Mission London

21

The radioman, Racho, was staring at the steeple of St George’s and chain-smoking. The metal shutters were wide open and a refreshing breeze blew in from the outside. The radioman was thinking that if they put an antenna on the steeple then their connection to Central would be vastly improved. The session had finished only ten minutes before. There had been some atmospheric interference and the transmission had taken longer than usual. The signal swung drunkenly on the oscilloscope screen, and the information flowed at the speed of glue through the eye of a needle. In spite of that, he had managed to process the material arriving from Sofia, as well as sending it to the Press Review, along with two short telegrams. He had finished for the day, unless some urgent cryptogram came through. But the likelihood of that was slim. There were still three cigarettes in the pack of Marlboro. There were another seven packs in the box on the table.

Racho left the communication’s room, leaving the door ajar and trundled down the stark white corridor, lit by neon lamps. He was a tall, flabby individual, with a face that said I don’t give a damn, behind which sheltered a crafty and calculating mind. He made a quick detour via the kitchenette, put the coffee machine on, and continued down the corridor. The other end of the Secret Sector looked onto the street. The radioman opened a window a little, stared blankly at the passing cars, and then returned, pouring himself a coffee on the way.

The Secret Sector had been constructed during the Cold War: several isolated compartments, insulated against listening devices and all sorts of unwanted intrusions. The windows were fitted with metal covers, and the outside walls were reinforced. This is where the communications hub of the Embassy, as well as the safes containing confidential information, were to be found. According to instructions, in case of enemy attack, the secret service personnel were to lock themselves in and destroy all traces of their activities. To this end, a vast metal furnace had been installed in the central compartment, for burning documents. At various points in the past the furnace had blazed merrily as it burnt tons of potentially explosive information. Now it lay dead. The only inhabitant was Racho the radioman. He burnt various bits of rubbish there, from time to time, to warm himself. Recently, the volume of operational work had dropped sharply, and Racho had very few other duties. That was why he could devote himself entirely to the fat catalogues of duty-free goods available through the Embassy, which he received regularly. Because he lived, for the most part, in the Secret Section, Racho disposed of considerable sums, which the diplomats could only dream of. Here there were no big city temptations and their consequent expenses. Life was simple and healthy, almost as cloistered as a monastery. All capitals are different, but all Secret Sections are alike.

The radioman took a gulp of hot coffee and turned to a small device that he had found in some dusty old trunk containing ‘special equipment’, which he had inherited from his predecessor. The apparatus, of Soviet manufacture, served to detect listening devices by detecting their transmissions, but hadn’t been working for some ten years or more. Racho had a weak spot for electronics, on top of which, he intended to sell the thing in a car-boot sale if he got the chance. In any case, no one took any notice of him. That morning he had plugged it into the charger, to check how reliable the battery was. The needle had showed that it was charging. That was not enough, however. He unplugged it from the charger, put on the headphones and listened. At first, the gadget made a whole heap of chaotic noises, as though cleaning itself from the many years of silence. The radioman regulated the sound-level and adjusted the antenna. Slowly, the noises cleared up, and only one signal remained, chirping like a grasshopper in the distance.

‘Well, what have we here, then?’ he exclaimed.

Memories from the days of the Cold War, filled with tension and hard work, arose in his mind. His overwhelming nostalgia, however, soon turned to worry. The sound in his headphones reminded him of an active Secret Intelligence Device. Just in case, he turned off all the equipment in the comms. room that might be generating the signal. But the signal did not fade and if anything, became clearer still. Could the Embassy be ‘bugged’?

He checked the Secret Sector, with the device over his shoulder, but found no change in the parameters of the signal. The bug was obviously not there. That led him to sigh, because the heaviest responsibility no longer sat on his shoulders. From there on, he was eaten only by his own curiosity. Where the hell are you, you old bitch?!

He went down to the floor below, where the signal became perceptibly stronger. Most of the offices were here, including the Ambassador’s, and access was far easier. All sorts of riff-raff came in and out: from Xerox technicians to journalists and dodgy businessmen. He would not have been at all surprised if the bug was somewhere hereabouts. He criss-crossed the corridors but found nothing more concrete. The only person about was Turkeiev, who stared at him with fear and respect. He was not obliged to explain himself, but he decided to test the other’s ignorance, by informing him that he was measuring ‘the electromagnetic background count owing to atmospheric interference’. Turkeiev nodded understandingly, flattered by this demonstration of trust.

The further down he went, the stronger the signal became in his headphones. Racho checked the reception room, as well as its service rooms, but found nothing. In the foyer, he came across Mr Kishev, to whom he gave the same old story about ‘electromagnetic background’. Kishev accepted it without thinking. He had something else on his mind.

Kosta was fussing nervously around the cooker, when the door of the kitchen opened and the radioman entered, headphones covering his ears and some strange device over his shoulder. The cook was neither expecting him nor happy to see him.

“What do you want?” he asked nervously.

The radioman put a finger to his lips and stepped forward. Kosta stepped in front of him, but Racho pushed him aside with a decisive gesture. The cook’s knees went weak. With the unerring sensitivity of a compass, the radioman aligned himself with the freezer.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Kosta, pulling together the last shreds of firmness into his voice.

“Open it!” ordered the radioman.

The cook walked in circles near the freezer, patting his pockets. “Oops, I seem to have forgotten the keys!” he mumbled.

“Listen Pastry,” cut in Racho. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but I don’t believe you want the entire Embassy to know about it? Come on, open the freezer!”

“There’s nothing in there, mate! Why’re you bugging me?”

“So I should report to the Ambassador then, eh?”

“What are you going to report?” the cook visibly cringed.

“See this little beauty?” Racho said threateningly, “She’ll report, not me!”