by Ellis Shuman
“Yes, we were, we are lovers,” Ayala lied. “Boyko will listen to me. If you take me with you, I can persuade Boyko to turn himself in.”
“You are a couple?” Zhekov laughed and then fell silent for a minute. Ayala could hear the commander’s deep breathing. “Where are you now?” he asked at last.
“I’m at my hotel, in downtown Sofia.”
“I will send someone to pick you up in ten minutes. There will be a long drive involved, across the width of Bulgaria. Is that okay? You will miss your flight.”
“There are always more flights back to Israel,” Ayala replied.
52
“Do you know where Boyko is?”
“Of course we do. He is with Damian.” The detective driving the car took his eyes off the road for a moment and glared at her with a haughty disdain that made Ayala shift in her seat uneasily. “They are working together. It is clear that this is the case.”
Nothing was clear at all to Ayala. Why did the Bulgarian police refuse to consider the possibility that Boyko was innocent, that he was being held against his will by the arch criminal? It appeared they had already convicted her partner. Nothing she could say in his defense was getting through to them, as evident in the words of her driver.
There was something familiar about this officer. He hadn’t bothered to introduce himself when he picked her up at the hotel, but she had dismissed his impoliteness without thinking and didn’t take a good look at him until now.
“Where do I know you from?” she asked, unable to withhold her curiosity any longer.
“My name is Kamen Petrov. We met in Burgas. I worked with your colleague, Moshe, reviewing the video surveillance camera film from the airport terminal.”
“Oh, of course. What were you doing in Sofia?”
“An ongoing investigation. But now, tracking down Boyko Stanchev is our top priority. There is no telling what Stanchev will do next.”
Ayala ignored his remarks and took out her mobile phone. She texted a message in Hebrew to her uncle. “Still here. Working with police. Will contact you later.”
Traffic was heavy. They were bumper-to-bumper on the highway heading to the southeast. Kamen cursed under his breath. Ayala’s phone beeped with a reply.
“Don’t go anywhere! I will be at the hotel in 15 minutes.”
“On the road. I will update you soon.” She clicked the phone to darken its screen and again regarded the detective sitting next to her. Kamen was a short, burly man with a distinct body odor that she found quite unpleasant. She fought a sudden urge to tell him to turn the car around, to take her back to the hotel. But going back was not an option.
“Where are Boyko and Damian? That’s where we’re going, right?”
For several seconds, he stared at her so intensely that she was forced to look away. Finally he spoke up, almost spitting out the words. “Do not ask so many questions. You will see where they are when we arrive. Then, hopefully, you will be helpful.”
“I will do anything I can to help,” she offered. “But it would be beneficial if you would fill me in on some of the details. What do you expect me to do?”
Kamen didn’t reply and instead concentrated on the road. The radio barked out noisy communications, but he ignored the messages. The car picked up speed on a wide, modern highway, passing slow-moving trucks so quickly it almost seemed that the larger vehicles were not moving at all.
A sign listed the distance to the second-largest city in Bulgaria: 130 kilometers.
“Are we going to Plovdiv?”
No reply from Kamen.
“Burgas? Isn’t this also the road to Burgas?”
“We are going to where Damian is. That is where we will find Boyko as well.”
Where Damian is.
She recalled her trip to the wilderness along the Turkish border, searching with Boyko for tracks of the terrorists’ escape. Boyko had spoken of his nocturnal police operations, of an interception of stolen cigarettes.
The border area they visited was also famous for its culture, Boyko had told her. They mark the festival by dancing barefoot on smoldering wood coals. Those who truly believe are able to dance like that without getting burned.
Fire-walking.
There was something more about the borderland, something tied to Boyko’s career. What was the name of that place, the place where Boyko had arrested the Hunter, where he had planted false evidence in order to convict the criminal he was chasing?
“Strandzha!” Ayala said aloud, causing Kamen to regard her with a surprised look.
“You know of the Strandzha?”
“Yes, I was there. Are we going to the Strandzha?”
Before he had a chance to respond, more static burst forth from the car radio. Kamen picked up his mouthpiece and responded, giving coordinates of their location and expected arrival time. Hearing this, Ayala realized there was still a lot of driving ahead. She was tired and on edge, not sure how she would cope with the long journey sitting next to the heavyset detective. It was impossible to have any sort of civil conversation with him. Still, this was the only way she could get to Boyko.
A short reply on the radio acknowledged Kamen’s update. The radio then went silent.
Kamen rolled down his window and flicked out his half-finished cigarette. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack and held it out to Ayala.
Instead of replying, she looked away. The Strandzha. That was undoubtedly where the Hunter had gone, where Boyko was being held. The very name of their destination sounded strange, mysterious, and somewhat ominous.
Ayala stared out the window at the passing scenery. Dark, fertile fields; dense forests; and majestic, lofty mountains melded into a collage of greens and browns, one in which she could not detect distinct objects or figures. Her mind began to wander. Images of Boyko, the Burgas airport terminal, and the lonely Turkish border zone competed for attention in her thoughts. It was already late afternoon, an hour at which she should have been at the airport waiting for her flight to depart. Instead, she was racing across Bulgaria, seeking redemption for her colleague, seeking closure for a case that offered no promises of a successful conclusion.
Her eyelids became heavy and she dozed off.
* * *
It was night. The road was narrow and they were driving through forest. Hours of traveling had passed, but Ayala barely recalled the journey. Staring at the passing scenery and swayed by the car’s steady motion, she had fought unsuccessfully to keep her eyes open. They had stopped for gas—that she remembered—and again for a light dinner, but she wasn’t certain what she had eaten. On and on they traveled, the passing kilometers barely leaving their mark. Now she shook herself awake, trying to dispel the grogginess and determine where she was. Had they arrived? Were they in the Strandzha?
She saw a fence. Long stretches of wrought iron encompassing shadowy, ominous woods. Private property of some kind, a protected estate. She sat up straight, adjusting the tight pull of the seat belt on her jacket. They neared a gate, elaborate with geometric designs. Kamen did not stop the car but instead veered onto a dirt road running parallel to the fence. He shifted gears and drove deeper into the thicket.
“Where are we?” Ayala asked, but her companion didn’t reply. Oh, great, she thought. We’re heading toward a major confrontation with Damian and I’m being kept in the dark.
They went over a small rise and approached a clearing on the other side. Three cars, the word “Police” in Bulgarian clearly marked on their side panels, were already parked there. Policemen milled about, many of them dressed in black, bulky Kevlar vests, with night goggles slung around their necks and assault rifles strapped over their shoulders. The SWAT team was here, she saw, ready to storm the objective and repel any resistance they might meet. But what exactly was the objective?
Was Damian considered such an important fugitive? she wondered. Or were the police out in force because Boyko, one of their own, had allegedly turned against them? In any case, with so
many officers and so much activity in the clearing, their arrival wouldn’t constitute a surprise. If Damian was nearby, he would have already been alerted to their presence. There was no knowing what precautions the criminal would take to avert capture. It was not certain he would keep Boyko alive under these circumstances.
Kamen parked the car and got out to consult his colleagues. Ayala followed but stood silently at a distance. She wrapped her arms around her, wishing her jacket would offer greater protection against the night’s biting chill. She stared at the officers. Some of them had faces charcoaled in black. Others were checking and readying their weapons. The men kept glancing in her direction, unfriendly looks on their faces. She was not invited to join their conversation, yet it wasn’t only the language keeping her back. All the officers gathered in the clearing were men, creating a gender barrier of which only she was aware. More than that, it was clear they regarded her as an unwelcome curiosity, a foreigner who had only tagged along for the ride.
What were they discussing? If they were about to launch a raid, what was her role to be? There was no one she could ask, no way for her to understand what operation was planned for these pitch-black woods.
She circled back to Kamen’s car and leaned against the cold metal. An owl hooted nearby, the only noise disturbing the night’s silence. The line of tall, dark trees formed a seemingly impenetrable border at the edge of the clearing. The wind picked up, scattering leaves that had fallen to the forest floor ahead of the coming winter.
Surely they would be able to convince Damian to surrender, avoiding a more violent scenario, she thought. But then, she really didn’t understand what was happening. She couldn’t spot Kamen anywhere. Would he be her ride out of the forest? What was she supposed to do?
Another car pulled up, this one a fancy Mercedes sedan. The officers snapped to attention and gathered near. Caught in the glare of the car’s headlights, the circle of men cast long, menacing shadows on the ground. Ayala stepped forward to join them as someone familiar emerged from the passenger side of the vehicle. It was Burgas Police Commander Zhekov!
One by one, the officers approached Zhekov to give updates and receive instructions. Kamen, too, reported to the commander. Marching orders for a tactical assault. Police headed off, advancing into the dark to take up positions around the fence.
“Commander Zhekov,” Ayala said when most of the officers had left the clearing.
“Miss Navon, I see you have joined us in this mysterious wilderness. I hope your journey was pleasant.”
“What’s going on?” she said, trying to make herself sound as assertive as possible. “Are you planning to raid Damian’s estate? What can I do to help free Boyko?”
“Ah, yes, Detective Stanchev. We are under the assumption that he is here. Come along; we need to move quickly and I want you by my side. We will soon surround Damian’s hunting lodge.”
Hunting lodge? Of course! It was the hunting lodge that Boyko had mentioned when talking to her about the criminal known as the Hunter!
With that, Zhekov marched into the darkness, accompanied by two other plainclothes officers. Ayala hurried to keep pace, following them on a dirt trail running parallel to the electrified fence which encircled the property. Away from the car headlights, she couldn’t see much of the dark surroundings. She concentrated on taking one careful step after another. One of the officers sported night goggles, which didn’t help her any, but Zhekov carried a small flashlight that lit up a stretch of the path in front of his feet. Ayala did her best to follow, avoiding most of the stones and branches that lay in her way.
Where was the moon when you needed it? She laughed to herself, recalling the nocturnal hikes of her army days. She had crisscrossed the Negev desert in complete darkness, laden down by her Uzi and other gear. Those training marches had been conducted in dead silence, as if terrorists lurked in every wadi, behind every boulder. Now, with no weapon at all, she felt totally vulnerable. A moving target, easily spotted if Damian’s men were outfitted with proper night gear.
The officers came to a halt and Zhekov raised his hand, signaling for her to stop. She nearly bumped into him in the dark, catching herself at the last minute. He aimed his flashlight at the fence, which appeared in the shadows a short distance to her right. They had reached the far side of the property. There was something just ahead. Was it a breach in the fence? No, it was a partially open iron gate!
“We go this way,” Zhekov whispered to her. He moved forward with his men, through the gate and into the fenced-off estate. She hurried behind them, trying to keep close to the dim beam of the lone flashlight.
Inside the property, the trail was easier to follow. Here it was clear of weeds and stones and partially covered with gravel. Walking on the loose road cover resulted in small crunching noises under their feet, but Zhekov didn’t appear concerned. A light just ahead emanated from a building of some kind, its shape and size still indeterminable in the dark.
They passed some of the men, crouched in cover on either side of the path. Others spread out in a line, ready to launch the assault. Ayala stood behind at a safe distance, glancing at their just barely visible target.
The building appeared to be constructed entirely of wood. The beams intersected at one of the corners, giving the impression of a log cabin. A few small windows lined the wall they were facing. Light emerged in a checkered pattern through the slats of the shuttered windows. There must be someone inside, Ayala surmised.
The hunting lodge—the very one Boyko had described in his tale of the Hunter’s arrest!
Zhekov touched her arm, motioning her to follow as he made his way around the building.
Ayala tried to keep her movements as quiet as possible. While she kept her body low, Zhekov walked ahead with his shoulders erect, as if he believed no one would dare fire at a commanding officer. He was either extremely fearless or incredibly stupid, she thought. She didn’t know all the details of this operation, yet she had no choice but to trust his judgment. He was, after all, the experienced police commander. Perhaps this building was empty after all.
They came around to the other side of the structure, to the well-lit front. A solid wooden door sat at the top of three small steps. If someone inside was looking out, the police team would be clearly visible.
“Here, take this,” Zhekov said, handing her something.
It was a megaphone. She hadn’t seen him carrying it. What was she supposed to do with it? Before she had a chance to ask the question, Zhekov explained the task ahead.
She took the megaphone, which was slightly heavier than she had expected. A megaphone’s purpose was to amplify your voice, she knew, but the size of this one suggested it was powerful enough to wake the dead. It should be sufficient to get her message heard by anyone hiding inside the wooden building. She listened to Zhekov’s instructions, registering his words as she inspected the instrument in her hands.
“I am not protected,” Ayala whispered.
“What?” The gray-haired commander appeared to be impatient for her to proceed.
Ayala glanced at the men waiting for orders, all of them equipped with bulletproof personal armor and helmets.
“You did not suit up? Damn it, I told Kamen to get you ready.” Zhekov looked around, but Ayala’s driver was nowhere near. “Never mind; you can take mine.”
Before she had a chance to protest, the senior officer removed his own protection and handed it to her. Ayala quickly took off her leather jacket and slipped her arms through the straps of the vest. The bulky garment was a bit confining, the sensation similar to what she felt when being X-rayed at the dentist’s office. Zhekov make the last adjustments and helped her put on her jacket over the contraption.
“Are you ready now?” he asked.
None of this plan made sense, she thought as she stepped forward into the light. She had been asked to identify herself, to let those inside know who she was. Her assigned task was to call out to Boyko, if he was indeed in the building.
Her words would appeal to his sensibility, Zhekov assured her. If she was his lover, as she claimed, Boyko would step out voluntarily, without resistance. She would convince him to surrender. This was the essence of Zhekov’s plan.
He was making a number of assumptions, Ayala realized. First, he assumed that Boyko was in the building. Second, he believed Boyko was free to act as he wished and was not being held against his will. Also, and perhaps more crucially, Zhekov presumed that Damian, and Damian’s men, would not respond violently to this imprudent invasion of their property.
But the Bulgarian police commander was making yet another assumption, and this one disturbed her more than the others. Zhekov seemed to believe Ayala was capable of standing outside this building in the forest, unarmed and vulnerable, willing to speak out with total disregard for the surrounding danger. She was being asked to put her life on the line, to be used as bait in efforts to coax Boyko out of hiding. Despite giving her a bulletproof vest, Zhekov and his fellow Bulgarians showed no signs that they cared about her safety. All they wanted was to get their hands on her friend. They would use any means possible to achieve this goal. Even if that meant sacrificing a visiting Israeli data analyst. It seemed the Bulgarians had no alternative plan of action
Ayala moved forward. The Bulgarian police commander stood slightly behind her, shielded by other officers. Police snipers took their positions and aimed their weapons at the entrance door.
Ayala reluctantly switched the megaphone on and raised it to her lips. A loud electronic squeal issued from the instrument, causing her to step back. There was no hiding her presence now.
“Boyko,” she said, speaking at first almost in a whisper. “Boyko, are you in there?” she continued, her voice amplified in a sound wave projected loudly through the wooden walls and around the clearing and throughout the woods of the estate.
Before she had a chance to say anything further, rapid gunfire burst from the shuttered windows on all sides of the building, splattering the trees and the surrounding grounds with a deluge of bullets. The police, entrenched in their protected positions, returned fire.