Alek Popov - Mission London

“What’s that smell?” asked Varadin menacingly.

“Stale air,” said the chauffeur edgily.

Varadin took a deep breath and felt on the verge of puking. They were trying it on again!

“What bloody air?! It smells like something died in here, and it bloody well shouldn’t!!” exploded the Ambassador.

Miladin was left without choice. “Well, you see, there was a little accident…” he admitted awkwardly. (Ha! They always started like that!)

The ‘accident’ had occurred the morning of the day before. Before turning up for work, he had gone to the fish market, where he had bought a huge salmon. On the way back, however, he got stuck in traffic and didn’t have time to take the fish home. It had only stayed in the boot for a few hours, but it looked like something had leaked out of the fish and into the upholstery.

“I don’t know how it could have happened,” spluttered the chauffeur. “It was really well wrapped.”

There remained less than an hour before the plane landed.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” asked the Ambassador in icy tones.

Numerals boiled up in his brain, looking for a way out.

“I thought it would fade over time,” replied Miladin simply. “I washed the whole boot only this morning. I’m really sorry, Mister Ambassador; it won’t happen again.”

It did not need to happen again — it could hardly have come at a worse time! But, for the moment, he had to save his strength, it was already too late to do anything about anything. Varadin laid his head back and opened his window fully. I’ll give you something to remember that fish by, blockhead!!

He had to start counting down the numbers!

At Heathrow a cold wind was blowing. The diplomats were milling around on the tarmac of Gate 7, where the Balkan hearses usually pulled up. Nearby three cars were parked, of different national brands, a green Rover at the head. Two policemen in bright, fluorescent yellow jackets observed the official to-ing and fro-ing with interest. A noticeable distance from his underlings, hands behind his back, Varadin Dimitrov stood importantly.

‘There it is!’ shouted Mr Kishev, convulsed in artificial joy, pointing to the snout of the aircraft that was just appearing around the corner of the terminal building.

Varadin also saw the aeroplane, turned around and gave the diplomats a severe look. Aimless conversations instantly dried up and they all hurried to arrange themselves behind him in order of rank. The little group waited in ceremonious silence.

The tail of the aircraft was covered in soot, as though it had over-flown a war-zone. It made a wide turn and trundled to its parking space. As with all TU-155’s this plane did not link to the automatic corridors of large airports and soon a mobile staircase could be seen making its way to the front door of the aeroplane. Meanwhile the roar of the turbines slowly faded. The diplomats fixed their gazes on the door, but it remained closed for another few minutes.

At last the door disappeared inwards with a flash of a uniform, then a head appeared. Although all that was actually visible was not a head but hair, or more precisely a mass of hair, tightly plaited into tiny dreads that fell higgledy-piggledy. Through the hair a fleshy black nose could be seen. It took a deep breath of the muggy London air and snorted happily. The black man pushed back his mane and stared at the welcoming party in amazement. He was an athlete, wearing a pink jacket and a long white robe with a shiny medallion at his neck. He was carrying a stereo under one arm. The diplomats stared back at him; they had been expecting Mrs Pezantova to be the first off the plane with her entourage. The big athlete grinned widely, then pushed one of the buttons on the stereo, releasing reggae rhythms. Swinging gracefully down the stairs he passed the file of officials and threw them a casual, “Hi!”

A company representative dashed over post-haste and pointed him in the direction of the terminal. “The Nigerian team,” he shouted to the Ambassador. “They came transit through Sofia.”

Another ten or so Africans made their way out of the aircraft. They were followed by a variety of glum individuals carrying impressive quantities of hand luggage. They threw spiteful looks at the welcome party and dashed towards the terminal, there to make their way to their visa Golgotha. Last came a Buddhist monk, in sarong and sandals, carrying a little black suitcase.

Varadin watched him slip past the ranks stony-faced. Then he stared once more at the door of the aircraft. For almost a minute there were no signs of life other than the stewardess. It struck him that perhaps he should send someone to find out what was happening. However, as he debated the possible consequences of such an action, a shadowy figure emerged from the plane’s interior to stand at the top of the stairs. It was Mrs Pezantova.

“Here she is!” exclaimed Kishev.

From the top of the stairs the world seemed small and insignificant. She took a deep breath and forgot to breathe out most of it. She adored moments like these! Looks filled with trembling awe, faces full of devotion! The feeling gave her enough adrenalin to last a week. She smiled regally, delaying a touch longer on the uppermost step, indulging herself in the effect her appearance was causing. Then she slowly descended, turning her head this way and that, as though a teeming and enthusiastic multitude awaited her. Varadin hurried to meet her.

“At last! How long we’ve been waiting for you! Welcome! Welcome!” he pronounced ceremoniously, then asked courteously, “And how was your trip?”

‘Fine,” she replied.

She was of average height, with a haughty face and a complicated hairstyle, atop which was affixed a still more complicated hat. A fluffy red cape hugged her shoulders like a mutant manta ray. She was accessorised with a small handbag made from the skin of some rare animal. Varadin was forced to admit to himself that she did have a certain elegance.

After the grand exit/entrance of the Prima Donna, came the rest of the troupe. First her two ladies-in-waiting rolled out, both wives of lesser-calibre politicians, who had also simultaneously embraced charitable causes, and free air-travel. Behind them came the actual concert performers: two folk singers, a piper, a fiddle player, a promising soprano, and a strange individual who would be performing some sort of ritual for summoning rain. Last of all trundled the artistic director, heavy sack across his shoulder. He was a sculptor and was carrying in his bag a little bronze statuette of a sausage-dog which he was hoping to sell during his short stay in London.

Devorina Pezantova coldly shook hands with the diplomats, decisively ignoring Kishev’s attempt to engage her in conversation. She called her two companions and together with Varadin they headed to the Rover. There was a brief moment of confusion whilst the rest of the group arranged itself into the other cars. A police car escorted the column to the VIP terminal.

“Do you mind closing your window, it is very windy?” said Pezantova to Varadin.

He frowned, but half-closed it.

“Close it fully, if you please!” she insisted. “I have a cold. You close yours too!” she said to the driver.

He threw a quick glance at his boss, but the other only pressed the window-button. The driver did the same.

“But what is that smell in here?” whinged one of her companions.

“Yes, really? What is that smell?” whinged the other in her turn.

Devorina sniffed and spat, “Nothing!”

Varadin sighed with relief.

At the Chiswick Roundabout they hit a traffic jam. The vehicles crawled along at a snail’s pace. On the right hand side of the road, British Airways was plastered all over the billboards. There were always traffic jams here and he suspected that the adverts were put there on purpose to get even deeper in the brains of the people waiting. That is what you call strategy!