Mission London

by Alek Popov

  The chef remained intently silent. He was outwardly unmoved. What a dimwit! thought Varadin, I bet, if it was left to him, he’d serve Her Majesty bean and pepper stew. But it was not left to him, thank God.

  “I think,” he continued, “that it’s about time for us to decide on the menu.”

  “No problem,” shrugged the cook.

  “This time we had better offer something more exquisite to our honoured guests.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “You’re the professional in this field, I’d hoped to hear your suggestions first.”

  The cook thought it over. From the depths of his mind came random notes. His brain arranged them instinctively, and eventually a pleasant melody formed. “Duck!” he said daringly. “Duck à la Chasseur!”

  The Ambassador’s brows rose in surprise. “Doesn’t sound all that bad. Will you be able to cope on your own?”

  “That is my speciality,” Kosta exclaimed. “Unfortunately, I rarely have the chance to make it. Ducks, as you know, are expensive.”

  “Don’t worry about the cost,” the Ambassador waved a hand dismissively, “What do you propose for Hors D’oeuvre?”

  “Liver in a white wine sauce. The French Recipe!” shot the cook.

  “Well, look at that!” the Ambassador nodded in approval. “Won’t it be a little heavy?”

  “What are you talking about, heavy?” protested the chef energetically. “The combination is ideal. Especially with a fresh radish salad.” He added without thinking.

  Varadin had rarely seen him so enthused. “Why have you been hiding these priceless talents until now?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Budget,” sighed the cook.

  “This time you needn’t worry about that,” cut in the Ambassador. “Just don’t screw up! I take it you’ve seen The Road to Sofia?”

  It was obvious that he’d lived through this nightmare many times. The two of them quickly sorted the remaining details of the menu and the cook left, happy to have the chance to demonstrate his professional skills once more. Or so thought Varadin.

  He leant back and closed his eyes for a few minutes. In one hour he had an appointment at the Foreign Office. The neighbouring dictator had muddied the waters in the Balkans again, and John Edge, the Foreign Secretary, was gathering all the Ambassadors from the surrounding countries together for a mass consultation. Late last night, he had received a cryptogram detailing the government’s position – nothing it had contained had surprised him. Obviously, things had been carefully coordinated with the member-countries, whose Ambassadors would have been equally well-instructed by their respective governments. One and the same thought did the rounds amongst the group. The only uncertainty lay in the question of whether they would serve those little triangular sandwiches with the crab and avocado filling, like they had last time. Until that time they had only ever been fed with scones that resembled Stone Age artefacts, without the good grace to be rock buns. It was rumoured that this change had come about after Mr Edge had taken on a new, young secretary. An innocent young girl of the people, she had dared to break with the soulless Tory traditions that had been handed down conservatively by successive Conservatives. The sandwiches had been so exquisite that he had actually come close to following Ziebling’s advice about taking one back to the Embassy to show Kosta. But he had not dared. However he did take note of their parameters, under the guise of taking notes. Then he gave his sketches to the cook, but the results had been far from the same. Alas!

  Just then his mobile rang from somewhere under the pile of paperwork on the desk. He dug it out and put it to his ear. “Yes?” he said casually.

  “It’s me,” a familiar voice slapped him awake.

  “Nice to hear from you,” he lied instinctively.

  “Did the exhibition arrive?” she asked without ceremony.

  “It’s at the airport, I’ve sent someone to clear it through customs.”

  “I want it set up immediately!” the voice brooked no contradiction. “I don’t want it left till the last minute!”

  He blinked and pressed the point between his eyes with one finger. The exhibition was included in Mrs Pezantova’s program as an accompaniment to her gathering. It seemed the ultimate in chic as far as she was concerned. For that purpose she had acquired a whole stack of pictures from a government gallery and was taking them to the four corners of the earth with her, accompanied by an ‘artistic director’ who was half-dead from fear because he was responsible for their material well-being.

  “Don’t worry,” the Ambassador assured her. “Preparations are well under way.”

  “They’re all asking me constantly whether She will be there,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to tell them.”

  “Be careful! Nothing definite for now!”

  There was a brief pause.

  “They’ve already written it,” she said, “in a fashion magazine.”

  “You told them?!”

  “No! They came up with it themselves!” she protested energetically.

  “Okay! Let’s just hope that people don’t read Bulgarian fashion magazines over here.”

  “You’ll fax me the guest-list, yes?”

  “Uh-huh, it’s already completed.”

  “And I’ll need some notes on the more important ones: titles, occupations, you know what I mean.” she added capriciously. “And one more thing! I almost forgot. A man will call you. He’s called Spass Nemirov. He draws with fire. I want him worked into the program. He’s very attractive.”

  “Fire!?” Varadin jumped.

  “I have to go. I’ll see you in London.”

  He shook the receiver in disgust, as though to tip out the remains of her voice. His gaze fell on the dustbin: it was overflowing, the carpet around it covered in bits of paper. It had not been emptied for some time. That excited and annoyed all at the same time. What does that panty-wetter think she’s playing at!? He grabbed the phone. “Why is no one cleaning my office?!” shouted Varadin. “Find that Katya and get her here at once!”

  Bianca Leithereva tried to tell him something but he slammed down the receiver.

  Tanya Vandova put her head around the door without knocking, “The driver’s waiting.”

  He looked at her, frozen.

  Ten minutes later, the green Rover was taking him to Whitehall.

  27

  A complex mixture of guilt, fear and audacity crawled over the cook’s face. He had brought a box of cigarettes, with the strange name of Murati, and timidly pushed them towards Chavdar. It was just past eleven, but the bar of the Consort was half-empty. Simich was polishing glasses cheerfully; his country had just started a new offensive against the Albanian separatists in the southern provinces, which guaranteed high-emotions for the next few months. Recently, life in Europe had become too monotonous.

  “I can’t pay you now,” said the actor as he put the cigarettes away. “But you can collect it with your share of the proceeds from the ducks. I think we’ll be able to shift them in the next couple of weeks. I’ve spoken to a few restaurants already. It’s on.”

  Kosta said nothing.

  “What’s up?”

  “Write them off,” he said shortly.

  “How come?!” Chavdar jumped.

  “I wanted to tell you, but there was no answer on your mobile.”

  “The bastards cut me off!” roared the actor. “I hadn’t paid. What happened?”

  “The freezer died on me.

  “What?!”

  “A few days ago,” added the chef. “I only noticed when it started to smell. Horrendous mess, no way I could do anything with it.”

  “And where did you move them?”

  “I didn’t,” Kosta sadly shook his head. “I had to throw them out. That’s why I was trying to get in touch with you. I had to sort it out myself.”

  “You threw out all the ducks?!”

  “Uh-huh,” the cook nodded. “They’d all gone green.”

  “Shit!!�
�� gasped the actor, head in his hands.

  Kosta looked at him apologetically, but in their depths his eyes shone coldly. He had decided firmly not to share the proceeds with the actor. The radioman was enough.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said and stood up.

  “Wait!” shouted Chavdar. “I don’t like this. You’re putting one over on me!”

  “Give me a break!” said Kosta, getting angry. “What the hell are you on about?”

  “You’ve gone and sold them to that lot in the Embassy,” continued the actor, indignantly. “I know. Your whole gang there in the Embassy are stuffing their faces with ducks.”

  “And why don’t you go and stuff yourself?!” the chef spat between gritted teeth. “It wasn’t enough that you pushed those web-foot devils on to me. so I had to get stressed about them; it wasn’t enough that I had to clear up your bloody mess, now I’m the guilty one!! Did I tell you to find somewhere else? I think so! And weren’t you going to shift them within one week? And what happened? Shit happened! Everything you do is like that!”

  The actor had not been expecting such a righteous and irate outburst. Kosta made good use of his dumb-struck amazement to make a quick exit. He had been extremely surprised at himself, but preferred not to show it.

  The Embassy van appeared at the back end of the road, u-turned and stopped in front of the official entrance. Turkeiev and Stanoicho jumped out. The interns voice caught him, just as he was about to turn the corner.

  “Hey, Pastricheff! Come and help!”

  They’d cornered him. He walked over to the van unwillingly. The seats had been taken out; two enormous grey trunks lay on the floor. The view did nothing for him. “And what exactly is that?” he asked grimly.

  “The exhibition,” replied Turkeiev, bursting with pride.

  The cook made an energetic, anti-social gesture and spat to one side.

  “Here, get the other end of this,” Stanoicho coaxed.

  The men’s faces twisted. Their joints popped under the weight of the trunk.

  “You exhibiting lead or something heavier?” complained Kosta bitterly.

  “Carry on!” growled the intern.

  Chavdar Tolomanov observed their labours malevolently from the windows of the Consort. He imagined their guts being squashed into their pants and his heart felt lighter. Then he turned around and slid the box of cigarettes onto the bar. “Do you barter?”

  Simich picked up the box, sniffed it and then nodded, “All right then.”

  “Double-scotch, heavy on the ice!”

  “Oo-hah!” the barman rubbed his hands together as he went to get the bottle.

  The men man-handled the second trunk into the foyer and then collapsed on top of it like castaways. Kosta examined his hands: the metal handles had left deep red lines in his palms. “Fuck me! Heavy bastard!” puffed the chef angrily.

  Stanoicho lit a cigarette and turned his pain into smoke.

  Only Turkeiev shone happily. As they headed out to Heathrow that morning he had felt a crushing weight in his chest, as though he were doomed, a weight like the tar from countless cigarette ends stubbed out inside. He had felt doomed to fail. He had never before released items from Customs and he felt the task to be beyond him. Not one of his more experienced comrades had gone with him, and yet he had survived! He had found his way through the labyrinth of the cargo terminal, successfully conquered the Customs administration, and brought the priceless load home on time. In spite of them all! He awaited praise.

  Tanya Vandova came down the stairs and looked down on them. “The Ambassador says to set up the exhibition immediately.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the artistic director?” asked Turkeiev.

  She shrugged. “He said to start...”

  Kosta realised no one was paying attention to him and made his escape.

  Stanoicho and Turkeiev opened the trunks.

  “What the hell is that?!” exclaimed the intern.

  28

  The Ambassadors’ conference had gone on too long. To everyone’s dismay, the rock-buns were back on the menu. The old secretary had filed a suit against her (supposedly) unlawful dismissal, and the Commission for Internal Ethics had restored her to her previous post. The Foreign Secretary looked despondent. It was not clear what depressed him the most: the Balkan situation or Miss Crohne’s return. His bad mood affected the others and found on outlet in the indifferent document issued by the Press Centre, with the title: ‘Ambassadors share the Foreign Office’s Reservations concerning the Current Balkan Crisis.’ After the conference, Ambassador Martinescu had invited Varadin for an improvised lunch in a nearby restaurant. Varadin could easily have refused, but did not want to. He had to write a huge report and wanted to postpone it for the time being. The car had returned him to the Embassy around half past four.

  He quickly passed through the duty-room, and stopped, rooted to the spot in the foyer. Bang in the middle of the floor some bizarre device was under construction. There were bits all over the place: bricks, rocks, planks and tiles. Stanoicho and Turkeiev were arguing over some plans that had been spread out on top of one of the trunks. The Major-domo had a thick clay pipe in his hands, which was covered in greenish gunge.

  “G-8!” yelled the intern. “Why’re you giving me E-7? I want G-8 for fuck’s sake!”

  “But it’s not here,” the Major-domo shrugged helplessly.

  “What is going on here?” asked the Ambassador in icy tones.

  “We’re assembling the installation, Mister Ambassador,” explained Turkeiev. “They’ve sent us some sort of avant-garde sculpture. We’re following the plans but we think it’d be a better idea to wait for the artistic director.”

  The young man was very much into Modern Art, which was why he had been placed in charge of the Cultural aspects of the Mission.

  A nasty feeling spread through Varadin’s stomach. He circumnavigated the whole installation with care, and cast an eye over its accompanying documentation. The list of parts covered several pages. They also included an instruction diagram, which looked more like a jigsaw as opposed to any form of useful instructions.

  “It doesn’t say what it is,” sighed Stanoicho.

  “But the idea is clear,” added the intern. “It’s supposed to look like something old.”

  Varadin stared at the bottom corner of the list. There was a small label with tiny script: WC-983-BC.

  “What the hell have you collected, you idiots?!” he hissed, throwing the list at them and approaching the so-called installation threateningly.

  “Mister Ambassador!” the voice of Tanya Vandova flew from the other end of the hall, “Someone wishes to see you, at all costs!”

  “What someone?” he jumped.

  “Someone called Bennett, from the British Museum.” she explained. “He is waiting in the reception room.”

  He frowned. “I don’t remember having scheduled an appointment with him.”

  “He says that it is urgent. He’s very stressed!”

  Varadin shot an evil glance at the two mortified members of staff, then headed for the reception room.

  The man was pacing the room like a jackal. He was short, with a square head that suggested obstinacy. He was wearing a brown tweed suit with a red scarf instead of a tie. He turned at the sound of the door opening.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Clark Bennett of the British Museum,” he introduced himself immediately, shaking Varadin’s hand. “They tell me that you have it.”

  “What exactly?” queried the Ambassador.

  “The ancient WC!”

  “Pardon?” his eyebrows rose.

  “I don’t know quite how it happened,” Mr Bennett started quickly. “The two loads must have been sent at the same time. This morning your people went to the airport and picked up a couple of trunks, which were actually destined for ourselves. In the other trunks, there are various pictures, which are yours.”

  “But how could this happen?!” shouted Varadin. “Aren’t the l
oads addressed to different people?!”

  “Of course they are!” exclaimed Mr Bennett. “I’ve no idea why they released our trunks. Maybe they look alike? But because it was a Diplomatic cargo, no one thought to check.”

  “Follow me,” said Varadin grimly.

  The pair of them headed for the foyer.

  “Where is B-5? You had it a minute ago.” The voice of the intern echoed

  “But we want E-5 here,” muttered Stanoicho.

  “Ah, your granny’s E-5, give me B-5.”

  “Oh, gosh! What have you done for Christ’s sake!” a woeful cry reached them. “Stop! Please stop at once!”

  Stanoicho jumped and dropped his brick on the floor. It broke in half.

  “Aaaargh!” groaned Mr Bennett, as though it had been dropped on his foot. “Don’t touch anything! Stop! Stop!!”

  A greenish-blue flash crossed the Ambassador’s face. Stanoicho and Turkeiev went pale and stepped back. Clark Bennett pulled out a mobile and dialled some number with trembling hands.

  “I found it! I found it!” he shouted. “Come quickly before they destroy it. 67 Queens Gate! Hurry!”

  Then he turned to the Ambassador. “Your Excellency? This antique is insured for £760,000. I cannot afford anything to happen to it! Get those two out of here. My people will be here soon to gather up the pieces. Don’t worry about your pictures. We’ll get them to you first thing tomorrow. What a day! What a day, indeed!!!”

  There was a strange noise, like someone stepping on a frog: a squelch! The Ambassador put a hand over his mouth and motioned Stanoicho and Turkeiev to disappear. Clark Bennett watched him, startled. Varadin sneaked into the internal part of the Embassy. He went up in the lift and stopped it between floors. Then he started rattling, in his best machine-gun fashion, “100!-100!-100!”

  29

  The wine sparkled with a soft rusty nuance in the bottom of her glass. Katya downed it. A wave of warmth rolled through her body. Desmond stretched across and refilled the glass. It was her third.

  “How’s your arse?” he asked.

  “Don’t ask,” she laughed bitterly and took another gulp.