Author: Hey everyone! Sorry this took a little longer to post. And also sorry that it is super long (over 3000 words according to my Word doc). I just had to make sure everything was wrapped up in a nice way, which I hope is enough of an excuse for the length. Hope you all enjoy this last chapter!
Chapter Thirteen: Adieu, Auf Wiedersehen, Gesundheit, Farewell
Boris, Brian, and Filov rushed out of the room. As they slid into the seats of the Tsar’s royal automobile, Boris quickly barked an order at a secretary to contact the rest of the cabinet. The palace’s staff watched in confusion as the three men entered the vehicle and, not even waiting for the Tsar’s chauffeur, had Brian drive them away. The tire tracks left their skid marks freshly visible on the pavement as Bulgaria’s citizens looked on. Boris’ heart and mind were both racing as fast as the car he sat in.
Minister Kyoseivanov was the first to receive the call, seeing how he was in his office working. This also meat that he arrived much earlier than the others, which gave him ample time to grumble about Filov’s “over-exaggerations” of urgency, as well as utter other unkind and flippant remarks about his coworkers, Brian, the Tsar (you get the point).
Hadzipetkov received the call second. He was, in fact, on his lunch break at a small bistro on the other side of the city. His reasons for having lunch so far away from his office were, firstly, to clear his mind of the humdrum of administrative government work. But, secondly, and arguably more important, was that this side of Sofia was away from prying eyes and ears. Hadzipetkov stood up, called for the check from the waiter, paid his bill, and, as he was tipping the waiter, made a slight spasm with his hands. This spasm was so small that, to a casual observer, they would think Hadzipetkov were merely stretching his joints after a long meal. But it wasn’t so. The waiter saw the spasm and knew its true meaning. In response he twitched his head, which, to anybody not familiar with the signal, simply looked like a brisk nod. But again, it was not so. Hadzipetkov recognized the gesture and, having done his work, made his way to the government offices. There was more work to be done yet.
The waiter picked up the bill and his tip and began to spread the word among his comrades who also worked at the restaurant. Through a nod here and a gesture there the city was mobilized. Then from the city to the countryside, from there to the Army’s encampments at the border of Soviet-controlled Romania and Yugoslavia, and from there to the NKVD agents stationed with Soviet forces. The Revolution was coming.
Vulkov was the third person to receive the call. He had, incidentally, just arrived at his office just a few minutes before due to an errand he’d run. When an assistant told him of the Tsar’s summons, Vulkov straitened his hat, grabbed the four tickets he’d purchased at the train station that morning, and headed for the conference room to await the Tsar’s arrival.
Lukov was the last person to receive the call. He had decided to use his lunch break that day to get a shave and a cut at his barber’s. As his barber made the finishing touches to Lukov’s stubble, the shop received the call from Lukov’s secretary. When his barber handed him the phone, Lukov’s face went from calm, to, briefly, panic, to, finally, a cold rage simmering beneath the surface. He ordered his barber to: “Finish the job quick, he had places to be”. The man complied, then walked over and closed the blinds on the shop’s windows saying: “the Sun was disturbing his light”. Lukov nodded impatiently and relaxed a little in his chair. The barber walked up behind Lukov, wielded his razor in the quick, effortless fashion gained by years of practice, and slid his knife across Lukov’s throat. And that was the end for Minister Lukov.
. . .
As Hadzipetkov walked up the steps of the government building he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the Tsar’s vehicle come screeching down a sharp turn and abruptly halt at the foot of the steps.
So, this is where it will end. He thought. Hadzipetkov shrugged, entered the building, and went straight for the conference room.
Filov was the first out of the vehicle and fumbled with the latch on the door as he tried to hold it open for the Tsar. As Filov struggled with that, Boris sat slumped in his seat and was rubbing his chest. Brian, seeing Boris’ discomfort, was beside him in an instant.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“What isn’t?” Boris sighed, then grunted as he adjusted his position. He was still rubbing his heart.
“I’m not talking about the war,” Brian clarified. “I’m talking about
here,” he pointed at his own heart.
“It’s…nothing…” Boris struggled.
“We need to get you to a doctor. Now!” Brian exclaimed.
“No…No!” Boris commanded. “There’s no time. Bulgaria needs their monarch to lead them through this crisis.”
“But—”
“That’s an order Brian! We’ll talk about this later…”
With that, Boris pushed past his aide, opened the door Filov had been struggling with from the inside, and walked up the steps of the building without missing a beat. Filov stood agape at the Tsar’s brusqueness and breach of protocol. Brian stood looking on at his lifelong friend and liege. There was a mix of admiration and worry in his eyes.
“Is he always like that?” Filov asked.
“Only when he’s determined,” Brian replied, smiling to himself.
Boris stopped in his stride and called back: “Let’s go, gentlemen!”
“Coming, my Tsar!” Brian replied, who quickly climbed the steps and entered the building with Boris, leaving Filov in the dust.
The Minister stood shocked for a moment before he entered the building, trailing behind the others.
. . .
Vulkov stood outside the conference room, waiting. As Ministers and other government staff filed past him into the room, he said nothing to any of them. He was waiting, waiting for someone specific. Eventually Hadzipetkov rounded the corner, strutting confidently up to the entrance to the room. He was followed a few moments later by Boris and Brian, and, eventually, Filov. Vulkov’s head perked up and he moved to the middle of the hallway.
Hadzipetkov, seeing his colleague, assumed this would be yet another plea for him to ‘change his ways’. Hadzipetkov rolled his eyes, he’d play Vulkov’s little game. But Hadzipetkov was mistaken. He made as if to avoid Vulkov’s path, but then faltered in his stride as Vulkov completely ignored him, walked past him, and made his way towards the Tsar.
Fine. Hadzipetkov thought.
At least, if nothing else, he’s finally accepted my choice. Hadzipetkov then re-donned his smile and confidently strode into the conference room.
Filov, despite being in last place, quickly surpassed the Tsar and entered the conference room alone.
It was his duty as the most senior Minister, after all, to ensure order. He thought.
This just left Boris, Brian, and Vulkov alone in the hallway. The sounds of their shoes as they walked up to each other echoed off the dark marble floors.
“Minister.” Boris acknowledged Vulkov with a nod of his head and started to move towards the room.
But Vulkov, sensing his chance, shot out his arm and gripped the Tsar’s shoulder, stopping his gait.
“My Tsar, wait!” he said.
Vulkov had surprised Boris, making him falter in his stride and fall down on one knee. Brian, who had been just behind Boris, quickly tried to help his friend up. Vulkov was initially shocked by the Tsar’s frailty and released his grip on Boris’ shoulder. He did not know how to react. Only once Brian began to move, did he also try to help Boris up. Together, Brian and Vulkov acted as crutches for the Tsar and brought him to a seating area just outside the conference room.
“You can’t go on like this,” Brian said, “We need to postpone the meeting.”
“No…We can’t. Can’t let them see weakness…” Boris strained.
“I don’t care! The Ministers certainly don’t either, not if it costs your life! The war can wait. Right Vulkov?”
Vulkov was awkwardly standing a few feet away from the others. Whether this was out of respect for the Tsar, or because of his own idiosyncrasies, none could say. His still, looming figure could have almost been mistaken for one of the Corinthian-style columns used as accents throughout the building. He shuffled forward slowly, not wanting to appear hasty or disturbed in what he was about to say. He had delayed too long. The hour was coming when it would be too late, and indeed perhaps it was already here. But regardless, Vulkov began to speak:
“We need to leave.”
Brian nodded, turning back to Boris. “See? Vulkov agrees. We need to get you—”
“I gave you an order Brian...I’m fine!” Boris snapped back.
“We need to leave.
Now.” Vulkov repeated.
“Don’t you start,” Boris said. “This is between me and Brian.”
“You can’t just sit here!” an incredulous Brian replied.
“I don’t plan on ‘just sitting here’. I plan on attending a very important meeting which is being delayed because of this foolishness.” Boris tried to get up but slumped back into the reception chair. “Help me up.”
Neither Brian nor Vulkov moved.
“Fine. It seems we’re at an impasse. Well, I hope you two are happy defying your Tsar. My father never would have stood for his subordinates humiliating him like this. He would’ve…He would’ve…He…”
Boris hunched over in his seat and wept.
“I’ve failed him.” He said softly.
Brian reached out a hand and patted Boris’ shoulder to comfort him. It did nothing to console Boris. He continued to cry. Vulkov, once again stood awkwardly. That is until he remembered the four tickets he’d purchased that morning. He pulled them out gingerly and placed one of the tickets on Boris’ knee. Brian took his hand away from Boris’ shoulder and picked up the ticket. Boris didn’t react and continued to cry.
“What’s this?” Brian asked.
“An escape.” Vulkov said.
“Escape from what?” Brian replied.
“Bulgaria.”
Brian looked confused, “Bulgaria? What do you mean?”
“The times have changed. I see it in every day that passes as this war drags on. I hear it in his voice at every meeting. I feel it in my bones.”
Brian still looked confused, “Times have changed, that’s true. But whose voice Vulkov? Why do we have to leave now?”
“Because of his plan. Into this plan he has poured all his ambition, all his cunning, and all his allegiance. None of his former self remains.”
“But who?!” Brian pressed.
“Hello there.” A voice said.
Vulkov and Brian turned around, startled by the voice. Boris snapped his head up before quickly wiping his tears on his sleeve.
Hadzipetkov stood there, leaning against a pillar, “The Ministers are wondering what’s keeping you. They sent me to investigate.”
“Yes, sorry Minister. Vulkov cornered us with a question. We’ll be along any moment now.” Brian said.
“Really?” Hadzipetkov’s eyes flashed. “And what, pray tell, was this question, if I may ask? Vulkov?” He turned his eyes, like miniature spotlights, upon the Minister.
Vulkov stood, because he had kneeled to keep his voice low before, and although he towered over Hadzipetkov, Vulkov looked sheepish in front of Hadzipetkov’s searching eyes. After a minute or so Hadzipetkov cleared his throat and said:
“Yes. Well, we’d better be getting on with the meeting. Even if Lukov hasn’t arrived yet.”
“What’s that?” Boris asked.
“Ah yes. We’d only been waiting for you so long because Minister Lukov hasn’t shown up yet. But we can’t wait for him, or you, my Tsar, if you’ll forgive me, all day.”
“Yes, your right,” Boris said as Brian helped him out of his seat. “It’s not like Lukov, I wonder what could be keeping him?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, my Tsar. Now, if you’ll follow me.” Hadzipetkov replied.
Hadzipetkov led the procession towards the doors of the conference room. Boris and Brian were second, with Brian trying to, subtly so Hadzipetkov wouldn’t notice, act as Boris’ crutch. Vulkov trailed in the procession. And although, outwardly, he maintained his cowed demeanor towards Hadzipetkov and the others, inside his mind was racing.
Hadzipetkov held open the door and ushered the others inside. The first thing Boris, Brian, and Vulkov noticed was how bright the light was when compared to the light outside the conference room. Because of this, it took them a few moments to adjust their eyes. By the time they did, however, it was too late. There was no one else in the room. No one. Instead, there was only the Tsar, his aide, Vulkov, and Hadzipetkov. Hadzipetkov entered the room last, and, as they were still adjusting to the light, clicked the lock on the door shut and pulled out his pistol. He pointed it at Boris.
“Hadzipetkov…What’s the meaning of this?!” Boris challenged.
“Not another word,” Hadzipetkov said, “unless I allow you to speak. That is, unless you want your aide to pay the price?” He aimed his gun at Brian.
Vulkov, Boris, and Brian made no sounds.
Hadzipetkov smiled, “Good. Wouldn’t want any messes now, would we? I just have to keep you here for a few hours before the NKVD takes you off my hands.”
Boris’ and Brian’s eyes widened with shock and then, increasingly, horror. Vulkov stared dully at Hadzipetkov, his hands by his sides.
Hadzipetkov relished their reactions, most of all Vulkov’s, since he thought he had broken him. “I hear Siberia’s nice this time of year. That is, of course, if you’re lucky. Some never get the chance to see the Soviet countryside. Or anything, for that matter, ever again.”
Boris’ eyes widened some more, and he began to shiver. Hadzipetkov assumed it was simply fear.
“Yes. It’ll probably be Siberia for you two.” He pointed his gun at Vulkov, then back at Brian. “Boris I’m afraid you won’t get such a vacation…” He pointed his gun back at the Tsar.
Boris’ shivering turned to shaking. His hand moved to his heart. The only thing that prevented him from falling over was Brian’s support from acting as a crutch. Hadzipetkov’s eyes widened in recognition of Boris’ hand movement, “Let him go.” Hadzipetkov said, pointing his gun at Brian.
Brian didn’t move.
Hadzipetkov cocked his gun, “I said ‘drop him.’”
Brian shook his head ‘no’.
Hadzipetkov grew angry, “Do it! Now!” He was shaking with rage just as much as Boris was shaking with pain.
Brian shook his head once more, “No.” he said.
Hadzipetkov sighed, “I suppose I could just say he tried to run away,” He muttered. Then he pulled the trigger. The gun went off. A loud bang was heard.
Boris shoved Brian out of the way. The bullet hit him in the chest, directly across from his heart. Vulkov lunged at Hadzipetkov, tackling him. The gun flew wildly, landing near the back of the room. Vulkov and Hadzipetkov were wrestling on the floor in an epic duel, ensuring neither of them was able to go for the gun. Brian had ripped off his jacket and was trying to stem the blood flowing from Boris’ chest, a near equal amount of liquid was also pouring from Brian’s eyes. With one hand he was holding the jacket onto Boris’ wound and with his other he was clutching the hand of his dear friend as he felt the life leaving him. Boris was smiling sadly at his friend and was repeatedly whispering:
“It’s all right…It’s all right…”
Brian was trying to hold the tears back, to no avail. As he felt Boris’ hand start to go limp, he couldn’t stem them anymore. Brian wept for many things in that moment. He wept for his liege, he wept for his friend, he wept for Bulgaria, he wept for the war, the dead, the fallen, the forgotten, the veterans, he wept for the past, he wept for Boris’ father who wasn’t there to mourn his son, he wept for himself, and for his failed promise to protect Boris with his life, and he wept, most of all, for the future. A future without Tsar Boris III of Bulgaria.
As Boris slipped away into history Vulkov was still wrestling with Hadzipetkov on the ground. The two men were evenly matched: both of them had their military training, Hadzipetkov had what he’d learned from the NKVD, but Vulkov had the larger body. They struggled, pushed, pulled, and fought there, on the floor of the conference room, for the fate of Bulgaria. Eventually, Vulkov maneuvered himself on top of Hadzipetkov and, with a blow from his knuckles, knocked him out.
It had been a near thing, Vulkov tore his aching, exhausted body away from the Minister and stooped to pick up the gun in the corner. He looked at it, then at Hadzipetkov, unconscious on the floor, with contempt. Then he slowly walked over to Brian, crouched next to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“He was a good man.” Vulkov said.
Brian said nothing. His tears had run out, and now the whole room was silent.
Vulkov said nothing for a minute more, then spoke:
“I know it’s hard, but we have to leave him. Otherwise, we’ll be next, and there will be no one to carry on his memory.”
Brian nodded sullenly, “I know.”
Vulkov nodded and stood. He looked around the room and rested his eyes on Hadzipetkov. Vulkov weighed the gun in his hand, but quickly discarded the idea. Instead, he walked over to the Minister and stuffed something into his breast pocket. Vulkov looked back at Brian, who had stood.
“You ready?” Vulkov said.
Brian looked down at Boris one last time and nodded. “Let’s go. We have a train to catch.”
Vulkov holstered the gun, opened the doors, and stepped out into the wider world.
. . .
By the time Hadzipetkov woke up they were long gone. The train had taken them to Istanbul across the border (though he didn’t know that). All he knew was that his prey had slipped through his fingers. Hi superiors were not as angry as he’d thought though. They had praised him for his swift coup. The capture of most of the government’s Ministers and the sudden death of the Tsar had killed any resistance. And although two may have escaped, what was that when compared to the whole of Bulgaria: the last member of the Axis still standing. The war was at an end and Communism reigned supreme.
Hadzipetkov opened the door to his new bedroom, the room of the former Tsar. It had been a long day, and not everything had worked like he’d hoped, now he was ready for a good night’s rest. A draft was coming from an open window in the suite. Hadzipetkov quickly closed it and began to undress. As he took of his jacket, a crumbling sound from one of the pockets intrigued him. He laid the jacket on the bed and went through each of the pockets, finally coming to the one that held what he sought. He couldn’t see what it was in the dark, so he turned on a lamp near the nightstand.
Hadzipetkov eyed it critically:
It was a ticket. A train ticket. Dated for today: October 6, 1942. Direct to Istanbul. Turkey? When had he gotten a ticket to Turkey? Why was it in his pocket? Unless…
A light went off in Hadzipetkov’s mind. It had clicked. Clicked? No. Something had clicked, behind him. Hadzipetkov turned…
He never got the chance to turn fully. The assassin was too quick with the trigger. And so ended the life of Colonel Nikola Nikolov Hadzipetkov. So ends all who fail the NKVD. And so ends this story.
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Author: That's a wrap! I hope you've all enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! I probably won't do another AAR for a few months since the new semester is coming. But who knows? If I get enough of a break from school/feel in the mood I might post something.
The next one will either be the CK2 beginning of a megacampaign I've been playing or an EU4 AAR that's similar in style to this.
Hope you've all enjoyed! Thanks for reading!