Alek Popov - Mission London

Varadin blinked blankly. A student appeared next to them with a big tray full of sandwiches. Suddenly the tray tilted dangerously to one side.

“Oops! Be careful!” exclaimed Ziebling.

Katya caught her balance, her gaze not leaving Ziebling. She would have difficulty forgetting him! It was Him!

The imbecile who stuffed me with caviar!

What was he doing here?!

“Hi!” Ziebling said easily. “Do you work here?”

“Yes,” she dropped her gaze.

“Do you know each other?” asked Varadin uneasily.

Ziebling ignored the question. He picked up a sandwich, examined it critically and said, “You see, these sandwiches distance you from Europe.”

Varadin gazed at Kosta’s culinary creation and was forced to admit (deep within himself) that it was chunky.

“I’m not a snob,” Ziebling shook his head. “Even though I come from a good family, I value the virtues of the simple life. As far as sandwiches are concerned, however, the British have some sacrosanct standards that your cook would do well to learn. The size of the sandwich is inversely proportional to the host’s position in society,” continued Ziebling ruthlessly. “You’ll notice that the more exclusive the society you are in, the smaller the sandwich. The outside is cut away until only the kernel remains, so to speak, which is often so small as to be inedible with fingers alone, and one is forced to use a cocktail stick. There are, naturally, some places where they simply disappear, leaving only the idea of a sandwich, and in reality they only serve brut champagne in extremely fine-cut crystal glasses. Not that I would suggest such a thing to your good self,” Ziebling hurried to clarify. “Let’s not forget that it is the sandwich which should reflect the status in society, not vice-versa. In this context, some not very well thought out small canapés might be mistakenly interpreted as evidence of stinginess or nouveau-rich attitudes. That is why one should not rely too heavily on the good sense of one’s cook! One should, therefore, collect samples from other cocktail parties, at every possible occasion — if not personally, you should give the task to some member of your staff; measure them, compare them, classify them into groups, take notes — in this way, before you know it, you will begin to grasp the logic of various sandwich formats, and thus, you will develop an idea of how your own sandwiches should look.”

Ziebling swallowed the ugly sandwich in two bites, and washed it down with wine. Varadin’s mouth hung stupidly agape. He felt incapable of differentiating the truth from the joke. The guests swarm around them and only few limp lettuce leaves remained on Katya’s tray.

“At the beginning of this century,” added Ziebling. “An Ambassador, by the name of Emilio Barbarescu, studied the English sandwich throughout two consecutive mandates. His treatise, entitled On the hierarchy of diameter, was never published, but copies continue to circulate in the diplomatic community. If one, by chance, should come to your possession, read it at all costs!”

So saying, he ceremoniously took his leave.

Dale Rutherford was responsible for the fauna of Richmond Park. This was a pleasant occupation, involving many walks in the great outdoors and communication with nature. Dale Rutherford loved animals and especially the small groups of ducks, which nested around the edges of the Pen-ponds. That is why he was confused when, one morning, heading for the small lakes, he didn’t hear their merry quacking.

The poor little things, he said to himself touchingly, where can they have got to?

In the park there were various smaller lakes, where the fowl sometimes went to swim around for their amusement. The closest one was called Sheep’s Leg, but there was not the slightest sign of his favourites there. Eaten by vague worry, Dale hurried down the bridle-path to the Isabella plantation, where, amongst the orchids, laurel bushes and other decorative flower-beds, three small ponds lay hidden. Disappointment also awaited him there, however, if one excluded one lazy swan, who was regally rearranging his plumage. Now seriously worried, Dale left the Isabella plantation and made for a very little known pond by the gloomy name of’ ‘The Gallows’. Three geese swimming there started to hiss in hostility as soon as they saw him. He suddenly realised that the whole environment had its hackles raised, ready to defend itself against unwanted intruders. The trees had closed in, whispering amongst themselves and the deer ran around the park as though bearing unpleasant news.

Dale pulled out his mobile and called Ray Solo, head of security.

“Ray,” he said weakly. “I’ve cause to believe something terrible has happened…”

“What’s wrong?” Ray’s voice sounded stressed.

“My ducks have disappeared,” sobbed Dale. “My little ducklings!”

Ray Solo had just been reaching for the packet of biscuits, he liked to dunk one in his morning coffee. The news made him temporarily forget about the biscuits and he mechanically dipped his two fingers in the boiling liquid beneath him.

“Christ!” Ray yelled in pain.

The day was starting badly.

After overcoming their initial stress, the management of the Park took some over-energetic measures. They immediately contacted the police, who immediately sent out an impressive investigation team. They mobilised every available officer, and the latter then searched the park to the last square inch. The result of these sizable operations, however, was not particularly forthcoming. A handful of feathers and tracks from chunky wellingtons were found on the right bank of the Pen-ponds. The only fact confirmed with certainty was that the entire population of ducks had disappeared. By evening the grim tidings had made the rounds of the whole of Richmond, had been through Twickenham and Kingston-upon-Thames, and even made it as far as Teddington.

The ducks of Richmond Park had disappeared!

People’s strong reaction forced the management to call an urgent press conference. The hall of the cafeteria, where this event took place, was filled to overflowing: journalists, members of the Board of Directors, local councillors, representatives of Green organisations, as well as some ordinary members of the public, all wanting to know, immediately, the fate of the birds. There was also an entire class from the local school, who had become the birds’ sponsors the previous year. And, of course, Dale Rutherford. He looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink. He sat in the front row next to Ray Solo, drawn and pale, though his eyes blazed, thirsty for revenge.

The President of the Board, Jeremiah Kaas, opened the conference mournfully, “Citizens of Richmond, honoured guests! The reason for this conference is already known to usall — unfortunately, bad news travels fast. For now, I am only able to confirm what we all already know: the ducks of Richmond Park have disappeared, whereabouts unknown. I assume that you have many questions. Here with us is Dale Rutherford, in charge of the Park’s fauna, Ray Solo, the head of Security, as well as Detective Nat Coleway, from Scotland Yard, who is heading the investigation. I’m sure that these gentlemen will be able to satisfy your curiosity better than I can. If you please, gentlemen.”

Jeremiah Kaas stepped back discreetly and, once the three men had taken their places, quietly mingled with the crowd.

The old fox knows when its time to go, Ray muttered to himself, looking the most dispirited of them all.

“Mr Rutherford!” A small man in a green suit immediately jumped up. “Kenneth Bowl, Twickenham Star. Rumour has it that the ducks were killed by feed that was past its sell-by date. The Twickenham Star has reason to believe that the bodies of the ducks were buried somewhere nearby to cover up the gaffe.”