by Ellis Shuman
Ghezali was released from Guantánamo and sent to Sweden after intense lobbying by Swedish Prime Minister Göran Persson.
Ghezali was arrested a second time in late August 2009 in Pakistan, while traveling with a group of multinationals who crossed the border from Iran, reportedly on their way to the al-Qaeda stronghold of Waziristan. The group was found in a prohibited area near a nuclear power facility, according to Pakistani police and reported by Swedish paper The Local.
Ghezali and three other Swedes were released from Pakistan on October 10, 2009, and sent back to Sweden.
However, Ghezali was not the suicide bomber who was killed in the Burgas bombing, the sources indicated.
“The media is having a field day with this,” Ayala’s colleague joked to her. “I never believed this Swede was the suicide bomber.”
“It wasn’t a suicide bombing,” Ayala stated.
“How can you say that? There’s no proof one way or another.”
“There’s proof enough,” Ayala said, her voice confident. “You need to know where to look for the evidence.” And to herself, Ayala added in her mind: “The proof is in Bulgaria, and someone needs to find it. I just wish it would be me.”
* * *
“Ayala, you look upset.”
A wide, welcoming smile broke out on Ayala’s face. Uncle Yaniv! She resisted the urge to jump up from her desk and hug him—that wasn’t appropriate behavior for the office. Something noticeably different about him made her perk up with curiosity. He sported a dark suit and a bright-blue tie, so different from the jeans and T-shirts he usually wore. Yaniv looked like he was being swallowed alive by the fancy attire, drowning in the formality.
“What’s up, Uncle? Are you going to a wedding or something?”
“No, to a very important meeting. I don’t need to tell you what the subject of discussion will be.”
Ayala’s shoulders drooped. Her uncle was still involved in the Burgas investigation while she was stuck handling mundane, tedious assignments.
“There are things involved, beyond our control,” Yaniv said, keeping his voice low so that the other analysts wouldn’t overhear their conversation. “This is a high-level government matter. Some of it is politics; international relations are also involved. It’s more than what we normally deal with.”
Ayala realized what her uncle was talking about. Bulgarian officials had retracted their agreement with Israel’s assessment that Hezbollah had perpetrated the Burgas bombing. If the Bulgarians didn’t openly state that Hezbollah terrorists had bombed the bus, why would the rest of the European community accede to Israel’s demand to declare Hezbollah a terrorist organization?
With his extensive experience on the job, Yaniv would present the Israeli ministers with irrefutable evidence proving the Hezbollah connection. How that evidence would be handed over to the Bulgarians was another question, one whose answer Ayala would never know.
“What is it?” her uncle asked, but instinctively he knew the answer to the question. “You need to be there, don’t you?”
She nodded her head in agreement, thanking him silently for understanding her. She was relieved not to have to state the words out loud.
“Ayala,” he said, putting his hand gently on her shoulder. It was the touch of a loving uncle, but the words that followed were voiced out of professional concern as well. “I will do what I can. We’ll get you back into the field sooner rather than later. You have a lot to contribute and your place is with the team in Bulgaria.”
She thanked him, blowing him an air kiss. Yaniv left the room and she renewed her efforts to concentrate on the confusing data streaming down her computer screen.
15
The Hunter is getting impatient.
The battered body of the pigeon slammed repeatedly into the front door. Blood splattered on the woodwork, on the concrete floor, on his hands. The dead bird lay there, its tiny black eye gawking at him.
Wham! The lifeless bird again smashed into the door. Boyko tossed and turned, fighting off the madman who had issued this bloody, entrails-dripping warning. Again, the small carcass hit the wood. Its remains stained the floor. More blood, more guts. Boyko raised his hands to fight off the illusory assault.
The Hunter is getting impatient.
Stop it! The Hunter was locked away. The Hunter couldn’t reach him, couldn’t harm him. The bird thrown at his flat meant nothing. The gunfire at the border hotel missed its target. Boyko was safe from any possible retaliation. At least, not for now.
Clammy and perspiring, Boyko awoke from the nightmare and struggled to his feet. He inched his way in the dark to the kitchen, to the half-finished bottle of rakia. With unsteady hands, he poured himself a drink, pulled the shot glass to his mouth, and belted it down.
“Your past has a habit of always catching up with you, doesn’t it, Boyko?”
Commander Zhekov’s words, so painful to hear when he dismissed Boyko from the case. But, the words rang true.
Boyko sat at the table, holding his head in his hands, trying to drown out the murky memories of his past with another glass of alcohol.
Why did his dealings with that notorious mob boss continue to haunt him, long after the criminal had gone to prison? How could he ever forget that night long ago when he had first heard that man’s repugnant moniker?
The Hunter. No!
* * *
September 2003
From his vantage point on the shore, Boyko stared out to sea. The binoculars in his hands were useless; the moonless night revealed nothing. Another wave washed over the sand and rocks at his feet and he felt cold water seeping into his leather shoes. Damn! They were good shoes! He took a step backward and glanced at the other policemen. They were positioned behind him at a safe distance from the water. Boyko returned his attention to the sea, searching for moving lights indicating a boat’s passage, for anything that would prove this nighttime operation worth the effort.
The informer’s tip had sounded credible. Cargo was to be transferred from a southbound freighter to a fisherman’s skiff. And, it was not ordinary cargo that Boyko was waiting to intercept. It was a significant shipment and this operation was important. The skiff should be approaching the shore just about now, if his calculations were correct. Any time now.
The salty breeze ruffled Boyko’s hair. He shifted his weight, trying to find a comfortable stance on the rocks. He continued to stare out at the dark sea.
No fishing boats plied the water at this God-forsaken hour, Boyko knew. This stretch of the Black Sea coastline was hardly attractive to the local fishermen. Schools of mackerel, shad, mullet, and cod were usually found to the north, in temperate waters that served as a suitable habitat for an abundance of seafood varieties, but at this time of year, along this stretch of the coast, catches were minimal. Those who took up the night challenge here trawled farther out to sea. Boyko knew all this because he had interviewed a number of fishermen at the Burgas port in the days prior to the operation. But knowing the habits of fishermen was not proving helpful.
These stakeouts tried his patience. Always standing around in the dark, waiting, with nothing to show for it. No results, no appreciation, no respect. One of these days he would get away from these dull, thankless tasks and get a new job, a real job, somewhere else. Sofia, perhaps. As far away from Burgas as possible.
“What’s that?”
The policeman to Boyko’s right pointed toward the water. “I think I saw something. Or rather, I think I heard something.”
Boyko held up his hand, signaling the others to remain silent. He focused on the noises of the night, trying to filter out the rush of seawater on the shore. Nothing. He was about to reprimand the officer for wasting his time but then he, too, heard something. A faint, repeated putt-putt. It was still some distance out but as Boyko listened, it sounded like it was drawing near at a good pace.
“This is it,” he whispered, calling on his team to move back. Large boulders littered the beach; they would pro
vide ample cover for the police as they waited for the boat to reach the shore.
The putt-putt of the engine grew steadily louder. It was taking forever, Boyko thought. Too long. He adjusted his footing. One of the other officers coughed. They should be able to see the boat by now. Where the fuck was it?
Something was moving on the sea. Boyko spotted a small dark shape making its way south, parallel to the shore. The boat veered to the right, heading straight toward the waiting police. Just when Boyko feared it would run aground on the rocks, the engine shut down and all went silent. Seawater surged up the beach only to recede quickly, almost as if it had never been there at all. The breeze picked up; the odor of the sea was strong. Boyko held his breath.
A single figure rose carefully to his feet, turned around and began to pull something back. It appeared to be a large tarpaulin. As the fisherman struggled with the heavy-duty material, Boyko spotted additional movement in the boat. A head popped up, above the side, and then another. Voices. Women’s voices. The fisherman tried to shush his passengers, but they ignored him. One after another, they climbed out of the boat and stepped into the shallow water.
There were four of them, definitely foreigners as their language was not Bulgarian. Possibly Ukrainians? Boyko thought. Or Moldovans? Tall and lean and unsteady on their feet, they waded toward shore. As they neared the rocky beach, one of the women fell shakily to her knees and became violently ill. Boyko looked away as the other women comforted their companion until the retching stopped. It was only when they were all moving again that Boyko issued the command to his men.
The shoreline lit up, drenched in the blinding glare of searchlights.
“Nobody move!”
The fisherman, who had followed the women into the surf, stopped in his tracks but his passengers were set to flee. He signaled to them, indicating they should remain where they were, at the edge of the water.
“Raise your hands!”
The fisherman complied with the command and the women followed his example. The officers approached with guns raised. Seeing that the fisherman was unarmed, Boyko ordered his men to lower their weapons.
“I’ll handle this,” Boyko said.
“Boyko, you fucking idiot, you do not have a clue how to handle this.”
“Kamen, shut the fuck up,” Boyko responded. “We’ve done our job.”
“Yeah, what did you get? A shipload of Ukrainian prostitutes, bound for the Burgas sex market. So what?”
“Kamen, you asshole! This was what we set out to do, and we did it. We stopped the boat.”
“You are such a fucking idiot, Boyko. I do not believe it.”
Boyko fumed, not willing to let his short, stocky partner destroy his moment of triumph. This was the first nighttime operation under Boyko’s command and it was successful. They had tracked the boat and met it at the shore. More importantly, they intercepted the trafficking of women to the local sex trade. They accomplished what they set out to do. What the hell was Kamen complaining about?
“You just do not get it, do you, Boyko? Let me tell you a word or two about your total incompetence. You fucked up. I tried to tell you this before we came here tonight, when I was assigned to your team, but you wouldn’t listen. We were supposed to apprehend the person, or persons, who commissioned this shipment of human flesh. The fisherman, the prostitutes—they are peanuts, worthless. They were hardly the real target, but oh, no, you had to do things your way. Do you not get it?”
“We will make them talk,” Boyko muttered, his ego deflating. He looked at the frightened Ukrainian women and at the fisherman. The man was pleading innocence and discussing a possible bribe with one of the other cops. “We will force them to talk.”
“These women know nothing. The fisherman—he doesn’t know names. This whole operation is simply worthless. We were supposed to nab the Hunter, not this,” he said, pointing at the traumatized women.
“The Hunter?” Boyko asked. He had never heard the nickname.
“The Hunter,” Kamen replied mockingly. “Do your homework. The Hunter is the man who controls much of the trafficking along the coast. Women, drugs, stolen art, and antiques—the Hunter has his hands in all of it. Look at what we caught in our net. Useless peanuts! We were supposed to catch the Hunter and all we got were four warm holes where you can stick your dick.”
The Hunter.
Had he missed the whole purpose of the mission? Boyko wondered. Who was this man, the one Kamen called the Hunter? Would Boyko run into this master criminal again in the future? Boyko stepped back and turned to deal with the human cargo shivering on the shore. The night’s operation may be over, but his work was far from done.
* * *
Boyko awoke from his stupor and lifted his head from the tabletop. The Hunter. Damn! Boyko rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his hangover. Why did he need to dwell on the past, on that long-ago seaside stakeout? On his subsequent obsession to take down the Hunter. On his ongoing feud with Kamen. No, make that his ongoing loathing for Kamen.
Why were those stormy memories driving him to drink? Why couldn’t he be left in peace?
He needed coffee. Perhaps that would chase away the demons in his head. The dizziness. The pounding that wouldn’t stop. The pounding that sounded just like the incessant gunfire plastering the wall of the small hotel near the Turkish border. He was almost killed! More disturbing than that was the fact that the Israeli woman with him in the room could also have been killed.
Ayala! He smiled, pleased with the soft sound of her name. She was tough, he knew, but in other ways, she was a small animal that should be cared for. He envisioned putting his arms around her, comforting her. After all, he had saved her life, hadn’t he?
Ayala.
Boyko struggled unsteadily to his feet, brushing away the last remnants of his tortured night. He needed to forget her, forget everything about the bombing case, which no longer concerned him. He was required to return to Sofia and his regular job. That would come soon enough. But first, he needed a cigarette.
16
“You barely touched your food.”
Ayala pushed aside her plate of spicy chicken and potato stew. Her parents were staring across the table at her with concerned looks on their faces.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. Not even her mother’s Yemenite Hawaij Soup, with its tangy mix of cumin, black pepper, turmeric, and cardamom spices, had tempted her taste buds that evening.
“You have to eat something,” her mother continued. “It’s Shabbat. This is not the time to think about work.”
“What’s bothering you?” her father asked, reaching out to touch her arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, it’s nothing,” she said. But it wasn’t nothing.
She looked around the room, at the home where she had enjoyed Shabbat dinners with her family since childhood. They had been living in this small, but cozy Ramat Gan apartment for as long as she could remember. She had done her homework at this table. She had learned to play gin rummy and other card games while sitting on this very chair. It was to this apartment that she had returned once a week to be nourished by her mother’s home cooking during the years of her army service and when she continued the tradition following her release. This was home. It was all so familiar and congenial, yet she fidgeted in her seat, unable to take comfort in the good food and her parents’ warm welcome.
The Shabbat candles burned brightly on the sideboard. Next to them was a series of family pictures. Ayala as a young girl missing front teeth, her head framed by thick, black braids. Ayala in uniform, an Uzi submachine gun slung over her shoulder. Her brother Tomer, also in uniform with his beret resting at an angle on his shaven head. A family portrait with Tomer the soldier in the center. He had just completed an extended basic training march. Those were good times.
Off to the side, half hidden by the other photographs, was her parents’ black and white wedding portrait. Her mother Shoshanna, a short woman with dark skin and a wide s
mile, stood out in contrast to her tall, serious-looking father. Avraham Navon was a handsome man, Ayala thought. It was no wonder her mother had fallen for him. How different they were from each other, yet they had bridged the cultural gaps between a Yemenite immigrant and a person who had come to Israel from Bulgaria as a child to form a perfectly matched couple, a stable marriage, a happy family.
Usually the flames of the Shabbat candles would instill within her a sense of calmness and put her life—with its occasional ups and downs—in balance. But not this week.
Something bothered her, something she couldn’t share with her parents. The warmth of her family home failed to distract her from the fact that she had been sidelined from the Burgas investigation. An investigation which should include her. An investigation where she could play a part. It was a missed opportunity, one that weighed heavily on her mind.
Ayala’s mother and father exchanged worried glances, and Ayala forced a smile, trying to relieve their concern. Shoshanna stood up and began to clear the dishes. She brought a tray of fresh fruit for dessert, but Ayala dismissed the offer and asked to be excused from the dinner table.
* * *
Growing up, Tomer did not share her enthusiasm for Bulgaria. He never participated in family conversations about Bulgaria and, on occasion, expressed an unexplainable disgust for a country he knew nothing about.
When Avraham read Bulgarian fairy tales to Ayala, transporting the young girl to fantastical worlds of castles and dragons, Tomer would remain in his room to play with his miniature tanks and trucks instead. “No more stories!” he would cry, unwilling to join his sister in this nightly ritual.
The young boy objected whenever their father spoke Bulgarian in the home. Tomer clasped his hands against his ears, refusing to let the strange tongue register in his brain. “Rak Ivrit!” he demanded. Only Hebrew.
