They were sitting in the house’s ornate lounge. The General had obviously come down from a long line of distinguished soldiers. Large and hideously rendered oil paintings of bewhiskered, bemedalled old men hung on the walls. Again a log fire crackled in a huge fireplace.
A door opened and Natalia came in. She bowed theatrically from the waist and announced, ‘Papa has already relented; in record time. I can use his carriage to go to Warsaw on my solemn promise that we don’t leave it reeking of what he calls “hasheesh smoke”. I promised.’
Jerzy grinned. ‘Well done, Natalia. We shall keep your promise. At the very most we’ll sniff a little coke . . . When can we go?’
She walked over, took the beer bottle from Antoni’s hand, put it to her lips and drained it, then said, ‘I let Papa think he was making the decision. He suggested the eleven thirty express tomorrow. He’s giving the instructions now. We must be at the siding by ten thirty.’ Mirek felt the relief. Try as he would he could never really take this crazy bunch seriously. But here was Natalia calmly informing him that they would be travelling to Warsaw in a private carriage and also supplying the timetable. He was about to thank her when there came the noise of a commotion outside. He heard Irena’s voice and then Marian’s at high pitch. The door burst open and they rushed in. One look at Marian’s face and Mirek knew the worst. It was wet with tears and her eyes radiated fear. The others started talking to her agitatedly. She was choking on her words. Mirek shouted, ‘Quiet! All of you!’
They were quiet. He said to Marian, ‘Tell us . . . take your time.’
She gulped a few times, then steadied herself and, in a few brief sentences, told the story. At first there was a horrified silence. As the implications sank in, panic took over.
Natalia was sobbing with her face in her hands. Irena was clutching Antoni’s shoulders and shouting something incoherent. Jerzy was looking at the floor muttering obscenities.
Mirek was feeling ill. Literally fighting down nausea while his brain refused to come to terms with events.
It was Jerzy who finally stopped the panic by hurling his beer bottle into the fireplace. It smashed with a crack like a rifle shot.
Into the silence he said quietly, ‘We must face up to the consequences and take action.’ He turned to Mirek. ‘We are terribly sorry about Ania . . . But we must think of ourselves now. Obviously the SB have her. They will make her talk . . . or the KGB will . . . Our families will be ruined . . . Well, we accepted that risk. As for ourselves we shall have to go underground immediately and then try to escape the country. Mirek, you will stay with us until we can contact your people and pass you on.’
Mirek still felt like vomiting but now his brain was functioning. He held up a hand.
‘Wait, Jerzy. Let me think for a minute.’
It came to him almost immediately. It came like the pattern of a carpet being unrolled at his feet. He mentally examined all parts and corners of the pattern. Finally he examined his own motives. Then he looked at the frightened faces in front of him and said, ‘Jerzy is of course right. They will make her talk. You will all be implicated and your families ruined . . . unless we can rescue her.’
Astonishment replaced the fear on their faces. Jerzy was the first to react. He said contemptuously, ‘You’re crazy. Rescue her from the SB? Within an hour they’ll be flying her to Warsaw or even Moscow. How do you get at her?’
Mirek said soberly, ‘I have a plan. It involves even more risk to you but it has a chance and if it works both you and your families will be safe and can continue as before.’
Antoni said, ‘You are totally mad.’
Mirek drew breath. He knew that to win them over he would have to be brilliantly persuasive. He said, ‘You must give me five minutes. Then I will tell you.’
Jerzy answered bitterly, ‘Minutes are vital. You know that!’
Quietly Mirek answered, ‘Yes they are. And so are those five minutes I need.’ He looked Jerzy directly in the eye, knowing that his decision would sway the others. He saw the bearded young man lick his lips nervously and then reluctantly nod.
Mirek said, ‘Now this is important. Do you have contacts who can lay their hands quickly on two stolen cars?’
Again Jerzy nodded. Mirek said, ‘Within an hour?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Do that now. They should be left in a quiet area not far from here. I’m going to my room and will be down in five minutes. In the meantime try to find a street map of the city.’
* * *
The sudden action eased the collective fear. As Mirek left the room Jerzy went to the phone and started dialling. Marian remembered that there was a street map in the Mercedes and went to fetch it. Irena and Natalia, for something to calm their nerves, went to the kitchen to make coffee. Antoni lit a cigarette.
Six minutes later they were standing in a group in front of the fire when the door abruptly opened and Mirek strode in. Instinctively Irena screamed. Marian’s coffee cup rattled in its saucer. Antoni moaned in his throat.
As usual, Jerzy was the first to recover, but his voice was strangled as he asked, ‘Where the fucking hell did you get that?!’
Mirek was wearing the uniform of a full Colonel of the SB, complete with holstered Makarov, black polished boots, an impressive row of medals and the distinctive peaked cap. He said briskly, ‘Someone had the foresight to send it with me. Together with excellent forged papers. Now are you ready to hear my plan?’
They all murmured assent. He had known that the sudden effect of his appearance in that uniform would give his crazy plan a thread of reality. He moved forward, asking, ‘Did you have any luck with the cars and the map?’
‘Yes.’ Jerzy pointed to the map spread out on a table and they all clustered around.
Mirek said, ‘I suggest that I detail the plan without interruption. Then you put your points of view. Then we make a decision.’ He looked at all their faces. They nodded in agreement. He took a breath.
‘All right. There are three things you must understand and keep in mind. First, I was for many years, until recently, a very competent and fast-rising officer in the SB. I am not boasting when I say that had I still been in the force I would soon be wearing this uniform by right. Those years have given me a deep understanding of the workings of the SB and the minds of its senior officers. That brings me to the second point. That knowledge and my membership of the SB already allowed me once to kill two of their most senior officers - and to escape.’ Again he looked into all their eyes in turn and saw that he had made his point. They all knew of the famous episode.
He went on. ‘Thirdly, since then I have been very highly trained by experts as a terrorist and assassin; training exactly suited for this type of thing. Please keep that in mind . . . I am not an ordinary person.’ Again he paused and again felt the response. To Jerzy he said, ‘You were right that normally they would quickly fly her to Warsaw. That is the only place where the SB carries out what they call “hard interrogation”. But this situation is not normal. They know that time is vital if they are to catch me. It would be several hours before they got her to SB headquarters in Warsaw; but even now she will be at SB headquarters in this city. Instead they will fly the specialists down from Warsaw.’ He sighed and stopped for a moment. They knew what was going through his mind, but when he started again his voice was as hard as ever.
They will instruct the local commander immediately to use any methods to extract information from her. I know where they will do it . . . I think I know who will do it. They will be starting within half an hour. Now,’ he pointed at the map, ‘one of you will take one of the cars and wait somewhere here. We will fix an exact place. Another of you will drive me to within a few hundred metres of SB headquarters and then wait at this spot quite near to the entrance with the engine running. I shall bluff my way into the headquarters claiming to be from Warsaw down here on a confidential assignment. I will say that I am an expert on “hard interrogation” and was ordered to drop everything
and rush there to help them. I bluff my way to the cellars, rescue Ania and then either bluff or shoot my way out. As soon as we appear on the steps the one driving the getaway car accelerates up. We jump in and head for the second car, then to a safe house. That’s it.’
The first question surprised Mirek because it presupposed that the plan would go ahead. It came from Jerzy.
‘What if she’s talked before you get there.’
He answered emphatically. ‘She won’t have. I know that woman. She will break eventually, everyone does, but it will take them days, even weeks.’
He looked at Marian. She was nodding in agreement.
Amazingly there were no other immediate questions. The others kept looking at Mirek and then at the map. They had never even contemplated such a thing before.
Mirek said, ‘You must balance it out. The risks involved against what happens if she talks. In fact the risks won’t be increased if I don’t come out of that building. You just drive away and disappear underground. If I come out I’ll have Ania with me. Then the drivers of the two cars risk their lives in the getaway.’
There was a silence while they contemplated his words. Marian broke it. ‘What will you do if we don’t agree?’
‘I’ll try on my own.’
Jerzy said, ‘That would be suicide.’
Mirek shrugged. ‘There’s always a chance . . . But we have to decide . . . now. Do you want to talk it over alone?’
Jerzy shook his head and said, ‘Mirek, you need two drivers. I volunteer to be one.’
Immediately Marian said, ‘And I the other.’
Antoni was looking at Irena and Natalia. They both nodded in unison. Antoni turned to Mirek and said, ‘We are all crazy Poles. We are in.’
Mirek fought down his rising emotions as Jerzy said, ‘As it happens, Marian and I are the better drivers. She drives like a lunatic but handles a car well. Irena and Natalia don’t drive and Antoni had three crashes last year . . . all his own fault.’
‘Now wait,’ Antoni said harshly. ‘What are we three supposed to do? Sit in a safe house and count our fingers?’
Mirek answered, ‘There’s nothing more to be done, Antoni.’
‘Oh yes there is.’ He was leaning over the map. He pointed. ‘When you take off from SB headquarters you cross this intersection about two hundred metres away. After a very short time SB cars will be chasing you.’ He looked at Jerzy. ‘Get back on the phone to Figwer. Tell him we need four more cars or vans, the heavier the better . . . and three drivers. He can use some of those maniacs from Roguska’s mob. They’d sell their mothers for money; for gold they’d even deliver.’ He turned to Mirek. ‘We have those four vehicles parked, two on each side of the intersection. As soon as the first getaway car passes we organise a sweet little pile-up right across the intersection, then the drivers disappear. That will hold the bastards up.’
They quickly discussed it and then agreed. Jerzy went to the phone while the others hammered out minor points. It was agreed that if it succeeded they would return to this house rather than go to one of the safe apartments. If it failed the survivors would fend for themselves. Irena and Natalia would stay in the house by the phone.
It took forty five minutes to set up all the vehicles. Every second ticked away in Mirek’s tormented mind. Meanwhile there was a fierce argument between Jerzy and Marian as to who would drive the first and most dangerous getaway car. Curiously Marian won the argument. She did it with logic. The car would be parked close to the SB headquarters entrance. A passing militia or even SB man might try to move it on. Jerzy was ugly. Even a gay militiaman wouldn’t be interested in him. She was beautiful and sexy and with her at the wheel the car stood a much better chance of being there when Mirek and Ania came tearing down those steps. Reluctantly Jerzy agreed. Finally all was ready. Before they left the house they all embraced.
It was a moment to savour and Colonel Oleg Zamiatin savoured it to the full. He made no effort to ease Chebrikov’s discomfort. His report was already on its way to the First Secretary, who would doubtless read between the lines and take note of Zamiatin’s brilliance. Once again the vision of his promised dacha loomed in his mind.
Chebrikov tapped the file and looked again at the huge wall map. He muttered, ‘Cracow . . . at the cemetery . . .’
Zamiatin glanced at his three Majors. They were all pretending to study paperwork on their desks. He knew that they were as delighted as himself. He said casually, ‘Yes, Comrade Director. I reasoned that if the Bacon Priest had double guessed us, he would send the woman on, even though her cover was blown. I also reasoned that if they had passed across the southern part of the border their next staging post would be Cracow . . . ‘
‘I see,’ Chebrikov said drily. ‘And that’s why you ignored my order to move the SB to the north?’
Zamiatin felt no twinge of fear. He exactly understood the strength of his position.
‘Certainly not, Comrade Director. You ordered me to concentrate the SB to the north. That I did. However my instincts told me that Cracow should remain a focal point. This was reinforced when we learned the identity of the woman . . . and that she was a nun.’
Chebrikov sniffed. ‘I see. And it was an inspired hunch that made you place a watch on her parents’ grave?’
Zamiatin spread his hands and said easily, ‘Oh, I like to think it was more than a hunch. After all, she is a nun . . . But neither she nor Scibor had any idea that we knew she was a nun. I reasoned,’ he stressed the word ‘reasoned’, ‘that if their journey did pass through Cracow such a devout person would take the opportunity to pay her respects to her dead parents . . . and that’s exactly what happened.’
Chebrikov would have dearly liked to reach out and swat Zamiatin as though he were a buzzing fly. Instead he said affably, ‘It was good work, Colonel. But of course it remains only a lead to Scibor. Until we catch him all good works are meaningless.’
Chebrikov was pleased with the phrase. Particularly with the word ‘meaningless’. It would serve to remind Zamiatin that unless he caught Scibor himself he would in no way benefit from this latest bit of sheer luck.
He pressed the point. ‘I assume that this time you are not delaying in extracting immediate information.’
Zamiatin was unperturbed. ‘Indeed not, Comrade Director.’ He looked at a round clock on the wall. ‘Ania Krol was arrested forty-eight minutes ago. By now she is at SB headquarters in Cracow. Interrogation will have started by now. Unfortunately they have no experts in Cracow but they will be doing their forceful best. Meanwhile top experts are on their way from Warsaw and from here. Of course, we have totally sealed off Cracow itself. . .’ He paused and said carefully, ‘Unfortunately this is taking a little longer than I would have liked because the bulk of the security forces in the area had been moved north.’ He would have liked to add ‘at your orders’ but restrained himself. In any event Chebrikov got the message.
He said curtly, ‘I assume you are using our own troops?’
‘Of course, Comrade Director. They are moving out of their cantonments now.’
There was not much more for Chebrikov to say but he hated the thought of leaving the room on a down beat. He studied the wall map again and then asked brusquely, ‘And you remain certain that Scibor himself is in Cracow?’
Zamiatin nimbly ducked that one. ‘Not at all, Comrade Director. He may indeed be further to the north as you yourself hypothesised . . . However, I doubt if the Bacon Priest would have risked sending that nun over the border just to put flowers on her parents’ grave.’
Chebrikov grunted. ‘Just so, Colonel. We must make sure that this lead is not wasted. I expect to hear very shortly that this woman has given us the necessary information to arrest Scibor . . . and that he does not slip the cordon.’
He gave Zamiatin a stern look, turned on his heel and marched quickly to the door. As it closed behind him the Majors looked up at Zamiatin. He was smiling.
It is an almost universal truth that repre
ssive police or security forces always feel secure in their own headquarters. They believe that it is unthinkable for the oppressed to actually attack them at their base. This is even true during times of unrest and minor uprisings.
At least Mirek hoped that this was true as Marian drove him the last few hundred metres. There was an almost continuous whine of sirens from different parts of the city as the militia and SB roared out to ring the outskirts with road blocks. Ironically, here in the centre there were no road blocks. Indeed the city centre was virtually devoid of uniforms.
He said, ‘Pull in here, Marian. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’
She pulled in to the kerb and turned to look at him. Her face was pale and tense. He said, ‘Put this scarf on now and when you’re parked on the other side keep your head down. Pretend to be studying a map or something.’
She nodded and tried to smile. ‘I’ll be waiting. Good luck, Mirek.’
She leaned across and kissed him lightly on the lips. He said, ‘I know you’ll be there, but don’t forget - if I’m not out in fifteen minutes, drive away. Don’t be a heroine. Sound your horn twice at the intersection to warn off Antoni and his drivers and then drive to Jerzy, and finally pick up Irena and Natalia. Do the same thing if you hear a lot of gunshots from inside the building and we don’t come out immediately afterwards.’
She nodded, her face sad. ‘I understand. If you don’t come out. . . well, it’s been good knowing you . . . and Ania.’
He smiled bleakly. ‘And you . . . and all your crazy bunch. Thanks, Marian.’
He opened the door and climbed out. As he closed it he heard her call again, ‘Good luck.’
He stood on the pavement and waved her on and watched the battered blue BMW pass in front of him. It looked a wreck but the engine had sounded fine. He walked briskly. It was a cold, overcast night. Rain threatened. The traffic was quite heavy but pedestrians were sparse. He noted that they averted their eyes as he passed and some even changed direction so as not to pass close to him. In the uniform he felt like a pariah; but he had felt like that for most of his life.
In The Name of The Father Page 28