by Ellis Shuman
Two weeks had passed since the botched raid. Two weeks of sleepless nights and restless days. Two weeks during which Boyko could think of little else besides his failure at the seedy Burgas club.
He had apprehended an inconsequential felon, someone low on the totem pole of crooks involved in human trafficking on the coast. While his efforts had been praised at the station—Zhekov, in particular, had commended his initiative and intuition in organizing the raid—Boyko felt he had failed to catch the bigger, more important target. The Hunter had gotten away.
His dowdy wife was incapable of comprehending what he was going through. She couldn’t fathom how important catching the Hunter was becoming for him. It was almost an obsession. The criminal was his nemesis, the elusive enemy who always kept one step ahead. Boyko felt his reputation, his career, and any chance of his advancing on the police force depended on taking down the Hunter. Making him pay for his crimes. Putting him behind bars. Boyko knew he just had to get his hands on that man.
“You do not understand anything,” he mouthed. He took another forkful of sausage and stuffed it into his mouth. He didn’t want to argue with her, and he did not have the patience to explain to her the intricacies of the case. His police work was best left at the station. There was no benefit in sharing his worries and concerns with this nagging woman.
“You are so distant,” she said, positioning herself behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began to massage them. She started slowly, then more intensely, working his muscles, kneading them deeply, pressing harder to ease out the tension.
“Stop it,” he protested, even as he felt the welcome relief filter into his overworked body.
“Boyko, do you remember how we were when we first met?” she said, whispering into his ear. “How much in love we were? You longed for me. That’s what you told me, anyway; I do not want to lose you now.”
He didn’t respond. Instead he concentrated on her hands as they pummeled his muscles, alleviating the stress built up inside them. Some of her motions were almost painful, but he reveled in the pain, enjoying the sensations he felt in his shoulders.
Galina moved to his side, reached out and tenderly touched his face. He put down his fork and took another swig of beer.
“Boyko, I can ease all of your worries. Come with me to the bedroom.”
When was the last time they had slept together as man and wife? It wasn’t in the last two weeks; of that Boyko was certain. Coming to bed at night, he was in no shape for physical contact with her. Sex was the last thing on his mind.
He studied her for a moment, pondering her offer. Nothing about this woman attracted him physically. Her burnt-red hair, once so fetching, no longer allured him. Her white skin, never tanned by the sun, was not appealing, nor were her upturned nose and blue eyes. He felt no warming in his loins, no sign he was capable of doing what she was suggesting.
“Come with me,” she repeated, pulling him from his chair.
Halfheartedly, he followed her to the bedroom. He stood at the foot of the bed, transfixed as she removed her blouse and pulled down her jeans. She took off her bra, exposing her small, shapely breasts. She bent down to remove her panties. She stood naked before him, holding out her hand and beckoning him to join her.
He felt nothing. He was not going to be able to perform. When had that ever happened before? Usually, it was exactly the opposite. He had so much sexual passion bottled up inside him that he would attack her in bed, not caring if she was taking pleasure in their encounters. For him, sex was a physical release, a bodily function that needed to be performed. There was no love involved in the act.
He closed his eyes. He held his breath and allowed her to undress him. First, she removed his slippers and his socks. Then she pulled down his jeans. After that, she unbuttoned his shirt, starting at the top and working her way slowly to the bottom. Within a short time, he was as naked as she was.
Galina turned off the light and they lay together in the bed.
He could see a woman in his mind, and it wasn’t Galina. The woman had auburn-colored hair; a pleasant smile; and large, but firm breasts. With a start, Boyko realized he was thinking of Mariana, the woman who worked at the club with the nickname Candy. In his mind, the single mother was not wearing her wig, nor was her face plastered with makeup. Mariana appeared to him in her natural state, just as she had when they had met at the coffee shop and discussed what was happening behind the scenes at the Red and White.
Mariana! Thinking of the woman resulted in Boyko’s getting an erection, the first he had experienced in over two weeks. Mariana—her pouting face, her deep voice, her sincerity as she spoke to him, the secrets they shared.
“Ah, success at last,” Galina said, her hand working feverishly between his legs.
24
July 2004
The Port of Burgas, south of the city center, constituted the largest deep-water port in Bulgaria. Some of the port’s facilities were situated on manmade peninsulas jutting into the Bay of Burgas, protected from the furies of the Black Sea by long concrete breakwaters. Opened for commercial shipping in 1903 by Prince Regnant Ferdinand I, the man who five years later would proclaim Bulgaria’s de jure independence from the Ottoman Empire and declare himself as his country’s tsar, the port had only recently celebrated the 100-year anniversary of its inauguration.
Anchored alongside the wharf at Terminal Four was a medium-sized Russian cruise ship with the name M/S Aleksandr Krymov painted in bold letters on its bow. The ship had docked before midnight upon its arrival from Istanbul, giving the most eager passengers ample time to debark and hit the bars and clubs located near the port.
Projector lights lit up the quay in artificial daylight, unable to fully dispel the gloom of lengthy shadows or to distract a flock of squealing gulls from their nocturnal circuits overhead. Stevedores scurried from a delivery truck to a conveyor belt, unloading cargo and transferring it into the ship’s cavernous bay. A forklift issued warning beeps as it reversed in a quick arc to accommodate the handling of larger goods. But it was a second truck, parked closer to the roped gangplank toward the bow, that held Boyko’s attention.
“The back doors are open,” Boyko whispered to the officer at his side as they waited at their vantage point near a warehouse entrance. “Keep focused on the truck.”
This time there would be no fuck up, Boyko vowed to himself. This time he was certain, based on tips received from a network of informants and stool pigeons, that his actions would lead him to the real target. He had learned the lessons of previous failures on the coast and at the massage parlor. His team was in place, ready to move at his command. Patience and persistence. Just a little longer. It was almost time to make his move.
A large container trolley scraped along the wharf, weighted down by a pallet of packages wrapped in brown and secured by thick white twine. Two burly men, conspicuously dressed a bit fancier than the other dockworkers, pushed the trolley, steering it toward the truck parked on the quay in parallel to the ship’s bow. One of the men stepped forward to brake the trolley as they neared the truck’s open doors. The other man grabbed an industrial-sized wire cutter and clipped the containment twine. The two men began loading the packages into the vehicle.
“Now?” the officer at Boyko’s side asked.
Boyko grabbed his companion’s arm to hold him back. Hadn’t he already explained that the deliverymen and the drugs they were suspected of unloading from the ship were not the focus of the police operation? At least the other unit, positioned farther down the quay, was far more patient as it waited for Boyko’s instructions.
A siren sounded off in the distance, barely registering in Boyko’s mind as he concentrated on the dockworkers’ movements. The mountain of packages on the pallet was swiftly depleted while the truck became visibly heavier as it assumed the weight of what was stacking up in its rear. Boyko continued to watch from afar as the men systematically transferred the goods into the vehicle until at last, the task
was done.
The trolley was pushed aside, rolling noisily to the foot of one of the floodlights. The truck’s back door slammed shut and the men took their seats. The vehicle’s motor roared to life.
“Let’s go!” Boyko shouted, hurrying to his own car, hidden in shadows at the side of the warehouse. He started the car as his companion strapped in. Off they took in pursuit of the truck as it pulled away from the pier.
“Radio the other unit,” the officer at his side suggested. “They’ll stop the truck at the port’s gate.”
“No. We need to know where they are going. We must catch them as they deliver the shipment.”
The truck turned onto the road running alongside a row of hangar-like warehouses. It proceeded slowly, in no particular hurry. Boyko held back, keeping a safe, undetected distance. They were indeed heading to the northern gateway.
A bus passed them, speeding in the opposite direction. Passengers from the ship, returning from the Burgas bars in time for the departure to other Black Sea ports, Boyko assumed.
“The other team is following us,” the policeman at Boyko’s side reported. “Do you want to call in other units?”
“No need,” Boyko said. He focused on the distant lights of the truck as it slowed down near the gate.
Boyko applied his brakes as he regarded the scene ahead. The guard at the gate was required to check the shipment papers of any truck leaving the port. Did they have forged documents, he wondered, or, as he assumed, was a bribe exchanging hands? He was too far behind to see what was happening, but soon the truck passed through the gate and exited the port compound. Boyko stepped on the gas and followed.
The truck drove south on E87, the highway running parallel to Burgasko Ezero. This huge natural lake once served as a fish-producing reservoir, but it now suffered from pollution thanks to a nearby petrochemical plant. Boyko wondered if the truck would turn east, to drive along the Black Sea coastline past Sozopol, or if it would veer inland instead, heading toward the Malko Tarnovo border crossing into Turkey.
That didn’t make sense. If the shipment of drugs had arrived on board a vessel that departed from Istanbul, why would it now be transported back toward the Turkish border? Where were the men taking the drugs?
As the vehicle ahead picked up speed, Boyko accelerated as well. The truck curved around a darkened stretch of thick trees, disappearing temporarily from view. Instinctively, Boyko drove faster, fearful of losing sight of his target.
Seconds later the police car raced around the curve, its headlights briefly falling on a shadowy, motionless shape on the gravel at the side of the highway.
“They’ve stopped!” the officer shouted, staring out his window as they sped past the truck.
It was too late to brake and park farther ahead, yet remain undetected. Boyko slowed down, cursing loudly. He drove another hundred meters before pulling off to the side, gearing into neutral while he waited for the truck to pass them.
“Damn, they must have turned around,” he said, quickly spinning the car around on the empty highway. They neared the curve where they had last seen the truck. The lights of Burgas glared at them from the distance.
“Damn!” Boyko repeated. His partner remained silent as they headed back toward the city.
“Wait, isn’t that them?”
Boyko stared at the pair of taillights ahead of them on the highway. That could be the truck, he thought. It had to be. He pushed his foot down, willing his car to go faster.
The vehicle ahead took shape as it passed under a streetlight. It was indeed the truck they had been following, and it appeared to be heading back to the port. Perhaps the driver had forgotten something? Maybe he had not detected them after all.
Entering the industrial zone near the port, the truck slowed down, its driver unconcerned by the car quickly closing ranks from behind. The truck did not take the turnoff to the gate but instead continued down a side street. No longer taking care to maintain a safe distance behind the target, Boyko followed the truck down the narrow street.
The truck swerved to the right, and then back to the left. It picked up speed.
“They must have spotted us!” cried the policeman in the passenger seat.
“Shut the fuck up,” Boyko responded, shifting gears and accelerating. How could he have been so stupid to get close to the truck?
The truck’s driver was acting irrationally, turning down one street after another. The vehicle’s tires screeched with each turn. Boyko slowed down, taking the turns carefully. He gripped the steering wheel, concentrating on the taillights ahead, trying to calculate where the truck was heading.
The truck sped through the red light of an intersection, side-swiping a passing car filled with innocent city residents. Boyko crossed the intersection, swerving to avoid a collision at the last moment.
“Unit 34 in pursuit of suspicious vehicle,” the officer next to Boyko radioed to headquarters. “Heading north,” he continued, hesitating as he tried to determine their location.
They were in a residential neighborhood, driving past blocks of forgettable tenement buildings. Occasional streetlights stood like sentinels along the roads; cars sleek with the night’s moisture were parked on sidewalks on either side.
The truck hit a pothole and its rear door swung open. Packages spilled from the vehicle, falling onto the street and tearing open. White clouds of narcotic powder rose from the pavement. One of the packages struck the grill at the front of Boyko’s car, causing him to instinctively hit the brakes. The truck swerved left and right, drunkenly avoiding parked cars and impediments in the street.
At an intersection between two dark roads, the truck veered unexpectedly to the left, entering a one-way street in the wrong direction and barreling straight into an idling garbage truck with its headlights switched off. The front end of the smaller truck was crushed, its frame collapsed inward like a crumpled paper bag. Glass, rubber, and motor parts shot off in all directions. Smoke rose from a still-puttering engine; a pool of oil spread on the street
“We must talk with them!” Boyko shouted, racing to the demolished vehicle.
He approached the driver’s door and looked for a handle to grab. Jagged fragments suggested the former presence of a window. Blood was splattered everywhere. The man inside was slouched against what remained of the steering wheel; his head drooped forward, almost as if he had fallen asleep while driving. Boyko didn’t bother looking for the other passenger.
“Where were you taking the drugs?” he demanded, over and over, shaking the exposed flesh of the driver’s arm.
Blood poured from the man’s mouth, but he was alive, though just barely. He attempted to say something. Boyko strained to hear the words.
“What? What did you say?”
He shook the gasping man. The driver’s eyes jerked open, bloodshot and unseeing. He looked like he had seen a ghost, or possibly he was envisioning the gates of hell. Boyko shook him again. One barely understandable word emerged from the man’s mouth. Boyko leaned forward, uncertain if he had heard the man correctly.
“Hunter.”
“I know the Hunter sent you! I know this! Dammit! Where can I find him? Where is the Hunter?” Boyko saw that the severely injured man, trapped under the wreckage, had only moments left to live.
The driver named a place. Boyko knew this place, but he never expected to hear it mentioned now. He leaned forward, uncertain he had heard the location correctly.
“Strandzha,” the driver muttered again.
Boyko was desperate for more information, but the man was dead.
25
October 2004
Many years after his father first spoke to him about the region, Boyko learned more about the Strandzha. The mountain radiated an element of sacredness, an aura of mystery and magic. Serving as the land bridge between two continents, the slopes of the Strandzha were thick with oak and beech and its meadows were covered with an abundance of rare plant species. The skies overhead hosted the Via Pontica
migratory route for vast flocks of storks and pelicans. Parts of the region had been designated a nature reserve as early as 1933.
“Many have gone into the Strandzha in attempts to escape to the West,” his father once told him, in a statement that fascinated the young boy. “Not many have lived to tell the tale.”
Boyko learned that it wasn’t only Bulgarians who attempted to cross the primal range in efforts to flee the Iron Curtain, but also desperate men from Poland, East Germany, and elsewhere. The border guards were notoriously quick on the trigger.
“They entered the Strandzha at their own peril, never to be heard from again.”
Yet, there were those who felt compelled to visit the Strandzha and witness its natural beauty firsthand.
Many years after his father first spoke to him about the region, Boyko learned more about the Strandzha. The mountain radiated an element of sacredness, as if a magical ring protected it and its unique offerings. Serving as the land bridge between two continents, the slopes of the Strandzha were thick with oak and beech and its meadows were covered with an abundance of rare plant species. The skies overhead hosted the Via Pontica migratory route for vast flocks of storks and pelicans. Parts of the region had been designated a nature reserve as early as 1933.
Due to its proximity to the Turkish border, the Strandzha was off limits to most Bulgarians during the Communist era and special permits were needed to visit the small villages located within its forests. Elite party leaders with privileged access vacationed on the mountain, safe from the prying eyes of their countrymen. This only enhanced the mythic aloofness of the region.
It was into this forested sanctuary, now fully accessible at last and being developed for ecotourism—if the government had its way—that Boyko traveled on a crisp Saturday morning when no pressing assignments kept him tied down at the police station. He drove south from Burgas along the coast to Tsarevo where he veered inland on the main southward road almost as far as the village of Gramatikovo. No signpost announced the turnoff, but Boyko knew he was in the correct place when he spotted the skeleton of a long-abandoned Lada sedan, half-hidden by weeds just after a bend in the road.
