by Ellis Shuman
“Shoshanna, calm down. Don’t get yourself into a state,” Avraham said.
“I’m always concerned when Tomer goes out at night,” Shoshanna replied. She motioned to Ayala to try again to reach Tomer on the phone. “He should let us know he’s okay,” she said.
Am I worrying for no reason? Ayala wondered. Thinking back, she remembered how Tomer had walked into the house so triumphantly after the Dizengoff Center attack, excitedly telling stories of the traffic jams in the center of Tel Aviv. Would he open their front door momentarily, complaining there was no cause for his family’s worries? He would inform them that he and Ilana had been nowhere near the bombing, that they were already on their way home when the first sirens sounded.
“We’re going to the Dolphinarium.” The words flashed through Ayala’s mind. Had Tomer actually told her what his plans were for the night, or was she imagining him mentioning a destination?
The minutes ticked by. The television broadcast cut to a live feed from the scene. Cameramen approached the entrance to the discotheque, as close as the police barricades would allow. Security forces were everywhere; medical teams were conducting triage. The most seriously wounded had already been evacuated. Those lightly injured were lying on the pavement; cries of anguish and pain could be heard on the soundtrack. Graphic, bloody images of the disaster were tastefully kept off camera. According to a cautious television report, several young people had been killed. The exact number wasn’t being released, and, of course, none of the victims had yet been identified.
The door will open at any minute, Ayala told herself. Tomer was okay. He had to be! Even if he was okay, he would not have an easy time getting home. The streets would be clogged with traffic and there was no public transportation on Shabbat. And, with the mobile phone networks crashing, he had no way to call and inform his parents that he was safe and sound. Of course he was okay. Why should she doubt that? Why were these thoughts racing through her mind? Morbid thoughts. Thoughts of injury and painful, senseless death. Everything would be fine. The door would open and Tomer would be home.
It was nearly an hour later when the phone rang at last. It was not good news.
41
The sea breeze shifted, flinging a salty spray across the beach. Cigarettes flashed red a short distance away where a group of migrant workers exchanged stories in a noisy huddle. Lights flickered farther south; a cat howled in heat on the boardwalk. Sitting on the steps, Ayala drew her knees close, wrapped her arms around her legs. It wasn’t supposed to get this cold in Tel Aviv at night, not in October.
“You’re shivering.”
Ayala turned to Boyko. He knew all her secrets; none had been spared. She had told him how her brother had been killed; how senseless and painful and utterly tragic it had been. She had revealed how the horrific attack struck at her innermost being. Not something she had planned to do, yet the words spilled out of her. Once she started, she couldn’t stop.
Boyko had been attentive; he had offered his sympathy. Sharing the story did not relieve her pain, but made it somewhat more bearable.
He touched her arm—a gentle, compassionate gesture. Emotions flashed through her—memories of the past mixed with physical desire. She wished he would do more—that he would hug her, warm her, and protect her from the chilly breeze. But before she could weigh the consequences of what all that would mean, he withdrew his arm, comforting her with his kind words instead.
“You have gone through so much,” he said. “In Bulgaria, we have never experienced the sort of indiscriminate terror that has troubled you Israelis for so many years. The attack in Burgas—it was the first time such a horror occurred on our soil. It is so, what is the word? Inconceivable—that’s it. Ayala, I do not know what to say. I cannot begin to understand your personal tragedy.”
The white-capped waves lapped against the Tel Aviv shoreline. The moment of intimacy was lost, replaced by her realization that it was getting late. “I think we should go,” she said.
They walked along the deserted beach and up to street level. A lone jogger wearing headphones raced past, engrossed in a soundtrack only he could hear. In the distance, laughter and loud music emanated from an all-night pub. They passed the parking lot, coming to the well-lit entrance of the hotel. Ayala stood there, glancing inside at the plush lobby, at the security guard smoking in the entrance, and at the taxi driver waiting for a late-night fare.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked, putting his hand tenderly on her shoulder.
* * *
Tonight had surprised him. He hadn’t expected to find the meal with Ayala’s parents so enjoyable. They were hospitable and eager to talk to him, so different from the old-world awkwardness of his own parents. A smile formed on his face as he recalled the conversation at the dinner table. The attempt by Ayala’s father to speak Bulgarian. The childhood poem that had emerged in broken and accented words. How they had responded to his declared desire to one day visit the holy sites in Jerusalem. Everything about Ayala’s family and the Friday night rituals appealed to him, made him crave more. It felt like home.
And now, the walk on the Tel Aviv beach. Ayala’s past had been revealed in a heartfelt narrative, the powerful words coming straight from her soul. Her painful memories were divulged, one by one, removing the final layers of secrecy between them. With their pasts fully disclosed, their stories told, they shared an intimacy quite unlike his former marital connection to Galina, and much stronger than his ties to any other woman he had encountered in his life.
There was only one way to bring closure to this evening, to this amazing outpouring of feeling and emotion. He longed for her—to touch her, to caress her.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked again.
He had tried to woo her that night on the Turkish border but his efforts must have come across almost like a joke. There had been the late-night closeness in the Kardzhali hotel corridor, but secrets from the past had kept her distant. This time, he believed, his sincerity and understanding would be accepted. They were close now, closer than they had ever been. They had exchanged confidences; they knew so much about each other. Surely, she would accept his offer and accompany him inside.
Ayala didn’t respond. She appeared pensive, unwilling to commit. He stepped back.
As they stood at the entrance to the hotel, he realized the moment was lost. The more he longed to draw her near, the more she pulled away. The door to her heart, which had just been open and exposed, was swiftly closing.
* * *
Ayala closed her eyes, thinking how easy it would be to acquiesce. She could simply give in to her instincts and follow him inside—into the elevator and into his bed. Sitting on the beach next to him, that was exactly what she had desired. She needed his touch, his physical presence, his embrace. When was the last time she had been with a man? When did she last make love or take comfort in someone’s arms? It was all too long ago. In many ways, her body ached for that contact.
But it wouldn’t be right, her conscience told her, speaking up to defend whatever was left of her honor. It would amount to nothing more than a one-night stand, one she would regret the next morning. Boyko would soon return to Bulgaria and she would remain here, drowning in paperwork and analysis. There could never be anything serious between them. He was not even Jewish! No, there was no future in a relationship, nothing that could tie them together other than an hour or two of casual sex. As much as she longed for the physical release, she couldn’t accept his suggestion and enter the hotel.
Her phone rang and she welcomed the interruption. She glanced at the screen but didn’t take the call. “I need to go,” she said, moving away from him. “My parents are wondering where I am.”
“Haven’t you noticed, Ayala, that our lives keep intertwining? We are assigned to work together, again and again. We are meant to be together.”
“All that we are meant to do is solve this case,” she replied, her tone suddenly cold and business-like.
“N
ot much hope in that. Good night, Ayala.”
“Leka nosht.” The words in Bulgarian brought a wide grin to his face.
As he entered the lobby, she headed to the lot where she had parked the car. Her parents were waiting for her at home.
42
“Let’s sum up what we know,” Menachem said, speaking in English for Boyko’s benefit. “The phone records confirm the trail to Beirut. We have established the fact that Hezbollah ordered the Burgas attack. The two men who orchestrated the bombing are now back in Lebanon. What we don’t know is the identity of the bomber.”
How many times have I heard this conclusion before! Ayala thought to herself. No matter how much they investigated, their findings didn’t appear to get them any closer to knowing the full story of the bombing.
“We don’t know whether the terrorist intended to kill himself on the bus,” one of her colleagues pointed out.
That, as well, was something they had discussed and reviewed, over and over. This case is nowhere nearer resolution than before, she thought. But her case officer seemed to have formed some conclusions.
“We won’t know the terrorist’s true intentions until the Bulgarians stage their re-enactment of the bombing, which they’ve delayed repeatedly,” Menachem said, glancing at Boyko, who was sitting at Ayala’s side.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot speak for my country on this matter,” Boyko said, stumbling through his reply. “I, also, do not know why it’s taking so long to re-stage the affair. Affair, is that the right word?”
“The terrorist attack,” one of the team members corrected him.
“We do have some new information,” Menachem said. “It concerns the documents found on the bomber’s body.” He turned to Moshe, who had been on the ground with Ayala in Burgas.
Moshe cleared his throat and made a statement that took many of the others by surprise. “We knew all along that the Michigan driver’s license was fake but only recently did we begin to question where that forgery had been produced.”
“In Beirut, no?” Ayala asked.
“Not at all,” Moshe continued. “That was what we originally assumed—that everything was planned and prepared in Lebanon. But when we ran a chemical analysis on the paper and plastic cover of the fake driver’s license, we determined it was made locally.”
“Locally?” Ayala asked.
“Not here, but in Bulgaria,” her colleague stated.
“Let me understand what you are all saying,” Boyko said, staring at the Israelis seated at the table with him in the conference room. “The documents carried by this bomber, the fake identification documents, were manufactured in Bulgaria? That would mean the bombers did, in fact, have local assistance in the bombing.”
“Exactly,” Menachem said. “What more can you tell us?” he asked, signaling to Moshe to get to the crux of his report.
“We have traced the particular paper type and printing method of the driver’s license to a specific printing shop. It’s a fairly large operation, one with headquarters in Sofia,” Moshe said. “It’s a legitimate printing press doing very illegitimate work.”
“I’m amazed,” Boyko said. “Of all the print shops in the world, how you can state, with such certainty, that the driver’s license was printed in Sofia?”
“There is no doubt in this,” Moshe said. “We have the scientific evidence. Shall I explain the methodology of our analysis and how it led to us to this conclusion?”
“Let’s skip the scientific details for now,” Menachem said.
“This is what we have been looking for all this time,” Ayala said. “Something to tie the terrorists to a ground operation in Bulgaria, to prove they had accomplices.”
“The next step will be investigating that print shop. We need to see who works there, who contracted this job. We must fully expose the infrastructure that assisted the bombers.”
“We need to move quickly if we want to pursue this lead,” Moshe insisted.
“I will call my colleagues in Bulgaria,” Boyko started to say.
“Our team will check this out directly,” Menachem said, interrupting him. “We will examine the paper records. Everyone else is in the Internet age, but this print shop is still recording its transactions on paper. That is why I’m sending Ayala to Sofia.”
“What?” Ayala sat up straight, sure she had misheard Menachem’s remark.
“You’ll go to Bulgaria and follow up on this lead. And, of course, Boyko will travel with you, making all the necessary connections in Sofia. We must move swiftly. If anything leaks about our investigation, the owners of the print shop will destroy any remaining evidence, if they haven’t already done so.”
“I don’t fully trust the Bulgarians to handle this on their own,” Menachem whispered to Ayala in Hebrew. “I need you there, overseeing what’s going on. It’s very important.”
The meeting was adjourned and Ayala rose from her seat. She had further questions for Menachem, but he was engaged in discussion with Moshe. She turned to her left and found herself face-to-face with Boyko. He seemed a bit uncomfortable, as if debating whether he should wait for her.
“Shall we go?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure if he was indicating they should leave the conference room together, or if he was already thinking about their impending joint journey to Sofia.
43
The peak of Vitosha Mountain, overlooking the Bulgarian capital, was tipped in white, host to the season’s first substantial snowfall. The massive mountain made a brief appearance in the window as the Bulgarian Airlines jet banked on its final approach. The plane passed over the golden domes of the famous Alexander Nevsky Cathedral; over the gray, rectangular tenement buildings laid out in parallel lines; over the large expanses of parks packed with trees dazzling in their autumn colors; and over the busy streets, crammed with trams, traffic, and pedestrians. The urban scenery vanished from view during the quick descent to Sofia’s Vrazhdebna International Airport. Finally, with barely a bump, the wheels hit concrete and the plane touched down in Bulgaria.
As the airplane taxied toward the terminal gate, Ayala thought back to the last words Menachem had said to her before she departed from the office.
“You’re on your own this time, Ayala. We’re keeping Boaz and his team in Burgas for now, closing up odds and ends there. The embassy’s security detail in Sofia is currently understaffed, with the ambassador on sick leave in Jerusalem. Ayala, you need to take care, stay out of trouble. Collect the facts, look through the printer’s books, try to identify who placed the order for the fake documents, and get the hell out of there. Don’t get involved in anything more serious than that. Do you understand?”
“Of course, I understand,” Ayala said, a bit annoyed with his warnings. It was just a simple fact-finding trip, so why should it be dangerous? She didn’t need Menachem to trivialize her capabilities like this.
“You’ll be home by the weekend,” Boyko assured her, seated next to her on the taxiing airplane.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” she asked.
“Well, you know how the unexpected has a way of fouling up the best-laid plans,” he said with a laugh. “Still, it is probably best if you book your flight home for Thursday night.”
“I’ll book it when we’re finished,” she said. Thursday would be perfect, though, enabling her to get home in plenty of time to make her regular appearance at her parents’ Shabbat dinner table. They would never know she had been out of the country.
The immigration clerk skimmed through Ayala’s passport, noting the stamps from her previous visits to Burgas. He ceremoniously stamped her arrival on an unmarked page and handed the passport back with barely a glance through the glass of his cubicle.
Ayala followed Boyko quickly through the arrivals hall. The automatic doors swished open as they exited and turned to the right, to the line of waiting taxis. The bright sunlight outside was misleading. Ayala was met by a blast of cold, wintry air, so unlike the warm weather she had left i
n Tel Aviv barely three hours before.
“Are you warm enough?” Boyko asked.
“I’ll be okay,” she said, not exactly sure if this was true. Luckily, she was wearing her new leather jacket with its thick lining and deep pockets.
Boyko gave instructions to the taxi driver and they pulled away from the curb.
For Ayala, the arrival in Sofia was a strange sensation. Sofia was the city where her father was born. She looked out the window at the passing tenement buildings, at the throngs of warmly dressed pedestrians shuffling for position in the outdoor markets. She wondered if these were scenes he had viewed as a child. Had he walked these streets, played in these parks?
Today, Sofia was undoubtedly much more modern than the city of her father’s childhood. In the crowded traffic heading toward the center they passed shiny Mercedes; large black BMWs; and overcrowded buses. Billboards posted in the Cyrillic letters of the Bulgarian language announced the latest technological gadgets. Others advertised banks, vacations, and luxury goods.
If she had time, Ayala thought, she would search for the street where her father’s family had lived. She could look for the school he had attended briefly before making aliyah and moving to Israel. Retracing his childhood footsteps would fill in the gaps of her knowledge of the family’s history. She realized, though, that she was not visiting the city as a tourist. She had come for a reason, on an important mission. Israeli citizens had been murdered and the terrorist killers needed to be held accountable. And punished. Possibly, just possibly, Ayala could help her country by identifying who had hired the printer to forge the documents found on the bomber. Keep focused on that, she told herself. She continued to stare out the window but the Sofia scenery passed her in a blur. A print shop awaited her inspection.
“We’ll go to the hotel and get organized,” Boyko said, bringing her back from her thoughts.
“Shouldn’t we go straight there?”
