The Burgas Affair Page 5

  She needed to move quickly. There was no time to go home and pack for an extended overseas trip; she would travel lightly. A small bag, clean underwear, and basic toiletries would have to do. Luckily, she always had a toothbrush and other essentials in her purse.

  She sent a quick text to her parents, informing them that she would be away for a short while and unable to call on a daily basis as was her habit. She was not allowed to openly state where she was going, or what she would be doing there. That was one of the strangest things of all, because she knew her father would take pride in her role. Bulgaria! Knowing his daughter was flying to the eastern European country would bring a smile to his face. She wanted to share everything, but she knew little of what would transpire in the coming days would ever make its way to her family’s dinner table. That was one of the hardest parts of her job—keeping it all to herself.

  Maybe when she returned from Bulgaria and the case was solved . . . she didn’t know how to complete this thought. Not with scenes of the atrocity keeping her awake during a restless night in the Burgas hotel bedroom.

  Ayala clenched her hands and kicked at the sweat-covered sheets. Burning flesh, smoldering metal, thick smoke, confusion. The horrors of the bombing were powerful and palpable, impossible to escape. The appalling images awakened memories entrenched deep inside her, threatening to pour forth and drown her in tears and sorrow. A suicide bombing. It was all too familiar, too painful.

  This was not going to be easy. She needed to put her emotions aside and concentrate on the investigation. Her assignment was important; she had to give it her best. If only the Bulgarians would give her a chance to contribute. With what she had seen so far of the local police force, she doubted things would go smoothly.

  The only way to make these nightmares go away, the only way she could exorcise her own personal demons, was by assisting the others to swiftly apprehend the terrorists who had slaughtered her countrymen on a sunny July afternoon in Burgas, Bulgaria.

  .

  7

  She did not particularly enjoy the hotel’s austere breakfast, or the fact that the mumbling waiter appeared eager to be elsewhere. When he failed to return with the second cup of coffee she’d requested, she walked out of the dining room. Ordering more coffee had been just to pass the time; the first cup had been foul and slightly bitter.

  Her ride was due to arrive at nine o’clock. She waited at the hotel’s entrance, near its fenced-off parking lot. Two gypsy boys approached, motioning their eagerness to help direct her car to a side street in exchange for a handout of Bulgarian coins. She waved them off, shrugging that she didn’t have a car. And even if she did, she could manage just fine on her own. They ran away as a white compact vehicle pulled up at the curb. When Ayala saw who was driving, she had a sudden urge to go back inside the hotel.

  “Did you have a good night’s sleep?” Boyko asked when she got into the passenger seat. A smile appeared on his lips, but it seemed to be a false one provided for Ayala’s benefit.

  “Yes, it was fine,” she lied.

  She adjusted her seat belt and positioned herself as close to the window as possible. His aftershave was pungent and a bit overwhelming. As he maneuvered his way through the traffic, honking repeatedly at a delivery truck parked in his lane, she regarded his somewhat handsome face with its pronounced Slavic features. Boyko had a high forehead; his hair was slightly askew. His eyes were dark and pleasant enough. She sensed a hint of amusement there, almost as if he was toying with her. His lips were thin; the lower one pushed forward, almost in a pout. She could see a few hairs he had missed in his morning shave. Her poor impression of him from the interview with the Israeli couple, and from the briefing when he kept interrupting and whispering to his commander, dissipated. She could work with this man, she concluded.

  She turned quickly to the window, embarrassed for staring.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” He steered the car into the passing lane and smiled at her again. “How old are you, if you do not mind my asking?”

  What kind of question was that? Totally improper and offensive! She was disgusted at his rudeness and muttered something under her breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “Mefager,” she repeated louder.

  She instantly knew her remark was uncalled for; it was as impolite as his question. Fortunately, he didn’t understand when she swore in Hebrew. She had overreacted. How could she determine what was considered appropriate in Bulgarian conversation? After all, he had addressed her pleasantly, fulfilling his role as host. Perhaps the cultural differences between them were greater than she had imagined. The least she could do was answer his questions and chat with him in a light, friendly manner. But, before she had a chance to say anything further, he asked her something else.

  “How old do you think I am? Do you know?” When she didn’t reply, he continued, his eyes focused more on her than on the road. “I am thirty-five. Do I look that age? Anyway, my guess is that you must be, what? Twenty-three or twenty-four?”

  Again, his words upset her. “I’m twenty-eight,” she said, surprising him with the sudden reply. “And if you don’t mind, I’d prefer if we keep this strictly to business. We’re on a case here, and I don’t particularly enjoy your sexist comments and innuendos.”

  “Sexist? What could possibly be sexist about an innocent question asking your age? I am just trying to be polite, to get to know you.” She didn’t say anything. “Oh, all right, we will stick to the case, if that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what we need to do.”

  “These papers came in overnight,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. He pulled a folder out from under his seat and handed it to her. “The list of all the passengers, the final list of the dead.” He drove slowly, fighting for position in the morning traffic.

  Her unease at his personal questions vanished as she riffled through the pages. “Has everyone been identified?” she asked.

  “Yes, well, almost everyone. Five of your people, Israelis, are dead. I am truly sorry about that. And the bus driver. He’s Bulgarian and a confirmed victim. But there is one body yet to be identified. It was found on the bus, but it does not correspond to any of the passengers on the list.”

  “Was it the bomber?” she asked. Of course it was the bomber! The cold-blooded killer who had murdered five of her compatriots and the Bulgarian bus driver.

  “This body was the most mauled of any of the victims. This leads us to believe that this person was closest to the bomb at the time of the explosion. I think it’s reasonable to assume he was the bomber.”

  “Did he have any identification on him? Do you know what type of explosive he used?”

  “Whoa, slow down. We are conducting this investigation as quickly as we can. We do not yet have all the answers.”

  “Time is of the essence,” she said, wishing he would drive faster, although their destination was unknown to her.

  “What do you mean? The bombing happened. We cannot change that. We will investigate everything, but these things must be checked carefully, slowly. We do not want to miss a single clue.”

  “You don’t understand. They’re getting away!”

  “Who is getting away?”

  “The bomber’s accomplices. Surely you don’t think the bomber acted alone?”

  “There is only one unidentified body at the crime scene.” He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, thought about the act for a moment, and then held the package out to her.

  “That is not how they operate,” she argued, dismissing his offer. “The bomber had assistance. Who drove him to the terminal? Who prepared the bomb? That is how terrorists work.”

  “Terrorists? You are again jumping to conclusions, my Israeli friend. We have not yet confirmed this as an act of terrorism. It was a crime; that is for sure. A crime of the highest nature. But terrorism?”

  Ayala stared at him, shocked at what she was hearing. She was appalled by his words, stunned at his r
efusal to accept reality. How could she have previously considered his rugged features to be handsome? She wouldn’t be able to work with this brash, over-confident man after all!

  “Don’t you understand what is going on here? A suicide bomber detonated himself on a bus carrying Israelis,” she said. “If that is not an act of terrorism, I don’t know what is.”

  “You Israelis see terrorist attacks everywhere. This is Bulgaria. We do not have terrorists here.”

  She was silent for several moments, looking out the window at the people walking on the street. Men, women, and children strolled by shop windows and cafés, living their lives without a care in the world. Or so it seemed. A disheveled beggar, propped up with crutches, held out his hand only to be ignored by those passing by. Shop signs in Cyrillic script announced the latest sales and discounts, their offers foreign and unintelligible. A long, orange tram stopped in the middle of the street; its passengers disembarked and hurried to the sidewalks with heads lowered, avoiding eye contact with each other. No, Bulgaria didn’t have terrorists, she thought. Not until now.

  “We are here,” Boyko informed her, parking partially on the sidewalk and switching off the engine.

  “Where are we?” Boyko hadn’t said a word about the morning’s itinerary. As far as she could see, they were in a quiet residential neighborhood. She got out of the car and followed him toward the uninviting entrance of a tenement building.

  Boyko bolted up the hallway stairs. He stopped on the second-floor landing and stubbed out his half-finished cigarette on a handrail. She hurried to keep up. He frowned at her and knocked on the door.

  Ayala could hear a woman’s very emotional sobbing on the other side of the door. Where were they? Who were they about to question? Why hadn’t Boyko revealed any details of their plans? No one came to the door, so Boyko knocked again.

  * * *

  “Anna Antonova? I’m Boyko Stanchev from SANS, on assignment with the Burgas District Police Directorate, and this is my associate. May we come in?”

  The woman peering through the crack of the door had gray, untended hair and teary eyes; she wore a long, light-blue nightgown, tied at the waist.

  The door opened slowly, allowing them to enter the flat. Boyko stooped to remove his shoes. Ayala, however, stood motionless at the entrance. He nodded to her, indicating that she should remove her shoes as well. They followed the woman into a small living room.

  “Do you have more news about my husband? Why did this happen to him?” the woman asked, looking first at Boyko and then at the young woman at his side.

  “We are very sorry for your loss,” Boyko said, trying to express sympathy in his voice. “I know this is a very difficult time, but I need to ask you some questions.”

  “You need to ask me questions? Why?”

  “We need to get to the bottom of this horrific crime,” Boyko replied.

  “Yes?” the woman said. Her eyes were red but she forced a smile. “Do sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee, tea?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Tell me, Mrs. Antonova. How long has your husband been working as a bus driver?”

  “What has that to do with anything?” She turned to Ayala, hoping for some sort of explanation. Ayala didn’t utter a word.

  “We need to know if your husband had enemies, anyone who would have wanted to harm him,” Boyko asked.

  “Why would my husband have enemies?”

  “We’re checking into all possibilities. I am sure you understand how important this is.”

  Anna Antonova kept her eyes fixed on the low coffee table in front of her. Boyko hoped Ayala would say something to encourage the woman to talk, but then he remembered that his companion didn’t have a clue as to the content of the conversation. He did not have the time, or patience, to translate the interview. What help was having a foreigner tag along?

  “Ivan only wanted the best for us,” Anna said at last, struggling to keep her composure. “He didn’t have an enemy in the world. He worked extremely hard.” She exhaled slowly and broke into tears.

  When Boyko realized the woman wasn’t going to provide any helpful information, he rose to his feet.

  “Why doesn’t she say anything?” Anna asked, looking at Ayala.

  “She doesn’t speak our language,” Boyko said quickly. “She’s just a stupid tourist from overseas, accompanying me for the ride.”

  Boyko thanked the woman for her time, again expressed sympathy for her loss, and knelt to put on his shoes before leaving the apartment.

  When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Ayala spoke up for the first time since their arrival.

  “What do you take me for, just a stupid tourist?”

  “Yes, a tourist. Wait a minute. Did you understand what the woman was saying?” He shifted to his native language and challenged her, “Gavrishte li Bulgarski?”

  “Da,” Ayala replied, shaking her head from left to right. This horizontal movement, uniquely Bulgarian, indicated her positive reply.

  The Bulgarian nod.

  Shit, Boyko thought. No one had told him that the Israeli woman understood Bulgarian! Dealing with his assigned partner while working this case was going to be a bigger pain in the ass than he’d thought.

  8

  When she was just a little girl, Ayala imagined Bulgaria as a magical place. An enchanted land protected by mountains peaked with snow and valleys cut deep by raging rivers. Fair-skinned princesses with tightly tied braids lived in Disney-like castles; handsome princes rescued them from fire-breathing dragons. In the villages, cobblestoned streets were paved with gold and silver. There were witches as well, and a cave so dark and vast that the Devil himself lived within it. Hideous ogres and gruesome-looking trolls marched through fields of corn. Thunderous tremors shook the earth each morning at dawn. Along a rocky coastline, the sea was so treacherous that its waters were black. And yet, all was remarkably good in this kingdom. Everywhere there was magic.

  Her father read fairy tales to her every night as he tucked her in to sleep. The Bulgarian words and phrases of his stories were so different from the Hebrew with which she conversed with her friends at play. But he insisted on speaking the language, arguing with Ayala’s mother that this was the only way he could pass on to his child some of the traditions and customs of his youth.

  Growing up, Ayala heard two languages at home. Her mother spoke Hebrew like a native-born Israeli, despite her roots being in far-off Yemen. In contrast, although her father spoke fluent Hebrew, Bulgarian was his mother tongue. Ayala never really learned to speak the Slavic language, but she fully understood her father when he spoke to her in Bulgarian.

  So foreign, different, and dreamlike—the country of Bulgaria took on a somewhat mystical role in Ayala’s youthful imagination.

  One day she would visit Bulgaria and the places where her father had been born and where he lived until his family moved to Israel shortly after the establishment of the state. One day. Maybe after her army service.

  Ayala served for two years in Agaf HaModi’in, the IDF’s Intelligence Corps; her excellent, near-native expertise in English had immediately qualified her for an important classified position. Looking ahead to her civilian days, travel was forgotten. Unlike many Israeli youths her age, she didn’t plan to escape from the country to see the world the moment she took off her khaki uniform.

  Instead, she envisioned a career working for an international corporation, possibly in a high-tech company. She was confident she would be capable of mastering the language of economics and the skills of business management. Finding suitable employment would not be a problem. There was no shortage of technological startups in Israel; many of them had gone public and expanded overseas. She could see herself as a financial officer in one of these companies, flying back and forth between Europe and Tel Aviv. This would give her the opportunity to travel.

  After her release from the army, Ayala enrolled in the business school at Tel Aviv University and began to apply herself i
n earnest to her studies.

  “You should be doing something to help Israel.”

  Ayala looked up from her textbooks. Her displeasure at the interruption gave way to a warm feeling when she saw the short, dark-skinned man at her side. Uncle Yaniv was her mother’s younger brother, and admittedly, Ayala’s favorite relative. His apartment, a short distance away from where Ayala lived with her parents, had been her second home when she was a child. Whenever her parents couldn’t find her, they knew to check at Yaniv’s apartment. He was a doting uncle, one who appeared to care more for his bright-eyed niece than for his own three children.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, allowing him to kiss her on her cheek. “Can’t you see I’m studying?”

  “You’re capable of much more,” he said, sitting down next to her at the dining room table. “You’re a very intelligent girl, Ayala; I mean, a very intelligent woman. You should make the most of that intelligence on your country’s behalf.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ayala, do you know where I work?”

  “You work at some government desk job, but I can’t remember in what ministry it is.”

  “Ayala, listen. I work with the Mossad. The Mossad is the most important line of defense our country has. Our enemies are everywhere, not just in the tanks and planes of Egypt and Syria. We are facing great threats today, Ayala. Iran is building a nuclear bomb. Hezbollah is stockpiling thousands of rockets to fire at us.”