by Ellis Shuman
“Well, that is a relief,” her mother said. “But still, you should eat something.”
* * *
After dinner, Ayala excused herself from the table, leaving her half-eaten meal to be collected and the chicken bones given to the neighbors’ cat. She apologized to her parents, turning down an offer to join them for the Friday night newscast on television. She went into her childhood bedroom, closed the door quietly, and lay down on the bed.
What was wrong? She had just returned from the most important assignment of her career. Her parents were mistaken in how they perceived her position. She wasn’t a secret agent! No, her job was far from exciting. Questioning people, reading reports and transcripts, analyzing facts. No danger was involved in these boring, monotonous tasks.
She didn’t dare mention the shooting attack near the Turkish border, when the bullets slammed into the wall a few inches above her head. What her parents didn’t know about what had transpired in Bulgaria wouldn’t hurt them. Some secrets were meant to remain secret.
Now, she was back in Tel Aviv, burdened with a heavy workload, as her long hours testified. Yet, she was not motivated by her duties, however important they may be. Every little piece of evidence is important to the overall picture. That was what Boaz had said to her, and something Uncle Yaniv had drilled into her head as well. Still, she was far from satisfied sitting at a desk where the only source of information was the data on her computer screen
She was sorry she wouldn’t have a chance to see her uncle this Shabbat, but Yaniv was away somewhere on assignment. Better not to know what he’s up to—that was what her mother always said. Ayala missed talking to him. Yaniv had convinced her to apply for her job; he had helped her get reassigned overseas for the second time. Yaniv, like her, was sworn to secrecy about these classified affairs but it would be comforting to speak with him nonetheless because he understood what she was going through.
Ayala picked up one of her old photo albums, something she did frequently when she came home for a Shabbat meal. Whenever she had troubles in the present, images and memories from the past helped to comfort her.
The colors on the photographs were faded now, but the memories were as strong as ever. There she was: a young girl festively costumed for Purim, outfitted as a nurse. Next to it was a photograph of a pet dog the family kept for one full summer before her father realized that only he was taking the animal out for its morning walk. There was a picture of a family seder at a long-ago Passover. Uncle Yaniv was seated next to her aunt. Ayala smiled at the sight of her uncle when he still had a head full of hair. When had he shaved it off and adopted the bald look?
Across the table from Ayala, in the photograph, was Tomer. Tomer! Her heart jumped at seeing his picture and she had to catch her breath. Growing up, her brother had been the only one in whom she could confide her secrets. Whenever she was upset or troubled, Tomer was ready with the appropriate advice. He could make her problems go away with a simple smile. She remembered hurrying home from school, not to relate classroom activities to eager parents, but rather to spill everything in conversations with her brother. He had so much patience, so many kind words.
She took out a tissue and wiped a tear from her cheek. She missed Tomer so much.
35
January 1991
The Iraqis were trying to bomb her house.
Ayala was just eight years old but she regularly watched the television newscasts and read the black headlines in the papers. There was a war raging in Iraq; the Americans were attacking Baghdad. As a result, Saddam Hussein—may his name be stricken from history, as her parents kept repeating—was launching SCUD missiles at Tel Aviv. She wasn’t sure what a SCUD missile looked like, or what damage it could cause, or how many of the projectiles Hussein had in his arsenal; but she did know that a rocket attack would be deadly.
One night, a piercing siren sent the family racing to their safe room. Ayala’s parents’ bedroom faced west, giving it ample protection, her father had assured her. Strips of thin masking tape crisscrossed the lone window, making it appear shuttered even when fully exposed to daylight. The corner had been transformed into an emergency storeroom, with a large plastic jerrycan of water, a flashlight, first-aid supplies, garbage bags, toiletries, clean underwear, and canned food. Towels lay in a pile on her mother’s dresser; they would be used to line the bottom of the doorframe and prevent noxious fumes from penetrating into the room. A transistor radio rested on the bedside table, next to a package of extra batteries to ensure they would be able to hear the news in case of a power failure. They were ready for a prolonged siege, it seemed, but no one really expected that first siren.
“Where are the gas masks?” Tomer shouted, hurrying down the hallway. “Where are they? They must be somewhere,” he shrieked, his voice rising and falling like the siren itself.
“I’m sure they’re here,” Shoshanna said calmly. “I am sure I put them with the other supplies.”
“It’s going to hit us,” Ayala cried, crouching behind her parents’ bed and covering her head with her hands. “The missiles are coming.”
“Nothing is going to happen,” her father said as he adjusted the settings on the radio. “We’re safe here.”
“The masks; where are they?” Tomer asked again, throwing back the sheets of the bed and diving to his knees.
One by one, Tomer extracted the cardboard boxes. Then, just like in practice, each of them slipped on a gas mask, pulling tight at the plastic straps to ensure that the black contraption was firmly in place.
“It’s hard to breathe,” Ayala wheezed. Her mother adjusted the straps, positioning the mask more comfortably on her daughter’s face.
“How’s that?”
Her mother’s voice sounded as if she was speaking underwater. Her words were hollow, echoing with muted distortion. Ayala could barely recognize the woman leaning over her. Thick, plastic goggles, a snout-shaped protrusion under the chin, ears flattened beneath their tight bindings. These were not normal times. The missiles were coming.
The four of them sat side by side at the head of the bed. The radio crackled with static, but otherwise, total silence. Ayala’s father put an arm around her. Nervous with the certainty that the rockets would strike their building at any second, Ayala felt her body start to shake.
“We should take a picture!” Tomer suggested, rising to his feet.
“There’s no time, Tomer,” Shoshanna said.
“I think the camera is in the other room. What a cool picture it will be, with all of us in gas masks and everything.”
“Don’t you dare open the door!” Ayala screamed. If Tomer opened the door, the gas would permeate the room. It didn’t matter that they were wearing gas masks. It didn’t matter that no missile had yet slammed into their building; no missile had yet landed anywhere. The other side of the door was danger. Only a thin towel on the threshold served to protect them against the deadly gases that would spread until they cut off the last of their remaining oxygen. Toxins would penetrate their skin, guaranteeing painful, horrific deaths. They would get sick and die!
“Stay here!” Ayala shouted at her brother.
Avraham pulled her close. “Ayala, it’s going to be okay,” he said. “It will be over very soon.”
Before Tomer had a chance to return with the camera, the all-clear signal sounded. The radio broadcast news of the first Iraqi strike at Tel Aviv. The missiles had landed elsewhere. Ayala, her parents, and her brother took off their masks.
During the following nights, Ayala was unable to fall asleep. She lay in bed, unwilling to be caught by surprise by the sound of a siren. There would be another attack at any moment. One of Saddam Hussein’s SCUD rockets would strike their building, destroy their apartment. She wondered what would be worse—to be killed outright by the falling debris or to become deadly ill after breathing in the poisonous chemical vapors. Maybe it would be better to die instantly. She didn’t want to be sick. She didn’t want her family members to be il
l. It would be hard to face her classmates if her family came down sick because of an attack. Her friends would avoid her.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Tomer said, joining her in the dark as she tossed and turned. He was only a year older, yet he understood these things. If anyone could comfort her during the rocket attacks, it was Tomer.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “The missiles are coming and there’s nowhere to hide.”
“First of all, we don’t know if there will be any more strikes,” he said. “Hussein probably used up his entire collection of SCUDs already. That’s what they’re saying on the news. And second, it’s not for sure he has chemical weapons.”
“Chemical weapons. He has chemicals, and we don’t have anything. How can we fight back?”
“Sometimes the only way to respond is by staying strong,” he said, the words so convincing as they emerged from his mouth.
She finally fell asleep that night, but fears of a missile attack continued to upset her throughout the week, waking her with ghoulish nightmares and causing her to tremble uncontrollably. It didn’t help that one night an Iraqi rocket struck a building only two blocks away from where her family lived. There was extensive property damage to the structure but amazingly, no one lost their lives in the attack. Only two blocks away! The bombed-out apartments, seen from the street, fueled her fears even more. One of the next strikes would hit her own building. It was just a matter of time before destruction struck.
The words her brother had uttered in her bedroom remained in her mind for some time, long after the Iraqis launched the last of their rockets. Sometimes the only way to respond is by staying strong. She didn’t fully understand that sentence. Israel had not retaliated for the Iraqi attacks. How was it possible to fight back without doing anything at all? How could one be strong by remaining silent?
If someone attacked you, you had to respond. Of this, Ayala was certain.
36
“Take a look at this series originating in Beirut,” Ayala said, calling attention to a string of phone calls made in the weeks prior to the bus bombing. “They all came from the same land-based line, but they were directed to different mobile phone numbers all over Eastern Europe. Warsaw, Prague, Bucharest. Actually, the calls, based on the geolocation information, form a pattern on a map. Each successive one goes to a phone at a physical location closer and closer to Bulgaria, almost as if someone was making his way to Burgas.”
“That’s exactly the kind of pattern we’re looking for,” Menachem said. “Keep tracking those calls. We may be on to something here.”
The printout of intercepted phone transmissions came from data collected by American intelligence services and transferred to the Israelis for analysis as part of security cooperation between the two countries. The work was ongoing, meticulous, and thorough. Basically, Ayala and her team were searching for a needle in a haystack—a call, or series of calls, proving Hezbollah was passing orders to its operatives in Europe. Detecting this communication was crucial in proving Hezbollah’s culpability for the deadly terrorist attack.
Ayala and her colleagues had access not only to the list of international connections, but also to recordings of the calls themselves. As literally thousands and thousands of suspicious calls had been made in the weeks prior to the bombing, there was no possible way to review the audio recordings of each and every transmission. That was why Ayala was desperately trying to isolate calls suggesting Hezbollah directives to its field agents. Once Ayala pinpointed those most likely connected to the case, Arabic speakers would listen to the recordings.
A further step in the intelligence gathering operation was required. After the communications were translated from Arabic, they still needed to be deciphered. The terrorists would be relaying their instructions in code. They were hardly likely to state openly—even over what they may assume to be secure connections—plans for an attack on an Israeli target. Specialists familiar with Arabic jargon and slang would try to determine the real meaning of the commands being issued from Beirut.
One specific string of calls raised suspicion, Ayala pointed out. The source of the calls had been traced to the Dahieh neighborhood in southern Beirut, a known Hezbollah stronghold. Dahieh was where the organization’s members gathered en masse to hear the orations of Sheikh Hassan Nasrallah, their revered leader and the person Israel considered to be the orchestrator of many terrorist attacks.
Satellite imagery clearly showed suspected Hezbollah commanders frequenting the Dahieh building where the calls originated. This, in itself, was only one side of the equation. The harder task was determining who was receiving the calls in Eastern Europe.
“Okay, let’s alert the translators,” Menachem said, agreeing with Ayala’s conclusions. “Hopefully we’ll get lucky and identify specific messages being relayed to their operatives. Good work, Ayala!”
Ayala sat back, her eyes weary after staring at long lines of computer printout. She should be feeling a sense of achievement, but instead she felt a momentary letdown. Her role in the operation had been a minor one. It was disconcerting to be left on the sidelines while others would determine which of the conversations were relevant to the investigation.
Ayala was frustrated knowing that progress, if there was any, came at a painstakingly slow pace. She had helped raise some questions while others would search for the answers. They needed a break in the case although it wasn’t clear if that break—whether it was intercepted phone calls or something entirely different—would ever come. Ayala wondered if she would ever know the full story behind the Burgas bombing.
Later in the afternoon, Ayala was distracted by loud talking in the back of the open space office. She looked up from the computer screen to see someone being escorted into the room, someone who looked familiar. Was that, no, it couldn’t be! Her heart seemed to skip a beat.
“Team, listen up,” Menachem announced as he introduced a tall man dressed in jeans and a light-blue shirt. The case officer switched to English, in deference to the visitor. “This is Detective Boyko Stanchev from the Bulgarian State Agency for National Security. Detective Stanchev will serve as liaison to our intelligence-gathering efforts. The Bulgarians, like us, have a very keen interest in getting to the bottom of the Burgas bombing. Like us, they want to prove beyond a doubt that Hezbollah was responsible. The detective will join our team, monitor our investigations, and help us with the analysis. Please include him in your meetings and talks. Nothing is to be kept from him as we are working in full coordination with the Bulgarians. Isn’t that right, Detective Stanchev?”
“Please call me Boyko. No one in Bulgaria ever calls me Detective Stanchev.”
“Okay, Boyko. I would like you to meet the members of our team. I believe you already know Ayala.”
“Yes, we’ve met,” Boyko said, shaking Ayala’s hand.
Despite the formality in the greeting, Ayala noticed a brief twinkle in Boyko’s eyes, a sign that the familiarity between the two of them was much more than a simple work-related acquaintance.
“Ayala will serve as your contact person,” Menachem continued. “As you’ve worked together in the field, Ayala will bring you up-to-date on our recent, and most relevant, intelligence gathering. Specifically, Ayala, please brief Boyko about the pattern in the phone transmissions originating in Beirut.”
Menachem introduced the other analysts to the Bulgarian guest. “Detective Stanchev, I mean, Boyko, our team welcomes you. If you have any questions or logistical problems, please let me know. But I can assure you, Ayala will be more than hospitable in showing you around.”
Before leaving, Menachem spoke to Ayala in Hebrew, “Don’t hold anything back. Share everything with him, and I mean that. Orders from above, you know.”
“Okay, no problem.”
“Oh, and one other thing regarding the hospitality I mentioned. I want Boyko to feel entirely at home in Israel. You were a guest in Bulgaria during your field work there; now Boyko is our guest. We must r
eciprocate the hospitality. I trust you to make this happen.”
“Of course,” Ayala said, at a temporary loss for words.
Menachem moved away, leaving Ayala standing next to Boyko. They were together again, only this time it was in Tel Aviv. Something didn’t feel right to Ayala, yet strangely, everything felt very right.
Here he was—the officer with whom she had spent many hours driving around the Bulgarian countryside as they investigated various aspects of the case. They had argued, nearly bickering as they discussed suspects and leads. They had joked; they had laughed. They had eaten together, drinking rakia as he told her tales of his country. He had charmed her unexpectedly to the point that she had seriously considered inviting him into her hotel room. Here he was, present in Tel Aviv, again assigned to work with her. She didn’t know exactly how she would handle this unforeseen change in circumstances.
“Shall we get started?” Boyko said, a wide smile on his face.
37
“It’s not often we meet people who work with our daughter,” Shoshanna Navon said, welcoming Boyko into her apartment. “And to have a guest from overseas—it’s such an honor!”
“The honor is mine,” Boyko said, shaking her hand vigorously. “Should I take off my shoes?”
“Take off your shoes?”
“Imma, it’s a Bulgarian custom,” Ayala explained. Turning to Boyko she said, “You can do whatever you feel is most comfortable.”
“Yes, of course,” Shoshanna said, a wide smile on her face. “We honor many Bulgarian customs in our home. My husband is originally from Sofia.”
“That is what Ayala tells me,” Boyko said, stooping down to unlace his shoes. Leaning against the wall, he removed one and then the other. He blushed a bit, standing before them in his stockinged feet.
