by Alek Popov
Ziebling swallowed the ugly sandwich in two bites, and washed it down with wine. Varadin’s mouth hung stupidly agape. He felt incapable of differentiating the truth from the joke. The guests swarm around them and only few limp lettuce leaves remained on Katya’s tray.
“At the beginning of this century,” added Ziebling. “An Ambassador, by the name of Emilio Barbarescu, studied the English sandwich throughout two consecutive mandates. His treatise, entitled On the hierarchy of diameter, was never published, but copies continue to circulate in the diplomatic community. If one, by chance, should come to your possession, read it at all costs!”
So saying, he ceremoniously took his leave.
18
Dale Rutherford was responsible for the fauna of Richmond Park. This was a pleasant occupation, involving many walks in the great outdoors and communication with nature. Dale Rutherford loved animals and especially the small groups of ducks, which nested around the edges of the Pen-ponds. That is why he was confused when, one morning, heading for the small lakes, he didn’t hear their merry quacking.
The poor little things, he said to himself touchingly, where can they have got to?
In the park there were various smaller lakes, where the fowl sometimes went to swim around for their amusement. The closest one was called Sheep’s Leg, but there was not the slightest sign of his favourites there. Eaten by vague worry, Dale hurried down the bridle-path to the Isabella plantation, where, amongst the orchids, laurel bushes and other decorative flower-beds, three small ponds lay hidden. Disappointment also awaited him there, however, if one excluded one lazy swan, who was regally rearranging his plumage. Now seriously worried, Dale left the Isabella plantation and made for a very little known pond by the gloomy name of’ ‘The Gallows’. Three geese swimming there started to hiss in hostility as soon as they saw him. He suddenly realised that the whole environment had its hackles raised, ready to defend itself against unwanted intruders. The trees had closed in, whispering amongst themselves and the deer ran around the park as though bearing unpleasant news.
Dale pulled out his mobile and called Ray Solo, head of security.
“Ray,” he said weakly. “I’ve cause to believe something terrible has happened...”
“What’s wrong?” Ray’s voice sounded stressed.
“My ducks have disappeared,” sobbed Dale. “My little ducklings!”
Ray Solo had just been reaching for the packet of biscuits, he liked to dunk one in his morning coffee. The news made him temporarily forget about the biscuits and he mechanically dipped his two fingers in the boiling liquid beneath him.
“Christ!” Ray yelled in pain.
The day was starting badly.
After overcoming their initial stress, the management of the Park took some over-energetic measures. They immediately contacted the police, who immediately sent out an impressive investigation team. They mobilised every available officer, and the latter then searched the park to the last square inch. The result of these sizable operations, however, was not particularly forthcoming. A handful of feathers and tracks from chunky wellingtons were found on the right bank of the Pen-ponds. The only fact confirmed with certainty was that the entire population of ducks had disappeared. By evening the grim tidings had made the rounds of the whole of Richmond, had been through Twickenham and Kingston-upon-Thames, and even made it as far as Teddington.
The ducks of Richmond Park had disappeared!
People’s strong reaction forced the management to call an urgent press conference. The hall of the cafeteria, where this event took place, was filled to overflowing: journalists, members of the Board of Directors, local councillors, representatives of Green organisations, as well as some ordinary members of the public, all wanting to know, immediately, the fate of the birds. There was also an entire class from the local school, who had become the birds’ sponsors the previous year. And, of course, Dale Rutherford. He looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink. He sat in the front row next to Ray Solo, drawn and pale, though his eyes blazed, thirsty for revenge.
The President of the Board, Jeremiah Kaas, opened the conference mournfully, “Citizens of Richmond, honoured guests! The reason for this conference is already known to usall – unfortunately, bad news travels fast. For now, I am only able to confirm what we all already know: the ducks of Richmond Park have disappeared, whereabouts unknown. I assume that you have many questions. Here with us is Dale Rutherford, in charge of the Park’s fauna, Ray Solo, the head of Security, as well as Detective Nat Coleway, from Scotland Yard, who is heading the investigation. I’m sure that these gentlemen will be able to satisfy your curiosity better than I can. If you please, gentlemen.”
Jeremiah Kaas stepped back discreetly and, once the three men had taken their places, quietly mingled with the crowd.
The old fox knows when its time to go, Ray muttered to himself, looking the most dispirited of them all.
“Mr Rutherford!” A small man in a green suit immediately jumped up. “Kenneth Bowl, Twickenham Star. Rumour has it that the ducks were killed by feed that was past its sell-by date. The Twickenham Star has reason to believe that the bodies of the ducks were buried somewhere nearby to cover up the gaffe.”
The hatred of the people of Twickenham for their richer neighbours from Richmond was well known, but this time it had gone beyond all reasonable limits.
“I categorically deny any such insinuations!” Dale’s voice trembled in indignation. “I personally oversee the feeding of the birds and can assure you that we never give them anything that is beyond its sell-by date. I have the documentation to prove it!”
“Susan Tipper, Richmond Press.” A short-haired, ash-blonde woman, in a stylish beige jacket, stood up. “Mr Rutherford, is it possible that the ducks may have suddenly migrated owing to worsening ecological conditions?”
“I strongly doubt it,” replied Dale coldly. “I believe that I know the character of these ducks better than anyone. And I can assure you that they felt entirely at home in their habitat.”
“Detective Coleway, what is the police’s take on the incident?” the new question came in a flash.
Nat Coleway’s thick brows furrowed, and he said tiredly, “I think we’re dealing with a robbery.”
He did not like long speeches, and the attention surrounding the incident was also annoying him. He did not feel remotely as though he had found the winning lottery ticket.
“How many ducks are missing?”
The detective blinked helplessly. Dale rushed to his aid, “Forty-five.”
The hall filled with a judgemental and hushed muttering, that sounded like breaking ice. Then an enraged voice was raised, “How is it possible for so many ducks to be stolen at once without Security so much as noticing?!”
Glares focused on Ray Solo, who had stayed wisely silent up until this point. His wide face blushed deeply. He smiled awkwardly and spread his hands. At that moment Nat Coleway intervened, “As far as we can tell, the ducks were drugged beforehand. That probably took place after the Park’s closure. The hit-men stayed hidden in the bushes of the Botanical Gardens near to the Pen-ponds. Then they gathered up the birds and made off under the cover of darkness.”
This new revelation dropped like a bomb. The journalists hurried to take notes. Nat looked over the auditorium with the bitter realisation that he’d lost control. He had drawn his conclusions from the fact that they had discovered some ears of wheat that had been dipped in Lidocaine, near to the ponds. He had to save those spicy details, however, in the interest of the investigation.
“What, in your opinion, might be the motive for such an abominable act?” cried an old lady, whose hat looked suspiciously duck-shaped.
Nat Coleway coughed into his fist, and said without feeling, “To eat them.”
“To eat them?!!” Her mouth dropped open in horror before she could cover it with her hand.
The assembly stared, sickened, as though the mere thought of such a thing was an outrageous attack on s
ociety’s mores. The figure of the Inspector suddenly darkened; it was no longer reliable, but guilty of the crudeness of spirit and secretive malevolence of the lower classes. If hecan think of such a thing,he could dosuch a thing. This frightful thought afflicted the most delicate amongst them. Then a youthful voice tore through the grey veil of despair like the carillon of church bells, “Do you think, sir, that these monsters will be caught quickly?”
The voice belonged to the young scout, Todd Robins. The presence of his youthful French teacher, with an arse like a horse, intoxicated him and made him want to shine with courage and nobility.
“Yes,” replied the Inspector laconically.
He felt that the public wanted more, but suddenly felt totally empty himself. As though he had spent the last penny from his purse. He had no more.
Ray Solo sat silently, his head bowed.
“They won’t get away with this so easily,” called out Dale Rutherford unexpectedly. “We’ve a small surprise in store for them too, which they won’t like at all.”
Nat Coleway reacted instantly: he grabbed Dale by the elbow and hissed in his ear, “Are you trying to ruin everything?!”
“What do you mean Mr Rutherford?” Kenneth Bowl of the Twickenham Star instantly jumped in.
Dale pulled himself together by force of will alone, and said, “All in good time.”
19
The cook had had a bad day. When he had finished his culinary duties, he was effectively free and could mess about as much as he liked. Which obviously annoyed the Ambassador. Varadin ordered him to paint the bathroom and the toilet at the residence. The cook was deeply displeased by this unusual task, but had little say in the matter. From time to time he found some excuse to go to the Embassy to check on the freezer. The battered old chest rumbled deeply in the depths of the kitchen, its lone red eye flickering. Having verified that all was well, the cook would then lock up the kitchen and return to his brush. He tried to phone Chavdar in the evening, but got no answer. And his mobile was switched off. The evil bastard’s hiding! He knew that when things slow down, they often head for disaster. The whole business with those ducks had looked dodgy to him from the very start, which was why he had wanted his share up front. They had duped him. Now he had a load of ducks but not a single penny in his pocket. His salary had run out two days previously. They were living off the remains of the last reception and the small savings that Norka managed to squirrel away.
Chavdar Tolomanov called the following day, in the afternoon. It was evident from his voice that he was not doing so of his own volition, but because some extreme circumstance forced him to. He was against the wall. He sounded frightened. “We have to meet up straight away!” he said quickly.
“What’s up?” asked Kosta, all his awful premonitions crowding round.
“I’ll explain, come over! I’m in the bar of the Consort, you know where it is, right?”
He knew. The Consort hotel was directly opposite the Embassy. It was owned by a Serb, for whom Chavdar had worked for ages, until they had eventually become friends. The hotel looked no different from the other well-maintained facades on that side of the street. It was equally unremarkable on the inside, although well kept; it was patronised by middle-of-the-road tourists, and Balkan citizens who foundthemselves in London fora varietyof reasons. It was reputed to be a nest of spies, and the diplomats avoided it as a rule. But that was not the case for the staff. In the Consort one could find work on the sly, trade in various small items, and on the whole it was a priceless source of supplementary income.
“Your health, Simich!” Kosta waved to the barman, who was mixing some cocktail behind the enormous bar.
“Good day,” Simich nodded.
He was a strong, blue-eyed, horse-faced Serb. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, with a black bowtie and played with his cocktail-shaker as though it were a hand-grenade. It was rumoured that Simich was wanted for crimes he had committed in Bosnia, but that did not stop the cook from providing him with cheap cigarettes from the Embassy. Simich always paid cash. Chavdar was sat at a small tablenearthewindow.Thebarwashalf-empty. Thecookapproached like a black thundercloud. His hands were spotted with paint.
“Have you got the cash?” he asked.
“Sit down,” Chavdar nodded.
The cook sat down unwillingly, the question still in his eyes. The actor looked worried and pale. He looked around and said in a low voice, “They nailed Batushka!”
“What?!” the cook’s eyes popped out of their sockets.
“They nailed him,” Chavdar repeated.
“How do you know?”
“Here, look at this!” Chavdar pulled out a paper and opened it before the cook’s eyes.
“Hmmm,” he mumbled; the headlines meant nothing to him. Chavdar pointed to a picture in the top right-hand corner, and read the following text, ‘Crime Wave strikes the West after Fall of Berlin Wall. Yesterday, at 6.30 pm, whilst leaving the Vodka restaurant, Azis Nikolayevich Asadurov, a citizen of the former USSR, was shot. Asadurov owed money to the Russian mafia, and had been hiding in the UK, according to police sources.’
The face in the picture bore a striking resemblance to their mutual acquaintance. But Kosta was not convinced, “Are you sure it’s him?”
“Hundred percent!” the actor was agitated. “I haven’t been able to contact him for the last two days. He’s disappeared off the face of the Earth. I knew there was something about him. He was so secretive.”
That was the actual truth of the matter. The personal life of Batushka was hidden in murky fog. Chavdar had no idea where he lived, nor even what his real name was. They had met in the Russian restaurant. Mobiles had been the only link between them.
As they were hiding in the Botanical Gardens, he had regarded his accomplice’s angular face and asked himself why he was getting involved in such chicken-feed deals when he was obviously destined for much greater ones. But then, as they gathered the drugged ducks from the ground and stuffed them into the bags, he realised that Batushka saw no difference between the robbing of the Bank of England, the hijacking of the Trans-Siberian Express, and poaching in the public park. He had known the wasteland outside the law, and nothing else interested him.
“What are we going to do now?!” cried the cook.
Chavdar rustled the paper and showed him another headline, “It’s on about us here!”
“What does it say?” asked the cook worriedly.
“BARBARIC ATTACK IN RICHMOND PARK”
“Shhh...”
“Don’t worry! It says here, ‘the investigation is bogged down.”
“Well, I’m not so sure,” Kosta was gloomy. “We’re done for. Did you bring the money?”
“What money?!” exploded Chavdar. “Batushka promised to get a deposit from the Chinese. But what we planned and what actually happened...”
“Get it yourself!”
“I don’t know them. They were his people.”
The cook clenched his fists instinctively. He wanted to smash Chavdar’s face in. “And what the fuck are we supposed to do with these ducks now?! And your mother!!” he hissed maliciously. “You got us into this mess!”
“How come I’m to blame?” retorted the actor indignantly. “They’re in no danger of going off, are they?”
“They can’t stay there forever!” Kosta shouted.
“We’ll shift them, mate!” Chavdar reassured him. “Bit by bit, here and there.”
“Won’t the Serb buy them?”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Chavdar, nodding. “You ask at our restaurant.”
“Well, at least we’re not going to starve,” moaned Kosta, his voice laced with a hidden threat.
Chavdar threw him a frightened glance. “Hey, pal, we’re still partners aren’t we?!”
The cook said nothing. He suddenly felt a surge of power. He was in control of the situation. He had both the ducks and the knife. Fucking actors!
20
“Do come in, Mister
Mavrodiev,” said the Ambassador in a mock-flattering voice.
The big man walked heavily towards his desk. The Consul had just finished his night-shift: he was unshaven and his tie hung loosely. Scum! thought Varadin.
“I assume that you are aware of this publication?” he disgustedly raised the page of the Evening Standard which lay on his desk. In the upper corner of the page, a not overly large article had been outlined in yellow highlighter, accompanied by a photograph of epic significance. The picture showed a destitute family of four, wrapped in sleeping bags, candles in their hands. The photograph was reminiscent of the suffering of the Bosnian refugees, except that it was set in an apartment in central London.
The headline needed no commentary, Bulgarian Diplomat Stuck in the Stone Age. The article detailed the struggle of the Bobevs to survive for the last two weeks without electricity. ‘This barbaric measure was taken by the new Ambassador, Dimitrov, in an attempt to push the Diplomat onto the streets, after he had been sacked for political reasons.’ The newspaper went on to comment, ‘No one has the right to stop the supply of electricity without the authorisation of the London Electricity Board.’
The material had been published the day before. Varadin sensed the secret delight of his inferiors, and was tortured by the suspicion that they had allowed him to be exposed on purpose.
