Valley of Thracians (16 page)

Chapter
32

How did Vlady and Boris know to find me
in the Sofia
chalga
nightclub? They
know a lot more than they’re telling me. The deviousness of their actions never
ceases to amaze me. I resent the fact that I’m being held hostage to their
whims, unable to escape and powerless of controlling what will happen next. I
wonder if we’re returning to the ferry in Vidin for another smuggling trip
across the Danube to Romania. Or maybe we’re going to board the night train to
Serbia with an additional load of stolen cigarettes?

Without disclosing a word to me about
our destination, they drive the pickup truck to Sofia's central bus station,
which is located right next to the train station. We park near the glass-faced
modern construction, and I follow them inside. It’s just after midnight, and
most of the platforms in the bus terminal are empty, with only a few
odd-looking stragglers hanging around in apparent preparations for an overnight
stay. It’s not my first time in the station, but I’ve never visited the
terminal when it’s been this quiet. I’ve traveled on some of the local lines,
and there are international connections here as well, with bus lines serving
Barcelona, Belgrade, Bucharest, Budapest, and many other European destinations.
But those buses depart during the daytime hours. What are we doing here at this
late hour when it appears the station has shut down for the night?

“Here’s your ticket,” Vlady says,
handing me a slip of paper as we approach a back door leading to a gray bus parked
outside. “It departs in ten minutes, the last one to Varna until morning.
Boris, give him the package.”

I turn to my host father, who hasn’t
said a word since they picked me up at the club. He hands me a sealed cardboard
box, about the size of a basketball. I hadn’t noticed him carrying the box,
mainly because Vlady’s done all of the talking.

“What’s this?” I ask innocently.

“That’s not important for you to know,”
Vlady says, spinning me around to face him. “What is important is that you
listen closely to the instructions I’m going to give you.”

He speaks softly, articulating his words
to ensure that I understand. He gives me the name of the person I’m supposed to
meet, and then he tells me how to find him once I’ve arrived in Varna. Then he
makes me repeat everything back to him, which I manage to do even though my
head is still rolling from the effects of Red Bull and vodka.

He seems satisfied with my repetition of
the information. “Go get on the bus there,” he says, pointing to the door.
“We’ll talk to you when you get back to Sofia.”

It’s only after I board the bus and take
my assigned seat toward the back that I realize I haven’t been given any money
for the return trip and I’ll have to cover that expense myself.

What the hell am I doing? I think of
Lance, still at the club and possibly wondering to where I’ve disappeared. He
knows a bit about my dealings with Boris and Vlady, but he doesn’t have a clue
as to the stranglehold these two criminals have over my life. It all boils down
to the fact that they’re blackmailing me. I’m forced to do their small jobs to
prevent being exposed and expelled from Bulgaria. I thought my debt to them had
already been paid in full! If I hadn’t been so wasted when they arrived at the
nightclub, I would have protested this new mission they’d planned for me.
Sitting in my seat on the bus, I am determined to deliver the package in the
morning and get back to Sofia as quickly as possible. I can’t help but think
that I’m being forced into actions I will later regret.

The bus speeds east through the dark and
forbidding Bulgarian night. The rhythm of the tires on the asphalt pavement
soothes my worries, and I close my eyes, eager to forget the strange happenings
that have led me to this unexpected journey. I fade into a pleasant dream and
welcome my grandfather into my mind. It’s my bar mitzvah again, as colorful and
exciting as it was to me when I was thirteen years old. My grandparents are
both with me, beaming with pride. My grandfather hands me a present, and I’m
almost embarrassed to accept it.

“This is for you,” he says.

I take the silver chain and regard the
chai
pendant attached to it. I’m about
to say that necklaces are for girls, and that I will never wear such jewelry,
but the pendant and its shiny Jewish symbol catch my eye. Of course I’ll wear
this, I assure him. I hug my grandfather with a loving embrace. He helps me
secure the gift around my neck.

As the bus speeds toward Varna, I
unconsciously finger the
chai
chain
that is wrapped comfortably around my neck even now. It’s a real-life link to
my grandfather. I think about the emails I’ve sent to him describing my
experiences in Bulgaria. I smile in my sleep, recalling when I taught him how
to navigate the Internet, how to communicate using Skype. It’s strange that people
of my grandfather’s generation simply can’t pick up the technological
innovations that make the world tick these days!

With these pleasant nocturnal thoughts
keeping me company, I have no sense of the minutes that pass or the kilometers
that the bus has driven. The night is a temporary distraction, and soon it is
morning and we are pulling into the unassuming Varna station that is our
announced destination. For me, however, this is not the final stop on my
eastward journey. I still have this strange package to deliver.

I flag down a passing taxi, and the
sullen driver transports me outside the city and drops me off at the Happy
Sunshine Resort Hotel in Golden Sands. I pay the fare, realizing that this is
another business expense for which I undoubtedly will not be reimbursed. I go
inside the ritzy-looking building.

The person I’m supposed to meet has yet
to arrive, so I sit down on one of the lumpy leather sofas in the lobby. I put
the package at my feet and close my eyes. I haven’t fully recuperated from the
alcohol at the party or the overnight bus journey, and before I know it, I’m
snoring loud enough to attract the angry stares of the housekeeping staff.

“The
manager now see
you,” someone says to me in broken English, jolting me awake.

I am jolted into a state of
consciousness and rub the sleep from my eyes. The security guard standing over
me is immense, with wide shoulders and powerful muscles bulging out of his
shirt sleeves. His head is bald, reflecting the light of an overhead
chandelier. A flashy earring sparkles in one of his ears. He is so huge that he
makes Boris seem like a weakling.

“The manager?”
I ask, questioning this bulky man’s message.

“You have something for Alexander
Nikolov, no?”

“Yes,” I reply, making sure to shake my
head in the appropriate Bulgarian fashion.

“Come with me.”

I pick up the package and follow the
security guard up half a flight of stairs to the back office, a dark and shabby
room that is totally unlike the lobby. A poster advertising the Black Sea coast
hanging on the wall fails to make the place more appealing. Behind a large,
cluttered desk sits a smartly attired man wearing a white shirt and tie—but
that doesn’t comfort me in any way. A head of greasy hair, combed back across a
flaky scalp, and a pair of beady eyes complete the picture of an untrustworthy
character.

Without waiting for a formal invitation,
I sink into a deep-cushioned chair. I am ready to leave the package on his desk
and hurry out the door, but my instructions state explicitly that I must wait
for Nikolov to personally confirm its receipt.

“Who the hell are you?” the man behind
the desk asks in English.

 
“I’m Scott Matthews. I brought this from Vlady
and Boris,” I say, pushing the package toward him.

He puffs for a minute on his cigarette,
his smoke curling upward and clouding the room. “Do you have identification?”
he asks.

“Sure,” I say. I reach into my pocket
and pull out my American passport.

He compares my university mug shot with
what I look like after an all-night bus trip and then scans through the pages
of visa stamps. I extend my hand, but he hesitates and doesn’t return the
passport.

“This better be what I’ve been waiting
for,” he says, turning his attention to the package on his desk.

He takes a pair of scissors and uses one
of its blades to dissect the ribbons of masking tape around the box. I watch
with full curiosity as he removes an object from the bubble wrap, uncovering an
item of such startling beauty that I’m left speechless.

It’s an ancient vase in shades of
aquamarine, with colorful depictions of Greek-like people carrying sacrificial
offers in a circular procession around its base. I am shocked at the
incalculable value of the item I’ve been transporting across the country. It’s
obviously a collector’s piece, something that is totally out of place in this
dark office and that belongs in an archaeological museum.

Where did Vlady and Boris get this? More
accurately, from where did they steal this? The audacity of those thugs
startles me. Not only are they smugglers of stolen goods and presumed murderers
of Serbian customs officials, they’re also antiques traffickers. I’m sure that
they’re on Interpol’s most-wanted list. I’ve got to finish this job and get the
hell out of here.

I feel sure that Alexander Nikolov of
the Happy Sunshine Resort Hotel will immediately confirm the authenticity of
this Grecian artifact and release me of any further obligations. I start to get
up from my deep-cushioned seat, ready to leave the room and rush back to the
Varna station to catch the next Sofia-bound bus.

“This is not what was arranged,” he
says, dismissing the beauty of the ancient vase with a sneer as if it were a
stray dog in a Sofia alley. “You brought the wrong piece.”

“What?”

“You have delivered the wrong item,” he
says, his voice rising.

“I brought you what they gave me,” I
say, coughing up my excuse.

“It is unacceptable!” he says, nearly
shouting now. “What kind of fool do they take me for? They send me a vase?”

He spits with disgust into a wastepaper
basket at the foot of his desk. For a minute I fear that he will throw the
ancient piece to the floor, shattering both it and any chance I have of getting
out of here alive.

“You will go back to your friends and
tell them to stop their little schemes,” he says. “You will get from them the
item I ordered—the real thing. Only then will you come back to me.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not really my
fault,” I say, standing in front of him.

“It don’t matter whose fault it is,” he
says. “Now, get out of here and get me what I asked for!”

I am totally confused, not sure why
there has been such fucked-up miscommunication between Vlady and Boris back in
Montana and their contact here in Varna. Why did I have to be the middleman in
this argument? I’m not a party to their smuggling deals, and my involvement is
just sinking me deeper into trouble.

Thinking of Nikolov’s reaction when I
made the delivery, I am aware that I am carrying out thankless tasks and no one
ever appreciates my efforts. Enough is enough! I will not run any more errands
for Vlady and Boris, I vow to myself as I return to the Varna bus station and
approach the ticket window. I don’t care what they might do to me. Let them
tell the Peace Corps anything they want. I’ve had it with their games and
schemes. I don’t care anymore if I get kicked out and am forced to return to
the States.

I will terminate my connection to these
gangsters once and for all.

I board the bus and breathe a sigh of
relief when the door slams shut. My Varna delivery trip is already just a bad
memory. We depart the station, and the bus begins the long return journey to
Sofia. Hours later, as we approach the Bulgarian capital, I reach into my
pocket for my passport, but it isn’t there. I sit up with alarm as I recall the
last time I used it. I had handed the passport to Nikolov, to verify my
identity as being the American I said I was.

Nikolov never returned my passport! I am
totally up shit creek now.

Chapter
33

I am in the backyard of my host family’s
home, the territory as unfamiliar to me as if it were a foreign country. I am not
alone. Boris and Vlady are here, and they’re actually doing most of the work.
Each of us is taking turns shoveling, but they’ve been doing the lion’s share
of it while I watch the dirt pile up alongside the long trench we’re digging.
Occasionally they argue with each other, but mostly they concentrate on the
task at hand. The sun is beginning to set, and evening engulfs our excavation
work in a surreal twilight. We’ve been working for over two hours, only
stopping for occasional swigs of a foul-tasting liquor drunk straight from a
wine bottle. I wonder if we’ll continue to dig when it gets dark. And then with
a dull clang, Boris’s shovel hits something hard.

I think back, recalling the
circumstances that brought me here. After my unsuccessful trip to Varna, I
immediately contacted Vlady. His lack of sympathy for my missing passport
didn’t come as a complete surprise. I had hoped that he would have leverage
over Nikolov and could arrange to have my passport shipped back to my current
home in a Rhodopes village, or, if that wasn’t possible, to a pickup spot in
Sofia. Instead of offering assistance, Vlady insisted that I come to Montana
for the weekend. He informed me that I’ll be assigned a new task, one that will
again send me to the Black Sea coast.

“Don’t worry. It’s all arranged,” Vlady
assured me over the phone, clearing his throat to indicate that he wasn’t
concerned in the least about the mission.

But that was what was worrying me. I
didn’t trust Vlady and Boris. Nothing good could possibly result from their
smuggling schemes.

“I want out.” I tried hard to make my
voice sound forceful, but my hand was shaking as I clutched the phone to my
ear. “Just help me get my passport back so that I don’t have to involve the
American embassy. I’m an American citizen, for God’s sake!”

“The embassy staff isn’t going to help
you here, young mister peace-lover,” Vlady replied smugly. “Now get your ass up
to Montana so that we can prep you. Only by going back to Varna will you get
your passport back.”

As the week passed, I concentrated on my
Peace Corps duties. I had to fake an illness to escape weekend
responsibilities; only Lance knew that I was actually bound for Montana on
personal business. I told him I was just going to visit my host family, but
somehow he grasped that there was much more at stake. I wished I could confide
in Lance and tell him everything. Is it fear of repercussions from Vlady and
Boris that held me back? Or did I lack the courage to acknowledge my latest
predicament, a complicated situation for which I was solely responsible?

“Spill the beans, Scott,” my friend
insisted. “I know you’re in big trouble. I can help.”

“What trouble?”

“I know you’re up to something with your
host father,” he continued. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

I smiled at him but remained silent.

My talk with Lance seems like ages ago,
even though it was just yesterday. Now, as I stand sullenly next to a pile of
dirt, I’m anxious to see what Boris has upturned with his shovel. The yard
behind the house is like a junkyard, with rusted relics from the family’s past
scattered on a gradual slope leading up to a fence-like thicket of trees.
Prominent in view is the skeleton of a Wartburg Knight, a popular Bulgarian car
from the 1960s that I learned about in one of the Peace Corps sessions on local
folklore and culture. The old vehicle is raised on a platform, with its tires
missing and the interiors exposed to the elements due to the absence of glass
in the windows. A broken tractor engine lying on the ground next to the car
connects the family to its agricultural heritage, but the lack of care they
gave to this small plot is somewhat disturbing.

In the fading light, Vlady chuckles
loudly, indicating his excitement. What is buried in the trench? A long,
rectangular shape becomes visible under the dirt, and I fear they are exhuming
a corpse. Anything is possible. These guys have murdered a customs official on
a Belgrade-bound train, so why couldn’t they have dead bodies buried in their
backyard? But how would the exhumation of a murder victim prepare me for a new
trip to Varna and getting back my passport?

In the hole, I see a box of some kind,
smaller than a coffin. There are no dead bodies here, I sigh with great relief.
As more of the buried object becomes visible I realize that it’s actually a
metal trunk. Boris is careful not to damage the sides as he clears away the
dirt. Finally, enough of it is exposed for him to reach around to get a
handhold. Vlady jumps into the pit, and the two of them shift the box back and
forth, freeing it from its encasement of soil. They bend down and begin to
lift. Seconds later, I’m leaning over, helping them raise this strange metal
container. It’s not as heavy as I had assumed from their efforts. They climb
up, and the three of us stand next to the pit, staring at what we’ve unearthed.

“What is it?” I ask, not expecting
anyone to answer.

“This is what you need to deliver to
Nikolov,” Vlady replies.

In my mind I picture myself carrying
this strange rectangular box as I board the Varna-bound bus. The thought sends
shivers up my spine.

“Let’s get it inside,” Vlady says, and
then he turns to bark instructions at Boris.

We set the box down on the kitchen
table, oblivious to the dirt trail we’ve created. Ralitsa offers to make us
coffee, but her husband snarls at her so harshly she seems to wilt as she
withdraws from the room. Vlady is already working at the rusty latches on the
box. I lean back against the humming refrigerator, afraid to interfere and
fearful that Boris will send me out of the kitchen before I have a chance to
see exactly what we’ve pulled from the earth.

Vlady carefully lifts the top of the
box, exposing a wine-colored gym bag. I am immediately relieved at seeing the
familiar Adidas logo, thinking this can’t be so bad after all. Vlady unzips the
bag and a mountain of bubble wrap is exposed, expanding rapidly with its
exposure to air like a growing mound of freshly popped popcorn. The two
Bulgarian men stand there, filled with awe at what they’re about to reveal.
Apparently Vlady cannot contain his own curiosity. He quickly reaches into the
bag and removes a heavy, bubble wrap-encased item and places it on the table.

Setting the trunk on the floor, out of
the way, Vlady begins to strip back the sheets of bubble wrap. Slowly, with
delicate maneuvering, he continues to
unwrap
the
package. Sections of silver shine in the kitchen light, growing in size and
shape as more of this buried item comes into view. And then the last of the
bubble wrap has been removed and discarded on the floor, fully revealing the
amazing treasure it has protected.

I don’t have a clue what I’m looking at.
I don’t know how to describe this item except that it’s ancient—and it’s
absolutely stunning. It’s some sort of old relic made entirely of silver,
although the precious metal has tarnished due to prolonged burial beneath the
earth. It is about half a meter long and seems quite delicate. There are tiny
gems embedded at the ends, possibly pearls. The vessel is open at the top and
capable of containing liquid. Is this a simple drinking cup? It seems a bit big
for that.

Something at the lower part of the
vessel catches my attention and makes my appreciation of it grow even more. At
the bottom I see an intricately carved lion’s head; there is no mistaking this
majestic animal. The lion’s mouth is open, forming an outlet for any liquid
poured into the vessel from above. Now I’m convinced this is nothing ordinary.
I’m guessing it was used by priests, who drank from it in ritual ceremonies,
imbibing their sacred beverages and chanting in some long-lost tongue.

“I see you appreciate ancient art,
mister peace-lover,” Vlady says, smiling at me. “This is from the Bulgarians of
old, maybe you’ve heard of them. They were called the Thracians.”

I shake my head to indicate that I don’t
have a clue. Who were the Thracians? I thought the Romans ruled this country in
ancient times. I remember visiting the old Roman amphitheater in Plovdiv on a
free weekend during the training course.

I am not too knowledgeable about ancient
history, and it doesn’t particularly matter to me which ancient people created
this amazing artifact. In any case, Vlady mistakes my head shaking as a
positive reply. He doesn’t bother to provide any additional information about
the Thracians or their use of this ancient silver vessel.

“
Hubavo
,” Vlady says, turning to
Boris, and I recognize the Bulgarian word for
beautiful
.

Indeed! The vessel was obviously stolen,
I realize, but apparently not recently. It had been buried behind Boris’s house
for some time; the discolored silver proved this. When and from where had Vlady
and Boris stolen this? Had they broken into a museum somewhere—perhaps even the
National Museum of Archaeology in Sofia—and walked away with this precious item
of incalculable value? How had they accomplished that without getting caught?

It amazes me to think that my host
family in Montana has hidden treasure in their backyard. Boris had buried the
artifact among the clutter behind his house with the sole purpose of retrieving
it at a later date. When stolen, it had probably been too hot to place on the
market. Now, we have dug up this treasure and exposed it once again to the
light of day, even though the last of the day’s light is already gone and it
has grown quite dark outside.

As the magnificent item rests on
Ralitsa’s kitchen table, the weight of what I’m expected to do hits me.

“Oh, no!”
I say, backing away from the table and trying to distance myself from the
upcoming trip to Varna.

“What is the matter, Mr. American
peace-lover?” Vlady asks, and even Boris looks a bit concerned.

“You can’t possibly expect me…” I begin,
still reeling from what these thugs are planning. “This is an expensive item.
It should be transported in a Brinks armored car or something!”

“What, and draw attention to it?” Vlady
grins at me with that horrific sneer of his.
“No,
peace-lover.
You will take this to Varna, to Nikolov. No one will
suspect you of transporting the Rogozen Drinking Lion.”

“Rogozen what?”
I ask, but Vlady doesn’t explain.

And then they start wrapping it up
again, hiding the ancient silver from view under layers of protective bubbles.
They ease the covered vessel back into the Adidas gym bag and zip up the
zipper.

“You will take another bus trip,” Vlady
says, smiling at me.

“I can’t take this by myself! What if
the police stop me? Or someone tries to steal it?” I’m not thinking clearly,
just stating the first concerns that come to my mind. “What do I say if I’m
asked where I got this?”

“Hey, no police!
Don’t you
worry.
You will not travel by yourself.”

Oh, great, I think. Vlady and Boris are
coming with me on the long bus trip across Bulgaria. We’ll have plenty to talk
about, I say to myself sarcastically. These guys are really pleasant company.

When Vlady and Boris go into the living
room to celebrate their excavation efforts with hard liquor and tobacco, I step
outside, eager to breathe the fresh air of the cloudless night. I wish I had a
joint with me. I need to get high, to ease my mind from the stress of my
impending mission. I pull out my cell phone and dial the number of the one
person I can talk to when I’m confused.

“Scott, what the hell are you doing up
there?” Lance asks.

“Oh, just some family business,” I
reply, thinking that this is a family with whom one shouldn’t do business.

“So, when are you coming back?”

“I need to go to Varna,” I say, knowing
that this will just make him more curious, and concerned about my plans.

“Varna?”

“Yes, it’s just a short trip, and then
I’ll be back.”

“Short? It’s all the way across the
country. Why the fuck do you need to go to Varna?”

“I have to deliver something,” I say,
but then I’m sorry this has slipped from my tongue. Anything I say can—and
will—
be
used against me. I need to keep quiet about my
activities.

“I’ll go with you,” Lance volunteers,
surprising me with the offer.

 
“No, there’s no need, really.”

“Someone’s got to cover your ass,” he
continues. “Tell me when you’re going. Are you going by train or bus? I’ll join
you.”

This is not something I can explain to
Lance. He can’t get involved with the criminal activities of Vlady and Boris.
It’s enough that I’ve fallen into their trap and have become a helpless pawn in
their plans, one who must carry out their illegal delivery missions.

“Sorry, Lance. This is something I’ve
got to do by myself,” I say, hoping the nervousness in my voice will not betray
my misgivings. “Just cover for me with the Corps.”

“Sorry, buddy, that’s not good enough
for me,” Lance insists. “I’ll meet you in Varna. What time will you arrive
there?”