In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  Van Burgh smiled and nodded. ‘Certainly, Mario. Usually when I travel in the East I am accompanied by my “wife”. Sometimes she is a middle-aged nun from Delft. A woman of great courage and fortitude. At other times a member of the lay religious from Nuremberg. In all I have four such “wives”. All virtually saints. They risk much for their faith. You see, a man and wife travelling together excite little suspicion. An assassin would hardly take his wife along.’

  Mennini was intrigued.

  ‘And where would you find such a woman?’

  Van Burgh smiled. ‘Well, I cannot lend him one of mine. They are old enough to be his mother and no one travels with his mother if it can be avoided.’ He gestured confidently. ‘It is not a problem. I know where to look for such a woman and exactly what qualities she will need. Perhaps you can help, Your Eminence.’

  Mennini asked, ‘And her motive? Will that too be hatred?’

  The Dutchman shook his head.

  ‘On the contrary. Her motive will be love. Her love for the Holy Father . . . and also obedience to his will.’ He looked into their eyes and saw the disquiet. ‘Don’t worry. Her mission will be to travel with him as far as Moscow. The real danger comes when the “envoy” enters the Kremlin. Long before that she will be whisked away to safety.’

  There was a moment of cogitation, then Mennini expressed the thoughts that were in all their minds. In a voice as though talking to his conscience he mused, ‘We involve others. Inevitably there will be many.’ He raised his head and looked at the priest and the Archbishop. ‘We are three clerics . . . men of God . . . How quickly and easily we decide on murder.’

  The Archbishop straightened in his seat. His face showed the earnest expression of a mind bent on persuasion, but before he could speak the Bacon Priest said laconically, ‘Your Eminence, if you want semantics, change the word “murder” to “defence”. Change the word “decided” to “impelled”; change the word “clerics” to “instruments” . . . We are three instruments impelled to the defence of our Holy Father and through him our faith.’

  The Cardinal nodded thoughtfully. Then he smiled and said, ‘Unlike the Holy Father, we do not have the balm of infallibility. We are left with the palliative of action; with the knowledge that if what we do is a sin, it is a sin shared . . . and a sin condoned by the excuse of unselfishness.’

  The door opened and coffee was brought in, carried by Sister Maria herself. She fussed about, enquiring if everything had been satisfactory. Assured so in triplicate, she then said to Mennini, ‘Your Eminence. It is to be “Ave Maria” tonight. A little untraditional but Cardinal Bertole is dining in the main room and it’s his favourite.’

  She went out leaving the door open. Versano grimaced.

  ‘I think I’d better stay here. You two frequently have reason enough to be talking, but for the three of us to be seen together - that might look too suspicious.’

  The other two nodded in understanding, picked up their cups of coffee and moved to the door.

  The serving sisters had all gathered in front of the plaster statue of the Virgin Mary. There was a silence in the full room. Mennini nodded at a few familiar faces. At a signal from Sister Maria the girls raised their heads and began to sing. It is a tradition in the L’Eau Vive that they always sing over coffee; usually a hymn. The patrons are urged to join in. Most of them did so this night and the room was filled with rich sounds. Van Burgh added his deep baritone and, after a verse, Mennini chimed in with a cracked tenor. The chorus of serving sisters sang in perfect harmony as they gazed rapturously at the statue.

  The last angelic tones died away. There was no applause but everyone in the room felt somehow uplifted and satisfied.

  Mennini and Van Burgh turned back into the private room and closed the door behind them. Versano was pouring, from a very old bottle, three tots of brandy of an age lost in antiquity. As they settled themselves he said, ‘We must decide on a modus operandi.’

  Mennini immediately agreed. ‘We are sworn to secrecy. This thing must be accomplished by us alone and those whom we recruit. In their tasks they must never know the objective except of course for the envoy.’ He turned to the Dutchman. ‘Father Pieter, how long will it take you to evaluate this man Scibor?’

  ‘No more than a few days, Your Eminence.’

  ‘Then I suggest we meet again here in two weeks’ time.’

  Versano nodded in agreement and pulled his chair closer. In a low voice he said, ‘We may have to communicate by phone. I suggest a simple code is in order.’

  The others leaned closer, drawn by the lure of conspiracy. Versano said, ‘The envoy shall be known as just that. It’s an innocuous word. The woman who travels with him will be known as la cantante - the singer.’ He gestured towards the outside room, presumably indicating that the inspiration for this had come from the singing sisters. ‘And Andropov, the target, will be known simply as l’uomo - the man.’

  ‘And we?’ Van Burgh asked. ‘What will we be known as?’

  There was a silence for thought, then Mennini, with a thin smile, supplied the answer.

  ‘Nostra Trinita. Our trinity.’

  They all liked it. Versano raised his glass.

  ‘Nostra Trinita.’

  The other two echoed the toast, then the Bacon Priest proposed another and they raised their glasses and toasted: ‘The Papa’s envoy!’

  Then Mennini, as if determined not to allow his co-conspirators to forget the full implications of what they were doing, gravely proposed a toast of his own.

  ‘In the name of the Father.’

  Chapter 3

  Mirek Scibor sat on the third bench on the second path after the clock tower in Vienna’s Schönbrunn Palace Park. It was exactly the spot that he had been told to sit and wait. Sitting further down the bench was a fat old woman dressed in black. She wore a grey lace scarf over grey hair and she irritated Mirek. His contact was to arrive in five minutes and she showed no signs of moving. She had been there twenty minutes, frequently coughing into a grubby handkerchief. He looked down at her black stockinged feet. They bulged arthritically out of scuffed pinch-buckle shoes. She also emitted a rancid, unwashed odour. Distastefully he looked away and around him at the city, and his irritation faded. This was only his second day in the West and he was elated by his escape and by the wonders of what he had seen, an elation that sometimes almost dampened the hatred that was an oven inside his belly. It was not the grand buildings that impressed him. They had such buildings in Poland and Russia, equally steeped in grandeur and history. It was the people and the luxuries. The people of Vienna were carefree and the luxuries abundant. He was intelligent and informed enough to know that this was not universal in the West. In places there had to be poverty and unhappiness, but that was not apparent here. He had arrived in the city in the back of a closed van. Ironically, or deliberately, the van had been packed with crates of smoked bacon. In the hour it had taken to drive from the border to the city the smell had permeated his clothes and his skin and he had become heartily sick of it.

  The doors of the van had opened on to the dark of a high walled courtyard. By this time Mirek had been nauseous from motion sickness. A friar had been waiting for him. He gave a curt nod and said, ‘Follow me.’

  Clutching a small bundle of clothes, Mirek followed him down a low vaulted corridor. It was three in the morning. There was no one about. The friar indicated a door and Mirek went through. It was a cell-like room containing a metal bedstead and a thin mattress with three grey threadbare blankets folded at the foot. There was nothing else in the room. It was as hospitable as a prison cell. He turned. The friar’s face was just as hospitable. He gestured: ‘There is a toilet and showers down the corridor. Apart from going there you must stay in this room. Food will be sent to you at seven o’clock . . . that’s in four hours. The Father Vicar will see you at eight.’

  He turned away. Mirek said with a trace of sarcasm: ‘Thank you, good night.’

  There was no reply an
d Mirek was not surprised. He guessed that even here he was known for what he was and what he had done. His reception had been the same all the way. Bare, cheerless rooms and hostile faces. To these people he was worse than a leper. To a leper they would show compassion. To him they showed the face of duty, carried out with distaste.

  But in the morning the Father Vicar had been slightly less forbidding. Mirek, of course, was an expert on the Catholic Church, its structures and its hierarchy. He knew that as Father Vicar the old man opposite him was, under the Father Provincial, number two in the province. He was the most important Franciscan he had met during his clandestine journey. Presumably he would have news for him. He had.

  ‘You will stay here for one more night. Tomorrow you will take your clothes and at one p.m. be sitting on a certain bench at a city park. A “contact” will approach you and ask for a light. You will say, using these exact words, “I never carry matches.” You will then follow that person.’

  ‘Where will he lead me?’

  The Father Vicar shrugged.

  ‘Where?’ Mirek pressed. ‘When will I meet the Bacon Priest?’

  The old man raised his eyebrows in puzzlement. ‘The Bacon Priest?’

  Mirek sighed in frustration. He’d had the same reaction whenever he’d mentioned the man. His journey had been long, lonely, uncomfortable and dangerous but he had been sustained by a screaming curiosity to be face to face with the man he had hunted for years. That curiosity was the only emotion he had felt alongside the ever-present hatred. The Father Vicar may have seen something of it. He had said in a softer tone, ‘Scibor, this is your first day in the West. But even in the West our facilities are spartan. Vienna is a beautiful city. Why not go out and see something of it? I think you will not be here long. Go and try some of the delicious Viennese pastry. Walk in streets that are free. Breathe air that is free.’ His lips twitched into a small ironic smile. ‘Go into churches and see people worship. People whose only fear is the fear of their Lord.’

  Dubiously Mirek said, ‘But is it safe?’

  The old man’s smile widened. ‘Don’t worry. They will not attack you. Such people will not know who you are.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘I know. Forgive a little sarcasm. Two of our brothers from this Friary have been in gaol in Czechoslovakia these past ten years.’ He gestured at a cloistered window from which a shaft of sunlight brightened the room. ‘It’s a cold but fine morning for December. Mingle with the crowds. Vienna is safe for you; no one knows you are here. Have a meal. Drink some of our good wine.’

  ‘I have no money.’

  ‘Ah, of course.’ The Father Vicar opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a bundle of notes, counted off several and placed them in front of the Pole. ‘I think that should be adequate.’

  So Mirek had gone out into the streets of Vienna and been stunned.

  The Friary was in an eastern suburb, close to a huge market. He spent his first hour there slowly walking and watching. In his life he had never seen such mountains of food. Not even in his native countryside at harvest time. And the variety. Within ten minutes he knew that at least half the produce had come here from far away. Bananas, pineapple, avocados and fruits that he had never seen or heard of. He watched in amazement as one rosy-cheeked woman vendor carelessly threw away apples that were only slightly rotten. He bought a small bunch of grapes from her and was warmed by her cheerful smile. Slowly he walked towards the city centre, eating the grapes. He paused often; once at the window of a butcher’s, shaking his head in awe at the array of hanging carcasses and the row upon row of trimmed steaks and chops and fowl. He had eaten only a little bread and cheese for breakfast but he felt no hunger. Only shock. All his thinking life he had been a true and dedicated Communist. He had read his party’s newspapers, listened to the speeches and taken part in the debates. He knew, of course, that some of the propaganda had been just that. But he was secure in that knowledge because he knew too that the propaganda from the West had to contain even more lies.

  He next paused at a newsstand and ran his eyes over the array of newspapers and magazines in a dozen European languages. Shock and confusion filled his brain. He had retraced his steps to the butcher’s shop, walked in and almost aggressively asked an attendant if all the meat was available to anyone without rank or ration coupons. The attendant had smiled. He had heard this question many times before. From Poles, Czechs, Hungarians, Rumanians. Vienna is a conduit for East European refugees.

  ‘Money,’ he had said. ‘All you need is money.’

  Instinctively Mirek almost reached into his pocket to buy a whole red beef fillet lying on the slab next to him. In his entire life he had eaten beef fillet only once. The time that bastard Konopka had taken him to dinner at Wierzynek’s in Cracow. But he stopped himself. He had nowhere to cook it. No matter, on this day he would find a restaurant and have fillet steak for lunch.

  Back on the street his attention turned to the people. In the streets of Warsaw or Moscow or Prague people walk with a grim purpose. These people walked quickly and mostly were intent on going somewhere. They carried shopping bags and briefcases and parcels under their arms but no one was grim. Not even the policeman directing traffic. He stopped at a tobacconist’s and bought a packet of Gitanes cigarettes. A colleague had once been given a carton by the leader of a visiting French Communist delegation. He had grudgingly given Mirek a single cigarette and the aroma had lingered in his nostrils for days. He was surprised to find the brand in Austria but then he saw brands from all over Europe and even America. He was about to buy a box of matches but noticed a rack of brightly coloured lighters under a sign saying ‘disposable’. He bought one - a blue one. He walked on puffing contentedly and flicking away at the lighter like a child with his first toy. In Alexanderplatz he found a café with chairs and tables on the street behind glass screens. He sat down and a young blonde waitress dressed in a checked red and white dress with a frilly white apron gave him the menu and, with a smile, waited patiently while he studied it. Being still early he decided not to spoil his appetite for the promised steak. His eye caught the word Apfelstrudel and he ordered that together with a cold lager. He watched appreciatively as the waitress swung her hips away between the tables. And when he turned his gaze back to the square it was the women and girls his eyes sought. There were many of them in different shapes and sizes. At first he considered that the prettier ones were more so than those in Poland. But then he reconsidered. There were equally beautiful women in Poland. Maybe it was because during the past weeks he had seen no beautiful women. He feasted his eyes. Long fair legs scissored beneath short but elegant skirts and dresses. It made him realise that it had also been months since he had been with a woman. He felt the urge, abruptly and forcibly. So forcibly that his mind turned to practicalities. He reasoned that there must be prostitutes in this city. After all there were prostitutes in Warsaw and Cracow and in many, even most, cities of Poland . . . and this was the decadent West. He wondered whether the money that the Father Vicar had given him would cover such an eventuality. Perhaps not both that and a fillet steak. Then he discarded the idea. He had never been with a prostitute and found the idea repugnant. Besides he had never had to. He well knew that he was attractive to women. Had been since puberty. Even now he noticed that several of the women who passed by cast interested looks in his direction. So did the blonde waitress when she put the plate and glass beside him. His nostrils caught the musky aroma of her perfume and again came the powerful urge. He noticed the fine blonde hairs on her forearm and the slim fingers bereft of rings. Then his nostrils and his eyes were diverted to the plate and the massive slice of Strudel topped with a mound of fresh cream.

  He finished it all and three hours later savoured every mouthful of steak and every sip of wine while again his thoughts dwelled on finding a woman. Such thoughts were instantly dispelled when he was presented with the bill. After paying it he was left with a few coins. He estimated it cost him what
would have been a week’s wages. There was nothing left for a disco or café or bar where he might pick up a girl. Instead he had walked for several hours in the city and then made his way back to the Friary. In his cell that night he thought first of the Bacon Priest, and then later again about women. Had he been a less disciplined man he might have masturbated, but walking the streets that afternoon he had promised himself that the next time he ejaculated it would be into a real woman whose passion would be genuine.

  Now he found himself sitting next to what must be the smelliest old hag in Vienna. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and impatience and glanced at his watch yet again. It was three minutes before one. He supposed that his contact had him under observation. He felt irritation at the whole set-up. It was unprofessional. He had been told only to be at this place at this time. There was no fallback if the ‘meet’ failed. No alternative place or time. Stupid! What if the old hag had been a policeman instead? Silently cursing the Bacon Priest, he cast his gaze around trying to spot his possible contact. There was no one who remotely resembled such a person. A young couple were strolling arm-in-arm down a path, oblivious to anyone but each other. On the grass fifty yards in front of him two young boys were kicking a striped rubber ball around, watched over by a matronly woman in a starched blue uniform whom Mirek took to be a nanny. There was no one else nearby. He cursed again under his breath and glanced again at the old woman. She was fumbling about in a tattered cloth handbag. Then he heard sharp piping voices. He looked back to see the striped rubber ball heading towards him and the two tots gesturing behind it. He reached out a foot, gave it a sharp tap and watched with satisfaction as it headed straight back towards them. The nanny called ‘Danke’ and then a voice beside him said, ‘Do you have a light, please?’

  He turned. The old hag was holding a cigarette. She had screwed her features into what she expected to be a coquettish look. It made his stomach turn. With yet another inward curse he reached into his pocket for his new bright blue lighter. He decided he’d give the damn thing to the hag in exchange for her going away. But even as his hand encountered it the years of mental training took over and his muscles froze. Surely it couldn’t be. Hesitantly he said, ‘I don’t carry matches.’