Alek Popov - Mission London

One had to be careful with the strong ones!

The President of the EC was strong, although he looked soft and well-polished — he was smooth and had no cracks; his vibrations were low and unobtrusive, yet powerful. Not so much strength of character as the strength of the institution he represented. He was not to be underestimated and the Premier was alert. Cold and immobile, his head raised (the wire of his headset hung lifeless from his ear) only the slow movement of his adam’s apple gave him away. Up and down. On his other side was the Foreign Minister, who was continuously taking notes in a gilt-edged, leather-bound, luxury notebook. He also had a headset, although his was crammed into his ear, not that he needed translation, but to show solidarity with his superior. Varadin threw a glance at his own notebook and realised with horror that the only thing he had jotted down was a little stickman in the bottom corner. He was straining to catch up on what he had missed, when the President’s speech, somewhat unexpectedly, ended. There was polite applause until some other leader took the podium. At that exact moment, the Premier inclined his head towards Varadin and whispered, “Is my speech ready?”

The Ambassador nodded instinctively. In reality, he was not so sure. Of course the question concerned the English translation of the speech, which would be distributed to the listeners. This creation had been tirelessly edited, until the very last minute, and only this morning the staff at the Embassy had started its feverish translation. He quietly got to his feet, and went to talk to one of the diplomats that had accompanied the delegation.

Counsellor Danailov was chatting carelessly with the mighty Minister for Industry and some other upper echelon aides in the Cabinet entourage. This picture turned the Ambassador’s stomach. He drew him to one side and asked him whether the Premier’s speech was ready. Danailov calmly looked at his watch and said, “It should be here already. I’ll go and get it.”

Varadin, relieved, watched his figure until it left the Negotiation Hall, then immediately returned to the group.

Danailov left Lancaster House at the pace of a well-fed man, crossed the courtyard full of shiny limousines, and went to the gate. The young intern Nikola Turkeiev was already waiting for him there, looking around impatiently. He did not have a pass for the Conference, his job was merely to bring the translated and printed speech from the Embassy to the gate.

“How are you, lad?” Danailov gave him a friendly thump on the shoulder.

“Did you get it?” The intern looked worried and confused.

“What should I have got?”

“Well, the speech.”

“Weren’t you bringing it?” asked the Counsellor in surprise.

“I gave it to someone to give to you, just a minute ago,” the intern said and hurried to explain himself, “I was worried it might be late.”

“Wait here, I’ll go check,” The Counsellor’s voice was suddenly grim.

He came back a short while later, even grimmer.

“Can’t find it anywhere,” he scratched behind his ear. “Why the hell didn’t you wait for me, Smartypants?”

“I waited,” the intern quavered. “You didn’t turn up and I got worried. I asked some guy to call someone out, but he offered to take it to you himself.”

“What did he look like?” asked Danailov suspiciously.

“Well, I mean…” stuttered Turkeiev. “He had a raincoat and glasses; he was extremely polite.”

“And you gave him the Premier’s speech?” the Counsellor’s eyebrows jumped. “Every copy?”

The intern nodded, devastated.

Danailov quickly questioned Security. The cops confirmed that Turkeiev had given the copies to a tall gentleman in a green raincoat. The man had been coming to the gate every hour and people had been bringing him documents that he had taken inside. Maybe he was from the Romanian Embassy, no one was sure. There was always a crowd around the entrance.

Danailov left the intern to stew in his own juices and quickly headed into the building, checking at every step for green raincoats. Varadin lay in wait for him, hidden behind a column in the foyer.

“Where is the speech?” he asked, white as a sheet.

“What? Haven’t they brought it yet?” asked Danailov — his surprise was not very convincing.

“No! No! No!” repeated the Ambassador staccato.

“That Turkeiev gave it to some Romanian,” said the Counsellor. “He promised to bring it to us.”

“Filthy idiot!!!” Varadin punched the column with his fist.

“Well, they still might bring it.”

“You wish! What if they don’t?”

The Councillor stayed sensibly silent.

Powerless hatred blazed in the Ambassador’s eyes. “We’ve got to find that man!’ He cast about in panic. ‘The Premier is on in ten minutes. They’re going to crucify us.”

They’re going to crucify you, said the experienced Danailov to himself, but tried to look as though he cared. He described as best he could the supposed Romanian and they ran off in opposite directions to find him.

The numbers flew through Varadin’s mind like the balls in a lottery machine. The green raincoat had either been buried or put in a closet, because nobody was wearing outdoor clothing. “Fuck! Fuck!” he added as he ran around in a trance. “I knew something like this would happen! I knew it! Those fuckwits!” The portraits of old British politicians looked down on him with veiled contempt. Suddenly he stopped as though nailed to the spot, as a sinister suspicion dawned on him. Were they lying about this mythical Romanian? Was that not actually some Bulgarian? That fox Danailov! Or the secretive Turkeiev, who always plays the idiot! Or perhaps the pair of them — a criminal duo who planned to bring him down? He returned to the Hall: he was almost certain that the Counsellor had already attached himself to the delegation and was explaining the situation to them, putting him in the worst possible light. But there was no one there. Varadin sighed briefly, then his panic started riding him again; the Premier had stopped listening to the other leaders and was carefully reviewing his notes. He was preparing to take the floor.

Varadin strove to find the Romanians. Their delegation was situated at the other end of the Hall. He left the hall, made the circuit and re-entered. Finally he came across a group of diplomats who nodded to him politely but coldly. No one was wearing a raincoat. Simultaneously, Danailov made an appearance. He quickly scanned those present, then his gaze slid to the piles of documents scattered across the tables. Their eyes met. Danailov shrugged.

“Ask them!” hissed the Ambassador.

“They’ll laugh at us,” the Counsellor whispered.

He was right, dammit!

They separated again and continued the search. Varadin began to look in all sorts of crazy places: behind curtains, vases, armchairs, even in the rubbish bins. He gave the impression of an agent looking for a time-bomb in the last minute before detonation. Security followed his actions with increasing concern, until a young man with an unobtrusive headset approached him decisively.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked unceremoniously.

Varadin stared wildly at his well-shaven, pink face. Could he actually help him? At just that moment the Prime Minister’s name flew from the hall with a sound like the awful beat of the gong announcing the Second Coming. His body wavered. The agent lightly took his arm.

“Your Excellency!” he exclaimed, frightened: he had obviously already managed to read his ID badge.

Varadin heroically maintained his equilibrium, and uttered what was appropriate in such complicated situations, “99”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” the agent raised his eyebrows.