Alek Popov - Mission London

This business-like approach to things made the artist whistle in amazement. “I think I’ll probably need transport as well…” he said slyly.

“Mr Turkeiev will be entirely at your disposal,” Varadin vengefully ground the sentence out through his teeth. “You must tell me personally if you are unhappy with his services. It was very nice to meet you.”

As he said the latter he hurried to disappear into the depths of the building.

The artist looked Turkeiev up and down regretfully. “Don’t worry about it mate! Everything will be fine!”

Fuck you all!! The intern sighed.

Varadin snuck up the stairs as silently as a panther. He had escaped the guests under the pretence that he had to write an important report. As a matter of fact, he did actually have such a report to write, but that was the last thing on his mind. Pezantova had immediately begun to fire off orders in the residence, causing absolute chaos. He had the premonition that that would continue for a long time — until he waved goodbye to her at the steps of the aircraft. He wanted to steal a moment of peace and quiet to gather his thoughts.

Tania Vandova was fussing around the photocopier in the offices and didn’t notice him. The door of his office was ajar. From within came the roar of the Hoover.

“You’re within my grasp now, little slut!” he said, grinding his teeth.

The girl was working with her back to him. Varadin slammed the door on purpose, with the idea of making her turn around. Her eyes would pop out in horror. He was just thinking of something cutting to say, but stopped himself all of a sudden. The Hoover was still screaming. Almost half a minute passed, before she thought to turn it off.

“Who are you?” he asked in a pain-filled voice.

“Doroteya,” said the girl stiffly. Her wide face was a mass of red spots.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, they sent me to clean,” she replied. “I’m the replacement.”

“Is that so? And what happened to Katya?” asked Varadin pretending disinterest.

“Katya won’t be cleaning anymore.” The girl almost spat at him.

His stomach flipped over. “But who will pay her rent?” he asked angrily.

“She has hardly got problems with her finances…What with her new profession!”

He thought he could detect a trace of spite in her tone. Why was she telling him all this? To what end? It struck him that perhaps continuing to question her would not be a good idea; but he could not stop himself, “What profession?”

“Well, she’s playing Princess Diana.”

“Princess Diana?” echoed Varadin, eyes wide.

The girl nodded, “Uh-huh, she is working for Famous Connections.”

“Famous Connections?”

“Have you heard of them?” she asked innocently.

A black cloud passed across his face. There was no going back now. He shook his head, “No, never. How do you know that?”

“We were roommates,” explained Dotty with a smirk. “Recently, she was going around the place with various scenarios like some kind of starlet. But if you ask me, I’m sure it’s all soft porn.”

“Porn?” he gasped. “Are you sure?”

“Judge for yourself!” She rummaged in the pocket of her overalls and proffered some folded sheets of paper. “I photocopied them, just in case.”

He jumped back as though scalded.

“Maybe I’ve said more than I should,” mumbled Dotty, leaving the pages on his desk.

“Does anyone else know what she’s doing?” he asked quickly, then thought to himself, in answer, of course they know! I’m always the last to be told!

“No, no one at all!” the girl protested. “I only said because…”

“I have to talk to her. Immediately!”

“She doesn’t live here any more,” said Dotty shaking her head.

“She left?” he gaped stupidly. “When?”

“The other day.”

“And where is she now?”

“She rented herself some sort of studio, maybe in the Portobello Road.”

“A studio in the Portobello Road?”

“Something like that. She didn’t leave an address or phone number. Just upped and left. Maybe she found herself a guy. I don’t know, I just don’t know!” She wrung her hands helplessly.

He walked up to her, looked her in the eye and hissed, “Did she rub you up the wrong way?”

“I thought you ought to know,” replied Dotty gloomily.

Nasty, sticky business, he thought to himself. He was in it up to his ears.

“Excuse me,” she said, and started to wind the cable of the Hoover up, clumsily.

He sat down behind his desk and waited for her to leave in silence.

‘DRIVING LADY DI’, scenario by Thomas Munroe. Famous Connections. All rights reserved!’ Varadin frowned. His eyes scanned the lines distractedly. What filth! Which, of course, did not stop it from arousing him. ‘PAINTING NUDES!’ and ‘THE LAST WEDDING!’ were the following titles. “A cursed little whore!” he spat malevolently.

Nothing was the same as it had been anymore! Naturally, it was only to be expected when things are going so well, that there will always be some cause for doubt. Like a burning ember, covered in ash. That is how fires were started.

There was a knocking at the door. Tania Vandova came in. “The copies for Mrs Pezantova,” she said.

“What?” he gaped.

“The program for the concert and the guest list,” explained the secretary, leaving a thin folder on the desk. “The photocopier jammed, but it sorted itself out, thank God,” she added.

He wasn’t listening to her. The secretary left hurriedly.

‘THE CONCERT, scenario by Thomas Munroe. Famous Connections. All rights reserved!’

“Bastard!” exploded Varadin as he remembered the scriptwriter. He had only met him once, but the memory of his filthy presence radiated from the folder with unusual strength. He asked questions such as, “In what role do you see Her Majesty, as a ruler or as a mother?” and then took notes. Varadin had not paid too much attention to him at the time. Maybe he should have.

The scenario had been thought out down to the very finest detail. The reception and departure ceremonies, the seating plan — even the topics of conversation had been noted beforehand. The guest list was also an agency product. Ziebling had managed to be even more demanding than the good Mrs Pezantova as far as that had been concerned; the company had not seemed exclusive enough for his liking. In the end he had involved himself personally in the quest to find guests of a high enough calibre, and as a result the first draft of the guest list had been almost entirely changed. “Take it as a bonus,” he had said nobly.

The famous personages responded warmly to the invitations, and their cheques did not delay in flying in. Evan though tickets cost £100 a head, that did not discourage them and all forty places were soon filled. As compared to the agency’s fees as well as all the other expenses surrounding the affair, the total seemed a drop in the ocean. However, Varadin attempted to think in terms of the state, as opposed to anything else. Otherwise, he started to have malevolent thoughts along the lines of: If all this money was poured over the heads of those orphans then maybe there wouldn’t be any need for these concerts. But then, what would good people like Mrs Pezantova do with themselves all day? A difficult question. A dangerous question. When he was ceremonial mode, such thoughts did not occur to him and he felt a great deal calmer. In this case, unfortunately, ceremonial thinking was to no avail. The hard facts, both the lesser and the larger, had become the rock and the hard place that were slowly closing in on him.

Famous Connections.

Close contact with people of high society, informal contacts. Discretion and security.