by Ellis Shuman
* * *
“Another dead end,” Ayala reported to Boaz, when she called him from the restaurant where she and Boyko had stopped for dinner. “There’s no evidence indicating that the terrorists crossed into Bulgaria from the north. But, what bothers me most, is that we had to check this out. The Ruse police could have made the rounds.”
“Zhekov has a hands-on approach to this investigation,” Boaz replied, his voice breaking up a bit with static. “He wants members of his task force to be on the ground, asking the questions. In any case, it’s good you helped us rule out this possibility.”
“I should be with you in Burgas. That’s where the real investigation is taking place.”
“Don’t discount what you’ve done, Ayala. Every piece of evidence helps, including information determining where the terrorists weren’t.”
Ayala was glad for the encouragement, but something still bothered her. Before she had a chance to raise her doubts, Boaz asked a question that pinpointed the problem.
“What’s it like to work with Detective Stanchev? He hasn’t endangered you again in any way?”
“No, I’m perfectly safe,” she assured him. “But, I can’t help but get the feeling he is purposely prolonging our investigation. Or, possibly, that he knows something he’s not telling me.”
“I hear you,” Boaz said. “The Bulgarians always keep some of their cards close to their chests.”
“I’ve asked him about the shooting, but he refuses to discuss it. I’m still wondering whether it’s connected to the bombing.”
“Ayala, you need to get closer to Boyko, to force him to open up. He may have information that could prove helpful. Maybe he’s hiding something.”
“I realize that.”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“Tonight? I assume we’re driving back to Burgas.”
“Now? At this late hour? It’s a long drive and you would only arrive here in the middle of the night.”
“I hadn’t thought about it. I will ask Boyko what he’s planned. I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. Ayala, take care of yourself.”
“Sure. L’hitraot.”
22
“It’s only a bit farther,” Boyko assured her.
“I should never have agreed to come,” Ayala replied, staring out at the trees. “We should have stayed at a hotel in Ruse.”
“Nonsense. My parents will be glad to have us. They have a spare bedroom; no need for you to worry about that. The village is very nice. Wait until you see it in the daylight!”
The road wove its way through the thick forest. They were alone, with no other headlights penetrating the night. The dark was so complete that even the shadows were swallowed into the gloom. Ayala had a sense of foreboding each time a pine branch bowed toward the windshield under the weight of an erratic breeze. The bushes and scrub at the sides of the pavement appeared sinister as well. She shivered, despite the heat radiated by the car’s rumbling motor.
“Almost there,” he assured her, slowing to take another curve.
Finally, just as she was beginning to think the drive would never end, the forest broke into stretches of farmland—shapeless patches of cultivation shrouded in blackness. She spotted lights ahead, sparkling like little stars in the sky. They passed a two-storied house on the right and another one on the left. A small, barely noticeable sign announced that they had entered the village and her breathing resumed its normal pace.
Boyko slowed the car and turned onto a gravel road flanked by stone walls on both sides.
“We’re here,” he told her as he parked next to the wall. He shut the motor and Ayala got out of the car. It took several minutes until she got her bearings in the consuming darkness.
“Don’t you have electricity in your village?”
“Not at all hours of the day and night. Come on, follow me.” He led the way to the house and opened the solid wooden door to find his parents waiting for them in the hallway.
Boyko’s father was a robust man, with weathered skin and uncombed gray hair. He appeared to have a very friendly disposition. Boyko’s mother was less gregarious, preferring to greet her son and his guest with a quiet hug. The older woman didn’t say much, but Ayala could tell she was grateful for her son’s visit.
“Welcome, welcome! I have prepared a feast for you,” Boyko’s father said, pulling them into the candlelit kitchen area of the house.
“Oh, no, we already ate dinner,” Ayala protested. But before she could say anything further she was seated at a round wooden table with an array of salads and cold meats, and freshly baked bread. Out of politeness, she helped herself to tiny portions of salad but Boyko stacked his plate as if they had never visited the restaurant earlier that evening.
“Eat, eat,” the older man encouraged Ayala. “Why doesn’t she eat anything?” he asked his son. Is she not well?”
Ayala smiled. The food was tasty but she stayed away from the cold cuts, which were most likely ham. During her stay in Bulgaria, she stuck to dishes of chicken. That was the least she could do to honor the Kashrut requirements of her religion. While she wasn’t religious in any sense, she couldn’t picture herself eating pork products.
“These are homemade sausages,” Boyko’s father said, his radiant smile encouraging her to help herself.
“Father, leave her alone. She is just fine.”
“Maybe she needs some rakia to calm her nerves?” the older man said, moving a bottle to the center of the table.
“No rakia,” Ayala spoke up, smiling at her hosts in the candlelight. “The food is very tasty, thank you.”
Boyko’s mother returned to the table with a kettle of hot water. She poured the water into small glasses filled with mint leaves and let it steep.
“Merci, it’s all very good,” Ayala said. “Mnogo dobro,” she added, bringing a wide grin to Boyko’s father’s face.
“This is real Bulgarian hospitality,” Boyko said proudly. “I could not allow you to visit my country and not see the real Bulgaria. Burgas and Plovdiv—those are big cities. It is here, in the villages, where our culture, history, and traditions are truly alive. I hope you do not mind.”
She was touched by his warm words.
“Where is she from, this friend of yours?” Boyko’s father asked, turning to his son.
“She speaks some Bulgarian. Go ahead and ask her.”
“I am from Israel.”
“Iz-ra-el?” the older man replied with a huge smile. “We love Iz-ra-el. Peres. Netanyahu. Iz-ra-el is good.”
“Father, let her eat.”
* * *
Ayala fell asleep instantly, despite the hardness of her mattress in the upstairs bedroom. At one point during the night she opened her eyes and was surprised to find the room brightly lit. Had someone come in and turned on the lights? Had she forgotten to turn them off after going down the hall to the bathroom?
She realized that electricity had been restored to the village. She flicked the switch and carefully made her way back to the bed. Within minutes she was out again.
“How did you sleep?” Boyko asked pleasantly when she came down the wooden stairs in the morning. He was already seated at the table, a huge plate of eggs and sausages placed before him.
“Just fine,” she said. “Is that coffee I smell?”
“Yes, of course,” Boyko said, getting up to pour her a cup.
“Where are your parents?”
“They rise very early. My father works in the village carpentry shop. My mother works in a bakery. They left the house before I woke up. Tell me, how do you like your eggs? I will cook you an omelet.”
“Coffee is what I need right now,” she said, accepting the cup and sitting down. “Are we heading back to Burgas?”
“Of course. Where did you think we would go? To Sofia?”
“I’m never sure. You must tell me things, inform me of our plans. I need to know the leads we’ll be following.”
“Haven’t I don
e that until now? You knew we were going to Ruse. We discussed that.”
“I know,” she said, appreciating the aroma of the strong black liquid. Not fully awake, she was desperate for the rush of caffeine to clear her head. Her first sip determined that this coffee was far tastier than what she had been served in the Burgas hotel.
After eating a few bites of the homemade bread and a slice of yellow cheese, Ayala returned to the bathroom to freshen up. Thank goodness there were flush toilets! With the electricity restored, she concluded that the village wasn’t as primitive as her first impression had suggested.
“Oh, shit!”
It was Boyko, shouting outside. She hurried down the stairs and out the door. Boyko stood in the narrow lane next to his car, not moving. His fists were clenched and he was clearly boiling with anger.
“What happened?”
“Look!”
The front tire on the driver’s side of Boyko’s car was flat. Boyko was understandably upset, but it should be a simple enough task to switch a tire. She followed his gaze to the rear of the vehicle. The back tire was also flat.
“Did you park on glass?” she asked, following him around to the other side.
The tires on the passenger’s side were both flat as well. Boyko bent down, carefully inspecting the rubber, gently touching the rim where the tire had been slashed.
“They found me.”
“Who did? Hezbollah? They’re following us?”
“No, not Hezbollah. The Hunter and his men. This is yet another warning.”
“The Hunter? Boyko, you have to tell me what’s going on.”
23
March 2004
The rain came down in mighty torrents. It had been this way all day, as if the heavens were punishing the residents of the seaside city. Dark, abandoned streets had transformed into rivulets, and then into flooding streams. The water cascaded downward, seeking a final release at the shores of the stormy Black Sea.
The neon sign of the club flickered on and off, its statement changing with the fickleness of the weather. At times, the sign announced “Red and White Massage Salon,” and, when some of the bulbs faltered, it declared simply “Red and . . . Salon.” Almost as an afterthought, it flashed a simple “Red.” No matter what the message was, the club’s door remained shut.
Positioned in an alleyway across from the club, Boyko lowered the rim of his hat in efforts to keep the rain out of his eyes. The blue-uniformed policeman at his side fidgeted nervously, waiting for the order to dash to the entranceway. Like the policeman, Boyko was completely drenched. The water seeped through his coat and pants and made his skin tingle. The night was cold, it was late, and he was in desperate need of a cigarette. He wished he could find comfort in a swig of vodka, but he had left the bottle in his apartment. Now, he stared at the club’s entrance with sober, but tired eyes.
The second unit waited a short distance away, ready to proceed at Boyko’s order to the club’s back door and cut it off as an avenue of escape. They, too, had a vantage point from which they could observe the main entrance, but they stood under an awning, giving them adequate protection from the downpour.
A single man strolled along the street, sidestepping puddles as he approached the club. Standing in the entranceway, he shook out his umbrella and pushed the door open.
“Is that him?” the uniformed cop asked Boyko.
“No. We’ll know when he’s here,” Boyko replied, adjusting his earpiece.
All that Boyko could hear was static, originating from the club’s office. The listening device was planted on the manager’s desk, Mariana had informed him. The prostitute had agreed to do everything he asked of her, as long as she got paid for her efforts. After all, she was a single mother with a daughter to support. Boyko had assured her that she would be safe from prosecution following the planned raid on the club. The women who worked there were not the target, he promised.
Still it rained; still the scene remained quiet. The silence was broken when a black Mercedes sedan splashed its way through the stream gushing down the street and came to a stop at the club’s entrance. Boyko straightened his shoulders, wondering if this was who he thought, and hoped, it would be.
A car door opened. The driver got out and ran around to the passenger’s side. He opened an umbrella for the person who emerged from the vehicle and escorted him to the club. A second passenger came out of the backseat and hurried to the entrance. They entered and only the driver remained on the street, in the rain. He got back into the car and kept the motor running.
The uniformed cop drew his gun, but Boyko signaled him to wait. The other unit was ready to advance to its position. Boyko lifted his hand and applied pressure to the earpiece. Was the volume high enough? Would the conversation in the club’s office come through?
And then he heard words, words that seemed to make sense even if they were not complete sentences. Fragments of audio synchronized with the flickering lights of the club’s neon sign. Timed to match the steady patter of the rain.
“Club . . . night . . .” “Red and White Massage Salon.”
“Three women . . . agreed price . . .” “Red and . . . Salon.”
“The arrangement . . . discussed.” “Red.”
This was it. They were arranging a new shipment of women. The Hunter was inside, just as Mariana had suggested he would be.
“Let’s go!” Boyko ordered. He moved out of the alleyway and strode across the rain-drenched street. The policeman at his side began to run, but Boyko held out his hand and waved him to slow down.
The driver got out of the Mercedes and faced the approaching policemen. He stood defiantly in their path, blocking their access to the entrance.
“Police! Get out of our way,” Boyko shouted, drawing his identification and flashing it in the man’s face.
“Stay back,” the driver warned them.
Boyko moved to the side, out of the driver’s reach, and circled around, heading toward the club’s glittering lights.
“Raise your hands,” the uniformed cop instructed the driver.
As the cop frisked the driver, Boyko barked orders into his mouthpiece. “Take up your position at the rear!” There would be no quick getaways for the criminals he hoped to apprehend. “Haide!” he said, urging another team to hurry and join him as he went inside.
It was business as usual in the club. The barman poured watered-down drinks for the thirsty clientele; scantily clad hostesses circulated among the tables in the darkened hall; nervous men anxiously ogled the merchandise before committing to their preferred women of pleasure. The beat of chalga music blasted through the loudspeakers, making it nearly impossible to carry out a simple conversation.
Two cops joined Boyko in the lobby; one of them pushed the anxious hostess aside as he scanned the room.
“Follow me,” Boyko said.
The way to the back was familiar. He hurried past the cubicles where women were performing hand jobs, and oral sex, and full-body contact, as long as their customers paid for the services. It was inside one of these rooms that he had first met Mariana, although he had known her as Candy that night. Who knew how many innocent Candies were now flaunting their bodies in virtual slavery, willing to do anything for a small handout of cash?
The office door was shut, a barrier they would need to breach. Boyko hesitated, urging his team to come close. Through his earpiece he could hear the men inside, their voices raised as they continued to negotiate the deal to import foreign women to Burgas. The voices grew louder. The discussion within the office was becoming heated, evolving into a noisy argument, an acrimonious business dispute. Accusations were thrown back and forth. Listening from the other side of the door, Boyko couldn’t fully comprehend the nature of the quarrel. Should it delay their raid?
He raised his hand, about to order his men to storm the office, when suddenly the door burst open. Two well-dressed businessmen bolted into the corridor, colliding with the waiting police officers.
“Get out of our way!” one of them barked.
“Not so fast,” Boyko said, shoving the man back against the doorframe. “You’re not going anywhere!”
“What a fucking surprise! I should have known that officers from the Burgas police frequented establishments such as the Red and White Massage Salon. What’s your pleasure, Mr. Detective? Some fellatio? Or perhaps anal penetration?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Boyko said. “I know who you are and what you were doing here!”
“You know who I am?” The businessman laughed. “Who, exactly, do you think I am?”
One of the uniformed cops tugged Boyko’s sleeve, trying to tell him something. “What is it?” Boyko asked, not bothering to turn his head.
“It is not him,” the cop said. “Headquarters sent a message. Our target, the man known as the Hunter, was spotted this evening traveling up the coast on his way to Varna.”
The businessman overheard the cop’s words and laughed even louder. “What? You thought I was the Hunter? You have got it all wrong. I am an ordinary citizen, just arranging some business here at the club. I am not the man of whom you speak. The Hunter? Ha!”
Not the Hunter? The only reason they had raided the massage salon was to arrest the Hunter. Boyko had acted on Mariana’s tip; the meeting had taken place this evening just as she had said it would. How could this man not be their target? How could it be that they had apprehended the wrong culprit?
“We are taking you in for questioning,” Boyko said, not willing to admit the failure of the operation. He pulled the businessman down the corridor. “Haide, let’s go!”
They emerged into the wet Burgas night—three cops and the two men they were escorting to the station. The Mercedes and its driver were nowhere in sight.
“This rain, it just doesn’t stop,” panted the uniformed policeman at Boyko’s side.
* * *
“You didn’t catch that criminal you were after. So what?”
Boyko pushed away his plate of sausages and cabbage, took a sip of beer, and wondered how Galina would ever understand. No, that was inconceivable.