by Ellis Shuman
“Help!” she called out again, this time not as strongly as before.
Maybe this was what it felt like to be buried alive. Your mind would continue to function and you would sense your physical being. Conscious, totally awake, but surrounded by absolute, fathomless nothingness. No matter how loud, or how long you would cry, no one would ever come to your assistance. Perhaps this is what had happened to her. She was dead. No! She trembled at the thought. She was here in the dark, but very much alive. She was alone, and she needed to pee. Stop thinking that!
There was a noise off to the right. Something low, close to floor level. What was it? A scurrying. A rustling of sorts. A soft, muffled sound.
The noise repeated itself. It was coming closer. Was it an animal? An insect? Or just a movement of dry leaves on cement?
Ayala strained to detect the slightest trace of sound. Her ears tuned in for something, for anything.
Nothing, nothing at all. Silence engulfed her. The complete quiet seemed almost physical in nature. Her shoulders slumped with the resignation that she had been imagining the sound. But then, scratching, off to her left. Was her mind playing tricks on her?
The noise grew louder, closer. Definitely something moving, edging toward her, approaching her steadily. It must be a mouse! It was not noisy enough to indicate a larger creature. That tiny squeak, she assumed, was the scraping of the animal’s legs on the cement. That whooshing sound was its tail, shifting as it moved. That sniffle came from its nose as it investigated Ayala’s leg.
She was not afraid of mice or of other small creatures. She had seen plenty of scorpions and spiders during her army training, enough to make her realize that insects and bugs were tiny living things that intended no harm. In her darkened seclusion, the approach of a mouse was almost welcome. She wasn’t alone after all.
Would the rodent bite? She concentrated on the animal’s presence, so near, yet hidden from view. She inhaled once, and then again. She sensed the animal’s minute whiskers brushing her leg. She could smell its earthy odor—the scent of an unkempt, dirty creature. Dampened fur. She was sure she could discern the mouse’s scent from the other malodorous smells in the cellar.
Tiny claws scratched her. The mouse crawled up her jeans. Would it lash out? Would it sink its teeth into her skin? Perhaps the mouse had rabies!
Ayala shivered; her head pounded. She couldn’t be sure whether this was from the intense cold or from the thought of her body serving as a rodent’s lunch.
Then, another noise, only this time it was coming from the floor above. Sounds. Human sounds growing louder. Someone was approaching the top of the stairwell.
“Hello?”
The door to the cellar jerked open and light filtered down the narrow steps. Legs came into view, descending toward her. The two guards were back.
The men didn’t say a word as they strode over to where Ayala rested against the wall. They yanked her to her feet and dragged her across the floor. Her muscles cramped as she struggled up the stairs. At the top, the long corridor was full of shadows, limiting her exposure to light after being trapped for what seemed like hours in the cold cellar.
“I need to pee,” she mouthed, but they didn’t understand. How could she say this in Bulgarian? She was at a loss for words, lacking minimal survival skills in the language, so she grunted, crossing her legs in a pantomimed indication of her situation.
They stopped at a small bathroom and one of the men pushed her inside, although he kept the door open with his foot. She squatted over the hole, waiting for the long-anticipated release. When it came, the flow was much less than expected, but at least it relaxed the strain she had previously felt on her bladder. Her embarrassment at having the men watch her while she peed was quickly forgotten as she said the one thing that was now on her mind.
“Water,” she moaned. She struggled to find the Bulgarian word. “Vodi.”
The plastic bottle thrust at her was so welcome that she didn’t mind the water being warm with a strong mineral taste. She swallowed with loud gulps, some of the liquid splashing on her face and onto her clothes. She drank until the bottle was empty and wanted more, but the men ignored her.
“You must release me,” she said, her voice returning to normal.
The men didn’t respond. Of course not. She had spoken in Hebrew. She repeated the words in English, but she was doubtful they understood.
They brought her back to the dusty room where she had waited with Boyko. How much time had passed since then? How long had she been held in the cellar? Had she been there overnight? She had no way of knowing.
The men shoved her onto one of the wooden chairs. She was glad to get off her unsteady feet. She took in deep breaths of the musty air, her lungs struggling for as much oxygen as possible.
Someone walked into the room. Ayala looked up, expecting to see Boyko, or at least some other member of the Bulgarian police force. But to her dismay, it was Damian, the one Boyko called the Hunter. She scowled at the man. After all, he was the one responsible for tying her up and throwing her into the dark cellar.
“Where’s Boyko?” she asked, unable to control her anger.
“Never mind him,” Damian said, slowly approaching her. He reached forward and lightly touched her head. He stroked her hair a few times, causing her to flinch and pull away. He dropped his hand to his side, the moment of his fabricated tenderness gone.
“You have no reason to hold me,” she said, spitting out the words.
“That is where you are mistaken. I have every reason to hold you,” he said, a wicked laugh startling her with its intensity. “How dare you interfere with me and my business! It is—what is the appropriate word in English—inexcusable!”
“Let me go!” She tried to get up from her chair, but he pushed her back down. “You seem to know who I am. Just let me go!” she pleaded, her words getting more and more desperate.
“Oh, yes, I know exactly who you are. You Israelis think you are so superior. You come here to try to solve our crimes, our mysteries. Well, Miss Israel. I will tell you something. You do not belong here. You should never have come. We must punish you for your interference.”
“What nonsense! Let me go so that I can get back to Tel Aviv.”
“Sorry, but it is not that simple.” He was about to say more, but then he stopped pacing to stand directly in front of her. A moment later, he raised a finger and one of his men left the room. The other guard leaned against the wall, his gun pointed at the dusty floor.
Damian coughed and addressed Ayala again. “I understand your brother was killed a few years ago,” he said, an artificial tone of compassion in his voice.
What was he talking about? How did Damian know about Tomer? And what did that have to do with anything? She blinked back the tears, trying hard not to convey emotion on her face. She would not give this criminal the satisfaction of knowing his words had touched her where she was most vulnerable, that they had struck at the Achilles’ heel of her being.,
“A suicide bombing, wasn’t it so?” he continued. “How deadly! Suicide bombings, such a waste. And for what? The loss of innocent lives, it is never pleasant. Just like the bombing in Burgas. More innocent lives lost. How horrible!”
Why was he torturing her with this talk of suicide bombings and mentioning her brother? Stop talking! Please let me go!
She opened her eyes to find him staring at her so intensely that she was forced to look down. He again reached out as if to touch her hair, but this time he abruptly yanked her around, bringing her face just inches away from his.
“You Israelis never forget or forgive, do you?” he hissed. “How terrible it was to lose lives in Burgas, and now you plan to get even.”
“What the hell are you talking about? We seek justice. That is why I am here.”
“Justice? I do not think so. What does it say in the Bible? Oh, yes! ‘An eye for an eye.’ Jewish lives were lost so you must kill Muslims to even the score. Is this not so?”
What luck it was to come across a Bulgarian criminal who happened to be a Palestinian sympathizer, Ayala thought. She refused to respond to this madman; she would not argue with him. The best thing to do was to remain quiet. Keep strong, don’t show emotion. Wait this out. Eventually, he would let her go. He was just getting out his frustrations after being incarcerated for so many years.
“If you have something against Boyko, take it up with him,” she said at last.
“Oh, Boyko! He will get what he has coming to him, I can assure you,” Damian said. “But, you, too, must be punished for your crimes, and for the crimes of your people.”
“This is ridiculous. Stop playing this mind game and let me go.”
“It’s a little ironic, isn’t it?” Damian laughed at her. “You came to Bulgaria to investigate a suicide bombing, and now . . .”
“And now what?”
Damian didn’t reply.
The guard who had disappeared before returned to the room, carrying a small bag which he handed to his boss. Damian stared a moment longer at Ayala before turning his attention to the bag. He unzipped the zipper.
Damian’s words stung her, but she must disregard everything he said, especially his apparent hatred for Israel and the Jews. His anger targeted Boyko, she told herself, but she must not think about that. She owed it to her mission to ignore the man. She owed it to her family to come out of this unharmed and return home as quickly as possible. And she owed it to Tomer to disregard what Damian said about suicide bombings and his mention of “An eye for an eye.” The vow of her cellar captivity repeated itself in her mind. I will survive.
“Give me your arm,” Damian said, approaching her.
She opened her eyes wide, not comprehending at first what she was looking at. As the threat became clear, she struggled, shifting back and forth on the chair. The guards held here down, making resistance ineffectual and tiring. One of them pulled up her jacket sleeve and thrust her arm in front of Damian. She kicked out but was unable to stop them.
“This will not hurt, not a bit,” Damian said, again flashing his obnoxious smile.
A long, threatening syringe! Ayala’s opened wide as she jerked back, trying to distance herself from the needle. As Damian flicked out an air bubble, Ayala bit the hand clasped tightly over her mouth, her teeth making contact with flesh, sinking into skin as deeply as possible.
The needle pricked her. Damian pressed down, plunging the murky contents of the syringe into her body.
The room started spinning. Damian and his underlings faded from view. Ayala no longer had the strength to kick at the men. Her arms dropped to her sides. Her head felt light; her vision lost its focus.
And then all went dark. Darker, and far more infinite, than anything she had experienced in the pitch-black cellar.
48
A hawk soared high overhead, lifting with the breeze and circling in expanses of blue. It called out with a screech, then flew higher still with wings spread wide. Suddenly, it dove in a calculated descent, eying prey far below at ground level. Swooping toward its target, the bird picked up speed but at the last possible moment it cut short its dive, as if it had abruptly changed its mind. Instead, it again ascended into the heavens.
Boyko observed the hawk, envious of its freedom. He was battered, beaten, barely alive. His mouth was caked with blood and one of his eyes was swollen shut. It seemed, for a moment, that the hawk had descended rapidly from the sky intent on attacking him, and that his wounded flesh would serve as its dinner. Could he ward off the hawk’s talons if it lashed at his skin? Probably not. He was at the end of his strength, no longer capable of defending himself.
Boyko was propped up against the base of a tree, his feet barely supporting his weight. His arms were stretched back and hands were tied behind the trunk. His legs were bound with thick rope at the ankles. He was being crucified! What next? Rusty nails through his wrists and a crown of thorns upon his head? Judgment Day had arrived. As punishment for his many crimes, Boyko had been abandoned in the wilderness.
The hawk disappeared from view and Boyko once again surveyed his surroundings, wondering if there was something he had missed, some item or object nearby he could use to help him escape. But no, he was in the middle of nowhere. The tree to which he was tied stood at the edge of the woods, standing guard over a meadow filled with thorny brush and leafy bushes. In the distance, he saw rolling hills, spotted with shadows, while far off to his right there was a faint purplish line on the horizon, possibly indicating a range of mountains.
He was weak from being beaten and after being drugged, his mind was still cloudy. They had blindfolded him and dragged him half-conscious through the woods. And then they removed the blindfold and abandoned him. He didn’t have a clue where he was, if he was north, or south, of Sofia. Which way to run if he could ever escape.
It is time to go hunting.
Those were Damian’s last words before his goons lashed into Boyko and everything started to go hazy. Hunting. And Boyko was to be the prey.
It was clear now how Damian planned to carry out his devious plans. He had concocted an evil scheme to serve as retribution for years of imprisonment and Boyko would pay a very personal price for his transgressions. Boyko’s aching shoulders drooped. He lacked the strength and the willpower to fight the Hunter and his men. The tight ropes sapped his spirit as well.
A fly buzzed past his ear. He was thirsty. He spat out more blood. His lip must be as swollen as his black eye. He felt cramps in his stomach, pain that would easily double him over if it were not for his restraints. He gritted his teeth, resolved to endure this hardship but he was in pretty bad shape.
The fly made another pass at the bloody mess of his face. At that moment, a crack sounded in the distance. Before Boyko had time to think about the noise, a bullet slammed into the tree trunk just above his head. Fragments of bark splattered like confetti over his beaten body. Boyko flinched at the sound and ducked.
It has begun, he sighed. The Hunter was on the prowl and had spotted his target. The extent of the criminal’s madness was apparent now. This was Damian’s revenge: target shooting at a Bulgarian security officer in the wilderness where no one would witness the extrajudicial execution.
A second shot struck the bark. Despite his defeatist attitude and his acceptance of what was about to happen, Boyko’s built-in survival instinct kicked in. Surprisingly, this time as he struggled against the ropes he felt them starting to loosen. He jiggled his wrists behind the trunk. Amazingly, the rope there was loose as well. He shifted his weight, moved his hands slightly, back and forth, over and over. He could do this, he told himself. If he just rotated the knot and pushed it to the side. A bit more. The bark cut into his skin but he ignored the pain. The knot slipped slightly; it unraveled. It was giving way. He could do this!
At last, his hands were free. Within moments he fully liberated himself from the rope. But then, his weak legs gave out, and he slumped to the ground. A third bullet slammed into the tree, a spray of bark erupting above his head.
That was too easy, he thought. The loose bindings were intentional. The shots had purposely missed their marks. If the Hunter wanted him to die like this, tied to the tree and unable to move, his men would have shot for the kill. No, the Hunter wanted something else, something more sinister. The Hunter wanted Boyko to break free from his constraints. He wanted Boyko to escape. It was clear the arch criminal intended to shoot him down as he ran for cover. He was, after all, a hunter. A madman. Escaping his fiendish plan would prove more challenging than Boyko had imagined.
Boyko inched forward, making his way to a large boulder that blocked off the wooden tract from where he assumed the shots had been fired. Behind the stone, he caught his breath, recouped his strength. He could have given in; it would have been so easy. Now, one thought crossed his mind and fueled his renewed will to survive.
Ayala. What had happened to her?
His interactions with the beautiful and intriguing data analyst fr
om Tel Aviv were not easily forgotten. The unsuccessful manhunt on the Istanbul-bound train. The shots fired into the woodwork above the hotel bed on the Turkish border. The trip to Ruse and the night at his parent’s home in the village. He thought of the short time they’d spent together in Tel Aviv, where he had met Ayala’s parents and joined them for a Shabbat dinner. As he lay on the ground with a madman seeking him in a rifle’s sight, and despite the pain coursing through his body, Boyko couldn’t prevent a smile from forming on his swollen lips when he recalled Ayala’s father’s reciting the childhood nursery rhyme in heavily accented Bulgarian.
Boyko felt guilty for involving Ayala in the complex circumstances of his wretched past. Where was she? What had the Hunter done to her? Boyko would never forgive the man if any harm came to the Israeli woman—his partner and his friend. It was his responsibility to protect her. She was his guest in Bulgaria. He couldn’t allow anything to happen to her.
Originally, partnering with Ayala had been an assignment he resented, but Zhekov deemed it essential to the joint Bulgarian-Israeli investigation. As they traveled together, questioning witnesses and checking out the various aspects of the case, he began to appreciate her contributions to their teamwork. But, it was more than that. He had become quite fond of her. Working on the case was key to his staying close to Ayala.
For a womanizer like him, it was hard to accept the fact that he had been captivated by one woman—and a foreigner, at that.
Thoughts of Ayala guided his renewed instinct for survival. This game would not play out according to the Hunter’s bizarre plan, he vowed. He refused to become the Hunter’s next trophy, the next head mounted on the wall in his hunting lodge. He would fight back. He owed that to himself, and to Ayala.
With this resurgent resolve he regarded his surroundings, seeking out his next move, his route of escape. High above, the screeching hawk circled again in the October sky.
