In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  ‘Ah Feliks, the only way you’re going to get that lab is by being one. Look at Ratajski in Warsaw. He spends half his time at the Ministry kissing bums. Last year’s budget gave him two new operating theatres.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Kurowski conceded. ‘But I’m hot the bum-kissing type and you know it.’

  ‘Right, but there might be another way. The good Minister is very prestige conscious and without being disrespectful one could say that he has a very good impression of himself. ‘

  Kurowski grinned. ‘In what way is your devious mind working?’

  ‘Well, it’s strongly rumoured that Yuri Andropov is suffering from severe kidney trouble, among other things. Now if a certain Polish specialist were to be called in for consultation, then great kudos would attach itself to our Minister and the hospital whence the specialist came.’

  Kurowski caught his drift immediately. ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of our own Professor Szafer by any chance?’

  Skibinsky nodded seriously. ‘He is exceptional. He had two papers published last month in Sovetskaya Meditsina which were highly praised. His work on dialysis has been accepted worldwide as breaking new ground. My suggestion is logical, Roman, and there are precedents. After all, that Swiss specialist Brunner was called in to attend Brezhnev . . . also it’s rumoured that Andropov will need surgery.’

  Kurowski immediately said, ‘They’d never let a non-Russian operate.’

  ‘True,’ Skibinsky concurred. ‘But if it’s that serious they’ll accept all the advice they can get. And they know of Szafer’s reputation . . . he really is the boy wonder.’

  For a few moments Kurowski considered the suggestion. Skibinsky was a masterful persuader. He waited for just the right amount of time and then said, off-handedly, ‘And by coincidence Szafer is going to be in Moscow soon.’

  Kurowski looked up surprised. ‘He is?’

  Skibinsky smiled disarmingly. ‘Of course, you must give approval. He came to me yesterday afternoon. His girlfriend, an actress, is attending some function there. He wants to take a few days off to join her. I agreed to take his lectures and I can easily reschedule his operations.’

  Kurowski considered again, and again Skibinsky waited just long enough before putting in the clincher.

  ‘And again by coincidence the Minister is making an official visit to Moscow next week. The timing is perfect.’

  Kurowski laughed. ‘You make it sound like a God-given opportunity!’

  Skibinsky looked startled for a moment, then recovered and nodded.

  ‘It is, Roman, and one not to be missed. Now when you talk to the Minister I suggest you try to make it appear that it’s all his own idea.’

  He leaned forward and carefully explained the strategy.

  Chapter 12

  Mirek held the uniform in his hands and looked at Father Heisl in astonishment. The priest first laughed and then said seriously, Tm assured it’s a perfect fit. Does it give you nostalgia?’

  Mirek shook his head. Ania was sitting at the table looking puzzled. They were in the Vienna safe house. In twenty-four hours their journey would begin.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  Mirek tossed it on to the table.

  ‘It’s the uniform of a Colonel in the SB.’ He tapped the two medals on the breast of the jacket. ‘Obviously an efficient one.’ He turned to Heisl. ‘But what’s it all about?’

  ‘It’s the Bacon Priest’s idea. After all, you know the organisation intimately. You know the procedures and structures. It could be useful in a crisis.’

  Mirek nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s true, but what about papers?’

  ‘Those will be given to you after you cross the Czech-Polish border. It will be the same system all the way along. At each contact point your documents will be exchanged for the next stage of the journey.’

  Mirek remembered something. ‘No Colonel in the SB is properly dressed without his Makarov.’

  The priest nodded grimly and reached a hand into the large canvas bag at his feet. It emerged holding a black belt and flapped holster. He passed it to Mirek who quickly opened the flap and drew out a pistol. Its black-matt surface gleamed dully under the light. He weighed it in his hand with obvious satisfaction, then flicked the catch and slid out the magazine. He counted out the bullets and checked them carefully. As he reloaded them and thrust the magazine back into the grip Father Heisl said, ‘I’ve got a spare magazine for you.’

  ‘Good. So the Bacon Priest agreed.’

  Heisl sighed. ‘Reluctantly. He said it will make him very unhappy if you have to use it.’

  ‘Me too,’ Mirek replied grimly. ‘Is he in Vienna?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Mirek grinned at him. ‘Sure you do. I’ll bet he’s not a million miles from here.’

  Heisl shrugged and started lifting more items out of his bag and placing them on the table. First several small plastic bottles.

  ‘Hair dyes,’ he said. ‘Ania has been taught how to use them. I have wigs for her but a wig on a man always looks obvious.’ He put three wigs on the table. Ania reached for the auburn one, pulled it on and arranged it. The change in her appearance was startling. She brushed a finger over an eyebrow.

  ‘I would have to dye these.’

  She pulled the wig off and tossed it back on to the table. Heisl held a brown paper bag in his hand. He shook out the contents: several small round and oval shaped flat plastic pads.

  ‘You know what these are?’

  They both nodded. They had practised using them. Those pads, correctly placed inside the mouth against the cheeks, could subtly alter the shape of the face. Heisl put them back in the bag and said, ‘That’s it then. Except for one last thing. Ania, would you wait outside for just a minute?’

  Dutifully she rose and left the room. Mirek was expecting to listen to some confidential information. Instead the priest said, ‘Tell me again, in sequence, the contacts, the passwords, the fallbacks and the numbers.’

  Mirek’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Yet again a picture formed in his mind. The names, the places, the secret words and the telephone numbers. They were all stamped on his brain. Without hesitation he reeled them off.

  Heisl smiled and called loudly, ‘Ania.’

  She came back into the room and he put her to the same test. She too ran through the sequence without hesitation.

  The priest walked to the sideboard and poured two brandies and a Tia Maria. He gave one brandy to Mirek and the Tia Maria to Ania. He raised his own brandy and said benignly, ‘You are ready. Let’s drink to a successful journey and mission.’

  They drank. In spite of the toast the mood was sombre.

  Mirek said, ‘I think it’s time you told us how we cross that first border.’

  Heisl considered for a moment and then nodded.

  ‘We consider it one of the most dangerous stages of the journey. It’s the only border you will cross clandestinely. From Czechoslovakia into Poland, and Poland into Russia, you will cross with false papers and a convincing cover story. Originally we had planned the same for this border but that is now dangerous. Instead you will cross as “sardines”.’ He smiled at their raised eyebrows. ‘It’s just an expression we use. Such crossings take place in small hidden compartments. There is not much room.’ He walked to a wall on which was hung a large-scale map of Eastern Austria and Western Czechoslovakia. He pointed to a spot on the border. ‘Hate - used by heavy commercial traffic. You will be in the secret compartment of a truck taking machine tools to the Skoda factory. It is a truck well known to the Czech border authorities. It makes the journey on a regular, routine basis. Its arrival at the border post will be carefully timed depending on the volume of traffic. It will be judged so that the inspection of the truck takes place between eight and nine in the morning. Border officials change shifts at nine. It is regulated that one team will not leave a truck half inspected. Like all bureaucrats they like to leave work on time, hence inspections during that hour tend to b
e cursory.’

  Mirek was looking sceptical. He had experience in the SB of searching freight trucks. He well knew that to conceal such a large compartment was difficult. Border guards had much experience. They also had equipment to help locate such places. The old days of running refugees through the Iron Curtain, hidden under a pile of potatoes in the back of a truck, were long gone. He expressed his scepticism. Heisl remained confident.

  ‘Mirek, you must trust our judgment. We have considered very carefully. The truck is owned and will be driven by a true professional. To our knowledge he has spirited dozens of people safely through the Iron Curtain. We have used him ourselves several times.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘An Australian.’

  Mirek’s face showed his astonishment. Heisl smiled. ‘It is not uncommon. The trucking fraternity in and out of Eastern Europe has become quite international. Strangely there are lots of Irish involved . . . naturally, we wouldn’t use one of them. There is a lot of money to be made - legitimately. Of course, very much more in the human traffic.’

  ‘That’s what he does it for?’ Ania asked. ‘Money?’

  ‘Yes,’ Heisl replied firmly. ‘His motives are totally mercenary. He charges a great deal, but then he is the best. He’s been doing it for over five years now - and has a perfect record.’

  Mirek glanced at Ania. She shrugged non-committally.

  The priest said soothingly, ‘Even with the increased level of border security there should be no problem. The flow of trade across this border is very considerable. The Australian’s load is vitally important for the Skoda factory. He has papers proving that. He is very experienced.’

  Mirek was looking more confident. He asked, ‘How long will we be sardines?’

  Carefully Heisl replied, ‘We think between eight and twelve hours.’

  ‘Hell. In a compartment like the one in which I was loaded on to the boat?’

  Slowly the priest shook his head.

  ‘Much smaller, Mirek. It measures one metre by half a metre and is less than half a metre high.’

  Incredulously Mirek said, ‘For up to twelve hours . . . two of us?’

  The priest nodded. ‘And your bag. But you will not be conscious.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Heisl sighed. ‘It’s a sort of insurance that the Australian insists on. He was once transporting a man out of East Germany to the West. The man had a bad attack of claustrophobia and started screaming. They were very nearly caught. Since then the Australian insists on injecting his passengers with a drug that causes a deep sleep for about ten hours. It’s a sensible precaution. You are both fit. It will do you no harm.’

  Before Mirek or Ania could comment he pointedly glanced at his watch and said, ‘Talking of sleep I think you should get some now; and in the morning take only a little food and no liquid. There are no ablution facilities in that compartment.’

  He smiled and finished the last of his brandy.

  The journey started from a warehouse on the outskirts of Linz. Heisl drove them there at five in the morning, with little conversation. There was not much to say that had not already been said. The warehouse was deserted except for a huge Scania truck, painted bright green, and a rugged, freckle-faced man with long red hair, long sideboards and a long, rough-cut beard. He was dressed in paint-streaked denim overalls. Deep blue eyes twinkled as he examined them. The eyes finally rested on Ania and he grinned. In workable but badly accented German he said, ‘You’ll be very cosy in my little cubby hole.’

  He showed it to them. The concealment was simple but ingenious. He unscrewed the large fuel tank cap just behind the driver’s door and put his hand inside. They heard a click and then a gap appeared at the lower edge of the panelling. He leaned down, got his fingers under it and pulled up. A flap opened, its hinge neatly concealed in the seam of the panelling which ran the length of the truck. The flap itself was very heavy and about six inches thick. The Australian propped it open with a stick.

  ‘These Commies are bloody cunning,’ he explained. ‘They have plans of all common makes of trucks. If all the dimensions don’t match they take everything apart.’ He pointed under the flap. ‘That was originally part of the fuel tank.’ He squatted down and indicated the long bulge of the tank. ‘It’s cut my fuel capacity in half but that’s no problem. I always keep a dozen big jerry cans of diesel in the back. The stupid buggers always suspect that I smuggle things in those.’ He grinned through his beard. ‘They always push sticks down them.’

  Mirek bent down and looked into the compartment. It had padded sides and an old carpet on the floor. It hardly looked big enough for him, let alone the two of them. He said so. The Australian grinned again. His teeth were discoloured by nicotine. He said lightly, ‘Don’t worry, mate, you’ll be snug as bugs in a rug.’ He turned to Heisl. ‘I had a call from Hate. There’s quite a line building up. I want to get started earlier. In fact, the sooner the better.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Heisl replied quietly.

  The Australian walked over to a bench by the wall and came back with a small polished wooden box. He asked Heisl to hold it and then opened the clasp. Inside was a rubber-topped bottle and half a dozen disposable syringes. He took one out, and the bottle. With practised ease he slid the needle through the rubber top and measured up a quantity of the colourless liquid. Then he turned to Mirek with a grin.

  ‘All right, mate. Roll up your left sleeve. Time to shoot up. How much do you weigh?’

  As Mirek rolled up his sleeve he said cautiously, ‘Eighty-six kilos. What is that stuff?’

  ‘Trepalin, mate. It’ll give you sweet dreams. When you wake up you’ll have a mild headache and a bit of nausea. Something like a medium hangover. It’ll clear up in a couple of hours. This will take effect in about fifteen minutes.’

  He gripped Mirek’s arm just below the elbow and pressed his thumb hard down on the inside. He watched the vein expand and then slid the needle in. Mirek watched his eyes as they watched the calibrated gauge on the syringe. It only took a moment then he pulled out the needle and tossed the syringe into a corner. He picked up another one and injected the rubber bottle top saying, ‘Can’t be too careful these days, hey?’ He turned to Ania. ‘What’s your weight, lady?’

  ‘Sixty kilos,’ she replied in a confident voice. She had already rolled up her sleeve.

  ‘And very nicely distributed too,’ he said, gripping her arm.

  She didn’t flinch as the needle went in, just watched the Australian with an air of disdain. He tossed the syringe away and announced, ‘Right, let’s get you loaded up and on the way to the People’s Democratic Paradise.’

  The farewells were quick and, on the surface, unemotional, but as Mirek shook Father Heisl’s hand and as Ania hugged and kissed his cheek they both felt sad and suddenly lonely. This priest, rapidly passing from middle to old age, had been a wise and caring mentor. He had, in his diffident way, been a teacher and friend. As they turned away with his words of good wishes in their ears they felt that their journey was truly about to start. Their few belongings were in a small canvas duffle bag. The Australian stowed that first, squashing it into the far end of the compartment and remarking that it would make a good pillow. The compartment was lit by a tiny torch bulb in one upper corner. He explained that it could be turned on and off from his cab and he would turn it off in twenty minutes when they were in lullaby land.

  Mirek climbed in, sliding head first towards the duffle bag. He was beginning to feel drowsy. He rested his head on the bag. He could feel the holstered gun which he had packed close to the drawstring. It gave him comfort. Ania struggled in beside him. He could feel her soft body as it moved up against his. She had her back to him. He felt her buttocks against his knees and then his crotch. Her hair was in his face. He could feel her straining away from him.

  ‘Are you all right? Try to relax.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ The tone of her voice belied the statement. She was acutely uncomfortable, no
t only physically but mentally. They heard Father Heisl’s voice distantly.

  ‘God go with you.’

  Then they heard the flap being clamped shut and they were like twin chrysalises in a larva. Faintly they heard the slam of the cab door and after a moment the compartment vibrated as the engine started. A minute later and they felt the movement as the truck moved out of the warehouse. The brakes were applied and Ania was forced hard against Mirek. She edged away again, her body rigid. Impatiently he said, ‘I didn’t ask for you to be here. For God’s sake relax . . . I’m not going to assault you. In a few minutes we’ll be unconscious.’

  She did relax a little. He felt the pressure of her back on his chest but she kept her bottom away from his crotch.

  He was getting very drowsy now. In a crazy moment he wondered if she snored - or if he did. He moved his left arm, trying to get it comfortable. There was nowhere to put it except over her. He put it on her hip. She did not move. He could hear the deepening of her breathing. Her hair smelt like a pine forest. Almost of its own accord his arm moved and his hand felt up her rib cage and cupped her left breast. With a feeble effort she tried to push it away but she was already losing consciousness. He could feel the nipple rising against his hand. He followed her into sleep.

  Father Heisl passed back the binoculars. The Bacon Priest put them against his eyes and readjusted the lenses. It was eight forty-five and they sat in the car on the crown of a hill four miles from the border town of Hate. Beyond it was the bridge over the March River. Trucks and cars crossed it at steady intervals. They were watching for the green truck. Neither of them displayed any anxiety but both were very tense inside. Weeks of planning were coming to fruition. When that green truck crossed that bridge the die would be cast. They had been the puppet masters, but from then on the puppets would be without strings.

  The Bacon Priest lowered the binoculars and said, ‘You gave him the gun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He raised the binoculars again and said thoughtfully, ‘It’s better that way . . . I mean that he should ask for it. . . not that we pressed it on him.’