Alek Popov - Mission London

“Shouldn’t we wait for the artistic director?” asked Turkeiev.

She shrugged. “He said to start…”

Kosta realised no one was paying attention to him and made his escape.

Stanoicho and Turkeiev opened the trunks.

“What the hell is that?!” exclaimed the intern.

The Ambassadors’ conference had gone on too long. To everyone’s dismay, the rock-buns were back on the menu. The old secretary had filed a suit against her (supposedly) unlawful dismissal, and the Commission for Internal Ethics had restored her to her previous post. The Foreign Secretary looked despondent. It was not clear what depressed him the most: the Balkan situation or Miss Crohne’s return. His bad mood affected the others and found on outlet in the indifferent document issued by the Press Centre, with the title: ‘Ambassadors share the Foreign Office’s Reservations concerning the Current Balkan Crisis.’ After the conference, Ambassador Martinescu had invited Varadin for an improvised lunch in a nearby restaurant. Varadin could easily have refused, but did not want to. He had to write a huge report and wanted to postpone it for the time being. The car had returned him to the Embassy around half past four.

He quickly passed through the duty-room, and stopped, rooted to the spot in the foyer. Bang in the middle of the floor some bizarre device was under construction. There were bits all over the place: bricks, rocks, planks and tiles. Stanoicho and Turkeiev were arguing over some plans that had been spread out on top of one of the trunks. The Major-domo had a thick clay pipe in his hands, which was covered in greenish gunge.

“G-8!” yelled the intern. “Why’re you giving me E-7? I want G-8 for fuck’s sake!”

“But it’s not here,” the Major-domo shrugged helplessly.

“What is going on here?” asked the Ambassador in icy tones.

“We’re assembling the installation, Mister Ambassador,” explained Turkeiev. “They’ve sent us some sort of avant-garde sculpture. We’re following the plans but we think it’d be a better idea to wait for the artistic director.”

The young man was very much into Modern Art, which was why he had been placed in charge of the Cultural aspects of the Mission.

A nasty feeling spread through Varadin’s stomach. He circumnavigated the whole installation with care, and cast an eye over its accompanying documentation. The list of parts covered several pages. They also included an instruction diagram, which looked more like a jigsaw as opposed to any form of useful instructions.

“It doesn’t say what it is,” sighed Stanoicho.

“But the idea is clear,” added the intern. “It’s supposed to look like something old.”

Varadin stared at the bottom corner of the list. There was a small label with tiny script: WC-983-BC.

“What the hell have you collected, you idiots?!” he hissed, throwing the list at them and approaching the so-called installation threateningly.

“Mister Ambassador!” the voice of Tanya Vandova flew from the other end of the hall, “Someone wishes to see you, at all costs!”

“What someone?” he jumped.

“Someone called Bennett, from the British Museum.” she explained. “He is waiting in the reception room.”

He frowned. “I don’t remember having scheduled an appointment with him.”

“He says that it is urgent. He’s very stressed!”

Varadin shot an evil glance at the two mortified members of staff, then headed for the reception room.

The man was pacing the room like a jackal. He was short, with a square head that suggested obstinacy. He was wearing a brown tweed suit with a red scarf instead of a tie. He turned at the sound of the door opening.

“Good afternoon, I’m Clark Bennett of the British Museum,” he introduced himself immediately, shaking Varadin’s hand. “They tell me that you have it.”

“What exactly?” queried the Ambassador.

“The ancient WC!”

“Pardon?” his eyebrows rose.

“I don’t know quite how it happened,” Mr Bennett started quickly. “The two loads must have been sent at the same time. This morning your people went to the airport and picked up a couple of trunks, which were actually destined for ourselves. In the other trunks, there are various pictures, which are yours.”

“But how could this happen?!” shouted Varadin. “Aren’t the loads addressed to different people?!”

“Of course they are!” exclaimed Mr Bennett. “I’ve no idea why they released our trunks. Maybe they look alike? But because it was a Diplomatic cargo, no one thought to check.”

“Follow me,” said Varadin grimly.

The pair of them headed for the foyer.

“Where is B-5? You had it a minute ago.” The voice of the intern echoed

“But we want E-5 here,” muttered Stanoicho.

“Ah, your granny’s E-5, give me B-5.”

“Oh, gosh! What have you done for Christ’s sake!” a woeful cry reached them. “Stop! Please stop at once!”

Stanoicho jumped and dropped his brick on the floor. It broke in half.

“Aaaargh!” groaned Mr Bennett, as though it had been dropped on his foot. “Don’t touch anything! Stop! Stop!!”

A greenish-blue flash crossed the Ambassador’s face. Stanoicho and Turkeiev went pale and stepped back. Clark Bennett pulled out a mobile and dialled some number with trembling hands.

“I found it! I found it!” he shouted. “Come quickly before they destroy it. 67 Queens Gate! Hurry!”

Then he turned to the Ambassador. “Your Excellency? This antique is insured for £760,000. I cannot afford anything to happen to it! Get those two out of here. My people will be here soon to gather up the pieces. Don’t worry about your pictures. We’ll get them to you first thing tomorrow. What a day! What a day, indeed!!!”

There was a strange noise, like someone stepping on a frog: a squelch! The Ambassador put a hand over his mouth and motioned Stanoicho and Turkeiev to disappear. Clark Bennett watched him, startled. Varadin sneaked into the internal part of the Embassy. He went up in the lift and stopped it between floors. Then he started rattling, in his best machine-gun fashion, “100!-100!-100!”

The wine sparkled with a soft rusty nuance in the bottom of her glass. Katya downed it. A wave of warmth rolled through her body. Desmond stretched across and refilled the glass. It was her third.

“How’s your arse?” he asked.

“Don’t ask,” she laughed bitterly and took another gulp.

It burned, and badly at that. She had thought at first that she would not be able to sit down for at least a week, but the pain gradually faded leaving only the heat. The whip had left fiery marks on her buttocks. She felt like she was sat on a grill, while frozen ants crawled over the rest of her body.

‘The Taming of the Shrew by William Shakespeare. Adapted for private theatre by Thomas Munroe. Copyright, Famous Connections. All rights reserved!’

‘La Valeta’ was a small, exclusive restaurant in the upper part of Kensington. After a good thrashing, Desmond assumed that a good foie gras would not go amiss. And he was damn right. They decided not to return to the agency and Katya was still looking like Diana. That was a serious breach of the regulations. Rule number one was that they should not be seen in public places in full make-up, but she didn’t care right at that moment. Especially right then. She was even enjoying the amazed looks of the staff and the few mummified clients. She sensed their burning curiosity and unease (burning like the marks on her rear!) and her subconscious felt somehow avenged. As though this small fragment of the overall social mosaic represented the whole world in which her clients lived. It was balm for her soul. Desmond Cook had perhaps sensed that soothing side-effect, which was why he had taken her there in that condition and that outfit.