The Burgas Affair

by Ellis Shuman

  Footsteps. Someone was approaching. Twigs and dry branches snapped, the sounds coming from the direction where the shots had been fired. A noisy approach. The person making his way through the woods was taking no precautions to mask his presence.

  “So, you no longer wish to participate in the hunt,” the Hunter said, stepping into the clearing.

  A long hunting rifle was slung over the Hunter’s shoulder. It was similar to the ones Boyko had seen on the rack in the Strandzha lodge so many years before.

  “You have had your fun,” Boyko said, defiant despite his wounds. “I should think a release from prison is reward in itself. Why kill me and end up being sent to jail once again? Killing a SANS officer will result in a very long prison sentence.”

  “I am not going back to prison,” the Hunter said, chuckling. “You do not go to prison when you are not convicted of a crime. Especially if you did not commit a crime in the first place. Oh, I forgot. In your book, mister honest policeman, one does go to prison even if he is innocent!”

  “Should you not put that behind you? Enough already. You are out; you are a free man.”

  “I will not be a free man until I get rid of you, the man who put me behind bars. Your death will set me free.”

  “My death will be your death warrant,” Boyko taunted. “Killing me will end up imprisoning you for life.”

  “Quiet, already! I have heard enough! You are corrupt, every single one of you on the force. I do not trust any of you. You cannot keep the peace. The entire system is corrupt. It is a system of injustice, not one of justice. You police officers are more interested in taking bribes than in hunting down criminals. You will die here in the forest, and I guarantee you, the police will simply look the other way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think you know what I am talking about. I can see the headlines now: Bulgarian security official’s body discovered in the woods. No trace of how he was killed. Another unsolved case, like so many others. Your death will hardly raise an eyebrow.”

  The Hunter laughed, his golden fillings taunting the wounded man facing him in the clearing. “You could escape your impending death if that is what you desired, Detective Boyko Stanchev. I am certain we could come to a working arrangement. Just like the one I have with your colleague on the Burgas police force. Everyone has his price. What is yours? Perhaps your life?”

  “You think I would stoop low enough to work with you?” Boyko replied, but his thoughts were on what his nemesis had just stated. The Hunter had openly admitted that one of Boyko’s colleagues was on his criminal payroll!

  The entire time the Hunter was locked behind bars, his network was intact, raking in profits and exercising its control over black markets. Smuggling in contraband and racketeering. Trafficking in drugs and humans. Intimidating businesses along the Black Sea coast with threats of extortion. All of this was only possible if someone on the force was protecting the Hunter’s interests.

  It was precisely as Boyko had assumed! One of his fellow officers had been in the Hunter’s employ for years. Whoever it was had helped grease the hands of a greedy judge, convincing the man to overturn the Hunter’s conviction. That same turncoat had notified the Hunter of Boyko’s arrival in Sofia, leading the criminal boss to the print shop in the city’s northern industrial zone. The corrupt official was also interfering with the ongoing investigation of the Burgas bombing.

  Who was the traitor? Knowing the answer was suddenly more important than ensuring his own survival. Loose ends in his understanding were starting to connect.

  Boyko shook his head up and down, signaling his refusal to go along with the Hunter’s ploy. He had no intention of becoming one of the Hunter’s stooges, even if it meant giving up his career. Even if it cost him his life. He could never work for this madman.

  The Hunter didn’t notice Boyko’s nod. He lifted a hand to one of his ears, to a clipped-on earpiece phone. “Well, that is unfortunate,” the Hunter said after cutting the communication short. “I have learned that the woman, your Israeli partner, has been involved in a very strange suicide-bombing attack in the center of Sofia.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Boyko stepped forward with clenched fists.

  The Hunter lifted his hunting rifle off his shoulder and raised it, aiming it directly at the chest of the approaching security officer. “Stand back,” he warned Boyko.

  “If you wanted to shoot me, you would have already pulled the trigger. What’s all this nonsense about a bombing attack in Sofia? Tell me where the Israeli woman is. Is Ayala okay? What have you done to her?”

  Despite the rifle pointing at him, Boyko took another step forward. “Play whatever games you want with me, but release the Israeli woman!” he demanded.

  “Oh, she has already been released. She is bound for Tel Aviv on the next flight out of the country. We are through with her, but I am not through with you.”

  “Who were you speaking with?”

  “Ha! You think your former colleague cares anything at all about you? I can assure you that your associate on the force is just as eager as I am to see that you get the punishment you deserve.”

  Branches cracked beyond the clearing, indicating the unguarded approach of the Hunter’s henchmen. A moment later they burst into the open, the two guards brandishing pistols and breathing heavily. When they spotted Boyko, they flanked the Hunter and aimed their weapons at the wounded SANS officer.

  Without giving his men time to recover after their push through the woods, the Hunter signaled them to again secure Boyko’s hands. They moved quickly and wrapped a blindfold around Boyko’s injured face.

  “Who was it?” he said, unable to see if the Hunter was listening to him. “Who called you just now?”

  “Wouldn’t you just love to know which of your colleagues is the Judas of the Burgas police!”

  “You are about to kill me, so the least you can do is reveal who has betrayed me. Who is the snitch, the traitor? That is all I ask.”

  Damian didn’t respond. Instead, his men pushed Boyko forward, a pistol shoved in his back indicating the correct direction. Boyko tripped repeatedly while walking through the brush. All that he could hear on this forced march were the sounds of nature—the bird calls, the buzz of insects, and the sway of leaves in the afternoon breeze. His destination—and what the Hunter had in store for him next—was unknown.

  51

  “Boyko Stanchev has gone rogue. He has turned against us and is working with Damian and his men.”

  “No, he would never do that,” Ayala said, arguing with the Bulgarian police officer. “The last I saw, he was being held captive at the warehouse.”

  “We searched the premises and found no signs of a struggle. There is no evidence suggesting that you and Detective Stanchev were held there against your will.”

  This couldn’t be happening! It was as if one nightmare had ended, only to be replaced by another, this one more appalling than the first. Why didn’t anyone believe her? Why hadn’t they accepted her story at face value? And, most importantly, why were they putting the blame on Boyko, accusing him of siding with the Hunter and conspiring against them? It wasn’t right!

  She was seated on an uncomfortable wooden chair at Sofia District Police Directorate headquarters. Despite Yaniv’s intention to transport her directly to the embassy for a debriefing with her fellow Israelis, the Bulgarians insisted that Ayala first be brought in for questioning at their command center. After all, it wasn’t every day that a suicide bombing, or rather a near-suicide bombing, occurred in the Bulgarian capital.

  “How did you arrive at the mosque?” the officers asked her.

  “I didn’t know I was at a mosque!” Ayala said.

  It was only during this aggressive interrogation that she learned she had been found on the pavement outside the Banya Bashi Mosque, the largest mosque in Sofia. If the explosives strapped to her waist had detonated, not only would pedestrians on the street have lost thei
r lives, but the bomb would have also caused extensive damage to the building and wounded those praying inside. An Israeli bomber at a Muslim mosque—the international repercussions would have been huge. Newspaper headlines throughout the world would have screamed that a Jew had acted in retaliation for the Burgas bus bombing. The Bulgarian police hypothesized that such a bombing would have set off a cataclysmic religious war between Jews and Muslims.

  “I was unconscious,” Ayala said. “After they drugged me, my mind went blank.”

  “Do you remember Damian strapping the explosives to your waist?”

  Thinking back, she recalled the look of evil in Damian’s eyes. The injection of the syringe’s contents into her arm. Her head spinning. And then, nothing.

  The questions kept coming at a staccato pace, some of them repeated with slightly different wording, as if to confuse her. “Who brought you to the center of Sofia?” “Who attached the bombs? Was it Damian himself?” “Did they tell you what you were going to do?” “Tell us more about Boyko’s connection with Damian.” “How much do you really know about Boyko Stanchev of the State Agency for National Security?”

  What did she really know about her Bulgarian partner? She knew of his previous run-in with the man he called the Hunter. Boyko had all but dedicated his professional career to putting that criminal behind bars, even if it took fabricated evidence to achieve that goal. It was inconceivable that the two of them had now teamed up, that Boyko had gone rogue as the Bulgarian police were suggesting. She totally dismissed this possibility.

  “Boyko is being held against his will,” she insisted. “You have to help him!” Her arguments didn’t appear to convince the officers questioning her.

  Finally, she was allowed to return to the anteroom where Yaniv and a representative from the Israeli Embassy were waiting.

  “Are you okay?” Yaniv asked, pulling her close.

  “They thought I intended to detonate myself in the center of Sofia. Also, they are convinced that Boyko is working with Damian. I don’t know who is feeding them that information, but it’s not true! I need to prove this. We have to rescue Boyko. He is being held against his will!”

  “Calm down,” Yaniv said. “One step at a time. Right now, we need to get you back to Tel Aviv.”

  “You have a seat reserved on tonight’s flight,” the embassy official said, speaking up for the first time.

  “I can’t go back without finding Boyko! He is being framed. His life is in danger. If the police won’t do anything, we have to help him!” she pleaded.

  “That’s something for the Bulgarians to handle. It’s a local matter.”

  “Uncle Yaniv, let me talk to them again. I need to make them understand.”

  “It’s time to go. You don’t want to miss your flight.”

  * * *

  Back in the hotel, Ayala was completely packed within ten minutes. Long-sleeved blouses, a turquoise sweater suitable for October weather in Sofia, and an extra pair of khaki slacks took up little room in her carry-on suitcase. Her business was finished; she was going home.

  This was always happening to her—being sent back to Israel just when things became complicated. Complicated and interesting. This would be her third departure from the country, yet the investigation would continue in her absence. Actually, there were two cases in which she would no longer play a role. Her Israeli colleagues would pursue additional leads in the Burgas bombing, while the Bulgarian police would launch a nationwide manhunt for Boyko, who they claimed was colluding with Damian. Boyko Stanchev has gone rogue. Despite hearing this statement repeated over and over during her questioning, Ayala refused to believe it was true.

  She thought again about the handsome Bulgarian policeman. She knew Boyko enough to trust him. She retained faith in his innocence; she was convinced he would never team up with that criminal. No, that wasn’t like him at all!

  Why didn’t the police believe her? What could she do to help her friend, to help find him?

  She felt responsible for his predicament. After all, they had been on the case together. Perhaps if they had gone directly to the print shop instead of stopping first at the hotel, things would have been different. Maybe they never would have confronted Damian. And then, they would have found the evidence they were seeking. If only she had spoken up when Boyko was questioning the manager. But what could she have said? Still, she couldn’t help but think she was partially at fault for what had happened to Boyko.

  Boyko’s confrontation with Damian, at the very moment when they were hot on the trail of the Hezbollah terrorists, appeared to be much more than a simple coincidence. The escalation of attacks against Boyko as they conducted their investigation and the fact that she, too, had become the Hunter’s target, indicated that they were getting closer to the truth. And the truth, as was becoming crystal clear in her mind, was that the Hunter and his criminal organization had helped prepare the groundwork for terror attacks against Jewish and Israeli targets. But could she prove this?

  Something else also disturbed her. She had come to Bulgaria seeking justice in the aftermath of the horrific suicide bombing attack on her countrymen, but what had been achieved? One of the terrorists had been killed in the blast and his accomplices were safely ensconced in Lebanon, out of reach from Israel’s long arm of revenge. At least for now.

  The retribution she was seeking was also very personal. The suicide bombing attack on the Burgas bus had struck at her core. She knew that in a way, she sought vengeance for what had happened to Tomer. She felt obligated to fight the evil forces that had murdered her brother. She hoped that by tracking down the Hezbollah terrorists and their accomplices and making them pay for their crimes, she would bring closure to the terror that had struck her family. In this, her mission in Bulgaria had been a total failure.

  Leaving Bulgaria now, with Boyko missing, would leave an open sore, one that would fester and haunt her long after her return to the Tel Aviv office. Going home with the terrorists still at large was one thing, but she felt that an equally important aspect of the case remained unresolved. She had to do something on Boyko’s behalf. Was there no one else who believed in his innocence? She couldn’t let her partner down. After spending so much time in his company, it wouldn’t be right for her to leave without making an effort to save him.

  She had to do something.

  Ayala searched frantically through her bag. A pen, a hair brush, lip gloss, an unopened bottle of perfume, Tic Tacs—her bag was a mess. Usually she could find what she wanted amidst the clutter, but not this time. Where was it? She pushed aside a package of tissues, a small notepad.

  There it was! At the very bottom of the bag! She pulled out the business card and looked at the name and contact details. Ivan Zhekov, commander of the Burgas District Police Directorate. Lead officer of the bombing investigation. She picked up her phone and punched in the numbers.

  “Halo?”

  “Commander Zhekov? This is Ayala Navon. I hope you remember me. I was part of the Israeli team working with you on the Burgas bus bombing.”

  “Ah, yes. You are in Israel now?”

  “No, I’m in Sofia. My plane leaves in a few hours. But there’s something I must tell you about Boyko, something important,” she said, searching for words, for anything that would make Zhekov pay attention. “Are you aware that Boyko has gone missing?” As soon she asked the question she realized how stupid it must sound. Of course, the Burgas police commander would be aware of what was going on.

  “Police all over the country are on his trail,” Zhekov informed her. “We have launched a manhunt and hope to apprehend him shortly.”

  “I can help you find him. I can help you locate Boyko.”

  “We already know where Boyko is,” Zhekov stated, surprising her. “Well, we are not completely sure where he is, but we do know he is with a criminal boss called Damian. You may have heard the name before. We strongly suspect the two of them are working together, that they are partners in crime.”


  “Damian is connected to Hezbollah. There’s no way Boyko would work with him!”

  “I cannot discuss this case with you, certainly not over the phone.”

  “I can help you,” she repeated, realizing this was her last chance to help Boyko, the last chance to be part of the Burgas investigation. The taxi would be arriving momentarily to transport her to the airport. “I can be of assistance in making him, um, turn himself in. Isn’t that what you want? For Boyko to turn himself in?”

  “Yes, we want Boyko to turn himself in, before someone gets hurt. It would be better for everyone. What do you know?”

  She detected a definite sign of interest in Zhekov’s voice. “You need me,” she said. “You need me to persuade Boyko to turn himself in. He’ll listen to me!” Would this be sufficient to convince the police commander that her assistance was vital?

  “What is your connection to him, your real connection? Tell me, Miss Navon. Were you and Boyko romantically involved? Were you perhaps a couple? Lovers?”

  What a strange, impertinent question, but it gave Ayala the opening she needed. Thoughts of Boyko raced through her mind. Sharing a room near the Turkish border and trying to get to sleep before the bullets splattered into the headboard just above her head. Her visit to Boyko’s parents’ home. Boyko’s visit to Tel Aviv. His joking with her father in Bulgarian at the Shabbat dinner table. Her walk with Boyko on the beach, where she had bared her soul and revealed to him the lasting pain she suffered after Tomer’s murder. The walk back to his hotel. The invitation to accompany him to his bedroom.

  She missed Boyko, but no, they had not been a couple. Dutifully employed by their respective countries’ intelligence agencies, they were both patriots, loyal to their causes and willing to work relentlessly to take down their enemies, to solve their cases. A friendship had developed between them, one in which painful secrets from the past could be shared. An intimacy of sorts, but they had not been lovers.