Alek Popov - Mission London

‘Good luck, Hawking!’ Katya tossed over her shoulder, as she dived into her own make-up box.

She sat in front of the mirror, staring at the picture of Diana that was stuck in the bottom-left corner of the frame. She had dreamt that the Princess was still alive. Usually, she forgot her dreams very quickly, but this one had been haunting her all week. It was not nice. In the dream, Katya was wandering the streets of an unknown oriental city, when she met a veiled woman. The veil covered her entire face, but the voice was Diana’s; though she had never actually heard the Princess’ voice, Katya knew it was her. The woman said only, “Now I am happy.” Then she slipped into a dark side-alley, leaving her alone in the bazaar. A muezzin’s call came from above her head and she woke.

The grey figure of Thomas Munroe appeared behind her. “Your Highness,” he said teasingly, “I would like to present you with your new chauffeur.”

She turned around. Munroe had a fat folder under his arm, full of scripts. He moved aside and another man appeared, framed by the doorway. He was thin, stripped to the waist, dark-skinned. The wide buckle of his belt shone darkly. His torso was hairless and his three-day beard carefully trimmed.

“Desmond was a big star till recently,” Munroe said, thumping the man on the shoulder. He left.

The pair examined one another closely for a minute or so.

“What did you play till now?” she asked, realising she’d seen him around the Factory before.

“O.J.” he replied seriously.

Her eyebrows rose, “Not in fashion any more, eh?”

“There’s always hope.”

“What hope?”

“O.J. is just reaching the peak of his abilities. He still has a lot to give society.”

Katya got the joke and chuckled. Desmond looked like a decent bloke, but a little too self-assured. “O.J.’s going to be quiet for the next century or so,” she said, shaking her head. “You’d best stop wasting your time.”

Alice, her make-up artist, turned up, a new ring in her nose, today’s lipstick thick and black. Without any fuss, she started to tart Katya up. Desmond hung around the doorframe sullenly, but was quickly shooed off with a high-pitched squawk, not unlike that of a peeved hen.

The cook sat in front of the office for a few minutes, then he stood up, paced a little and stopped next to the window. He was nervous. He had no idea as to why the Ambassador wanted to see him, but from long experience could guess that it would not be nice. The office door opened and the Consul came out, mopping his sweating brow. The secretary’s intercom buzzed.

She picked up the receiver and nodded to Kosta. “You can go in.”

The Ambassador sat behind his desk, fresh and cheerful. He had just sucked the vital juices from the Consul and had found them tasty. He made a gesture, as though luring some small animal forward. “Come in, come in, don’t be shy!”

The cook advanced unwillingly. He was more than merely shy.

He looks like his speciality is hair soup thought Varadin. He was unsure that the risk would pay off. Perhaps he should order out to some top-class restaurant for the dinner. But it was bound to be too expensive, and would devour his already slim budget. Ziebling’s expenses were fairly salty, but he could justify them. Recently it had become all the rage to hire foreign PR companies to represent government interests. At least, that’s what people were saying. However, a dinner for thirty, laid on by a fancy restaurant, given that they had a chef on the payroll? He had thought of the look on the Audit Commissioner’s face and dropped the idea.

“Well, Pastricheff,” began the Ambassador, “I’m sure you already know that I’m arranging a large charity event. An important part of said event will be the official dinner. I don’t wish to scare you, however, persons of the highest rank will be attending, including Her Majesty the Queen of England.”

The chef remained intently silent. He was outwardly unmoved. What a dimwit! thought Varadin, I bet, if it was left to him, he’d serve Her Majesty bean and pepper stew. But it was not left to him, thank God.

“I think,” he continued, “that it’s about time for us to decide on the menu.”

“No problem,” shrugged the cook.

“This time we had better offer something more exquisite to our honoured guests.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“You’re the professional in this field, I’d hoped to hear your suggestions first.”

The cook thought it over. From the depths of his mind came random notes. His brain arranged them instinctively, and eventually a pleasant melody formed. “Duck!” he said daringly. “Duck à la Chasseur!”

The Ambassador’s brows rose in surprise. “Doesn’t sound all that bad. Will you be able to cope on your own?”

“That is my speciality,” Kosta exclaimed. “Unfortunately, I rarely have the chance to make it. Ducks, as you know, are expensive.”

“Don’t worry about the cost,” the Ambassador waved a hand dismissively, “What do you propose for Hors D’oeuvre?”

“Liver in a white wine sauce. The French Recipe!” shot the cook.

“Well, look at that!” the Ambassador nodded in approval. “Won’t it be a little heavy?”

“What are you talking about, heavy?” protested the chef energetically. “The combination is ideal. Especially with a fresh radish salad.” He added without thinking.

Varadin had rarely seen him so enthused. “Why have you been hiding these priceless talents until now?” he asked suspiciously.

“Budget,” sighed the cook.

“This time you needn’t worry about that,” cut in the Ambassador. “Just don’t screw up! I take it you’ve seen The Road to Sofia?”

It was obvious that he’d lived through this nightmare many times. The two of them quickly sorted the remaining details of the menu and the cook left, happy to have the chance to demonstrate his professional skills once more. Or so thought Varadin.

He leant back and closed his eyes for a few minutes. In one hour he had an appointment at the Foreign Office. The neighbouring dictator had muddied the waters in the Balkans again, and John Edge, the Foreign Secretary, was gathering all the Ambassadors from the surrounding countries together for a mass consultation. Late last night, he had received a cryptogram detailing the government’s position — nothing it had contained had surprised him. Obviously, things had been carefully coordinated with the member-countries, whose Ambassadors would have been equally well-instructed by their respective governments. One and the same thought did the rounds amongst the group. The only uncertainty lay in the question of whether they would serve those little triangular sandwiches with the crab and avocado filling, like they had last time. Until that time they had only ever been fed with scones that resembled Stone Age artefacts, without the good grace to be rock buns. It was rumoured that this change had come about after Mr Edge had taken on a new, young secretary. An innocent young girl of the people, she had dared to break with the soulless Tory traditions that had been handed down conservatively by successive Conservatives. The sandwiches had been so exquisite that he had actually come close to following Ziebling’s advice about taking one back to the Embassy to show Kosta. But he had not dared. However he did take note of their parameters, under the guise of taking notes. Then he gave his sketches to the cook, but the results had been far from the same. Alas!

Just then his mobile rang from somewhere under the pile of paperwork on the desk. He dug it out and put it to his ear. “Yes?” he said casually.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice slapped him awake.