In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  She said stubbornly, ‘To say such a thing will make me physically sick!’

  A glitter came into Van Burgh’s eyes. He looked at the nun in the corner. ‘Please wait outside, Sister.’

  With a sympathetic glance at Ania she rustled away.

  The priest moved behind the desk and sat down heavily. He pointed to a chair opposite him. She sat and arranged her skirt self-consciously over her knees.

  He spoke rapidly. Short, blunt words. ‘You have Papal dispensation to suspend your vows temporarily. But the Pope did not intend that you suspend obedience to your superiors.’

  A silence. Then she lowered her eyes and said, ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

  His voice cracked at her. ‘Don’t be so demure! You are not a nun, Ania.’

  Her head snapped up and he saw the steel in her. She looked him in the eye and said firmly, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘All right. So until you’re rehearsed in your permanent cover you will tell anyone who asks that you were a nun who renounced her vows. Very recently.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  His tone softened just a little. ‘The people I will have you introduced to will not ask. They will have been told that you are sensitive to the matter.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Again he studied her face for several minutes, assessing. Then he made up his mind. ‘Ania, I know you have strength of character and a fine mind. But naturally your years of seclusion and piety have made you sensitive in certain areas. That sensitivity, unless concealed and controlled, could be dangerous to you and the man who is travelling with you and his entire mission. Now, if I feel that you cannot conceal or control that aspect then I will not send you. I will have to find someone else.’

  She considered that and then nodded. Again he could see her inner strength. She said firmly, ‘I understand that very well, Father. I will control it and conceal it.’

  ‘I hope so.’ He picked up an ivory paper knife and turned it in his fingers. ‘Ania, you will have seen modern films in the convent but they will have been carefully selected by the Mother Superior. You will have read books - but again selected. Even what you listened to on the radio and saw on television.’ He made a broad sweep with his arm. ‘Out there it is different. Censorship is almost non-existent in the West. You will see and hear things which will make you wonder what has happened to civilisation.’

  She said, ‘Father, I have been cloistered all my life but I’m not unaware of trends in the Western world. You asked me if I had lay friends and my answer was no. My friends are, and always have been, women like myself. Sometimes, Father, I have regretted that because I am curious about the other world . . . but I have been studying continuously. I believed that my curiosity would be satisfied in the future. So I am grateful now for this opportunity.’

  ‘Good.’ He opened a file, studied it for a moment then, all business, said, ‘Ania, you’re a very accomplished linguist. Now tell me, what is the Russian word for “fuck”?’

  He saw her recoil in her chair, her eyes wide in shock. Then the shock turned to anger at herself as she realised she had failed this first test. He stayed silent, letting the lesson sink in. She leaned forward and said, ‘Father, I was schooled by the Order. They didn’t teach us such things . . . but . . . I know the word for copulate.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ With a clatter he tossed the paper knife back on to the desk and gestured again with his arm. ‘You tell someone out there to “copulate off” and they’re going to get suspicious.’ He leaned forward, made a note on the file and said, ‘We are going to have to extend your vocabulary. That will be embarrassing for one of our linguists here . . . but then he doesn’t have to control or conceal it.’ He tapped the pen and looked at his watch. ‘Do you have any questions, Ania?’

  She nodded. ‘Just one, Father. His Eminence, Cardinal Mennini, told me that this man I am to travel with . . . impersonating his wife . . . is an evil man. Will there be much danger for me on this journey?’

  He spread his huge hands. ‘Ania, any clandestine journey through Eastern Europe involves danger.’

  ‘I meant from the man, Father.’

  ‘Oh.’ He hesitated. ‘You mean physical?’

  ‘I mean rape, Father.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘I think not . . . He will possibly - no, probably - try to seduce you. He is without morals as we know them . . . but rape, I think not.’

  Diffidently she said, ‘I’m not afraid. But would it not be possible for me to take some sort of short course in self-defence . . . judo or something?’

  Ruefully he shook his head. ‘Ania, that man is already physically very powerful and well trained. About now he’s starting a crash course that will make him totally lethal. In such an eventuality you will have to rely on your wit and intellect.’

  She nodded soberly.

  He said, ‘Now you must go to the hairdresser.’

  She rose and, as she turned to the door, he asked, ‘What is the Russian word for shit?’

  She answered immediately over her shoulder, ‘Guwno.’ Then she strode across the room, hair and hips swinging. As her hand closed on the door knob he called, ‘Ania.’

  She turned. His expression was stern and a little sad. He nodded.

  ‘Very good.’

  Chapter 6

  The SS Lydia docked at Tripoli at dusk. Cypriot owned and crewed, she plied regularly in a triangle between Limassol, Trieste and Tripoli, carrying general cargo. Mirek had boarded her surreptitiously in Trieste in the middle of the night three days earlier. A short journey but he would be glad to get off. He had virtually been locked into a dirty cabin in the fo’c’sle and been left to his thoughts. The food had been foul and the air fetid. The only contact he had with the crew was when food was delivered.

  His thoughts on the journey often encompassed the Bacon Priest. It was nothing short of astonishing that he should be able to arrange for Mirek, the would-be assassin of the head of Russia, to be trained in a terrorist camp in the Libyan desert. The same camp, Father Heisl had informed him with an ironic smile, where Ali Agca had been trained for his attempt on the life of the Pope. Heisl assured him that no one in authority at the camp would question him about his background. They had simply been told that he was a foreign recruit for a cell of the Red Brigade. His credentials were in order. This camp trained terrorists without discrimination. In the four days that passed between his meeting with Van Burgh in the Vienna park and his boarding the SS Lydia much had happened.

  He had travelled from Vienna to Trieste by car with Father Heisl. The cleric drove like a heretic. When Mirek at one stage pointedly remarked that they had just touched 160 kph the priest grinned, pointed to the St Christopher medal stuck to the dashboard, and said: ‘Have faith.’ It was small solace to an atheist.

  He snorted and said, ‘Don’t you know that Christopher has been desanctified?’

  Heisl had grinned and shrugged and said, ‘No matter. He’s looked after me for many years.’

  The priest had talked during the whole journey. First explaining what he would learn in the training camp. The kind of people who would instruct him. Mirek must pay attention and learn well. It was an expensive business. With transportation, plus instruction charges the Church would see little change from US$15,000. Mirek had been impressed and remarked that terror didn’t come cheap. Heisl agreed and explained that it was only one of a dozen such camps spread through the Middle East. At any given time between twenty and thirty ‘students’ would be at each camp. Such camps had been and would be the nursery for European and Arab terror. Both Left and Right wing. The man who would arrange it all was the leader of a Red Brigade cell in Trieste. His cell specialised in transportation and training. Other cells handled weapons; fund-raising by bank robberies; kidnappings and killings for political purposes. This man believed that Father Heisl was the head of a cell of the German Red Army Faction. They had worked together once before and Father Heisl had paid well. When Mirek asked him for what he had pai
d well, he got a shrug and a look that told him to mind his own business.

  Just before the Italian border the priest showed him his new passport. His name was Piotr Poniatowski. He had escaped to the West twelve years earlier and received French nationality seven years later. His birthplace was listed as Warsaw. The birth date was two years earlier than his own. As he leafed through the pages looking at the old stamps and visas Heisl had remarked, ‘It’s perfect. There was such a man. He was born in Warsaw on that date. He was killed in a car crash near Paris last year.’

  ‘Were you driving?’ Mirek asked.

  The priest smiled. ‘No. I never have accidents.’

  They passed through the border post without incident and half an hour later were carrying their suitcases into a small house in a poor district near the docks. It was looked after by an old woman dressed all in black. Mirek assumed that she belonged to a lay religious order. She hardly said a word but cooked them an excellent lunch. Afterwards Mirek had a siesta while the priest went out on business.

  They stayed in the house for three days. Mirek had wanted to go out and see something of the city. Maybe find a woman. He didn’t tell Heisl that but even so the priest was adamantly opposed. This was a transit point for Mirek, both in and out. It was a good rule never to hang around in public in a transit point, especially one like Trieste which is a very international city and used by Intelligence Services both from the East and West. So while Heisl came and went Mirek kicked his heels watching television, reading magazines and eating too much pasta. During their conversations Heisl outlined some of the possible routes they would use to get him into Moscow. He was vague, saying that a choice would be made nearer the time. Mirek had tapped his French passport and asked, ‘Why don’t I just fly in on Air France, as a tourist or businessman?’

  Heisl had shaken his head firmly.

  ‘You may have to be in Moscow for quite a long time both before and after the event. A tourist or businessman is always monitored. There must be no record of your being in the city or in the country. But don’t worry, it’s our job to get you there and out again - and we will. Our best minds are working on it.’

  On the third night Heisl brought back a small black canvas bag. He gave it to Mirek and told him to pack his toilet articles, underwear, handkerchiefs and a change of trousers and shirt. He should be ready to leave at midnight. At ten minutes to that hour he went to Mirek’s room and collected the rest of Mirek’s clothes.

  ‘Where’s your passport?’

  Mirek pointed at the canvas bag.

  ‘Give it to me. You won’t be needing it.’

  Mirek opened the bag and passed it over. The priest tucked it into an inside pocket, brushed past Mirek and rifled through the bag.

  ‘There’s nothing in here except clothes and your toilet bag?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Satisfied, the priest zipped it up and said, ‘There’s a flask of hot coffee in the kitchen. Take it with you. It’s going to be a long night.’

  They left just after midnight. This time Heisl drove his Renault slowly, constantly checking the rearview mirror.

  ‘It’s the greatest time of danger,’ he had remarked, ‘when you are making contact with another group whose security may have been penetrated. The Italian counter-terrorist people have become very expert. Sometimes they penetrate these cells and just lie low hoping they’ll lead them on to something else.’

  Mirek knew the technique well, having used it himself many times.

  ‘And what,’ he asked, ‘happens if we’re caught making contact?’

  ‘It would be very embarrassing,’ the priest conceded. ‘By the way, from now on until I see you again in a month your name is Werner. Just that. You are to answer to no other.’

  ‘And my nationality?’

  ‘You have none. You are simply a member of the terrorist international.’

  They had made a wide circle through the city and finally came back into the dock area. The priest checked his watch and pulled into a narrow street between huge warehouses. Most of the street lights were not working and long dark shadows made patterns on the high walls. Heisl eased the Renault to a stop and turned off the lights. He left the engine running. It was the only sound for five minutes then, up ahead, there was a rattle as a warehouse door slid open a few feet. A shadowy figure appeared. After a moment two pinpoints of light came from it. The priest leaned forward and flicked the car’s lights on and off twice in reply. Then he reached into the glove compartment and handed Mirek a thick brown envelope.

  ‘Give him this. I’ll see you right here on your return. Good luck.’

  They shook hands. Mirek reached for his bag and opened the door. Without looking back he walked quickly to the warehouse. As he reached it he heard the priest’s car accelerating away. The man waiting for him was young, in his early twenties. He had the earnest look of a keen student. He asked, ‘Werner?’

  Mirek nodded and was ushered inside. The warehouse was stacked with wooden cases. Three large ones were loaded on to the low trailer of a truck. Two older men in overalls were standing by it.

  ‘You have something for me?’

  The young man had an educated voice; even cultured. Mirek handed him the envelope. He immediately slit it open with a thumbnail and extracted a wad of notes. Mirek noticed they were hundred dollar bills. They were quickly counted. Then the young man nodded in satisfaction, walked over to the two men and gave them several each. He turned to Mirek.

  ‘Come and I’ll explain.’

  They walked to the trailer. One of the wooden cases had one side lowered. On the outside arrows were stencilled pointing upwards, together with the shape of a wine glass and the word ‘fragile’. Mirek peered inside. It had been lined with foam rubber padding. A plastic chair had been fixed to the bottom. Next to it a deep enamel bowl had been nailed down. The young man gestured.

  ‘You make the first part of the journey in there. You leave in ten minutes. It will be fifteen minutes to the Customs check. Anything up to an hour there. Then it could be two or three hours before the crate is loaded by a derrick. If it swings a lot you can brace your arms and legs against the sides. The ship should sail at six this morning but there are often delays.’ He pointed. ‘There are plenty of air holes and the ventilation is adequate. They will let you out as soon as the ship clears the coast.’ He pointed at the enamel bowl. ‘You can piss or be sick in there. Did you bring something to drink?’

  Mirek nodded. ‘Has anyone been caught going this way?’

  ‘So far, no. Some very brave men have been in that crate. Are you ready?’

  ‘Sure.’ Mirek tossed his bag in, then pulled himself up. The chair was quite comfortable. He could almost sit upright. He put his palms against each side. He could support himself well.

  The young man said, ‘The worst thing is the darkness. Don’t try to light a match or anything; the padding is very inflammable. You don’t suffer from claustrophobia?’

  He shook his head. He had been tested for that when he joined the SB.

  ‘OK then.’ The young man gestured at the other two and they moved forward with hammers and nails. To Mirek he said, ‘Have a useful journey, Comrade.’

  Mirek had nodded and then it was dark and the hammer blows were echoing around his head.

  The ship was delayed and it was twelve hours before he felt the vibrations of the engines and another three before they prised open the crate and let daylight and fresh air into it. Up until then his mind had roamed over the obvious possibilities. Had there been a mix-up and they didn’t know he was in the crate? Had they got the crate number wrong? Total darkness gives a great boost to the imagination. Mirek had used the technique himself for interrogation. Only now did he appreciate its true effectiveness.

  There were two of them. Cheerful, tow-headed Cypriots. He was so cramped that they had to help him out and on to the deck. Straightening his legs was agony. The crate had been deck cargo. He looked around him in the watery sunlight. Th
e ship was rolling slowly on an oily swell. In the distance he could see the smudge of a coastline. One of the Cypriots pointed. ‘Yugoslavia.’

  He walked a few painful steps. He would have liked to walk around the deck a few times to loosen up but the crewmen wouldn’t hear of it. One of them collected his bag and they helped him to the fo’c’sle: first to a toilet and then to the cabin.

  Now he peered through the single small porthole at the docks of Tripoli. They looked drab. For something to do, he repacked his bag. An hour passed while he fought against the impatience every sea traveller has while waiting to disembark. Finally there was a tap on the door. It opened to reveal a middle-aged Arab in army fatigues. There were no rank badges or insignia. ‘Werner?’

  Mirek nodded.

  The Arab pointed and asked in English: ‘That is your bag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take everything out of it.’

  Mirek unpacked and laid everything on the bunk. The Arab conducted a search as thorough as Mirek had ever seen. He felt the seams of all the clothing, checked buttons and collars, carefully examined the soles of the shoes and every item in the toilet bag. Then he went over the bag itself. Then he checked the clothes and shoes that Mirek was wearing and gave him a thorough body search. Finally satisfied, the Arab told him to pack his bag and follow him. There were members of the crew working on deck but they studiously ignored Mirek and the Arab.

  An army truck was waiting at the foot of the gangway. There was a driver in the cab, also wearing unmarked fatigues. The Arab led Mirek to the back of the truck, opened the canvas flap and gestured.

  Mirek dumped his bag in and climbed after it. As he sat down the canvas flaps were laced tightly shut from the outside.