Bulgar and Nasty
So who was really in charge? I again asked Tsvetan, as we went to pay homage at the spot where Iliev had been shot in Sunny Beach, the resort north of Burgas where Georgi and his kind piled some of their millions. As we drove in his small Volkswagen we were edged off the road by a Hummer flashing its lights at us; it roared past, accompanied by three S-Class Mercedes-loads of bodyguards. ‘If you don’t sell drugs or weapons, you won’t get shot, but you drive a Volkswagen,’ said Tsvetan. ‘Quite,’ I agreed.
There wasn’t so much to see at the Multiplace Buddha bar where Iliev took the fatal bullet. The windows were boarded up and on one piece of plywood a small memorial notice flapped in the wind. ‘Georgi Andrijev Iliev …we are with you in our thoughts and dreams, your bright memory we will never forget. From the personnel of Multiplace,’ it read.
According to the papers, Iliev had ventured out of the bar, renowned for its prostitutes (‘It was a weakness: his wife didn’t really like it,’ said Tsvetan) and made a call to one of his underlings at Lokomotiv. ‘Come and have a raki with me,’ he said. They were his last words.
We drove on to the nearby Helena Sands hotel, where the Wanderers were staying. I booked in, hopeful of getting a chat with Allardyce. Behind the reception desk there was a large photograph of George and Barbara Bush. ‘Who are they?’ I asked.
