one of his privates?”

  And things didn’t improve when Milev returned to his office and the telephone rang before he could even sit down.

  “What?” he shouted into the receiver.

  “George, is something wrong?” the caller asked.

  “Standartenführer, forgive me,” Milev said.

  “I want to see you at the regular place. Now!” Lupus hung up.

  

  Milev walked to the table at the back of the empty café. Lupus sipped a coffee. He silently stared at Milev and motioned for him to sit. Milev thought Lupus looked angry. If Lupus had somehow found out that Milev tipped off Jean Lopié and Helen Noverman, then he was a dead man. The café seemed like an odd place for an execution, but why not? It was dark, and they were the only customers. Were the two Gestapo agents outside the café flipping a coin to see who would pull the trigger? Milev began to pray that this would not be his last day on earth when Lupus finally spoke.

  “George, I need you for a critical job. Drop everything you’re doing. Coffee?”

  Milev nodded and silently thanked God for his mercy. Lupus began.

  “Two weeks ago, Gestapo agents in Greece intercepted an Allied radio transmission from the area around Sofia. As of today, we have been unable to break the code. My orders from Berlin are to find and arrest that radio operator and get that code.”

  Lupus paused to sip his coffee.

  “I have sent my men from one end of Sofia to the other trying to find this operator’s location, but without success. Yesterday we pinpointed a transmission near Boyana. My men closed in on what we believed was the spot—then poof! Nothing! The only living thing close by was an old cow chewing on some grass in a field.”

  Lupus stopped speaking. The waiter set a cup of coffee on the table and then quickly disappeared.

  “George, this is where you come in,” Lupus said. “We need someone who knows Sofia and its people like the back of his hand. Deputy Chief Heydrich called me directly from Gestapo headquarters in Berlin today and said that the matter was of the greatest importance. When he asked who could get the job done, I said without hesitation, ‘Colonel George Milev, Chief of the Bulgarian Secret Police.’ For you to fail in this mission would have grave consequences, George, both for you and me. You can’t disappoint me like you did before, you do understand that, don’t you?”

  Milev’s stomach turned when he heard his name mentioned in the same breath as Reinhard Heydrich, head of the Gestapo and the Reich Security Main Office.

  “Yes sir, Colonel! I understand completely.”

  Milev was confident that he could pull off the assignment. That’s because the news about this radio operator in Sofia wasn’t new information to him. In fact, Milev already knew something about the radio spy’s identity, but he kept this piece of intelligence to himself. When the time was right, he could use it to serve his purposes.

  “I’ll bring you your Bulgarian radio spy.”

  Lupus glared at him. His face showed no emotion. His eyes narrowed.

  “I didn’t say anything about the radio operator being Bulgarian, Milev. Speak up, God damn it! What haven’t you told me?”

  “Nothing Colonel. I swear on my mother’s grave!” Milev said. “I only assumed that anyone who knows Sofia well enough to evade Gestapo agents is likely to be a Bulgarian, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Lupus’s eyes burned as he searched the Bulgarian’s face for a lie.

  “Perhaps you are right. When you bring me the bastard’s head on a platter, we’ll know for sure who is a traitor and who is a patriot, won’t we?”

  Without giving Milev a chance to respond he said, “And when am I going to see those special friends of Helen Noverman that you promised me?”

  “Soon, Colonel, very soon!”

  CHAPTER 27

  Milev hated to see Bulgarians bleed, but that was often the only way the Chief of the Secret Police could get what he wanted from them, especially if they were Communists. Of course, he would have much preferred to avoid this kind of physical violence, but the stubborn old fool wouldn’t budge. Bound by the wrists, waist and ankles, Radoj Danev sat motionless on a wooden chair planted deep in the bowels of the Sofia police station.

  Milev had told his brainless agents that he wanted Radoj Danev alive, but they had nearly beaten him to death. By the time they had arrested the Communist, his white hair was full of huge welts, and rivulets of dried blood stained his face and neck. One eye had nearly disappeared behind a huge blister filled with blood. His split lower lip and broken nose made him look like a prizefighter at the end of a bare-knuckles brawl.

  Just last week Milev bragged to Lupus that he could persuade anyone to talk, but this old politico had made a liar out of him. Judging from his gruesome appearance, brutality only strengthened the man’s convictions. To be truthful, Milev really couldn’t imagine how anyone could withstand that kind of pain, but the man had not spoken a word. If Milev was to make good on his offer to uncover enemy agents in Bulgaria, he needed names and addresses, and he was sure that this bloody pulp could give them to him. The problem was how to get this information without killing him first.

  Danev raised his battered head and stared at Milev through bruised slits. He spit out a mouthful of blood and cursed. Milev knew that the man would never reveal any names or information without getting something in return, and it would have to be more than an extended lease on his life. You see, this was no ordinary man.

  Danev was a leader in the Bulgarian Communist Party, and Milev suspected him of being personally responsible for killing at least two policemen, on
e judge and several Bulgarian businessmen who had collaborated with the Germans. He and his cohorts were also suspected of sabotaging several railroad tracks and setting fire to at least a half dozen local factories and warehouses under German control.

  Up until last night, Danev had eluded capture, but now his fate had changed. He would be tortured until he told Milev what he wanted to know or be killed. Given his stubborn nature, he seemed determined to pass into the next world with his dignity and secrets intact. Milev decided to take a different approach in the hope of liberating the Communist’s tongue.

  “Hello, Gospodin Danev,” he smiled. “Or do you prefer that I call you Comrade Danev, or even Tovarish, as your Moscow bosses like to say? Anyway, I am glad that you have finally come to pay me a visit after so long. How have you been lately? My goodness, Radoj, you don’t look well tonight.”

  “No, thanks to you and your goons!” Danev spit again through his bloody lips.

  Milev often provoked prisoners into revealing useful information, but he knew that this would not work with Danev. The man had been around the Bulgarian Police long enough to know how to keep a secret.

  “No need to be rude, but now that I finally have you here, I want you to know that there is nothing we cannot negotiate about. The fact is, you really only have two choices. You can give me your full cooperation and live to be an older and wiser man than you already are, or you can refuse to cooperate with me and die a slow and painful death. It’s up to you.”

  Milev paused to light a cigarette. As the smoke curled into the air over his prisoner’s head, he saw himself in Danev’s place, with Lupus standing over him. The gruesome vision made Milev shudder, so he continued to taunt his captive.