The Burgas Affair
Page 26
In the corner of her eye she noticed that the manager had picked up his phone and was whispering instructions into the instrument with a hand covering his mouth. Who was he calling? Was he instructing his staff to destroy crucial evidence?
The manager slammed down the phone. “You must come with me,” he said, escorting them out of the office.
“You see?” Boyko said, glancing at Ayala. “My methods may get us answers after all.”
They followed the manager across the large production floor, past its clanking presses and scurrying employees. They left through a back door, half blocked from view by stacks of packaged paper. Outside, they were met by a sudden burst of cold air. Ayala clutched her jacket, squinting as she confronted the biting October weather.
They crossed an open lot and turned a corner, past another featureless warehouse. Here, the cacophonous printers were nothing more than background ambience.
“Where are we going?” Ayala whispered to Boyko, but he motioned her to be quiet. They followed the manager to a narrow door in the side of this other building.
Inside they walked down a long passageway. A malodorous assault of urine and rotten eggs made it difficult to breathe as they continued into the bowels of the building. Finally, they came to an unmarked door. The manager opened it and indicated they should enter ahead of him. The room was much smaller than the manager’s office in the print shop. There were two wooden chairs in the center of a dusty floor, but otherwise the room was empty. The air was stuffy, the feeling nearly claustrophobic. A single, swinging bulb only partially lit up their surroundings.
“You wait here,” the manager said. “The person you want to see will come.” He left abruptly, slamming the door behind him.
“Who are we waiting for?” Ayala asked, but Boyko didn’t reply. He must know something he wasn’t telling her. Had she misunderstood the manager’s words? Had the man indicated who would be coming to talk to them? Had he admitted to handling the forgery job that Boyko shoved in his face? Apparently, she lacked enough knowledge of Bulgarian to fully understand what was happening.
“Why are we waiting here, in this filthy room?” she asked.
Boyko sat quietly, lost in thought. She wished he would speak up and explain what was going on. Were they about to meet the person who had orchestrated the print job on behalf of his Hezbollah connections? Or were they on yet another wild goose chase? She couldn’t get Boyko to respond.
She took her phone out of her jacket pocket and checked the time. There was no mobile reception! How would she update Tel Aviv on her status and whereabouts?
She coughed—a reaction to the dust and stale air. Her throat was parched and she would really appreciate a drink of water right now. This is almost like a prison, she felt. Boyko didn’t seem disturbed by the delay, or maybe he was very upset but not openly displaying his irritation with their situation. Was he contemplating the news he had learned in the phone call? Or did he have a premonition as to who they would soon meet in this deserted warehouse?
“Boyko,” she said out loud, but he didn’t turn his head.
Damn it! They were supposed to be a team, working together to uncover the facts. Boyko wasn’t being fair, cutting her off like this. She paced in a circle, from the door to the cold, featureless wall on the other side, fighting back an urge to kick her Bulgarian partner. What could she do to jolt him out of his silence?
She heard noises in the passageway, footsteps drawing close. From the sound of it, more than one person was approaching. Who had the manager called? Who was coming to meet them? She knew Boyko was armed. He could call for assistance if they were threatened. Shouldn’t he have already alerted his colleagues on the police force? Why did he insist on doing everything on his own?
“Boyko,” she repeated, but he didn’t look up. She wanted to shake him, to snap him out of his thoughts. Only if was fully alert did they have any chance of getting the answers they were seeking. Then they had to get the hell out of here!
* * *
He couldn’t focus. He wasn’t totally aware of his surroundings. Why was Ayala walking back and forth in front of him? Why was she saying his name over and over?
Sitting in this dusty room, his thoughts had turned inward, leading him away from the confrontation with the print shop manager and into his own internal struggles. He remained silent, unable to voice what he was thinking. And if he spoke, he would undoubtedly have no control over the words that would emerge.
The shocking information he had learned in the taxi was extremely difficult to absorb. Almost certainly that shock had led to his overreaction and the harsh tones when questioning the printing press manager. Yet, he couldn’t help it!
How could he explain this to Ayala? He watched her pace from one side of the room to the other, but he didn’t respond to her questions. And then she stopped in her tracks and turned to face the door.
Noises outside the room were growing louder. People were coming down the corridor. Boyko sensed an approaching danger, a need to stay fully alert. He had to get his act together. The next moments would be crucial, he thought to himself, but he remained frozen to his seat. He watched the door swing slowly open.
Three men stepped into the room, kicking up new clouds of dust. Two of them positioned themselves at either side of Boyko and Ayala. They were armed and their guns were raised, ready to be fired on command. The thin man in the center was short and wiry, but he definitely was the one in control. He smiled, showing off a gaudy array of golden teeth.
“Detective Boyko Stanchev, we meet again,” the man said. “It has been a long time since our last chat. Are you still a detective? I heard your job description has changed.”
“You belong in prison,” Boyko barked, getting up from his seat. The years of imprisonment had taken their toll; this man was thinner than he remembered. Gone was the criminal’s trademark gray ponytail. The only things comparable to the man he had arrested years before were the sinister smile and the crazed look in his beady eyes.
One of the bodyguards pushed Boyko down, shoving a gun into his ribs.
“I do not know how you managed to get out, but you need to be behind bars,” Boyko said.
The man laughed. “I sat in prison because of you and now, it is payback time at last. But first, let me introduce myself to your lovely companion.”
The man addressed Ayala in English. “Welcome to Bulgaria. I understand you are from Israel and that you work with our esteemed police officer.” He extended a hand, waiting for her to accept his offer of a formal, polite introduction. “My name is Damian, but everyone calls me the Hunter,” he said, the strange, toothy smile returning to his face.
46
It happened quickly. Damian glared at her with murder in his eyes, gave the order, and his thugs jumped her. They dragged her from the room, kicking and screaming, down the long, dusty corridor. She tried to fight them off, but there were two of them and they were bigger and stronger. She twisted her body, bent over in attempts to squirm out of their reach, but this only agitated them more. As they manhandled her, she struggled to break free. They overpowered her; she was no match for the burly men. Her resistance weakened; her body was about to go limp. And then they stopped.
A wooden door. Narrow stairs leading down into the biting chill of a dark, unfurnished space. A flashlight’s beam swinging back and forth. Hard, cement floor. Hard, colorless walls.
“Stop!” she cried, but one of the thugs covered her mouth. She tried to bite him, but he pulled back. They threw her to the floor.
“Help me!”
They kicked at her, connecting painfully with her ribs. She gasped for breath and curled into a fetal position. She pulled her coat tight and waited for the next blow. But, it never came.
After staring at her for several seconds, the two men turned away and climbed up the stairs. The door slammed shut and a bolt slipped into place. The room was swallowed in darkness.
“Help!”
It was a windowless cel
lar. Despite wearing her jacket, Ayala shuddered uncontrollably, unable to calm her nerves. Her legs were cramped and her stomach was turning over. She couldn’t move; her body was becoming numb. She felt lightheaded from the cold and the pain.
“Boyko!” she called. She had no idea where he was.
Why hadn’t Boyko stopped them? Wasn’t he armed? Why hadn’t he drawn his gun?
The last she saw of him, as they were dragging her from the room, he was standing frozen in place. Held back at gunpoint, there was a dazed look in his eyes. She now knew what it was. It was the look of surrender.
What had they done to him? Had Damian carried out his threat of revenge? Would he shoot Boyko? She trembled at the thought, but at least she hadn’t heard any gunshots. As if she could hear anything at all from the depths of the cellar.
This was all a big mistake, a huge misunderstanding! Ayala had nothing to do with Boyko’s long-lasting dispute with Damian. She was here, in Bulgaria, for a totally different reason. She wasn’t responsible for any of his actions. She was a foreigner, an Israeli citizen. These bastards had no justification to hold her and no right to manhandle her so roughly. They must release her immediately!
“Hello?” She shifted slightly, trying to ease her discomfort. She had to get out of here!
They didn’t really want to hurt her. No, of course not, she tried to convince herself. She hadn’t done anything. A strange thought flashed through her mind. Damian’s words of greeting when they met! “I understand you are from Israel and that you work with our esteemed Bulgarian police officer.” How had he known she was Israeli?
But something else confused her, something more sinister in its implications. What was Damian, the criminal mastermind whom Boyko called the Hunter, doing at the Sofia printing company exactly when they were tracking down the source of the forged driver’s license? Was it simply a coincidence? Trapped in the musty cellar, she couldn’t focus on the possibility of a connection between Damian and the Hezbollah terrorists. She agonized instead about how she had gotten into her present predicament. And, more importantly, how to get out!
She wasn’t trained to deal with situations in which she would be in danger of any kind. She was just an analyst; her job was to gather information, review reports, make educated guesses, and reach the appropriate conclusions. Her training prepared her to sit in front of computer monitors, not for being held against her will in subterranean darkrooms. She didn’t know what to do!
What would Menachem say when he learned she had screwed up her mission, allowing herself to be waylaid by her Bulgarian partner’s personal affairs? She should never have agreed to partake in another overseas mission. Instead of bringing closure to the investigation, her visit to Sofia had been a bust. She had failed Menachem and the rest of the team. She had failed her parents by coming to Bulgaria and ending up like this. More than all that, she had failed her country!
She felt sick thinking of this. Her heart was beating loudly. Her body ached; her mind raced. She was all alone and no one knew where she was.
No, she couldn’t let things end like this. She would find a way out, of course she would! Ayala vowed to stay strong, and patient, and determined. It will be okay she told herself. It has to be okay!
I will survive, she mouthed over and over. She leaned back, trying to catch her breath.
* * *
“Let the girl go!” Boyko pleaded. “She is not involved in any of this.”
Damian laughed, showing off his gold fillings. “On the contrary, she is connected to all of this like your head is connected to your shoulders. For now, anyway,” he added with a sinister laugh.
Damian circled Boyko, who had been tied to the chair by the burly bodyguards. The two armed men leaned against the wall, their guns held in readiness but their eyes indicating amusement at their boss’s antics.
“She is a visitor, a tourist,” Boyko said, spitting out blood. His tongue licked the tender gap in his mouth where a tooth had been knocked out when one of the thug’s punches connected quite painfully. “I have been showing her Bulgaria.”
“Cut the nonsense,” Damian barked, coming back to face his prisoner. “I know your Israeli friend works for their security services. She has been assisting you on your latest case, and in fact, this is not her first visit to Bulgaria. Ayala Navon. I know everything about her, everything about her past.”
Boyko was about to say something but Damian’s eyes turned serious, so serious that one of his thugs raised his gun and stepped forward toward Boyko. Damian signaled the guard to step back. He again addressed Boyko.
“By the way, what the fuck are you two doing here?”
Boyko was confused. What the fuck was the Hunter doing here? Damian may have been aware that Boyko was due to arrive in Sofia, but how could he have known of the plans to visit the print shop? Did the Hunter have a connection to the printer who forged the documents for the Bulgarian bomber? That was the only possible explanation!
Damian glanced at his shiny, ostentatious wristwatch and frowned. His patience dealing with Boyko seemed to be running thin. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Today I am a free man. At last I am able to confront the man who put me behind bars. And punish that man. What you did to me was unforgiveable, not to mention irrefutably illegal.”
“You were guilty! You deserved to sit in prison!”
“We all know that isn’t true. I am an honest businessman and you presented fake evidence in order to convict me.”
“Honest?” Boyko laughed. This enraged one of the bodyguards and he moved forward to slap Boyko.
“Enough!” Damian ordered his guard to stand back. He stared at Boyko for several moments before speaking. “We must find an appropriate way to punish you and your friend for what you did.”
“She has nothing to do with this. Let her go! If you do not, it will cause an international incident with the Israelis.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t want to anger the Israelis!” Damian said in a mocking tone, leaning forward and breathing in Boyko’s face. “The Israelis are our friends. Bulgaria and Israel go hand in hand, fighting on the same side and all that. Well, let me inform you, mister policeman. There is diplomacy and there are practicalities. In my world—the world of business—international alliances do not count for much. The only important thing is money. Money makes the world go round, as they say. Money is what rules.”
What was Damian hinting at? The man couldn’t resist bragging about his accomplishments, as seedy and illegal as they might be. But there was something more.
Damian ignored Boyko, pulled his thugs aside and whispered to them, giving Boyko a long-awaited moment of rest. He grimaced and doubled over in pain. He spat out more blood, tried to steady his breath, and shut his eyes for a second. Never mind the pain—he could deal with that. He had to figure out what the Hunter was actually saying.
What was Damian’s connection to the printer? That appeared to be key to this situation. A thought crossed Boyko’s mind. No, it couldn’t be that simple, that diabolical. Or was it?
International alliances do not count for much. The only important thing is money.
Could the Hunter’s network have supplied the Hezbollah terrorists with ground support in the weeks prior to the bombing in Burgas? During the years he sat in prison, had Damian profited from a connection with Hezbollah?
He would think about that later, when his freedom would allow it. Boyko’s thoughts again turned to Ayala and how she had been dragged forcibly from the room. Held back at gunpoint and outnumbered, Boyko had been unable to defend her. How could he let them take her? How could he not have fought back?
If they had harmed her, he didn’t know what he would do! He was totally responsible for Ayala. After all, he was her guide and chaperone in Bulgaria; he couldn’t let anything happen to his overseas visitor. But, it was more than that, much more. He had a growing affection for the Israeli woman, a feeling he hoped she shared. Where did they take her? What could he do to save her?
“Oh, I will do with you what I will,” Damian said, coming back to face Boyko. “But, regrettably, Miss Ayala Navon must pay for your crimes as well. Quite unfortunate, yet unavoidable.”
Before Boyko could think of a suitable reply, the two guards forced him to his feet and tugged him out of the room. Boyko shuffled forward, the ropes that tied his legs together tightening as he moved.
“We go now,” Damian stated, the wild look returning to his eyes. “It is time to go hunting. Hunting with the Hunter—how fitting! And as for your Israeli friend, I have an appropriate punishment for her as well. You see, everything will work out just fine in the end. And the end, my dear Boyko of the State Agency for National Security, the end for both of you is very near.”
47
She sat in the dark, her back against the wall. She had shouted, screamed, yelled as loud as she could, but there was no response. Silence. No one who could hear her. No one who could help. She was on her own.
Ayala eased herself to her feet. Which way to go? To the right? Or, maybe it would be better to go left? Where were the stairs? She couldn’t see anything in the cellar, didn’t know which direction was better. She coughed. There was a stale, dusty taste in the air, but otherwise, nothing. Total darkness. Her head was pounding; the pain was spreading through her body. Her throat was parched and she felt nauseous. Sweat was forming in her armpits, on her forehead. She longed for a sip of water. But, more than anything else, she needed to pee.
The stairwell must be directly opposite her, on the other side of the cellar. She would work her way across the floor slowly, arms outstretched, ready to touch the wall when she came to it. She took one cautious step forward, but it was like stepping into the void. Like jumping off a cliff. Blindfolded. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave the comfort of the wall at her back. She sat back down.