In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  As he crossed the intersection he glanced to his left and saw an old brown furniture van pulling up to the kerb. He could not see the face of the driver. He looked to his right. Parked across the road was an old grey Skoda in front of an equally aged black Lada saloon. Again he could not see the drivers but he noted that the Skoda had its engine running and guessed that they were part of Antoni’s team.

  He quickened his step, at the same time rehearsing what he would say and do in the coming minutes, trying to think of questions and how he would answer them. The familiar building loomed up on his left. He felt as if he had only stepped out of it hours ago, instead of months. He had a moment’s qualm about his disguise and then brushed it aside. The disguise was good and very much enhanced by the Colonel’s uniform. Mirek Scibor was the last person anyone would expect to walk into this building.

  He came to the wide flight of slate grey steps and looked up. Relief as he noted that there was only the usual single guard outside the door. But as he rapidly climbed the steps he saw the sub-machine gun slung from his shoulder. That was not normal. The guard wore a long grey overcoat. He came rigidly to attention as Mirek approached and saluted. Mirek returned the salute with barely a glance at him. As he pushed the heavy door open he abruptly realised that at any time in the next few minutes he could most likely be suddenly dead. He vowed at that moment he would not allow himself to be taken alive, and that if he could not get Ania out he would do everything to kill her as well. That thought cleared his mind totally. He felt lightened, as though he was inebriated.

  Inside was a large, high-ceilinged vestibule. Corridors angled from it like the spokes on one half of a wheel. There was a long desk to the left. Behind it sat a young, bespectacled Captain writing in a thick ledger. Next to him was an older, mustachioed Sergeant tapping away with two fingers at an old typewriter. They both looked up. He vaguely recognised their faces. They came to their feet with a clatter and saluted. He returned the salutes impatiently, undid the button of his top left tunic pocket and pulled out his ID card, general purpose pass and travel authorisation. He slapped them on the desk and said curtly, ‘Colonel Gruzewski. “H” Section, Warsaw. Where is the Krol woman?’

  The Captain looked dazed. With uncertainty he reached for the documents. Mirek turned to the Sergeant. ‘The Krol woman is here. I’ve been ordered to take over her interrogation pending the arrival of my colleagues from Warsaw. Time is of the essence. Where are you holding her?’

  The Sergeant looked at the Captain, who was nervously fingering the documents. With an impatient sigh Mirek asked harshly, ‘Where is Colonel Bartczak?’

  The Captain straightened. ‘He has gone to the airport, Colonel. To meet the people from Warsaw.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘They will be landing in ten minutes.’

  Inwardly Mirek was elated, outwardly his face showed scorn.

  ‘So he has made himself a messenger boy! No matter. Where is the woman? I suppose the nursery?’

  The Captain and the Sergeant exchanged quick glances and Mirek knew that he had guessed right. The Captain said, ‘How did you get here so quickly, Colonel?’

  ‘I was in the city, on a confidential assignment linked to this woman and the man. General Kowski telephoned me and ordered me here immediately . . . Now come on, man! Seconds are vital.’

  The dropping of the name of the commanding officer of the SB did the trick. The Captain shuffled the papers together and held them out to Mirek.

  ‘Yes, she is in the nursery, sir. With Major Grygorenko. Sergeant Boruc here will show you the way. I will inform Major Janiak of your arrival . . .’

  ‘I know the way, Captain. I’ve used the nursery when you were still at school . . . and inform whoever you like. If I’m not up in half an hour, send me a mug of very hot coffee . . . black with three heaped spoons of sugar.’ He turned away to one of the corridors hearing the Captain behind saying, ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  As he strode down the corridor his brain rapidly reviewed the situation. It was good. He knew Major Grygorenko and had guessed that he would be in charge of the interrogation pending the arrival of the experts. Grygorenko was a known sadist. He hoped he would be alone but doubted it. Meanwhile the Captain would be informing Major Janiak of his arrival. Presumably Janiak was officer-in-charge pending the return of Colonel Bartczak with the brass hats from Warsaw. That too was good. Janiak was a plodder who might well do nothing until his superior returned.

  He did not wait for the lift but ran down the two flights of steps. He pushed open the door to the corridor and looked to his left. There was a Corporal sitting on a chair outside the nursery door, cradling a sub-machine gun. Mirek glanced to his right. The corridor was clear all the way down to the cul-de-sac at the end. He walked with an urgent step. The Corporal stood at his approach, holding the gun lightly at his side.

  Mirek barked at him, ‘Colonel Gruzewski. “H” Section, Warsaw. I’m here to take over from Major Grygorenko.’

  The Corporal hesitated. Mirek snapped at him, ‘Come on, Corporal, I’ve no time to waste. Colonel Bartczak has been informed.’

  His practised authoritarian manner and the mention of the Corporal’s superiors were conclusive. The Corporal reached down and turned the handle of the heavy door next to him. As Mirek passed through he said, ‘If I want anything I’ll call for it. Otherwise I’m not to be disturbed. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  He went through and closed the door behind him. He was in a small space between the door behind him and the one in front. The door in front was heavily padded and soundproofed. This building had been used by a section of the Gestapo during the war and temporarily taken over at the end of the war by the KGB before being passed on to the SB. The whole floor had been known as the nursery since the Germans and the name had stuck.

  Mirek paused for a moment and collected himself. He loosened the flap of his holster, then patted the top right-hand pocket of his tunic and felt the reassuring bulge. As he reached for the door handle he heard, even through the padding, the long thin scream. He pressed the handle and pushed the door open.

  It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the bright overhead strip lighting. She was lying flat on her back, naked, wrists and ankles strapped to a table. Her scream was dying to a moan. Major Grygorenko was standing beside the table wearing his uniform trousers and an undershirt wet with sweat. Braces dangled alongside his knees. He was holding a metal rod between her legs against her crotch. A cord from it snaked away to a wall socket. Another man was standing at the head of the table, his hands pressing down against her shoulders. He wore the uniform of a Corporal. His wide Slavic face was also sweating. They both looked up, startled. Mirek smiled at them. Grygorenko pulled the rod away from Ania’s crotch. Her wet skin quivered.

  ‘Who the hell. . . ?’

  Mirek moved forward saying pleasantly, ‘Colonel Josef Gruzewski at your service. “H” Section, Warsaw. I’m here to take over the interrogation.’

  Grygorenko’s face showed his disappointment. Sullenly he said, ‘We weren’t expecting you for a couple of hours.’

  Mirek said, ‘I happened to be in Cracow. The others are coming. Have you learned anything?’ .

  He had moved up to the table. He saw Ania’s wet face turn towards him and hoped beyond measure that the sound of his voice had forewarned her. It had. She looked at him through listless eyes.

  The Major replied, ‘Not yet.’

  Mirek turned to him. ‘What the hell’s that you’re using?’

  The Major shrugged. ‘A cattle prod. I was told that your lot are bringing equipment with them. It’s all I’ve got. . .’ He was looking at Mirek closely. ‘Haven’t we met before?’

  Mirek shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Anyway I did a two-year course at Blatyn and I can tell you that if that’s all you’ve got you have to use it with skill.’

  Grygorenko grinned. ‘I was about to ram it up her cunt!’

  Mirek smiled again. ‘Hardly original. No, Major, i
t must be used against certain nerve endings which multiply its effect. I will show you.’

  He undid the flap of the top right hand pocket of his tunic and took out a thick black marking pen. The brand name ‘Denbi’ was etched in yellow. He unclipped the top and leaned forward.

  ‘Now watch closely, Major. I will mark the points for you. And you, Corporal. Learn something.’

  Slowly he reached out and inked a small cross at a spot on the inside of Ania’s knee. Her skin flinched slightly at the soft contact. Then he moved higher and touched the felt to her skin just under her right breast.

  ‘This is a particularly good spot, but it must be under the right breast and it must be in exactly the right spot. Look closely, Major!’

  Fascinated, Grygorenko leaned over Ania’s body, craning his neck to see the spot. In an instant Mirek turned his wrist, pressed his thumb on the ‘D’ of Denbi and lunged upwards. Four inches of needle-like steel snaked out, penetrated Grygorenko’s left eyeball and pierced through to his brain. He went over backwards, his last living sound an agonised scream.

  The Corporal was stunned. He had only just begun to move as Mirek’s left hand stabbed at his throat, fingers rigid. He went down with a choking gurgle. Quickly Mirek moved around the table, bent over him and slid the steel needle through his rib cage into his heart.

  Both bodies were still twitching convulsively as he started to undo the buckles that bound Ania down.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mirek. You should not have come; it’s madness.’

  He grinned down at her. ‘They all say that. Was it very terrible?’

  Her arms were released and she sat up rubbing her wrists.

  ‘Not so much the pain . . . only the pleasure they got from it . . . I wanted to die . . . really.’

  He unbuckled the last strap and she swung her feet to the ground. He took her in his arms in a brief embrace, then said urgently, ‘We’re not even half way there. We must be quick.’ He saw her clothes on a chair. ‘Get dressed, Ania. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  He went out and she hurried to the chair and started pulling on her clothes. The bodies on the floor were now still. She looked at them and tried to find some compassion . . . even forgiveness. It would not come. She was just putting on her shoes when the door opened. Mirek’s head came round it and whispered, ‘Come on.’

  She hurried over. In the space between the two doors was another body. It was twitching. Mirek was tucking the marker pen back into his pocket. He reached down and picked up a sub-machine gun from beside the body.

  He handed it to her, saying, ‘You must hold that for me and the spare magazine and do everything I tell you exactly.’

  She took the gun. The grip was sticky. She looked at her hand and saw the blood. She avoided looking again at the body. Mirek carefully opened the outer door and looked both ways down the corridor. He turned back and said, ‘We are going up two flights of stairs and then along a corridor. I will leave you at a corner there and go on alone. As soon as you hear gunfire you are to follow me as fast as you can and either hand me or throw me that gun. Then stay by me whatever happens.’

  At that moment from the room behind them a phone started to ring stridently. To Mirek it sounded like an alarm.

  He said, ‘Come on, Ania. Whatever happens they won’t capture us alive. Either we get out . . . or we die together.’

  She followed him out into the corridor.

  * * *

  Two floors up Major Janiak was getting nervous and concurrently irritated.

  ‘How can there be no answer?’ he demanded.

  With the phone at his ear, the Captain shrugged. ‘Major, I shall send Sergeant Boniek down. Maybe the phone is malfunctioning. It sometimes happens.’

  The Major snorted. ‘Go yourself. You had no right allowing someone to go down there.’

  ‘Major, he was Colonel Gruzewski, from “H” Section . . . orders from General Kowski -’

  ‘So he said. Now get down there!’

  The Captain had just begun to move around the desk when Mirek walked into the vestibule. He looked very irritated. His hands were clasped behind his back. To the Major he said starkly, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Major Juliusz Janiak, sir. May I ask . . . ?’

  ‘No, you may not.’ Mirek’s arms came from behind his back. The Makarov was in his right hand. He shot Major Janiak between the eyes. A second later the barrel had swung and two shots were pumped into the heart of the Captain.

  The Sergeant was very quick. His hand was reaching for his holster even as he ducked down behind the heavy desk. There were shouts from nearby offices. Mirek vaulted the desk, turning in the air. The Sergeant had his gun free. It was coming up. He fired at the same time as Mirek. Mirek felt the impact on his left side. He saw the Sergeant smashed back as his gun clattered to the floor. Mirek put a hand to his side. It was completely numb. The shouts were in his ears. He saw Ania running towards him and at the same time saw the door to the main entrance opening. He knew who would be coming through. He screamed at Ania, ‘Get down, Ania! Over here!’

  She made it by the bat of an eyelid. The outside guard came through the door with his sub-machine gun raised and ready. He paused for a moment to take in the scene, then his finger squeezed the trigger. Ania slid feet first behind the desk as the bullets scythed across the room. Somebody screamed from down the corridor. Mirek grabbed the sub-machine gun from Ania’s fingers, flicked off the safety and dived sideways from behind the desk. The guard tried to swing his gun back but was too late. Still in the air Mirek fired a half-second burst. Half a dozen bullets slammed into the guard, spinning him against the doors. Mirek hit the ground and rolled onto his knees. He saw figures down another corridor and fired another burst. More screams. He shouted, ‘Ania, come on!’

  She ran out from behind the desk in a crouch. The spare magazine was in her left hand. He grabbed it and, discarding the used one, clipped it in. Then he took her hand and they ran through the door.

  They paused for a second at the top of the steps. People were running away in both directions. As they started down the steps they heard a car hooting and the blue BMW came screeching to a halt below them. As they reached it the back door opened. He pushed Ania in and then dived after her. The car surged forward and the door slammed with the momentum. As they straightened up Mirek heard the scream of a siren behind. He looked out the back window. A militia Jeep was fifty yards behind. He could see a figure leaning out of the window with a hand gun. He heard and felt the clang as a bullet ricocheted off the side of the Skoda. He felt a rage inside him. They were not going to be stopped now. He wound down his window and leaned out with the sub-machine gun held in front of him, twisted and emptied the magazine at the Jeep. He saw the windscreen disintegrate. The Jeep swerved across the street. He saw a militiaman leap from the back, then the Jeep crashed into and through a shop window.

  A moment later they sped across the intersection. Still looking behind, Mirek saw a large van and an old Skoda collide head on. Two more cars crashed into the pile-up, completely blocking the road. He saw figures leaping from the vehicles and running away. He turned, tossed the sub-machine gun out of the window and said, ‘Slow down now. Drive normally. Well done, Marian!’

  Chapter 22

  Victor Chebrikov had no alternative but to wait out the silence. The last time he had broken it Andropov had simply stated, ‘Shut your mouth.’

  He could not understand why the First Secretary had summoned him to lunch. Surely the reprimand could have been better delivered in Andropov’s office. It had been eighteen hours since the fiasco in Cracow. The First Secretary, of course, had been informed immediately. Chebrikov had spent a sleepless night sitting by the phone waiting for the summons. It had not come until now, the next day.

  He had been surprised to see a table for lunch set for two. There was bread and sausages, Molossol caviar, soused herrings and a bowl of fruit.

  Andropov had merely grunted at his
respectful greeting and gestured at the table. But Chebrikov quickly discovered his boss’s mood. As he had spooned himself a generous dollop of caviar, Andropov had said, ‘So you haven’t lost your appetite.’

  It was a famous and chilling phrase within the Kremlin, reportedly first coined by Beria when watching the inmates of a Siberian slave camp fighting over a bucket of thin gruel. Chebrikov had eaten half a spoonful of caviar and then pushed his plate away. Andropov appeared not to notice. Although he appeared increasingly ill, on this day he did have an appetite. He demolished half a bowl of caviar between mouthfuls of coarse bread. As he started on the herring Chebrikov had ventured to speak.

  ‘Comrade First Secretary, I wish to express . . .’

  And then Andropov had said, ‘Shut your mouth.’

  Now the First Secretary had finished the fish and was carefully peeling an apple with a red Swiss army knife that he had taken from his pocket. He seemed oblivious of Chebrikov or the silence. He managed to peel the apple in one continuous curling strip. He sliced the end and laid it on his plate with an air of satisfaction. Then he said, ‘I talked before of uncaught fish jumping out of boats. The fish you catch don’t jump out. They bite you.’

  Chebrikov kept silent, staring down at the grey lumpy mass in front of him. It made him feel nauseous.

  Andropov held the knife to his lips and sucked a piece of apple from the blade. He chewed reflectively, then said, ‘This Mirek Scibor is like an avalanche. It starts slowly, gathers speed and sweeps everything before it. You try to arrest him and his woman. He kills those who try. You arrest his woman and hold her in what should be the most secure place in Cracow . . . He takes her out as easily as picking an old drunk’s pocket. . . and kills people doing it. This avalanche kills people with ease; and this avalanche is gathering speed and coming my way. Tell me, Comrade Director of State Security, what percentage chance does this avalanche have of killing me?’