The Burgas Affair

by Ellis Shuman

  27

  “The Bulgarians are no longer convinced Hezbollah instigated the bombing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ayala asked, looking at the other members of the Israeli team. They sat in a corner of the Burgas hotel lobby, hunched over cups of tepid coffee and smoldering cigarette butts as Boaz informed them of the latest development.

  “We have been pushing Bulgaria to declare officially and unequivocally that Hezbollah terrorists are responsible for the bombing,” Boaz said, speaking in Hebrew. “This statement, if it was issued by a member state of the European Union, would convince the rest of the countries to vote in favor of a resolution condemning Hezbollah as a terrorist organization. And that decision would close down Hezbollah’s European bank accounts, severing the organization’s crucial avenues of funding. But now, Bulgaria is backing away from its original statements, which had mentioned Hezbollah’s likely involvement. Why is this position changing? I can only assume it’s because no hard evidence has been found to establish the connection. We haven’t yet found the smoking gun proving anything.”

  “There are politics involved,” Moshe added, and the others nodded in agreement. “If Bulgaria would fully back Israel regarding Hezbollah’s involvement, it would harm Bulgaria’s relations with Arab countries. Diplomacy trumps acknowledging the truth. That’s the way I see it.”

  “What about the re-enactment?” asked Shlomi, a former IDF commando new to the team.

  “What re-enactment?” Ayala asked. Her trip to Ruse had kept her out of the loop on many things.

  “It is essential to restage the bombing,” Boaz explained. “This is the only we can establish exactly which types of explosives were used and where the bomb was located when it detonated.”

  “You mean we still don’t know whether it was on the bus or in the luggage hold?” Ayala asked. This was hard to believe. It should be the simplest thing to determine.

  “The re-enactment of the bombing will prove it one way or another. Until that time, we have to assume the bomb was on the bus itself, and that it detonated prematurely.”

  “So, when will the re-enactment take place?” Shlomi asked again.

  “The Bulgarians are not yet ready to stage it,” Boaz said with a sigh. “There’s something about the publicity it would attract, or the need to shut down the Burgas terminal for the event.”

  “More politics!” Moshe complained.

  “If this was an attack in Israel, we would have staged the re-enactment long ago,” Shlomi said. “And, we would already know conclusively who sent the bomber to Burgas.”

  “We would have already struck back at them,” Ayala added.

  “Listen up, everybody,” Boaz said, taking control of the meeting. “This is not Israel. We’re here to cooperate with the Bulgarians. They’re on our side, after all; they want to get to the bottom of this as much as we do. Let’s not forget who the bad guys are. We’ll stage the re-enactment of the bombing and we’ll convince the Bulgarians, and all of Europe, that Hezbollah was responsible. We’ll do all that, but it will take time. And it will take your continued legwork in the field, as slow and time-consuming as it may be. Now, was there anything else?”

  Moshe muttered something under his breath causing Boaz to cast him a stern look. “Drop it already, Moshe!” he said.

  As the team dispersed, Ayala thought back to the last thing Boyko had said to her as they drove into Burgas. They had been discussing the investigation, going over the facts and listing the inconsistencies and holes in their findings. They had argued. Ayala insisted they already knew who the culprits were, while Boyko, like the rest of his countrymen, was still searching for the hard evidence, the conclusive proof, the undeniable facts that would remove all doubts.

  Where was the missing link that would tie all the pieces together?

  “We’ll find the evidence,” Ayala had said in the car. “All cases get solved. All criminals are held accountable for their crimes; all terrorists get their due punishment.”

  “We can only do what we can do,” Boyko had replied. Apparently, he wasn’t convinced the Burgas case would ever be solved.

  “Ayala, come with me for a minute.”

  “What is it?” she asked, dismissing her thoughts of Boyko as she followed Boaz toward the hotel entrance.

  “I’m heading back to police headquarters, to coordinate upcoming operations with Zhekov,” Boaz informed her. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  “What is it?”

  “You already have your assignment for tomorrow. You’ll be traveling south, almost to the Turkish border. You’ve been at the border, before, but not to this specific region of Bulgaria. Any problem with that?”

  “No, no problems.”

  “Are you sure? You’re partnered up with the Bulgarian detective again. I’ve got a hunch he knows more about this investigation than what he’s saying. You’ve got to stay close to him, to pry out this information. It’s worth it.”

  “Sure. I’ll learn whatever I can. Boaz, you seem worried. Is something bothering you?”

  “No, of course not. We’re making progress.”

  “But we’re not making progress fast enough. Is that it?”

  “Listen, Ayala. This is the first time I’ve been in charge of an investigation in the field. It’s important to me that we solve this case, that we prove the Hezbollah connection. I guess it’s also very important that a successful operation is listed on my record. But, it’s more than that. We’re doing this as agents of the State of Israel. We cannot let our country down. Failure is not an option.”

  Ayala thought again of Boyko’s words. We can only do what we can do. No, she couldn’t allow their efforts to fall short. They had to close all the loose ends. She had been to Plovdiv, and to Ruse. She would go wherever the case took her. Back to the Turkish border where she had nearly lost her life if that was required. She would do whatever was necessary to contribute to the investigation, to find and capture the terrorists responsible for the horrific attack at the airport.

  “We won’t fail, Boaz. We can’t allow that to happen,” she said as Boaz’s taxi arrived. As he got in the back seat, she repeated his words, “Failure is not an option.”

  28

  Ayala. Being around her made it difficult, almost impossible, for Boyko to think of anything else. He had spent time with her in Ruse, in his parents’ village, and during innumerable hours on the road. She was clearly very intelligent, with strong ideas and well-entrenched principles. Partnering with her challenged him to always be on his toes. It forced him to focus on the case with new outlooks and perspectives. But, it was difficult.

  Boyko was attracted to many types of women. After all, he was a virile Bulgarian man. His instinct to sleep around with tall, thin blondes and voluptuous brunettes was almost inbred. The joyless marriage with Galina, already a distant memory, had paid the price for his dallying. He couldn’t do anything about it—he was drawn to members of the other sex like honeybees to brightly colored flowers. But Ayala was different.

  She was beautiful in a natural sort of way, with a splendor about her that was difficult to describe. But, it wasn’t only her physical looks that mesmerized him. He wasn’t sure what it was. There was a certain sensitivity about her, a reluctance to talk about her family that beguiled him. All he could admit to himself was that he was very much engrossed by this Israeli woman. He wanted to draw closer, to learn her history and her secrets. He hoped, no, he longed to break through her impenetrable skin and get to know what made her tick, if that was at all possible.

  In the meantime, he found it difficult to concentrate on the investigation. He was late in filing the paperwork detailing his failed efforts in Ruse, papers that would serve as yet another inconclusive report on the possible movements of the suspects in the days prior to the bombing. Boyko had nothing positive to list in his account, nothing that could advance the case they were attempting to build. Still, it didn’t matter if the leads led to dead ends
far from the scene of the bombing. Every angle had to be investigated. Their next assignment would take them south, again toward the Turkish border. It was a region he knew well, but would they be able to pick up the bombers’ trail? Or would they again be wasting their time? If he were in charge of the investigation, instead of Zhekov, priorities would be different. But, it was not exactly clear how he would handle such responsibility, especially when the case was so mixed up in his mind.

  Something else troubled him. The dead bird in the middle of the night. The shots pounding into the headboard above his head. The slashed tires. The Hunter’s men were seemingly everywhere, following him at their leisure, knowing his every move. How they had found him in the village disturbed him, yet what concerned him most at this stage was the specific incident long ago when his troubles began.

  In his talks with Ayala, he had shared part of his efforts to track down the Hunter, but he hadn’t told her the entire story. He wasn’t sure he could reveal to her the episode in which he had sold his soul in order to apprehend the Hunter. No, that was best kept secret for now.

  Ayala, the bombers, the Hunter. The half-finished bottle of cheap rakia offered him some salvation from his troubled thoughts. Everything would go away once he helped himself to another comforting shot. He sought escape from his troubles, and the sole sanctuary he had was his dreary kitchen. He rested his head on the table and attempted to get some sleep.

  * * *

  The barbed wire ran at the edge of the forest, through patches of overgrown shrubbery and tall, wild grass as far as the eye could see. Never more than two meters high, the sharp, jagged obstacle announced the end of one country and the start of another. Some twenty odd years before, this manmade line had separated much more than two sovereign nations; it had also served as the division between two ideologies. To the north was the oppressive, uncompromising rule of totalitarianism. To the south was democracy, an open market, and a free press. Escape the land to the north and one would break free from the austere limitations of human expression. Enter the land to the south and all the benefits granted to free citizens were ripe for the taking.

  But this particular stretch of wired fence was an artificial demarcation during those years, intended to disarm anyone making their way through the forests and meadows in attempts to flee the country. Approaching the fence, people on the run would assume they had successfully reached the border. All that was left, they believed, was to cross this final impediment, this last hurdle on their journey to freedom. Scrapes and cuts from the metallic spikes were nothing when the new life envisioned on the other side was so carefree and rewarding.

  The real border between Bulgaria and Turkey was a few kilometers farther south. After traversing this mock borderline, runaways and deserters during the Communist era no longer felt the need to take precautions to prevent detection. Proceeding carelessly in the open, they were easily spotted by the young and inexperienced border guards. Capturing an absconding fugitive was remunerated by extra wages and a week’s holiday leave. Sometimes the guards were quick on the trigger and those attempting to flee Bulgaria would instead be returned to their home villages and towns in boxes, ready for burial.

  “See these tracks over here?” Boyko said, following the dirt path as it twisted through a gap in the fence. “These are fresh markings. A vehicle drove along this road in the last few days.”

  “They may have escaped to Turkey by crossing the frontier as we suspected,” Ayala said, panting for breath as she caught up with her Bulgarian partner. “Can we continue along the path?”

  “What’s the point?” Boyko asked. “A few kilometers farther and we’d be in Turkey. Who knows where they went?”

  Ayala regarded her surroundings, taking in the grassy meadows and the dirt path that had once served as a patrol road. A word popped into her mind: lonely. That was how she perceived this silent no-man’s-land between Bulgaria and Turkey. Once guards had patrolled this area, viewing the road with vintage binoculars during their night-long duty shifts, all in efforts to stop anyone brave enough to venture this far south. Today, the place was abandoned. The fence, the road, the empty pillbox, the derelict barracks, and the deserted watchtower just visible on the horizon had all outlived their purpose as guardians of the Bulgarian motherland. The capricious breeze caressing her face gave off a sense of solitude. The barbed wire still crisscrossed the open fields, but this border no longer threatened anyone.

  Boyko began to double back to where they had parked at the edge of the paved road near the outermost trees of the forest. He stopped in his tracks and turned to her.

  “The report that they escaped through this area may or may not have been correct,” he said, searching in his pockets for cigarettes. “We’ve checked the lead, but there is nothing to prove or disprove that possibility. If they drove through here, it would have been days ago. For sure they’re in Turkey by now and it really doesn’t matter how they got there.”

  Ayala’s shoulders drooped with the realization that she had been partner to yet another failed effort to track down the movements of the bomber’s accomplices. Her travels around Bulgaria were not proving helpful whatsoever.

  “What did you say this place was called?” She looked at him intently, waiting for his reply.

  “We’re at the edge of the Strandzha. It’s Bulgaria’s southernmost area, its least understood region. I have spent some time here—in the small villages and in the mountains. The criminal I spoke about—the Hunter? He is based in the Strandzha.”

  “You never did tell me how you finally managed to arrest him,” she pointed out.

  “That’s true,” he said, puffing on his cigarette and staring off into the distance. He was quiet for several moments, as if replaying scenes from the past in his mind. He took a deep breath, stubbed out the cigarette and prepared to light up another one. “One of my raids on the Hunter’s operations was conducted not far from here, right along the Turkish border.”

  She leaned back against the car door. “This was the raid when you arrested him?” she asked.

  “No, this was earlier, while I was still building my case against him.”

  She nodded her head, indicating her willingness to hear the story.

  “This operation, long before the arrest, was on the night of the fire-walkers’ ceremony.”

  “Fire-walkers? What kind of ceremony is that?”

  “It is a tradition, performed each year in a number of Strandzha villages You should see it! Ah, but unfortunately it happens only in May. Visitors come from around the country to see the fire-walking ritual. It is a very, how do I say it, a very theatrical spectacle.”

  “Go on,” she encouraged him.

  “The ritual dates back a long time; it is most likely a pagan custom. It is called the Nestinarstvo and it takes place on a holiday we have for Saint Constantine and Saint Helena. The villagers in the Strandzha keep this tradition alive by sacrificing animals even to this day. They sing strange songs and dance to the accompaniment of the gaida, a bagpipe made of goatskin. And they dance on the fire without getting burned.”

  “Without getting burned? You saw this?”

  “Yes. It is quite miraculous, actually. A few years before my operation on the border. I was visiting in the region. Maybe, it was for pleasure, maybe not. I do not remember. Anyway, it was the night of the festival and I came to see what this Nestinarstvo was all about. A large fire blazed in the central square of the village. A bonfire! Burning coals everywhere! They looked red-hot, yet the dancers seemed not to mind at all. The women wore colorful costumes, traditional to the Strandzha. They carried small icons, honoring the two saints of the holiday. They danced barefoot on the smoldering coals, gazing straight ahead, never blinking. The dancers did not show any sign of discomfort or pain, nor did they acknowledge the crowd cheering them on.

  “And the men, they wore the costumes as well. Some of them played music. A few had mouths glued to the windpipes of their gaida while others pounded on festive
drums. The whine of the gaida, the crackle of the fire, the chanting, and the drumbeats—how captivating that night music is! Those who truly believe are able to dance on fire without getting burned. Fire-walkers.”

  “You’re making this up,” she said, waiting for a punch line that never came.

  “I am serious. The Strandzha has odd rituals. And it is a region where anything can happen. Mysterious border crossings, the transport of smuggled goods. Bad things. Well, some of the time anyway.”

  “And your operation took place in one of those villages during this strange festival?”

  “No, the operation was later, a few years after I saw the Nestinarstvo, but quite some time before I finally managed to arrest the Hunter. Still, when I think back, in my mind, I connect that operation with the fire-walker’s ceremony.

  “So, what happened? In your operation that night?”

  “My team was to intercept a shipment of contraband on the border, at a crossing similar to this one,” he said, pointing at the dusty road running into Turkey. “But things didn’t work out the way we planned.”

  29

  May 2006

  Boyko and his team were positioned in their stakeout a few kilometers inland from the Black Sea coast. Hidden in shadows behind an abandoned check post, Boyko focused his night vision goggles on the unmarked road that snaked across no-man’s-land. If the intelligence report was correct, the delivery would cross the border at any minute.

  “Put out your cigarette,” he commanded one of the newer policemen waiting in the dark. As the younger man ground his butt into the dirt, its red tip reminded Boyko of the burning embers in the wild dance of the Nestinarstvo. He knew the festival, which he had witnessed in the past, was taking place that very night. The stakeout was not far from those villages, but they seemed a world away.