by Alek Popov
“What should we do?” asked the worried Consul.
“Why are you asking me? This comes under your remit.”
“We’ll not get out of this one easily,” Mavrodiev shook his head.
“Shall we cut off his water too, then, hey?!” the Ambassador hissed.
“If you say so....” agreed the Consul unconvincingly.
“You’re obviously trying to tar my image,” Varadin said with sinister calm.
Mavrodiev blushed to his neck under the accusation.
“That is what you all want, I know!” The Ambassador’s outburst took his listener by surprise. “Why did you tell the journalists that he doesn’t want to go back to his homeland, why?”
“But isn’t that the whole reason for this circus – about staying here?” said the Consul in confusion.
“The fact that he wants to stay here does not specifically mean that he doesn’t want to go back!” Varadin spelled this out angrily.
“Why would he not want to go back if he doesn’t want to stay?”
“Because he wants to stay!” the Ambassador stamped his foot. “And not: he wants to stay because he doesn’t want to go back, as you made out.”
“So he wants to stay because he wants to stay.”
“Exactly! He wants to stay because he likes it here. But when you say, he doesn’t want to return! People start to ask, why? Why on earth would someone not want to go back to their homeland? Well, simply: because he’ll be thrown out on the street immediately and then be unable to find work. And even if he does find some, he’ll still starve!”
“I didn’t say that,” Mavrodiev sighed heavily.
“Yes, but it’s obvious in context.”
“And? We all know that!” The big man could not restrain himself.
“You have no right to think that way!” shouted the Ambassador. “We are all Europeans here!”
“So shall we put his electricity back on?” the Consul clutched at an unexpected straw.
“What the hell for? He’s already put us in it, hasn’t he? Let him struggle if he’s so obstinate.” Something clicked in his brain, and he suddenly asked, “Why have you always got your hands in your pockets?!”
‘Well, I mean, I’m....’ stumbled the Consul.
‘Not just now, but during the reception as well,’ continued Varadin impatiently, ‘I saw you, don’t deny it! That is not European behaviour!’
‘I’m sorry, if...’ started the other.
‘I want you to throw him out without any more scandal!’ Varadin cut him off, tapping the paper with a finger, ‘Otherwise I’ll throw you out instead! You may go.’
He carefully folded the page and returned it to his drawer. He did not particularly want the article to end up in the press review, but he was certain that some helpful hand had already faxed it to Sofia. And? So what? Varadin massaged his temples. Rubbish! Rubbish everywhere!’ His gaze fell on some small scraps near the foot of the desk, he picked them up and threw them in the bin. The room had not been cleaned for several days.
Fuck it! That little slut – he should have sacked her. His brain told him this. But his brain was helpless in this instance. And all for one very simple reason: he had not had any sex for several months, and whenever he thought of Katya, he had an instant hard on. In a better world, the problem would have been quickly solved by a short trip to the bathroom. But, he was the product of a cruel system: despite the political changes of the last few years, the idea that someone was constantly watching him had driven itself deep into his subconscious and no one would ever get it out now.
His hands were tied.
All that was left for him was to hope that something might actually happen in the real world. That seemed less punishable to him, as well as far less compromising. He was prepared to take that risk, but, for that end, Katya needed to be kept around. Until then every other comfort was forbidden.
He raised his gaze from the bin and noticed the stupid face of Turkeiev, peering around the door. He had not heard him knock. “What is it?” he asked. “Come in then!” “There’s a fax for you...” started the intern, giving him the sheet. Varadin read it angrily.
Sent. 34500456
Town Council, Provadia.
Dear Mr. Ambassador,
From 24/05 to 24/06, on the invitation of the British Museum, the unique exhibition: ‘Hygiene in Bulgarian Lands’ will arrive in London; on which platform the first Water Closet in Human History will be unveiled. The latter was discovered in recent archaeological digs in the territories of the town of Provadia, and dates from 923. The authenticity of the object has been confirmed by such internationally renowned scientists as Professor Van Meis, from Holland, and Professor Charlie Reeds, from Oxford. We believe that the public recognition of this achievement of the ancient Bulgarians will greatly support the new image of our dear Homeland. The exhibition will be opened by the Mayor of Provadia, Mister Firstomaiev. We would be obliged if the Embassy could arrange accommodation for him and involve itself actively in the preparations for the event in question.
“Whaaaaaaat?! To involve ourselves with some toilet?!” Varadin raised his eyes from the fax and stared at the intern with loathing. “This falls on exactly the same day as Mrs Pezantova’s concert! Do you realise what that means?”
“Is there no way to combine the two?” the intern proposed simply. “Concert with Closet, eh?!” spat Varadin sarcastically, “Well, you can try...” “After all, such a discovery!”
“Look, I’ll tell you what,” the Ambassador cut him off brusquely. “We have priorities! And Mister Firstomaiev’s WC is not amongst them.”
“What should I tell them?”
“Nothing for the time being,” he spat. “Why are your hands in your pockets?!”
“What?” the intern threw up his hands in surprise.
“Not now!” explained the Ambassador nervously. “Before, and during the reception, I saw you wandering around with your hands in your pockets like some kind of Director. You and that other one, the Consul. That is not European behaviour!”
For fuck’s sake! the intern swore internally. His contract ran out in two months and he did not see it being extended. “But the English go around with their hands in their pockets.”
“Are you an Englishman, all of a sudden?!” shouted the Ambassador. “When you are an Englishman, then you can talk!”
The intern headed for the door without a word. Varadin stared at the fax once more. That was all he needed, that cretin from Provadia! Pezantova would have a fit. Concert and Closet. Absurd!
“Wait!” he shouted before the intern was out of the door. “Check whether it has the approval of the Ministry of Culture. And of our Ministry too!”
He had a sharp pain at the nape of his neck. It seemed to him monstrously unfair, that, whilst he was flying freely amongst the highest levels of society and creating Foreign Policy, those spiders were still trying, tirelessly and unpunished, to weave together the cobwebs of their domestic idiocies. It was impossible to be rid of them, one could only keep them at a distance, in the corners and holes where they belonged. Ah, but he was very good at that!
“88” he said grimly.
21
The radioman, Racho, was staring at the steeple of St George’s and chain-smoking. The metal shutters were wide open and a refreshing breeze blew in from the outside. The radioman was thinking that if they put an antenna on the steeple then their connection to Central would be vastly improved. The session had finished only ten minutes before. There had been some atmospheric interference and the transmission had taken longer than usual. The signal swung drunkenly on the oscilloscope screen, and the information flowed at the speed of glue through the eye of a needle. In spite of that, he had managed to process the material arriving from Sofia, as well as sending it to the Press Review, along with two short telegrams. He had finished for the day, unless some urgent cryptogram came through. But the likelihood of that was slim. There were still three cigarettes in the pack o
f Marlboro. There were another seven packs in the box on the table.
Racho left the communication’s room, leaving the door ajar and trundled down the stark white corridor, lit by neon lamps. He was a tall, flabby individual, with a face that said I don’t give a damn, behind which sheltered a crafty and calculating mind. He made a quick detour via the kitchenette, put the coffee machine on, and continued down the corridor. The other end of the Secret Sector looked onto the street. The radioman opened a window a little, stared blankly at the passing cars, and then returned, pouring himself a coffee on the way.
The Secret Sector had been constructed during the Cold War: several isolated compartments, insulated against listening devices and all sorts of unwanted intrusions. The windows were fitted with metal covers, and the outside walls were reinforced. This is where the communications hub of the Embassy, as well as the safes containing confidential information, were to be found. According to instructions, in case of enemy attack, the secret service personnel were to lock themselves in and destroy all traces of their activities. To this end, a vast metal furnace had been installed in the central compartment, for burning documents. At various points in the past the furnace had blazed merrily as it burnt tons of potentially explosive information. Now it lay dead. The only inhabitant was Racho the radioman. He burnt various bits of rubbish there, from time to time, to warm himself. Recently, the volume of operational work had dropped sharply, and Racho had very few other duties. That was why he could devote himself entirely to the fat catalogues of duty-free goods available through the Embassy, which he received regularly. Because he lived, for the most part, in the Secret Section, Racho disposed of considerable sums, which the diplomats could only dream of. Here there were no big city temptations and their consequent expenses. Life was simple and healthy, almost as cloistered as a monastery. All capitals are different, but all Secret Sections are alike.
The radioman took a gulp of hot coffee and turned to a small device that he had found in some dusty old trunk containing ‘special equipment’, which he had inherited from his predecessor. The apparatus, of Soviet manufacture, served to detect listening devices by detecting their transmissions, but hadn’t been working for some ten years or more. Racho had a weak spot for electronics, on top of which, he intended to sell the thing in a car-boot sale if he got the chance. In any case, no one took any notice of him. That morning he had plugged it into the charger, to check how reliable the battery was. The needle had showed that it was charging. That was not enough, however. He unplugged it from the charger, put on the headphones and listened. At first, the gadget made a whole heap of chaotic noises, as though cleaning itself from the many years of silence. The radioman regulated the sound-level and adjusted the antenna. Slowly, the noises cleared up, and only one signal remained, chirping like a grasshopper in the distance.
‘Well, what have we here, then?’ he exclaimed.
Memories from the days of the Cold War, filled with tension and hard work, arose in his mind. His overwhelming nostalgia, however, soon turned to worry. The sound in his headphones reminded him of an active Secret Intelligence Device. Just in case, he turned off all the equipment in the comms. room that might be generating the signal. But the signal did not fade and if anything, became clearer still. Could the Embassy be ‘bugged’?
He checked the Secret Sector, with the device over his shoulder, but found no change in the parameters of the signal. The bug was obviously not there. That led him to sigh, because the heaviest responsibility no longer sat on his shoulders. From there on, he was eaten only by his own curiosity. Where the hell are you, you old bitch?!
He went down to the floor below, where the signal became perceptibly stronger. Most of the offices were here, including the Ambassador’s, and access was far easier. All sorts of riff-raff came in and out: from Xerox technicians to journalists and dodgy businessmen. He would not have been at all surprised if the bug was somewhere hereabouts. He criss-crossed the corridors but found nothing more concrete. The only person about was Turkeiev, who stared at him with fear and respect. He was not obliged to explain himself, but he decided to test the other’s ignorance, by informing him that he was measuring ‘the electromagnetic background count owing to atmospheric interference’. Turkeiev nodded understandingly, flattered by this demonstration of trust.
The further down he went, the stronger the signal became in his headphones. Racho checked the reception room, as well as its service rooms, but found nothing. In the foyer, he came across Mr Kishev, to whom he gave the same old story about ‘electromagnetic background’. Kishev accepted it without thinking. He had something else on his mind.
Kosta was fussing nervously around the cooker, when the door of the kitchen opened and the radioman entered, headphones covering his ears and some strange device over his shoulder. The cook was neither expecting him nor happy to see him.
“What do you want?” he asked nervously.
The radioman put a finger to his lips and stepped forward. Kosta stepped in front of him, but Racho pushed him aside with a decisive gesture. The cook’s knees went weak. With the unerring sensitivity of a compass, the radioman aligned himself with the freezer.
“What’s in there?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Kosta, pulling together the last shreds of firmness into his voice.
“Open it!” ordered the radioman.
The cook walked in circles near the freezer, patting his pockets. “Oops, I seem to have forgotten the keys!” he mumbled.
“Listen Pastry,” cut in Racho. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but I don’t believe you want the entire Embassy to know about it? Come on, open the freezer!”
“There’s nothing in there, mate! Why’re you bugging me?”
“So I should report to the Ambassador then, eh?”
“What are you going to report?” the cook visibly cringed.
“See this little beauty?” Racho said threateningly, “She’ll report, not me!”
22
The air in the electronics-stuffed van was stale and Nat Coleway went to smoke in the fresh air. He felt totally useless at this stage of the operation, which otherwise rarely happened to him. Dale Rutherford stayed in the van, thirstily watching the radar, along with two men from the special unit for electronic surveillance that had been created in the last 24 hours. The van was parked in front of the gates of Richmond Park, ready to move out the instant Intelsat-2 received a transmission from the birds.
Ray Solo approached the policeman and cautiously asked him, “How is it going?”
“We are waiting,” replied Nat shortly.
Solo had been temporarily relieved of his duties, pending the results of the investigation. The police were working on a theory that someone from Security may have been involved in the robbery.
“Wait until we catch them the filthy bastards!” Ray said darkly.
“How do you know they were more than one?” the detective reacted instinctively.
“I don’t,” he mumbled.
The door of the van opened and Dale stuck his head out of the van. His eyes burned feverishly. “Coleway!” he shouted excitedly. “We’ve got a signal!”
Operation ‘Duck’s Leg’ had been launched two years ago at the instigation of Dale himself after a similar incident in which two ducks had disappeared. All traces of them had also disappeared, despite the fact that they had been tagged in the traditional manner with metal rings that showed exactly where they came from. They had never been found. Dale had taken it badly, but he threw all of his energy into convincing the Park authorities to invest a considerable sum in a new high quality system for tracking the birds. He read a great deal about into the latest developments in the field. The result had been a joint project between Dale’s department and a leading Oxford biotechnology laboratory. Dale’s pets underwent delicate surgical intervention. A microchip was implanted in the ducks’ bodies, which would be activated by any dramatic change or cessation of life. The implant transmitted a signal
for several days that could be picked up by satellite. In turn the satellite relayed the signal to a mobile radar station that could locate the exact position of the birds. Unfortunately, the project quickly reached its spending limit and the cutting edge microchip was implanted into only ten birds. One of them had been discovered the previous year in the river Thames, tangled in some spirogyra and although Dale was naturally sad, he had a reason to be proud of himself. The system worked. He had another nine high-technology ducks.
“Where are they?” asked Coleway immediately after the door slammed behind his back.
“Here they are!” Dale pointed at the screen.
The detective sceptically gazed at the faint pulsing point of light.
“Shouldn’t there be more of them?” he asked.
“They are probably piled together. Poor souls!” whispered Dale.
He twiddled a knob and heart-stopping din roared from the speakers.
“Can we pinpoint their location?” asked Nat business like.
“Unfortunately, the signal is quite weak,” one of the men said. “But I’ll try.”
His fingers blurred over the keyboard. A greenish grid appeared on the screen.
“They are in London,” he concluded after a while.
“I knew it!” exclaimed Dale.
“London is fairly big!” Nat cooled his ardour.
“West End,” specified the operator. “That’s all for the moment!”
“Let’s move!” ordered Coleway. “To Fulham!”
He radioed the cars that were waiting in other areas of the capital and told them to regroup in the West End. Nat Coleway was thrilled at the result. He had expected, somewhere in his subconscious, that the birds would be found in some far-flung section of the city, packed with immigrants and other lower-class types, who did not know (or rather did not respect) the cultural norms of civilised society. The fact that the ducks were calling from the prestigious West End gave him cause to smile shrewdly. He had grown up in the East End, not far from Whitechapel, in the back-alley where Jack the Ripper had committed his second murder (the victim had been some great-great-aunt). Despite the fact that he had broken with his roots, Nat had maintained his social awareness, which helped him to deal with the underworld in general. That was why he now felt slightly confused. It seemed to him that the only logical explanation was that the ducks were in the kitchen of some Chinese restaurant or other. The Chinese would go to any lengths to drop their prices and aromatic, crispy Peking duck was the cornerstone of their menu. Elementary, Watson!
