Valley of Thracians (10 page)

Chapter
21

 
“Don’t you see? Retrieving Scott’s silver
chain is an important step forward,” Simon said excitedly.

“Did you tell anyone about it?” his son
responded skeptically, his image momentarily freezing due to interference in
their Internet connection.

“Yes, of course. I called the police
officer in Varna, and I spoke with the deputy consul at the American embassy.”

“And what did they say?”

“Well, they were not very helpful. They
admitted that the chain was a significant piece of evidence, if it could be
proven it had belonged to Scott.”

“And what did they offer to do?”

“Nothing, really,” Simon admitted, his
excitement beginning to wane. “That’s why it’s essential that I continue on my
own. I haven’t given up on this yet.”

There were so many questions, and Simon
didn’t have a clue how he could get answers. Who had called the hotel and asked
him to come to the synagogue to receive Scott’s chain? Who was the woman who
delivered it, and what was her connection to Scott’s disappearance? Most
importantly, did the delivery of the chain prove that his grandson was still
alive or rather did it corroborate the assumption that Scott was dead?

After ending his Skype conversation with
Daniel, Simon went down to the lobby to wait for Sophia. She had been the first
person he called after his trip to the synagogue. While Borislav Stoyanov of
the Varna police force and Brett Thompson from the embassy were doubtful about
the chain’s authenticity, Sophia had been very excited and said she would come
to the hotel to meet him and discuss their next steps.

“Who knows that you are staying at the
Hilton?” she asked, barely saying hello when she joined him in the lobby.

He looked over at her, a wide grin
forming on his face. Her reddish hair was combed back neatly, and she was
wearing a fashionable blue dress that accented her figure and made her seem
like an impressionable college student. The concern in her voice was touching;
he could see that she was as eager as he in considering the options.

 
“The officials at the United States embassy,
the staff at the Peace Corps, that hotel manager in Golden Sands, Dave Harris
in Varna, Bogdan Kamenov the private investigator, and of course, Scott’s host
family in Montana,” he said, listing the people with whom he had talked.

“A few more people also know about
this,” she said, and he regarded her with a puzzled look. “After your
unpleasant incident in my home, I told my colleagues at the university the
reason why you’ve come to Bulgaria. I hope you don’t mind. Obviously, someone
with whom either you or I spoke has a connection to what happened to your
grandson. Also, I am wondering something else. Why did they return the chain to
you at this time?”

“Well, the answer to that question is
obvious to me,” Simon said. “They gave me the Magen David chain to encourage me
to continue looking for Scott. It’s a sign that I’m on the right track. Someone
on that list you just mentioned—or someone we’re not even thinking about—knows
something about Scott, and they’ve provided us with a clue. They’re steering us
in his direction.”

“And what you’ve learned from your
daughter-in-law doesn’t bother you?” Sophia asked. Simon had mentioned Scott’s
drug addiction when they spoke earlier on the phone.

 
“It upsets me that Scott was doing drugs, of
course. I didn’t realize that he was having such troubles. Learning that Scott
was addicted only increases the urgency to search for him. In fact, it makes
finding him—or learning what happened to him—more crucial than ever. He could
be lying in a bed in some Bulgarian institution, his mind wasted from an
overdose. I hate to think about all the possibilities.

 
“You know, Sophia,” he continued. “The more I
think of the problems that young Scott faced in his life—problems that until a
very short time ago I knew absolutely nothing about—the more I want to help
him, if it’s not too late. He’s my grandson, after all,” he said, his voice
trailing off into a pained silence.

“That’s very sweet,” she said. “I just
feel so guilty that I haven’t been watching over you as I should.”

“What do you mean?”

 
“You shouldn’t be doing all this by yourself.
Especially when someone like Boris is threatening to kill your grandson on
sight! It’s frightening to think about that. I should have gone with you to the
synagogue. Maybe I could have learned something.”

 
“Would you like to make an order?” a waitress
interrupted, her question phrased in English in deference to the American guest
at the table. “I can recommend our homemade biscuit cake.”

“No, I’m not hungry,” Simon said. “But I
could do with a cup of tea.”

“You know, there’s something strange
about the threat issued by Scott’s host father,” Simon said after the waitress
left to fill their order. “In his emails, Scott never mentioned that his host
father had any physical disabilities.
Quite the opposite.
Scott wrote to me about the construction work his host father did. I think the
wheelchair is something new for Boris. Yet, that was one angry man, wheelchair
or no wheelchair. I can’t help but wonder if that family is in some way
responsible for Scott’s disappearance.”

“If they were responsible, Scott’s host
father wouldn’t have threatened to kill him,” Sophia pointed out. “And
certainly he wouldn’t have said such a thing if he knew that Scott was already
dead.”

The waitress served their tea and
mumbled something quickly in Bulgarian.

“What did she say?” Simon asked his
companion when the waitress left to clear dishes from a nearby table.

“She said, ‘
Zapoviadete
.’ This means, ‘
Here
you are.’”

“Zapovi… what?”

Sophia laughed at his futile attempts to
say the Bulgarian word, and then they both waited patiently for their tea to
cool. Simon was about to say something when the metallic ring of a cellular
phone interrupted them. He looked expectantly to Sophia, waiting for her to
retrieve her phone and take the call, but Sophia was looking at him, as if he
was responsible for the ringing.

“Isn’t that…?” he started to say, and
then he realized that the noise was coming from his travel bag. “That’s my
phone! This is the first time it has rung since I’ve been in Bulgaria.”

He excused himself as he took the call,
worried that it might be Daniel again demanding that he cut his Bulgaria stay
short and return to the States. But to his surprise, it was Dave Harris phoning
from Varna. After exchanging pleasantries, Simon was shocked at what Dave told
him.

“So, you’re saying that this hotel
manager I met, what was his name, oh yes, Alexander Nikolov, is connected to a
Bulgarian crime family?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,”
Dave said. “The Nikolov family is well-known in the Varna area. They have been
suspected of involvement in drug deals, protection rackets, gambling,
prostitution, and even more. And this will interest you. They dabble in the
trafficking of stolen goods. I wouldn’t be surprised if the stolen goods they
move back and forth include illegal antiquities.”

 
“Illegal antiques trafficking?” Simon asked
incredulously.

“Yes, that’s very big business here in
Bulgaria. There are a lot of antiques and ancient ruins in this country. Roman,
Byzantine…”

“Thracian,” Simon interjected, causing
Sophia to look up at him.

“Yes, so you’ve heard about Bulgaria’s
treasures?”

“I’ve heard a bit,” Simon admitted.

“There’s something else that’s possibly
even more helpful to you in your search,” Dave continued.

“What’s that?”

 
“I’ve received a report of a group of tourists
being led by someone that meets your grandson’s description.”

Of course this was helpful! Simon
thought as he sat forward in his seat. Why hadn’t Dave mentioned this from the
start?

He listened attentively to what the Brit
had to say, and after the call ended, he turned to Sophia.

“He got a tip from one of his contacts,”
Simon said. “A man—apparently Scott—has been seen on his way to an important
monastery south of Sofia.”

“The Rila Monastery?”

 
“Yes, that’s it,” Simon said.

“That’s the most famous tourist
destination in all of Bulgaria.”

“I’m sure that this is Scott! First I
receive Scott’s chain and now this lead. I finally know where my grandson is.”

“Let’s go immediately,” she replied.
“We’ll be there in less than two hours.”

Chapter
22

Simon’s eagerness to reunite with his
grandson was almost palpable as they drove south. Was Scott okay? Simon assumed
that he must be. If Scott had been spotted leading a group of tourists to a
famous monastery, he most certainly was in good health. But why had he not
contacted his family in all this time? Why in the world had Scott forsaken his
loved ones?

Simon couldn’t dismiss from his mind the
other thing Dave had told him on the phone. Was Scott’s disappearance connected
in any way to the Nikolov crime family? No, that just didn’t make sense. Simon
believed that the harsh reaction of the hotel manager at their meeting in Varna
was the result of a misunderstanding. It wasn’t possible that Scott was mixed
up with that man and his apparent underworld dealings. Illegal antiques
trafficking! For heaven’s sake, Scott was a Peace Corps volunteer, after all.

This was all very strange and confusing.
Within a very short time, Simon would finally know why Scott had disappeared.

“Look at that!” Sophia said to him
excitedly, slowing down the car.

They were passing through Kocherinovo,
one of the many Bulgarian villages with nearly unpronounceable long names. The
village constituted just the one central street, on each side a row of
adjoining houses desperately in need of fresh paint and repair. Sophia pointed
through the windshield toward the tiled roof of a municipal building. Atop a
red-brick chimney, Simon saw a misshapen assortment of twigs and branches.
Sitting in the nest was not one but three tall, slim birds, all of them regal
and patient as they waited for their meal to arrive by air delivery.

“Storks!”
Simon said.

Sophia drove as slowly as she could
while yet another stork’s home came into view, this one nestled on the roof of
a ramshackle house. Here, too, the magnificent birds were visible, even from
two stories below at street level. As they watched from the car, the large
wingspan of another stork soaring overhead cast a transitory shadow on the
ground before coming to roost on its own woody pile atop an electricity pole,
rustling its wings and oblivious to the attention it attracted.

Simon chased thoughts of the impending
reunion from his mind and regarded the stunning countryside. Past the village,
the peaks of the Rila Mountains greeted them. This was the tallest range in
Bulgaria. The vista was picturesque and reminded Simon of his vacations in the
Rockies. There was something soothing about viewing mountains from afar, as if
the capabilities of nature to create such majesty could easily solve the
trivial concerns of those who fell captive to its wonders.

The main street of the village of Rila
was long and winding, its rows of contiguous shabby houses set on both sides of
the road. The pavement narrowed as it inclined into the foothills farther east.
Here the road was sandwiched between thick green forests that stretched down
the slopes. A stream bubbled somewhere below them, hidden by the trees.
Rounding a bend in the road, Sophia pointed out the steam rising from a distant
waterfall on the mountainside across the valley.

They reached a plateau, giving pause to
their ascent. They passed wooden stands manned by local residents selling
amber-colored jars of honey and natural beeswax, as well as what appeared to be
homemade jams. Each stand had a pyramidal display taller than the one before.

Sophia slammed her brakes suddenly when
three unbridled horses with lustrous black manes wandered aimlessly across the
road. For several moments, they watched the carefree horses feeding on the tall
grasses at the side of the asphalt until a honking vehicle behind them urged
them to move the car forward.

The road climbed higher still, one curve
after another. A tour bus
came
speeding up behind
them, followed by a sleek Mercedes-Benz. Sophia eased to the side to allow them
to pass. Simon lowered his window, breathing in the sweet aroma of the mountain
forest.

As they passed the sign announcing their
destination with a colorful montage of pictures, Sophia told him about the
important role monasteries played in Bulgarian history. Over five centuries of
oppressive Ottoman rule, the country’s monasteries—usually situated in the
safety of isolated mountain valleys like this one—were guardians of Bulgarian
customs and served as teaching centers for the Bulgarian language. In the
serene setting, they offered protection to hermits and those seeking religious
salvation, as well as to Bulgarian leaders planning their rebellion against the
Turks. Bulgarians were not a religious people, Sophia said, but they deeply
respected the country’s many monasteries.

Simon was silent, barely paying
attention to what Sophia was saying. Again his thoughts turned to his grandson,
whom he hadn’t seen since the college graduation ceremony. How he missed Scott!
Sometimes when he thought of Scott he pictured him in his blue bar mitzvah
suit. He could still recall giving the young boy, who had just become a man,
the Magen David chain,
the
very one he had retrieved
at the Sofia synagogue. A smile lit up his face in anticipation of his imminent
embrace with his grandson. How stunned Scott would be when his grandfather
presented him with the chain a second time!

An attendant approached them at the
entrance of the Rila Monastery's parking lot, his hand outstretched for the
four-leva
fee. Sophia parked the car in a shady spot
alongside the many other cars and buses. Tourists and pilgrims crowded around
the entranceway for a photography session before entering the complex.

As they walked through the entranceway,
Sophia informed him that the monastery was named after a ninth-century holy
man, John of Rila—Ivan Rilski in Bulgarian. Rilski chose this secluded mountain
valley, overlooked by peaks covered in snow and surrounded by bubbling mountain
streams, as the location where he would spend the recluse years living in a
cave. After his death, his students built the first monastery at the site. It
would become the most important religious center in all of Bulgaria. The
monastery had been burnt to the ground and rebuilt many times over the
centuries. The present-day construction dated back to the 1800s.

“Bulgarians come from all over the
country on pilgrimages,” Sophia informed him. “They call Rila Monastery the
Jerusalem of Bulgaria.”

Simon pushed past the crowd and entered
the wide plaza. Despite his impatience, he couldn’t help but stare with wide
eyes at the beauty of Bulgaria’s most important tourist destination. There was
pure harmony here. Graceful arches in bold stripes of black and white
surrounded a huge, flagstone courtyard supporting two floors of monastic cells.
Wooden railings lined the stairways leading to the upper levels. Beyond the
tiled roofs he could see the thick greenery of mountain forests, and in the
distance, the rough upper peaks of the Rila range.

But what attracted his attention more
than anything else was the church in the center of the plaza. This amazing
construction looked too surreal to be an actual house of worship. It was a
square edifice, with its courtyard-level porches encased by the same black-and-white
striped arches as the surrounding buildings. Below the arches, Simon could
depict the brilliant colors of fresco murals that completely covered the outer
walls. Atop the arches was a row of gargoyles, their details impossible to
discern from a distance. A roof of gray interspersed with layers of
red-and-white brick extended upward toward additional decorations. Rising above
everything was the church’s main dome, one of five topping this unique
building.

The inner courtyard was eerily quiet,
yet it was filled with worshippers and onlookers—all awed by the holiness of
the mountaintop shrine and gazing with reverence at the iconic church. Simon
began searching the crowd, wondering if he would be able to spot Scott, hoping
he would still be able to recognize him. Dave had suggested that Scott was
leading a group of English-speaking tourists, so it shouldn’t be that hard to
spot foreigners among the local pilgrims. Yet, everywhere he looked, there was
no one who vaguely resembled his grandson.

“Let’s go inside,” Sophia said, grasping
his arm and leading him to the church’s entrance.

Simon removed his baseball cap and
stepped into the gloom of the interior. Why do all Eastern Orthodox churches
hide their gold icons and their intricate wood carvings amidst such darkness?
he
wondered. The shadowy naves didn’t seem to bother the
faithful, though, who hurried to cross themselves, kneel before the altars, and
mouth their silent devotions. The black-robed monks mingled among their flock,
swinging incense dispensers in pendulum arcs and guiding the candlelit rituals.

Simon followed Sophia toward the central
altar. She mentioned that Ivan Rilski’s mummified left hand was kept in a
silver casket inside the church and possibly could be brought out for display
if they asked. Simon searched everywhere for Scott, pushing past the devout
worshippers. He sidestepped a monk who was beckoning him to join the prayers
and then circled back, realizing quickly that there were no English-speakers
inside the church.

“He’s not here!” Simon exclaimed in
desperation as he emerged into daylight and joined Sophia on the porch.

Sophia was inspecting one of the
apocalyptic frescoes, this one not yet restored to its original brilliance.
“Look at all these depictions of the devil,” she said, her hand reaching out
and nearly touching the faded red-colored figures parading across a
surrealistic series of frames like a medieval comic strip.

“Scott is not here,” he repeated,
sitting down on the patio ledge and barely glancing at the Biblical scenes.

“Wait, there’s one more place we can
go.”

Sophia led him toward the eastern gate,
at the far side of the plaza. This passageway cut through the monastery walls
to a bridge that spanned a swollen mountain stream. Beyond, a cobbled street
sloped steeply downward to another church and a complex of restaurants and
souvenir stands. Many of the visitors ended their tour of the Rila Monastery
here, buying handmade religious icons and crucifix beads as reminders of the
holy shrine. Others wandered along the pathway deeper into the valley toward
the original cave where Ivan Rilski lived during his years of hermitage.

It was then that Simon saw them. A man
was standing at a small doughnut stand with his back to the monastery, talking
to a group of camera-carrying foreigners. The man wore faded blue jeans and a
white T-shirt. He held his hand out, and his head was tilted at an angle, a
stance that instantly filled Simon with a recollection of his grandson’s
profile at his graduation ceremony. Simon started down the slope, encouraged by
the English he was hearing. Someone was asking about the traditions of
Bulgaria’s Orthodox
church
and this question was
directed at the man who had led them on the tour, their apparent guide to the
Rila Monastery.

It seemed to be, it had to be—it must be
Scott!

Simon hurried forward to embrace his
grandson after three years of uncertainty, after many eventful days of
searching for him in an unfamiliar land that had proven to be more engaging
than previously imagined. His mission to find his long-lost grandson was
finally reaching the happy ending for which he had prayed.

The slope was slippery. Simon’s left
foot twisted as he stepped on a smooth stone, leaving him with absolutely no
way to catch his balance. He flew forward, his legs giving out totally. He
raised his arms to brace for the inevitable fall, his body wincing in advance
at the pain of the impact.

He managed to mouth one word before he
hit the ground. “Scott!” he tried to call out, his voice failing him in
apparent empathy with his twisted legs. The image that registered in Simon’s
mind was that of the man’s face, which turned with curiosity to view the person
falling toward him down the steep descent from the monastery’s gate.

This man was not his grandson at all,
Simon realized, and then he passed out.