Mission London

by Alek Popov

  “Disappeared,” the operator reported.

  “It will show up again,” said Nat.

  “Don’t you have the impression that all the traces lead to this part of the city?” Dale’s voice called out.

  “Yes we do,” replied the detective.

  During the last hour the source had been appearing and disappearing at intervals of about ten minutes. Obviously the device had been partly damaged by the hostile environment, but was continuing to fulfil its duty heroically. Come on, you little beauty, keep it up for another half-hour! Nat was praying.

  In the van the atmosphere of expectation lay like a heavy cloud. Every beep could be the last one – the team knew that well. But nobody was in a hurry to celebrate. From a precise control device the instrument had transformed itself into the die of fortune, spinning whilst they all prayed for a six.

  “Ooooops! Here we go again!” exclaimed the operator.

  The van hesitantly joined the traffic.

  “We are close!” Nat Coleway rubbed his hands.

  The man in front of the screen nodded. Suddenly his face became worried. “Sir! I’m afraid the source is moving, Sir!” he repeated as he stared at the pulsating light.

  “How come!” exploded Nat. “You’re not telling me they have an anti-radar device, are you? There are all sorts of hi-tech poachers these days, would you believe it! Follow it!”

  11.25 AM. Distance 300 yards. We are on M25 West. A traffic jam in the Chiswick area is blocking all movement. Fortunately, not only ours...We have every cause to believe that the chip is in the stomach of an individual, who is in a car in front of us. Supposed consumption: – 11 hours. Expected ejection: +4 hours. We have to catch him before that. End.

  Nat switched off the recorder and put it back in his pocket. “What are you doing that for?” asked Dale with some disgust. “Making a record of the last phase of the operation,” was the gloomy answer.

  From the exhaust pipes of the cars, pale smog drifted. The reflections of the dispersing clouds floated across the display widows of the Sega shop, the empire of virtual reality.

  “I wonder what that swine looks like?” Dale hissed. “I don’t know,” said Nat. “Maybe he didn’t have a clue what he was eating?” “He didn’t, didn’t he...?!” Dale clenched his fists. “In any case I expect him to tell us where he ate,” added Nat

  Coleway. “I want to punch his gluttonous face!” Dale said darkly.

  “Question of priorities,” shrugged the detective.

  11.43 AM. We are closely following an olive green diplomatic Rover 80 with the number plate 123D001. We have reason to believe that the individual who has swallowed the source is in the same car. This makes the situation considerably difficult. We should not rush. Possible obstacles of an administrative or legal nature. I am waiting for instructions from Central. In the meantime the car is heading towards Heathrow with us in pursuit. Mr Rutherford is showing signs of acute nerves. I’m worried that he might lose control at any moment and jeopardise the success of the operation. I have ordered Dale to be handcuffed. Only temporarily. Sorry, Dale. End.

  12.00 AM. No signal. We are entering the area of the airport. I just spoke with Major Trumble. The situation is obviously very delicate; there are consultations with the Foreign Office going on at the minute. The instructions are vague: the chase should go on and nothing more...We are just in the tunnel that leads to Terminals 1, 2 and 3. Speed limit 30 miles per hour.

  12.11 PM. Three women and a man got out of the car. The man is obviously the Bulgarian Ambassador. They are heading for the VIP entrance. Mr Rutherford will have to stay in the van, despite his energetic protests. Mr Finch, from the technical crew is coming with me, armed with a portable locator. I’m wondering which one of those four is the host of the chip? And what is the extent of diplomatic immunity...? We have located it again. We are following their steps, but they either haven’t noticed, or don’t care. The leader of the group is the woman in the red furs. I don’t think Dale’s ducks gave her any particular trouble; she looks like a hardcore cannibal. They are talking in their own language and laughing...

  “Detective Coleway...” a soft, but powerful voice stopped him.

  In front of him stood a well built man in a brown suit and funereal tie. A badge with VIP was hanging on his lapel. His blue eyes were like lakes of liquid methane. “Lieutenant Rupert Everidge!” the man introduced himself. “Please, follow me!”

  “But we were just...” Nat tried to object.

  “I know,” the lieutenant interrupted him. “I have been informed. It is my responsibility to take control of the operation from this moment onwards. We are going to explain everything to you. For Christ sake!” he went on nervously. “Tell your man to remove that stupid device! It’s attracting people’s attention!”

  Nat hesitated. He did not have much choice. He followed the disappearing group with a look full of sorrow.

  “Come with me!” Everidge urged them, as though he was afraid that Nat would throw himself after them.

  He took them though a good number of corridors and automatic doors, unlocking them softly when he swiped his access card through the readers. Nat had the uneasyfeeling that he was walking behind the wings of a big stage. They ended up in a small compartment with a small ceiling, full of monitors. In the middle of the room a man with a beige raincoat and a flat face was sat. The fluorescent lights threw indigo coloured shades over his shoes. MI6...? wondered Nat.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said turning to Nat and Finch without moving from his chair. “Unpleasant situation, eh? We have to decide how to proceed.”

  “I have the feeling it has already been decided, Sir...” mumbled Nat sourly.

  The name of the agent was Bibbit. Michael Bibbit.

  “I know how much work and nerves you have thrown into this so far,” he started with a slight yawn. “I don’t want you to be left with impression that we are acting over your heads.”

  Why don’t you go and shoot yourself! said Nat to himself.

  “I just don’t get it! Why?” sighed Bibbit, turning his chair toward the monitors. “They look like normal people, almost the same as we are...”

  Varadin and Pezantova were having a tête-à-tête, standing near the plate-glass wall overlooking the runway. Her two companions occupied the soft, gold, silk-upholstered armchairs, watching them with curiosity. Mitche was drinking weak tea with lemon, its colour similar to that of her complexion. Veronika was eating fruit pie and washing it down lavishly with sips of black coffee. She looked fresh with a healthy complexion, ready to cross the whole globe from pole to pole.

  “And that car, how could it smell like that!” whined Mitche. “I nearly made the same mess again!”

  “Oh, you are such a delicate flower!” laughed Veronika. “I know that stench quite well. In the past we had a Trabant and my husband went fishing with it quite often. And when he forgets the fish in the boot, and the sun is up, I cannot describe it. The whole upholstery soaked up that smell; we had real difficulty selling it in the end. Yes, it will take at least a year, before that smell disappears.”

  “Wow, like cat’s piss!” nodded Mitche.

  “A-ha, no escape!”

  “Why are they going fishing with that expensive car?”

  “Like it’s theirs!” grunted the other, stabbing another chunk of her pie.

  Behind the windows a giant Brazilian Airlines Jumbo Jet took off. Surprised by its close proximity Varadin and Pezantova instinctively stopped waiting for the roar of its massive engines. From behind the thick windows though, only a muted noise came.

  “I still cannot believe that She called me after what happened,” sighed Pezantova. “Do you think She was being honest?”

  “Well, she knows it was not your fault,” said Varadin.

  “Naturally it isn’t!” Pezantova tossed her head and continued thoughtfully “She even apologised for leaving so suddenly. Otherwise She was thrilled with the concert! By the dinner too. She s
aid to congratulate the cook.”

  “I will congratulate him,” he nodded.

  “Shame that an accident like that has overshadowed the whole event,” she bowed her head and lowered her voice. “You don’t think it was accidental, do you? There are some people that are trying to undermine us. They’re envious of my success. Pure sabotage, if you ask me. We have to understand who is behind all this.”

  “We’ll do our best,” he promised.

  “And careful with the media!” she warned him. “No useless information. They are going to re-invent the story anyway.”

  “And you try to remember who fixed you up with that piss artist,” Varadin threw at her cunningly.

  “I remember,” Pezantova spat. “That is the reason I am in such a hurry to get home. In a week I am opening the ‘Days of Bulgarian Culture in Berlin’, and a man who was recommended to me by the same people has arranged the program. If it turns out to be another flop I won’t be able to bear it!”

  “Good luck,” said Varadin and squeezed her hand lightly.

  “Thank you, anyway, for everything you did for me, I won’t forget it,” she said instinctively replying to his gesture. “I’ll try to drop by again, if I have time, but without those peasants,” she stared disdainfully at her companions. “The Halvadjievs are going to cover the expenses, so don’t you worry about it. They owe it to us for God’s sake!” she concluded in a businesslike voice.

  “Those foreigners!” Rupert Everidge shook his head. “I have been working here at this airport for fifteen years and I still can’t understand them!”

  “Who is the host of the signal?” asked Bibbit looking somewhat disgusted, as though a deadly virus was in question.

  “I don’t know, Sir,” Sergeant Finch said. “They have to go through the scanner one by one. But if you ask me the woman with the furs is the one we are looking for.”

  “No, that one with the sick-looking face,” Lieutenant Everidge nodded his head towards the screen showing the ghastly Mitche.

  “I’m putting ten quid on the fat one,” said Bibbit. “And you Coleway? What you’re going to say about His Excellency?”

  “I don’t like betting,” the detective shook his head, “But I am ready to take on any bets if you let me identify the recipient.”

  “And, what are you going to do, arrest him?” pressed Michael Bibbit.

  “That won’t be necessary,” replied Nat. “But we’ll know how the source ended up in his/her stomach. It must have happened last night. We’ll clarify where and what they have eaten exactly...”

  “I’ll tell you,” the agent interrupted him. “They all dined in the Embassy. There was some strange reception. Artists were invited. Unfortunately we don’t have many details.”

  “Then we’ll question the cook,” Nat continued persistently. “To tell us how he got hold of the ducks. I am sure we’ll catch the real criminals in the end!”

  He started to babble. Just like Dale. And that wouldn’t lead to anything good.

  “I do not doubt your logic, Coleway,” agreed Bibbit. “You are a good detective. But a bad strategist, which is, of course, not your fault. That is your job. You see the case but you miss its political framework. Can you grasp the political scandal hidden in this case? The situation in the Balkans is complicated enough; probably a military operation will follow. We need the support of the local leaders more than ever. In this very moment what you are proposing is to discredit those people, to paint them as savages! Chaplin’s corpse, the umbrella, the Pope, and now this. You know how much effort they put into their new European image! They are almost ill with every negative publication! It’ll take us months to calm down public opinion. In the meantime, we have to lead all sorts of delicate discussions. No, no, I cannot allow our national interests to be risked because of a bunch of wild ducks!”

  “So the bets are off?” asked Nat Coleway.

  “Yes!” the agent said. “I know very well how you feel! I also like to feed the birds in the park and don’t think they should be treated as poultry. At the moment though we have other priorities and the ducks are clearly not part of them!”

  “Mr Finch,” Nat turned to the sergeant. “I think the operation is over. Let’s get out of here. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

  “We are relying on your discretion,” the voice of Michael Bibbit followed him.

  12.55 PM. I just gave orders for Mr Rutherford to be un-cuffed. I’m afraid he’s very cross with me. The source is leaving the area of the airport and is flying to the continent. It is expected to disappear from the radar’s perimeter in five minutes. In a world dominated by politics the truth will never reign. End.

  This time Balkan was flying a Boeing; Varadin had taken his guests to the entrance, waited for the doors to close and come back to the hall. He was content; there were no other people with him. Pezantova thought that some of the diplomats had been involved with the accident. In any case, she was convinced that they were maliciously happy and she did not want to see their faces. Varadin had turned them down with pleasure.

  He was not in a hurry. The idea of going back in the stinking Rover was not a very inviting one. He looked at the monitor and saw that the plane to Sofia had already taken off. A wave of relief entered his chest, and his heart beat happily like a cat in front of a mousetrap. He sat at the bar and ordered a small, light Grolsch. Whilst the foam was settling, whispering underneath his nose, and the big white machines were slowly crossing the runways like big white elephants, in his subconscious a door opened. But instead of numbers a light came through the door. He saw his whole four year mandate rolling in front of him like a golden silk carpet covering the mud of life underneath. I’ll buy myself a new car! The thought crossed his mind. Maybe a Saab or a Mercedes...? He had not decided yet.

  Suddenly from some dark pocket his mobile phone squeaked. He took it out unwillingly.

  “Mr Ambassador!” a worried voice sounded. “Major Potty is here with a whole lorry full of bedpans. He wants to unload them into the Embassy’s courtyard. He claims that you have promised to transport them to Bulgaria. What shall we do? He’s shouting and kicking the staff. I’m afraid he is off his head...”

  “What?”

  “He got hysterical, when we told him that we have nowhere to put them...”

  “What?” Varadin repeated. “I don’t hear you very well...Who is calling?”

  “He slammed Turkeiev on the head with one bedpan, because he told him it’s rusty! He threatens he’s going to complain to the President, if we do not accept them. Crazy man! Do you hear him screaming?”

  “I can’t hear anything!” Varadin ground his teeth. “The connection is bad. I’m at the airport...”

  “What are we going to do?”

  At that moment someone else grabbed the phone at the other end.

  “Excellency! Excellency!” a piercing scream echoed down his phone. “What unheard of insolence! You have no right to reject our help!” It was Major Potty himself. “I insist on speaking with your President personally! We have to solve this problem once and for all. Do you hear me?...”

  Varadin instinctively held the phone away from his ear. He had the feeling saliva was dribbling out of it. Then he turned it off.

  He felt a sudden urge to slam it on the floor, but then he realised that it would be the second time this week. He swallowed his lager in one go and then ordered another one. He did not move for a while, listening to the whispering of the foam, yet understanding nothing. “I’ll survive!” he said. “Whatever happens...”

  38

  On the 24th of December, Rube Sparks, the jeweller from Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the end of the 20th century. He had been choosing the decoration for weeks, postponing vital deals to the last minute, in order to provide all the available sparkle for Christmas Eve. At exactly eleven p.m., Lady Diana appeared, wrapped in a long fur-coat and an opaque veil, followed by her chauffeur. He gave him twenty quid and sent him back to the car. They made their way to his office,
above the shop. The shutters were down. Whilst she was taking her clothes off, Emerald opened the safe behind his desk and started taking all the decorations out. The reflections danced on the ceiling...The Princess was shining in front him with her goddess-like nudity, her breasts moving emotionally as she breathed. He took a diamond necklace from its velvet bed and put it around her neck. This time the decorations were more, both in number and value, than ever before. He continued to dress her up until there was not a single empty spot left on her body. Even on her toes rings sparkled, covered with diamonds! His heart jumped into his throat and his Adam’s apple started pulsating like an iguana’s.

  It was time for photos.

  He put a new hypersensitive film in his camera and looked happily through the lenses. Surprisingly, the Princess had put her coat on. In her hand shone a little jewel, which was definitely not part of his collection – a stylish Smith & Wesson, 37 calibre. She pointed it at the petrified jeweller, and made him step back to the window. She put her other hand into the safe and took out a box with photos, which had sealed Rube’s ecstasy and happiness.

  The last goodbye was dry and businesslike.

  Desmond Cook waited in the car with the engine running. Katya threw herself in beside him and took a deep breath. “The Christmas tree is here,” she said.

  He stepped on the gas and joined the traffic. The car roared up to the brightly lit Regent Street, then turned into some small side street and disappeared into the labyrinth of the city’s back alleys.

  They were driving in silence. The heating was on fully, blowing hot waves underneath her coat. The stones were stuck to her skin like scales. Small streamlets of sweat were coming out of her armpits. I made it, Christ, I made it!

  Desmond turned the radio on: Jazz FM. Relaxing. They crossed Marylebone Road and continued east. Deserted streets, no names, lit in dim yellowish light. Desmond’s face was immobile. During all those months he had insisted on not mixing sex with business. That made her feel insecure. Until now they had only had sex (and quite at lot of it, at that!). But she couldn’t grasp it, exactly what his plan was. She grasped the gun tightly, Don’t even think of cutting me out, you bastard!