In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  He continued squeezing. She slowly undressed. She did it without obvious provocation but the combination of the masculine army fatigues being slowly discarded to reveal the lithe, dark, shapely body was intensely erotic. She dropped the shirt. High, pointed breasts with large aureoles and small nipples, a deeply recessed navel and narrow waist. He pumped the exercisers and felt his erection rising. She unzipped the mottled trousers, dropped them and stepped out. Her panties were brief and black. She slid them down sleek muscled legs. The triangle of pubic hair was as black as the panties. Now his erection was almost a pain. She slowly moved forward, raised her hands and cupped her breasts.

  ‘Squeeze these - hard.’

  He dropped the exercisers and made to stand but she put a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his arms, moulded her breasts with his hands and squeezed. They were soft but firm. Her expression never changed. He squeezed harder, very hard. Her lips opened slightly, a pink tongue slid along between them. He pulled her forward by her breasts. She pushed him flat. That was the end of the foreplay. She slid a leg over him, grasped his erection and forced it into her. He held on to her breasts as she rode him, then pulled her down and tried to kiss her. She turned her face and he nuzzled her ear instead. It could not last long. He felt it building and tried to contain it but failed. His back arched involuntarily and he gasped with relief as he spurted into her.

  Her face showed her disappointment. She sat back on him panting slightly. He could feel the muscles inside her still moving, trying to squeeze pleasure from his shrinking penis.

  He muttered, ‘It’s been a long time for me . . . months.’

  She shrugged and pushed herself up and off him. By the bed was a metal washbasin on a stand and a towel. She took the towel and wiped herself between the legs, then bent to pick up her clothes.

  ‘Wait.’

  She turned. He was sitting upright on the bed.

  ‘Wait a few minutes. It will be all right.’

  Sceptically she looked at his flaccid penis. He patted the bed beside him. With a shrug she dropped her clothes and sat down. They sat in silence for several minutes. He put an arm round her shoulder. Her flesh was unresponsive. It was as though she was waiting for a dental appointment. With his other hand he reached for hers and placed it on his penis. She moved her fingers and it stirred.

  He muttered, ‘Kiss it. Take it in your mouth.’

  Emphatically she shook her head. But her fingers moved faster and gradually it grew. She tried to push him back on to the bed but he resisted. Instead he twisted her by the shoulders, forcing her on to her back. This time he would be on top.

  This time it was fine. He fitted himself into her and slid in and out rhythmically, coming down hard each time. For the first few minutes she was still; but then she started to arch up to meet him. Minutes later she locked her ankles behind his legs and began making short, urgent grunts as they slapped together. Her mouth opened and he lowered his head. Her arms came round him tight as their mouths met. She sucked at him and then thrust her tongue at his throat, gnawed with her teeth at his lips, tried to crush his ribs into hers. They rose towards it in a long, steady climb. He increased the pace. Her grunts got louder, her hot breath gusting into his mouth, then she pulled her face away, moaned loudly, clamped her mouth on to his shoulder and shuddered into her orgasm.

  He climaxed in a mixture of pain and passion. When he pulled away from her blood dripped from his shoulder on to her breasts. She raised her finger and touched the teeth marks gently. For a moment he thought he saw compassion in her eyes, then it was gone.

  Minutes later she, too, was gone. Again she wiped herself with the towel and rapidly dressed without looking at him. At the door his voice had stopped her.

  ‘Next time you will kiss it. . . and take it in your mouth.’

  She had given him a long, level stare, then opened the door and left.

  A half hour before dawn his door opened again. He was standing in his shorts exercising his fingers in the bucket of sand. He thought it must be her, but it was Frank. He was holding a piece of paper and he watched with approval as Mirek plunged his hands deep into the sand, then he noticed the bite mark on his shoulder.

  ‘Aha! I see Leila’s been giving you a little extra PT,’ he leered. ‘She’s OK that one, but a little too straightforward for my taste. You ought to try that little Filipino girl; now she knows all the tricks.’

  Mirek ignored him and kept on with his exercise. Frank held out the piece of paper.

  ‘Signal for you.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Obviously your people.’

  Mirek shook the sand off his hands and took the paper. On it was written in longhand: ‘Werner, do not cut your hair. Grow a moustache.’

  Frank saw his look of puzzlement. He said, ‘It must be in code. You don’t know what it means?’

  Mirek shook his head. ‘I was given no code; expected no messages.’ Frank grinned. ‘They must think this is a bloody barber’s shop.’

  That morning Mirek did two hundred press-ups. Only Leila was still going when he finished.

  For the next two nights he waited for her. She did not come. On the third night at dinner he noticed the pretty Filipino girl watching him. He indulged in a little eye contact and body language.

  She came to his room an hour after dinner. She was, he supposed, a nymphomaniac and Frank was right, she did know all the tricks. At one stage he sat on the bed while she knelt and fellated him. Looking down at her bobbing head and lustrous black hair he wondered how she could ever kill anyone. Just then the door quietly opened. He looked up to see Leila standing there. The Filipino girl tried to pull away but he held her head firmly, gazing steadily at Leila. She turned and went out, closing the door behind her.

  The next morning he passed two hundred and fifty press-ups. He looked up. Leila was spreadeagled on the sand, her arms stretched out on either side as though crucified.

  Chapter 7

  Archbishop Versano popped another piece of osso buco into his mouth and murmured with approval. After swallowing he said, ‘The chef here is touched by God. No one makes it better.’

  The Bacon Priest and Cardinal Mennini agreed. It was the second meeting of Nostra Trinita in the L’Eau Vive, and Van Burgh had much progress to report. Mennini was very gratified when he announced, ‘Eminence, your choice of the nun Anna was perfect. She is intelligent, composed and devout.’

  Mennini inclined his head graciously.

  ‘And how is she doing in her training?’

  ‘Excellently. She has a natural acting talent. Having been in cloisters since infancy she is obviously sensitive about certain aspects of modern life. However I am exposing her to some such aspects and she is adapting well.’ He glanced at his watch and smiled. ‘Right now she’s doing aerobics.’

  The other two looked at him blankly.

  ‘It’s a new sort of dance exercise. I want her to be fit. One of the lay girls she was introduced to is a dancer. Afterwards they’ll have dinner. Then on to Jackie “O”.’

  Again he got blank looks and laughed.

  ‘That’s Rome’s most sophisticated disco.’

  The Cardinal looked a little troubled. ‘Is that really necessary, Father?’

  Van Burgh nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, Your Eminence. It is very necessary to broaden her horizons . . . after all they have discos in the East and are conversant with the latest Western pop music . . . so must she be. La Cantante must know the songs.’ He injected a placating tone into his voice. ‘Don’t worry, Your Eminence. Her faith is strong enough to protect her mind from such influences. Also the people she is with are sensible and respectful.’

  ‘What about the man?’ Versano asked. ‘Tell us about him.’

  The Bacon Priest thought for a few moments, then said, ‘Had we searched for years for our envoy we would never have found one better. His background gives him expertise in certain vital areas. In other areas he is being trained now. He will have the skills, the equi
pment, the back-up and, of course, he has the motive.’

  ‘Which is?’ Versano asked. ‘He told you?’

  Both he and the Cardinal were watching Van Burgh with curiosity. The Bacon Priest was looking down at the fine damask tablecloth. He nodded sombrely.

  ‘Yes, the motive is pure hatred centred on the person of Yuri Andropov. The reason for that hatred was an act perpetrated by Andropov some years ago. An act so base and vile that I should have never believed it possible . . . but I do believe.’ He looked up. They were watching him expectantly. He sighed. ‘But before he told me I had to swear on the Blessed Virgin that I would never, ever, tell anyone.’

  They could not keep the disappointment from their eyes. On seeing it he said softly, ‘He told me only to convince me of his total determination . . . I can tell you this: after hearing the story any qualms I had about our causing the death of Andropov were completely dispelled.’

  They were somewhat mollified by his words. He quickly changed the subject. To Versano he said, ‘Mario, I have done a costing on the operation. It is going to be expensive; certainly far too much for the resources of my Iron Curtain Church Relief Fund.’

  ‘How much?’ Versano asked cheerfully, happy to be back on familiar, fiscal ground.

  ‘In American dollars, about three hundred thousand.’

  Mennini gasped in shock.

  ‘But how . . . ?’

  Van Burgh held up a hand.

  ‘Your Eminence. That is cheap compared with what the CIA or KGB would spend on such an operation . . . Just a fraction of what they would spend.’ Mennini was looking sceptical. He was in no way naive about Vatican finances but his natural asceticism gave him qualms.

  Feeling a little irritated the Bacon Priest explained. ‘First we have to train the “envoy”. That training, for example, will cost fifteen thousand. Then we have to set up a completely new pipeline through to Moscow. I cannot - will not - use any of our existing routes.’

  He broke off as the door opened and two serving girls came in. One was pushing a trolley which was laden with fruit and a cheese board. The other quickly cleared the dirty plates, laid clean ones, put the fruit and cheese in the centre of the table and asked, ‘Three espressos?’

  ‘Later,’ Versano said, smiling at her. ‘In about half an hour.’

  As soon as the door closed Van Burgh turned to the Cardinal and went on, almost aggressively, ‘Your Eminence, I want you to understand what that entails. Several dozen people have to be positioned or repositioned. Certain properties have to be rented or even purchased. Transport certainly has to be purchased - and in the East that’s difficult and expensive. A safe house must be established in Moscow itself. Couriers must come and go. Some bribes may have to be paid . . . I assure you not a cent will be overspent.’

  Immediately Mennini interjected.

  ‘Of course not, Father. I meant no such inference. It’s just that I was shocked by the amount. Of course I know such things cost money . . .’ Another thought struck him and he turned in concern to Versano. ‘But how can we account for such an amount . . . this is supposed to be a secret?’

  The genial Archbishop took charge. Van Burgh might be the expert on subterfuge but now they were on his territory.

  ‘Please don’t let that concern you, Your Eminence. That money will show in no accounts of the Vatican, or indeed the Church anywhere.’ He smiled. ‘In fact I assure you that the money will not even come from the Church.’

  Puzzled, Mennini asked, ‘Then from where?’

  The American Archbishop made a very Italian gesture with his hands. A gesture which indicated that all things were possible. He said simply, ‘From friends.’

  There was a silence while the other two digested that. The Bacon Priest, who knew more of such things than the Cardinal, guessed that the ‘friends’ would be either certain shadowy bankers, business tycoons who could always use a future favour from ‘God’s Financier’, or the Mafia. Or a combination of all three.

  From inside his robes Versano had taken out a little black leather notebook and a thin gold pencil. He asked Van Burgh, ‘Where do you want it and how?’

  Mennini felt out of it now as they settled the details. The Bacon Priest wanted two-thirds of it in dollars paid into a numbered bank account in Strasbourg, and one-third in gold. If possible in ‘Vietnam’ style sheets. The Cardinal was mystified by this, but Versano nodded in understanding. The Vietnamese boat people, the lucky ones who got through, brought gold with them. Tons of it. So much that in the early stages gold dealers were allowed to set up shop in some of the refugee camps. Such gold was fashioned into small, paper-thin strips, easy to bend and mould into places of concealment. Versano assumed that if bribery was necessary the gold would be the medium. Van Burgh wanted it delivered to a priest in Amsterdam. Versano jotted down the name and address, then tucked away the notebook and pencil.

  ‘How soon?’ the priest asked.

  Versano reached forward, picked up a plump orange and started to peel it, his squat boxer’s fingers surprising adept. He said, ‘The dollars will be in Strasbourg within seventy-two hours . . . The gold in Amsterdam within a week.’

  ‘Good, and I account for it direct to you?’

  Versano laughed. ‘No.’ He glanced at Mennini. ‘I suggest that no accounting is done - ever. That’s always how people get found out. That’s how Al Capone got caught by the tax people.’ With another glance at the Cardinal he said quietly, ‘Pieter, use the money for our purpose. If there’s a surplus divert it to your relief fund . . . If you need more, let me know. If you do so by phone use this code: a dollar will be a single tulip. If you tell me, for example, that you saw a field filled with tulips - “there must have been fifty thousand” - then I’ll send fifty thousand dollars to Strasbourg. An ounce of gold will be an Edam cheese. Tell me that a monastery in Zeeland makes a hundred Edams a day and I’ll send a hundred ounces of gold to your priest in Amsterdam . . . but no more mention of accounts.’

  Van Burgh was looking at Mennini expecting some dissension from this fastidious man who liked everything to be recorded and in its proper place. But the Cardinal nodded.

  ‘I agree, and after it’s over Nostra Trinita disappears and never was.’ He cut himself a small piece of Fontina, broke some bread and nodded again before eating. The Bacon Priest could see that both the Cardinal and the Archbishop were getting a vicarious enjoyment from the brotherhood of conspiracy. Versano had finished peeling the orange. He dissected it into segments, popped a piece into his mouth and asked, ‘What about your game plan? Is it worked out yet?’ He liked to talk in sporting metaphors.

  Van Burgh decided he might as well massage their pleasure in clandestine activities.

  ‘Nothing is finite in this business. The most important word we use is “contingency”. We assume that things will go wrong - and we plan for that. Now this operation is in five phases.’ He held up his hand, spread his fingers and tapped one of them. ‘Phase one is the preparation. That will soon be complete. Phase two is the journey. The “Papa’s envoy” will journey from Vienna through Czechoslovakia to Poland, then across Poland via Cracow and Warsaw to the Russian border. Then on to Moscow.’ He tapped the next finger. ‘Phase three is entry into Moscow, establishing a secure base and making the necessary dispositions for,’ he tapped the next finger, ‘phase four — the assassination of Andropov. Phase five, of course, is the escape of the envoy.’

  Versano leaned forward to ask a question but Van Burgh held up a hand.

  ‘Currently all plans for phase two have been worked out and our people are moving into position. The pipeline will be ready by the time the envoy has finished his training in two weeks. There will be a back-up pipeline in case of problems.’ He glanced at Mennini as if to emphasise that ‘back-ups’ were costly things. The Cardinal was now eating grapes and listening intently. ‘Planning for phase three is also complete. I already have two people in Moscow and three more will be there within a week. A “safe house” and
transport is arranged. Also the method for bringing Ania - Sister Anna — safely out at that stage.’

  Versano was determined to ask a question.

  ‘Back down the same route?’

  Van Burgh shook his head. ‘No. That’s bad strategy. That pipeline is temporary and the longer it’s in place the more chance of detection. We’ll bring her out through Helsinki. We have a tried and tested method. As to phase four . . .’ he shrugged non-committally. ‘Planning is still under way. We have identified three possibilities. They are all promising. But so far only one seems to offer a real chance for the envoy to escape.’

  Versano was intrigued. Eagerly he asked, ‘And that is?’

  Van Burgh shook his head. ‘That’s premature. Besides,’ he looked around the opulent room, ‘I prefer not to talk about that here. I know you’ve taken every precaution, Mario, but that phase is too delicate to discuss in any room. Even in the Vatican itself.’

  They both nodded in understanding. The Bacon Priest sighed and said, ‘That brings me on to some unpleasant news.’ He looked sadly at the Cardinal. ‘As you know, we always have defections behind the Iron Curtain. It’s inevitable, no matter what precautions we take. Some of our people are weaker than others. You could say more human. Sometimes they cannot take the terrible pressure. I cannot find it in my heart to blame them.’ His listeners were watching him intently. With another sigh he said, ‘Mirek Scibor was in a unique position to know of these defectors. He gave me a list of over one hundred names.’

  Versano drew in breath sharply. ‘Oh God! That’s terrible.’

  ‘No, Mario, that’s to be expected. We have thousands. It’s a tiny percentage. Most of them are unimportant. We are now quietly isolating them.’ He turned sadly to Mennini. ‘Your Eminence, it pains me greatly to have to tell you that two members of your own Order were on the list. Fortunately one was never used and the other not for a long time.’