The Burgas Affair Read online

“I know all of that,” she protested. “Everyone does.”

  “So, we in the Mossad are doing something about it. We’re fighting back against these threats. The war is ongoing. Battles are taking place all the time, all over the world. We are fighting for Israel.”

  Ayala waited for him to go on, to get to the point. She always enjoyed talking with her uncle, but she wasn’t sure where this conversation was going.

  “You should join us,” he said, surprising her. “There is no better place to demonstrate your skills and talents. Ayala, there’s an important career waiting for you. You should be working for the Mossad.”

  “Should we even be talking about this?”

  “Your parents know what I do for a living. You’ve probably suspected it all along. Ayala, I want you to work with me, with us. Let me tell you how you would help defend Israel.”

  * * *

  “You were very insensitive,” Ayala commented as they drove down one of Burgas’s major thoroughfares.

  “Insensitive?” Boyko replied, glad they were speaking in English. He couldn’t come to terms with the fact that this Israeli woman understood his native language, although it was a pidgin knowledge at best. “Are you questioning my methods, my skills at getting answers from witnesses?” he asked.

  “Yes, insensitive. You questioned that woman as if her husband was to be blamed for getting killed.”

  “I do not know how you do things in your country,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette while never taking his eyes off the road. “In Bulgaria, in cases like this, we check all angles. Perhaps the bus driver had enemies. Maybe this is all a ruse, making us think the bombing targeted Israeli tourists. We have criminals in this country, even a mafia. They could easily have organized the murder of bus driver Ivan Antonov.”

  “That’s highly unlikely. Why would the bomber go to all the trouble of planting a bomb on a bus if the intended target was the driver? How can you even suggest that?”

  “We are very thorough here,” he replied, confident he was pursuing the correct avenue of investigation. “This is how we do things in Bulgaria.”

  The radio buzzed on the car’s dashboard. A few quick words with surprising information. When the radio went silent, Boyko slowed the car, checked his mirror, and made a U-turn.

  “We are heading back to headquarters,” he said.

  “I understood,” Ayala said. “They said they have the bomber.”

  9

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking at the Burgas bomber.”

  The black and white video footage centered on the entranceway to the arrivals terminal. The automatic glass doors swished open and a man entered the hall. He took one step forward before hesitating. He looked to the left; he looked to the right. He stared ahead, facing directly into the security camera, almost as if he knew it was there.

  The man was tall and thin, with long, light-colored hair that almost reached his shoulders. He wore a baseball cap; its dark bill sat low to cover his forehead. His eyes were hidden by black sunglasses. His attire included a round-neckline T-shirt, checkered Bermuda shorts, sports shoes, and most notably, straps over his shoulders connected to a very bulky backpack. The man didn’t appear to be particularly nervous or in a hurry.

  “He’s white,” Kamen observed.

  “What were you expecting?” Boyko asked his colleague in Bulgarian.

  “English only,” Zhekov said in a sharp reprimand disguised by a wide, forced smile.

  Milen spoke up, directing his comments to the Israelis in the room. “If your assumption that the bombing was a terrorist attack is correct, we would have presumed the bomber to be an Arab, someone from a Middle Eastern country. This man is clearly European, possibly Scandinavian or German.”

  “How do we know he is the bomber?” Boaz asked.

  “Keep watching,” Milen said.

  The film showed an empty space in the terminal. Without notice, the suspect came back into the picture. He headed toward the glass doors, and then spun around to head in the opposite direction. The footage cut over sharply to a second camera, showing one of the counters in the hall, possibly belonging to a rental car agency. The suspect approached, adjusting the weight on his back. He appeared to exchange a few words with the clerk before shifting to the side, giving them a clear view of the backpack. And then the man disappeared from view.

  “Some of the passengers mentioned seeing a European man who looked like this,” Ayala said, speaking up for the first time. “They said that a tall, thin man, who clearly hadn’t been on the flight, made his way to the bus.”

  “The man reportedly argued with the other passengers,” Boaz added.

  “Yes, this is the criminal,” Boyko declared, certain in his assessment.

  “Did you interrogate the agent at the counter?” someone asked.

  “The suspect inquired about the flight from Tel Aviv, when it was due to arrive,” Milen said.

  “It’s very strange,” Boaz said.

  “What? What is strange?” Zhekov asked. He motioned to Milen, who pressed the playback button. The video ran again, showing the thin man passing through the automatic doors and into the terminal hall in a grainy, repetitive loop.

  “As your colleague stated, we, too, would have assumed the bomber to be of Middle Eastern descent,” Boaz said, his eyes fixed to the screen. “Possibly someone from Iran. This man’s appearance doesn’t fit the usual profile of suicide bombers.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t a suicide bomber,” Ayala offered. When everyone stared at her, she elucidated her theory. “Maybe he intended to place the backpack on the bus and leave. Perhaps he never planned to kill himself.”

  “In any case, he is dead,” Milen stated. “Indisputably dead.”

  One of the Israelis coughed. Milen gave him a stern look and continued his report. “We found remnants of his clothing and body parts have been sent for DNA testing. We are still running forensic tests. And, we have determined the man was wearing a wig.”

  “A wig?” someone asked. “You mean that wasn’t his natural hair color?”

  No one appreciated the attempt to lighten the mood in the room.

  “He must have had accomplices,” Boaz pointed out. “Someone drove him to the terminal; someone helped prepare the bomb.”

  “And if he wasn’t a suicide bomber, it either went off by accident or others detonated it,” Ayala said.

  “Why would they detonate a bomb to kill their own operative?” Boyko asked. “That part of your theory makes no sense to me.”

  “They may have wanted to destroy all evidence, including the identity of their bomber,” Ayala suggested.

  “We have already conclusively identified this man,” Milen stated, a smug smile on his face. “We found shreds of a driver’s license on his body.”

  “A driver’s license?” Boaz asked, surprised at the finding.

  “Yes, issued in the state of Michigan, United States of America. Our bomber has a name. Richard Milkin. And he’s American.”

  * * *

  To the south of Burgas is a seaside resort by the name of Sozopol. Sozopol is one of the oldest towns on the coastline, known in the days of the Greeks as Apollonia of the Black Sea due to its central temple dedicated to Apollo, which was frequented by ancient pilgrims. Home now to fisherman and artists, Sozopol enjoys a busy summer season, with tourists flocking from all over the world to take in its warm weather, sandy shores, picturesque wooden houses, and fusion cuisine.

  Farther south, not far from the Turkish border, is another village, much smaller and less visited than Sozopol. Compared to the more popular destination along the coast, this village barely deserves a spot on the map. It constitutes little more than one long main street lined by a number of dilapidated homes and businesses. Travelers heading south rarely stop here. Nothing particularly appealing stands out to attract their attention.

  It was to this village that Boyko and Ayala were headed. They drove on a winding road, through copses of l
eafy trees and up hills speckled with pastures and herds of goats. As they rounded a corner, the sea appeared to their left. This stretch of the coast was markedly different from the tourist beaches she knew to be farther north. This was rough, uninviting shoreline, with ragged cliffs and pounding, angry waves.

  “The Black Sea,” she said. “I used to fantasize about this sea while growing up. The name—I always thought that the water would be the color of ink.”

  “Why would you think that?” Boyko asked. He adjusted the volume of the car’s radio, which had been playing sentimental Turkish ballads broadcast from across the border.

  “Black Sea. Don’t you get it?”

  “Oh, I see. And the Red Sea you have in Israel. The waters are actually red?”

  “In Hebrew, the Red Sea is called Yam Suf, the sea of reeds. I guess there must be reeds in the water, although I have never seen any. But, there is coral. It’s a wonderful place to go diving, or snorkeling for that matter.”

  “And what about that other one? The Dead Sea. Is that sea dead?”

  “Pretty much so,” Ayala said, laughing. “But there’s another name for it in Hebrew. Yam Hamelech, the sea of salt. The sea is indeed dead, with no fish or any other living creatures, because of its high salt content.”

  The two of them had finally found a bit of common ground, Ayala thought. They could joke; they could get along, at least while driving through the Bulgarian countryside. Looking at the rough coastline, she felt miles away from the real, more serious investigation in Burgas. The terrorist’s driver’s license identified him as Richard Milkin, an American! Boaz and the others were following up on that important lead while she was needed here, with Boyko, as they traveled south and neared their destination.

  As suddenly as it had appeared before them, the Black Sea disappeared from view. A sign welcomed them to the village. Boyko slowed the car, scouting around for signs of the hotel. And there it was, the only three-storied building on the street.

  “Maybe I should ask the questions,” Ayala suggested as they got out of the car.

  “You do not speak Bulgarian; you only understand it.”

  “I could tell you what to ask.”

  “I do not think so. This is my investigation, and you’re here for the . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “For the what? You keep forgetting. This is a joint investigation! I am here to help, not just to observe!”

  Boyko ignored her comment and strode toward the hotel entrance. Ayala stood in place, staring after him, annoyed with how he was relating to her. A minute ago they were laughing and joking and now this blunt dismissal. Things had to change, she thought. Their professional relationship was far from being the partnership it was intended to be. She would need to confront him later, to clarify her role and make it clear to him that they were meant to be a team. They needed to find ways to work together. And there would be no more joking around until that happened! In the meantime, she rushed to join him.

  “Did you call in the tip to the police?” Boyko asked after giving a few words of introduction.

  “Yes,” a middle-aged woman with haggard eyes replied. She wore a faded apron and her hair was pinned back under a handkerchief. They had apparently interrupted the woman’s cleaning duties.

  “I heard the announcement on the television calling on anyone who had seen or witnessed something suspicious—anything at all that may be connected to the Burgas bombing—to come forward and report it.”

  “You did the right thing,” Boyko said with a begrudging smile. “What can you tell us?”

  The woman removed her rubber gloves and sat down on one of the hotel lobby’s faux leather chairs. “This is a small place, only eight rooms,” she told her two visitors. “I am the owner. I meet everyone who comes to stay with us.”

  “Go on,” Boyko urged her.

  “In the summer months, well, in the good years anyway, we do okay for ourselves. Sometimes we get the overflow of Sozopol’s tourists. During the winter months, the place is virtually empty and it’s very cold. There is this constant wind blowing in from the sea, a very bad wind. My husband, he does the maintenance, and my daughter, she cleans the rooms. I do the cooking. And some of the cleaning.” She paused, picked up her gloves, and straightened her apron.

  “Can you please continue?”

  “As I told the police on the phone, three men, foreigners, stayed here this week. They left on Wednesday morning—the day of the bombing. That is why I got suspicious, why I called.”

  “Tell her to describe the men,” Ayala whispered to Boyko in English.

  “I’ll handle this,” he said sharply. He nodded to the woman.

  “What was strange about these men was the fact that they came from three different countries. I couldn’t help but wonder why a Canadian, an American, and an Australian were traveling together and stopping at a little-known town on the coast. Three foreigners! Maybe in Sofia you would see this, but for a small hotel like ours, it’s a bit unusual. But, it was good to get the business.”

  An American! This confirmed Milen’s statement at the briefing, Ayala thought. The bomber had indeed stayed with his accomplices at this small seaside hotel!

  “What did they look like?” Boyko probed.

  “That was strange as well. One of them had light skin. I thought he may be Scandinavian, but he was the one who identified himself as being from the United States.”

  “Michigan?” Ayala asked.

  “What? He was from America; that’s all I know.”

  “And the other men?” Boyko asked, ignoring Ayala’s interruption.

  “They were dark, you know what I mean? Not black, but Middle Eastern. I thought they were from south of the border, from Turkey. But their passports were Canadian and Australian.”

  “What did they look like? Can you describe them in any way?”

  “The American was tall and skinny, with very light skin, like I said. Unlike his partners. But the two other men, let me see. One was short and muscular, with a round face. He was clean-shaven. He was bald and his head was shiny. Maybe he polished it after shaving? I remember he had these thick black eyebrows. That was the only hair on his face. The other one was skinny, but not as much as the American. He had dark-black hair, a goatee, and these mean eyes, the kind that keep staring at you. He was mean, that one.”

  “You spoke to them in Bulgarian?”

  “No, of course not. They spoke English, and I know a little English. Enough to deal with the occasional tourist. But they had a very strong accent. Not Turkish, for sure, but it sounded like a Middle Eastern accent.”

  Ayala wondered how the woman had such a good memory and was able to provide so many details. Ayala could barely remember what the impatient waiter who had served her breakfast that morning looked like.

  “Do you remember their names?” Boyko continued.

  Was it Richard Milkin? Ayala was about to ask, but she held her tongue. This was an important detail—the name of the suspected terrorist, as listed on the driver’s license carried in his pocket. But, they needed to hear the woman volunteer this vital information herself.

  “No, I cannot recall their names,” the woman said. “But, we adhere to the correct procedures here. I check the passports of all foreigners who stay with us and list their names and details in the registry.”

  “That is very proper of you,” Boyko commended her. “May we please see the registry?”

  “Of course, I will show you.”

  “When did the men check out? Where did they go from here?” Ayala whispered loudly to Boyko. “Ask her those questions.”

  “I apologize for the enthusiasm of my colleague,” Boyko said to the woman. “This is a very important case, and that is the reason why I have the extreme honor of hosting this esteemed senior police detective from Tel Aviv.”

  She sneered at him, as his words were obviously sarcastic. But the words had their effect and the woman regarded Ayala with renewed respect.

 
“Do you think I will get into trouble?” she asked, surprising them.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the movies, witnesses are hesitant to give information, because the criminals can come back and harm them. If I give you the names of these men who stayed with me, they could return tonight to attack me and my family!”

  “Do not worry about that. I am sure they are long gone by now,” Boyko said, reaching forward to lay a hand on her shoulder.

  “Oh, maybe you’re right. After all, they said they wanted to catch the train for Istanbul. They asked about the schedule. There are no direct trains from Burgas to the border, so they were going to travel from Plovdiv. As far as I remember, they were talking about today, this afternoon’s train.”

  “Are you sure? We need exact information,” Boyko pressed her.

  “Yes, they definitely asked about today’s schedule. They were eager to get to Plovdiv. As soon as possible, I remember one of them saying. They had a rental car; a small Fiat as far as I recall. Actually, I am quite certain it was a white one.”

  “You didn’t happen to write down the car’s license plate number, by any chance, did you?” Boyko asked the woman. A wide smile appeared on his face, and Ayala believed that this time, it was genuine.

  .

  10

  “We know the names of the bomber and his two accomplices. Shouldn’t we report this to headquarters?” Ayala asked as they drove west toward Plovdiv.

  “We know their assumed names,” Boyko corrected her, putting his foot on the gas in order to pass a slow-moving truck. “It is obvious the names they used to register at the hotel are fake, as fake as that Michigan driver’s license we found at the crime scene. It’s all fake.”

  It’s all fake!

  Richard Milkin was not the bomber’s real name. And, the bomber was not from Michigan after all! She understood this now, yet this was the man’s identity as he traveled around Bulgaria. And the other names were the ones used by his collaborators. “We should call to report this information, no matter what,” she said. “My phone’s battery is dead. Can I use yours?”