In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  She tut-tutted, shook an admonishing finger at him and said, ‘You were supposed to say “never”, not “don’t”.’

  Hell, this really was the contact.

  ‘That’s . . . that’s right,’ he stammered. ‘I never carry matches.’

  She glanced around her and lowered her voice.

  ‘So you are the Pole?’ She giggled. ‘Such a handsome young man!’

  Impatiently he replied, ‘Yes. Are you going to pass me on . . . to the Bacon Priest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No, Mirek Scibor. You are talking to him.’

  The words took several seconds to penetrate, then his mouth literally opened in surprise.

  ‘You? The Bacon Priest? Pieter Van Burgh?’

  She nodded. He recovered and studied the face carefully. He reviewed what little he knew of the Bacon Priest. The man was known to be between sixty and sixty-five years old. Just under six feet tall, well built with a big paunch. Round faced. This apparition looked like nothing more than the scabrous hag he took her to be. He was about to express his scepticism when he remembered the Bacon Priest’s legendary reputation for disguise. He studied her some more. She sat slumped on the bench making it difficult to judge her height. The voluminous black dress could be hiding a girth. Her face was round but covered with pancake make-up and rouge; also partly obscured by straggles of limp grey hair and the grey lace scarf. But still her posture and gestures were that of a woman of at least seventy. He did know one way to tell. The dress had sleeves that came down almost to her knuckles. He leaned forward and said sternly, ‘Show me your wrists.’

  She smiled without trying to be coquettish and slowly raised her arms. The sleeves dropped to reveal the thick sturdy wrists of a man.

  Mirek shook his head in admiration. ‘I would never have known.’

  The Bacon Priest chuckled. ‘Three years ago I stood this far away from you on the railway station in Wroclaw.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mirek conceded. ‘But you weren’t dressed like that.’

  ‘No. I was dressed in the uniform of a Colonel in the Polish Tank Corps. We travelled on the same train to Warsaw . . . but I went first class!’

  Again Mirek shook his head in wonderment.

  The Bacon Priest’s voice dropped several decibels to its normal tone.

  ‘Come closer.’

  Mirek edged down the bench and said, ‘Hell, but you stink!’

  The priest’s teeth showed in a smile.

  ‘Mirek Scibor, you should know that it’s a major element in a good disguise. I mix the solution myself. People stay away from body odour and don’t look at the source too closely. You will have to suffer while we talk.’

  Mirek nodded. ‘I will suffer. I suffered during a long journey to get here.’

  ‘You did. I know why you needed to escape but why did you insist on seeing me?’

  Mirek was looking at him curiously. He asked, ‘Weren’t you . . . aren’t you worried that I might be a “black” planted into your organisation to compromise it? Even on this journey I have discovered a great deal.’

  The priest smiled and shook his head. ‘Neither the SB, nor even the KGB would sacrifice two of its top officers to effect a plant. Meanwhile you have come down only one of half a dozen pipelines and the least important. Besides I trust the judgment of Father Lason. He talked to you for several days. He reported that you have a great hatred and in particular for Yuri Andropov. Why do you hate him so?’

  At the mention of Andropov’s name Mirek’s features hardened like concrete. The priest had to lean towards him to catch the quiet words. They were washed along on a tide of loathing.

  ‘I discovered that he had done something to me so foul as to be beyond comparison.’

  ‘He personally?’

  ‘He gave the order.’

  ‘And the people you killed carried it out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it?’

  Mirek had been looking down at the gravel path. Now he lifted his head and looked at the playing children. He opened his mouth and closed it. Then he said, ‘First I have something for you. Call it a present from me . . . in part payment for getting me out.’ He turned and looked at the priest and again had to force himself to realise that he was not an old woman. ‘Father, it’s a list of renegade priests in Poland. Priests in your organisation who have been turned by the SB. It’s in my head but it’s a long list. You had better write it down.’

  The priest’s voice was sad. ‘I too have a good memory . . . tell me.’

  Looking into the priest’s eyes, Mirek intoned, ‘Starting from the north down. Gdynia: Fathers Letwok and Kowalski. Gdansk: Nowak and Jozwicki. Olsztyn: Panrowski, Mniszek and Bukowski . . .’ He droned on while the priest sat mute with half-closed eyes. One hundred and twelve names later Mirek came to the end. There was a silence, then the priest sighed shudderingly and murmured, ‘God have mercy on their souls.’

  Curious, Mirek asked, ‘Did you know about any of them?’

  He nodded. ‘Quite a few and we suspected others, but. . .’ He murmured two names and shook his head in sorrow, then took a breath and said briskly, ‘That information is invaluable, and it will save lives. Now, Mirek Scibor, I have something to offer you.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s walk a little. That bench has become hard.’

  They walked slowly down the path towards the lake, the priest adopting exactly the gait of an old woman.

  He asked, ‘What are your plans now?’

  Mirek spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. My objective was to meet and talk to you.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Do you have any ideas?’

  The priest stopped and looked at the lake. It was mirror smooth. At one end white lilies were pancaked across the water. Three swans drifted close to the shore, vying for grace.

  ‘I have no ideas,’ the priest said. ‘But I have a plan. You may be interested.’

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘To kill Yuri Andropov.’

  Mirek laughed loudly. The swans took fright and the water rippled as they surged away. The priest said sharply, ‘You laugh. I thought you hated the man.’

  Mirek’s laughter stopped and he looked at him curiously.

  ‘I do. I would literally give an arm and a leg to kill Andropov. But I assumed you were joking . . . I mean you stand there and simply state that you have a plan to kill Andropov as though you were talking about a plan to go to the theatre.’

  The priest turned and resumed hobbling along in his ridiculous shoes. He said, ‘You may not have heard. A senior General of the KGB, Yevchenko, defected in Rome.’

  Mirek nodded. ‘I read some newspapers this morning. I know of Yevchenko. It must have made the KGB wet themselves.’

  ‘Yes, well, he advised Italian Intelligence that Andropov and the KGB were planning another attempt on the life of our beloved Holy Father.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mirek nodded thoughtfully. The path was skirting the lake and to their right the swans kept pace with them.

  Briefly the priest sketched out the plan and the reasons for it. In a dazed voice Mirek asked, ‘And the Pope approves? It’s hardly Christian.’

  ‘The Pope knows nothing of it. The plan derives from . . . well, from a group within the Church.’

  At this Mirek slightly smiled. ‘Yes, I can imagine that such a group could be formed. Of course you are telling me this because you want me to be the envoy. The assassin.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A long silence broken only by the crunch of their feet on the gravel and the distant, muted roar of traffic. The priest spoke at length. Not in a tone of persuasion but conversationally. Mirek above all knew of the capabilities of his organisation. So a hundred or so of his people had defected. Sad, but a drop in the bucket. There were tens of thousands more. Specialists in every field. Secret priests in factories who had been given special dispensation to marry and have children to tighten their cover. Secret priests in Governments, in agriculture, universities, hospitals. Even wi
thin Secret Services. When a Soviet grain shortage loomed the Vatican knew about it before the CIA. When a power struggle shaped up within the Polish Politburo the Vatican knew even before the KGB. At this point Mirek stopped walking and held up a hand.

  ‘I know. As you said: I know. I’ve spent eight years tracking and studying your organisation. I believe that you can put a man into the Kremlin. Especially as he won’t be expected. But can you get him out . . . alive? Or is that not in your plan?’

  ‘Indeed it is. Our best minds are working on it at this minute.’

  Mirek’s lips moved in an ironic smile. ‘Jesuit minds, no doubt.’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘There were Jesuits on that list.’

  ‘Two of them.’

  They continued walking. Mirek asked, ‘And what if I do it? What then? What happens to me afterwards?’

  Without hesitation the Bacon Priest answered, ‘A new life. A new name. Even a new continent. North or South America, or Australia. The Church would resettle you . . . and protect you.’ He paused and then said, ‘And, of course, pay you. Substantially.’

  The Pole’s lips twitched into an ironic smile. ‘Imagine. The Catholic Church paying Mirek Scibor! Money is not important. The resettlement would be . . . that, and plastic surgery.’ He took a breath, held out his hands palms upwards and said, ‘I’ll do it. You have your Papal atheist envoy. I’ll take your message.’ It was said simply, without a trace of drama.

  The priest nodded. ‘Good.’

  Another silence while both men collected their thoughts. Mirek mused, ‘I had a lot of training in the SB but not for this type of thing.’

  Without stopping, Van Burgh pointed to the bench they had recently vacated. A man was sitting on it reading a newspaper.

  ‘That man there, he’s called Jan Heisl. When we’ve finished talking you will follow him. You will never see me again. He will give you papers, a passport . . . genuine . . . a whole identity. He will arrange for you to go to another country south of here . . . to a terrorist training camp in a desert. You will have strange bedfellows. Right wing, Left wing. Sometimes even from the same country.’

  Astonished, Mirek asked, ‘You can arrange that?’

  ‘Certainly. Of course, they will think somebody else sent you. Heisl will arrange everything. They will teach you twenty ways to kill and to survive. Heisl will arrange money for you, and any equipment you might need.’

  ‘Does he know what my mission is?’

  The priest nodded solemnly. ‘Yes. He is my right hand. He, and now you, are the only ones to know, the only ones who must ever know outside of Nostra Trinita.’

  Mirek glanced at him.

  ‘So you are only three?’

  ‘It is enough . . . and safer.’ He took Mirek’s arm and they walked along like a down-at-heel mother and her son who has made good.

  ‘Now tell me why you hate Andropov.’

  Chapter 4

  Cardinal Angelo Mennini offered his hand and the nun knelt and kissed the ring. He made a sign with his eyes to his secretary. The secretary nodded and withdrew. As the nun rose the Cardinal graciously indicated a chair in front of his desk. Then with a rustle of his robes he moved around the desk and sat in a high-backed chair. For several moments he studied the face in front of him. The only sound in the room was the ticking of an ormolu clock on the wall. The nun was sitting erect with her hands folded in her lap. Her white habit and black headpiece were starched and immaculate. The Crucifix at her breast was highly polished and reflecting the light from the chandelier. Her head was held high but her eyes were modestly cast down.

  ‘Sister Anna, look at me.’

  She raised her eyes and stared straight at him. He wanted to see her eyes. The eyes are important in evaluating a person. He had been assured that this nun was extraordinary, but of course he wanted to see for himself. It had been a week since he had sent out the instruction to the very senior members of his Order in Europe. He was looking for a nun with certain characteristics and talents. She must be aged between twenty-eight and thirty-five. Be physically strong and not unattractive. She must be fluent in Czech, Polish and Russian. She must be practical and have a disciplined character. Above all she must be truly devout.

  There had been a rapid feedback with several suggestions but the report on this one had been conclusive. It had come from Bishop Severin of Szeged in Hungary, a man whose judgment the Cardinal much respected. He reported that Sister Anna fitted the description exactly, except that she was only twenty-six years old. However he was sure that in all other aspects she more than compensated for that.

  Indeed Mennini could see the strength in her face. It was an attractive face - very attractive. She was Polish and he guessed that there was Tartar blood there, for her cheekbones were very high, her eyes slightly slanted and her skin olive. She had a high forehead balanced by a wide, full mouth and the sweep of a symmetrical jaw. He looked at her arms and hands. The fingers were long and slender and he guessed that her figure would be similar. She was not at all embarrassed by his silent inspection. She gazed back at him, modest but composed. He questioned her for a few minutes and learned that she was an orphan who had been brought up by nuns in Zamose. She had been much influenced by her Mother Superior and from her earliest years had wanted to be nothing else but a nun. Recognising her intellect early, they had sent her to a school run by the Order in Austria. There she developed her linguistic talents, becoming fluent in Russian, English, Italian, German, Czech and Hungarian, as well as her native Polish. She also discovered a second vocation: teaching. After taking her final vows she had been sent to teach in a school run by the Order in Hungary. She was happy there, getting much joy from her work and also continuing her own studies and beginning to show a particular interest in Oriental languages. She hoped one day to be able to teach with the Order in Japan when she was fluent in that language.

  She had a husky rasp to her voice. Not unattractive but curious, and a way of emphasising her words by lifting her chin slightly after completing a sentence. Within a few minutes the Cardinal was convinced that Bishop Severin’s judgment had been correct and should be endorsed.

  He marshalled his thoughts and then said slowly, ‘Sister Anna, you have been selected for a mission which is of vital concern to our Church and the well-being of our beloved Holy Father.’ He watched her face for a reaction but she stared back intent but impassive. ‘Your life as a devout sister will have prepared you for some aspects of this mission . . . but not for others. You will need training. However, before going into further details there is something that you must see.’

  He reached to his left and pulled a gold embossed leather folder in front of him. Slowly he opened it and looked at the single sheet of heavy cloth paper and the firm thick handwriting.

  ‘I assume you read Latin.’

  ‘Yes, Your Eminence.’

  He turned the folder and pushed it towards her. She leaned forward. This time there was a reaction. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw, at the bottom of the paper, the red circle of wax and embossed into it the Papal seal. Her eyes moved up and her lips moved silently as she translated the Latin in her mind. ‘To our beloved Sister Anna.’

  By the time she was half way down the page her lips had stopped moving. They moved again as she read the signature: John Paul II.

  She crossed herself and then looked up at the Cardinal. He thought her eyes were slightly glazed.

  ‘Have you ever seen one of those before, Sister Anna?’

  ‘No, Your Eminence.’

  ‘But you understand it?’

  ‘I think so, Your Eminence.’

  He reached out and pulled the folder back to him, looked down at the paper for a moment and then firmly closed the folder. Musingly, as if to himself, he said, ‘No, not many people ever get to see a Papal dispensation of that nature.’ He pushed the folder to one side and looked up. ‘In essence, Sister Anna, it gives you special dispensation - to set aside your sacred vows dur
ing this mission. You will of course be a nun always in your heart. Now I am going to tell you the very brief details of that mission. You may after that refuse it, if you wish.’

  She glanced at the folder and in her husky voice said, ‘I cannot refuse the wish of the Holy Father.’

  He nodded in approval. ‘Good. Now, what I have to say is, of course, a sacred secret. You understand that? A sacred secret now and for ever.’

  He watched her nod solemnly and then in measured tones said, ‘Sister Anna, your mission will be to travel and live with a man for several weeks . . . to travel and live with him as his wife.’ He saw the shock in her eyes and her lips open to ask the immediate question. He held up a hand. ‘No, Sister. As his wife only in appearance, although you will of course have to share accommodation with him and in public act towards him with wifely affection.’ He could detect a measure of relief in her eyes. ‘I must tell you that he is not a good man. In fact in some ways he is very evil. He is an atheist and in the past has been a terrible enemy of the Church. This now has changed. Although he remains an atheist this mission is to the good of the Church and to the good of our beloved Holy Father.’ He paused and took a white lace handkerchief from the sash at his waist and dabbed at his thin lips. Then, with a sigh he went on. ‘I must also tell you that this journey will take you through Eastern Europe to Moscow. Therefore it will be dangerous. Your mission ends in Moscow and you will then return to us here and to our eternal thanks . . . Now, are you willing to go?’

  She replied immediately. ‘Yes, Your Eminence . . . But what exactly is the mission?’

  ‘Just that, my dear. Of course, you must help this man as much as possible. You are travelling with him so that the authorities will think you are man and wife. You will have papers proving it. In essence you are there to make his journey appear innocent.’