Vox Dei - Part 2: Sunday

Vox Dei

Valentin Fortunov with Andrew Carey Part 2: Sunday

SUNDAY

1––––– He knows that voice. He knows… He knows this pain. It’s going to creep up to the top of his head like a drug. Like a blue dye in his blood. Filling his skull with blue pain. He knows this pain. It will criss-cross his head with metal bands. He feels like the dummy in a painkiller advertisement. Like a Roman legionnaire in that… film. Can he still tear the bands off? A skullcap. He remembers tearing it off before. His blood bled like jelly then. Sticky, like the warm jelly at Maria’s party. Blue raspberry. Why was the jelly still warm? Did he make it too late? Did he forget to put it in the fridge? Had there been another power cut? Oh fuck. Yes, he knows that voice. That man’s voice. This pain. Now the blue turns to white. Blinding. A rush of light, blue-white, sucked into the room, filling his body,

crushing the pain into a ball, like a tumour in the top of his head. One of those tumours that swell like tubers, engulfing a whole hemisphere until the surgeons excise it – leaving you mute and limp. Like last year’s tuber. Last year’s tuba. He doesn’t remember. What do you want? What is it that you want? He knows what the voice wants. Can’t quite remember. He stands up. Can’t stand. Floats up. Oh lucky man. Floats up and walks as if his legs are tied. His legs are tied. He knows he can untie them, but they are tied with Maria’s hair. He cannot cut it. He knows he can untie it. He did it before. He can’t remember what to do. He remembers only that last time he remembered more. He is losing his memory in the pain. He is losing control. Each time it is harder. Each time he knows less. His hands brush against a wall and he feels his feet on the rough ground, though he is not walking. He smells bat shit. Christ, bat shit. A smell from childhood. Acrid. Flaring his nostrils, straining for fresh air. Fresher air. A rush to the light. Voices. Fuck. Where am I?

2––––– Salomon squirted his phone from the breast pocket of his leather jacket, caught it effortlessly as a cocktail barman and called the office. It was answered on the second ring. He went to switch on the scrambler, fumbled, dropped and caught the phone, cursed loudly and finally introduced himself: ‘It’s me. Have you talked to the boys at the hotel?’ ‘We did.’ ‘We have.’ ‘… Sorry Sally?’ ‘I said “Have you talked…”. You should answer in the same idiom. “We have talked.” If I say “Did you talk…?”, then you say “We did”. And?’ ‘What?’ ‘What did they say?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Shit…’

‘How is he?’ There was concern in the question. A pause. ‘Bear with a sore head…?’ A long pause. ‘Bear with a migraine?’ Salomon snapped the phone shut and returned it to his pocket. Major Salomon Dekalo was 32 and already (or still, depending on who you asked) Deputy-Chief of the Special Operations Section of the Republic of Bulgaria’s National Security Service (Counter-Intelligence Division). Fortunately, his business card used acronyms. Even sitting, he was obviously taller than most; narrow shoulders; a physique that said “I work out” and eyes of indeterminate colour that so clearly said “Don’t fuck with me” that few did. Waiting for Godot... Salomon thought as he watched a tiny nurse totter down the corridor. He allowed his mind to wander agreeably for a moment, then reverted to Becket. Or Waiting for Saint Colonel Lazar Palin. He frowned. Gare Saint-Lazare. Colonel Saint-Lazar Palin, perhaps?

He smiled and the smile was still on his face when the surgery door opened and the grotesque figure of the Colonel himself sprang into view – sour faced and stripped to the waist; one shoulder swathed in bandages. ‘What are you grinning at? You look like some redhaired Jewish monkey.’ From the surgery a nurse tried to speak, but Lazar waved her away and the door banged shut behind him. ‘Ah. Let me guess,’ Salomon countered. ‘You want to go home. No. You want to get back to work. The doctors won’t let you. You think they’re stupid. You know more about post-operative care than they do. Perhaps they…’. Then seeing Lazar lean suddenly against the wall, he jumped up, moved quickly towards the surgery door and caught him by his strong arm. ‘Sally, it feels like I’m terribly drunk,’ Lazar groaned. ‘I have to meet Maria, I haven’t been there since... since…’

‘Since Thursday. Fool. I saw her yesterday and on Friday night – everything’s OK, she sends you a million kisses.’ They walked together into Lazar’s room. Lazar made for the window rather than the bed and jerked the blind up abruptly. The half-light greeted him unenthusiastically. Salomon watched him closely, observing the eruption of baldness that seemed to increase daily the size of his already massive forehead. A head like a giant, bald, juvenile ape. His boss was a little shorter than Salomon but easily two stone heavier with his wide shoulders and impressive chest. His face was leathered like a sailor’s… or a turtle’s. Salomon wondered for a moment. Furrowed with several deep wrinkles that made him look severe. Appropriate. Other landscape metaphors came to mind: valleys, rivulets, crags, craters.

The impression was hardened by a classic hawk nose. But his eyes were the thing. Dove-grey and indifferent. Like steel hatches that would stop the world’s gaze. And did. ‘Fuck. Where am I? Sally, what time is it?’ ‘It’s oh six thirty,’ Salomon caricatured, ‘and this is the Military Academy of Medicine.’ ‘That’s correct, I remember now,’ Lazar paused then turned his head sharply. ‘What’s going on? Report!’ ‘Well, I’m visiting you in hospital.’ ‘Don’t play the fool. It’s six in the morning.’ Lazar suddenly stretched his neck and the familiar cracking of vertebrae began. ‘Shrewd as ever, Colonel. It’s not for nothing you’re the boss. Now, go back to bed. I’ve a meeting to get to.’ Colonel Lazar Palin, chief of the NSS Special Operations Section, leaned over and gave his subordinate a suspicious look: ‘And what exactly is the meeting, Major?’

‘A breakfast meeting at the Flamingo Hotel, Colonel.’ ……………………………….. Salomon signalled right and the black BMW bit into the turn. Without slowing, he lowered the window and clamped the blue lamp onto the roof. He switched it on, hesitated, then turned on the siren as well, low, and spurred the bavarian along the narrow roads past the city’s most imposing villas. Beside him Lazar Palin clutched the handle over the right door ostentatiously. Two weeks of sharp frosts had already worked their annual magic. The foliage in the small gardens was a bonfire of reds and yellows – the colours glossed by the sharply angled orange light of the early morning sun. An idle town, Lazar thought. He had never adapted to the post-Communist weekend rhythm of Sofia, where life didn’t start before ten for those that remained there. The rest simply left the stone jungle at the weekend en

masse, as if collectively programmed to seek out their summer villas, summer houses or (if they had been unlucky in the privatisation lottery) summer cabins. But even here in the rows Vitosha Mountain from Sofia – Blue Bulgaria of summer houses at the foot of Mount Vitosha he could see no discernible signs of life. It was nearly eight and the silence tugged at him. These people let their lives slip away, Lazar had just concluded, when the car threw him sharply sideways, and then forwards, so he had to jam his injured arm against the impressively padded dashboard to avoid smacking his head on the windscreen. Salomon had braked sharply to avoid a potentially embarrassing encounter with a police roadblock. To left and right cars were randomly parked and several people, presumably

reporters, stood in small groups. Talking ceased as they gazed at the BMW. ‘Bastards! They’ve moved it,’ Salomon spat. ‘The roadblock was much nearer the hotel first thing.’ He opened his window. Despite the BMW’s flashing blue light, the two officers in front of them showed no sign of moving, their Kalashnikovs pointing lazily at the car. A third man, wearing the same camouflage uniform and a black beret, approached them at a loose waddle, as if doing an impression of a soldier in camouflage uniform and black beret. He stopped by the car door and bent his head down to talk to Lazar: ‘Colonel, I’m glad to see you’ve made such a quick recovery.’ ‘It was nothing, Emil, I just lost a couple of litres of blood... It occurs to me to ask what you’re doing here?’ The sergeant smiled and shook his head. ‘You know how it is, Colonel, when there’s politics involved, they like to put us in front of the cameras.’

Lazar waved his hand in disgust: ‘Good luck, Sergeant,’ then turned back to Salomon and nodded, ‘Let’s go.’ ‘Same to you, Colonel. Bye, Sally,’ the sergeant saluted sharply. Salomon winked at the sergeant and accelerated in an ostentatious squeal of diesel fumes. Lazar watched the commandos through the car window. Normally his section picked up all the Security Service’s wet operations and he would call in, only at the last possible moment and only when already past necessary, a backup of ‘berets’ – the Ministry of the Interior’s elite emergency response unit. Over the countless operations in which they had been serenaded by gangland’s finest artillery, his men and the commandos had established a close relationship and considerable respect for each other. What the fuck are they doing on sentry duty?

‘He’s playing games, scoring points again, the shit,’ Salomon observed. ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Your favourite. Your Pontiff. Your Roman Pope...’ ‘Jesus, Sally. When did you last sleep?’ Salomon half turned in his seat towards Lazar. ‘Watch the road, Sally!’ ‘Boss, are you OK? Let’s stop and have some fresh air?’ and without waiting for an answer, he jammed on the brakes. Once again, Lazar had to brace himself against the front of the car with his injured arm. This time he roared: ‘What the fuck are you doing? You’ll cripple me! Are you insane?’ ‘There is a madman in the car for sure, but it’s not me!’ Salomon shouted in his turn. ‘It’s you that should be in hospital. They were right about keeping you in.’

‘I forbid you to drive me any further! Go and see a doctor right now. That’s an order. First you drive like Jehu the son of Nimshi when it’s plain to a child that my condition won’t be improved by being repeatedly hurled against the windscreen. Then you use the jellytot and the siren, when we’re on a completely empty road going to a meeting. This is how dictators drive around their capitals. Not us Sally. Not us. Then you scream because they’ve moved the roadblock. Has it occurred to you that they may not have done it with the exclusive intention of pissing off Salomon Dekalo? And now you’re talking this gibberish about the Pope and you won’t even look at the road when you’re trying to kill me.’ Lazar ran out of breath and slumped back in his seat.

‘Colonel, for God’s sake. I was trying to get you to the meeting on time. Or would you rather someone else led the most important investigation we’re ever likely to be involved in? And who do you suppose it was who sent the berets to the first roadblock to look good on camera? The Chief Secretary, of course. Sure he was trying to score points with the media. I called him your Roman Pope because it’s a common name for one’s commanding officer. Even my kids know what it means.’ Lazar stared forwards, then breathed out noisily and raised conciliatory hands. Salomon watched, then asked: ‘How are you doing, big man, are you feeling better? You’re waving your left arm about like a champ.’ Lazar gave his raised left arm a puzzled look. He lowered it, then moved it around in a pale imitation of physical exercise.

‘It hurts... Actually the doctor said it was superficial, just that the bullet had torn a blood vessel, and I was bleeding like hell! I’m still dizzy. Drive.’ These absurd études were generally played out at least once a day and Lazar knew very well that for the officers of the section the entertainment was a real delight. A whole folklore had grown up around the subject at the NSS. ‘Academic’ opinion had it that Lazar and Salomon had devised a most effective form of anger dispersal therapy. For the rest, it was further evidence that the pair were quite mad. No matter. In the tense boredom of the counter-intelligence service, the daily theatricals in Lazar Palin’s Special Operations Section only enhanced its already exotic image. The car stopped again. ‘For God’s sake drive!’ ‘We’re here.’ Salomon removed the keys and got out of the car. ‘The hotel’s just round the corner.’

‘That’s correct,’ Lazar replied, and got out too. The two men walked down the middle of the road, taking their time and gazing at their surroundings with the air of dutiful tourists. The five-storey building was half hidden by a line of Canadian poplars. Immediately in front of the hotel was a small English park, trim and tidy, criss-crossed by uncomfortably straight paths and enhanced with a number of unconvincing shrubs that would probably be found in the “interesting foliage” section of a gardening catalogue. The once elegant building now looked desperate. The entire mezzanine was turned inside out, black and burnt, and the hotel itself suggested a tree half-felled. A dozen cars were drawn up in the lane alongside the park. ‘The Chief Secretary’s here already,’ Salomon waved his hand in the direction of a ministerial Mercedes. ‘And

the gypsies. You’d think it was Big Brother.’ The Major was staring at the instant nomadic settlement created by the mobile TV units, their antennae and cameras already sprawled across the lawn, and the pack of reporters crowded behind the yellow police ribbon that had been wrapped round the park. They approached the second police barrier where a young lieutenant scrutinised their documents. ‘Jesus, you could be half-way through War and Peace by now,’ Salomon observed as he took back his papers. ‘It’s a novel by Lev Tolstoy.’ ‘I’ve read it Major. I’m just doing my job...’ ‘Lieutenant...’ Salomon’s furious retort was cut off by Lazar who grabbed him by the elbow: ‘Major, it seems to me that his Holiness really is here.’ Salomon walked with his boss towards a black autohugeness with a Washington licence plate. Lazar tapped his finger on the bumper of the Chevrolet Tahoe jeep: ‘Sally, if you’re going to pick a stupid fight, pick on

someone your own size and what the fuck is the FBI doing here?’ ‘Well, assuming they haven’t resurrected Concorde, it can only be that our crime scene has the honour of being visited by our new-found friend, “Call me Ben”.’ ‘Have you met him yet?’ ‘You know I have. I’ve got quite a file on him.’ ‘That’s correct,’ said Lazar, ‘but no use; he’s harmless.’ ‘Harmless, maybe... but a principle is a principle.’ ‘That too is correct.’ They were now quite near the building and Lazar looked up, surveying the damage, while Salomon, almost automatically, turned his back on the hotel and began to study the area behind them. ‘If they used a remote control, their car must have been parked just where we left the BMW,’ Salomon pronounced. Lazar stood for a minute gazing at the burnt gaps in the mezzanine.

‘If the FBI is here, I suppose they’ll be wanting to pin it on al-Qaeda?’ Lazar searched his pockets and took out his cigarettes. ‘Jesus. You’re only just out of hospital...’ ‘Al-Qaeda?’ Lazar lit his cigarette. ‘They’re not just wanting; we’ve already had official statements from Washington and Europe. The BBC and CNN are taking the same line. You can imagine. They want blood,’ Salomon nodded towards the reporters behind the yellow cordon. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? It makes no sense. There’s obviously something wrong here.’ ‘So it begins! Veni, vidi, vici and our home-grown Hercule solves the case. Now he only has to explain to us how his little grey cells have brought him…’ Salomon was cut short by the sight of a group of men emerging from the hotel, led by the Chief Secretary of the Ministry of the Interior - a tall balding man with heavy features. Beside him, the hop-pole figure of Special Agent Ben Stanton. Behind them the National Police Director, the

Head of Capital Offences and General Stoev, the National Security Service Chief, were engaged in an energetic discussion. The Chief Secretary noticed the two officers and a spasm of disgust crossed his face. Turning to Stoev, he said: ‘The saviours of our Fatherland have arrived at last!’ ‘Good God, Lazar’s out of hospital,’ Stoev observed unnecessarily. ‘Will you give them their orders, Chief Secretary?’ ‘I shall.’ The other two senior policemen bowed their heads to hide their smiles. Just then a commotion started behind the cordon. The press had spotted the Chief Secretary and started shouting. A man in a shabby raincoat ducked under the tape, thrust past two policemen who were keeping the crowd back, lumbered onto the English park, and called out, flourishing a portable cassette recorder: ‘Chief Secretary! Chief Secretary! Legenchev of Radio Free Europe!’

The two young policemen arrived simultaneously from both sides and cut off his run before he had even covered 30 metres. They took him cautiously but firmly and pulled him back to the cordon. A police captain walked briskly over, shouting: ‘Mr. Legenchev, please take yourself in hand! Your lectures on freedom and democracy are one thing, violating a crime scene is quite another. I must ask you to stay this side of the security tape and observe the regulations!’ ‘He’s only violating the English rye-grass,’ called out a reporter from the crowd, to general laughter. ‘Columbo, take yourself in hand, you old wanker,’ shouted another. General Stoev looked at the Chief Secretary and suggested they went back inside. The latter, in Bulgarian style, shook his head in silent agreement and they turned back into the hotel. The rest followed. Stoev gestured at Lazar and Salomon to do the same.

Inside, Salomon assumed a belligerent look and Lazar shot him a warning glance before turning to face the group. Among the chiefs in their suits and ties they looked distinctly out of place. Lazar’s suit, though cut from expensive grey cloth, was palpably out of fashion. Under it he wore a thick, blue and grey checked flannel shirt unbuttoned to his chest. And no tie. As for the redhaired Salomon, he wore his inevitable blue jeans, a wine-red sweater with a wide, black, go-thinner stripe round the waist, and a shabby brown leather jacket with noisy metal zips on the pockets. ‘Chief Secretary, Director, gentlemen,’ Lazar nodded slightly, an unexpected gesture of respect. ‘Colonel Palin and Major Dekalo at your disposal.’ ‘We’ve heard about your recent feats,’ said the Chief Secretary in a voice that betrayed neither admiration nor mockery, before launching his customary volley of clichés: ‘I gather you managed to stir up a real hornets’ nest and were almost done for...’ ‘That’s correct, Chief Secretary.’

‘Lazar,’ General Stoev jumped in, ‘it has been decided that the SOS will take over the case from the Police.’ ‘It’s outside our jurisdiction,’ Lazar countered. ‘Leave questions of jurisdiction to me,’ the Chief Secretary interrupted. ‘Next, you will work jointly with Special Agent Ben Stanton of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.’ ‘Since when, sir, has the FBI had jurisdiction inside the Republic of Bulgaria?’ Lazar asked his question slowly, in a cold voice. ‘I may have missed something, but I don’t remember the Assembly voting police prerogatives to any foreign agency.’ Ben Stanton listened to the words tensely. At 6’3”, he towered over the others, too thin, with his light brown hair too neatly parted. His long pale face depended for its charm on his eyes. Wide blue eyes that radiated an unexpected warmth and friendliness. Now they were narrowed nervously. He couldn’t make out all of it, but Lazar’s sharp objection was crystal clear to him.

In embarrassment he started finding the correct Bulgarian words to interrupt. ‘Colonel, excuse my Bulgarian. What says you is OK. But we are talking of many exploded reporters...’ ‘Special agent Stanton,’ Lazar intervened in fluent English, ‘it might be easier for us all if you were to use your mother tongue.’ ‘Why thank you, Colonel. Let me be clear. There’s no suggestion, as far as I’m aware, that the FBI has police jurisdiction over or within the Republic of Bulgaria. What’s more, and from a purely pragmatic point of view, the entire FBI in Bulgaria is just me,’ Ben laughed and looked down as if to check that he was indeed standing there. ‘What we’re talking about here is simply co-ordination and the routine exchange of information. You’ll agree, I think, that FBI resources could only be of help to you. And furthermore, assuming that we’re talking about an act of international terrorism, FBI co-operation and our contacts with every single national and international anti-terrorist

organisation will allow you to unravel this particular ball of string in the shortest possible time, catching the perpetrators, wherever in the world they may be, and bringing them before the Bulgarian courts. Which, you will agree, would not be in the power of the Bulgarian security services acting alone?’ Ben took a breath and looked hopefully at Lazar. The Colonel watched him imperturbably. ‘And why do you assume a priori that we’re speaking about an act of international terrorism? Have you had a tip-off in the last hour? Or has the FBI got a genuine source we know not of? Or...’ ‘Save us your speeches, Colonel,’ the Chief Secretary interrupted. ‘That’s the general opinion here, and for your information, it is shared by our colleagues abroad.’ ‘Well I’m impressed, Chief Secretary. You’re well on the way to saving a considerable sum for the Republic by making the National Security Service and the police investigating authorities redundant... You’ll hardly need

them if you can gather all the operational intelligence you need from CNN and the BBC...’ It was clear to everybody present that there was going to be another explosion at The Flamingo Hotel any moment. But General Stoev was ready to interrupt again. ‘Colonel Palin, we didn’t come here to be lectured like school children. I would ask you to show a little respect for the people murdered here last night. Start your investigation immediately – police interrogators are at your disposal, and I have already issued Special Agent Stanton with an NSS permit. He will attend every step of the investigation. He will provide information and he will request information. I require close and constant co-operation with the FBI representative. Have I made myself clear, Colonel?’ ‘Yes, General.’ General Stoev smiled broadly and opened his arms expansively, as if to embrace everybody present. Then, looking at the Chief Secretary, he suggested: ‘Well, sir, I

think it’s time for the chiefs to get out of here and let the, er, native Americans get to work. I suppose that Special Agent Stanton will stay behind and join the team?’ The Chief Secretary shook his head in assent and walked out of the hotel without looking at Lazar again. The rest followed. Unobserved, the Head of Capital Offences nudged Lazar as he walked past him. The Colonel gave a grim smile and turned to look for his assistant. Salomon stood a couple of steps away with his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling, whistling, and smiling. As he had been doing all along. ‘Jesus,’ Lazar heaved a mournful sigh. Salomon whistled louder. And when they turned towards the reception desk, they met the eyes of the FBI Special Agent. He seemed profoundly puzzled. Image credits: Jehu Driving Furiously : An oil painted by Gertrude Jekyll in 1865 illustrating a biblical text and remarked upon by Ruskin. Museum of Garden History Mt Vitosha from Sofia - Blue Bulgaria

3–––– Martha Friedman, 33, press attachée at the Israeli Embassy in Sofia, and second resident, Israeli military intelligence AMAN for the Balkans, parked her Toyota a little to one side of the embassy’s main entrance. She switched on the alarm and ran inside, smiling at the Bulgarian police officer who strode fully accoutred back and forth along the pavement in front of the building. The security chief, a short thin man with a wintry face, met her at the doorway. ‘Martha, this can’t go on! You must bring your car inside the perimeter.’ ‘Eitan, I’ll only be here for a moment, and then I’m off again. It’s not worth opening and closing the gate.’ She was already climbing the stairs to the first floor, where she tapped in the code and walked into her large, sparsely-furnished office. Throwing her bag and jacket on the sofa under the window, she sat down at the desk. Reviving her computer with a shake of the mouse, she

started the organiser, opened the contacts folder, picked up the black telephone and dialled a number. ‘Is that Emil Ashkenazi?’ ‘Speaking, Martha. How are you?’ a hoarse voice replied. ‘Emil, what do you know about the explosion at The Flamingo?’ ‘It’s terrible, Martha! A lot of our people are dead.’ ‘Who exactly?’ ‘Well, reporters... half the agency staff in Sofia are dead, Martha, not to mention most of the speakers at an IMC Conference.’ ‘What about Riley...?’ ‘You haven’t seen him?’ ‘‘No, I haven’t, and he doesn’t answer his phone. What can you tell me, Emil?’ ‘Well, they don’t know who was there and who wasn’t. We’re all just trying to get in touch with each other. My phone rings all the time, but we know nothing definite yet. Besides, it’s Sunday and a lot of people have

gone away for the weekend. The police don’t know anything either. They keep asking us for information. It’s a terrible mess.’ The reporter fell silent. Martha ran her fingers through her hair and eventually said: ‘Emil, listen, please will you find out for me the way you did last time? I need news of Riley... anything. But I also need information about the others – I need to know who was there, who died, what the damage is. I want to know anything that’s being talked about. And I need it now. I’ll give you another call in half an hour.’ ‘In an hour, Martha. In an hour you’ll have everything... whatever it is. Trust me.’ 'An hour, Emil,’ she said and put down the phone. Martha stood up, stretched, and picked up her bag from the sofa. She opened the cupboard in the corner of the room. It concealed a small sink. She rummaged in her bag, put her make-up on the shelf and looked into the mirror. Tired, tense eyes with dark rings below them looked back at her. She ran the tap and rinsed her face

several times. Perhaps too many times. Then she took a sky-blue flannel from the side shelf and carefully cleaned her face. Today she needed to wear make-up. When she had finished, she felt better. She kicked her shoes off haphazardly and, to try and compose herself, performed the five Heian kata, followed by her favourite Sochin, whose kicks she found awkward even in her loose cotton trousers. Finally she stopped in the middle of the room slightly out of breath, hesitated, switched on the television, poured herself a glass of whisky and stretched out on the sofa. She flipped channels like a man… CNN, BBC World, al-Jazeera, Deutsche Welle, RTV - most already

had film crews and reporters at the hotel, and were showing live pictures of the wrecked building. Interviews were running with witnesses and hotel employees, and there were reports from the Pirogov First-Aid Institute, the Military Academy of Medicine, and the Alexandrovska Hospital where over fifty hotel guests and employees were being treated after the explosion.

The world was buzzing – the media were taking the attack personally. Settling for the BBC’s news anchor, an eager Australian, pretty boy, she tried to piece together a fuller picture of what had happened. In a way, it was all too familiar. This had become the daily round at home. Human bodies twisted, torn, punched by bullets, and

the souls of the survivors carrying third degree burns. But her three years in Sofia had kept it a distant nightmare. Now her eyes were burning. A telephone ring startled her. She left the empty glass on the floor and went to the desk. It was the internal line. ‘Martha! Where have you been all night? Why don’t you answer your cell phone? We’ve been worried!’ The ambassador’s usually pleasing voice sounded metallic. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to worry you. I dropped the phone on the stairs last night. It’s dead. I’ll need a new one.’ ‘Get one, Martha. You know we’ve gone to SR2…? And while I think of it, there’s been a complaint from security about non-observance of parking procedures. This is an embassy, Martha!’ ‘It won’t happen again, sir.’ She waited for him to hang up, sighed, looked at her watch, walked round the desk and sat in the armchair. She dialled Ashkenazi and waited. The line

was busy. She put down the receiver and pressed redial. Watched absent-mindedly as the display recorded the number of failed attempts. The seventh worked and she pounced: ‘Emil.’ ‘Martha, there’s a chance that I may be wrong, but…’ ‘Oh, for goodness sake… Riley was there?’ ‘Yes, Martha, I’m afraid he was there the whole time. I’m sorry. He was there with five of our people – Monique of AFP, her photographer, Johnny Gilmore of Associated Press, Volodia Bezkonechniiy of Itar-Tass, and a German working for Focus. Plus three other Bulgarian reporters, and of course Boris, the barman. There were heavy casualties in the mezzanine restaurant as well – maybe as many as fifteen people killed – mostly Americans who had just arrived for a Congress at the IMC. I haven’t been able to get details of them yet. Plus some Belgians who jumped from the window of their hotel room, and three people burnt alive by a gas

explosion in the restaurant kitchen… I’m sorry Martha, it’s been an evil job.’ Ashkenazi was silent for a moment; she could hear him leafing through his notebook. ‘The police aren’t saying anything, but there seems to be something very odd about the bombing. They said – “implosion with explosion”. It means nothing to me, what about you?’ Martha tightened her grip on the receiver. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes, Martha.’ ‘They talked about an implosion with a subsequent explosion?' ‘Yes, exactly… what does it mean Martha?’ ‘Shit! Listen, Emil, I can’t tell you anything right now; I need to check a few things.’ ‘Martha, tell me please. Madrid are squeezing me like a lemon. I need an angle - anything, something CNN isn’t saying already.’ Martha thought for a moment.

‘Well, this time Antena 3 can break the news. I’ll explain, Emil. The damage is probably unusually severe? And everything a very fine… dust?’ ‘Exactly what they’re saying Martha.’ ‘Emil, there’s a new generation of bomb that uses the principle of chemical implosion… We’ve done some work recently… It’s like this. The initial chemical reactions take place in a hermetically-sealed vessel; normally they need a lot of oxygen. But, as the container is airtight, there is no oxygen and reactions take place very slowly and stop half way, so to speak. Without oxygen, the process can’t be completed fully. They can stay that way – in suspension - for an almost unlimited time. But when the seal goes, the reaction suddenly accelerates, drawing in huge amounts of oxygen from the surrounding air. This is the implosion… The destructive force is enormous, like a black hole, sucking

in everything around it - doors, windows, weaker walls will be sucked inwards, towards the container where the implosion took place. Eventually it will reach saturation, the chemical processes come to an end, and then there is hideous pressure in the centre of implosion.’ ‘After which an explosion takes place, the same destruction the other way round,’ the Antena 3 correspondent interrupted. ‘You’re a smart guy, Emil. But this isn’t news; it’s the basis of the nuclear bomb. This is simply nuclear technology applied to a conventional weapon. There’s something more interesting than that. For the moment there’s only one country that has this weapon. Guess which...’ ‘You said Israel was working on it?’ ‘We’re still doing the research Emil. There’s only one defence budget that could afford this thing…’ ‘You don’t mean...’ ‘That’s all I can tell you, Emil. And Emil, I haven’t told you anything! OK?’

‘Absolutely, Martha, of course.’ She hung up and started to write her report. In ten minutes she had finished and took it to the communications room. Then she returned to her office. Sat at her desk again and determinedly picked up the third phone – the red one, the secure line to Jerusalem. She dialled a sequence of digits, waited for the stutter tone, then dialled four more. It answered immediately. Martha smiled sadly: ‘Hello, Colonel. Captain Martha Friedman reporting.’ ‘Hello, Martha. I thought you would have called earlier,’ the voice was calm. ‘You already know... a short while ago I sent you a full report.’ She was twisting her hair into a brandy snap of a curl. ‘Riley?’ ‘No more Riley, Colonel...’ The line was silent.

‘I’m sorry, Martha.’ More silence. Then he went on: ‘Despite your… feelings, you need to be in good shape. Have you taken extra security measures?’ ‘It’s OK, Colonel, my instincts are fine...’ ‘Martha. That’s not the same; you are the target now. You cannot relax now, not for a moment. These jackals are close to you...’ At that moment the muted sound of a buzzer filled the room. Martha stood up abruptly. ‘Hang on.’ She picked up the intercom and held the receiver to her other ear. An auto-generated message was running: ‘Attention, please, Security Regime level one! Secure your office and proceed to the shelter!… Attention, please, Security Regime level one!…’ ‘Colonel, we’ve got a security breach in the embassy, I must run, I’ll call you when it’s over.’ ‘Martha, dear girl, you must promise me something; promise me that you’ll be careful.’ There was a perceptible note of embarrassment in the man’s even

voice and Martha, too, winced at the words. She sat back in her chair, half smiling. “I promise! Don’t worry.... I must go now!’ She hung up, secured her computer and activated the remote security for the office. She grabbed her bag and was just leaving when she realised she was barefoot. Bouncing back in, she found her shoes. She grinned, taking care, as always, to appreciate her good fortune. At SR1 it might have been hours before she could get back in. In the foyer she almost collided with the security chief. ‘Where on earth have you been?’ Eitan had lost his usual self-control. ‘What’s happening?’ People were running through the foyer and heading downstairs to the basement. The ambassador, slow and calm, approached them. ‘Have we experienced penetration, Eitan?’ Martha couldn’t help smiling.

‘I was just about to say to Martha, Your Excellency. There’s a Mercedes parked by Martha’s car. It’s been abandoned. Our scanners show that the car has got a very volatile passenger.’ ‘Will you call the locals?’ Martha and Eitan looked at each other and Martha replied: ‘No chance, Your Excellency.’ ‘You know best,’ the ambassador smiled. ‘Only I don’t want any fireworks round the embassy. None. Is that clear?’ ‘Yes, Your Excellency,’ Martha and Eitan replied as one. The ambassador nodded and made for the basement too. ‘Are you going to disable it where it is? Or bring it inside?’ ‘Martha, I suggest we don’t touch it. I’m jamming 900 and 1800.’ ‘Is it a GSM detonator?’ Eitan nodded.

‘Are you sure? Absolutely sure?’ ‘I am. It’s a standard device.’ ‘And where exactly have they left it?’ ‘Right beside your car.’ Martha thought hard for a moment, biting her lower lip. ‘Let’s go to the communications centre and have a look at the monitors,’ she took his arm and they went quickly down the staircase. The communications centre was a large windowless room; at the far end a bank of monitors displayed the adjacent area as well as the foyer and the corridors of the building, zone by zone. At the other end were several decks of electronics. Two embassy security men sat in front of the monitors; behind them stood Major Bergman, military attaché and AMAN’s first resident, resting his arms on their chairs. As they approached the monitors, the Major said abruptly, without turning round:

‘You’re the target, Martha. Not the embassy.’ Martha stood beside him and studied the situation on the monitors carefully. Eitan pointed to the Mercedes parked less than three metres from her Toyota. It was a small С190. She bit her lip again. ‘Eitan, turn off the jamming now.’ Martha finally decided. ‘We can’t Martha. If we do, we’ll put the whole embassy in danger.’ Still not looking at them, the Major interrupted: ‘Listen to her, Eitan, the embassy is not the target.’ Eitan motioned the operators to disable the jamming. The Major went on: ‘There will be no ‘bang’ until Martha appears.’ ‘But when she does…’ Eitan began. ‘Exactly,’ Bergman turned to look at Martha at last. She nodded at him almost imperceptibly. ‘Turn the jamming on the moment Martha appears and turn it off as soon as she leaves.’

‘I’m not so sure about that bit,’ Martha interrupted. ‘If they don’t get me, they might set it off just for fun.’ The Major energetically shook his head. ‘Not them Martha, not them. And, actually, it’s our only hope that Eitan can trap them.’ ‘Surely you don’t think they’ll come back to fetch their bomb afterwards?’ Martha asked. ‘It’s just possible, Martha, just possible. But if no one’s turned up ten minutes after you’re gone, Eitan can turn the jamming back on and get that pigsty into the garage to be cleaned up.’ The three of them stood silent, thinking the operation through again. Martha was the first to respond, resting her hand on the security chief’s shoulder. ‘Bergman is right as always, Eitan. In five minutes I’ll walk out of the embassy. Re-start jamming when I’m half way from the gate to the Toyota.’ ‘I’ll turn it on as you reach the gate. We’re not taking any risks.’

‘Absolutely,’ Bergman backed him up. ‘No games, it isn’t worth it.’ Martha slapped them both on the shoulder. ‘All right, guys, I’m off.’ Heading for the door, she stopped abruptly and turned back: ‘Hey Eitan, did you deal with the boy?’ ‘What boy? The Bulgarian cop?’ Martha nodded. ‘Of course, Martha. We told him to patrol at the other end of the embassy for a while.’ Martha returned his smile and left the room. On the monitors, the two men gloomily followed her progress down the corridor, up the stairs and across the foyer. Short, athletic and blessed with enviable and envied legs, she moved as lightly as a cat, with a grace that both men knew well. Though thirty-three, Martha could seem ten years younger or older. Her eyes were dark, sad and set wide apart, her high-cheeked face framed by thick, naturally black, curly hair. Reaching

the main entry, she stopped and began to rummage in her bag. ‘Eitan,’ the Major broke the silence. ‘Will she still be able to unlock her car?’ He indicated a remote control with his thumb. ‘She will,’ the security chief said with confidence, keeping his eyes on the monitors. ‘It’s a frequency we’re not covering.’ ‘Are you certain there isn’t another detonator on another frequency?’ The Major reached out with his finger over the button blocking the embassy main exit. ‘Completely,’ the blood rushed to Eitan’s face, but he didn’t take his eyes off the monitor. Martha took out her car keys and made for the exit. The Major drew back his hand from the button. As she emerged from the building, Eitan nodded to the operator, ‘On.’ Their eyes flicked in unison to another monitor displaying the front pavement, the Toyota and the Mercedes. Martha reached her hand out and the

Toyota’s indicators blinked twice. Taking her time, she opened the door, got in, put her bag on the right-hand seat and put on her seat belt. Then she turned the key, indicated, pressed down the accelerator and drove off. Eitan let out a soft breath and the Major murmured: ‘So far so good.’

4–––– Lazar looked about, startled. They were in a narrow road lined with palm trees. Why are the palms are in pots? He closed his eyes, drove the dream away and told himself where he was. The shiny building at the end of the road was Professor Kalfov’s cardiology clinic. He had managed to sleep all the way from the Flamingo to the clinic and his neck was stiff now. He carefully

turned his head from left to right and heard the familiar crack. Wondered, as usual, whether it might be possible to break his own neck and imagined how it would feel if his upper spine finally locked completely, forcing him to turn his whole body just to look sideways. He had seen such people. He had to see a doctor; physiotherapy might help. He again turned his head, this time more energetically. The crack came once more. ‘Why the fuck don’t you have physio?’ ‘I shall.’ ‘I shall, I shall. One day you’ll seize up completely; you’ll have to turn at the waist just to look at me.’ ‘That’s correct.’ Salomon parked in front of the main entrance as the small car park to the side looked full. The Colonel opened the door and got out, then, seeing that Salomon wasn’t moving, got back in: ‘Are you not coming?’ There was some embarrassment in Lazar’s voice. ‘You know she’ll ask about you. Sally, you haven’t taken umbrage, have you?’

‘Of course not. You’re not going to start all that again, are you? It’s Sunday – it’ll be packed, you won’t be able to move upstairs as it is.’ ‘It’s OK, Sally. If we have to, I’ll see her first and then you can go in. But let’s just have a look first.’ ‘All right, let’s go,’ Salomon agreed. He climbed out, locked the car and they went in together. Room 404 on the third floor was a large sunny space that looked more like the set for an afternoon TV series than a hospital ward. The walls were painted bright banana and hung with posters and children’s paintings. The four beds occupied the corners. Along with the chairs, tables and adjustable desks, they made four distinct little homes which immediately disclosed the temperament and dreams of their young female inhabitants. Lazar looked about, and without turning back, patted at Salomon to come in. Only two of the girls had visitors. Blushing, Lazar made for the bed to the left. In it, covered to the waist and sitting up on two pillows, he

saw a frail, fair-haired beauty whose wide green eyes looked at him intently. He sat down with care on her bed, opened his arms and his little cherub fell into them. ‘Maria…’ ‘Daddy-Bear.’ Lazar held her, rocking her. Then he lowered her carefully onto the pillows, leant forwards and took her pale little face in his hands. ‘Daddy-Bear couldn’t come yesterday. Office troubles. I hope you’re not angry?’ ‘Oh Daddy. Don’t be silly. You know I can’t ever be angry with you.’ She wrapped her arm around her father’s neck, then looked up and laughed: ‘Sally... You’ve brought me flowers again... They’re beautiful’

Salomon had just at that moment produced a small bunch of autumn daffodils from behind his back and, with a gallant bow, handed them to her. She laughed happily, caressing her nose with the yellow petals. Lazar’s first thought was amazement that Salomon had found the flowers and kept them hidden from him. He was deeply touched and, he made a mental note, not without jealousy. ‘But Sally, what about your wife? Won’t she mind? You’re always bringing me flowers.’ Maria’s eyes twinkled. Salomon held up both hands in mock protest. ‘Now you look like a real policeman, Sally.’ He laughed this time. ‘I’m going to talk to Tanja’. He turned and walked across to the next bed where a little girl, younger than Maria, with auburn hair, was watching them and smiling. He drew up a chair next to the bed, dropped into it, reached out both hands and took Tanja’s between his own. ‘Why don’t you bring your wife one day?’ Tanja took up the theme. ‘It would be... very interesting.’

‘Oh yes, great fun for you. She’d have even more reason to be jealous of me...’ They both laughed, and Maria too. Lazar shook his head and crossed himself as if to ask for deliverance from such nonsense. Maria embraced him again, kissed him on the cheeks, then drew back and gave him a serious look. ‘Where is it?’ ‘Where’s what?’ ‘Where did they hurt you?’ ‘Oh, it’s nothing...’ ‘Where?’ Maria persisted. ‘I’m OK, darling. It’s here, in the arm I’m hugging you now with. See, it’s nothing. What about you, little one?’ ‘Same thing, it’s nothing...’ ‘What sort of nothing?’ Lazar was suddenly tense. ‘Well, I told you, it’s nothing. I’ve just been feeling a bit poorly the last couple of days.’ ‘Do you feel ill now?’ Lazar stood up.

Tanja whispered a few words to Salomon, who shook his head and walked out of the room quietly. ‘I feel a little poorly, Daddy-Bear, but don’t worry, Sally’s gone to get the doctor… he’ll give me my injection and it’ll all be all right… please don’t worry.’ Lazar took a deep breath, trying to swallow the lump in his throat: ‘Yes, darling, I know, standard procedure.’ ‘Yes, but you’re always worried. Isn’t that why I’m in hospital, so they can give me an injection when I need it?’ ‘That’s correct. Now let’s just wait for the doctor.’ A moment later a young man in jeans and sweater half danced in. ‘Hello everybody,’ he said and took Lazar’s place on the bed before unfolding his white gauze injection kit. ‘How are you, Mary?’ he began in English then continuing in Bulgarian, ‘Do you feel as if you’re choking again?’

Maria shook her head to say yes. Hardly waiting for her answer, the young doctor gave the injection so quickly and skilfully that Lazar could scarcely follow his movements. Then he took Maria’s hand and checked her pulse. ‘It’ll be OK now…’ He looked her in the eyes and arched his eyebrows in surprise, ‘Why sad?’ ‘Why must I feel bad just now when daddy’s here?’ the child stopped, slightly out of breath. ‘It just makes him worry…’ ‘Nonsense,’ Lazar and the doctor reacted almost simultaneously. ‘You do worry,’ Maria embraced Lazar tight. ‘Look at him, he is so big and worried…’ the little girl smiled and tears streamed down her face. The doctor pulled a theatrical face and, holding his head, said: ‘What a family melodrama! I don’t need to watch The Bold and the Beautiful… In fact, as we’re all gathered here, why don’t we all have a cry together? Who’ll be first? Colonel?’ The doctor slapped him on the shoulder and Lazar began laughing quietly. The doctor

had taken an oxygen mask with a long corrugated hose out of a locker by Maria’s head and gave it to her. She pushed it close to her chin and kept laughing. ‘Well, I’m going to see the rest of The Bold and the Beautiful anyway,’ the doctor put the syringe back in the gauze. ‘But I’m afraid it’s a most distressing sight in the hall… the matron is covered in snot already…’ At this, both girls laughed out loud. The doctor, already at the door, wagged his finger at his little patients: ‘Shhht! Be quiet, or she’ll be in here with her big needle!’ The little girls lifted their fingers to their lips and said together: ‘Shhht!’ The doctor nodded and went out, leaving Lazar caressing his daughter’s head. She put the mask back in the locker. ‘I’m number six on the list now…’ ‘Six! That’s wonderful. You mean they’ve done two transplants?’

Maria lifted her head up sharply, her face turning serious: ‘No, they didn’t live… Two boys from the third floor…’ Lazar reached out to hug her. ‘You’re going to be alright. You’re going to have a new, strong heart.’ ‘I know, daddy. Don’t worry… Why are boys so feeble? I would gladly be number eight…’ ‘Oh, don’t. Don’t think about that. All you can do is to make sure that you stay well so you’re ready when it’s your turn… Yes?’ ‘I know, daddy. But it isn’t easy… I mean… they were nice boys, one of them particularly… He used to come and see me before he got worse… I think he was in love with me.’ Maria blushed and Lazar examined her carefully. Only his eyes blinked surprise. He coughed and asked quietly, trying to hide his embarrassment: ‘Well, and... what about you?’ Maria gave him a look, then embraced him tightly and kissed him on the cheek.

‘You think I’m a little girl, don’t you? Well, I’m not...’ Maria blushed and looked down at these last words. Lazar looked at her puzzled. Maria gave him another look, ‘I mean... I told mummy, too.’ ‘Mummy? What did you tell mummy? When did she ring?’ ‘Last night. We had a talk... I told her... I told her I wasn’t a child any more.’ Maria looked down again: ‘...my periods have started,’ she almost whispered. Lazar swallowed then grumbled inarticulately and embraced the little girl who was now hiding her happy face in his shirt. Then he couldn’t help it any longer – the tears began to stream down his cheeks. ‘My grown-up big, big girl.’

5––––– The Chief Secretary watched NSS chief General Stoev go through the thin file of preliminary reports. The huge office was otherwise silent and the rustling of paper intrusive. The Chief Secretary thought to himself that the Service Chief, though well suited to routine business, was no great shakes at a time like this. If a crisis brought out the best in some men, Stoev was not one of them. He needed prompt results – a campaign to catch the attention of the media; he needed the world to see fur and feathers fly in Sofia and his security forces routing terrorists. Routing terrorism. Stoev was not the man. At this stage in the proceedings, the Chief Secretary reflected, he needed to take on the terrorists at their own game. Their success depended on media attention. Responding in kind was not immoral; not hypocritical; not some Western depravity. It was common sense. If terror and anarchy fed on the oxygen of publicity, then

order and stability and peace must do the same. What mattered was to get the headlines back. But, instead, a bunch of would-be geniuses, insisting on the utmost secrecy, were engaged in nobody knew what. Just kept on telling him that investigation had its inherent rules. These people simply didn’t understand that the rules had changed. They didn’t understand the world they were living in. If Agatha Christie and Georges Simenon were writing now, their detectives would be media stars. They would work in the full glare of publicity; they would put it to work for them in fact – not hide themselves away. And what was worse, these were his own men. They reported to him but they didn’t work for him. Their obsession with correctness actually undermined the values they were trying to uphold. He had to admit that he was late with the restructuring. He should have kicked out the Maigret boys long ago and found someone new to run the Department – someone who could see the need to work

with the FBI, someone who could stage fireworks in downtown Sofia - having first warned the TV stations. The intercom interrupted his thoughts. ‘Chief Secretary. The American ambassador is on line one.’ The Chief Secretary leant forwards in his chair and picked up the receiver, already smiling: ‘Your Excellency, I’m honoured...’ ‘Good morning, Chief Secretary. How are you?’ The voice sounded even and emotionless. ‘I’m...’ ‘It’s ten hours since the explosion, and we still don’t have an official statement from the Bulgarian government. Al-Qaeda is going about its business right under your nose, Chief Secretary; American citizens have been killed, as well as those of our allies. We expect more decisive measures on your part. Half an hour ago the President of the United States made a very clear statement on this recent atrocity, and I am now listening to an equally firm statement by the French President.

But, as far as I know, your office has still said nothing. The world is expecting decisive action, energetic conduct on the part of the Republic of Bulgaria. Do you follow me?’ ‘Certainly, Your Excellency,’ the Chief Secretary was sweating. His mouth was dry, and he knew his pronunciation was terrible. ‘But, Your Excellency, if you allow me a question...’ ‘Chief Secretary, refer everything to my staff. The United States has a permanent FBI presence here. I strongly advise you to keep in contact. Listen to the advice of the professionals. ‘Yes, Your Excellency.’ ‘I expect immediate action,’ the ambassador hung up. The Chief Secretary put down the receiver, breathed out audibly, then standing up, opened a cupboard behind his desk, took out a big towel, and dried the sweat on his forehead and neck. Then he walked round the desk and bent over General Stoev.

‘You heard him? I think he could easily be heard.’ ‘Well, not all of it, but the meaning was clear,’ Stoev said in an uncertain voice. ‘Decisive action!’ The Chief Secretary tore the words into syllables. ‘Action, and moreover, decisive,’ his voice was more than a menace. ‘Stoev, you’re an old horse; if at your age you are still of sound mind, which I doubt, you should know damn well that after your performance today, you’re finished.’ ‘It’s perfectly clear, sir.’ ‘So, it’s not a matter of whether and when, but rather of how you go. I know your famous sense of honour, Stoev. If by tomorrow morning you have no results, I’ll throw you out by the scruff of your fat neck. Is that clear? Your only chance is to have results by then. In that case, in a few days we’ll sort you out an official retirement party... a medal perhaps,’ the Chief Secretary’s lips stretched into a smile. He turned abruptly and sat down at his desk. ‘Now get out!’

General Stoev left the office without turning round, but allowed himself the liberty of slamming the door behind him. ‘Get me Nasko!’ the Chief Secretary snapped into his intercom. ‘And put me through to the President’s Press Secretary.’ The telephone rang almost immediately. ‘The President’s office, Chief Secretary.’ ‘Andrei. The American ambassador has just rung.’ ‘He rang here, too,’ the Press Secretary groaned, ‘the Americans are doing their thing.’ ‘We must make a statement; shall I be first, or the President?’ ‘The usual. You do the technical briefing, and the President can read a statement. Do we have anything yet?’ ‘The Americans say it was al-Qaeda,’ the Chief Secretary said in a tired voice. ‘And what do we say?’

‘We say nothing,’ the Chief Secretary snapped at him. ‘It’s scarcely three hours since dawn. Should I have the assassins gift-wrapped already? And now the American President has effectively told the world it was al-Qaeda, do you suppose I’m going to say anything different?’ ‘Understood.’ the Press Secretary said curtly. ‘Let’s do it then.’ The Chief Secretary hung up, and began rubbing his head. The door opened and a young man peered in. ‘Come in, Nasko.’ The Chief Secretary leaned back, and told him what he had discussed with the ambassador and General Stoev. ‘So what shall we do now?’ the young man asked unenthusiastically. ‘I’ll go through what the Americans are saying once again, and then I’ll get ready for the press briefing. I want you to cover the NSS and Palin’s lot in particular. I need to know every detail of what they’re doing. I shall

blitz that place when this is over, Nasko. But now I need them... be very careful that we don’t get outmanoeuvred on this one.’ ‘The trouble is I can’t go anywhere near them. Dekalo threatened to shoot me if I went within 50 metres of him.’ ‘Nonsense. You are the Chief Inspector of the Ministry and you have unlimited access,’ the Chief Secretary looked at him scornfully. ‘Not to the NSS. To Palin’s department even less. He’s mad and Stoev backs them on everything.’ The Chief Secretary rose slowly, and leant against his desk: ‘Listen! I didn’t bring you to Sofia to hear this shit. Get to work now, and do your job for once. I don’t want to hear another word of this. I want solutions and you just bring me problems.’ ‘Alright, OK. I’ll work something out.’ Nasko turned round and left the office.

The Chief Secretary followed him to the door, took his phone out of his coat pocket, dialled a number, and waited. ‘Hussein, my friend,’ his face stretched into a familiar smile. ‘Where are you? I have to meet you as soon as possible.’ He listened to the reply, snapped: ‘OK, I’ll be there in forty minutes,’ and, checking his watch, ended the call.

6––––– ‘Patty,’ the duty officer’s voice startled her, ‘Aaron on line three.’ Chief Agent Patricia O’Connell put on her glasses then picked up the receiver and pressed the blinking button in a single movement: ‘Aaron, you’re late.’ ‘Don’t be impatient, Patty,’ the voice sounded far too young. ‘I know the FBI like their sleep as much as anyone.’ ‘The chiefs, Aaron, only the chiefs,’ O’Connell laughed. ‘Everywhere chiefs like to sleep at night. So, what’s the decision? Will you work with us on this?’ ‘Come on, Patty, when do we not? We are more than allies, better than fair-weather friends. Israel is like a younger brother to you, wouldn’t you say?’ Aaron laughed.

‘Save it for the Agency, Aaron. Say what you like, you know you only ring me when your latest bunch of… technical advisers is whimpering to be set free.’ ‘And you never co-operate, of course, unless the White House pushes you...’ the young voice came back. O’Connell laughed and shook her Rose of Tralee hair: ‘Aaron, this is the FBI. Not the State Department. And I don’t give a damn about the nasty little conspiracies you’re so busy cooking up with the Arabs. I have enough shit to deal with here, which apropos, stinks of Mossad these days, really stinks...’ ‘Come on, Patty. You know Mossad doesn’t operate in the US.’ She took her glasses off and laid them carefully on the desk. ‘For God’s sake. Have you rung to tell me something, or are you just going to play games?’

‘Our courier must have arrived by now. Isn’t urgent mail delivered straight to you?’ O’Connell reached out and turned on the intercom: ‘Courier?’ ‘There’s a package here,’ the intercom said. ‘It’s here,’ O’Connell said into the receiver. ‘I heard... everything we know is in there... I’d only draw your attention to our view of the official statements your administration has made.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘This al-Qaeda link you’re promoting is bullshit. There’s nothing in it. Unless it’s another of your dirty tricks.’ O’Connell rubbed her nose. The silence grew louder. ‘Are you saying there’s no link, or that you have no information on such a link?’ ‘Come on, Patty, when our boys say there is no such link it means that they have reliable information showing categorically that no such link exists. I’m afraid

they played you on this one, Patty. That’s it from me. Now you can go to bed if you like...’ They both hung up without saying anything else. O’Connell turned on the intercom: ‘What the fuck are you doing with that pouch?’ Then she leaned back in her chair and gazed at a point on the ceiling. The officer on duty walked in and left a large orange envelope on the desk in front of her. Still keeping her eyes on the ceiling, O’Connell said: ‘Get me Ben Stanton on the secure line in half an hour.’

7–––– Lazar entered the lift and was swept noiselessly to the third floor. The Special Operations Section occupied one entire floor of the inner wing of the National Security Service building. Unlike the other Sections, the SOS was located in a state-of-the-art, open-plan office with mirrored windows floor to ceiling and a wrap-around vibration detection system to prevent electronic eavesdropping. All thanks to Lazar’s new-found friendship with the head of the London Met’s AntiTerrorism Branch. At the time of the Englishman’s “factfinding” visit, they had just begun work on refurbishing the office. Lazar’s guest had offered sage advice on how to organise the space in the most effective way. Having listened carefully to his account of the counterintelligence technologies that SO13 had at its disposal and the organisational methods that it employed, Lazar had observed that the entire NSS building, equipment included, would scarcely cost as

much as the design suggested by the Englishman for Lazar’s Section alone. In a week General Stoev had sent for Lazar to meet a British DfID representative, from whom, it transpired, was to flow unimagined affluence – free British aid for Bulgarian anti-terrorism. Who would have thought it? The General had even proposed inviting the French, on behalf of Old Europe, and the Americans, on behalf of the New Order, to join an auction to win yet more aid. So it was that, in the shabby NSS building, there emerged, as if by magic, a true high-tech atoll hardly inferior to its counterparts in New Scotland Yard or Pennsylvania Avenue. For Lazar, though, it was a simple magic. Bulgaria had always been a crossroads where Russia, Asia, Africa, Arabia and Europe came together to do business. As an entrepôt it had everything – people, goods, money, ideas. The people: drug traffickers, terrorists, rebels, revolutionaries and rootless souls of every sort. The essential goods: drugs, weapons, human flesh and any contraband that could command a price. Naturally,

the police forces of those countries lucky enough still to have God on their side were intensely concerned that the Bulgarian security forces should filter out as much human and trafficked flotsam as possible before it reached the West, with its relaxed border regulations. And in the anxious new era of global terrorism, the Bulgarian cordon sanitaire was required to act with maximum efficiency. Lazar looked at the clock mounted on the wall opposite his glazed office (he alone was not required to endure the open-plan hubbub). It was 11:25. His people were starting to drift towards his office carrying files and notebooks. Salomon arrived from nowhere, a laptop under his arm, stopped by the coffee machine, and was the last to walk in, a steaming plastic cup held gingerly in his other hand, closing the door after him with a dextrous hip flip. Lazar sat with his eyes closed while Salomon took the seat on his right at the long conference table; the chair to his left was vacant.

‘Where is the FBI?’ Salomon asked, glancing at the clock. It was eleven thirty. ‘Ben is going to be late.’ Salomon’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Let’s begin,’ said Lazar quietly. Salomon opened the laptop, gazed at the screen, and turned to the others: ‘Give me the chronology.’ As always, the daily meeting was chaired by Salomon – leaving Lazar free to focus on higher things. The Head of Operations now began to relate the events of the night before, minute by minute. First, a detailed account of known facts back to four hours before the explosion. There were two main threads. The Flamingo was one of the three official hotels for the Third International Congress on Neutrosophic Logic, due to start at Sofia’s International Management Centre the next day. Nine of the overseas speakers and three of their wives had flown in that evening from New York, Frankfurt and London and were having a late dinner in

the mezzanine restaurant. It was believed that they had all been killed, along with the two waitresses who were still working. In response to Salomon’s inevitable question, it was established that Neutrosophic Logic, as well as being a distinctly masculine preoccupation, was a branch of mathematics, or possibly philosophy, related to fuzzy theory and dealing with the idea of tripartition, which distinguished between truth, falsehood and indeterminacy. Bulgaria, it seemed, was a centre of excellence in this field. In response to one further question, it was established that Neutrosophic Logic had no industrial, commercial or military application. Indeed it was doubtful whether it had any practical application whatsoever. The second thread related to the adjacent Press Centre. Here, rather more was known already. The usual flow of visitors to The Lions Club had begun towards eight in the evening. At that time there were few regulars. But once the evening news round gathered

speed and the end-of-day reports had been filed, the members of the Reporters’ Guild of Sofia began arriving for drinks and a chance to exchange notes. That Saturday night had offered rich pickings for many of them, especially a conference on the country’s readiness for EU membership. However, two ‘important’ cocktail parties had ensured that less than half the usual crew of reporters had visited the Club. Fifteen correspondents in total had dropped in at one time or another during the evening. It was thought that nine were still there at two minutes to midnight. The Head of Operations reported that fewer than half of those killed at the club itself had so far been identified. ‘We’ll run through the list later on, Boggy; go on with the chronology,’ Salomon pronounced. The explosion had caused extensive damage. One television report had called it a holocaust. Lazar snorted. The entire mezzanine had been swept away. The secondary explosion of the gas cooker in the restaurant kitchen – some distance from the restaurant

itself - had started a fierce fire that had only been brought under control an hour later. Damage had also been severe on the ground floor and upper floors but, while there were many injured, there were no reported casualties among hotel residents apart from those in the restaurant and the Belgian couple who had jumped in panic from the window of their room. It seemed to Lazar as he listened that the endless rerunning of 9/11 footage had bred, almost overnight, an instinct for this new and pure way of dying. The hotel had been quiet; only fifteen rooms in all were occupied. At midnight the restaurant was deserted except for the Neutrosophists, and the kitchen was more or less empty; the two kitchen hands had lost their lives whilst preparing a late supper for the night staff. The area had been cordoned off just six minutes after the explosion. No suspicious characters or vehicles had been found in the immediate vicinity except a car with diplomatic licence plates seen driving away immediately after the explosion and before the area had

been sealed off. Unfortunately neither the make nor the number of the car was known. The outer police cordon had been lifted about an hour ago. ‘OK, give us the technical stuff,’ Salomon said to the explosives specialist. ‘Nasty.’ The specialist gave Salomon a hesitant look and paused. ‘What we saw at the Flamingo last night was a chemical implosion with a subsequent explosion…’ Lazar flinched almost imperceptibly. Salomon leaned forward and closed the laptop as if it might prevent him understanding what he had just heard. The rest said nothing: they obviously knew already. At that moment the door opened abruptly, and Nasko Atanasov walked into the lull. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but I had an urgent meeting with the Chief Secretary,’ he said with the air of someone starting a speech. Salomon’s freckled face first went yellow, and then pink.

‘What are you late for?’ ‘I am instructed to attend your briefings and all operational meetings, to facilitate co-ordination between the ministry’s agencies.’ ‘What agencies, shithead?’ Salomon started to get up. ‘What co-ordination? Didn’t I tell you that if you came within a hundred metres of this Section, I would shove your head up your arse?’ By now, Salomon had stood up fully, and kicked his chair back against the wall. Atanasov lost his grip on his smile. ‘Major Dekalo,’ Lazar said unexpectedly, ‘please carry on. And you, sir,’ this in an even voice without even looking at his visitor, ‘be so kind as to leave my office. It’s neither a cabaret nor a peepshow...’ ‘But, Colonel Palin, I have orders...’ ‘Gospodin, I think I’ve made myself clear,’ Lazar went on. ‘You find yourself in the operations room of the National Security Service, to which you have no

right of access. If you don’t leave at once, I shall have no choice but to arrest you.’ ‘Arrest me! What are you saying? I am the Chief Inspector of the Ministry of the Interior. I have unlimited access...’ ‘You’ll only be allowed to enter this room,’ interrupted Lazar, ‘if you present an order in writing to me signed by the director of the National Security Service.’ ‘But the Chief Secretary himself...’ ‘When you obtain a permit from General Stoev, you may come back. But I shall still refuse to allow you into this room as it’s my office, and here I say who may come in and who may not.’ Lazar turned to the room, ‘Throw him out.’ His people didn’t need to move. Nasko Atanasov had vanished. ‘There may be trouble ahead…’ the explosives specialist hummed loudly.

Lazar waved his hand, and then, stretching his neck, made the occupants of the room shudder at the cracking of his vertebrae. ‘Proceed.’ ‘Did I mention that we’re talking about an implosion bomb?’ the explosives specialist ventured while browsing through his notebook. No-one laughed. ‘It’s new to us of course; it’s the first time I’ve ever seen this type of bomb damage. But it’s so unusual that even the police were onto it. We’ve dug out a fair bit of background now. It’s not that detailed because this little marvel is still top secret, but what we found bore such a striking resemblance to the type of damage caused at the Lions Club that we can be sure enough. Still, I’m working blind here.’ ‘An implosion bomb,’ Salomon murmured to himself while wheeling his chair back to the table. ‘Are we talking about the same thing? The American one? The one they’ve undertaken not to release to any other country...’ ‘We are talking about the same thing...’

‘But who for God’s sake, and how did they get hold of it?’ As Salomon spoke, Special Agent Ben Stanton appeared at the door, and addressed Lazar, ‘With your permission, Colonel?’ ‘Take a seat, Ben,’ Lazar pointed to the chair by his side. The team looked curiously at the FBI agent, except for Salomon who had opened his laptop again without so much as glancing up. Lazar turned to his deputy: ‘Sally, will you please introduce our FBI colleague to everyone here.’ Salomon was silent. He closed his laptop slowly but with such pressure that he seemed certain to break it. ‘I’ll try Colonel, but it’s not easy today,’ Salomon hissed in Bulgarian. ‘We might as well hold our daily briefings in a bar.’ Lazar leant towards his assistant, and asked him quietly:

‘And then will you summarise for our colleague? In English please.’ Salomon duly made the necessary introductions and then began his summary, although in an unfamiliar monotone that his enforced English did little to hide. Ben Stanton livened up. He was taking notes, and occasionally nodded as if pleased with what had been said. Eventually he turned to the Colonel: ‘If you’ll allow me, Colonel, I have something to add. I must tell you that we already have information to this effect and we are extremely worried by the fact that an implosion bomb has been used. Or is thought to have been used. I can inform you unofficially that, by order of the Chief of Staff of the US Army, an urgent investigation has begun, which is to include the compilation of a full inventory of all our IMPs. Unfortunately, it will take some time. There is a second and more important matter. The Chief of Staff has ordered that no information on the nature of the device should be made public. Pressure will surely be exerted

upon you through diplomatic channels to this effect, I mean pressure to ensure that this information remains classified, but I felt it was easier and more, er, colleaguelike to tell you myself.’ Lazar groaned and scratched his bandages. ‘Ben, I’m afraid it can hardly be kept secret. You already had this information – I don’t know how. Remember that, before we took over, the police and God knows who else had been on the scene.’ ‘What’s your advice, Colonel, is it possible to restrict any leak by putting pressure on the National Police Directorate?’ ‘Theoretically, yes,’ Lazar replied. ‘The trouble is, Ben, I have no doubt that the information will already have leaked, and it will be on the news tonight.’ Stanton closed his eyes. ‘There is one thing that our policemen have learned from the great democracies – to be a ‘reliable source’ for the press. If I were to tell you how many investigations they’ve screwed up with their bragging to the media… It’s no coincidence that our best

investigative reporters wear mini skirts and money belts these days. When it comes to confidential information, the police force leaks like a tramp. Or should I say leaks like a bum, Ben? It’s worse than Los Angeles,’ he said, hardening the ‘g’. ‘But, of course, you can put complete faith in this lot,’ he said, waving his arm at the team round the table and managing with a shrug to convey his own rather beguiling certainty. ‘I see, Colonel,’ the Special Agent nodded with a smile. ‘Have you already got a list of casualties?’ ‘We’re coming to that. Boggy…’ Salomon resumed control of the meeting and looked at the Head of Operations, who produced a printout and started to read: ‘We have positive ID on about half the casualties. First, I have a list of the speakers at the Congress. Nine of them were staying at the hotel: five Americans, one with his wife; an Armenian Professor domiciled in Texas, also accompanied by his American wife; a Briton; an Indian researcher and a German Professor from

Hamburg travelling with someone else’s wife. That makes twelve including the wives. I’m getting background on all of them. The Armenian had lived in the States for 15 years and - as far as we can tell - had no political connections. The German police are interviewing the Professor’s wife. A search of the speakers’ rooms suggests a link between Neutrosophy and scatological pornography. We are not pursuing that line of enquiry.’ ‘Why not?’ Lazar interrupted the general laughter. ‘We are now pursuing that line of enquiry,’ Bogomil corrected himself with a slight smile. ‘We are sure that the two waitresses in the restaurant were killed. Both were Bulgarian nationals.’ Bogomil put down the printout and turned back to his notebook: ‘Coming to the Press Centre, we know that the last one to arrive at the club was the AFP correspondent Monique Giraud. A freelance photographer she was working with – also French - Pierre Castries, was with her. He was here on a special assignment. We’re

checking. There is good evidence that three local reporters went to the Lions Club together last night: Plamen Ivanov, who’s head of the BTA editorial office, Ralitsa Vankova of The European, and Yuliy Pramatarski, the sports editor at the Sofia News. They had been at a cocktail party at the Hermes Bank with some colleagues and left early to go for a drink at the Lions Club, where Ivanov had an appointment with a French journalist. We don’t know if it was Giraud. Ivanov’s car was found in the hotel car park. T.P. Riley, an independent British reporter, may have been there too, but we’re not certain. The hotel doorkeeper thought so, as Riley spent nearly every evening there.’ Again the Head of Operations paused briefly then continued: ‘We’re sure that one of the casualties must have been Boris Trifonov, the bartender, as he had to be at work at that time, and he is missing. We’re also checking seven or eight names, which the hotel doorkeeper vaguely remembers visiting the club last night, but he is not certain which of them had left – remember it’s busy

at the hotel on a Saturday night and there is nobody specifically on the door of the club. We will probably be able to get definite physical ID by Tuesday, provided forensic can recompose a corpse or two out of all the bits and pieces.’ The Head of Operations looked through his notebook, and went on: ‘As for other casualties…’ ‘Excuse me, Mr Boggy,’ Stanton interrupted him, not realising from the ripple of laughter that the Head of Operations was about to acquire a new nickname, ‘Major Dekalo, with your permission, I would take the liberty of suggesting that we first finish the list of casualties at the club itself.’ ‘Meaning?’ ‘I would like to give you the names of the other reporters killed.’ Salomon, a little reddened, only nodded.

‘Forgive me Major, but is your nod a Bulgarian no, or an American yes? I have learnt from experience always to ask.’ ‘Special Agent, in the interests of close and constant co-operation we will try at all times to speak English and employ the approved Western head signals for yes and no. But I do not think you may claim them as exclusively American…’ ‘Please go ahead, Ben,’ Lazar intervened. According to our sources, it can most probably be assumed that, at the time of the explosion, also in the club were my fellow countryman Johnny Gilmore, Sofia correspondent of Associated Press, Volodia Bezkonechniiy of Itar-Tass,’ Stanton read the name with difficulty, ‘Dietrich Samke, special correspondent for Focus magazine, and, as the hotel doorkeeper has mentioned, the British freelance reporter Riley, who writes for Time Magazine among others. As to the Congress, we understand that Professor Katzenbach and

his companion did not catch their flight from Frankfurt and were not at the pre-Congress dinner in the hotel.’ There was silence in the office. The Head of Operations, who had been taking detailed notes, looked at Salomon briefly before turning to Stanton and saying in uncertain English: ‘I suppose that we have no reason to doubt the authenticity of the FBI’s information; thank you, Special Agent Stanton.’ ‘You’re welcome,’ Ben said smiling. ‘I am sure that all those names are on the list that you said you were checking; so, sooner or later, you would certainly have come to them, but sooner is better of course... and that’s why I am here, or rather it’s why I was posted here, but it’s also my firm intention to help you, insofar as I can, to do the job quicker by sharing with you any information that I have or that is given to me - otherwise it goes without saying that the investigation is completely yours,’ he raised his shoulders with a disarming smile.

Lazar, half-smiling at Stanton’s visible struggle to reach the end of his sentence, gave Salomon an inquisitive look. His colleague bristled, but, to everybody’s surprise, he looked up and said in a muffled voice: ‘Thank you for your co-operation, Special Agent.’ Then, looking at the Chief Analyst: ‘Sherlock, your turn. Any thoughts yet?’ The Chief Analyst, whom everybody called Sherlock, was in fact quite unlike his dishevelled and absent-minded namesake. With thick, wavy black hair turning elegantly grey at the temples, fine gold-rimmed glasses, always neatly shaven and dressed in a suit and shirt rivalling in every respect those worn by the federal agent, the forty-year old man cut a fine

figure. Only vague rumours circulated about his past. The most persistent one was that, before 1990, he had been Lazar’s spy, albeit an irregular one, somewhere, and that Lazar had managed to bring him in shortly before the Democratic Alliance, in an act of principled but staggering folly, published the full list of Bulgaria’s intelligence agents abroad. With a cold smile Sherlock leant back in his chair: ‘Thoughts, Salomon? We’ve got as many thoughts as you like; the point is, are they needed at all now the US President has unearthed and identified the link with al-Qaeda?’ the Chief Analyst articulated the name of the world’s preferred terrorist organisation with derision. ‘I am not convinced that after his performance we will even be allowed to concern ourselves with leads or thoughts or, indeed, the truth. So I think that, before we start brainstorming, we should state our task clearly and precisely – the options are fewer than usual. Either we run a standard investigation following the rules, I open brackets – which will most probably be buried the

moment we consider culprits other than our friends in al-Qaeda - I close brackets, or we carry out a political assignment à la môde de Pontius Pilate.’ Sherlock paused. The others stirred awkwardly. Lazar stared into the middle distance, while Salomon looked at the American. Ben Stanton uneasily shifted his eyes from the Chief Analyst to Lazar, then to Salomon. He put one hand awkwardly on his waist then bent his head sideways: ‘Major,’ he had already grasped the modus operandi of Lazar’s daily briefings, ‘if you’ll allow me to anticipate the discussion a little, since,’ Ben rubbed his chin, and went on, ‘as you say in Bulgaria, these stones are in my garden...’ ‘In quite a literal sense, Special Agent,’ Salomon interrupted. ‘We hardly need to rack our brains over the question of who it was that suggested to your president the absurd idea of concluding a complicated and difficult investigation before it had even begun. Pointing the finger of blame in the most high-handed, I might say

American, way... unless some new source, some field information, has come to hand since we spoke this morning.’ Ben slowly shook his head. ‘Look, Salomon, if you’ll allow me to call you that...’ ‘No, sir, I will not. I am Major Dekalo of the Bulgarian Counterintelligence service, and we do not yet have a Brüderschaft with you,’ Salomon reddened with anger again. The federal agent went on: ‘I would only ask you now, Major, to examine the situation with me without unnecessary emotion. We will need only a few minutes to do so. First, I would like to tell you categorically that I have submitted to Washington neither information nor reports nor any other evidence that points, or could have been construed as pointing, to a link with al-Qaeda. For that reason I can assure you that I did not mislead you during our talk this morning at the hotel, or now, for that matter, and I have not concealed or withheld any information

from you to that effect. Yet, since our administration has made this statement, it means that they must have received information through other channels. I have no idea so far what that information is, or where it comes from, but as it has been considered and referred to by the President, it is, obviously, reliable enough. I understand and acknowledge the reservations of your Chief Analyst, and I entirely agree that in the course of an investigation, no matter who carries it out, Bulgarian Counterintelligence, the FBI, or whoever, investigators should consider all possibilities, both the most and the least likely. It is a universal rule of detective work. Nevertheless, we are not working in a vacuum. You will agree, I’m sure, that the war started by international terror against fundamental, shared values...’ ‘Western!’ Salomon interrupted him. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘Western values, Special Agent.’ ‘Oh, I see... in my opinion those values are of universal nature, but now is hardly the time to enter

into ideological polemics...’ Stanton smiled. ‘I was going to say that terrorist acts result in a dreadful number of casualties and go beyond the usual concept of a crime. They are extraordinary in their atrocity; they endanger the very fundamentals of society – of any society; which forces us, as protectors of the law, to change our methods and principles as well, and most of all, the speed with which we work. A desperate situation requires desperate measures...’ ‘That sounds familiar; excuse me for interrupting you, Special Agent Stanton,’ Sherlock said with an unusually cold look. ‘I don’t know how far you are aware of the details of the seventy-year history of the Soviet Union, but it is exactly what happened there: “desperate situation - desperate measures...”’ For the first time there was a less than conciliatory look in Stanton’s eyes: ‘Now that is not fair, sir. To compare the barbaric Stalinist regime to America – the cradle of world democracy...’

‘If you’ll permit me again,’ Sherlock smiled, ‘world democracy was born in Athens, Greece – not to be confused with Athens, Georgia - a good many years BC, and had its teenage years in Europe at the time when the Americans were still rolling their Negroes in tar and feathers. You probably mean the retirement home, rather than the cradle, of modern democracy. What’s more, you are twisting my statement; I did not for a moment compare American pluto-democracy to Stalinist Communism. The only thing I pointed to was this: however extreme the situation, we must not lose our firm grip on those principles of government cherished by everyone here. The philosophy characterised by “desperate situation - desperate measures” could very easily lead to indiscriminate methods and the violation of small truths for the sake of the greater truth, which the monstrosity of Soviet Stalinism proved most aptly. And who in the world can say which is a small truth, and which a greater truth?’

‘Our Neutrosophists might tell us it was an indeterminate truth,’ interjected Lazar. ‘Sherlock, have you finished?’ Salomon said calmly. ‘May I remind you that we are currently discussing your theories about the bombing, not your theories about slavery and Stalinism. And I will remind you, too, Special Agent Stanton, that you intended to clarify the matter of your President’s pronouncements on this matter.’ ‘You’re right,’ Ben smiled wearily. ‘I just wanted to say that when the President spoke, he must have done so on the basis of solid information and careful analysis of the situation. I can see that my position is weak right now, but I don’t have any further information...’ Lazar sighed and, knocking his fingers on the table in a rhythm that could only be heard in his head, turned round and examined the federal agent carefully. ‘Well, do it, Ben: make your position stronger, which will automatically make our joint position in the investigation stronger, too. After all, we are a team, are

we not?’ Lazar gave him an inquisitive look. Turning slightly red the agent nodded confirmation with the same earnest air. ‘Get this information, Ben. If it confirms your President’s statement, it will save us a great deal of cost and effort and, above all, time.’ ‘Yes, Colonel,’ Stanton stood up. ‘I’ll do my best to get you the information as soon as possible.’ Lazar nodded. ‘I’ll see you at four.’ The Federal Agent walked out of the office quickly. Lazar, in turn, stood up, put his notebook into the top right pocket of his jacket, and made for the Chief Secretary’s office.

8–––––

Salomon had just become aware that his system was readying itself for more coffee, when Rossy, the operations co-ordinator, called him over. No coffee, he concluded, and made for the odd semicircular desk in the middle of the room, which some thought had been designed as an homage to the bridge of the Enterprise in Star Trek V. On this matter, Salomon, unusually, had no opinion.

‘Sally!’ She looked at him with her eyes half closed against the smoke curling from the cigarette in her mouth and put down one of the two phones she was holding. “Wait a moment...’ she nodded at him, and then finished talking on the other, “Is that all? 10:37... OK.’ She put down the second phone, wrote herself a note, then unpeeled the cigarette from her bottom lip, spilling ash on her keyboard. She grabbed the keyboard, turned it upside down, and swivelling in her chair started to shake it over the floor. ‘Rositsa, it’s like watching a cartoon. You’ll burn the office down. And who do you suppose is going to pay to rebuild it now we’ve rattled Uncle Sam’s cage?’ ‘Don’t call me Rositsa. And fuck them! It’ll be like in the movies. They’ll put us in uniform and send us onto the streets to hand out parking tickets.’ Her smoky laugh spilled over the room. ‘And you don’t care because you’ve only got one thing on your mind...’

‘Sally, Sally, I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again: you’re a married man with children. Ever since I was a little girl my mother’s warned me to steer clear of married guys with children.’ A new burst of laughter. ‘And didn’t she also tell you that we never know what the future holds in store.’ ‘Sally, I’ve got bigger things in store...’ this time Rossy’s laughter brought tears to her own eyes. ‘Hello-o,’ came a perfect US East Coast parody from the explosives specialist as he covered his phone with one hand. ‘Excuse me, I’m on the phone, and it sounds like a brothel in here.’ ‘Major, give Rossy an hour off. She’s hysterical and the male is an endangered species in here,’ laughed one of the young analysts. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Salomon raised entreating arms. ‘Rossy, get a grip please. We can do this some other time.’

She coughed and assumed a business-like air abruptly. ‘There’s something up with the Israelis,’ she said. ‘What something?’ ‘They’ve only just brought me the tape and I haven’t studied it yet, but apparently they’ve defused a car-bomb.’ ‘Who defused it?’ Salomon leaned forward. ‘Who? Your lot.’ ‘My lot?’ ‘The Jews, who else?’ Salomon looked askance at her, then reached out and put his hand on her forehead. She pulled back, and slapped him on the wrist. ‘What are you doing now?’ ‘Well, you haven’t got a temperature,’ Salomon said. ‘Now tell me nice and slowly, one sentence at a time, trying to avoid obscenities and racist slurs if you can – what Israelis? Where? Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Sofia, or on the Moon? What car-bomb? Stop it!’ The Major raised a

warning finger in front of her mouth to stop the impending outburst. ‘Breathe out. Cool down, and start from the beginning.’ Rossy breathed out theatrically, and started in the internationally-recognisable tone of a policeman giving evidence in court: ‘This morning, shortly after nine a.m., I’ll be more precise when I have seen the tape, just after Captain Martha Friedman, an AMAN resident working under the diplomatic cover of Embassy press attachée, had parked her car outside the Israeli embassy in Sofia...’ ‘Rossy, let’s play at being grown-ups shall we?’ Salomon growled. ‘I know who Martha Friedman is; I know the CVs of every resident in Sofia. I know the bra sizes of most of the women. Get to the point.’ ‘Do you know hers?’ ‘Don’t worry. Not as big as yours. Now get to the point.’ She rolled her eyes, then smiling again:

‘So, after she had parked at the front, in the restricted area, and run into the embassy, a Mercedes 190D parked right next to her car. According to the report, we think the embassy did an electronic scan because mobile networks in the area were blocked for some time. About 90 minutes later, the beautiful captain - a little too calmly and a little too slowly - got into her Toyota and drove away. Ten minutes later the Israelis broke into the Merc and, without starting the engine, pushed it into their armoured garage... and that’s all we know. No explosion has been detected in the garage so far, if that’s of any interest.’ Rossy pushed her keyboard away and lit another cigarette. Salomon looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Martha Friedman?’ then, turning to the intelligence team at the other end of the hall, he yelled, ‘Where’s Wimberley?’ A tall youth with red and blue hair got up from behind a twenty-inch monitor, and shuffled his skinny

legs in their size 48 trainers over to Salomon, removing his walkman headphones as he came. ‘What is it, Sally?’ ‘Look, Shifter,’ Salomon called him by his Internet alias, which was now sometimes modified to Wimberley since the discovery by a colleague of a digital camera add-on system called Wimberley Shape-Shifter. ‘Dig out the file on Martha Friedman at the Israeli embassy. Then get the list of exploded reporters – Ben Stanton’s uncomfortable Bulgarian term had already become the preferred usage in the office - and see if you come across any of those names in her file. Do it now.’ ‘Yes, Sally,’ said the young man, tottering back to his computer. With his hands in his pockets, Salomon stood rocking from toe to heel, deep in thought and murmuring to himself:

‘I’m sure there’s something… one of them… one of them had something going with Friedman.’ The Head of Operations had already parked himself behind Shifter’s shoulder, and read him the names one after the other. Everybody fell silent. At last Shifter received a sharp slap on the shoulder: ‘There it is! Excellent. Print it out.’ Then he turned round and made for Salomon. ‘Good for you, Sally. There’s hope for you yet…’ ‘So, Mr Boggy,’ the Major laughed happily. ‘Who is it?’ ‘You’re dead right. A British reporter called --’ ‘RILEY,’ Salomon interrupted. He looked exultant and gazed round the room with a broad grin: ‘Good job, boys and girls. Fantastic. We’re on the right track again. We’re back in business. Al-Qaeda? Shit. They can shove al-Qaeda…’ Rossy broke into applause, and a few others joined in.

‘Jesus, that old bulldog, what a nose he’s got,’ Salomon waved his arms towards Lazar’s office. ‘The minute we got to the hotel this morning, he looked around, and started his ‘something-he-said-is-wronghere…’ Salomon imitated him beautifully, and a new burst of laughter followed. ‘Well then,’ Salomon clapped his hands. ‘Back to work, puppies of the old bulldog!’

9––––– The Chief Secretary had a cultivatedly stern face and enjoyed employing it – along with a liberal use of the pause – to intimidate his staff. General Stoev and Lazar Palin had already been standing by the door of his office for over a minute and the Chief Secretary simply stared in front of him without asking them to take a seat. In the end, he growled: ‘Are you waiting for the heavens to fall in? Why don’t you give me your report?’ ‘Well, we’re waiting,’ Lazar scratched his bandages a little, ‘for you to ask us to take a seat, Chief Secretary, and order that we give you our report.’ ‘Refused!’ the Chief Secretary hissed. ‘I don’t understand – what is it that you refuse?’ ‘Why don’t you stop acting the fool?’ Nasko Atanasov, the Chief Inspector, standing behind the Chief Secretary, spoke for the first time. Nobody took any notice.

‘Report,’ the Chief Secretary ordered Lazar. Lazar took a notebook out of his jacket pocket, opened it, then felt in his other pockets; finally he took out a pair of glasses and balanced them on the tip of his nose. In spite of these preliminaries, he started his report without looking into his notebook, staring at the Chief Secretary over the top of his glasses. ‘We’ve got a complete casualty list from the Flamingo. There are a few things still to be crosschecked, but at this stage we can be practically certain that twenty-nine people were killed, nine of whom were women. There are eighteen foreign citizens among the casualties, as follows: a French woman, eight Americans, two Britons, a Russian, a Turkish Armenian resident in the US, a German, a Macedonian, who some would say should be counted as a Bulgarian native for ethnological and historical reasons…’ ‘Get on with it.’ ‘…an Indian and two Belgians. Ten of the dead were attending an advanced mathematics congress in

Sofia, thirteen were members of the press and six were members of the hotel staff. Besides these deaths, fortyone people were treated at various city hospitals for injuries caused by the blast. Four of them are still in a critical state, including a female member of the hotel staff who will probably not survive, which will make thirty deaths altogether. That is to say, the same number of people as die every ten days in this country in road accidents…’ ‘Palin!’ ‘Doctors express reasonable hope for the remaining three. The blast was caused by an implosion bomb. This is a device causing a double explosion with an initial implosion and subsequent explosion, and is characterised therefore by a very high degree of destruction in the immediate vicinity. It is a category of armament known to be in the sole possession of the army of the United States of America...’

‘What! How dare he! What does he mean?’ Atanasov barked, and the Chief Secretary slowly stood up. ‘What do you mean, Palin?’ ‘First,’ Lazar replied, ‘I would ask you to brush that insect off your shoulder as it’s irritating me, and second, our discussion from here on is strictly confidential, and should be…’ ‘What do you mean...’ Atanasov repeated, but the Chief Secretary interrupted him: ‘Nasko, shut up!’ Then gazing at Lazar for a long moment, he made up his mind, ‘Wait for me in the hall,’ and when Atanasov did nothing, the Chief Secretary turned to him, and hissed, ‘Get out of here!’ Atanasov left the office almost at a run. The Chief Secretary moved from behind his desk and stood so close to Lazar that the Colonel could detect both the white and the yellow cheese that had participated in the Chief

Secretary’s morning banitsa. After an exemplary pause the Chief Secretary spoke quietly: ‘Palin, you know I cannot stand you. You are a disgusting pigheaded fellow. But I took you for a professional with some mental stability, and that is why I have been patient with you. Now, however, I can see that you are clinically deranged...’ ‘I am not clinically deranged, Chief Secretary,’ Lazar said calmly, ‘and since we have begun these declarations of love, it’s my turn to observe that I, too, cannot stand you. Precisely because you are not a professional, but a political schemer. And if I have been patient with you so far, it is because, like any rat, you have a monstrously well-developed instinct for self-preservation. In protecting your delicate white arse, you have protected the security agencies because a failure on their part would be a failure on yours, Chief Secretary. Nevertheless, I will take the opportunity offered by this sincere exchange of views to suggest to you the vital importance in this case of doing the job properly. When

twenty-nine lives have been taken, no matter whose are they, it is our duty to find the murderers, take them to court and ensure that they are punished. That is all. That is my credo. And I will do my job, no matter what smallminded, self-serving, pocket-lining, trumped-up political considerations may be put in my way.’ ‘Noble Cicero!’ spat the Chief Secretary. ‘Let’s be clear. I put up with this nonsense because you don’t know any better. Like any schoolboy, the rules of the grand jeu are quite unknown to you, so you endlessly confuse the cause and the effect, the means and the end, the timber and the trees. You see political flexibility as chicanery. Were you to raise your head and look somewhere beyond the end of your nose, you would see that Mother Indira Ghandi was able to save more lives in one hour as Prime Minister of India than Mother Teresa of Calcutta could do in a lifetime. At the end of the day, their motives and morality remain a matter of complete indifference to us, to them and, most important, to the poor people of India.’

‘So, you think that to play the blind fool for the Americans is the wisest thing in the world?’ Lazar asked. ‘Yes, Palin, sometimes it is not just the wisest thing, but also the only possible thing. You cannot blame the United States of America for the wickedness of last night’s bombing...’ ‘No one is blaming them for the bombing, I only said that the explosion was caused by a newlydeveloped American weapon.’ ‘Well, what’s the difference?’ ‘There is a clear difference; moreover, Special Agent Stanton asked me to ensure that this fact be kept from the press, and I personally guaranteed that there would be no leak from my office; but told him I could not guarantee that it had not already...’ ‘Meaning?’ ‘Until we took over, anyone and everyone had been at the hotel – not that I have any specific information,

but I know from experience that somebody will have talked by now.’ ‘You think so?’ ‘I am certain of it.’ Lazar cracked his neck vertebrae thoughtfully, and turning to the Chief Secretary, added: ‘I would strongly advise you, Chief Secretary, also to withhold even the hint of a suspicion that the attack was the work of al-Qaeda. There is already plenty of evidence pointing, although circumstantially, to a quite different type of crime and a quite different criminal. In my opinion this was not a political crime. Somebody is trying to pass it off as one, but it is not. And I will prove it.’ The Chief Secretary turned and looked at him scornfully: ‘Yap-yap!’

10––––––– Ben Stanton studied the man opposite him carefully. Over the last six months they had met perhaps a hundred times, but all that had somehow felt like roleplay. Now they were in an operational situation. This was the real thing. Coke: for any operational situation, rattled across the points of an unexpected cortical synapse. This was their second meeting since the morning and Ben could feel the atmosphere changing. It wasn’t that the forever smiling Gerald Crawford, who would give him a conspiratorial wink in the corridors of the embassy, had himself changed. Yet something was missing; it had been missing in the morning, and it was missing now. Perhaps it had to do with an involuntary comparison that Ben made with Palin’s men, (never mind Palin himself). His thoughts wandered to the reticent Colonel, Lazar Palin. God’s resurrected favourite. As far as he could remember, ‘palin’ was also connected with the word for resurrection in ancient Greek. Ben

wondered if Lazar knew it. Of course he must know it. Lazar had a doctorate in history, he had read it in his file, expecting to meet an academic. Instead he had met... a bear of a man. ‘Did I say something funny, Ben?’ Gerald Crawford looked at him with his characteristically chilly smile. ‘Gerald, forgive me. I was following your train of thought very closely, and at the same time trying to fit in the other pieces of the mosaic to get a full picture of the attack. To be frank, I’ve some way to go.’ ‘Ben, it is still too early for categorical results but, you know, reading the signature is an essential tool in our business.’ ‘You’re quite right about the signature, Gerald. But that’s exactly what the Bulgarians are questioning. They’re saying four things: first, there was just one attack, not a co-ordinated series; secondly, it’s obvious that the device is highly unusual; thirdly, looking at attacks over the past year, the location is completely new; fourth, neither the Neutrosophics Congress nor the

Press Centre look like the kind of Western interests that al-Qaeda likes to target,’ Ben counted the points on his fingers as he spoke, then continued: ‘I don’t agree with them. I think the media is a clever target to choose, and we might say that every location they choose, New York, Bali, London, Casablanca, Madrid, Istanbul is a new one. But, even so, it seems unbelievable to me that our administration would make public statements identifying assassins based on the signature alone. There must be factual support; certainly field information. And, if we’re seeking the co-operation of local agencies, as we are, we are obliged to furnish them with that information. They’re not stupid. And they have posed a straightforward question: in order to investigate our theory, I mean the al-Qaeda theory, they need to know what information we have; if we don’t give it to them, then they’ll certainly pursue their own theories using their own information...’

The CIA man widened his smile, stretched out, and crossed his legs. ‘And what exactly do they have, Ben?’ ‘Something analogous to what I’ve got.’ ‘Meaning?’ ‘According to the investigative principles they taught me at Quantico, Gerald, nothing,’ Ben’s face grew serious. ‘I have the statement from Potus, first as you retold it for me and now from CNN, but nothing more; and they have simply the old-fashioned intuition of Lazar Palin, which is currently stalled on the somethingdoesn’t-smell-right-here square.’ ‘You surprise me, Ben. I know those blockheads well, and particularly that mule Palin, but I never imagined that complications might arise with my own colleagues.’ Ben resolved to change tactics. ‘Gerald, I think that you fail to understand the position that we are all forced into by last night’s

bombing. Those people have to do their job. That they do their job is both in their interest and ours...’ ‘Ben, they are hostile,’ Crawford interrupted him. ‘You’re completely wrong, Gerald,’ Ben shook his head. ‘On the contrary, they are very well disposed towards us,’ Ben was troubled by a fleeting image of Salomon Dekalo. ‘It’s not an issue of orientation or political leanings. It’s a question of professionalism; let’s call it a police thing. To do their job, they need information; we’ve got that information, and if we don’t give it to them, they will start treating us, as it were, as hostile witnesses, you see? And that would be absurd. Look at it. What do we achieve if we carry on keeping them in the dark? Well, it’s obvious, they’ll most probably come up with some wild theory of their own, it’ll leak to the press, and in the end it will make us a laughing-stock. And that’s what you and I, as American representatives, what I think we must avoid at all costs.’

Crawford looked at him derisively, opened a packet of Dunhill, took one out and lit it. Unceremoniously he blew the smoke into Ben’s face. ‘OK Ben, I’ll ask Langley for the operational report.’ ‘But you must have written the report, Gerald!’ ‘Well, Ben, I’m afraid we don’t work that way,’ Crawford laughed. ‘If you’re interested one day, I’ll take you with me to Langley. You need to get rid of that police routine nonsense. I can see you’re an artist in your soul, so you’ll get along just fine with us.’ ‘Thank you for your offer, Gerald, I’ll bear it in mind. When will I be able to get the report?’ ‘Tomorrow, I should think, Ben. It is Sunday today.’ ‘Today, Gerald. Carpe diem,’ Ben observed firmly. ‘Artists work on Sundays, too.’ ‘Well, well, a Saul Bellow fan,’ Crawford laughed clearly. ‘OK, you’ll have it later today.’

‘Horace, actually, Gerald. Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Seize the day. Put little faith in tomorrow,’ replied Ben and regretted it immediately.

11––––– The half hour spent standing in the Chief Secretary’s office had exhausted Lazar. On coming back to his office, he had announced himself to be bloodless and immediately stretched out on his sofa to take a short nap. Habitually, when their master dozed, the office population lowered the noise by a couple of Bels – trying to talk in a whisper and walking quietly. All of which effort was wasted as Lazar could scarcely hear the fire alarm in his insulated bubble of an office. Now, still dozy, Lazar called together his senior officers – Salomon, Bogomil - the Head of Operations and Sherlock - the Chief Analyst. He listened to them while he busied himself at his coffee maker. No-one had been surprised at his categorical refusal to use the huge new automaton in the main office which served coffee, three varieties of tea, hot chocolate, cappuccino, soup and, quite possibly, fermented yak’s yoghurt, if anyone had cared to programme it. Rather, he had dragged an

old roll-top cabinet to his office and placed a small, semi-professional, Faema espresso coffee maker on it, along with a few Kilner jars. There he would concoct for himself an elaborate alchemical mix that finally produced a double espresso topped with a formidably thick, brownish cream. Once, to still the speculation in the office, Salomon had uncovered his master’s secret. The Colonel had begun to drink decaffeinated coffee, and since it lacked almost any taste, he would add a little of the most aromatic Arabica to it, which had a very low caffeine content, in a ratio of 3.5:1. On being told the ratio, the office population had clucked like maiden aunts. Furthermore, he would add soda water instead of tap water, which resulted in the impressively foul-looking

cream, and thus he could, with no concern whatsoever for his health, maintain his coffee habit all day long, yet still drink a coffee that was at once aromatic and creamy. He took it with sugar, and after he had tried dozens of highly advertised substitutes – out of consideration for his health again - he finally fell upon fructose, which in his opinion, had almost the same taste as real sugar, and was totally harmless to boot. At least until they discover it’s not. And now, after a five-minute ritual, with a full cup covered with the usual brownish-yellow scum, he made himself comfortable and grumbled: ‘Sally, my cigarettes,’ and nodded at his desk. ‘Why not just stop poisoning us?’ Salomon retorted while reaching out to pass him his packet of Camel and the box of matches. ‘Jesus, you’ve almost finished them already, a whole packet.’ ‘Carry on,’ murmured Lazar. ‘Have we confirmed that Martha Friedman was on close terms with Riley?’

This early contribution indicating that it was not to be a formal meeting chaired by Salomon. ‘I sent two of the girls back to talk to the reporters who knew Riley well,’ the Head of Operations said. ‘Just after you came back, they confirmed on the phone that Friedman and Riley were very close. Lovers.’ ‘So now I suppose the world knows we’re following a new lead,’ said Lazar. Then, seeing the look of furious indignation on his subordinate’s face, added, ‘All right, all right. God you’re touchy recently, Mr Boggy…’ before taking a new cigarette and starting to light it. ‘Jesus, what’s the matter with you? Is this a game or what?’ Salomon reached out and snatched the cigarette out of his mouth. ‘You only just fucking lit one.’ Startled, Lazar looked at the ashtray where an almost whole cigarette was already smouldering, picked it up, took a deep drag on it, and murmured: ‘That’s correct.’ ‘Sally, let him wake up,’ said Bogomil. ‘He’s lost two kilos of blood.’

‘But two kilos of blood is nothing for the Boss,’ Sherlock cut in. ‘Wait and see what perfect blood pressure he has for the next two weeks. Did you know that, in the Middle Ages, barbers used to reduce blood pressure by making a small cut just here on the neck, and bleeding the patient?’ ‘Sherlock,’ said Lazar, ‘at any other time I’d be delighted to learn more; but just now I’d prefer it if you’d concentrate on coming up with some answers to today’s little problem.’ Lazar took a large sip of his coffee, two drags on his cigarette and, putting it out slowly and carefully, turned to his deputy: ‘Sally, have you got a search warrant for Riley’s flat?’ ‘We’ll get one. Right now, we’re still busy on the Neutrosophics Congress.’ ‘Fuck the Neutrosophics Congress. Get a warrant...’ ‘We’ll get one,’ Salomon said quickly. ‘No problem.’

‘Good grief!’ Lazar crossed himself, ‘do you remember what happened last time you said that to me?’ This time Salomon blushed and stood up. ‘OK, OK! I’ll go and get one…’ Lazar lit a new cigarette, and finding that the packet was now empty, crumpled it, and put it by the ashtray. Sherlock took it and threw it into the bin by the coffee cabinet with a deft lob. ‘Friedman,’ Lazar gazed thoughtfully at the Head of Operations. ‘She’s in trouble. She’s a target, isn’t she?’ Bogomil shook his head in agreement. ‘Have you done anything about it?’ ‘Have you tried giving advice to a Jew? Perhaps you have skills in that department that I don’t have?’ Lazar puffed, glancing at the door, as if Salomon might reappear. ‘Put a tail on her, backed-up,’ Lazar said. ‘What?! You want diplomatic complications as well?’

‘Just put a tail on her,’ Lazar scratched his bandages, took a sip of coffee, and added: ‘Put a heavily armed team right on her tail... One bomb expert at least.’ ‘Two or four in the team?’ ‘Four... don’t feel sorry for them, they’ve been sleeping like hamsters lately.’ ‘You sure? She’s a professional; it’ll be hard for us to cover her, we’d better...’ ‘Certainly, it will; let them hang onto her by the neck, let her hear them breathe.’ ‘I hope you’re not expecting a letter of thanks from her?’ Sherlock said frowning. ‘On the contrary, she will make monkeys of us.’ The three of them became thoughtful and Sherlock started to pace the room. The intercom buzzed. Sherlock went to the desk, looked questioningly at Lazar, and at the Colonel’s nodded sign, pressed the button. Salomon’s voice could be heard clearly: ‘I’m at the exit with the team. Are you coming, Boss?’

Lazar shook his head. ‘He shook his head,’ Sherlock said. ‘Which kind?’ ‘Not the American kind.’ ‘Jesus!’ Without paying any attention to them, Lazar stood up, put a new packet of cigarettes and the matches into his pocket, and made for the door. He found Ben Stanton behind it as he went to leave. ‘May I come in, Colonel?’ Lazar took him by the arm, and led him across the main office. ‘Join me, Ben.’ ‘Where are we off to, Colonel?’ ‘To the apartment.’ They went down to the underground garage, but the task group’s big white van and Salomon’s BMW were already on the ramp at the far end. Lazar groaned and led his companion to the exit. Bright like the mouth of a cave. He got into the BMW a little out of breath.

‘You might as well have waited for me at the apartment,’ Lazar began, then, seeing that Salomon was about to flare up in protest at the FBI presence, said simply: ‘Drive!’ They drove across the city in silence until, caught in a traffic jam on Tsarigradsko Shose, Salomon began swearing vigorously. Faecal expletives for the most part. Lazar gazed at him and searched his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘Oh, no, that little cat is NOT going to jump! You’re not going to blacken my car with smoke.’ ‘I’ll open the window…’ ‘No window. We’ve got a deal. Fuck…’ The quarrel ran on in Bulgarian and Ben was all ears; out of the corner of his eye he watched the show

with the keenest interest. He found to his delight that he had understood almost everything. He had spent no more than a couple of hours with those two, but felt he had known them for… Well, for much longer. Of course, he had read their personal records, but as usual the files said little. Just then Lazar became aware that the traffic had slowed to forest turtle speed. Must check. Surely it’s a tortoise. When the traffic finally ground to a halt, Salomon snorted like a horse and leaned on the horn adding the BMW’s stentorian voice to the general commotion. Lazar turned round startled. Salomon glared back, then, spotting a way out, he darted into the next turning right, throwing Lazar back and into the middle of the car. They entered a residential area with small blocks of flats and narrow lanes lined with trees. Salomon screeched left and then, appearing to follow an unseen map, turned left and right, driving deeper into the residential hinterland. At last he slowed down completely to read a street name.

‘This is it.’ ‘Thank the lord,’ said Lazar loudly. At the next block of flats Salomon slowed again to read the entrance numbers, then found a place to park. The white van parked close behind. Without delay the three of them made for the entrance. A group of five in grey overalls and carrying differently sized briefcases emerged from the van and followed them like a shoal of washing machine repair men. Salomon was first to get to the third floor. The still uncomprehending Ben stayed behind Lazar as they climbed the stairs. The grey shoal kept up with them. As they gathered in front of the door, Ben read the small name printed in Cyrillic script beside it: Paили. Riley. Finally able to work out what they were doing, he shook his head in disappointment. He found himself pushed aside as one of the men in overalls ran a mini scanner round the door frame; after he had pronounced it ‘Clear’, another produced a type of skeleton key that

Ben had never seen before and undid the first lock with ease. The second one took only a little longer. Salomon was the first inside. It was already dusk, the hall almost dark. As he felt for, but failed to find, the switch, a sharp creak came from the far end of the corridor. Followed by a cold draught. Salomon pulled a Glok from his armpit while a nickel Sig Sauer P appeared in Lazar’s hand. Ben, denied a weapon as an alien, felt his fists clench and unclench like a goldfish gasping for water. Salomon was at the end of the corridor; he kicked the door, yelled ‘Freeze!’, threw himself down and into the room. Hearing Salomon’s familiar string of obscenities, Lazar pushed past Ben to see his deputy disappearing across the windowsill and out. From the window they saw

Salomon roll into a bush, pick himself up and dart off to the playground at the far end of the block. A dark figure sprinted across the playground ahead of him and disappeared behind the next block. Ben stepped across the sill, and while he was looking for a place to jump, Lazar took him firmly by the elbow. ‘Easy, Ben. Sally’s got it.’ Then he turned and waved at a couple of the overalls, pointing out to them the route that Salomon and his quarry had taken. The men rushed downstairs. Lazar went to the door and knocked the switch with the muzzle of his gun. The light dazzled them. Once their eyes had adjusted, the two men carefully examined the room they were in. Riley’s study. The furniture was oldfashioned, eclectic, cosy. A few drawers of the huge, old, carved writing desk were half open. The upholstered office chair was pushed at least a yard back from the writing desk. A dark green towel had been wrapped round the desk lamp, but the lamp was not on. A Dell laptop lay on a black computer bag at one end of the

desk. The charger, with its cable roughly wound round it, lay on top. One half of a big glazed double door in the wall opposite the study door stood slightly open. The Colonel, gun still in hand, turned towards it, kicked the door full open, and looked round. He found the light switch, and tapped it again with the muzzle of his gun. On the bed there was a black rubbish sack – empty. Lazar went back to the study and began to look round. He came back to the desk and started pulling out the drawers one by one again with the gun muzzle. Some were empty, others had paper, pens, a Dictaphone, a pipe, pipecleaners and a packet of tobacco in them. Lazar studied the drawers again, one by one, then the desk, then the desk panel, looked behind it, stood up straight and considered the contents of the bookcase on the wall by the desk. ‘Well, well!’ was the Colonel’s conclusion.

Ben, who had watched him with interest from a distance, joined him at the desk: ‘Not a single notebook, not a folder, not even a telephone book. But he didn’t take this.’ Ben indicated the laptop. Lazar nodded in agreement again, then turned to the overalls: ‘Dust the laptop, I’ll take it.’ The Colonel put his gun away and returned to the bedroom, peered into the wardrobes, under the bed, and on the bedside table. Same routine in the bathroom. Just as he emerged, there were steps on the stairs. Salomon appeared first. He’s been in a fight with a bear. His jacket and jeans were covered in mud, the jeans ripped on one knee, his left eye swollen, and visibly swelling further. There was a clear print from what looked like the sole of a trainer on the side of his head. ‘Don’t touch your face till we’ve got photos. I mean it.’

12–––––

Lozenets is the Beverley Hills of Sofia. As it were. The hillside is a lush green, dotted with small houses shaded by hundred year old alders, yews and pines. The houses have a gothic look with steep alpine roofs and odd

spear-shaped towers. A magnet for the nouveaux riches of Sofia. Like the summerhouses at the foot of Vitosha, Lozenets is convenient for the city centre. For which reason a number of small blocks of luxurious flats have recently sprung up there, all at exorbitant prices. The staff of several of the Sofia embassies live in them. The two agents sent by Bogomil to guard Martha Friedman were half lying down in a dark red Ford Mondeo. They had orders not to hide themselves, which allowed them the luxury of parking right in front of her underground garage so they could be sure of missing nothing. The heavily armed strike group, relieved, too, of the obligation to conceal itself, had parked in a black Grand Cherokee some fifty metres down the street. The two vehicles pointed in opposite directions for obvious reasons. What they noticed almost immediately was a dark grey metallic Opel Omega, which appeared to be empty but felt as if it might not be. When they checked the nearby vehicles on the computer, they ran the Opel first.

It was registered to an Israeli-based import-export company. ‘Well, they’re guarding her alright!’ the senior agent observed. ‘We might as well not bother.’ The driver shook his head cautiously. While they waited, the half-light of dusk eked away to make room for the night - dispersed outside the residential block by two big lights on the roof. The light in Martha’s kitchen went out and a dimmer one came on, probably in her living room. ‘I need a piss,’ the driver sighed. ‘Well, go then... no, wait a minute,’ the senior agent rose a little, watching the door of the underground garage, then spoke quietly into the microphone clipped to his collar: ‘Misho, wake up, something’s moving.’ ‘Got it,’ came the almost instant reply in his ear. The door of the underground garage was tilting up, but the opening remained dark. There was no light inside. Then a car, also without lights, emerged. ‘Toyota!’ the driver bent even lower. ‘The bitch!’

‘Misho, Misho, the Toyota’s leaving, no lights.’ ‘Got it.’ The Toyota was already up the ramp and about to turn onto the road when two silhouettes appeared out of the shrubs ten metres from the Mondeo. ‘Shit...’ before he could say it, the driver had opened his door, keeping his head down, and using the door as a shield, started firing at the silhouettes just as they, in turn, opened fire on the Toyota. One of the silhouettes, who was firing what sounded like a Kalashnikov, withdrew into the shrubs, and turned his fire on the Ford. The Toyota leaned sharply to the right and hit the street with squealing tyres, immediately finding protection behind the other parked cars. At the same moment, 5,000ccs of Cherokee roared into life and, turning on the spotlights on its roof, drove across the street, onto the pavement and towards the bushes. A shotgun pumped from the rear window. Martha Friedman disappeared down the street at speed, turning on her headlights as she went. The Opel

followed her, somebody inside making desperate distress signals with a handkerchief. Both teams stopped firing and there was a movement behind the shrubs. Three of the strike group in the Cherokee leapt out and raced after the attackers. ‘Misho,’ radioed the senior agent, ‘get back to your vehicle; we’ll follow the target. There may be another ambush.’ ‘There’s a kalashnik here.’ ‘Grab it, watch the fingerprints, let’s go.’ The Ford was already half way down Midzhur Street. The strike group got into the Cherokee, reversed sharply, and changed direction with a spectacular manoeuvre. The Ford was still a hundred metres from Smirnenski Boulevard when the rear lights of the Opel disappeared onto it. ‘We’re going to lose them,’ the senior agent insisted. ‘We’re not!’ the driver resisted. ‘Still need a piss?’ ‘Fuck off!’

Traffic was light on Smirnenski Boulevard. They could see the Opel again. It had almost doubled its lead. The lights in front of it just might be the Toyota. They disappeared up Dragan Tsankov Boulevard. Martha almost flew over the tramlines and beat the lights for Evlogi Georgiev road north, where a Renault took away one end of her rear bumper before swerving onto the pavement and into a cluster of chistoti bins. The Opel was close behind her and now the Mondeo was able to close the gap thanks to the chaos on Evlogi Georgiev. Near the big junction of Vasil Levski and Patriarch Evtimii Boulevards, better known as The Priest, the driver of the Mondeo saw a tram lumbering up from the right, while a huge refrigerator van with a lifting tailgate was unloading boxes on the left-hand pavement. He watched the Opel drive onto the tramlines, turn abruptly across the street, mount the right-hand pavement, and squeal to a halt.

The tram driver pulled on the emergency brake horrified and stopped inches from the Opel with a terrible groaning of steel on steel. His way now blocked, the driver of the Mondeo swerved sharply to the left and pulled the car up with its torpedo bonnet under the tailgate of the refrigerator van. ‘Shit, shit, shit… there’s a typical Jewish thank-you for saving their bitch!’ the driver started pummelling the steering wheel with both hands. ‘I’ve had it, I can’t stand it any more…’ He kicked the door open; jumped out, and stood in front of the first gate he came to. A small river snaked between his feet.

13––––– The office turned in silence to greet them. Lazar’s face showed little, but probably not good news. Ben Stanton, as always, radiated civility, but civility only. Salomon’s appearance at the end of the small procession caused an audible stir. His left eye was swollen, and almost closed. Rossy stood up behind her space control panel and ran across to meet him. ‘Sally, what’s happened to you? Let me see.’ Salomon pushed her back rudely, then stopped and hugged her uncomfortably with one arm. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Sally, we must do something with your eye, it’ll go black, and you’ll look like a monkey for a week.’ ‘Shit. Well, OK, do something.’ She took him by the arm, dragged him to Lazar’s office, and almost forced him to lie on the sofa, where, for a moment, she found herself leaning right over him.

Salomon grinned blissfully, and pulled her to him, preventing her from standing upright. ‘Colonel, perhaps we should leave them both alone for a while,’ the federal agent struck the right note with a playful smile. Lazar ignored them. Salomon let go at last and Rossy stood up smoothing her jumper: ‘Colonel, have you got any ice in the fridge?’ Lazar looked blank and waved at her to see for herself. ‘Get Shifter.’ Rossy put her head out of the door. ‘Wimberley – the Boss wants you… Guys, can you get me a small nylon bag?’ The Systems Administrator walked into the office and drew up by the Colonel’s desk. ‘Shifter, I want you to open this,’ Lazar pointed at the bag with the laptop. ‘It’s important. OK?’ ‘Got you, Boss. Can I take it with me?’

Lazar waved him away and he sailed out with the black bag. One of the team helped Rossy crush some ice with a wine bottle. The bag tore a little and ice shrapnel flew in all directions; one hit Lazar in the face. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Rossy took a tissue out of her pocket, ran over to Lazar and wiped his face. ‘Sorry Boss, we were aiming at the federal agent,’ and she burst into laughter. It took Ben a moment or two to register the meaning, then he, too, started to laugh, faltering as he noticed Lazar watching them in bewilderment. Rossy’s colleague had already poured the crushed ice into another bag. ‘Wait, wait, let me do it,’ Rossy trotted across, sat down on the edge of the sofa and carefully put the bag on Salomon’s bad eye. Hearing some hubbub from the main office they both looked round to see a crowd gathering at Shifter’s

desk. Ben took a couple of steps towards the glass wall, stretching his neck to see better. Rossy got up and did the same. The Major looked at her, then jumped off the sofa, allowing the bag of ice to fall on the floor. ‘What’s going on? No games Shifter,’ Salomon called angrily. He pushed Rossy aside and ran to Shifter’s desk. Shifter had sagged down in his chair in despair. Salomon pushed through and bent over Shifter. ‘What the hell is going on...?’ ‘We’ve been screwed,’ Shifter said angrily. ‘I can see that...’ ‘OK. Well, the password was no problem, but as soon as I started to open the files, an RP, a Ronin program, kicked in, wiped the files and then wiped itself.’ ‘You underestimated him, didn’t you?’ Salomon sat on Shifter’s desk looking at him with something like hatred. ‘The easy password fooled you.’ ‘Well Sally, yes, if you like,’ Shifter seemed to be on the verge of crying. ‘But there was no way I could have

opened the files without the RP getting me. It attaches itself to the files like a virus, and even if I had tried to copy them without turning the protection off, they would have been erased all the same... The files and the program are symbiotic. It’s a really clever piece of code; I couldn’t have done anything. I don’t know where he got it from, but it’s certainly not for sale in TsUM.’ The Major sank back. Rossy came up to him, took him by the arm and started pulling him towards Lazar’s office. Salomon relented and went back to the sofa, and the ice bag. Ben took the opportunity to explain to Lazar what had happened. ‘What a fool!’ Salomon cut in and, seeing that the federal agent was looking enquiringly at him, nodded at the Systems Administrator. ‘No Major, he’s not a fool.’ ‘Nonsense, Ben!’ Lazar finally banged his fist on his desk. ‘Dilettantes! Where is my genius Sherlock? I’ll have his balls and send him to the rightabout.’

Ben would later track the phrase to Dickens and Joyce (where an annotation suggested that it meant to effect a radical change in someone’s behaviour). He would not be surprised. ‘Here I am, Genghis Khan,’ the Chief Analyst appeared instantly at the door. ‘Should I remove my trousers first?’ Lazar snorted and swivelled his chair so he had his back to Sherlock. The Chief Analyst coughed and searched for the words to begin, ready for a battle with Lazar. But Ben stepped forward instead: ‘Colonel, please allow me to explain. To decode a Ronin program would require a special environment, special freezing programs and a team of programmers. Even then it could take weeks. We might say that such a procedure is impossible in an operational situation. Coke… In my opinion, even the world’s most experienced hacker would have achieved no better results with Riley’s laptop. Theoretically, these Ronin

programs can be broken of course, but I emphasise theoretically only, and not in practice.’ Unable to restrain himself, Salomon sat up, knocking his ice pack to the floor again: ‘Ben, Bulgaria has the finest computer programmers in the world. I imagine they would have found a way if only we had staff with the imagination to suppose that a world-class investigative journalist might take care to protect his computer files.’ ‘Where is… Shifter?’ Lazar interposed. Sherlock turned to the hall, and using sign language only, instructed one of his subordinates to send in the Systems Administrator. The Head of Operations had already arrived in the Colonel’s office. They took their seats round the long edge of the table, Lazar taking Salomon’s usual place and the unhappy Shifter forced to take the chairman’s seat. Rossy, who was again applying ice to the Major’s eye, asked:

‘Shall I leave, Colonel?’ ‘No, you shall not! Stay there, comfort our ninja warrior…’ Incensed, Salomon tried to stand up, but Rossy knelt firmly on his chest to stop him. ‘In detail, then,’ Salomon assumed his usual role from the sofa. ‘Take us through it again, Shifter.’ The lad looked desperate. He explained in a plaintive voice the procedures he had followed; with Salomon pulling him up sharply whenever he went into too great detail. He finished with a dramatic description of the final scene when the Ronin program had begun to wipe out one file after another in Riley’s working directory. Flashing a succession of crimson messages that caustically registered what exactly it was doing at each moment. Ending with a full-screen message that turned from poison green to red showing that it had completed its task, and started self-destruction. The account, although broken, was highly-charged and

aroused not a little audience sympathy for Shifter, although none, apparently, from Salomon. ‘Well, can you tell me just one thing I can use; did you manage to open any file, did you read anything, a name, anything…?’ The lad looked at him blankly; Sherlock interrupted: ‘Shifter, try to remember what directories there were, where did you get to?’ ‘Well, I entered My Documents and opened Working…’ ‘Why that particular directory?’ ‘Well, I don’t know… I suppose it looked the most obvious…’ ‘So,’ Sherlock went on, ‘close your eyes. Imagine the file list in the directory’. Shifter obediently closed his eyes and murmured: ‘I can imagine it...’ ‘What can you see?’ ‘Just the red messages...’

‘Wait a minute,’ the analyst interrupted him. The red messages come later, first you see the list of files...’ ‘Yes,’ Shifter said with eyes closed. ‘You’re trying to open one of the files, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes, I’m trying to open a file...’ ‘What’s the name of the file?’ Sherlock asked patiently. ‘I don’t know,’ Shifter said wearily after a long pause and opened his eyes. ‘Oh Jesus…’ started Salomon, but the analyst leaned backwards, adjusted his glasses and stared hard at him. Then, turning towards Lazar, said: ‘Colonel, let him go now.’ Lazar nodded and Shifter slunk out of the office. ‘Let him get some sleep,’ Sherlock went on, ‘and don’t say a word to him about it in the morning. I suggest we try hypnosis tomorrow. And by the way, the red messages aren’t just for fun. Of course, these guys could just blank the screen when the program starts. That’s what a woman would do. But these guys have

watched too many movies. They use the messages to confuse the hacker and prevent him from remembering the names of the files on the list.’ ‘I concur,’ Ben agreed with a smile. ‘Chairlock’s idea of hypnosis is very good, Colonel.’ Lazar blinked for a moment and, ignoring the now familiar ripple of laughter that came from the others, said: ‘Oh good. I’m glad everyone seems to concur. Perhaps we can all concur that we now have precisely nothing to go on except a black eye and the courtship rituals of that pair on the sofa. “Zilch”, I believe would be your preferred term, Ben.’ ‘We have got one thing, Colonel,’ the Head of Operations said quietly. ‘We got the phone logs of all the reporters who died. From Mobicom. We haven’t finished with them yet, but there’s something...’ he looked into his notebook and went on: ‘At 23:53 Martha Friedman called Riley. They talked for eleven seconds.’

There was silence. Lazar stared at him then leaned back in his chair abruptly and something twinkled in his eyes. ‘Is that so, Mr Boggy?’ the Colonel murmured. ‘That’s interesting… Would you concur Ben?’ Ben, deep in thought, stared back blankly at Lazar. Finally, pulling himself together, he said: ‘Colonel, I must go, if you’ll allow me; I think that within an hour I’ll be able to get the information from the field that I promised on the possible perpetrators of this attack.’ ‘Field information on the possible perpetrators? That’ll be fine, Ben...’ The federal agent felt himself starting to blush and quickly made for the door. Behind him he heard laughter and gleeful cries of ‘Chairlock’.