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 red-
haired 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 red-
haired 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 Anti-
Terrorism Branch. At the time of the Englishman’s “fact-
finding” 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 re-
running 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, colleague-
like 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-wrong-
here…’ 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 cross-
checked, 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, forty-
one 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 small-
minded, 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 newly-
developed 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 role-
play. 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 something-
doesn’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 old-
fashioned, 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, pipe-
cleaners 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’.