In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  Chebrikov answered immediately and fervently.

  ‘No chance! None at all!’

  Andropov’s eyes glittered with anger.

  ‘You are wrong! And you know it. What chance would you have given him to rescue his woman in Cracow? None, of course.’

  He sat back breathing deeply. Chebrikov deemed it wise to keep his counsel. He had never seen his boss in this mood before. He supposed that it stemmed from his illness. After a few minutes Andropov spoke again, musingly, as if talking to himself.

  ‘I feel him coming. Like the onset of a bad cold. First a sneeze or two; then a headache. A nose that won’t stop running . . . a fever. I feel it coming.’ He raised his eyes and looked directly at Chebrikov. His voice hardened. ‘Ultimately I don’t care. I’m dying anyway. But understand this, Comrade. I care more than anything I have ever cared about that I outlive this Pope. He leaves on his tour in five days. Two days later he will be dead. After that I will face death myself. Now I am moving into the clinic early, in fact tomorrow morning. You will guard that clinic with your life . . . literally. If I die of unnatural causes before that bastard Pope, you will also die . . . within the hour. I have already made the arrangements. They are so tight that neither you nor my successor nor anybody else will be able to countermand them . . . You do believe that, Comrade?’

  Slowly and solemnly Chebrikov nodded. He did believe it. Such arrangements were not unheard of in the Soviet Union.

  ‘The arrangements must be changed!’

  The Bacon Priest was emphatic. Father Heisl sighed in exasperation and said, ‘If you change the plan you increase the risk. We have already deviated too much.’

  The Bacon Priest belched and took another sip of lager.

  ‘Father, if we don’t change the plan we risk being too late. The margin is too fine. Scibor must be in Moscow at least two days before the event.’

  They were facing each other across a table in the Vienna safe house. A report had just arrived detailing the events in Cracow the day before. The Bacon Priest had a sheet of paper with notes on it in front of him. He stabbed a finger at it.

  ‘Scibor is wounded, though not badly. Nevertheless, it will be two days or more before he is fit to travel. So in three days from now they can be in Warsaw. The original plan called for a four to five day transit time between Warsaw and Moscow. That is now too long. Szafer’s appointment is for the ninth and of course cannot be changed. So they must be in Moscow by the seventh.’

  ‘But how?’

  The Bacon Priest put his empty glass on the table with a loud thump, but his voice was soft.

  ‘It is time for Maxim Saltikov to repay his debt.’

  This statement silenced Father Heisl. He sat thinking while his boss waited for a reaction. Then he stood up, went to the fridge in the corner and fetched two more cans of lager. They hissed as he pulled the tabs off. He filled both glasses, sat down and said thoughtfully, ‘Well I suppose the event is important enough to justify it. But do you really think he will do so?’

  The Bacon Priest nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘It’s been many years.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And much has happened.’

  ‘It certainly has.’

  ‘But are you sure?’

  ‘I am.’

  Father Heisl shrugged. Something was eluding him. He asked, ‘When did you last see him?’

  Van Burgh’s forehead wrinkled in concentration.

  ‘Thirty-eight. . . no, thirty-nine years ago.’

  Scepticism showed on Father Heisl’s face.

  ‘That was the last time you saw him . . . ? Or even talked to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have not communicated with him since . . . at all?’

  ‘Yes. Brief but cogent messages.’

  Another hiatus while Father Heisl thought this through. Then he smiled and shook his head as though in a reprimand. He said with mock sternness, ‘Then Father, you have something on him which I don’t know about. Something far deeper than the original commitment.’

  Now Van Burgh shook his head.

  ‘I do not, Jan. You know the entire story. But you never met Maxim Saltikov. He is not a man to change his mind or his word. Not over thirty-eight years . . . not over a lifetime . . . Now please get me an update on him from the Collegio.’

  Father Heisl rose and walked to a telephone on a sideboard. He dialled a familiar number. It put him through to the duty computer operator at the Collegio Russico in Rome. When the operator answered the priest gave him the current code - a string of numbers and letters. Then he said simply, ‘General Maxim Saltikov.’

  There was a three-minute wait and then the priest murmured, ‘Thank you,’ and hung up. He came back to the table, sat down, took a sip of lager and said. ‘No change. Just a “B” grade rumour that after this posting he may be assigned to the Far East but without a change of rank. At the moment he’s in East Berlin and will stay for a week’s consultations.’

  Van Burgh smiled. ‘I think those “B” grade rumours come from the girls who polish the samovars. The last one concerned Gorbachev and a male dancer from the Kirov Ballet.’

  Father Heisl grimaced. ‘Yes, but sometimes they pay off. How will you approach him?’

  ‘Personally.’

  Father Heisl’s face showed his astonishment.

  ‘You will go to East Berlin at such a time?’

  The Bacon Priest pushed back his chair, stood up and stretched.

  ‘Yes, Jan. I will leave tomorrow. It must be done personally. Besides, I get uncomfortable sitting here and letting other people take all the risks . . . and also I feel that in some ways this operation is slipping out of my hands. It seems to have acquired a life of its own . . .’ He smiled. ‘What with kacyki and private railway carriages . . .’

  Now Father Heisl stood up. Very seriously he said, ‘And don’t you think it’s time that Ania was pulled out once and for all?’

  Van Burgh shook his head.

  ‘No, Jan. If the operation has a life of its own it’s partly due to her. Together they seem to be unstoppable. A sort of momentum. No. She will go on to Moscow. I will pull her out just before the event.’

  He had spoken with such conviction that Father Heisl knew it was pointless to argue. But he did have one other concern.

  ‘I had another call from Father Dziwisz this morning, on behalf of the Holy Father. He wanted to know if we had any information about the events in Cracow yesterday.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  Father Heisl spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  ‘I told him that we ourselves were investigating. That I would let him know if, and when, we heard anything.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘No, Pieter. It is not good. First of all that Dziwisz is very sharp and suspects something. I hate to prevaricate with him. He asked me where you were.’

  ‘And?’

  Heisl sighed. ‘I told him you were on a mission.’

  The Bacon Priest smiled placatingly.

  ‘Well, Jan, from tomorrow I will be . . . Don’t worry about Dziwisz; I’ll get Versano to talk to him. Explain that in view of the circumstances in Poland right now we are under great pressure. We will be able to be more informative when that pressure is eased.’

  Father Heisl sighed again.

  ‘And will the good Archbishop tell him that we are the cause of all the pressure?’

  The Bacon Priest grinned.

  ‘No, Jan. But he might say something about fighting pressure with pressure.’

  Chapter 23

  The courier with the blonde curly hair moved down the aisle handing back the passports as the huge chrome and gold tourist bus pulled away from Checkpoint Charlie into East Berlin. The courier had a stern, somewhat bored face, but she smiled when she handed the elderly Dutch couple their passports. He was a large, florid-faced man with round twinkling eyes. She was small and plump with a semi-permanent smile on her lips. They s
eemed so happy together. The courier said, ‘Herr and Frau Melkman, I hope you enjoy your day.’

  They beamed up at her. He answered, ‘I’m sure we will, with the help of such a pretty and intelligent guide.’

  She bobbed her head and moved on down the bus, marvelling once again at the ability of the Dutch to master foreign languages.

  The bus did the brief but obligatory tour of the massive war memorials and then pulled up outside the Pergamon. The passengers filed off and gathered round the courier. It was a cold but clear day. Quickly she told them that for this, being the high point of the tour, two hours had been allotted. She would guide them round, but if anyone became separated they were to be back at the bus not later than one o’clock.

  As she led the way up the steps she noticed the big old Dutchman ambling away down the pavement. She stopped and called out.

  ‘Herr Melkman. Are you not coming with us?’

  He turned and, with a smile and a sheepish shrug, said, ‘To be honest I’m a Philistine.’ He pointed with his chin towards his wife. ‘We came on the tour because my dear wife is a culture buff. . . I’ll wait down there and get a little refreshment.’

  The courier saw beyond him the facade of a bar. She smiled but said sternly, ‘Not later than one o’clock. And be careful of touts trying to change money. It’s very illegal and the punishment is severe.’

  He nodded obediently and, with his gloved hand, blew a kiss to his wife.

  The bar was all chrome and plastic. Several people sat at tables drinking. They glanced up incuriously. Twin speakers high on the wall were emitting an old Abba song. The bartender wore a black cap and a bored expression. He was polishing glasses in a desultory manner. The Dutchman moved close to him and said, ‘I am Herr Melkman from Rotterdam.’

  The bartender nodded without interest and pointed with his chin to a door at the back of the room. The Dutchman shambled over and opened it. Apart from a baize-covered table and two chairs the room was devoid of furniture. A man was sitting hunched over on the far side of the table playing patience with an old deck of cards. He glanced up very briefly and said in a deep, harsh voice, ‘Close the door and lock it.’ He spoke in Russian.

  The Dutchman closed the door and locked it. From behind him the voice said, ‘And bolt it.’

  He slid home the bolts at the top and bottom of the door, then turned and surveyed the man. He had grey hair, combed straight back from his forehead without a parting. He had a wide face with heavy jowls and a thick-lipped mouth. He looked to be in his early sixties. He wore a dark blue suit and a grey shirt buttoned to the top but without a tie.

  The Dutchman decided that he would not have recognised him. Then, briefly, he wondered whether this was in fact the man he had come to meet. He moved forward, looked down at the table and said, ‘The red four goes on the black five.’

  The Russian sighed. ‘I hate people who do that.’

  ‘I always do it.’

  ‘I can imagine so.’

  Abruptly the Russian swept the cards into a pile and, with stubby fingers, shuffled the deck together. The backs of his hands were covered with liver marks. He put the deck beside a tray holding two ice buckets. One contained a bottle of vodka, the other schnapps. The Russian pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand. The Dutchman shook it saying, ‘I would not have recognised you.’

  ‘Me neither. You do not look like a priest.’

  ‘Nor you a Major General.’

  They sat down. The Russian gestured at the tray. ‘The schnapps is Dutch.’

  ‘Very thoughtful, but I’ll join you with the vodka.’

  For the first time the Russian smiled. It lightened the room. As he unscrewed the top he said, ‘Father Pieter Van Burgh, come to collect his pound of flesh — or should I say bacon?’

  The Bacon Priest smiled and took the proffered glass. He raised it and said, ‘To your success, General Saltikov. You came a long way.’

  The Russian nodded. ‘And you still a priest. I would have expected to be drinking with at least an Archbishop.’

  The Bacon Priest downed his drink in a gulp and said, ‘Archbishops work too hard . . . I have more fun.’

  The General nodded. ‘So I hear.’

  He too drained his glass and then refilled them both. Then he looked speculatively at the priest and his mind went back thirty-nine winters.

  It had been the winter of ‘44. He had been a young Lieutenant in the Tank Corps. An awful area north-east of Warsaw. Lowlands, near a village called Gasewo. He commanded the lead tank of a line of six following a marked track through swampy ground. The Major commanding the unit was smart. He was in the rear tank. The Polish partisans must have changed the markers and his tank ended up in a swamp, stuck fast right up to the top treads. Stuck so fast that the other tanks could not pull it out.

  The Major should have abandoned the tank but he was looking for medals. Something he would never get for courage. He had ordered Saltikov to stay behind with his crew and wait for a recovery vehicle which he promised would arrive by nightfall.

  Of course it never did. The partisans attacked soon after dark. He was knocked senseless by a grenade. His crew was wounded, then, in the nature of things, they had their throats cut. Being an officer they took him back to their headquarters for interrogation, after which he knew he would get the same treatment.

  He had a lust for life and managed to string it out for two agonising days. He saw by their faces that his life would end the next morning. That night a priest arrived. A young priest the same age as himself. He sat beside the bound Lieutenant and talked to him; tried to give him solace.

  Saltikov hated the bastard; told him he was an atheist. Told him that the Pope was a fornicator and that Jesus Christ had been a sodomist. He did not care; knew that he was going to die anyway. They argued for hours and during those hours something happened; they came to understand each other. Then, as it was getting light, the priest had asked the Russian, ‘How would you like to live?’

  The Russian replied that he would not be averse to it. The priest carefully noted that a debt would be owed. The Russian replied that he was a Communist and an atheist, and he always paid his debts — always.

  The priest took the address of the Russian’s parents and other relatives. Two hours later he was released. Back at his unit he was an escaped hero. By the end of the war he was one of the youngest, most highly decorated Majors in the Red Army.

  His career had continued on an upward curve ever since. He had often wondered if he had been the only Red Army officer helped in the same way by the same priest. He had often wondered about that.

  He had been contacted over the years. The first time was in 1953 just after he had been promoted Colonel. Then again after every subsequent promotion. The message had always been the same: ‘Congratulations. Remember Gasewo. Lenin was a transvestite.’

  He had always sent back the same message: ‘I’m waiting. Get it over with.’

  Now Major General Maxim Saltikov, Deputy Commander-in-Chief of Warsaw Pact Forces in Poland, looked into the eyes of the Bacon Priest and gruffly said, ‘So get it over with.’

  The Bacon Priest sat back in his chair, took a breath and said, ‘I want you to transport two people from Warsaw to Moscow.’

  ‘Presumably secretly.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The General sighed, reached into the top pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thin black cheroot. He held it out to the Bacon Priest, who shook his head. The General lit the cheroot with a gold Dunhill lighter, inhaled the smoke, lifted his chin and then exhaled over the priest’s head. In a cold voice he said, ‘I’m sure I know the answer, but tell me — who are they?’

  ‘Mirek Scibor and Ania Krol.’

  The General nodded and then there came a screech as, abruptly, he pushed his chair back and stood up. The priest’s heart began to pump faster as he noticed that there was a door behind the General. Were there people waiting behind it to arrest him?

  But the Gen
eral did not go to the door. He stretched his bulky frame and then began pacing and talking.

  ‘Over the past days I’ve deployed hundreds of thousands of my men to catch those two. Only this morning a helicopter crashed while taking a platoon to a remote border area. Fourteen of my men dead . . . good men. In normal circumstances that flight would never have been authorised in such weather conditions . . . fourteen dead. Thanks to those two. I had to cancel important manoeuvres involving a quarter of a million men . . . thanks to those two. Now you sit there and calmly ask me to smuggle them into Moscow.’

  He stopped pacing and turned. His face was dark in anger. His jaw jutted belligerently towards the priest.

  Seconds passed and then the priest, looking at the tabletop, spoke softly. ‘Saltikov, you have had a very successful life and a good one. A wonderful wife, two intelligent and loving children who have given you, so far, three wonderful grandchildren.’ Slowly he raised his head and his eyes met those of the General. His voice hardened. ‘Saltikov, I gave you that life . . . I gave happiness to your wife . . . life to your children and to their children and, in the passage of time, to their children . . . You made a pledge.’

  They stared at each other for a long time. Saltikov was the first to move. He walked back to his chair, sat down heavily, leaned forward, put his elbows on the table and asked, ‘What will they do in Moscow?’

  For half a dozen heartbeats the priest thought. Then he stated, ‘He will kill Andropov.’

  He expected a shocked reaction but the General merely nodded and murmured, ‘That confirms a rumour . . . Why?’

  The priest succinctly told him.

  Again the General nodded and said, ‘It fits. It’s known that Andropov has an obsession about this Pope. But why bother? He’s dying anyway. It’s more or less common knowledge in the Politburo. He can’t last more than a few months.’