Alek Popov - Mission London

Coleway. “I want to punch his gluttonous face!” Dale said darkly.

“Question of priorities,” shrugged the detective.

11.43 AM. We are closely following an olive green diplomatic Rover 80 with the number plate 123D001. We have reason to believe that the individual who has swallowed the source is in the same car. This makes the situation considerably difficult. We should not rush. Possible obstacles of an administrative or legal nature. I am waiting for instructions from Central. In the meantime the car is heading towards Heathrow with us in pursuit. Mr Rutherford is showing signs of acute nerves. I’m worried that he might lose control at any moment and jeopardise the success of the operation. I have ordered Dale to be handcuffed. Only temporarily. Sorry, Dale. End.

12.00 AM. No signal. We are entering the area of the airport. I just spoke with Major Trumble. The situation is obviously very delicate; there are consultations with the Foreign Office going on at the minute. The instructions are vague: the chase should go on and nothing more…We are just in the tunnel that leads to Terminals 1, 2 and 3. Speed limit 30 miles per hour.

12.11 PM. Three women and a man got out of the car. The man is obviously the Bulgarian Ambassador. They are heading for the VIP entrance. Mr Rutherford will have to stay in the van, despite his energetic protests. Mr Finch, from the technical crew is coming with me, armed with a portable locator. I’m wondering which one of those four is the host of the chip? And what is the extent of diplomatic immunity…? We have located it again. We are following their steps, but they either haven’t noticed, or don’t care. The leader of the group is the woman in the red furs. I don’t think Dale’s ducks gave her any particular trouble; she looks like a hardcore cannibal. They are talking in their own language and laughing…

“Detective Coleway…” a soft, but powerful voice stopped him.

In front of him stood a well built man in a brown suit and funereal tie. A badge with VIP was hanging on his lapel. His blue eyes were like lakes of liquid methane. “Lieutenant Rupert Everidge!” the man introduced himself. “Please, follow me!”

“But we were just…” Nat tried to object.

“I know,” the lieutenant interrupted him. “I have been informed. It is my responsibility to take control of the operation from this moment onwards. We are going to explain everything to you. For Christ sake!” he went on nervously. “Tell your man to remove that stupid device! It’s attracting people’s attention!”

Nat hesitated. He did not have much choice. He followed the disappearing group with a look full of sorrow.

“Come with me!” Everidge urged them, as though he was afraid that Nat would throw himself after them.

He took them though a good number of corridors and automatic doors, unlocking them softly when he swiped his access card through the readers. Nat had the uneasyfeeling that he was walking behind the wings of a big stage. They ended up in a small compartment with a small ceiling, full of monitors. In the middle of the room a man with a beige raincoat and a flat face was sat. The fluorescent lights threw indigo coloured shades over his shoes. MI6…? wondered Nat.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said turning to Nat and Finch without moving from his chair. “Unpleasant situation, eh? We have to decide how to proceed.”

“I have the feeling it has already been decided, Sir…” mumbled Nat sourly.

The name of the agent was Bibbit. Michael Bibbit.

“I know how much work and nerves you have thrown into this so far,” he started with a slight yawn. “I don’t want you to be left with impression that we are acting over your heads.”

Why don’t you go and shoot yourself! said Nat to himself.

“I just don’t get it! Why?” sighed Bibbit, turning his chair toward the monitors. “They look like normal people, almost the same as we are…”

Varadin and Pezantova were having a tête-à-tête, standing near the plate-glass wall overlooking the runway. Her two companions occupied the soft, gold, silk-upholstered armchairs, watching them with curiosity. Mitche was drinking weak tea with lemon, its colour similar to that of her complexion. Veronika was eating fruit pie and washing it down lavishly with sips of black coffee. She looked fresh with a healthy complexion, ready to cross the whole globe from pole to pole.

“And that car, how could it smell like that!” whined Mitche. “I nearly made the same mess again!”

“Oh, you are such a delicate flower!” laughed Veronika. “I know that stench quite well. In the past we had a Trabant and my husband went fishing with it quite often. And when he forgets the fish in the boot, and the sun is up, I cannot describe it. The whole upholstery soaked up that smell; we had real difficulty selling it in the end. Yes, it will take at least a year, before that smell disappears.”

“Wow, like cat’s piss!” nodded Mitche.

“A-ha, no escape!”

“Why are they going fishing with that expensive car?”

“Like it’s theirs!” grunted the other, stabbing another chunk of her pie.

Behind the windows a giant Brazilian Airlines Jumbo Jet took off. Surprised by its close proximity Varadin and Pezantova instinctively stopped waiting for the roar of its massive engines. From behind the thick windows though, only a muted noise came.

“I still cannot believe that She called me after what happened,” sighed Pezantova. “Do you think She was being honest?”

“Well, she knows it was not your fault,” said Varadin.

“Naturally it isn’t!” Pezantova tossed her head and continued thoughtfully “She even apologised for leaving so suddenly. Otherwise She was thrilled with the concert! By the dinner too. She said to congratulate the cook.”

“I will congratulate him,” he nodded.

“Shame that an accident like that has overshadowed the whole event,” she bowed her head and lowered her voice. “You don’t think it was accidental, do you? There are some people that are trying to undermine us. They’re envious of my success. Pure sabotage, if you ask me. We have to understand who is behind all this.”

“We’ll do our best,” he promised.

“And careful with the media!” she warned him. “No useless information. They are going to re-invent the story anyway.”

“And you try to remember who fixed you up with that piss artist,” Varadin threw at her cunningly.

“I remember,” Pezantova spat. “That is the reason I am in such a hurry to get home. In a week I am opening the ‘Days of Bulgarian Culture in Berlin’, and a man who was recommended to me by the same people has arranged the program. If it turns out to be another flop I won’t be able to bear it!”

“Good luck,” said Varadin and squeezed her hand lightly.

“Thank you, anyway, for everything you did for me, I won’t forget it,” she said instinctively replying to his gesture. “I’ll try to drop by again, if I have time, but without those peasants,” she stared disdainfully at her companions. “The Halvadjievs are going to cover the expenses, so don’t you worry about it. They owe it to us for God’s sake!” she concluded in a businesslike voice.

“Those foreigners!” Rupert Everidge shook his head. “I have been working here at this airport for fifteen years and I still can’t understand them!”

“Who is the host of the signal?” asked Bibbit looking somewhat disgusted, as though a deadly virus was in question.

“I don’t know, Sir,” Sergeant Finch said. “They have to go through the scanner one by one. But if you ask me the woman with the furs is the one we are looking for.”

“No, that one with the sick-looking face,” Lieutenant Everidge nodded his head towards the screen showing the ghastly Mitche.