Alek Popov - Mission London

The face in the picture bore a striking resemblance to their mutual acquaintance. But Kosta was not convinced, “Are you sure it’s him?”

“Hundred percent!” the actor was agitated. “I haven’t been able to contact him for the last two days. He’s disappeared off the face of the Earth. I knew there was something about him. He was so secretive.”

That was the actual truth of the matter. The personal life of Batushka was hidden in murky fog. Chavdar had no idea where he lived, nor even what his real name was. They had met in the Russian restaurant. Mobiles had been the only link between them.

As they were hiding in the Botanical Gardens, he had regarded his accomplice’s angular face and asked himself why he was getting involved in such chicken-feed deals when he was obviously destined for much greater ones. But then, as they gathered the drugged ducks from the ground and stuffed them into the bags, he realised that Batushka saw no difference between the robbing of the Bank of England, the hijacking of the Trans-Siberian Express, and poaching in the public park. He had known the wasteland outside the law, and nothing else interested him.

“What are we going to do now?!” cried the cook.

Chavdar rustled the paper and showed him another headline, “It’s on about us here!”

“What does it say?” asked the cook worriedly.

“BARBARIC ATTACK IN RICHMOND PARK”

“Shhh…”

“Don’t worry! It says here, ‘the investigation is bogged down.”

“Well, I’m not so sure,” Kosta was gloomy. “We’re done for. Did you bring the money?”

“What money?!” exploded Chavdar. “Batushka promised to get a deposit from the Chinese. But what we planned and what actually happened…”

“Get it yourself!”

“I don’t know them. They were his people.”

The cook clenched his fists instinctively. He wanted to smash Chavdar’s face in. “And what the fuck are we supposed to do with these ducks now?! And your mother!!” he hissed maliciously. “You got us into this mess!”

“How come I’m to blame?” retorted the actor indignantly. “They’re in no danger of going off, are they?”

“They can’t stay there forever!” Kosta shouted.

“We’ll shift them, mate!” Chavdar reassured him. “Bit by bit, here and there.”

“Won’t the Serb buy them?”

“I’ll talk to him,” said Chavdar, nodding. “You ask at our restaurant.”

“Well, at least we’re not going to starve,” moaned Kosta, his voice laced with a hidden threat.

Chavdar threw him a frightened glance. “Hey, pal, we’re still partners aren’t we?!”

The cook said nothing. He suddenly felt a surge of power. He was in control of the situation. He had both the ducks and the knife. Fucking actors!

“Do come in, Mister Mavrodiev,” said the Ambassador in a mock-flattering voice.

The big man walked heavily towards his desk. The Consul had just finished his night-shift: he was unshaven and his tie hung loosely. Scum! thought Varadin.

“I assume that you are aware of this publication?” he disgustedly raised the page of the Evening Standard which lay on his desk. In the upper corner of the page, a not overly large article had been outlined in yellow highlighter, accompanied by a photograph of epic significance. The picture showed a destitute family of four, wrapped in sleeping bags, candles in their hands. The photograph was reminiscent of the suffering of the Bosnian refugees, except that it was set in an apartment in central London.

The headline needed no commentary, Bulgarian Diplomat Stuck in the Stone Age. The article detailed the struggle of the Bobevs to survive for the last two weeks without electricity. ‘This barbaric measure was taken by the new Ambassador, Dimitrov, in an attempt to push the Diplomat onto the streets, after he had been sacked for political reasons.’ The newspaper went on to comment, ‘No one has the right to stop the supply of electricity without the authorisation of the London Electricity Board.’

The material had been published the day before. Varadin sensed the secret delight of his inferiors, and was tortured by the suspicion that they had allowed him to be exposed on purpose.

“What should we do?” asked the worried Consul.

“Why are you asking me? This comes under your remit.”

“We’ll not get out of this one easily,” Mavrodiev shook his head.

“Shall we cut off his water too, then, hey?!” the Ambassador hissed.

“If you say so….” agreed the Consul unconvincingly.

“You’re obviously trying to tar my image,” Varadin said with sinister calm.

Mavrodiev blushed to his neck under the accusation.

“That is what you all want, I know!” The Ambassador’s outburst took his listener by surprise. “Why did you tell the journalists that he doesn’t want to go back to his homeland, why?”

“But isn’t that the whole reason for this circus — about staying here?” said the Consul in confusion.

“The fact that he wants to stay here does not specifically mean that he doesn’t want to go back!” Varadin spelled this out angrily.

“Why would he not want to go back if he doesn’t want to stay?”

“Because he wants to stay!” the Ambassador stamped his foot. “And not: he wants to stay because he doesn’t want to go back, as you made out.”

“So he wants to stay because he wants to stay.”

“Exactly! He wants to stay because he likes it here. But when you say, he doesn’t want to return! People start to ask, why? Why on earth would someone not want to go back to their homeland? Well, simply: because he’ll be thrown out on the street immediately and then be unable to find work. And even if he does find some, he’ll still starve!”

“I didn’t say that,” Mavrodiev sighed heavily.

“Yes, but it’s obvious in context.”

“And? We all know that!” The big man could not restrain himself.

“You have no right to think that way!” shouted the Ambassador. “We are all Europeans here!”

“So shall we put his electricity back on?” the Consul clutched at an unexpected straw.

“What the hell for? He’s already put us in it, hasn’t he? Let him struggle if he’s so obstinate.” Something clicked in his brain, and he suddenly asked, “Why have you always got your hands in your pockets?!”

‘Well, I mean, I’m….’ stumbled the Consul.

‘Not just now, but during the reception as well,’ continued Varadin impatiently, ‘I saw you, don’t deny it! That is not European behaviour!’

‘I’m sorry, if…’ started the other.

‘I want you to throw him out without any more scandal!’ Varadin cut him off, tapping the paper with a finger, ‘Otherwise I’ll throw you out instead! You may go.’

He carefully folded the page and returned it to his drawer. He did not particularly want the article to end up in the press review, but he was certain that some helpful hand had already faxed it to Sofia. And? So what? Varadin massaged his temples. Rubbish! Rubbish everywhere!’ His gaze fell on some small scraps near the foot of the desk, he picked them up and threw them in the bin. The room had not been cleaned for several days.

Fuck it! That little slut — he should have sacked her. His brain told him this. But his brain was helpless in this instance. And all for one very simple reason: he had not had any sex for several months, and whenever he thought of Katya, he had an instant hard on. In a better world, the problem would have been quickly solved by a short trip to the bathroom. But, he was the product of a cruel system: despite the political changes of the last few years, the idea that someone was constantly watching him had driven itself deep into his subconscious and no one would ever get it out now.