Mission London

26

The cook sat in front of the office for a few minutes, then he stood up, paced a little and stopped next to the window. He was nervous. He had no idea as to why the Ambassador wanted to see him, but from long experience could guess that it would not be nice. The office door opened and the Consul came out, mopping his sweating brow. The secretary’s intercom buzzed.

She picked up the receiver and nodded to Kosta. “You can go in.”

The Ambassador sat behind his desk, fresh and cheerful. He had just sucked the vital juices from the Consul and had found them tasty. He made a gesture, as though luring some small animal forward. “Come in, come in, don’t be shy!”

The cook advanced unwillingly. He was more than merely shy.

He looks like his speciality is hair soup thought Varadin. He was unsure that the risk would pay off. Perhaps he should order out to some top-class restaurant for the dinner. But it was bound to be too expensive, and would devour his already slim budget. Ziebling’s expenses were fairly salty, but he could justify them. Recently it had become all the rage to hire foreign PR companies to represent government interests. At least, that’s what people were saying. However, a dinner for thirty, laid on by a fancy restaurant, given that they had a chef on the payroll? He had thought of the look on the Audit Commissioner’s face and dropped the idea.

“Well, Pastricheff,” began the Ambassador, “I’m sure you already know that I’m arranging a large charity event. An important part of said event will be the official dinner. I don’t wish to scare you, however, persons of the highest rank will be attending, including Her Majesty the Queen of England.”

The chef remained intently silent. He was outwardly unmoved. What a dimwit! thought Varadin, I bet, if it was left to him, he’d serve Her Majesty bean and pepper stew. But it was not left to him, thank God.

“I think,” he continued, “that it’s about time for us to decide on the menu.”

“No problem,” shrugged the cook.

“This time we had better offer something more exquisite to our honoured guests.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“You’re the professional in this field, I’d hoped to hear your suggestions first.”

The cook thought it over. From the depths of his mind came random notes. His brain arranged them instinctively, and eventually a pleasant melody formed. “Duck!” he said daringly. “Duck à la Chasseur!”

The Ambassador’s brows rose in surprise. “Doesn’t sound all that bad. Will you be able to cope on your own?”

“That is my speciality,” Kosta exclaimed. “Unfortunately, I rarely have the chance to make it. Ducks, as you know, are expensive.”

“Don’t worry about the cost,” the Ambassador waved a hand dismissively, “What do you propose for Hors D’oeuvre?”

“Liver in a white wine sauce. The French Recipe!” shot the cook.

“Well, look at that!” the Ambassador nodded in approval. “Won’t it be a little heavy?”

“What are you talking about, heavy?” protested the chef energetically. “The combination is ideal. Especially with a fresh radish salad.” He added without thinking.

Varadin had rarely seen him so enthused. “Why have you been hiding these priceless talents until now?” he asked suspiciously.

“Budget,” sighed the cook.

“This time you needn’t worry about that,” cut in the Ambassador. “Just don’t screw up! I take it you’ve seen The Road to Sofia?”

It was obvious that he’d lived through this nightmare many times. The two of them quickly sorted the remaining details of the menu and the cook left, happy to have the chance to demonstrate his professional skills once more. Or so thought Varadin.

He leant back and closed his eyes for a few minutes. In one hour he had an appointment at the Foreign Office. The neighbouring dictator had muddied the waters in the Balkans again, and John Edge, the Foreign Secretary, was gathering all the Ambassadors from the surrounding countries together for a mass consultation. Late last night, he had received a cryptogram detailing the government’s position — nothing it had contained had surprised him. Obviously, things had been carefully coordinated with the member-countries, whose Ambassadors would have been equally well-instructed by their respective governments. One and the same thought did the rounds amongst the group. The only uncertainty lay in the question of whether they would serve those little triangular sandwiches with the crab and avocado filling, like they had last time. Until that time they had only ever been fed with scones that resembled Stone Age artefacts, without the good grace to be rock buns. It was rumoured that this change had come about after Mr Edge had taken on a new, young secretary. An innocent young girl of the people, she had dared to break with the soulless Tory traditions that had been handed down conservatively by successive Conservatives. The sandwiches had been so exquisite that he had actually come close to following Ziebling’s advice about taking one back to the Embassy to show Kosta. But he had not dared. However he did take note of their parameters, under the guise of taking notes. Then he gave his sketches to the cook, but the results had been far from the same. Alas!

Just then his mobile rang from somewhere under the pile of paperwork on the desk. He dug it out and put it to his ear. “Yes?” he said casually.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice slapped him awake.

“Nice to hear from you,” he lied instinctively.

“Did the exhibition arrive?” she asked without ceremony.

“It’s at the airport, I’ve sent someone to clear it through customs.”

“I want it set up immediately!” the voice brooked no contradiction. “I don’t want it left till the last minute!”

He blinked and pressed the point between his eyes with one finger. The exhibition was included in Mrs Pezantova’s program as an accompaniment to her gathering. It seemed the ultimate in chic as far as she was concerned. For that purpose she had acquired a whole stack of pictures from a government gallery and was taking them to the four corners of the earth with her, accompanied by an ‘artistic director’ who was half-dead from fear because he was responsible for their material well-being.

“Don’t worry,” the Ambassador assured her. “Preparations are well under way.”

“They’re all asking me constantly whether She will be there,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Be careful! Nothing definite for now!”

There was a brief pause.

“They’ve already written it,” she said, “in a fashion magazine.”

“You told them?!”

“No! They came up with it themselves!” she protested energetically.

“Okay! Let’s just hope that people don’t read Bulgarian fashion magazines over here.”

“You’ll fax me the guest-list, yes?”

“Uh-huh, it’s already completed.”

“And I’ll need some notes on the more important ones: titles, occupations, you know what I mean.” she added capriciously. “And one more thing! I almost forgot. A man will call you. He’s called Spass Nemirov. He draws with fire. I want him worked into the program. He’s very attractive.”

“Fire!?” Varadin jumped.

“I have to go. I’ll see you in London.”

He shook the receiver in disgust, as though to tip out the remains of her voice. His gaze fell on the dustbin: it was overflowing, the carpet around it covered in bits of paper. It had not been emptied for some time. That excited and annoyed all at the same time. What does that panty-wetter think she’s playing at!? He grabbed the phone. “Why is no one cleaning my office?!” shouted Varadin. “Find that Katya and get her here at once!”

Bianca Leithereva tried to tell him something but he slammed down the receiver.

Tanya Vandova put her head around the door without knocking, “The driver’s waiting.”

He looked at her, frozen.

Ten minutes later, the green Rover was taking him to Whitehall.