Mission London. Alek Popov
drawers and cupboards in his office; the cashbox, the wardrobe and all the other little places where he supposed the spirit of his predecessor might be hiding. Not much was left. People in his profession were secretive and erased all traces behind them, where possible. In the library, the Encyclopaedia Britannica and the ‘Who’s Who’ of 1986 feigned an air of dusty importance. In the draw of the desk lay three lonely paperclips and one used marker. In the safe he found a half-disintegrated washing-up sponge. That looked to be everything. He examined the toilet, tested it and sat behind the big boss’s desk, twisted around this way and that in the armchair to get used to the feel of it. He was almost feeling at home when the red phone rang.
He stared fearfully at it and picked up the receiver.
“Hello!” said a serene female voice. “Already in your workplace, eh? Bravo! Well done!”
“Thank you!” his ingratiating response conveyed little enthusiasm.
He knew the voice well and clearly he could not tell it to go to hell.
“You haven’t forgotten about me, have you?” He sensed an edge of suspicion.
“How could If or get you!” his voice filled with sincere indignation.
“Easily! Some people immediately forget everything, as soon as they land themselves a little mandate,” the subtle accusation rang from the receiver.
“I am not one of them. You know me.”
“We-ell, I’ve been let down so many times,” sighed the voice. “You think you know somebody but when they go abroad – they prove to be a completely different person. Ungrateful people! They imagine they have become untouchable. But they are mistaken.”
“They certainly are mistaken.”
“You are not one of them though, are you?” the voice quavered hopefully. “You know how the things are. You are experienced; that’s to say, you know how to prioritise.”
“I’ve learned that well.”
“I hope so,” there was a pause before the decisive question: “And, how are things going?”
“I don’t know yet. People here don’t look to be on the straight and narrow.”
“I had no doubts about that. They are a bunch of crooks. You must report to me every week.”
“Agreed,” Varadin nodded. “Do not worry.”
“Don’t be so relaxed. You don’t know her yet. She is so solemn! Every time I pass through London, I invite her properly for lunch or breakfast, but she always plays dumb. She is busy. And how is she so busy, if you please? Counting her coins, I suppose. The humiliation I have to endure.”
“We mustn’t lose hope, the stakes are high!”
“Yes, we have to draw her in somehow!”
“Leave it to me,” said Varadin authoritatively.
“If you betray me …”
“Not chance of that, of course not,” he assured her.
“Oh, well in that case, goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
The first number that burst into his mind was 98. For some moments he stared blankly at the phone, then quietly, but passionately, he pronounced, “73!”
7
‘Borscht & Tears’ was a famous Russian restaurant, situated in South Kensington. It was run by descendants of White Guardsmen. An important peculiarity, which very few people knew about and which was entirely absent from any advertising, was the fact that underneath the Russian restaurant, in the basement, was another restaurant – a Bulgarian one. This Bulgarian restaurant, carefully stored away within the belly of the big Russian doll, had been conceived fairly recently, due to the simple fact that the owners’ daughter had married a Bulgarian. An enterprising patriot, he had taken the risk of investing in nostalgia, whilst lacking a decent working knowledge of the peculiarities of its native version.
Bulgarian Nostalgia differed from Russian Nostalgia which was lachrymose and dripping in mineral resources – a big vein of gold, which generations of capable salesmen of swampy mirages have mined and continue to mine. Bulgarian Nostalgia was dusty and baked like a disused threshing-floor. It was fed with cheese from Finsbury Park Turkish markets and greasy Spanish bacon from Asda; it was stuffed with beans and lentils and drowned in a glass of Rakia spirit, for free if you could get away with it. It had no ambition to rule over the soul; you could easily relegate it to some solitary corner. It was too economical to be economically significant. That was why the Bulgarian restaurant was condemned to stay forever in the womb of the Matryoshka like a nameless and illegitimate embryo, fighting to be born, struggling to get out, and straining at the umbilical leash through which it sucked vital juices.
The Russian restaurant had a well-polished, decadent interior: plush red damask, candles in champagne bottles, some dusty balalaikas on the walls, a big decorative samovar – all this, although seeming exotic to western eyes, nevertheless to some extent lived up to expectations fed by references from the vast corpus of Russian literature. In the Russian restaurant they played Russian romances, served ice-cold vodka and steaks à la Kiev; you could cry your eyes out, quarrel with God or the Devil, fall in love or blow your brains out with a revolver, if you felt so inclined.
The Bulgarian saloon did not offer such romantic extras. You reached it via a narrow tortuous staircase, as though descending into Tartarus
On the walls hung traditional ‘koukeri’ masks and dried corncobs, as well as a shield forged from copper with something like a horseman carved on it. Here a kaval and bagpipe tune could often be heard, or the bang of a drum and as for the customers, they sat right next to each other as if they were all boiling in a common pot. Wine and Rakia spirit were poured lavishly and simple peasant dishes were served. These last could be better described as fakes than as realistic reproductions of the originals. But the emigrants were easily pleased; they had forgotten the taste of the original dish, remembering only the look of the thing. It was not difficult for them to imagine they were eating the authentic Bulgarian tomato and roast pepper delicacy, lyutenitsa, whilst what they were really consuming was an ordinary salsa with onions. That made the management of the kitchen easy, but somewhat diminished the profits. Regular clientele was missing – the local gourmands passed it by, and misguided tourists did not have the courage to venture beyond the Russian section. The restaurant filled up only for special occasions – once or twice a month. Then the owner would invite Kosta to spice up the menu with some more sophisticated specialties. The cook had nothing against that – his salary was miserable and he was constantly on the lookout for ways to make an additional pound or two on the side.
On the evening in question there was no special occasion and ‘Borscht & Tears’ was half-empty. Not only the Bulgarian section, but also the widely advertised Russian one. It was Wednesday – a day that marked the apogee of the business week – and Londoners were saving their energy for stunts on the stock market. Only two or three couples who looked like tourists from Australia or New Zealand were picking at their plates in the hope of finding a small grain of the great Russian soul. A glum waiter, Polish no less, was observing them cynically, as he leant against the wooden column by the stairs. Kosta’s appearance caused a slight lifting of spirits, as though the long awaited fictional hero had appeared on stage at last and was preparing to do something suitably unhinged, which would instantly reveal the meaning of life to them. Kosta, though, did nothing so exciting; he headed quietly down the stairs, nodding to the waiter on his way past.
In the empty Bulgarian salon two men were seated. They had taken the table at the far end and Kosta saw them only when they waved at him. One of them combined the physique of an ex-bodybuilder with the droopy blond moustache of a Polish nobleman fallen on hard times. This was Chavdar Tolomanov, the man he had spoken to that afternoon. The other was a stranger.
Chavdar invited him to take a seat and made the introductions. “This is Batushka. Batushka, this is our guy.”