by Ellis Shuman
The coffee was bitter yet she desperately needed the caffeine boost. She drank it slowly while checking her phone for messages. A thought ran through her mind, jolted into her consciousness with no apparent reason. The future of Bulgarian-Israeli relations. She remembered the unusual circumstances when Boyko had said that to her. If the gunmen hadn’t shot up their room, who knows what would have happened. No, that was preposterous. He had been acting like an asshole, a total jerk.
But if so, why was she thinking about him again, with a smile on her face?
She forced herself to dismiss the thought.
20
“You’re not saying anything.”
Ayala frowned at his comment. Boyko was an obnoxious, self-centered, bossy, one-minded chauvinist. She turned her head to the window so that she wouldn’t see his deep-set, dark eyes; his thick eyebrows; his unkempt brown hair. She tried to ignore his whimsical smile, which hinted he was becoming quite interested in her, more than was acceptable for this assignment. She stared straight ahead, knowing he was watching her when he should be paying attention to the road. They were in his unmarked police sedan, leaving Burgas city limits and heading north. When she couldn’t take his staring anymore, she spoke up.
“This is a job and we have to do it,” she said, her words short and to the point.
“Of course, it’s a job!” He sounded surprised at her statement. “What did you think we were doing? Going to have a picnic at the Black Sea?”
When she was silent for several moments, he asked her, “Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“For almost getting you killed.”
“Oh, that.”
“Listen, I do not know how to explain what happened. One thing I can assure you, though—it wasn’t directed at you.”
“You mean those bullets flying over my head? They weren’t intended to kill me? Well, that’s a relief.”
“No, not you. There are things, things from my past . . .”
His past? She waited for him to say more. The least he could do would be to apologize, she thought. But what did he have to apologize for? It wasn’t his fault that gunmen had shot up their hotel room. Or was it?
* * *
He was ready to speak up, to relate the story of the event that had changed his life—his very identity as a police officer—but he couldn’t find the words that would break through the uncomfortable silence. He had never revealed the full extent of what had happened so long ago. No one could possibly, truly understand. Who could he trust? No one! But, what about Ayala? This strong-minded investigator from Israel appeared to be different.
What was it about her that made him want to share everything? And what was it about her that held him back? Was it her Israeli accent that encouraged him to talk? Was it her good looks that made him seek a more intimate relationship? Or, perhaps something else challenged him to get to know her. Her stubbornness? Her insistence to stick to the job and forego simple conversation, even if it was the polite way to relate to one another on an assignment? What was it?
He needed to talk to her, to clear up the mystery of the shooting attack, to say he was glad—more than she knew—to see her again. Her business-only attitude had discouraged him from inviting her for coffee after the briefing. They were to relate to each other solely as police colleagues. Of course, that was how protocol called on the two teams to interact—as professionals working together on an international case. But, deep inside, he wanted more. There was something different about her, and he was prepared to open up.
Unfortunately, nothing was going to develop between them if he couldn’t get his act together. She leaned against the car’s passenger door, as if she couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in the vehicle with him.
It would be a long drive, he knew, and the silence didn’t make it any easier. First, they would travel along the coast toward Varna, and then westward into the interior of the country. They would drive to Shumen where they would veer north to Ruse, their destination on the banks of the Danube River. Ruse—the fifth largest city in the country, located across the water from the Romanian city of Giurgiu. Ruse—a significant river port and center for international trade. Ruse—a city so imperial in its architecture that it was often called Little Vienna. Ruse—a place the Burgas bombers had possibly visited in the days leading up to the attack on the Israeli bus.
He stopped at a small service station where he could stretch his legs and, more importantly, smoke a cigarette.
“Thank you for not smoking in the car,” she said, emerging from her side.
“It’s the least I can do,” he said, politely offering her the pack.
“No thank you,” she said. “Where are the bathrooms?”
He pointed to the back of the gas station and resumed his efforts of lighting up. Damn! he swore to himself. He needed to find the way to crack through her hard shell, to get through to the real Ayala. Why was she such a tough person? And why did that attract him so?
* * *
She walked off, smoothing the creases of her jeans and adjusting her sunglasses against the unexpectedly bright Balkan sun. The air was cool and fresh, so unlike the steep humidity of Tel Aviv. She was glad to be away from her desk, from the boredom of office routine.
The bathroom door was slightly ajar. She didn’t know if the stall was meant for men or for women. She opened it hesitantly, as if an unknown assailant would jump at her from within. Was her army training alerting her senses to impending danger, or was it just the uncertainty of entering an outhouse in an unfamiliar country?
To her dismay she saw that the bathroom was nothing more than a squat hole in the ground. This was a major problem of serving in the field, and it didn’t matter whether she was in the Balkans or in the Negev Desert. She seriously missed the comfort of a flush toilet. What she wouldn’t give right now for running water to wash her hands and face. Well, she would just have to make do. Live like the natives, as they say.
After she was finished, she returned to the gas pumps. Boyko stood at the side of the car, drinking a can of Shumensko beer.
“Isn’t this a little early in the day for alcohol?”
“I needed something refreshing,” he said between sips.
“But you’re driving. You shouldn’t be drinking and driving.”
“Now you sound like my ex-wife. Do you want to take the wheel?”
“I’m not sure where we’re going,” she replied.
“I’ll direct you.”
Reluctantly she took the keys and walked around to the driver’s door. She sat down and buckled her seat belt, adjusted the mirrors, and tried to get comfortable. This wasn’t easy because the seat was indented with the contours of the car’s regular driver. Ayala felt like she was sitting inside a rubber inner tube, with her butt much lower than it should be.
“Who taught you how to drive?” he asked pleasantly from the passenger side. He discarded his cigarette butt out the window.
“My brother,” she replied before turning the ignition. Why had she told him that? Why had she mentioned her personal life? Very unprofessional of her! And it wasn’t exactly the full story. Her brother had taught her the basics of driving, but like every other Israeli her age, she had taken expensive, mandatory lessons with an instructor before passing the test and getting her license.
“Your brother? Is he older than you?”
He was only trying to be friendly, but she ignored him. She released the parking brake and started forward, only to have the motor stall.
“This isn’t an automatic!” she said, realizing what had gone wrong.
“An automatic?” He laughed. “No, of course not. Only the rich in Bulgaria drive automatic cars—Mercedes and cars like that. I am just a simple man, one of the ordinary folk. Police drive manual transmission.”
“I can’t drive this,” she said, dropping her hands from the wheel.
“You cannot? Did they not teach you how to drive manual gear in Mossa
d training?”
“Stop it. It’s not funny. You’ll need to drive.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, his face serious. “A short while ago I drank my morning beer and my vision may be a bit blurred.”
He was joking with her, yet she could smell the alcohol on his breath. She didn’t want to get herself killed because of a drunken driver. She again focused on the task of starting the car.
“Tell me what to do,” she said, staring straight ahead of her.
“Well, the first thing is to turn the key in the ignition,” he said with a laugh. “Usually that will start the motor.”
* * *
When they stopped for lunch at a roadside mehane in a small village, the Black Sea coast was a distant memory. The driving had gone well for Ayala, but then again, the highway had been mostly empty. Her coordination between hands and feet improved with every passing kilometer and the gear changes went smoothly. She was capable of mastering the simple task of driving a stick shift. She could handle any challenge that came her way!
No menu waited for them on the wooden tables. Boyko spoke with the tavern’s owner, discussing what was available. Ayala understood some of the conversation but spent most of the time checking her phone, trying to see if she could connect to Boaz and the other team members.
“Zapoviadete,” the waiter said.
Ayala understood the long word. “Here you are.” She put down her phone and her eyes opened wide as the waiter placed dishes with a flourish on their table.
“I can’t eat so much,” she complained.
“I am so hungry, I could eat a horse,” Boyko replied. “Is that how they say it in English?”
The dishes were arranged around the ubiquitous shopska salad—finely cut wedges of tomatoes and cucumbers topped with grated salty white cheese. Next to it were small ceramic bowls of potato salad and the so-called Russian salad, which was nearly the same, except for the addition of carrots and peas. A colorful tomato salad and one made from peppers were also quite appealing; they were served on traditional Bulgarian plates. Off to the side was a bowl of yogurt spotted with drops of green.
“Snezhanka salata,” Ayala said, dipping in her spoon to help herself.
“How do you know its name?”
“It’s because,” she began, but then she shrugged, smiling to herself. She recalled the occasions during her childhood when her father had asked to include Bulgarian dishes in their meals, a request stated so frequently that her mother had given in to his tastes, despite their being so different from the cuisine with which she was familiar.
“Because?” he asked, waiting for an answer.
“I just know the name.”
“Was it part of your research for coming to Bulgaria? Is this what the Mossad teaches you—the names of local food so that you can fit right in with the population and not stick out?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said, glaring at him.
“Lighten up, Ayala.”
“How can I lighten up? We’re in the middle of a serious investigation. People from my country lost their lives. How can you joke at a time like this?”
“I know it’s a serious case, really I do. But we have a way to go until we get to Ruse. We can be friendly with each other along the way, can we not?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t enjoy this chitchat.”
“It’s called polite conversation,” he said to her. “Being courteous. You and I teamed up to work this case. We can at least be sociable.”
She remained silent for several moments, chewing her food and thinking about what he said. He was right; she wasn’t being fair. She needed to lighten up. They were going to be together for quite some time. Their work was serious but it wouldn’t hurt to converse with him a bit. As friends. Well, if not friends, at least as colleagues.
“My father told me about Snezhanka salata.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, he was born in Sofia.”
“What? Now I understand why you understand Bulgarian. In fact, that makes you half-Bulgarian.”
“Hardly. I’m Yemenite, through and through.”
“Yemenite? Ah, so that’s why you have such dark skin,” he said.
Again, a totally uncalled-for observation! She prepared to lash out against his insensitive remarks, but she found him smiling, almost innocently. His words, she realized, were intended to be friendly, conversational. How could she get mad at him when he had such a genuine grin on his face?
“That was filling,” she said, a few minutes later, putting down her fork.
“Are you kidding? Those were just the starters. Wait until you see what I ordered for our main course. So, your father was born in Sofia? Tell me more about this very interesting piece of information.”
21
“Have you seen this man?”
Boyko shoved the photograph of Hassan El Hajj Hassan into the clerk’s face. The clerk stared at the image for several moments, nodding his head to indicate that he had not.
“What about this one?” Boyko held up Meliad Farah’s headshot. The car rental agency clerk again nodded with a negative response. Boyko put the photographs back into his side bag and they left the small office.
“We’re assuming they crossed into Bulgaria from Romania,” Ayala commented, as they headed down the street to the next agency. “If that’s the case, why would they need to rent a car here in Ruse? Wouldn’t they be driving a Romanian car?”
“Reports are reports,” Boyko replied. “We do not know how accurate they are. We’re following up on each and every called-in piece of information. Every lead is checked, every sighting is investigated. Unfortunately, most of these leads are dead ends. The information about Ruse could be incorrect as well.”
What a waste of time! Boaz and the other Israelis were on the coast, pursuing leads in the Burgas area. She should be there, assisting them. Instead, she was halfway across the country, almost in Romania.
Ruse, Bulgaria, was noticeably different from what she had seen of Burgas. The buildings here were more elegant, more western European, as if they had been airlifted from Vienna and placed on the banks of the mighty Danube as an extension of Austro-Hungarian culture. She had a sudden urge to sit down for Apfelstrudel at one of the sidewalk cafes, but time was short and the office-to-office canvassing was taking way too long.
After visiting a number of establishments in the center of the city, they returned to where Boyko had parked and drove to their next destination. A few minutes later, they reached a long steel truss structure stretching over the wide river. They pulled into a small lot at the side of the road.
Bulgarian Customs Agency, Tolls and Permit Control. The sign indicated that the fee for cars traveling to Romania was two euros. Ayala followed Boyko as he walked to the booth and identified himself to the agents checking cars arriving in Bulgaria.
The officer in charge was delighted to welcome visitors. Apparently, the routine of inspecting travelers on what was now considered an “internal border” between two member states of the European Union was a thankless occupation.
“Let me tell you about the bridge,” the officer said proudly, taking them to where they could observe the noisy crossway. “This is the Dunab Most, previously known as the Friendship Bridge. There are only two bridges crossing over the Danube, and this is one of them. The bridge was constructed in 1954, being the first bridge between Romania and Bulgaria. Until that time, most of the transport between the two countries was by ferry. As you can see, we have two decks, one for cars and trucks, and the other for the railroad. The middle section can be raised to allow for large ships to pass on the river. Do you want me to tell you how long the bridge is?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Boyko said, looking quite bored with the explanations. “I want to show you some photographs. Perhaps you’ll recognize these men as having crossed into Bulgaria on the bridge.”
“Highly unlikely,” the officer replied. “Since the beginning of 2007, we have hardl
y any passport control or customs inspections. Sometimes the Romanians check the passing travelers, sometimes we do. I doubt whether I would remember anyone who came across the bridge. When did you say this person crossed into Bulgaria?”
“There must be security tapes,” Ayala whispered to Boyko, her voice barely heard above the grating rush of traffic. “I see cameras up there,” she said, pointing at the steel bars above the station.
“Do you know when our suspects crossed into Bulgaria?” Boyko challenged her. “You’d have to review hours and hours of tape, hundreds, if not thousands of vehicles.”
“Someone needs to do it,” Ayala urged him.
“Can we check the video tapes from those cameras?” Boyko asked the customs officer.
“Sure. I have the last 24 hours of tape here in my office.”
“And what about the footage before that?”
“It’s automatically erased. We tape one day’s traffic and record over the same film a day later. It saves money.” The officer appeared to be pleased with this statement of border crossing efficiency.
“Well, thank you,” Boyko said, shaking the man’s hand. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Helpful? How was he helpful?” Ayala asked as they walked back to their car.
“He proved to us that there is nothing we can prove here.” Boyko chuckled, but then he became serious again. “Another angle investigated, another direction considered, another door closed. Unfortunately, once again, this lead gave us nothing.” He unlocked the car, got in, and started the engine.
Ayala stood for a moment, looking back at the bridge. This whole investigation frustrated her. They were doing the legwork, yet they could show no palpable results for their efforts. Not a single person they had questioned in Ruse had seen the terrorists. There was nothing to confirm the suspicion that they had ever been in the northern Bulgarian city.
“Come on,” Boyko said, rolling down his window and calling out to her.