The Burgas Affair

by Ellis Shuman

  “Slow down,” he said. “This man who comes to the club . . . tell me everything you can about him.”

  “One of the girls said he has a nickname. A very strange one. They call him the Hunter.”

  The Hunter! Of course! Since hearing that name for the first time on the night of the bungled stakeout on the beach, Boyko had learned that the Hunter ran most of the smuggling operations on the Black Sea coast. He was responsible for drug trafficking, extortion, and property crimes. There were rumors the Hunter’s operations were skimming funds from casinos in Varna and Burgas in exchange for protection services. Nothing was off limits to the man. It was just as Kamen had said. Women, drugs, stolen art, and antiques—the Hunter has his hands in all of it.

  Boyko thanked Mariana for her willingness to talk. The information she provided left him resolved to take the Hunter down. Boyko felt he was wasting his time investigating jewelry store break-ins when he should be focusing his efforts on going after this master criminal. The Hunter deserved to sit behind bars! He would talk to Zhekov and insist on getting assigned to this case.

  The Hunter, be prepared. The hunt is on and I’m going to get you, Boyko vowed to himself.

  18

  Boyko hadn’t planned to return to the Burgas District Police Directorate offices before his departure for Sofia—a long uncomfortable bus journey imposed on him when he returned the keys to his assigned police sedan—but he had forgotten a notebook somewhere. It could be in the top drawer of the desk he had used. He nodded perfunctorily to the guard at the gate and ran up three flights of stairs to the detectives’ room.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Kamen, it’s good to see you again, too,” Boyko replied. “Although you have put on some weight since the last time I saw you.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be back in Sofia by now?” Milen asked, approaching the wooden desk where Boyko was rifling through the drawers.

  “Believe me, I’d be much happier if I was there and didn’t have to see the likes of you.” Where was his notebook? Had he left it in his apartment?

  “Boyko. I have been looking for you.”

  “Zhekov!” Boyko stood up to acknowledge the Burgas police commander. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I might have misplaced something.”

  “He’s misplaced his brain,” Kamen snickered, walking off with Milen.

  “What’s up?” Boyko asked.

  “You’re rejoining the team.”

  “The team?”

  “The bombing investigation. Word came through from Sofia a few minutes ago. You will stay in Burgas to help us with the case. We are pursuing a number of leads, and you are back on board. Is that not what you wanted?”

  “Of course,” Boyko said, searching for words. “I have been part of the case since the beginning!”

  “There is one thing I need to add, or rather, demand,” Zhekov said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You must be a team player this time. You always act impulsively, without proper respect for authority. I will not stand for it.”

  “My methods have brought results in the past,” Boyko insisted.

  “Yes, I won’t argue with that,” Zhekov replied with a knowing look. He leaned forward to stress his point. “Still, the Burgas bombing is different. I am in charge here and you will do what I say. Do you understand this?”

  Boyko followed the commander into the briefing room. Kamen and Milen were already at the table, but the chairs reserved for the Israelis were empty. Kamen’s face reddened when he saw Boyko take a seat.

  “Comrades! Sit down, everyone,” Zhekov instructed those officers standing at the sides of the room. “I wanted to talk to you all alone, before our esteemed colleagues from Israel join us. It’s easier for me to speak in Bulgarian, easier for me to speak frankly and openly.”

  “What is Boyko doing here?” Kamen interrupted, unable to control himself. “Isn’t he supposed to be busy pushing papers in some lush Sofia office?”

  The others laughed, making Boyko feel even more uncomfortable.

  “Listen up,” Zhekov said, addressing all the officers, but Kamen in particular. “SANS demands representation on the team and Boyko is familiar with the particulars of the case. This is the decision and it’s not up for discussion.” Zhekov patted his bushy mustache confidently.

  “Is it stuffy in here, or is it just me?” Boyko remarked lightly. He had meant this as a joke, but it was clear most of the others were not eager to see him. Some of them avoided eye contact and instead stared at the room’s sole air conditioner, which seemed stuck on an overly long hiatus from its normal operation.

  “What are we going to do about the Israelis?” one the men complained, bringing their focus back to the case. “They are constantly on our backs, pushing for progress when results take time in coming. More than that, I need to explain everything I do to the agent assigned to partner with me. I get the feeling he is here to judge me and my work.”

  “I will not stand for any complaints about working with the Israelis,” Zhekov said, quieting the dissension among his team. “There are politics involved, politics which dictate that this is a joint Bulgarian-Israeli investigation. It has been that way from the start. We will coordinate our efforts with them, whether we like the situation or not. Now, before our colleagues from Tel Aviv join us, let’s summarize where we stand on the case.”

  Rejoining the investigation, Boyko was surprised to learn of the progress made in his short absence. The real identities of the bombing team had been confirmed, while the third man, the bomber, was still an unknown factor.

  “The man easiest to identify is Hassan El Hajj Hassan,” Milen said, turning on a projector to display the suspect’s image on a white screen at the end of the room.

  The man depicted had a round, unshaven face. He looked exactly as the hotel owner had described him, Boyko saw. He sat forward in his seat.

  “He goes by many aliases and undoubtedly used different names during his stay in Bulgaria. What do we know of him?”

  “He’s a Canadian citizen,” one of the team members reported, looking up from his notes. “Born in Lebanon on March 22, 1988, he arrived in Toronto at age 8. He grew up there. The man has dual Lebanese-Canadian citizenship.”

  “Where does he live now?” Zhekov asked.

  “Maybe back in Lebanon.”

  “Shouldn’t the Israelis be hearing this?” Boyko asked, surprised the discussion was taking place without them.

  “The Israelis know all this,” Zhekov said.

  “Where do you think we got this information?” another team member said as a joke. The problem was that the statement was true. No one laughed.

  “The second man is Meliad Farah, also known as Hussein Hussein, an Australian citizen born November 5, 1980,” Milen continued. On the screen they saw a man with a thin face and a short beard.

  “And the bomber himself?” Zhekov asked.

  Boyko wondered if this review of the evidence was being conducted for his benefit.

  “The third man was most definitely not the Swede, Mehdi Ghezali, as reported in the media,” Milen stated. “We do not know much about him. Let’s not forget that he was holding the bomb, or right next to the bomb, when it detonated.”

  “Fingerprints? DNA samples?” the commander asked.

  “No conclusive results yet.”

  “We aren’t sure whether it was a suicide bombing or not?” Boyko asked incredulously.

  “There’s a lot about this case that isn’t clear. That is why we are working with the Israelis. They have other methods of investigation, other sources of information. They have experience dealing with this sort of bombing.”

  “When are we going to release these mug shots to the media?” one the men asked. “Surely showing their images in the press will open many leads for us.”

  “If it was up to me, we would have already done exactly that,” Zhekov said, coughing to indicate that this was a sore spot for disc
ussion.

  “What’s holding us back?”

  “Is it the Israelis?” Kamen asked, and they all looked to the commander to confirm or deny this possibility.

  “I’m not going to answer that,” Zhekov replied. “And, I’m not going to listen to any complaints about how this investigation is being run. We are working with them and together we will get to the bottom of this in no time.”

  And, as if that was a signal, the Israeli team filed into the briefing room. Boyko recognized many of the faces, but there were newcomers as well. When one of the Israelis took a seat at the table, Boyko’s heart began beating loudly in his chest. It was too much to have hoped for.

  “Shalom,” Ayala said. She cast a discreet smile in his direction.

  “Okay, let’s get down to business,” Zhekov said in English, signaling for the session to begin.

  19

  Sitting at the briefing with the Bulgarian police, Ayala felt that she was back where she belonged. Her uncle had come through with his promise and she had been reassigned to field duty. She was receiving the pertinent information firsthand. Potential leads, suspected sightings, anonymous tips—she soaked in every word. She paid close attention to the discussion.

  “What else do we know?” Zhekov asked after one of the other Bulgarians finished giving a progress update.

  “We know nothing, really,” Boaz said, speaking up for the first time. It was clear he was losing patience with the pace of the investigation. “Who was the bomber? What were his motives? Where did the terrorists go during their time in Bulgaria? Who provided them with the bomb? Who guided them to the target? How did they know Israelis were on the bus?”

  “There is still a lot to investigate,” Zhekov admitted.

  “Not a lot of progress,” Moshe whispered in Hebrew, but he was shushed by Boaz.

  As the briefing ended and the teams started to disperse, one of the Bulgarian officers walked up to her.

  “Officer Navon,” Boyko addressed her, reaching out his hand.

  “Detective Boyko,” she said, matching his formal greeting. And then she surprised him by asking in Bulgarian, “Kak si?” How was he?

  “Dobre sum,” he said, indicating that he was good. He switched back to English. “Welcome back to the team. Welcome back to Bulgaria.”

  “Merci,” she replied, a thank you suitable to French, Bulgarian, and probably many other languages as well.

  On the way back to the hotel, Boaz muttered something in the taxi and at first, Ayala wasn’t sure what he had said.

  “We would be better off without them,” he repeated.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If this was an Israeli operation, we would already know everything there was to know about the terrorists,” Boaz said. “And not only that, we would have retaliated by now, no matter where they are in the world. These Hezbollah terrorists are undoubtedly relaxing on a Beirut beach right now. If we were in charge, our rockets would wipe them out, suntan lotion and all.”

  “This is Bulgaria,” Ayala replied, not knowing what else she could say. Her arguments with Boyko over investigative procedures had left her incapable of countering Boaz’s conclusions about the efficiency of the Bulgarian-led investigation.

  “I know, I know,” Boaz said. “We’re doing this at their pace. It’s all in the name of friendship and cooperation. There are huge stakes involved, more than we field agents will ever know. The future of Bulgarian-Israeli relations depends on our cooperating with them. I get it.”

  The future of Bulgarian-Israeli relations. Those words made Ayala think of Boyko. What had he said to her in the roadside inn near the Turkish border, just before the shooting attack? Something like: Our sleeping together would greatly improve Bulgarian-Israeli relations. She had snubbed his words at the time, thinking him a chauvinistic bastard. Now, she couldn’t help but smile to herself, recalling his surprise when she greeted him after the briefing with words in Bulgarian. Their conversation had been brief, cut short when she left for the hotel with the other Israelis. Why did she get the impression he had more to say to her?

  * * *

  Sitting in the lobby late that evening, Ayala looked at her companions as they relaxed and told jokes, as they compared Bulgarian police procedures to what they were familiar with at home. As they made small talk, forgoing further discussion of the investigation, at least for a short while, they drank Zagorka and Shumensko beers. They ate pretzels and sunflower seeds, spitting the shells into overflowing ashtrays. They listened to the rhythmic Bulgarian music playing at the bar, smiling when a tune sounded similar to the Mizrachi melodies sung by Israelis of North African or Middle Eastern descent.

  Ayala sat next to Boaz, sipping occasionally on her beer and laughing with the others. It was good to be part of the team again. These were her colleagues, her compatriots, her friends. She was again part of their high-priority undertaking, once again on Bulgarian soil. She smiled to herself.

  Boaz, she felt, was doing a good job leading the team. He was not only professional in everything he did but also related to her as a human being. He acknowledged the fact that this was Ayala’s first field duty. He was willing to give her some slack due to her lack of experience. He had given her a second chance after she had accompanied Boyko on their foolish train escapade, and for this she was grateful. He had showed compassion for her after the frightful shooting attack on the Turkish border. She appreciated his concern and the fact that he had welcomed her back to the Bulgarian mission with open arms. He was her direct boss, her supervisor, yet in many ways he was her mentor as well. She had much to learn from him.

  Moshe was different. There was no doubt he was competently contributing to the investigation, but he was also impatient, and somewhat pushy. It was clear he felt the investigation wasn’t proceeding as quickly as it should. This was Bulgaria, Boaz said to him repeatedly, yet for Moshe, this was no excuse.

  It was difficult to get close to Eyal. The forensics investigator working with the Bulgarians to determine the nature of the explosives used in the terror attack was quiet and didn’t volunteer information unless presented with specific questions. She was sure he was competent at what he did and that his work would provide vital information very soon.

  They were her colleagues, yet she didn’t know all that much about their personal lives. Boaz had a wife and small children; Moshe was engaged. She wondered whether Eyal was married or not. Here in Bulgaria they were on a mission of national importance; their thoughts only turned to home in the evening hours when they were off duty. As if being off duty was even possible. They were doing a job, carrying out their responsibilities not only for the State of Israel, but on behalf of those murdered in the horrendous blast and their families. Their mission was to prevent such atrocities in the future, a seemingly impossible task. Ayala felt chilled all of a sudden.

  “Let’s call it a night,” Boaz suggested.

  Several of Ayala’s colleagues were yawning, standing up and commenting that they had early starts the next morning.

  “Who will you be working with?” Moshe asked Ayala.

  She was about to say that she had not yet received her assignment when Boaz spoke up.

  “She’s working again with Detective Boyko Stanchev.”

  “Boyko—what an infantile name for a policeman!” Moshe said.

  “That’s the first name of the prime minister of Bulgaria,” one of the others pointed out.

  “Well, we have Bibi. I guess the Bulgarians are entitled to Boyko!”

  “Wait a minute. Isn’t Boyko the one who almost got Ayala killed?” Eyal asked.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “Ayala, remember to keep your head down this time,” Eyal warned her. It wasn’t clear if he was joking or not.

  “She’s the only one who has seen any action in Bulgaria,” another field agent said.

  “What kind of action are we talking about?” Moshe laughed and patted Eyal on the back. “With that handsome Bu
lgarian, she better be on guard at all times.”

  This caused Ayala to blush. Her colleagues, with their silly smiles, were like children sometimes. How could they laugh about their assignments, about their dealings with the Bulgarians? This was serious work, and it entailed huge responsibilities. Beers and sunflower seeds aside, they needed to focus on their mission. This was not the time for jokes.

  * * *

  Ayala’s alarm buzzed, waking her instantly and setting her into an initial panic. Where was she? Was she back in Tel Aviv? Or was this truly Bulgaria? Had she spoken on the phone to her parents last night? Or was she to call them this morning?

  Out the window she saw the sun rising slowly over the motionless waters of the Black Sea, casting its rays from behind the clouds in a fanfare of brightening light. Fishing boats dotted the water, their crews returning to harbor to sell their daily catch. Three men stood silently at the end of the city’s iconic pier, their poles held taut and their lines cast into the sea. Ayala could hear seagulls squawking over the shore, storekeepers raising their shutters, and the early traffic on the street. A delivery truck, a car honking, a bus opening its doors. From her hotel room Ayala smelled freshly baked banitsa and other pastries on the shelves of a nearby bakery. The delicious odor made her realize how hungry she was.

  Ayala got out of bed and dressed quickly. She wanted to get to the dining room to enjoy a leisurely breakfast before being picked up by her Bulgarian counterpart, her teammate for the day’s investigation—wherever that would take them.

  Boyko! She wasn’t certain if the thought of being teamed up with him again upset her, or made the day ahead a little more exciting.

  She brushed her teeth and shut off the light. She glanced at her unmade bed, at the clothes scattered on top of her suitcase, and at her toiletries in disarray atop the bathroom counter. She didn’t have time to organize anything.

  “Welcome back,” the waiter mumbled to her in the dining room. It was the same impatient man who had served her on her previous visit to Burgas! Yes, of course. This was the same hotel. The Israelis had become almost permanent residents here since the start of the investigation.