The Burgas Affair

by Ellis Shuman

  The rookie cop was clearly nervous. A newcomer to the force, he didn’t have the experience of late-night operations in the middle of nowhere. Boyko remembered his own days on foot patrol, when he had served in uniform and was desperate to prove himself. Now, although he was a prominent member of the detective squad, the only way he would feel he had accomplished something was if this operation proved successful.

  Damn! His leg was cramping and he longed for the cigarette he had just seen extinguished. The man standing next to him shifted impatiently in the dark, waiting for the order to move. Boyko could understand the cop’s impatience; he wanted this to be over as well. What was the younger cop’s name? He couldn’t recall it offhand. He had asked for a more experienced team, but this was the crew Zhekov had assigned to work with him. Kamen and his team were conducting another raid, somewhere on the coast.

  Oggy! The other cop’s given name popped into Boyko’s head, but the man’s family name escaped him. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except for the success of this operation. If everything went according to plan, this raid would provide additional evidence in the case he was building. It all depended on intercepting the night’s illicit shipment. There could be no taking chances. There had been enough failures and setbacks in his previous efforts to pin down the Hunter’s criminal activities. This time, he was confident he would not fail.

  A low, barely detectable rumble approached from the south, growing slowly more perceptible as it disturbed the silence. With headlights switched off, only the thin moon and an endless canopy of stars guided whatever vehicle was drawing near on the winding road.

  “Take positions!” Boyko barked at his team. He crouched in readiness, his hand gripping the cold metal of his gun.

  A shadow moved in the distance, but it wasn’t a shadow. The outline of something metallic took shape, progressing slowly and steadily toward them. Its motor growled louder in pitch as the driver shifted gears. The shape took form until the vehicle was fully visible.

  The rookie at Boyko’s side was breathing deeply. To Boyko it seemed like the man’s heart was about to leap out of his chest. As for himself, Boyko felt cool, calm, and collected. It was all going as he had planned, and it would all be over very soon.

  The small truck came to a sudden stop. Its engine continued to purr, but it appeared that the driver was hesitant about crossing the final stretch of territory prior to entering Bulgaria. It was impossible to see shapes inside the pickup’s cabin. Was the driver alone? Was he transporting the cargo as the reports had indicated?

  Why had the vehicle stopped?

  An owl hooted somewhere in the nearby woods. Remain calm, Boyko told himself. Wait for the truck to advance. Any minute now.

  The front door opened slowly, followed by the passenger door on the truck’s far side. Boyko raised his goggles. In the green, surreal display, he could clearly see two men moving about. Why had they gotten out? Why weren’t they proceeding along the road? Had they spotted the police ambush? Why were they bending down, taking cover?

  “Get down!” Boyko shouted to his men, dropping his goggles and diving to the ground.

  At that exact moment, the night’s calm was broken by rapid gunfire. Shots fired from behind the stalled vehicle pummeled the cement of the check post—a rain of bullets from semi-automatic weapons. Boyko raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.

  The officers opened fire. Their bullets riddled the darkened shape of the truck over and over. The night came alive with the shrieks of ammunition fired back and forth.

  A loud grunt distracted Boyko. The young cop—Oggy—had been hit. Boyko didn’t have time to check the man’s condition. Instead, he adjusted his night vision goggles and took one calculated shot after another, aiming in the direction of where he assumed his adversaries had taken cover near the pickup.

  There was a cry in the distance. One of the bullets had connected with its target.

  “Hold your fire,” Boyko commanded his men.

  All was silent. No further shots were fired at them. It wasn’t clear if the driver and his partner were still alive.

  “Oggy’s been hit!” one of the officers shouted. “It looks pretty bad!”

  “Call for backup,” Boyko said, scouting the landscape in a frantic search for signs of the two men in no-man’s-land. “Call for an ambulance,” he added.

  The night was as quiet as before, but nothing was the same. There was a distinct odor of gunpowder lingering in the air, and an emptiness which had, moments before, been filled by the staccato of gunfire. The hooting owl was long gone; sinister clouds blocked the thin moon from view.

  Their wait in the dark seemed endless. Oggy’s breathing became more and more irregular. No signs of movement could be detected near the pickup a short distance away. Boyko knew better than to storm the vehicle. One of the gunmen could still be alive, lying wounded, or propped up against one of the truck’s tires with a loaded weapon at his side, waiting to take a final shot at an unprepared policeman.

  Boyko’s radio crackled to life. Boyko shifted his body and clicked on the instrument strapped to his waist.

  “Shipment intercepted.” It was Kamen, a short distance away on the coast. But, what was he saying? Was he asking if Boyko’s operation had been successful, or had he radioed to inform Boyko of his own nocturnal achievement?

  “Please repeat,” Boyko whispered into the radio.

  “We’ve got a truckload of illegal prescription drugs here,” Kamen informed him. “The driver is in custody. What do you have?”

  Kamen’s words were overly boastful, his attitude condescending. The overweight cop was taunting him, Boyko saw, while reveling in his own success. That bastard!

  Ever since that night three years before, when Boyko had intercepted the prostitutes arriving on the Black Sea shore with Kamen at his side, they had been on bad terms. Kamen had belittled Boyko’s success then, and in the following months had constantly stuck a foot out to impede Boyko’s progress on the force. Boyko noted a notable change in how Kamen related to police operations, as if the shorter cop had a secret agenda he wasn’t sharing. Instead of being a cooperative partner, Kamen stuck to himself more and more, relating to Boyko solely with harsh comments and ridicule. Boyko knew to keep his distance from that man.

  And now Kamen was deriding Boyko’s actions once again. Something had gone wrong in the border raid, but Boyko found it difficult to pinpoint how his plans had been compromised. Somehow, his team had been detected as they waited in the dark. If he didn’t know any better, he would think someone had tipped off the deliverymen, warning them against crossing the border. How could that be possible? Yet, the driver had known when and where to stop his vehicle, almost out of range. The driver and his associate had initiated the gunfire; they were fully prepared to confront the ambush waiting for them near the check post.

  Those were points to analyze later. What mattered now was that an officer on Boyko’s team had been critically injured and Boyko was ultimately responsible. Oggy’s situation didn’t look good. The wounded cop needed immediate evacuation from the field, but it was taking an incredible amount of time for the ambulance to arrive.

  Boyko lifted the goggles to his eyes and scouted the surroundings. The empty patrol box, the cement wall painted in the colors of Bulgaria’s flag, the barracks off in the distance—everything was lit up in unearthly green. No movement could be detected anywhere. The night’s silence hid the fact that there was a team of police officers camped around a wounded comrade on the ground, while a short distance away, an abandoned truck, its motor still running, protected the two men who had transported an illicit delivery across the Turkish border.

  The shipment, its contents as yet undetermined, had been stopped, but that gave Boyko no satisfaction. As one of the officers tried to comfort Oggy, who was gasping for breath, Boyko could not but help think this nocturnal mission had been a total failure.

  30

  “Cigarettes—that’s what they were transpor
ting across the border. Cheap, tasteless Turkish cigarettes.”

  “Did your interception of the delivery lead to the Hunter’s arrest?” Ayala asked, bringing Boyko’s mind back to the present.

  “Well, not directly,” he replied, reaching into his pocket. A smile came to his face as the irony of smoking near the site where he had stopped a delivery of illegal cigarettes registered with him. “I guess my humiliation following the failure of that nighttime operation gave me further cause to chase down the Hunter and bust him for his crimes. Bust—that’s how you say it, right?”

  She smiled at his use of the word but then turned serious again. “How did that go down? I have a feeling you haven’t told me everything. Are you saving the best for last?”

  For several moments, Boyko stared silently at Ayala. He recalled thinking of her the previous night when he only had alcohol to comfort him. He longed to get closer to the Israeli woman, to fully understand her. He wanted to open up, to explain what he was feeling for her. Seeing Ayala in the wild borderland brought warmth to his loins, almost to an embarrassing degree. But, it was more than that, more than just a sexual attraction that he felt. Surely, she would see that.

  Should he tell her? Boyko had never divulged the full details of the botched operation that led to Hunter’s arrest. He hadn’t shared the story with Zhekov or with anyone else on the force. Not even Galina, to whom he was still married at the time, knew exactly what had occurred.

  Yes, he would do it! He would reveal to her the most guarded secret of his entire career. When she heard his story, she would reciprocate by expressing her own feelings for him. He was willing to risk everything for this attractive woman whom he could not banish from his thoughts. He hoped, and he prayed, that it would all be worth it.

  * * *

  June 2006

  The air in the carpeted conference room was stuffy, but it would have to do. Boyko paced restlessly, glancing at his watch. The members of his team waited impatiently for his instructions. One uniformed cop sat glued to an electronics console, his face partially hidden by oversized earphones. Another stood nervously by the door, his hand resting on the slick pistol strapped to his waist. Two detectives, newcomers to Burgas, smoked and drank black coffee, seemingly undisturbed by the upcoming operation.

  The trap was set; the bait was in place. The Hunter—the ultimate prey of Boyko’s work on the Burgas police force—was due to arrive at the hotel at any moment. An undercover officer, working in close coordination with Boyko, waited for Damian in a bedroom on the third floor. They were set to negotiate a major drug deal. The Hunter would be eager to receive the shipment and handle the Bulgarian distribution. Boyko’s team would pounce on the criminal once the deal was made and payment changed hands. This sting would catch Damian in the act; there would be no denying his guilt.

  And it would all go down on a sunny day in Sunny Beach, Boyko thought. That was a fitting conclusion to the months he had spent pursuing the arch criminal.

  During the winter, Sunny Beach was mostly deserted, but now this stretch of shore along the bay between Sveti Vlas and Nessebar was packed with tourists from Russia, the Ukraine, and with local Bulgarians as well. Five-star complexes with luxury accommodations competed with low-priced establishments barely worthy of being labeled as hotels. Lines of lounge chairs and colorful beach umbrellas crowded the sandy shoreline. Kiosks offered quickly grilled meats, while fancier restaurants served classy gourmet meals. Noisy discotheques, live-music bars, and flashy nightclubs attracted youthful visitors; alcohol and drug use was widespread. Rich visitors flocked to the casinos to partake in blackjack, slots, baccarat, poker, and roulette. Prostitutes walked the pathways; pickpockets mingled in the crowds.

  The hotel selected for the rendezvous was Resort Charlotte, a small establishment set back from the shore. The owner, a publishing magnate from Plovdiv who had named the hotel after his late wife, was known for keeping his mouth shut. Boyko moved his team into place while the owner conveniently looked the other way. As the police officers waited for the Hunter to show up, it seemed the hotel’s guests were also cooperating by their absence. The lobby was deserted. The lone front desk clerk read a paperback novel, a recreation she interrupted with frequent reviews of her fingernail polish.

  The Hunter was late.

  Stakeouts and surveillance took up much of Boyko’s time these days; the periods of waiting around for something to happen could be nerve-racking. But it would all be worthwhile, he thought, once the Hunter fell into the trap he had prepared.

  “Unit 2, please report,” Boyko whispered into his mouthpiece.

  “The target is approaching Sunny Beach,” a cop stationed near the main highway stated. “He’s traveling in a black SUV; there’s another vehicle in front.”

  A second police unit, positioned close by, called in a few minutes later. The two cars were driving toward the hotel. Their arrival was imminent.

  The parking lot in front of Resort Charlotte was mostly empty. The pavement was uneven; weeds grew unhindered through cracks in the cement. Three garbage bins at the side of the lot were set for separate disposal of glass and metal, paper products, and miscellaneous rubbish. A stray cat jumped from bin to bin, searching for discarded scraps of nourishment.

  The black vehicles rounded the corner. Boyko alerted his men. The new squad members put out their cigarettes; the radio operator passed on further updates. In the third-floor bedroom, the undercover cop waited for a knock at the door. Everything was ready.

  “I have spotted the target,” reported the cop positioned at a flower stand down the street. “The target is approaching the entrance to the lot.”

  Each radioed message brought the Hunter closer to the trap. Soon Damian would stroll into the hotel and climb the stairs to the bedroom meeting. Boyko took position at the conference room door, as if doing so would help him achieve his objective sooner. No mistakes had been made while planning this operation; Boyko had covered all his bases. Success was merely a few moments away.

  “The vehicles have stopped.”

  Come inside, Boyko thought, relaying the message in his mind to the Hunter. Step into my trap and this will all be over.

  He waited, but there were no further messages.

  “What is happening?” he asked, gently adjusting his mouthpiece. “Have they gotten out of their cars?”

  “Negative. No movement.”

  The uniformed cop at Boyko’s side shifted nervously, his hand ready on his weapon as if he was about to sling it out any second. Boyko motioned him to stay in place.

  “The vehicles—they’re starting to move.”

  “What?”

  “They are driving away.”

  “I don’t understand,” Boyko said, facing away from his team as he voiced the words. “What is happening? Did someone get out?”

  “Negative. The two vehicles have left the parking lot. They are heading down the street, picking up speed.”

  The second police unit, stationed farther away, radioed in to confirm this report. The Hunter was leaving, speeding away from Resort Charlotte.

  “What the fuck?” Boyko stared at his team members, but they were as confused as he was.

  Had the Hunter spotted someone tailing him? Did he notice the police positions on the street leading to the hotel? Did he know about the trap? Had someone informed him?

  Something had gone wrong!

  No, there had been no mistakes. Boyko was confident of this, yet Damian had backed away from the rendezvous at the last moment.

  The Hunter had escaped his trap and was driving away from Sunny Beach and Boyko had no way of stopping him. How simple it would be to have a traffic cop pull the Hunter over at the side of the highway and arrest him for a contrived traffic violation. But Boyko knew minor misdemeanor charges would hardly be sufficient to put Damian behind bars.

  The more Boyko thought about it, the more he was convinced someone had tipped off the Hunter, warning him about the sting operation. It was just li
ke the delivery of cigarettes Boyko had intercepted one month earlier in the Strandzha. Then, too, the deliverymen were likely warned of the police ambush at the last minute. Someone was actively feeding information to the Hunter’s criminal network.

  Who had compromised the operation? The nervous uniformed cop at his side? The communications expert looking up from his console? The two novice detectives reaching for new cigarettes? No, none of these men could possibly have divulged Boyko’s plans. He trusted them, and the undercover agent waiting in the hotel bedroom as well. None of them had tipped off the Hunter.

  Was it someone at headquarters? Had a senior officer on staff informed the Hunter what awaited him at Resort Charlotte? How many of Boyko’s fellow detectives knew in advance of his plans? Zhekov had given a green light to this operation, unlike others when Boyko had acted on his own initiative. As much as Boyko hated Zhekov’s showmanship and his egocentric sense of superiority, he didn’t believe the commander capable of being as corrupt as the criminals they sought to arrest.

  What about Milen and Kamen? How much did Boyko really know about his fellow detectives—other than the fact that he couldn’t stand the sight of them? He had partnered with Milen many times. The older man insisted on controlling each of their assignments, rarely listening to Boyko’s opinions or suggestions. But was Milen capable of colluding with the Hunter?

  Kamen, though, was entirely different. He was a piece of shit. That fat, annoying asshole was constantly working behind Boyko’s back, discrediting Boyko for his achievements on the force. Boyko hardly trusted Kamen, but was this distrust sufficient evidence to prove Kamen had fed the Hunter details of the planned arrest?

  Boyko couldn’t rely on his fellow officers and he feared that at least one of them was actively working against him, siding with the Hunter and conspiring against Boyko and his team. He didn’t have time to consider the consequences of this conclusion now, but he vowed to continue his efforts to make the arrest. He couldn’t take any more chances, even if that meant working behind Zhekov’s back. He didn’t trust anyone. No, he would apprehend the Hunter on his own.