Alek Popov - Mission London

“That was not in the script,” she started hesitantly. “Maybe that guy got a little more excited than he was supposed to. He lost control. That had never happened to me before. Thanks for getting involved.”

“You’re always welcome.” He shrugged.

“It’s nice to have a chauffeur like you,” she said squeezing his hand. He had skinned his knuckles. “You know, I like what you did to that pig.”

“Well, I had something in mind.”

“Oh yeah?” she said startled. “So you’ve got more scenarios I don’t know about?”

“The answer is no,” he squeezed her fingers gently. “Calm down!”

But she felt anything but calm. “You knew what would happen?”

“Look, I’ve been in this business for four years. And any time handcuffs are involved I’m on my guard.”

He took a small piece of wire from his pocket, which looked a little like an opened paperclip, and held it up to her face. “Ordinary precaution,” he said, then added, “I’d advise you to learn how to use it if you’re intending to stay in this business. You don’t think you’re the only Diana, do you?”

“Hmm, I’d not thought about that particular question. I assume there were others before me.”

“There were,” Desmond nodded.

“And what happened to them?”

“Good thing you thought to ask,” he smiled. “Cynthia played the Princess whilst she was still alive. She was practically her twin. She was brilliant. Though that worked against her in the end. She was so into her part that after the accident she started imagining things and then…”

“What kind of things?”

“She started to believe that she was Diana and that her double was the one who died in the crash.”

“Totally barking!” exclaimed Katya.

“Absolutely!” agreed Desmond, “She was spending time in a clinic just outside London and I haven’t heard anything since then.”

There was a meaningful pause.

“Do I look so involved, to you?” Katya was fishing.

“You couldn’t be,” he shook his head. “You’re foreign.”

“Who was the last one?” she asked.

“Brigitte,” said Desmond dreamily. “An Eastern German. She was great.”

“She was?” Katya raised her brows.

“Car crash,” he explained quickly, then added meaningfully, “Some Japanese apparently wanted to be in Dodi’s place, and I doubt that she was given that scenario to read.”

“You think it was set up?” she asked hesitantly.

“I doubted it, but when the Lithuanian went the same way, there was no more doubt.”

“Car crash?”

“Yep. Only, a long way from here, in Prague. The agency has a wide network of international contacts. They could send you to Paris or Buenos Aires, Cairo, Kuala Lumpur, even the Bahamas. As long as the client is paying. And they do, believe me. You’ll certainly be asked to travel soon, Kate.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“I don’t want to frighten you,” Desmond shook his head. “You just need to know how things stand in the business with Diana. Your role attracts accidents like a magnet.”

“I don’t understand how someone could arrange their own death to order,” she said, cold shivers running down her spine. “Even if it was with the object of his dreams. I mean, that’s a real death and the Princess in the equation is a hired tart.”

He looked at her steadily. “Are all Bulgarians that clever?”

She said nothing. She thought there was a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

“Do your clients achieve orgasm?”

“Why the hell else do they get involved?!” she retorted spontaneously. “Where’s the link?”

“Don’t you get it?!” he exclaimed. “You may not be The One, but they’re enjoying themselves just as much. The fact is that no one, or almost no one, ever knew the real Diana, and they weren’t interested in her. That was her biggest problem. The public gulped down what the media gave them, or Andrew Morton, and that was plenty for them, more than enough to forge an idol and worship it. In real terms Lady Diana never existed; she was a papier-mâché figure, made of newspaper articles, pictures and photographic plates.”

“Then she shouldn’t have died,” observed Katya reasonably.

“But what else can you do, when you don’t want to play your part anymore?” asked Desmond.

“You just stop playing.”

“But you can’t,” he whispered sinisterly. “Because during all those years you were playing it, your role has destroyed your former SELF, and when, one fine day, you decide that you want out of the role, you realise that you’ve nothing else any more. The role IS you, and your old self is so destroyed that you can’t even play at it. You can’t play; you can’t not play.”

“That sucks. And the final result is that we were actually colleagues, huh?”

“Up to a point,” he agreed. “But you’re unique compared to her. Only a very few people can play with you, whereas everyone could play with her. She was put into mass usage, like a Barbie doll. And when Barbie gets broken, all the kiddies cry.”

“For one cheap Barbie?”

“Is there anything sadder?”

“If I get broken, no one’s going to cry.”

“No one cries about Luxury toys,” he added, nodding.

“You’re telling me that I should make a break, before they break me?” she dared to ask.

“Thematic dolls go with their story,” he observed. “Snow White has to eat the poisoned apple, Sleeping Beauty to prick herself on the spindle. That’s why they’re sold in a package with either an apple or a spindle. The same goes for figures like Batman or Luke Skywalker. The Diana figure is no exception. You’ll always find someone who wants to play the fairy-tale to the end.”

“That’s practically living Voodoo!”

“Call it what you will.”

“And what did you feel when you played OJ?”

“The two roles have nothing in common!” he objected angrily. “OJ is in the active position: he shoots, beats, kicks. The Princess is the exact opposite, in the eyes of most people she will always be the eternal victim. Have you ever been required to play the role as a dominatrix, whip in hand, while some unfortunate polishes your boots with his tongue?”

“No.” she admitted, without having to think about it.

“But you have been driven around, haven’t you? They rev their fast cars and flex their muscles, while you tremble, tied to the gear-stick with a leash, yeah?”

“How do you know?”

He stared at her questioningly. “So they’re still playing that one then? Look at that sly old bastard Munroe! He created that scenario for Brigitte!”

“He’s not my type,” she hissed.

“You’re not the only one,” he nodded thoughtfully, then asked off-hand, “That one with the jeweller, is that still going on?”

“The Christmas Decorations,” she smiled, “I did it just the other week, why?”

“Hide!!” he said quickly.

There was a flash. The skeletal figure of a man appeared momentarily, armed with a huge lens like a bazooka. Katya instinctively covered herself with the big starched napkin.

“Paparazzi!” hissed Desmond. “To hell with ‘em! They’re on every fucking corner! We can’t let you be snapped!”

He rushed over to the manager and they exchanged a few words. The photographer lost no time in heading for the door, but two waiters brutally threw him out. He prowled in front of the restaurant like a jackal.

“Looks like we’ll be leaving out the back door,” sighed Desmond.

“Christ!” exclaimed Katya. “Even when you’re dead!”

The hassles with the British Museum had sapped his strength and now this stench…it would be the coup de grace! He could not understand how, in such a small area as the Embassy, there could be concentrated so much idiocy! Was there no critical mass? Or was it well past that? The stink hit his nose almost instantly on the way to the airport. The driver was listening to music on the radio; pretending nothing was the matter. In spite of that, he had his window wide open and there happened to be a brand new air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror.