Laugh of the Hyenas Read online

  CHAPTER 11

  Helen’s insides burned and churned like a cauldron filled with boiling liquid. She kissed Jean goodbye, and with an address in her hand, she went to meet Radoj Danev, the leader of the Bulgarian Communist Party. Since his flat was no more than a mile away, she reviewed Jean’s instructions as she walked across Dondukov Boulevard and onto Rakovski Street. After all of the tortures and killings that Milev’s policemen had perpetrated against the Communists in Sofia over the last year, Danev had to agree to their offer. Surely he and the Bulgarian Communists would want to even the score.

  Helen marched up the steep street. When she reached the National Opera House, she walked by a suspicious-looking man smoking a cigarette in front of the entrance. Helen’s confidence instantly sagged, and a lump grew in her throat when the man suddenly turned away as she passed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a thick roll of fat on his neck bulge between his turned up collar and cap.

  “Oh God!” Helen moaned. She wanted to run, but she just kept on walking.

  The man’s drab brown raincoat hung like a wet blanket around his wide shoulders. His small black cap clung to his round head. Helen had no doubt that this thug worked for the Bulgarian Police.

  She inhaled, and recalling Jean’s instructions for dealing with just such a situation, turned down one street, then another, and slipped into a butcher shop. When she went outside a few minutes later, she checked to see if the man was still there. Helen thanked God that he was nowhere to be seen.

  Maybe he had disappeared into one of the buildings behind the Alexander Nevski Church. With her heart in her throat, she continued on her way. No one seemed to notice her, but she scrutinized every person and car that passed her. Busy shoppers carried groceries, mothers pushed baby carriages, and street vendors sold their wares. Everyone was doing normal things for a typical winter’s day in Sofia. Everyone, that is, except Helen Noverman. She was on her way to her rendezvous with a man who, with a little luck, would find them an assassin.

  A moment after Helen rang the bell of Danev’s flat, a slot opened up in the heavy door. She could only see a set of bushy black eyebrows hovering above darting eyes and a coal black thick mustache the size of a scrub brush hanging over a bottom lip. A husky voice asked for her name and her business there.

  “My name is Mademoiselle Gotie. I have a message for Radoj Danev from Mr. Black.”

  A key engaged the pins inside the lock, and a metal bolt clanked. The door opened a few inches. To her surprise, the man’s hair was silvery white, falling onto the back collar of his threadbare wool jacket. He looked her up and down before he motioned for her to come inside. Helen followed him into a shabby apartment that hadn’t been cleaned in what looked like months. He pointed at the scarred wooden table and chairs situated in the middle of the room. She sat down and folded her hands on the table.

  “I’m Danev.” His voice sounded flat, almost bored. “What’s the message?”

  Jean Lopié never completely trusted the Communists, so he cautioned Helen to say nothing to Danev about their mission. Jean only wanted her to act as a courier, so she used the exact words that Jean told her to say.

  “Mr. Danev, I’ve been asked to engage your services for a special operation to eliminate the Bulgarian Chief of Police, George Milev, and a Gestapo officer, Wolff von Schjoderberg. They call him Lupus.”

  Danev’s face showed no emotion. Helen took a deep breath before she continued.

  “They are responsible for the deaths of many of your comrades. We will pay you extremely well for your help.”

  Helen stopped and, following Jean’s instructions, waited for Danev’s response. His bullet-like eyes stared at Helen, never wavering from her face. After a tense pause, she asked, “You know them, Mr. Danev?”

  “Wolff von Schjoderberg—Lupus? If what I hear about him is true, I hope I never meet this man,” he said. “The other, unfortunately, I know all too well. George Milev’s men nearly killed me. I was lucky to escape with my life.”

  “What happened?” Helen asked.

  “I spent three months of pure torture and terror at the hands of George Milev and his thugs,” he said. “They turned my body into a bloody pulp. Did you know that before I met him the hair on my head was as black as my mustache? Look at me now!”

  Helen stared at Danev. If it wasn’t for his full head of hair, he would have looked like a bruised white melon with two black hairy caterpillars sitting over his eyes and one covering the length of his mouth.

  “After all the nights I spent in his basement, I guess I’m lucky to have any hair at all! So you want George Milev and his Nazi friend dead? Well, you may wish for that fantasy, but you cannot kill him. Believe me, we’ve tried many times, but not anymore. Milev is the devil himself!” Danev shook his head.

  Jean had warned Helen that Danev might resist getting involved despite the promise of money and weapons. If Danev rejected their initial offer, she was to play to his ego and his intellect. Helen smiled, leaned forward across the rickety table, and put her hand on top of his.

  “Mr. Danev, you must be a very brave man to have stood up to George Milev. How did you do it?”

  He stared back at her and slowly removed his hand to pick up a crumpled pack of cigarettes that sat on the table.

  “The story is long and not very pretty. Let us just say that my belief in the ultimate superiority of Communism as a social and political institution kept me alive. Would you like a smoke? They are Turkish.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Pungent smelling smoke escaped slowly from his mouth and nose. “So, Mademoiselle Gotie, what precisely do you want?” he asked.

  “We want you to provide us with an … an assassin and information about … about their favorite haunts,” she stammered. “We will provide you with whatever weapons you need and cash … lots of cash.”

  Danev said nothing. Helen floundered, but she took another breath and continued with the script, just as Jean had written it and she had practiced.

  “When you succeed in ridding Bulgaria of these two pariahs, Mr. Danev, you and your comrades will be the most powerful organization in Sofia. You’ll be a hero to every Communist from here to Moscow. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if Stalin himself gave you a “Hero of the Soviet Union” star for eliminating two of your country’s worst enemies.”

  As Danev examined her face, Helen wondered if she had said everything right or if she had left anything out. Then his face turned red, and he pounded the table with his fist.

  “The answer is no!” he said. “I detest the fascists more than you can imagine, but killing Milev and a Gestapo agent would only cause our party more problems than it already has. After all, who do you think the Germans and the Bulgarian Secret Police will blame for their deaths? We Communists, that’s who! And our party members will be the ones who pay the price, not you or your spymasters.”

  He leaned across the table no more than an inch from her face. “Do you know that Hitler has ordered that ten people be hanged for every German officer killed by partisans? Ten of ours for one of theirs! Why would I sign the death warrants of my friends and family? Sometimes I wonder what your bosses in London do other than dream up these insane plots.”

  “Mr. Danev, we will pay you whatever you want. Just name your price,” Helen appealed. “Do you want weapons? Money? Tell us. The British have given their word that they will claim responsibility for the attack. You see, they want to send Hitler the message that they can hit anyone they wish in the Balkans.”

  When Helen had finished, Danev looked at her as though she was a politician trying to sell a pack of lies. Even so, as instructed, she waited for Danev’s response.

  “Mademoiselle, what good are weapons and money when there are no fighters left to use them? It is likely that our agent will be captured or killed in the attack, is it not? It would take no time at all for the Bulgarian Secret Police and the Gestapo to discover the assassin’s identity, and then what?”

 
; He glared at her. She said nothing but stared into his eyes. Then he spoke again.

  “Every member of my party and the opposition would be arrested, and then who would be left to fight for Bulgaria? Obviously, we Communists have no love for the Nazis or the chief of the secret police, but we will not be part of a suicidal plot that will only end with our heads on a platter. I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Gotie, but you have knocked on the wrong door. I think it’s time to say goodbye!”

  The corners of Helen’s mouth turned down. She lowered her eyes and looked at the overflowing ashtray on the table. Silently, Helen got up from the table and followed Danev to the front door. As he searched his pocket for his key to unlock the door, she pleaded once more.

  “At least can you tell me where I might be able to find George Milev?”

  He said nothing for a moment and then spoke quietly.

  “Perhaps there is a way I can help you, indirectly. I know a man in the Telephone and Telegraph Central Station who may be in a position to assist you. From time to time he listens in on the telephone conversations of the Chief of the Secret Police and other government officials. Perhaps he can find out some useful information for you in regard to your operation. Meet me on Saturday in front of the Central Library at 3:30 p.m. If this fellow is willing to stick his neck out for you, I will give you his name and a way for you to contact him.”

  “That’s very kind. Thank you, Mr. Danev.” Helen felt relieved that at least now she wouldn’t go back to Jean completely empty-handed.

  “You may find this fellow in the telephone company somewhat odd, Mademoiselle,” Danev laughed, “but if you pay him well, I’m sure he’ll tell you what you want to know. He loves money almost as much as he loves Karl Marx’s Das Kapital. Perhaps I will see you Saturday.”

  

  “God damn that ungrateful bastard!” Jean stormed after she told him the bad news. “After all we have done for him and his lousy bunch of thugs.”

  Helen bowed her head like a child who had reported her bad grades to her parent.

  If the Communists aren’t willing to take the risk, then what about us?” she asked.

  “Let me make this point clear, Helen,” he said. “In this particular operation, you acted as a courier. Your mission was as an intermediary so that I could make safe contact with Danev, and that was all.”

  Helen’s lips stretched tightly across her teeth. Her eyes narrowed. Jean’s patronizing tone made her feel like a little girl.

  “Helen, please,” he said. “You have an uncanny ability to elicit secrets from people; in that department you are undeniably effective. But we are talking about killing a top Gestapo official and the Bulgarian Chief of the Secret Police! Assassination is an ugly business. And, honestly, you need to be somewhat psychotic to pull it off.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Jean.” Her lips quivered as she spoke. “Maybe I should just ….”

  She sank into a chair and stared at the cracked mosaic tiles on the floor. Then after a long moment she slowly tilted her head as if she had a revelation. She sat up straight and looked Jean directly in the eyes.

  “No! This is my duty! When the Gestapo dragged my father away and tortured and then murdered him, I swore that I would never rest until those animals paid for what they did to me and my family.”

  Jean shook his head and frowned, but said nothing. Helen realized that she now had an opportunity to fulfill this sacred promise made so many years ago, and she was not going to let anyone, not even Jean Lopié, take it away from her.

  “Nothing—and I mean nothing—would give me more pleasure than to wipe this Nazi and his Bulgarian bootlicker from the face of the Earth. You may think of me merely as someone who lures men into bed, but I can do a lot more. If either of them stood before me and I had a knife in my hand, I would plunge it into his heart without a moment’s hesitation or regret. If that makes me psychotic, well …”

  “Killing may satisfy your thirst for revenge, Helen, but it will never bring your parents back, and you’ll have to live with yourself afterwards.”

  “I’ll be sure to remember that, Jean. Let’s get on with it.”

  Helen’s face felt hot, and her heartbeat quickened as a surge of blood filled her head at the thought of taking another person’s life. Jean again tried to dissuade her, citing the many things that could go wrong, but Helen had made up her mind. An uncomfortable silence separated them for the next few minutes. Finally, Jean spoke in a business-as-usual voice.

  “So be it, if that’s the way you feel. Then our first step is to find them. Perhaps Danev’s contact in the telephone company will help us in that regard. Meanwhile, I expect a courier from Istanbul to bring photographs of these two men within the next few days.”

  Jean was quiet again. Then his frustration bubbled over.

  “Christ Almighty, this mission is completely insane! We don’t even have the slightest idea of what they look like. But why worry about details? London wants them dead, and tomorrow is not too soon. The whole thing is ridiculous. I just don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps we are expendable, Jean,” Helen said. “That would explain everything.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Seraphim Ganev Kostov worked in the Central Telephone and Telegraph Station and had access to private telephone lines used by high government officials. The day after Danev gave her Kostov’s name, Helen met the new informant on a chilly back street north of the Zhenski Pazar—the Woman’s Market. Cluttered shops and cheap restaurants lined the icy street of broken cobblestones. The trees sparkled with hoarfrost as the vendors set up vegetable stands filled with cabbage, potatoes, beets, raw wool, and whatever else they could sell.

  Based on Danev’s description, Helen recognized Kostov standing in front of a row of small houses built around a courtyard. He was wearing an expensive-looking felt hat pulled down over most of his face and a threadbare coat that hung over his bony shoulders.

  “How much are you willing to pay?” he asked without looking at her.

  After hearing Helen’s response, Kostov lifted his head and broke into a big toothless grin. His gaunt, placid face was nearly the same color as the dull silver-framed eyeglasses that rested askew on his pointed nose, under which sat a toothbrush-shaped mustache. Kostov promised to deliver every scrap of conversation he heard between Lupus and Milev. They quickly agreed on a way to make contact. Now there was nothing else to do but wait.

  Over the next few days, Kostov reported that Lupus and Milev spoke in German and used obvious code words throughout their discussions. With help from code experts at the British Embassy, Jean and Helen discovered that Milev and Lupus often met secretly in a few local cafés and parks. But they needed to discover the day, time and place of their next rendezvous. Meanwhile, it was Thursday, and the photos of Lupus and Milev had yet to arrive. Apparently, the Nazis had detained the courier in Belgrade. Nobody knew what happened to him or the top secret envelope he carried. With each passing day, Jean and Helen grew more nervous and unsure about their plan: Operation Butcher.

  Finally, their luck changed for the better on Friday. That morning at school, Helen received a note to call Kostov. He had something for her and wanted to meet. Their prearranged signal began with what seemed like a typical conversation between a telephone customer and a telephone employee.

  “Mr. Kostov, this is Mademoiselle Gotie,” Helen said. “About my service?”

  “Ah yes,” he replied, “The last time we discussed your service problem, you said that you would take care of it in person. I am hoping that you can discuss it today.”

  She answered, “Yes, I’ll come into your office today,” which meant their meeting time was 7:00 p.m. in the Bosfor Café, a stylish bakery not far from the Czar’s Palace. At their first meeting, Kostov told her several times that wherever they met, she must look carefully for the placement of his hat—it was his way of signaling if it was safe to make contact. Danev was right: Kostov was a peculiar fellow.

  It was 6:00 p.m. whe
n Helen walked into the restaurant across the street from the Bosfor Café. As part of her training, Jean taught her to always arrive at least an hour early to a meeting place just in case any enemy spy teams were lurking about. Even the slightest suspicion that she was under surveillance was enough to make her abort a meeting or ignore a contact.

  For an assignment as dangerous as this, one mistake could be fatal. In addition, Jean Lopié taught Helen how to disguise her appearance. At the moment, her hair was pinned beneath a hat with a broad rim. Helen’s stylish makeup, long flowing skirt and shoes made her look like the wife of a diplomat, not a typical teacher.

  Helen found a table near the window, where she could survey the street and the people going in and out of the Bosfor Café. She ordered a Turkish coffee and watched the people around her. Helen had always enjoyed watching people, but now the pastime had a more critical purpose. She especially liked to watch how women dressed, how they gestured with their head and hands, how they talked and drank, and talked some more.

  One pretty young lady in the restaurant caught her eye. The girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old, but she had the grace of someone older and more mature. She wore a pink pastel silk dress with a decorative hat that might appear as part of a flower display on Czar Boris’s dinner table. The long dark curls that framed her attractive face reminded Helen of a Renoir painting.

  Helen watched the girl’s every gesture, trying to imagine her words, her thoughts, and her identity from a distance. Judging from the young lady’s genteel manner and stylish dress, Helen guessed that she was the daughter of a typical wealthy businessman. The way she laughed and looked coyly at the equally handsome young fellow seated across from her revealed a ritual dance of young love.

  Both seemed completely unaware of anyone else in the place. The girl’s long and delicate fingers traced a pattern on the white tablecloth. She touched the boy’s hand in a way that made him blush. He inhaled deeply, taking in the perfume she wore to arouse his senses. He watched her sensuous red lips, naive and innocent, yet enticing to him with every utterance.