Alek Popov - Mission London

“Ts, ts, ts,” Halvadjiev nodded his head. “We turned this soiree into a total fuck-up, but never mind!”

The telephone rang and woke him up at exactly 6.35am. Normally at that time Dale Rutherford was already up drinking his cup of black coffee and watching the repeat of the program ‘From a Bird’s Eye View’ on Animal Planet. But since the duck incident, now widely known as ‘The Richmond Catastrophe’, his spirit had faded; apathy and melancholia had overtaken him. He did not hurry to drop by and see his favourites with a pocket full of breadcrumbs, but preferred to stay in bed until the last moment, his head buried under the pillow. He started going to work still sleepy and unshaven, and sometimes even late. His colleagues pitied him. In a week’s time a new flock of ducks was due to arrive, to replace the missing ones. They all hoped that that would cheer him up. Dale Rutherford knew though that it would never be the same.

The voice rattled in the phone like a mouse in a tin, “Good morning, Dale. Nat Coleway calling. Are you still asleep?”

“No I am not,” mumbled Dale.

He had no reason to like Nat Coleway, but it was obvious he despised this case and was completely indifferent to the fate of the ducks. No surprise the investigation had hit a dead end.

“Last night one of the devices called in,” said Coleway.

“What?” Dale jumped up.

“We are still not 100 % certain,” continued the detective. “The signal is not clear. We are comparing it with the recordings of the others. Something tells me though that we have located your bird.”

“I thought you had given up?” said Dale not bothering to hide his emotions.

“We had, but not the computer on Astra’s board,” said Nat flatly. “Listen Dale, you know the system better than us. Can you come round our way?”

“Of course! When?”

“Wait for us at the upper end of the High Street. In twenty minutes.”

The van appeared at around seven. Dale Rutherford was already walking up and down wrapped up in his green parka. Something trembled inside him when he saw the mobile antennae on the roof of the van. Last night one called in, whatever that meant!

“Get in, Dale!” Nat opened the door.

The familiar buzzing of the instruments surrounded him. The dry air was charged with electricity.

“Sir!” called the man with the headphones. “It disappeared again!”

He started twiddling various buttons, but soon after shook his head, “Gone.”

“Damn it!” Nat swore.

“What’s going on?” Dale was worried.

“That’s what I want to know, too,” sighed the detective.

The signal had suddenly appeared on the satellite’s radar early this morning, just before five. The news shocked Nat Coleway out of his bed and soon after the whole team was on-line. At exactly 5.32am though, the signal mysteriously went silent and they spent more than half an hour immobile in the Chatham area. At 6.20am the signal appeared again.

“And what are we going to do now?” asked Dale.

“Wait,” Nat ground his teeth.

In the beginning it had been difficult for him to comprehend the rage and sorrow of the Park’s employee. He had thought he was slightly cuckoo. At the end of the day they were only some stupid ducks! But now he did not think so. The Hyde Park case had entered the golden annals of police folklore. Nat was now feeling personally responsible. “Go on, call in again!” he whispered nervously.

Instead of a call from the radar, the popular melody ‘Six Little Ducks’ sang from his pocket. Dale gave him an icy look. The detective smiled internally and pulled out his mobile. He had changed the melody whilst they were thinking what to do in Chatham. He hoped subconsciously that the tune would bring him luck. It was Chuck Salinksi from the laboratory of the technical centre. Nat listened to him attentively without interrupting.

“The signal is identical to the others,” he said and put the phone back in his pocket. “That much we now know…”

Surprise, surprise the magic had worked!

“But what took it so long?” asked Dale eagerly.

“I have no idea,” Nat shrugged. “Maybe something was blocking it. What do you think?”

Dale started to think. During the experiments it had been proven that some of the chips blocked when exposed to temperatures of -20 °C and below. This suggestive thought made him shiver.

“If it was deep frozen…” he said in a low voice.

“Of course, I should’ve thought of that!” exclaimed Coleway. “Nobody can eat 40 ducks at once, can they? They failed to take it out, and then deep froze it!”

The park’s employee was silent. Nat put his arm around Dale shoulder. “I think I know what’s activated it again…”

“Then we have to hurry up Nat!” Dale said. “Before we find it in the sewers!”

The next hour passed amidst guesses and ominous doubts. The antennae were searching the air in vain, trying to dig out the signal from the universal haystack. The chip was not giving any signs of live. Dale’s head bowed in sadness.

“Do you have any idea how it reacts to stomach juices?” asked Nat, trying to cheer up the atmosphere.

9.15. The operator, half asleep with the headphones on his ears, suddenly moved. “Look! The bird’s awake!” he said with a note of contempt.

10.30 The car moved down High Street Kensington and stopped in front of Marks & Spencer’s.

“Disappeared,” the operator reported.

“It will show up again,” said Nat.

“Don’t you have the impression that all the traces lead to this part of the city?” Dale’s voice called out.

“Yes we do,” replied the detective.

During the last hour the source had been appearing and disappearing at intervals of about ten minutes. Obviously the device had been partly damaged by the hostile environment, but was continuing to fulfil its duty heroically. Come on, you little beauty, keep it up for another half-hour! Nat was praying.

In the van the atmosphere of expectation lay like a heavy cloud. Every beep could be the last one — the team knew that well. But nobody was in a hurry to celebrate. From a precise control device the instrument had transformed itself into the die of fortune, spinning whilst they all prayed for a six.

“Ooooops! Here we go again!” exclaimed the operator.

The van hesitantly joined the traffic.

“We are close!” Nat Coleway rubbed his hands.

The man in front of the screen nodded. Suddenly his face became worried. “Sir! I’m afraid the source is moving, Sir!” he repeated as he stared at the pulsating light.

“How come!” exploded Nat. “You’re not telling me they have an anti-radar device, are you? There are all sorts of hi-tech poachers these days, would you believe it! Follow it!”

11.25 AM. Distance 300 yards. We are on M25 West. A traffic jam in the Chiswick area is blocking all movement. Fortunately, not only ours…We have every cause to believe that the chip is in the stomach of an individual, who is in a car in front of us. Supposed consumption: — 11 hours. Expected ejection: +4 hours. We have to catch him before that. End.

Nat switched off the recorder and put it back in his pocket. “What are you doing that for?” asked Dale with some disgust. “Making a record of the last phase of the operation,” was the gloomy answer.

From the exhaust pipes of the cars, pale smog drifted. The reflections of the dispersing clouds floated across the display widows of the Sega shop, the empire of virtual reality.

“I wonder what that swine looks like?” Dale hissed. “I don’t know,” said Nat. “Maybe he didn’t have a clue what he was eating?” “He didn’t, didn’t he…?!” Dale clenched his fists. “In any case I expect him to tell us where he ate,” added Nat