The Burgas Affair Read online

  “I understand. Should I get back inside and carry on?” Boyko asked, dropping his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his shoe.

  “We need the answers before the Israeli team arrives. We do not want them fiddling around in our business.”

  “I understand,” Boyko repeated.

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Boyko, we may have had our differences in the past, before you transferred to Sofia, but as long as you are here, stationed in Burgas, you are under my command.”

  Boyko started to protest, but Zhekov waved him down. “I don’t care if you are here on behalf of SANS or if you report to the UN, for that matter. In Burgas, on this investigation, you report to me.”

  Boyko watched the commander walk away and then he re-entered the terminal. The mass confusion seemed greater, the wailing of the injured louder than before. Police officers were talking to the passengers, taking notes and recording evidence, but Kamen was nowhere in sight. A woman wearing the uniform of a rental car agency distributed bottled water while someone else helped Israelis connect their mobile phones to local service providers so they could make international calls. Another ambulance pulled up at the entrance and paramedics rushed inside, not initially knowing who to evacuate next.

  “The Israelis are coming,” Boyko said to himself, fearing that this fact would create new problems rather than quickly resolve the case of the airport bombing.

  3

  “I didn’t see anything. I was still inside the terminal. But I heard the blast. It was so loud I thought the entire building would collapse.”

  Boyko nodded at the woman sitting across the table from him. He was trying to empathize with her as she dealt with the horror she had experienced; truly he was. He addressed the woman’s nervous husband.

  “You, sir? Did you see anything? Anyone suspicious?”

  “I was outside,” he replied, eyeing the office’s lone door. “I hurried ahead to put our suitcases on the bus, to get good seats.”

  Boyko feared the Israeli would bolt from the room at any moment. He leaned forward and urged the man to continue.

  “There was this man. He was different.”

  “Different? In what way?”

  “Like he didn’t belong. He didn’t look like one of us.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He was tall, quite thin and very light-skinned. He had something on his head, a cap of some kind. And he wore shorts. He looked like a tourist.”

  “Was he Israeli?” Boyko prompted.

  “No. I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

  “Ask them about Amit and Esty,” the woman said, prodding her husband.

  “Amit and Esty?” Boyko asked.

  “Yes, an Israeli couple with us on the flight. I think both of them were already on the bus,” the man said.

  “Are they okay?” his wife interjected. “She’s pregnant and tires quickly. I haven’t seen them in the airport.”

  The door of the office opened and Zhekov entered, accompanied by two strangers. They were here in an official capacity, Boyko assumed, and they appeared to be foreigners. The married couple looked up. Relief was apparent in their eyes, even though it was unlikely they had ever seen these newcomers before.

  “We’ll take over from here,” the man at Zhekov’s side announced.

  “Atem b’seder?” the young woman with him asked the couple.

  Boyko recognized the tone of the words, the accent. Hebrew! How had the Israelis arrived so quickly? he wondered. Oh great. This was going to screw up everything. He moved to the side of the room and stood next to the uniformed policeman.

  “Wait a minute,” Zhekov said, clearing his throat. “From this point forth, we are working a joint investigation. If you wish to question the passengers, fine, but members of my team will be present as well. And all questions must be in English.”

  “I’ll translate their answers into English,” the woman standing in the doorway promised, her voice surprisingly confident.

  Ah, a translator! Boyko thought. The man at her side must be the lead Israeli investigator. As the woman spoke quietly with her distressed compatriots, Boyko whispered to Zhekov in Bulgarian.

  “They send a woman to translate. I hope she is capable of translating my questions.”

  “Hardly a translator,” Zhekov replied. “She will be the one asking the questions.”

  “What?”

  “We will play this by the rules,” Zhekov said. “But, report everything you learn to me. We cannot let our friends from Tel Aviv call all the shots.”

  Zhekov left the room with the uniformed policeman and the Israeli man. Boyko leaned back against the wall as he listened to the couple speak to the woman in Hebrew, the language very guttural and quick. He longed for another cigarette but didn’t dare step out of the office. This was his investigation, and yet, this woman was taking over. She was dressed in jeans and a beige blouse, looking more like a tourist than someone assigned to take part in such a serious investigation. She was barely out of university, he figured. What did she know about police work? Surely she would miss something vital in her questions. The fact that Zhekov had sanctioned the woman’s presence prevented him from interrupting, from asserting his control over the interrogation. It wasn’t right!

  The questioning went on for several minutes. The Israeli woman asking the questions frequently touched the wife’s shoulder and nodded sympathetically as the husband spoke his piece. And then, without notice, the couple stood up and walked out.

  “You let them go?” Boyko asked incredulously.

  “I heard their story. They have nothing more to add to what we already know,” the woman said, taking one of the seats at the table and staring at Boyko.

  “What we already know? What do we already know?”

  “This was a suicide bombing, perpetrated by Hezbollah against Israeli citizens on Bulgarian soil,” the woman stated without hesitation.

  “How have you concluded this? Hezbollah?”

  “All the evidence so far supports this. Or rather, the lack of evidence suggesting otherwise. There is nothing else possible.”

  Boyko shook his head. How could this be? The Israeli investigators had only just arrived on a flight from Tel Aviv. After a five-minute talk with an Israeli couple—a couple waiting for their bags in the airport terminal at the time of the bus bombing—she had already reached a perfunctory conclusion that it was the work of Hezbollah. Boyko racked his brain, trying to recall what he knew of Hezbollah. Weren’t they some social organization based in Lebanon? Oh, right. Israel had a serious beef with them. There had been a war—rockets fired into Israel. That was a while ago. How could one infer from past rocket launches that Hezbollah had perpetrated this bombing?

  “We have yet to question all the eyewitnesses,” Boyko said, trying to justify the actions of his compatriots. “The most seriously injured, and those who were on the bus at the time—we took them to the hospital, but we must still talk with them.”

  “What about the passengers in the hall?”

  “We are questioning them one by one, as you can see.”

  “Didn’t you see that some are injured and in need of immediate medical attention?”

  “We thought it best to keep them here, at the scene of the crime, until we talked to everyone.”

  “You should have first worried about their health,” the woman said, standing up and heading for the door. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. We’re taking them.”

  “This is our investigation!” Boyko protested.

  “No, this is a joint investigation, as your fellow officer stated. We are concerned about our citizens’ well-being. We’ll fly them back to Israel shortly.”

  Boyko coughed. The woman surprised him by extending her hand. It was an indication she was willing to put aside the initial harshness between them in the name of their need to work together.

  “Oh, by the way, my name is
Ayala. Ayala Navon.”

  “Boyko,” he replied. “Boyko Stanchev of the State Agency for National Security.”

  “Well, Boyko Stanchev. Let’s go.”

  4

  Several hours had passed since the Israeli team landed in Burgas and now they were seated across from their Bulgarian counterparts in the conference room of the regional police station on Georgi Kirkov Street. Styrofoam cups of lukewarm coffee were placed next to plates of dry biscuits, but the refreshments were left untouched. The atmosphere was tense; pressure for a quick closure of the case was tangible.

  Commander Zhekov glanced at the room’s noisy air conditioner on the far wall, waited a moment for it to kick into a new cooling cycle, and then called the briefing to order with a few words of introduction. “We’re all on a first-name basis here,” he said, addressing everyone in the room. “If that’s okay with you.”

  The Israelis nodded their agreement.

  “Okay, let’s begin. What’s the situation at the airport?” he asked, turning to Kamen, who was seated at the far end of the table.

  As Kamen prepared to give his report, Boyko felt his revulsion for the man about to boil over. He wondered how his incompetent former colleague had managed to stay on the force, how he could even be called upon to give a report in such an important briefing. Kamen had such an exaggerated sense of his own importance, yet he was the first officer asked to address the meeting. Boyko glared at the man as he began to speak.

  “The Israeli passengers have all been questioned,” Kamen said. “We have interviewed Bulgarians who were passing through the terminal at the time of the bombing and airport staff as well. As an added precaution, due to the situation, security has been beefed up at both the Israeli Embassy and the central synagogue in Sofia. I think we’re moving forward quickly,” he said, summing up his initial report.

  Quickly? With Kamen working the investigation that was hardly likely, Boyko thought, as he fidgeted in his seat next to Zhekov. The commander was studying his notes, not paying full attention to Kamen’s report. Sitting on Zhekov’s other side was the officer in charge of the local bomb squad, who reported that his team was working to determine what explosives were used in the bombing. Next to him sat Milen, a veteran detective Boyko knew from the Burgas station. Milen leaned forward in his seat, eager to present his findings to the gathering.

  Boyko glanced again at Kamen, who sneered at Boyko in return. Kamen and the others were no longer his colleagues—that was all in the past. Boyko ignored Kamen’s dirty look and regarded the visitors from overseas.

  Two of the Israelis were athletic men with serious features and crew-cut hair. Despite being casually dressed in jeans and short-sleeved shirts, their attitude was tough. Boyko wondered if they were IDF commandos. Seated between them was the Israeli woman, the one who had questioned the couple with him at the terminal. What was her name? Something strange. She was so young, Boyko thought, too inexperienced to be involved in any of this. With her Mediterranean complexion, thick black shoulder-length hair, and dark eyes, he couldn’t help but stare. There were no rings on her fingers, leading him to the assumption that she was not married. She wore no jewelry at all; she didn’t appear to use makeup either. She certainly didn’t need any accessories to heighten her appeal. She was rather attractive, in a natural sort of way. Despite her assertive handling of the interrogation in the interview room, Boyko hardly thought her suitable to be part of a bombing investigation.

  “We arrived in Burgas a few hours after the terror attack,” an Israeli who introduced himself as Boaz said. “Medics from Magen David Adom, our version of the Red Cross, quickly assumed responsibility for the injured passengers. We dispatched one of our senior doctors to Burgas Hospital where, I understand, the most seriously injured are being treated. The bodies of those killed in the bombing are still at the airport, awaiting identification. After that is completed, we will transport them back to Israel. The injured will also be flown home to continue their medical treatment.”

  “We retrieved six bodies from the bus,” Milen began, his voice grave and respectful of the dead. “And one person was killed on the steps of the bus. As Boaz stated, we have not yet identified the victims, but we are hoping to complete this task very soon. Those men, the ones dressed entirely in black, are currently dealing with the remains.”

  “ZAKA,” the Israeli woman explained. “It’s short for Zihui Korbanot Ason, or in English, Disaster Victim Identification. In Jewish law, all body parts and blood must be gathered and buried according to our traditions. The ZAKA team flew in with us from Tel Aviv.”

  She was cut short by one of the crew-cut men at her side who directed his question at Milen. “Do we know which of the passengers from the flight are missing? This will help us determine who was killed in the attack.”

  “We have a list of everyone on the flight from Tel Aviv,” Milen continued, holding up the passenger manifest. “The most seriously injured were evacuated to the hospital by ambulance, as your colleague stated.”

  “Surely you have a list of everyone taken to the hospital?” the Israeli woman asked.

  “We have a list, yes,” Milen replied, riffling through the papers in front of him. “It’s here somewhere. What we must do is compile all our notes into a master list so that we can finalize who, exactly, is missing.”

  “You haven’t done that yet?” one of the Israelis asked. Boyko didn’t know his name but it was apparent that this man was impatient and expected instant results. Zhekov was right about the Israelis. They all expected instant results.

  “We will do it right away,” Zhekov assured everyone in the room. “Milen, please continue.”

  “Okay. There are several theories as to how the bombing was perpetrated.”

  “Several theories? What are you talking about?” one of the Israelis asked, his voice rising.

  “Please, we are reporting the facts as we now know them,” Zhekov said, signaling Milen to continue.

  “We do not yet know if the bombing was due to an explosion on the bus itself, or if something detonated inside the luggage hold,” Milen said, a bit nervously. “It could be that the perpetrator was a suicide bomber. We admit the possibility exists. There are similarities to bombings of this nature that occurred in Tel Aviv.”

  “We do not know if the bomber was killed in the attack or if the bombing was carried out by remote control,” Kamen added.

  “Do you have the remains of the bomber?” the Israeli woman asked.

  “There is not much we do know as fact at this early stage,” Zhekov summed up. “That is why we must work together to uncover the facts. We are running a joint operation and we will share all information received.”

  “Who do these guys think they are?” Boyko whispered to the commander in Bulgarian. “This is a crime committed on Bulgarian soil and therefore it should be investigated by us. If anything, this will be a joint police-SANS operation. I do not care who the victims were.”

  “Boyko, I am following orders from above, orders from the highest level. I don’t need to explain to you what that means. The bombing was an attack on Israeli citizens, and due to our country’s high level of friendship and cooperation with Israel, we will work in close collaboration with Tel Aviv.”

  Zhekov has clearly changed his tune! Boyko thought. We need to get the answers on our own, without Israeli intervention—those were the commander’s exact words when the two of them had spoken at the terminal. And then, surprisingly, he had forced Boyko to sit back as the Israeli woman questioned her compatriots in Hebrew. These so-called orders from above had apparently changed everything. And Zhekov was quick to go along!

  The commander apologized to the Israelis across the table for speaking in Bulgarian. “My team is eager to work with you and will cooperate in every way possible. Boyko, here, represents SANS, the Bulgarian State Agency for National Security. I know SANS headquarters in Sofia is in direct contact with your colleagues in Tel Aviv and much work is being done behind the s
cenes as we speak. I assure you, we will get to the bottom of this terrible crime in no time at all,” Zhekov concluded.

  “It’s an open and shut case,” the Israeli woman said. “The mode of operation corresponds to how Hezbollah operates overseas.”

  “Hezbollah!” Boyko said, unable to help himself. “Again I hear that name. Did Hezbollah confirm they are behind the bombing? We have no proof whatsoever that this Hezbollah was responsible for the attack, as terrible as it may have been.”

  “I agree with my colleague,” Milen added. “If we’re dealing with terrorism, and we have not yet concluded this is the case, the perpetrators could be from that other Palestinian group. Hamas. Or possibly Al-Qaeda.”

  “Hamas doesn’t instigate terrorist attacks overseas,” Boaz pointed out. “Their terror strikes are only in Israel itself. As for Hezbollah, they have a notorious track record of murderous attacks. Buenos Aires, 1992. Buenos Aires again in 1994. London, 1994. And of course, the many attacks on Americans in Beirut, including the 1983 bombing that killed more than 200 U.S. Marines.”

  “But never Bulgaria,” Milen argued.

  “Not until now,” Boaz admitted.

  “Nothing is being ruled out at this stage,” Zhekov assured the Israelis. “It’s been a long day and we must plan how to proceed. We will divide into teams, Bulgarians and Israelis working together. It goes without saying that we are more familiar with the territory but we will most certainly benefit from Israel’s experience in investigating crimes of this nature.”

  Zhekov consulted his notes before continuing. “Milen, you’ll team up with Boaz. The two of you will follow up on the questioning of everyone who may have witnessed the bomber arriving at the bus. While we have initial reports as to what the bomber looked like, I am sure we’ll uncover more information very soon. We have not yet located the bus driver, as he would be our prime witness. I fear he may be one of the injured, or possibly among the dead.”

  Zhekov again checked his notes. “Kamen, you will work with Moshe reviewing CCTV footage. Review everything—security camera footage from the terminal building, from the parking lot, from every business in the vicinity of the airport.”