Alek Popov - Mission London

“Nice to hear from you,” he lied instinctively.

“Did the exhibition arrive?” she asked without ceremony.

“It’s at the airport, I’ve sent someone to clear it through customs.”

“I want it set up immediately!” the voice brooked no contradiction. “I don’t want it left till the last minute!”

He blinked and pressed the point between his eyes with one finger. The exhibition was included in Mrs Pezantova’s program as an accompaniment to her gathering. It seemed the ultimate in chic as far as she was concerned. For that purpose she had acquired a whole stack of pictures from a government gallery and was taking them to the four corners of the earth with her, accompanied by an ‘artistic director’ who was half-dead from fear because he was responsible for their material well-being.

“Don’t worry,” the Ambassador assured her. “Preparations are well under way.”

“They’re all asking me constantly whether She will be there,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Be careful! Nothing definite for now!”

There was a brief pause.

“They’ve already written it,” she said, “in a fashion magazine.”

“You told them?!”

“No! They came up with it themselves!” she protested energetically.

“Okay! Let’s just hope that people don’t read Bulgarian fashion magazines over here.”

“You’ll fax me the guest-list, yes?”

“Uh-huh, it’s already completed.”

“And I’ll need some notes on the more important ones: titles, occupations, you know what I mean.” she added capriciously. “And one more thing! I almost forgot. A man will call you. He’s called Spass Nemirov. He draws with fire. I want him worked into the program. He’s very attractive.”

“Fire!?” Varadin jumped.

“I have to go. I’ll see you in London.”

He shook the receiver in disgust, as though to tip out the remains of her voice. His gaze fell on the dustbin: it was overflowing, the carpet around it covered in bits of paper. It had not been emptied for some time. That excited and annoyed all at the same time. What does that panty-wetter think she’s playing at!? He grabbed the phone. “Why is no one cleaning my office?!” shouted Varadin. “Find that Katya and get her here at once!”

Bianca Leithereva tried to tell him something but he slammed down the receiver.

Tanya Vandova put her head around the door without knocking, “The driver’s waiting.”

He looked at her, frozen.

Ten minutes later, the green Rover was taking him to Whitehall.

A complex mixture of guilt, fear and audacity crawled over the cook’s face. He had brought a box of cigarettes, with the strange name of Murati, and timidly pushed them towards Chavdar. It was just past eleven, but the bar of the Consort was half-empty. Simich was polishing glasses cheerfully; his country had just started a new offensive against the Albanian separatists in the southern provinces, which guaranteed high-emotions for the next few months. Recently, life in Europe had become too monotonous.

“I can’t pay you now,” said the actor as he put the cigarettes away. “But you can collect it with your share of the proceeds from the ducks. I think we’ll be able to shift them in the next couple of weeks. I’ve spoken to a few restaurants already. It’s on.”

Kosta said nothing.

“What’s up?”

“Write them off,” he said shortly.

“How come?!” Chavdar jumped.

“I wanted to tell you, but there was no answer on your mobile.”

“The bastards cut me off!” roared the actor. “I hadn’t paid. What happened?”

“The freezer died on me.

“What?!”

“A few days ago,” added the chef. “I only noticed when it started to smell. Horrendous mess, no way I could do anything with it.”

“And where did you move them?”

“I didn’t,” Kosta sadly shook his head. “I had to throw them out. That’s why I was trying to get in touch with you. I had to sort it out myself.”

“You threw out all the ducks?!”

“Uh-huh,” the cook nodded. “They’d all gone green.”

“Shit!!” gasped the actor, head in his hands.

Kosta looked at him apologetically, but in their depths his eyes shone coldly. He had decided firmly not to share the proceeds with the actor. The radioman was enough.

“I’ve got to go,” he said and stood up.

“Wait!” shouted Chavdar. “I don’t like this. You’re putting one over on me!”

“Give me a break!” said Kosta, getting angry. “What the hell are you on about?”

“You’ve gone and sold them to that lot in the Embassy,” continued the actor, indignantly. “I know. Your whole gang there in the Embassy are stuffing their faces with ducks.”

“And why don’t you go and stuff yourself?!” the chef spat between gritted teeth. “It wasn’t enough that you pushed those web-foot devils on to me. so I had to get stressed about them; it wasn’t enough that I had to clear up your bloody mess, now I’m the guilty one!! Did I tell you to find somewhere else? I think so! And weren’t you going to shift them within one week? And what happened? Shit happened! Everything you do is like that!”

The actor had not been expecting such a righteous and irate outburst. Kosta made good use of his dumb-struck amazement to make a quick exit. He had been extremely surprised at himself, but preferred not to show it.

The Embassy van appeared at the back end of the road, u-turned and stopped in front of the official entrance. Turkeiev and Stanoicho jumped out. The interns voice caught him, just as he was about to turn the corner.

“Hey, Pastricheff! Come and help!”

They’d cornered him. He walked over to the van unwillingly. The seats had been taken out; two enormous grey trunks lay on the floor. The view did nothing for him. “And what exactly is that?” he asked grimly.

“The exhibition,” replied Turkeiev, bursting with pride.

The cook made an energetic, anti-social gesture and spat to one side.

“Here, get the other end of this,” Stanoicho coaxed.

The men’s faces twisted. Their joints popped under the weight of the trunk.

“You exhibiting lead or something heavier?” complained Kosta bitterly.

“Carry on!” growled the intern.

Chavdar Tolomanov observed their labours malevolently from the windows of the Consort. He imagined their guts being squashed into their pants and his heart felt lighter. Then he turned around and slid the box of cigarettes onto the bar. “Do you barter?”

Simich picked up the box, sniffed it and then nodded, “All right then.”

“Double-scotch, heavy on the ice!”

“Oo-hah!” the barman rubbed his hands together as he went to get the bottle.

The men man-handled the second trunk into the foyer and then collapsed on top of it like castaways. Kosta examined his hands: the metal handles had left deep red lines in his palms. “Fuck me! Heavy bastard!” puffed the chef angrily.

Stanoicho lit a cigarette and turned his pain into smoke.

Only Turkeiev shone happily. As they headed out to Heathrow that morning he had felt a crushing weight in his chest, as though he were doomed, a weight like the tar from countless cigarette ends stubbed out inside. He had felt doomed to fail. He had never before released items from Customs and he felt the task to be beyond him. Not one of his more experienced comrades had gone with him, and yet he had survived! He had found his way through the labyrinth of the cargo terminal, successfully conquered the Customs administration, and brought the priceless load home on time. In spite of them all! He awaited praise.

Tanya Vandova came down the stairs and looked down on them. “The Ambassador says to set up the exhibition immediately.”