by Ellis Shuman
He wasn’t expecting the gate. A wrought iron fence surrounded the grounds of his destination. The unforeseen impediment met the winding dirt road with an elaborate decoration of geometric patterns in rusty metal. Boyko got out of his car and approached the intercom box at the right side. He pushed the button and waited for a response.
Static answered him and a few short words that were far from a courteous greeting. “Who is it?”
“I need to speak to the Hunter.”
“There is no one here by that name. Go away.”
“Let me in. I am only here to talk.”
“Are you police? No police are welcome here.”
“This is an unofficial visit. Off the record.”
“Turn and face the camera.”
What camera? Boyko hadn’t noticed the security camera positioned high above his head on a pole just inside the fence. He forced a smile and pushed the button on the intercom again.
“You can see I’m alone. I have come to talk with Damian.”
Damian. It had taken Boyko nearly three months of pressuring stool pigeons, roughing up informants, and paying out countless twenty-lev notes to learn the Hunter’s Christian name. Damian. Even more hours of intense arm-twisting were required until he could track down the Hunter’s lair within the vast expanses of the Strandzha wilderness.
A few minutes went by as he impatiently awaited the outcome of his conversation with the gatekeeper. Boyko knew he was acting impulsively, following a lead with nothing certain guaranteed at its conclusion. He didn’t have his superior officer’s permission for this visit. Zhekov would never have approved it if asked. Boyko would face the consequences of that later. Damian was here, in this forest. Boyko was ready to enter his adversary’s sanctuary on his own, no matter what the cost. He needed to put a face to the man, this cunning criminal whose illicit activities caused Boyko so many headaches, so many sleepless nights. It was time to meet the Hunter.
Boyko was about to press the intercom button a third time when the electric gate made a loud clanking noise and swung inward. He got back into his car and drove into the estate.
The building was a long, one-story lodge, set peacefully among an orchard of fruit trees. Two black jeeps were parked a short distance away. A scowling man stood guard at the front door, awaiting Boyko’s arrival. At his side two Dobermans licked their chops in eager anticipation of being let loose to attack this unwelcome visitor.
Boyko parked next to the jeeps and walked toward the entrance. His approach was stopped by the guard, a Glock pistol clearly visible under his jacket. Without a word of explanation or an apology, the man frisked Boyko and removed his police-issued handgun from its holster.
“I assume I’ll get that back when I leave,” Boyko said, raising his hands. He walked cautiously around the panting dogs and followed the man inside.
A narrow wood-paneled corridor led to a living room. Hunting trophies covered the walls. The glazed eyes of preserved deer and boars stared at him and a large bear skin covered the wooden floor. An unlit fireplace was filled with thick logs in readiness for the upcoming winter snows. Boyko walked around the room, staring at one stuffed animal after another. This was a hunting lodge, one belonging to a very successful hunter.
“Do you like my collection?”
The man was not as Boyko would have imagined. Damian was short and wiry, with gray hair pulled back into a thin ponytail, a far cry from the muscled boss who would typically lead a criminal gang or organization.
“You are quite the hunter,” Boyko said, extending a hand, which was ignored by his host.
“They’ve spotted a black bear in the woods near Smolyan,” the man said, walking away from Boyko and settling down in a large leather armchair near the fireplace. “I think I’ll go there tomorrow. Bear hunting is always a welcome diversion.”
“Diversion from what?” Boyko asked, circumventing around the bulky furniture.
“Diversion from my business affairs.”
“And what exactly are those affairs?”
“Oh, a little of this, and a little of that. You know how it is.”
“Actually, I do not know how it is. We haven’t been properly introduced. I am Boyko Stanchev from the Burgas District Police Directorate.”
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Yes, of course. Do you think I would allow just anyone into my hunting lodge without first establishing who they are and what their background is?”
“And what did you establish about me?”
“You are investigating a recent wave of crimes along the Black Sea coastline. Prostitutes, drug trafficking, illegal arms shipments, robberies—the works. Somehow, you have concluded that all these crimes are being perpetrated by an organized network, and you imagine I am involved in that network.”
“You are that network,” Boyko said forcefully, putting his theory right out in front of the man he believed was responsible for pulling all the strings.
“You say that like you believe it.”
“Yes, I do,” Boyko said.
“And, you have the evidence to prove your allegations, of course.”
“I am gathering the evidence. I have talked to many of your associates, your subordinates. I am collecting everything I need to know about you and your syndicate.”
“This is most fascinating!” Damian rose from his seat and walked to the fireplace. He turned around to face his guest and said, “Oh, I apologize. I have been far from hospitable. Can I offer you a drink, a cigar maybe?”
“No, thank you.”
“I want to show you my guns,” Damian said, walking to a narrow passageway at the side of the room. “Follow me.”
Fearing he was getting further away from his goal, Boyko reluctantly followed his host to a small alcove bordered on one side by a tall wooden cupboard with glass doors.
“I killed a bear with this one,” Damian said proudly, pulling a walnut-colored Anschutz 1780 hunting rifle from the rack. “It was a foggy morning up in the mountains. I had been waiting for the beast all night. I was so close I could smell the animal’s noxious breath. Yet, it never detected me. I lifted the rifle, aimed right between its beady eyes, and pulled the trigger. One shot; that’s all it took.”
“Impressive,” Boyko said, shrugging his shoulders to indicate his impatience with the tale.
Damian swiveled around, aiming the rifle at Boyko’s chest, just two meters away. His finger was on the trigger. “I keep my guns loaded. I never know when a target might pop into view,” he taunted.
“Can you put that down?” Boyko asked, stepping back.
“Listen up, mister policeman. I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot you right now. You are not welcome here. Do you know what I do to unwelcome targets? I would shoot you, but then your blood would be splattered all over my wooden floors. Unfortunately, my maid has her day off today. So, I won’t kill you.”
“That is very kind of you.”
“But I will issue you a warning. If you dare to come here again, or accuse me of involvement in thefts or crimes of any type, I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Believe me, you won’t ever cross my threshold alive.”
“We’ll see about that,” Boyko said bravely, even as he felt the empty holster at his side.
Damian put the rifle back into the rack and closed the glass doors of the case. He led Boyko down the passageway and through the main living quarters to the front of the lodge. He opened the door and stepped aside so that Boyko could leave. The Doberman dogs rested on the ground a short distance away, ready to pounce the moment their owner gave the command.
After Damian’s henchman handed him his gun, Boyko started to walk to his car but then turned to face the thin man with the gray ponytail. “Now I know why they call you the Hunter.”
“The Hunter? How amusing! I do believe you have come to the wrong Strandzha hunting lodge,” Damian said, slamming the door shut in Boyko’s face.
Boyko was more convinced than e
ver that this man, who hunted animals for sport and pulled the strings of criminal activities the rest of the time, was the notorious Hunter. He would find a way, somehow, to bring the Hunter to justice, no matter what it took.
26
“Now I’m beginning to understand why gunmen shot at us near the border,” Ayala said. “That was the work of the Hunter’s men, wasn’t it?”
Boyko regarded Ayala as she sat across the table from him in his parents’ home. He wondered if he should say anything further. Already he had told her more than enough about the troublesome investigations he had handled. He had revealed circumstances of the case that had established his career, yet he had held back and not revealed details of the specific episode that had marked him for life.
All that was in the past, but even now, the Hunter was unforgiving. His men were issuing clear warnings. The dead bird thrown at the door of his flat. The shooting incident at the border. The slashing of the car tires sometime in the night. One day there would be no further warnings. The Hunter’s henchmen would strike without hesitation. Their appetite for blood would not be satiated until Boyko was dead. Boyko realized there would be no further reprieve for what he had done.
He couldn’t tell this to Ayala. No, he couldn’t share the burden that had accompanied him for so many years. It was difficult, almost painful to keep this secret to himself, but secrecy was what the situation demanded.
“The gunfire at the border was the Hunter’s work,” he confirmed. “My enemies struck at me. Not your Hezbollah.”
“If it was Hezbollah, we would both be dead. Still, you need to report it. This information changes everything.”
“What information are you talking about?”
“The backlash from your dealings with this local criminal proves Hezbollah was not involved in the shooting attack. We can safely conclude the bomber’s accomplices fled Bulgaria shortly after the bombing. We assume they crossed the border into Turkey. Who knows where they are now.”
She was convinced her conclusions were correct, he thought, yet his mind was elsewhere, troubled with a more immediate concern. “Shit, where is the truck from the garage? It should have been here by now,” he said, pacing back and forth, occasionally glancing at the incapacitated vehicle parked outside.
“There’s still something I don’t understand,” she said.
He turned back from the window. “What?”
“How did they find you here in the village? Were the Hunter’s men following us the whole time as we drove from Ruse?”
“Nobody was following us,” Boyko insisted, sitting down again. “I contacted Kamen last night, reporting the lack of findings in Ruse and that our return to Burgas would be delayed. I wonder . . .” he said, not finishing the sentence.
“Kamen?”
“You met him. He’s a short, slightly overweight detective. He’s been at all the briefings.”
“I’m not sure I remember which one he is,” she said.
“Never mind. It’s not important,” he replied. But, it was important, he thought. Kamen! That sly, sneaky bastard. No, it couldn’t be. He dismissed the suspicions from his mind. He was so agitated by waiting for the mechanic that he couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
“Tell me, Boyko. Don’t you have telephone reception here in the village? I’ve been trying to call my team in Burgas, but the call won’t go through.”
“We are unfortunately not fully adapted to the twenty-first century,” he said, checking his own phone. “Sometimes we have a signal, and sometimes we do not. I cannot explain it.” He stood up again and went outside to smoke. Damn it! He didn’t have the patience for this delay.
It took a full three hours until the truck arrived. The mechanic haggled about the cost of replacing the slashed tires; Boyko demanded a police discount and insisted the man get to work immediately. After a few minutes of noisy negotiations, the tires were switched. The mechanic drove off in his truck and Boyko started his engine, motioning for Ayala to get in the car. At last, they were on the road again.
* * *
“The Hunter . . . you really think he constitutes such a threat? Shouldn’t you inform your superiors about this?” she asked.
“This is my case, unrelated to the bombing,” he replied. “What I mean is that it was important to me that I take down the Hunter, and I managed to accomplish that. Now I am dealing with the consequences of my actions. This has nothing to do with you, or with our assignment.”
“Yes, but if the Hunter’s men are shooting at you, damaging your car while you visit your parents in their village, shouldn’t the police provide you with protection? These attacks—it’s all because of your previous actions against that criminal. It’s nothing personal,” she said.
“Oh, but it is,” he replied, keeping his eyes focused on the road. “Very personal.”
He didn’t explain this comment and she remained silent, wondering what Boyko had gotten himself into. It was clear her Bulgarian partner was distressed, troubled. What wasn’t he telling her about his past? Why was he now being targeted by the Hunter’s men? The incidents Boyko described happened so long ago, but maybe there was more to the story. What exactly had he done? And, why wouldn’t he turn to others for help?
“Tell me more about your father,” he said, changing the subject.
“My father?”
“Yes, you said he was born in Sofia. I didn’t know you were half Bulgarian. When did your father leave for Israel?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, come on now. I shared a lot with you, telling you about one of my most noteworthy cases.”
“You told me some things about it, but not everything,” Ayala pointed out.
“What didn’t I tell you?”
“You didn’t tell me how you succeeded at last to arrest the Hunter.”
“That’s a story for another day,” Boyko said, staring ahead. “Now it is your turn. You must share things as well. It’s the polite thing to do.”
“I’d prefer to focus on the case.”
“The case? We’ll be back in Burgas soon enough and you’ll be able to focus on the case as much as you want. Ayala, please talk to me. Your father, at what age did he leave Bulgaria?”
“He left Bulgaria as a boy. His entire family moved to Israel shortly after the state was established. Well, not the entire family. My grandfather remained in Sofia.”
“Your grandfather? Tell me about him.”
“I don’t know too much, because I never met him. He died shortly after my father’s aliyah, I mean after he moved to Israel. I only know what my father told me about him. He was a tailor who lived in Sofia, highly respected by his neighbors, his gentile neighbors as well.”
“He was Jewish, right?”
“Of course, he was Jewish. My whole family is Jewish.”
“In Bulgaria, we have only good things to say about the Jews and about Israel.”
“I know. My grandfather’s family felt very comfortable living in Sofia. My father never complained about anti-Semitism or anything. Jews were welcome members of the community.”
“Why did they leave?” Boyko was serious with the question.
“After the horrors of the Holocaust, they realized Israel was the only place for Jews to be, the only place where Jews can be truly safe. The Jewish State. It’s the rebirth of our nation in our ancestral homeland. My family’s homeland.”
“Bulgaria protected its Jews during the war.”
“Yes, I know. The entire Bulgarian Jewish community was saved. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t difficult for my grandfather. According to what my father told me, my grandfather was rounded up and sent to a forced labor camp. He helped construct railroad lines and worked on other national projects. I’m not sure. But he was never sent to the death camps. My family survived the war intact, thanks to the genuine hospitality of your countrymen. We were treated like ordinary citizens, so we are very thankful to Bulgaria.”
“As
a Bulgarian citizen, I accept your thanks,” Boyko said, a smile forming on his lips.
There was more that Ayala could say, yet she held back. Why should she relate the tales of her father’s home in Sofia, the school he attended as a boy, the skiing he did in the mountains? Ayala didn’t feel comfortable sharing these anecdotes with the Bulgarian police officer. Their relationship was meant to be entirely professional; they were supposed to concentrate on the case at hand. This was not the time for friendly banter of a personal nature. Hunter or no Hunter, the only thing that interested her at the moment was their impending return to Burgas.
Still, her mind wandered. She couldn’t help but think that Boyko’s interest in her family’s connection to Bulgaria was genuine, not just polite conversation. Maybe she wasn’t being fair to him. Maybe she should open up to him a bit more.
She had refrained from speaking about her family life in Israel, while he had invited her into his parents’ home. Keeping her own family’s history off limits in their discussions wasn’t right. She should reciprocate his openness and tell him more about her parents, and about Tomer. She hadn’t said a word about Tomer, about what had happened to him.
Tomer. Every time she thought of her brother, her heart became heavy and she was filled with tearful emotion. Her thoughts of Tomer were deeply embedded in her soul and made up so much of her personality, yet she was reluctant to share this most personal of all her stories.
She didn’t know what to think. She was about to say something when the radio on the dashboard crackled loudly. Boyko spoke into the mouthpiece, informing his fellow officer of their current location.
“They are eager for us to return,” he informed her.
The opportunity for sharing family histories with Boyko had passed. Ayala stared at the Bulgarian countryside passing by her window. They were on the road back to Burgas and would soon resume their roles investigating the horrific terrorist bombing.