In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  Now Zamiatin was impatient. Sharply he said, ‘Who gave it to them?’

  Gudov smiled. ‘The Iron Curtain Church Relief.’

  Zamiatin frowned and then as the implication sank in, he, too, smiled.

  ‘Ah. Our friend the Bacon Priest. . . bring it here.’

  The Major picked up the file and carried it over. The other two Majors were watching Zamiatin. He beckoned and they joined him, crowding round the desk.

  Zamiatin slowly turned the pages of the file. Each page contained two ink drawings of a man’s or woman’s head. One full face, the other in profile.

  Beneath the drawings were written descriptions. With his assistants peering over his shoulder he came to the drawings of a young, pretty Oriental girl. Major Gudov pointed to a sentence at the end of the written description. It read: ‘Sexually promiscuous to the point of nymphomania.’

  ‘So,’ Zamiatin murmured. ‘The compiler of this did a little more than mere training in that camp.’

  Gudov nodded. ‘He sure did. There’s more later.’

  Five pages further on they were looking at the severely attractive face of Leila. Again Gudov pointed at the last sentence. It read: ‘Sexually active. Sado-masochistic tendencies.’

  One of the Majors grinned and said, ‘How do I get into that place?’

  They all laughed, including Zamiatin who was feeling elation and relief.

  ‘You don’t,’ he said. He jerked a thumb at Gudov. ‘But Boris here does, and very soon. Sit down all of you.’

  They went back to their desks and sat and waited patiently. Zamiatin turned over the last pages of the file, then sat silently in thought for a few minutes. Finally he raised his head and spoke with brisk authority.

  ‘Major Gudov, you will go home now and change into civilian clothes and pack an overnight bag and proceed to Lublin Air Force Base. A military jet will be standing by waiting to fly you to Libya. You will be met there by a senior officer of Libyan Intelligence who will accompany you by helicopter to Ibn Awad camp. They are not supposed to photograph the trainees but you can be sure they do, surreptitiously. You will obtain those photographs and compare them with the drawings in this file. Obviously there will be one extra. That is our man . . . or woman. Presumably a man, unless the “Papa’s envoy” is a lesbian.’ No one smiled; his expression and tone of voice precluded that. ‘You will then interrogate all the instructors and any trainees in the camp who were there up to the twenty-second of last month. Particularly the Filipino woman and the instructress Leila. You will do all this in twelve hours. I want your report on my desk by ten o’clock tomorrow night. Try to sleep on the way out and back. Do not fail me. Go now.’

  Major Gudov stood up, saluted smartly and headed for the door. Zamiatin’s voice stopped him. He was holding out the file.

  ‘You’ll need this.’

  Gudov walked over, looking sheepish. Zamiatin was not angry. He knew that great brains are often absent-minded. He ignored Gudov’s retreating figure and said to one of the other Majors, ‘Comrade Major Worintzev, you will arrange the transport and liaison with Libyan Intelligence through our resident in Tripoli. Utilise the special orders.’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ Worintzev reached for one of the phones on his desk.

  Zamiatin was looking at the last Major who waited expectantly. Finally Zamiatin said, ‘Major Jwanow, you will order tea for all of us!’

  Jwanow grinned and reached for the phone. After placing the order he hung up and said, ‘How on earth did the Bacon Priest get a man into that place?’

  Zamiatin sighed. ‘We shall try to find out, but I fear we will come to a dead end. That damned cleric is never to be underestimated . . .’ He took a deep breath and picked up his felt-tipped pen. ‘But we are on his tail now.’

  On the bottom of his draft report to the First Secretary he wrote: ‘There is a possibility of a breakthrough in establishing the identity of the assassin and obtaining a detailed description. I expect this to be to hand in time for my next report.’

  Archbishop Mario Versano was uncomfortable. The chair itself was soft but the situation was not.

  Gently the Pope repeated, ‘What is going on, Mario?’

  The Archbishop shook his head in puzzlement. ‘I really don’t know, Your Holiness. Except that it all seems a bit strange.’

  ‘Very strange,’ the Pope said. He stood up, walked to his desk and picked up a piece of paper. ‘We have a report from Cardinal Glemp in Warsaw. The SB are cracking down all over on direct orders from Moscow. We have already protested but it goes unheeded. It is happening all over the Eastern bloc. They don’t seem to care about world opinion. Hundreds of our people have been arrested. It has not happened in recent times.’ He dropped the piece of paper and picked up another. ‘Ciban reports to our secretary that in the last two days three attempts have been made to bribe maintenance workers in the Vatican to install listening devices. Fortunately the good people immediately went to him. He advised Counter Intelligence and they have picked up an Italian with a criminal record who is believed to have connections with the KGB. At the same time they advise that there is much increased KGB activity in the city. Ciban is very anxious about our safety. There are the mysterious threats to your life, supposedly from the Red Brigades. He wishes us to cancel our visit to Milan tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you?’ Versano asked.

  The Pope dropped the paper on to the desk, walked back to his chair and sat down heavily.

  ‘We will cancel nothing. Do you think Andropov is behind it? Do you think he will try to kill us here . . . in the Vatican . . . in Italy?’

  ‘No, Your Holiness.’

  ‘Then what is going on?’

  Versano crossed his long legs, edging forward in his seat. His mind was ranging ahead, feeling out a path. Deciding which way to go. He said hesitantly, ‘Your Holiness, I hear things of course. I think there could be a measure of misinformation here. I think some people may be manoeuvring in subterfuge.’

  ‘Explain.’

  Versano nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, that’s probably it. Your Holiness, you know that the Italian Secret Service has always had connections with certain elements here in the Vatican. That was obvious after the exposure of P2.’

  The Pope sighed. ‘Yes, but we have tried to limit that.’

  ‘Even so, Your Holiness, it’s very likely that elements in the Vatican have learned about the renewed threat to your life from the KGB . . . from Andropov . . . some of them are hot-heads. Perhaps they talked a little too much.’

  The Pope remained puzzled.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Versano warmed to his theme.

  ‘Well, they may have talked of retaliation.’ He let the incredulous silence build and then said, ‘Only talked, you understand. They hold Your Holiness in the highest reverence and would be aghast at this new threat to your life. See it as a threat to our entire beloved Church. I confess, Your Holiness, my own reaction was one of great anger. Of course at such times we must control that anger but some of us are more able to do so than others.’

  The Pope was getting the drift.

  ‘Do you know any more than that, Mario? Who would be involved? From the reaction in Poland we suspect that Father Van Burgh may be up to something. Ciban tells us that the Russico was one of the places in which they were trying to place listening devices. We have tried to locate Van Burgh but they told us he is in the East on a mission of mercy.’

  Versano shrugged. ‘It’s likely, Your Holiness. That is his work.’

  The Pope nodded. ‘Yes, bless his soul. But we also remember that he is a priest who likes to go his own way. When we were Archbishop of Cracow he often got up to things we never knew about until later.’

  Placatingly Versano said, ‘I will keep my ear to the ground, Your Holiness, and report if I uncover anything. I will also try to find out what Father Van Burgh is doing and when he will return from the East. I think it’s better if you leave this in my hands . . . Your Holines
s has so much to concern himself with.’

  John Paul grunted in agreement, massaged his jaw and said sadly, ‘It was a great blow losing Cardinal Mennini. We pray for his soul every day. He had just begun to re-organise and discipline the Order. He is such a loss to us . . .’ He sighed. ‘And now we’re advised that Cardinal Bascones is favourite to be elected.’ He held both hands out in a gesture of despair. ‘He will radicalise the Order again . . . We may have to intervene, but we’re loath to do so. It will cause even more polarisation within the Order . . . within the whole Church.’

  Again Versano was placating. He was glad to be off the other subject.

  ‘Your Holiness, I think you should not worry at this stage. My own information is that Bascones only has an outside chance.’

  ‘We hope you’re right.’ The gloom left the Pope’s face and he smiled at the Archbishop. ‘Mario, how we wished you could come to Milan with us. We miss you on these trips, when you are not by our side.’

  Versano smiled wryly. ‘I also, Your Holiness. I hope the matter will soon be cleared up . . . I am determined to be beside you in the Far East.’

  The Pope stood up. ‘Nothing would give us more pleasure. Meanwhile, Mario, we rely on you to let us know as soon as you have anything more on this other business. It is unsettling to us.’ He sighed yet again. ‘Did you know that on his death poor Cardinal Mennini was found to be wearing the coarsest of hair shirts? His penance must have caused him agony.’

  Versano shook his head. ‘But I am not surprised, Your Holiness. He was a man with a soul of infinite purity. I too pray for him.’

  From his great height he looked on his Pontiff and smiled reassuringly. ‘On the other matter you can rely on me.’

  The Pope smiled and lifted his hand and the Archbishop bent and softly kissed the ring.

  Frank spread all the passport-sized photographs out on the desk. Some were clear, others less so. None were posed. Major Gudov, wearing a pale blue short-sleeved shirt and badly cut unfaded jeans, opened his file and leaned over the desk. Behind him stood the KGB Tripoli station chief, wearing a safari suit and a worried look. Next to him was ‘Hassan’ in a burnous. He was the deputy head of the Libyan Security Service. He looked irritated. Gudov represented Big Brother. Therefore he must be respected, but the Libyan did not like his domineering manner.

  Quickly Gudov matched photo to drawing. Frank helped. He obviously had a practised eye. It took ten minutes. Slowly Gudov pulled the single remaining photo towards him and looked down at the half profile face of Mirek Scibor. Behind him Frank smiled and said:

  ‘If that’s your plant he never faltered; never asked a question out of line. Never created the slightest suspicion.’

  Gudov grunted impatiently, ‘Get me his file.’

  Frank went to a steel filing cabinet, opened a door, rifled through some files and pulled one out. A slight smile was still on his face as he handed it to the Russian. Gudov looked at the single name written on the cover with a marker pen: ‘Werner’. ‘He’s German?’ he asked.

  Frank shook his head. ‘He spoke excellent German but with an accent. Also English. I’d say he’s East European; Czech or Polish . . . could even be Russian.’

  With a snort of disbelief Gudov turned to Hassan and asked sharply, ‘From where did he come?’

  Hassan said firmly, ‘To answer that I’ll have to get clearance from my chief . . . or even the Colonel himself.’

  Gudov exploded. For two minutes he screamed abuse at the Arab. When he finished spittle was running down his chin. Hassan had backed up against a wall, seemingly pushed by the tirade. His face was rigid with a combination of shock and fear. Gudov pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his chin, then, emphasising every word, said: ‘Your chief told you to give me every co-operation. Now tell me what I want to know or I promise you that you’ll be dead by sunset.’

  Without moving, and speaking like a robot, Hassan said, ‘He came through Trieste. By ship to Tripoli on the SS Lydia - Cypriot - registered in Limassol.’

  ‘Who sent him?’ Gudov barked.

  Hassan managed a shrug. ‘We were told the German Red Army.’

  ‘Do you have proof of that?’

  ‘No, sir. We never do. You know how the system works. No questions are asked. We train all types from every ideology. Their only common denominator is indiscriminate terror.’ His voice hardened slightly and he repeated, ‘You know how the system works. The KGB devised it . . . for this camp and the others.’

  Gudov sighed and asked, ‘Where is this ship now?’

  Hassan thought for a moment, then replied, ‘It plies regularly between Limassol, Trieste and Tripoli . . . it should be in Tripoli in a few days.’

  Gudov turned to the KGB station head. ‘Lagovsky, I want the crew interrogated. You do it personally. Every detail they gleaned of this man. I want that information in Moscow twenty-four hours after that ship docks.’

  Lagovsky bobbed his head in understanding. ‘Yes, Major.’

  He was nominally senior to Gudov but the signal that had preceded the Major’s urgent arrival had left no doubts as to who was in charge.

  ‘And the despatcher in Trieste,’ Gudov continued. ‘He must be run to ground and interrogated. Get the information from Hassan and signal Rome. They are to report to me direct in Moscow.’

  ‘Yes, Major.’

  Now for the first time Gudov opened the file. It contained reports on ‘Werner’ from all the instructors. Gudov read them quickly, flicking the pages. As chief instructor, Frank’s report was at the end. He watched with the same little smile as the Russian read his final summing up.

  ‘This man was dedicated to absorbing all aspects of the training and excelled in them all. On leaving the camp he was at the peak of physical fitness. Mentally and physically he is the perfect assassin.’

  Gudov looked up at him as if asking a question. Quietly Frank said, ‘He’s the best I’ve ever trained. The best I’ve ever seen. He’s lethal.’

  Gudov turned to the table and pointed to the photographs.

  ‘How many of these people are still in the camp?’

  Quickly Frank separated the photos, piling some up to one side. Finally there were twelve left. Gudov scanned them.

  ‘The Filipinos have left?’

  ‘Four days ago.’

  ‘Pity.’ He turned to Lagovsky and pointed at Hassan. ‘Try to locate them. Apparently our man had sexual relations with one of the women. I want her interrogated.’ He looked at his watch and frowned. To Frank he said, ‘I will use this room to question all concerned. First the trainees one by one, then the instructors. You will be at the end. Leila before you.’

  He waved a hand dismissively and they headed for the door. Frank said over his shoulder, ‘You want coffee, Major?’

  ‘No.’ Gudov hesitated. ‘Do you have Coca-Cola?’

  Frank grinned. ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘Send me three bottles, cold.’

  Gudov did not hold high hopes for extracting much useful information from the trainees and instructors, with the possible exception of Leila.

  So it proved. He learned that ‘Werner’ had been a good listener but not much of a talker. He was getting desperate by the time Leila was ushered in. Her attractive face was impassive. With the others he had been blunt, almost menacing. With Leila he took a softer approach. It was not that she was a woman, but one look at her face told him that she could be obstinate. He also knew her history. She was unlikely to be intimidated.

  He stood up and held out his hand. She shook it with a firm grip. He gestured at a chair and they both sat down. The top buttons of her shirt were open and he found his eyes drawn to smooth brown skin at the top of her breasts. She sat easily, waiting patiently. He said, ‘Leila, as you will know, we are investigating the man “Werner”. We believe that he may be an agent for the Imperialists . . . and for the Zionists.’

  Her lips twitched and she said, ‘Well he wasn’t Jewish. I can tell you that he was uncircum
cised.’

  He forced a smile. ‘Yes, but they wouldn’t be so obvious . . . Now Leila, we need your help. You had relations with this man . . . on several occasions.’

  She nodded.

  ‘How many occasions?’ he asked.

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘I didn’t count, Major. I suppose between eight and ten times.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing! Come, Leila.’ Gudov leaned forward and said intently, ‘You and he became lovers . . . on at least eight occasions . . . and he said nothing?’

  She took a breath and looked him directly in the eye. ‘Major, please understand me. I will tell you anything I can about the man. I will never see him again. He means nothing to me emotionally. It was only physical. I often pick out one of the trainees for such contact. Now believe me, we hardly spoke a word . . .’ She paused, and then seemed to make up her mind. ‘You see, Major, that’s the way I wanted it. So did he. The silence made it better . . . no affection . . . no soft words . . . soft lies .. .just two bodies. Do you understand?’

  He did and he believed her. He felt close to despair. He had been relying on her. He looked down at the piece of paper in front of him. It was her face looking back with ‘Werner’s’ words of description. He read the words, ‘sado-masochistic tendencies’. He was about to ask a question when she said firmly, ‘Major, since I heard, two hours ago, that you are investigating this man I have been thinking of every detail I can that may help you. If you pick up your pen I will list them for you.’

  A bit taken aback, Gudov picked up his pen and centred his notebook in front of him.

  She started reciting a litany. ‘His skin was unnaturally pale, even for a European. As if he had been out of the sun for a long time. He got a slight tan while he was here but was very careful not to get burned. He had a narrow scar about ten centimetres long on his lower right buttock. Another, wider but only half as long, above his left knee. His feet are average length for his height but highly arched. His fingers are slim but very strong. He has a moderate amount of bodily hair, especially on the chest. His pubic hair is very black, quite dense and more curly than the average European. His penis is average to large, uncircumcised. His scrotum is large.’