Alek Popov - Mission London

In the meantime, a Japanese tourist managed to climb nimbly aboard one of the carriages and take some photos of himself, before being hauled off by the cops. The diplomats exchanged bitter smiles — even that opportunity was denied them.

The Marshal and the Ambassador descended the steps with Stanoicho still in tow. Sir Justin was paying the latter an irritating and entirely inexplicable amount of attention, as far as Varadin was concerned. Dozens of cameras and other photo apparatus followed their every move. The Ambassador surveyed his scattered troops and read the bitterness stamped on their faces. Just what they deserved! Did they really think he would drag them all the way to Her Majesty, merely for the show?! He checked their shoes: they were all carefully polished, with the exception of the ragged moccasins of the damn intern. Maybe he was saving his pennies like a mad squirrel?

Sir Justin Glough slapped Stanoicho on the shoulder like an old friend and gave him his hand, “Very nice to have met, indeed!”

Stanoicho strove to think of something appropriate to say. “Dosvidanieh!” he said in Russian, the one foreign language he had any grasp of whatsoever, before Varadin shut him up with a look.

Dammit! The diplomats were chortling spitefully, with the exception of the colonel who suffered silently, eyes downcast. The Marshal looked over his uniform with interest. Then he raised his eyes to the sky, checked it was not going to rain in the next 20 minutes, and invited Varadin to get up into the open carriage.

The big wheels turned on the asphalt.

The same big wheels brought him back to the Embassy two hours later. The reception to celebrate the Presentation of the Letters of Accreditation had begun, and the housekeeper rushed down the steps once more to receive the guests. The instant he saw the Ambassador, Stanoicho said to himself: This is no longer the same man! What exactly had happened to Varadin during those two hours was difficult to imagine, yet, his entire being glowed with the after-effect of some important and irreversible change. He passed the speechless Major-Domo without so much as looking at him, and walked up the official steps with a slow, ceremonial gait, as though balancing an enormous vase atop his head. In the grand hall, there were some twenty people gathered, chatting casually, glasses in hands — Foreign Office clerks, diplomats from former allied states, representatives of the Bulgarian community and a few strange birds who had flown in somehow or other. The reception was only just starting. Suddenly the conversation dried up and all eyes turned to the entrance where Varadin now stood, pale-faced, his temples damp and pulsing, but the aura of his new-found dignity seeping through the tails he had rented for £18. Those present rushed to congratulate him.

“Your Excellency, I would like to wish you all the best for your shining path in Diplomacy!” Dean Carver, M.P. shook his hand energetically. His face was flushed from the wine.

“Mr Carver!” exclaimed the Ambassador. “I am very pleased to see you.”

“I was touched by your kindness. Old connections shouldn’t be left to rust!”

“What do you mean? I’m so much in your debt,” Varadin protested.

“Are you indeed?” Carver’s eyebrows rose.

“The agency you recommended to me,” Varadin graciously reminded him. “I think they’ll do an excellent job for us.”

“Oh, please, think nothing of it,’ Carver murmured nobly, whilst depositing his empty glass onto the tray of a passing waitress and snagging himself a fresh one, “Cheers!”

“Mr Ziebling, we were just talking about you!” the Ambassador shouted.

Carver turned his head mechanically. His face emptied of all character and content, as though it had been drained with a siphon.

“Gentlemen,” Ziebling greeted them. “It is an honour to be here in your exquisite company.”

He was wearing his usual grey jacket, reminiscent of Chairman Mao, beige trousers and a pair of shoes with shiny buckles. This time the lenses of his spectacles were blue.

“What are you doing here?” whispered Carver.

“Ha-ha, are you surprised?” Varadin was happy. “We don’t waste time here, hey? We head straight to our goal! If you’ll excuse me for a second! I should go and entertain some of my other guests.”

“Amazingly cool-headed!” Ziebling shook his head, turning to Carver. “You’d make a superb adverting agent!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” the other hissed.

“Come off it, you recommended us to His Excellency, that’s quite something!” Ziebling said smoothly.

“I have no recollection of doing any such thing!” Carver objected.

“You even went so far as to give him my card!” continued Ziebling. “I didn’t even know you still had it! How did you manage to become so close? How many had you had?”

Blood rushed to the Honourable Member’s face.

“How dare you?! It was a terrible mistake!”

“No mistake, my dear!” Ziebling reassured him.“ His Excellency oriented himself rather quickly. We came to an understanding in the first instant. He knows exactly what he wants, as opposed to certain people I might mention. Ambitious project! These people aim high, don’t you know! They may not have style, but they have scope!”

“Oh, yes!” Carver agreed, crestfallen. “Their old leaders knew how to live. They were true Barons!”

“So, you’re up to date, then?”

“Don’t try to get me involved!” The Honourable Member pulled back quickly. “I don’t want anything to do with it!”

“A favour is a favour,” whispered Ziebling, sidling up to him again. “You’ll get a 50 % discount next time. Our new Britney is an absolute sweetie.”

“You evil tempter!” croaked Carver. “Fine, I’ll phone you later. Now, I must go, apologize to the Ambassador on my behalf. Goodbye!”

He looked around uneasily and hurried to the exit.

Ziebling briefly drifted aimlessly, then attached himself to one of the tables. He took a piece of banitsa and cautiously took a bite. He nodded in approval.

“Banitsa!” someone exclaimed enthusiastically behind him.

A tall, almost skeletal woman headed towards the table. Her bony hand shot greedily forward.

“A national pastry,” she explained when she caught Ziebling’s blank look.

“Ba-ni-tsa,” he repeated after her, chuckled, and took another piece.

Varadin appeared next to him and said, somewhat uneasily “I hope you are not bored. Where is Mister Carver?”

“Urgent engagements…” Ziebling waved his arm dismissively and added with concern “Your Excellency, I think we should have a talk, immediately!”

“I hope you’ve not encountered any problems?” asked Varadin.

“Quite the opposite!” Ziebling reassured him. “You will have an unforgettable experience! That’s the reason I wanted to ask you to be a little more discreet!”

“Excuse me?” the Ambassador raised his eyebrows.

“Dis-cre-tion!” insisted the other. “That is our main principle. I’d be obliged if you don’t inform anyone of our little gathering, or else the event will be automatically called off!”

“Reall-lly?!..” stammered Varadin.

“Exactly! You see, whilst I respect your open style, British society is a great deal more conservative than you’d imagine,” Ziebling lowered his voice. “I came especially to warn you. If the media gets wind of this…It’s all over!”

“The media only ever see the bad side of things…” the Ambassador frowned. “And they ignore people’s successes!”

“Exactly!” agreed Ziebling. “I am so glad we think alike. Formal and informal contacts should never be mixed. They are two parallel dimensions. In principle, we avoid such situations, but in your case we shall make an exception.”