Alek Popov - Mission London

Tania Vandova was behind her desk, in the front office, feverishly sorting out the usual pile of correspondence that arrived every morning.

“Good morning,” she greeted him without interrupting her work.

He mumbled something incomprehensible and slammed the door behind him.

A short conversation on the phone followed, after which the accountant galloped in, carrying an armful of folders.

“Is the list of tenants ready?” he asked.

She nodded in confirmation and gave him the list. Varadin sighed heavily, like a man set the task of moving mountains.

The Embassy was overcrowded, although recently the personnel had been drastically cut, thanks to the permanent economic crisis. The clothes of the former dinosaur state were not the same size as those of its inheritor. Nature, however, did not leave empty spaces, and the living quarters were filled up to the last attic by suspicious subjects, apparently protected under the terms of ‘Balkan Common Law’. Varadin knew the delicacy of this problem, but he also knew that he had to clear them out one by one. Living space was a powerful tool in the hands of any ruler: one can manoeuvre and trade with it. This resource belonged to him by right and it was he, and only he, who should decide who was to occupy it.

“Why do all these people live here?”

“Weeell….” Bianca Mashinska drawled, while she grumbled to herself, why do you pretend you don’t know anything, you asshole? “It’s an inherited situation!” she spat out at last, happy to have found the exact formula.

“Mm-hmm, inherited situation!” It was disgusting. “But they cannot stay here anymore,” he added sharply.

“Of course, especially those who do not pay their rent. Like the Bobevs for example…”

“And why haven’t they already been evicted?!”

“Because they have filed a lawsuit. Rasho Bobev, the ex-attaché for trade and commerce, is suing the Ministry. He has filed for unlawful dismissal.”

“And so what?” Varadin exploded “He can go back to Sofia and sue them as much as he wants from there!”

“He does not want to go back. He says that he is waiting for the court’s decision. He hopes they are going to reinstate him.”

“As if they would reinstate him!” Varadin pursed his lips. “He calculated it quite well. Those court proceedings go on for months. Throw him out!”

Bianca Mashinska said nothing.

“What is the matter? Are there no police in this country?”

“But then the whole thing will blow up in our faces and that will hit our reputation again.”

“Yes, correct. That is not a good idea,” he sighed, massaging the base of his nose. The sort of idiocy he was forced to deal with! A feeling of rage overcame him, “Then think of something else,” he spat out with a hissing voice. “Cut his electricity. Stop his water. I want him out!”

“I’ll inform the housekeeper,” she nodded indifferently.

“Work on it!”

Very well, one by one he was going to take them out of the honey-pot like small, repugnant insects — with tweezers. This pretty vision made him grit his teeth with pleasure. He poured himself a glass of water and dropped one fizzy pill into it, which immediately coloured the liquid a poisonous yellow. He swallowed it and burped.

At that very instant one of the telephones on his desk started ringing furiously.

“Hellooo, is that you?” a capricious female voice sounded in his ear.

“It is me,” (without a drop of enthusiasm). “I am very pleased to hear your voice.”

“Don’t be so pleased!” she snarled. “I thought I could rely on you!”

“Of course you can!”

“I can’t, that is the problem. Why you are hiding it from me?”

“What am I hiding?” his adrenaline jumped.

“Are you kidding me? I know everything,” she shouted, then added, heartbroken, “a refusal has arrived!’

“My god, is that your worry?!” he exclaimed. “Don’t even think about it, the situation is under control.”

“Not to worry?!! I am furious! That snail, Kishev, it took him almost half a year!” she exploded. “You have to punish him!”

“I will punish him, of course!” he hurriedly agreed. “I’ll punish him good and proper.”

“Yes, but it is too late now. Who knows what kind of mess he’s caused,” she sighed. “He probably broke with the required etiquette on purpose to annoy her; to make her reject us forever. Saboteur! And you protect him!”

“I do not protect him!” he was indignant.

“I do not want to see his sorry face next time I come around, you hear me!”

“Well, his mandate is nearly over,” he cooed. “And he is not going to see a next one.”

“That is exactly what he deserves,” she grumbled. “And what are we going to do with this situation?”

“I was thinking of hiring a special agency for exactly this purpose.”

A suspicious crackling noise appeared in the line and he suddenly wondered if they were being tapped. They were not discussing something incredibly secret, but he felt really stupid.

“What agency?”

“Public relations.”

“Oooo!” a certain respect entered her voice, as though they were discussing the use of some exceedingly sophisticated domestic appliance.

“Tomorrow, I have an appointment with their director. They look kosher, but I cannot tell you more than that right now,” added Varadin cautiously.

The thought of the phone tap had upset him.

“When are they going to bring her out?” Her question caught him on the hop.

“She isn’t a cow!” his anger threatened all his safety valves.

“I don’t care!” she shouted. “In two months time she should be on line! You owe it to me, damn it!”

“I’ll do what I can,” he groaned, half-suffocated by resentment.

“That would be best for all concerned!”

The connection was cut.

“94!” he shouted pathetically.

For the next several seconds he stayed motionless. The internal telephone rang several times, but Varadin did not react. Somebody knocked on the door and Tania Vandova’s head appeared.

“Major Potty is waiting tobe received,” was her edgy explanation.

“48,” he said with a stony face. “Show him in.”

The lanky figure of the Major appeared behind the small body of the secretary.

“Seventy seven!” shouted Major Potty, entering into the room like a gale-force storm but with his hand stretched in front of him.

“What?” Varadin flinched.

“Nice to meet you!” the major squeezed his hand fiercely. “I’ve no time to lose. I have arranged 77 crates of humanitarian aid, which need to be exported to Bulgaria immediately. People there are starving!” he ended on a note of pathos.

Varadin looked at him fearfully. Major Potty was an ex-colonial officer, who radiated an inexhaustible desire to slap down any naughty aboriginal. He was a tall bony old man, well past his sixties, with a shiny bald pate and a grey, bristly moustache. He was wearing a dark blue suit without a tie and spit-shined dress shoes — as if he did not have to walk on the streets at all, but moved from one office to the next like a spirit. He was carrying the ID-card of the organization he was representing on a chain around his neck.

Throwing himself onto the sofa, he started pulling various brochures from his bag. Varadin stood warily opposite him. A little later, Tania Vandova appeared carrying the coffee-tray.

For the first ten minutes the major jabbered incoherently about his organization, and the various celebrities on the board of governors. When he had piled up enough titles and crests to stand on, he looked down at the Ambassador and asked why, in principle, Bulgarians were so unresponsive to humanitarian aid.