The Burgas Affair

by Ellis Shuman

  “We may never know what was discovered under the Strandzha mountain. It could be an Egyptian tomb. Maybe it is something from another world.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Ayala asked.

  “I thought you would want to know more about this place we have visited, this strange and mysterious place,” he said.

  Ayala regarded him silently for a moment. His unexpected talkativeness came across as more than a simple distraction from the seriousness of their failed investigation. More than just clearing his mind after the afternoon’s confession, as well. Some other reason was behind Boyko’s being so engaging at their dinner. Had he related the Strandzha legend in attempts to charm her? To show her that he could be fun? Perhaps he was trying to change her first impression of him as being a headstrong, uncompromising police detective. A chauvinist male with only one thing on his mind. His ploy, if that was what it was, was working. She was enjoying their conversation.

  “You have hardly told me anything about yourself,” Boyko said, repeating something he had already said a few times in their short acquaintance.

  “I really don’t like to talk about myself.”

  “I have revealed so much,” he said. “And yet, you have told me nothing. There is something in your past, I think, something troubling you, but I do not know what it is.”

  Ayala clammed up, not willing to confirm that he had hit the mark with this observation. But she wasn’t willing to tell him what it was that bothered her. Not yet, and probably not ever.

  “You do not wish to talk? You should talk. It’s very therapeutic to tell someone else about your problems. Look at how calm I am after opening up to you earlier today. I had never told anyone else what I did, or how it continues to affect me. Getting that off my chest has lightened the burden a bit. Not that the problem has gone away, because it has not. But I feel better having spoken to you.”

  “Well, thank you for sharing,” Ayala said, looking up at him. “I’m sorry but I can’t be as open about my personal life as you.”

  “Are all Israeli women like you, not willing to talk about their past?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What do they call you? Some type of Middle Eastern fruit?”

  “Sabra.”

  “Right! Sabra. That’s a cactus fruit, isn’t it? All prickly and thorny on the outside, yet soft and sweet on the inside. I believe you to be like that, Ayala. You portray yourself as being tough and completely focused on this case, but inside, I bet you’re all soft and sweet. Is that true? Are you a sabra?”

  “I am a sabra, but you need to understand the full meaning of the word. Sabra simply means someone who was born in Israel.”

  “So, all Israelis are thorny and prickly but sweet on the inside?”

  “I can’t speak for all my countrymen,” she replied with a laugh.

  “Why is solving this case so important for you?” he asked, his voice serious once again. “Bombers attacked the bus in Burgas, and yes, people were killed. Israelis lost their lives, also one Bulgarian. But you seem to be taking this very personally. Did you know one of the victims?”

  Ayala tightened up at this statement. Boyko reached across the table and gently put his hand on her arm.

  “We’ll do our best to solve this case,” he said. “But, as has been stated before, not all cases can be solved.”

  “This one must be solved,” she said, her face taut with determination.

  They continued silently through the shadowy streets. The field trip had come to an end and tomorrow they would be back among their colleagues, working the case from Burgas. What was left to be done? Ayala wondered. What could be checked that they hadn’t already investigated?

  She was tired, frustrated with the lack of progress. With Boyko at her side, she had covered a lot of territory but she lacked any tangible results to show the value of her efforts. Boaz and the others had uncovered more information while based at police headquarters and working in conjunction with their Bulgarian colleagues. Had her travels with Boyko been an entire waste of time?

  “Do you want to get a drink?” Boyko asked as they stood in the hotel lobby. A few late-night stragglers lingered at the bar, laughing and drinking beer, while the bartender tended to dirty glasses and mugs in the sink.

  “No, I’ve had it,” Ayala replied, pushing the button for the elevator.

  They entered the small compartment, bumping into each other in the process. Ayala moved back and stood firmly against the mirrored interior as they rose three floors to where their adjoining rooms were located. The corridor was dark but the naked light bulbs flickered alive, one by one, as they made their way down the narrow hall.

  She turned the key in her lock and felt his presence next to her, very close. She could smell the strong whiff of his aftershave as well as a trace of the alcohol and cigarettes he had consumed at dinner. Another scent could be detected as well—a mixture of perspiration and outdoors. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

  “Do you want me to come in?” he asked, waiting to the side of the door as it swung open.

  “No,” she replied, not fully sure this was the answer she truly wanted to express. “It’s been a long day,” she started, but the sentence and her thoughts were left hanging.

  She glanced at him, at his dark eyes. His lips were curled back in a smile, exposing his teeth. Unintentionally, she giggled, surprised at seeing a gold crown in the front of his mouth.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Boyko, I can’t.”

  “You cannot, or you do not want?”

  His words were a bit stilted, again leading her to giggle, but his tone was quite serious. “Both, I guess,” she said.

  “There’s nothing wrong here,” he said. “We’re adults. How do you say it? Consenting. We are consenting adults.”

  “I’m not consenting to anything. Sorry.”

  “No one has to know. This can be between us, no strings attached. We’re at the end of the day, at the end of our field trip. What is so wrong about a little physical release?”

  “One shouldn’t employ logic to convince a potential partner,” she said.

  He sighed and stepped away. The lights in the corridor went out, but when he backed into the hall, they flickered and lit up again.

  “Are all Israeli women like you?” he asked.

  “That’s the second time you’ve asked that question. To fully understand Israeli women, you’ll have to come to Tel Aviv.”

  “I may just do that. Good night, Ayala.”

  She had a sudden urge to lean forward and kiss him on the cheek, but she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. What would happen if he turned his head and she ended up kissing him on the mouth? Would she be able to avoid his lips? Would she be able to resist the physical contact?

  No, it was not right to sleep with him. Of this, she was convinced. They had a working relationship and were frequently at odds about their assignment procedures. It was not proper to let sexual relations interfere with their professional duties. As much as she longed for his touch, for someone to hold and comfort her, she couldn’t allow this to happen. It wasn’t right.

  “Good night, Boyko,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  33

  “You’re returning to Israel.”

  Ayala stared at Boaz, ready to offer an argument as to why she should be allowed to stay, but then realized she had nothing further to say. The necessity to leave Bulgaria left her with an emptiness that was hard to explain.

  “The case is anything but closed,” Boaz said. “The Tel Aviv office is following up on new leads—cell phone records and reports tracking the movements of Hezbollah operatives all over Europe. They’re still checking DNA samples pulled from the bus. There is plenty to be done. Your assistance will be invaluable in the ongoing investigation, but the work can be done at home. No need to stay in Burgas where there are no more leads to pursue.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said
.

  “Aren’t you eager to get back to your family?”|

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What is it? Is something bothering you?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s a sense of failure, of not having accomplished anything.”

  “You accomplished plenty,” he said. “Even a lead that doesn’t result in tangible evidence helps our case. Ruling out possibilities of what didn’t happen advances our knowledge. This is a huge puzzle. Every piece of evidence, as small and inconsequential as it might initially seem, is essential to completing the puzzle. Ayala, your efforts helped us, they really did.”

  This was the second time she was being relieved from her duties in Bulgaria. She had outlived her usefulness in the field and the demands of her job now called for her to return to home base. This time, however, it was the correct, strategic decision.

  Ayala checked out of her Burgas hotel room, bidding a final farewell to the lumpy mattress, the stained carpet, and the uneven desk. She wheeled her suitcase to the lobby.

  A chill swept through her with the thought that she would again be flying out of Burgas Airport, the same airport where her compatriots had been murdered in the bombing. It was impossible to bring those victims back to life, but Ayala vowed she would do everything in her power to hunt down the terrorists and make them pay for their crime. Justice would be served.

  She suddenly remembered she didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to Boyko. The Bulgarian detective had dropped her off the day before in time for her meeting with Boaz, but she hadn’t seen him since.

  She thought back to their discussions and arguments in the car as they drove across the Bulgarian countryside. She thought about the shooting at the hotel near the Turkish border and about the visit to Boyko’s family in the village. She recalled their time in the windswept borderland and his excited tales of the mysterious Strandzha. In her mind, she pictured how handsome and sincere he was; how willing he was to explain things about Bulgaria; how patient he was with her efforts to speak and understand Bulgarian.

  She thought back to their final night together in Kardzhali, when he stood outside her hotel room. “What is so wrong about a little physical release?” he had asked, but she had instantly dismissed his offer as inappropriate. Yet, she couldn’t deny the fact that his nearness had awakened an unexpected carnal desire within her. Things could have turned out very differently if she had moved aside, allowing him to cross that threshold. The shared intimacy would break down the barrier that stood between them and result in a willingness to talk to him. To reveal the secrets of her past. The tragedy that had marked her forever.

  Why had she been so obstinate? Why hadn’t she reciprocated the openness of his confession by sharing her own story? Why hadn’t she given in to the moment, consenting to his desire that their relationship take on a physical aspect? They were, as Boyko said, consenting adults. No one would have been hurt if something had transpired in her bedroom.

  But no, that wasn’t meant to be. She had no regrets, she thought, trying to convince herself that this was true. Boyko was a Bulgarian and she was an Israeli. He was Christian; she was Jewish. He had already been married once. There was no place for him in her life and her return to Tel Aviv was imminent. She had no desire for a one-night stand; there would be no satisfaction in that. As much as she needed the physical release he offered, with no strings attached, sleeping with him would never happen.

  But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she may have made a mistake by closing her bedroom door in his face.

  “Your taxi is here,” a hotel clerk said to Ayala in accented English.

  She stood up and wheeled her suitcase behind her as she walked out of the hotel.

  34

  “Do you have that report for me?”

  Looking up from the computer screen, it took several moments for Ayala’s eyes to focus on her surroundings. She had been staring at the monitor for interminable hours without a break as translated transcripts in repetitious digital patterns rolled ever upwards in near-military precision. Her work interrupted, she took in the man standing at her desk, his arms folded across his chest and an impatient look on his face.

  “Sorry, I’m still working on it,” Ayala replied, shaking her head to clear it. It had been a long day, in a week of many long days. The weekend was fast approaching, but before she would find relief from the tedious routine of her assignments, she was required to submit her report.

  Ever since her return to Tel Aviv, Ayala had buried herself in work. She was employed in a nine-to-five office job, but in reality, it was a position that required starting at eight in the morning and rarely finished before seven or eight in the evening. By the end of each day, her eyes were teary and her mind was numb. After hours of intense concentration, she would return to her apartment, unable to contemplate anything more serious than a hot shower; a quick, unfulfilling meal; and a short interlude with mindless reality shows on television. Falling asleep was never a problem. She dozed off the minute her head hit the pillow, waking with a start when her mobile phone alerted her it was time to prepare for another day in the office. She had no social life whatsoever.

  “I really need the report now,” Menachem repeated, telling her what she already knew.

  “I’ll be finished with it soon.”

  Menachem was a good guy, one who rarely displayed emotions or personal concerns during office hours. As he limped away from her desk, she wondered if he missed field duty as much as she did. Menachem had been wounded in an overseas operation a few years back; she didn’t know the full details of what had happened. He was now permanently based in headquarters, serving as her case officer on this assignment.

  Ayala missed Bulgaria. Bulgaria had come alive in the short time she had served there. She had traveled to Ruse in the north, and to the Strandzha in the south. She had visited a picturesque village and walked along the Turkish border, yet remarkably, she had never made it to Sofia, where her father had been born and lived as a child. Well, her time in Bulgaria had not exactly been a sightseeing vacation.

  That assignment was over now; she accepted that. She had been given the opportunity to serve in the field and she had done her best to live up to her superiors’ expectations. She appreciated having been given that chance. Back in Tel Aviv there were other tasks to handle, other priorities to deal with. Still, she felt her work in Israel was nothing more than a job. A job that could be tiring and aggravating at times.

  She adjusted her sweater as part of her incessant battle with the full blast of the office air conditioner, finished typing the report she had promised Menachem, saved the document, and sent it off by email. She logged out of the computer and hurried to leave. She would still be able to catch the last bus home before Shabbat began.

  * * *

  “Eat up! I don’t think they fed you anything in Bulgaria. I made chicken with rice just for you!”

  Ayala saw the concern in her mother’s face. The chicken rice dish—laced with caramelized onions, cardamom pods, cashews, almonds, and golden raisins—was one of Ayala’s favorites yet she picked at it listlessly. After a whole week of looking forward to home cooking, here she was at the dinner table, sulking in a silence she couldn’t explain.

  “Is there something wrong?” her father asked, reaching to stroke her hand.

  “No, I’m fine,” Ayala replied, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing, nothing at all.”

  “If it’s nothing, you must eat something,” Shoshanna said, passing over a platter of steaming Yemenite delicacies.

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “What did you eat in Bulgaria?” her mother continued.

  “I ate things. I don’t remember exactly.” For a moment, Ayala felt sorry she had told her parents that she had traveled to Bulgaria. After all, she was not allowed to openly discuss her work with anyone, not even with them. But, how could she keep her destination a secret? How could she not mention to her father that she had visited his homeland?
Of all the secrets she carried, this had been the hardest to bear. At least she hadn’t detailed what she had been doing there.

  “Did you have shopska salad?” Avraham asked. “It’s almost considered the national salad of Bulgaria.”

  “Yes, Abba, I ate shopska salad.”

  “We didn’t have shopska salad around when I was growing up. You might be surprised, but shopska salad was invented at the request of the Bulgarian government in the late 1950s, long after I left the country. It was part of an attempt to attract foreigners, a marketing gimmick. The only shopska salad I’ve ever eaten has been here in Israel.”

  Ayala’s mother ignored her husband’s rambling and turned to her daughter with a worried look. “What’s up with you, Ayala? Before, you were all excited about going to Bulgaria and serving overseas. Yaniv was helpful in getting you that assignment. But now that you’re back, you seem upset, almost downtrodden. You should be grateful you had this chance, this wonderful opportunity to see the world while serving your country.”

  “I didn’t exactly see the world.”

  “What exactly did you do over there?” Avraham asked. “Did you do anything we should be concerned about? Did you carry a gun?”

  “Abba!”

  “We need to know these things, Ayala,”

  “Maybe it’s better if we don’t know these things,” her mother argued. “I would never sleep at night if I knew Ayala was carrying a gun.”

  “I had an Uzi during my army service and you didn’t lose any sleep.”

  “That was different. You were serving at that base in the Negev. Being overseas in Bulgaria—that’s something else altogether.”

  “I’m just an intelligence analyst,” Ayala said. “I don’t carry a gun here in Tel Aviv and I wasn’t armed in Bulgaria. What, did you think I was a secret agent or something, like Uncle Yaniv?”

  “We don’t know what to think,” Shoshanna said.

  Ayala looked at each of her parents in turn, taking in the depths of their concern. “You don’t have to worry. I work at a civilian job. I collect and analyze intelligence for a living; that’s what I do. It’s not a dangerous job. I don’t sneak around overseas with a gun hidden in my purse. Nothing will ever happen to me.”