Alek Popov - Mission London

“I’m putting ten quid on the fat one,” said Bibbit. “And you Coleway? What you’re going to say about His Excellency?”

“I don’t like betting,” the detective shook his head, “But I am ready to take on any bets if you let me identify the recipient.”

“And, what are you going to do, arrest him?” pressed Michael Bibbit.

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Nat. “But we’ll know how the source ended up in his/her stomach. It must have happened last night. We’ll clarify where and what they have eaten exactly…”

“I’ll tell you,” the agent interrupted him. “They all dined in the Embassy. There was some strange reception. Artists were invited. Unfortunately we don’t have many details.”

“Then we’ll question the cook,” Nat continued persistently. “To tell us how he got hold of the ducks. I am sure we’ll catch the real criminals in the end!”

He started to babble. Just like Dale. And that wouldn’t lead to anything good.

“I do not doubt your logic, Coleway,” agreed Bibbit. “You are a good detective. But a bad strategist, which is, of course, not your fault. That is your job. You see the case but you miss its political framework. Can you grasp the political scandal hidden in this case? The situation in the Balkans is complicated enough; probably a military operation will follow. We need the support of the local leaders more than ever. In this very moment what you are proposing is to discredit those people, to paint them as savages! Chaplin’s corpse, the umbrella, the Pope, and now this. You know how much effort they put into their new European image! They are almost ill with every negative publication! It’ll take us months to calm down public opinion. In the meantime, we have to lead all sorts of delicate discussions. No, no, I cannot allow our national interests to be risked because of a bunch of wild ducks!”

“So the bets are off?” asked Nat Coleway.

“Yes!” the agent said. “I know very well how you feel! I also like to feed the birds in the park and don’t think they should be treated as poultry. At the moment though we have other priorities and the ducks are clearly not part of them!”

“Mr Finch,” Nat turned to the sergeant. “I think the operation is over. Let’s get out of here. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

“We are relying on your discretion,” the voice of Michael Bibbit followed him.

12.55 PM. I just gave orders for Mr Rutherford to be un-cuffed. I’m afraid he’s very cross with me. The source is leaving the area of the airport and is flying to the continent. It is expected to disappear from the radar’s perimeter in five minutes. In a world dominated by politics the truth will never reign. End.

This time Balkan was flying a Boeing; Varadin had taken his guests to the entrance, waited for the doors to close and come back to the hall. He was content; there were no other people with him. Pezantova thought that some of the diplomats had been involved with the accident. In any case, she was convinced that they were maliciously happy and she did not want to see their faces. Varadin had turned them down with pleasure.

He was not in a hurry. The idea of going back in the stinking Rover was not a very inviting one. He looked at the monitor and saw that the plane to Sofia had already taken off. A wave of relief entered his chest, and his heart beat happily like a cat in front of a mousetrap. He sat at the bar and ordered a small, light Grolsch. Whilst the foam was settling, whispering underneath his nose, and the big white machines were slowly crossing the runways like big white elephants, in his subconscious a door opened. But instead of numbers a light came through the door. He saw his whole four year mandate rolling in front of him like a golden silk carpet covering the mud of life underneath. I’ll buy myself a new car! The thought crossed his mind. Maybe a Saab or a Mercedes…? He had not decided yet.

Suddenly from some dark pocket his mobile phone squeaked. He took it out unwillingly.

“Mr Ambassador!” a worried voice sounded. “Major Potty is here with a whole lorry full of bedpans. He wants to unload them into the Embassy’s courtyard. He claims that you have promised to transport them to Bulgaria. What shall we do? He’s shouting and kicking the staff. I’m afraid he is off his head…”

“What?”

“He got hysterical, when we told him that we have nowhere to put them…”

“What?” Varadin repeated. “I don’t hear you very well…Who is calling?”

“He slammed Turkeiev on the head with one bedpan, because he told him it’s rusty! He threatens he’s going to complain to the President, if we do not accept them. Crazy man! Do you hear him screaming?”

“I can’t hear anything!” Varadin ground his teeth. “The connection is bad. I’m at the airport…”

“What are we going to do?”

At that moment someone else grabbed the phone at the other end.

“Excellency! Excellency!” a piercing scream echoed down his phone. “What unheard of insolence! You have no right to reject our help!” It was Major Potty himself. “I insist on speaking with your President personally! We have to solve this problem once and for all. Do you hear me?…”

Varadin instinctively held the phone away from his ear. He had the feeling saliva was dribbling out of it. Then he turned it off.

He felt a sudden urge to slam it on the floor, but then he realised that it would be the second time this week. He swallowed his lager in one go and then ordered another one. He did not move for a while, listening to the whispering of the foam, yet understanding nothing. “I’ll survive!” he said. “Whatever happens…”

On the 24 thof December, Rube Sparks, the jeweller from Regent Street, prepared to enjoy the end of the 20th century. He had been choosing the decoration for weeks, postponing vital deals to the last minute, in order to provide all the available sparkle for Christmas Eve. At exactly eleven p.m., Lady Diana appeared, wrapped in a long fur-coat and an opaque veil, followed by her chauffeur. He gave him twenty quid and sent him back to the car. They made their way to his office, above the shop. The shutters were down. Whilst she was taking her clothes off, Emerald opened the safe behind his desk and started taking all the decorations out. The reflections danced on the ceiling…The Princess was shining in front him with her goddess-like nudity, her breasts moving emotionally as she breathed. He took a diamond necklace from its velvet bed and put it around her neck. This time the decorations were more, both in number and value, than ever before. He continued to dress her up until there was not a single empty spot left on her body. Even on her toes rings sparkled, covered with diamonds! His heart jumped into his throat and his Adam’s apple started pulsating like an iguana’s.

It was time for photos.

He put a new hypersensitive film in his camera and looked happily through the lenses. Surprisingly, the Princess had put her coat on. In her hand shone a little jewel, which was definitely not part of his collection — a stylish Smith & Wesson, 37 calibre. She pointed it at the petrified jeweller, and made him step back to the window. She put her other hand into the safe and took out a box with photos, which had sealed Rube’s ecstasy and happiness.

The last goodbye was dry and businesslike.

Desmond Cook waited in the car with the engine running. Katya threw herself in beside him and took a deep breath. “The Christmas tree is here,” she said.

He stepped on the gas and joined the traffic. The car roared up to the brightly lit Regent Street, then turned into some small side street and disappeared into the labyrinth of the city’s back alleys.