In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  Andropov was looking at Chazov, who swallowed nervously and said, ‘Of course, Professor.’

  Petrov kept silent. Mirek sent mental thanks to Father Gamelli. He knew he was now in the driving seat. He leaned over Andropov, pulled up his right eyelid, peered into the eye and said, ‘I’m looking for signs of retinal haemorrhages.’ He let the eyelid fall back into place saying reassuringly, ‘That’s fine.’ To Petrov he asked, ‘Has there been a decrease in the renal concentrating ability?’

  Petrov nodded grudgingly. ‘A little.’

  Airily Mirek said, ‘That must be carefully monitored.’

  He decided that he had risked his luck and his little knowledge enough. The time had come. His bag was on a table behind him. He turned and opened it and took out the small leather case. As he carefully lifted out the stethoscope Petrov said with a note of scorn, ‘I thought all you young wonderboys were only interested in ECGs.’

  Mirek gave him a condescending smile.

  To Andropov he said, ‘Medicine is a combination of science, art and intuition. I would like to listen to your heart, Comrade.’

  Andropov was obviously impressed. He gave a benign nod and began to unlace the front of the surgical gown. Now at this moment the hatred riled up in Mirek. He had to choke it down. He fitted the stethoscope into his ears and pulled apart the gown.

  The skin of Andropov’s chest and upper belly was white and flaccid. He had sparse tufts of white hair on his chest. Most of it had been shaved away for the ECGs. Mirek ran his hand down the rubber tube to the base of the chromium-plated head. He leaned forward. His hand was shaking in anticipation. He took a breath and controlled it. Slowly and carefully he placed the metal on to Andropov’s chest just to the right of the heart. As he pressed his finger hard on to it he looked into Andropov’s eyes. In his mind he said, ‘That is from Bohdan, my father.’ He waited for twenty seconds. In his ears he could hear the thump of the heart. He imagined the poison moving, even now, towards it; to strangle it. He moved the head to a point just under the heart. He looked again into those eyes and pressed down hard. His mind said, This is from Hanna, my mother.’

  Twenty seconds later he moved the head up four inches. It was directly over the heart. With the forefinger of his left hand he tapped it firmly, once, twice, thrice. He could feel himself shuddering from hatred. He almost said it aloud: ‘And this is from Jolanta, my sister.’

  He was looking again into Andropov’s eyes. They were watching his, puzzled. He thought that maybe something had showed on his face. One part of him no longer cared. One part did. It cared that Andropov should not have the satisfaction of taking him to hell as a companion. He straightened up and smiled, saying musingly, ‘Remarkable. Under the circumstances remarkably good.’

  Andropov’s look of puzzlement changed to one of pleasure. He said, ‘So what is your prognosis?’

  Mirek folded the stethoscope back into its case and slid the case into his bag. He said:

  ‘Comrade First Secretary, I believe that your condition is not as bad as you may have been led to believe. Of course, I would like to study further all the reports and also see the results of the tests I have suggested. I will say, though, that with the correct treatment you may well have many years of a robust life in front of you.’

  Neither Chazov nor Petrov could keep traces of scepticism off their faces. But Andropov was beaming at Mirek, who said, ‘I may wish to examine you again in two or three days.’

  Andropov said, ‘I shall insist upon it.’ To Chebrikov he said, ‘See that Professor Szafer has anything he needs . . . anything.’

  At that moment, twenty kilometres away in the Kosmos Hotel, Stefan Szafer’s building rage and humiliation finally erupted like a too long constricted volcano. For an hour he had been sitting in the chair looking at her. Thinking about what she had done to him. Thinking of the words he had spoken to her. The feelings he had expressed to her, and to himself. The belief that she had loved him.

  He sat looking at her beautiful face over the barrel of the pistol. At her eyes, which gazed back with undisguised contempt. It was the contempt which finally broke him. He had worked out by now what was going on. Worked out that this woman had made him a contemptible fool. The humiliation welled up. She crossed one elegant leg over the other and sighed from boredom.

  Humiliation was blended with rage. With a scream from the bottom of his throat he lunged off the chair and dived towards her, fingers outstretched, seeking her throat.

  She had time to fire twice. The first bullet hit him in the centre of the stomach. The second in the lungs. They should have stopped him. But in those moments he was not a normal man. The rage gave him unprecedented strength. He crossed the ten feet of carpet and cannoned into her, sending the gun spinning from her hand. His forearm hammered into her face, stunning her. Then they were lying on the carpet and he had his hands around her throat. Weakly she flailed at him but his hands were a tightening vice, his fingers digging deep into her flesh.

  His face was inches from hers. He watched it turn red, then blue. He panted from pain and exertion. He saw her tongue forced out between her lips and her eyes bulge in their sockets.

  He was still grunting with rage as she died. He banged her head up and down on the carpet, then flung her away. He scrambled to his feet, feeling the blood pumping from him. He did not care. He staggered over to her body and kicked it, cursing her for a bitch and a whore. Finally he dragged himself to the bed and pulled at the phone, managing to get the mouthpiece close to his dying lips.

  Chapter 28

  Mirek turned at the door of the suite and looked one last time at Andropov. The old man stared back at him. Then he lifted his hand and gave a little goodbye wave. Mirek smiled and waved back.

  Only Academician Chazov accompanied him to the entrance. As they walked down the long corridor he said, ‘I am much looking forward to your lecture at the Institute on Thursday.’

  Mirek replied, ‘I’m honoured that you’ll be there. By the way, Professor, would you mind if I returned to the hotel alone? I have much to consider after this consultation . . . I find it hard to think in company.’

  Chazov’s face showed his chagrin but then he remembered Andropov’s orders to Chebrikov that the Pole was to have anything he wanted. Ingratiatingly he said, ‘Of course, Professor. I will arrange another car for myself.’

  They shook hands by the car. Chazov gave the driver the pass and told him to take Professor Szafer straight back to his hotel.

  Mirek waved goodbye through the rearview mirror as the Zil passed through the main gates.

  Back in the clinic Andropov said to Chebrikov, ‘Is everything ready for that bastard Pope when he arrives in South Korea?’

  Soothingly Chebrikov said, ‘Everything is ready. The team is in place. In seventy-two hours he will be no more.’

  ‘Good. Is there any news on the other Pole . . . Scibor?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Chebrikov replied ruefully.

  ‘It’s strange,’ Andropov mused. ‘One Pole comes to heal me . . . and the other to kill . . . You know, they even resemble each other.’

  Chebrikov would have liked to escape from the room to have a drink and a smoke, but his boss was disposed to talk. Then Andropov yawned.

  Quickly Chebrikov said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to sleep, Yuri?’

  Andropov shook his head in slight irritation. ‘No, I just feel a little drowsy . . . You know, something else is strange. In the dossier you showed me it mentioned that this Professor Szafer suffered from chronic bad breath. I had steeled myself against it, but it was not so. His breath was normal.’

  Suddenly he lifted his head and looked at Chebrikov. His voice rose in pitch. ‘His breath was not bad!’

  At that moment the telephone rang stridently.

  The Zil had turned off the avenue lined by KGB guards and was cruising at 80 kph towards the city centre. Mirek felt no elation, only a deep sense of relief. He wondered about Ania. Wondered if she was already on her
way out. His thoughts turned to the future.

  Very faintly he heard, through the glass partition, the crackle of the radio, then abruptly the driver’s head swivelled and he was looking into a pair of startled eyes. A second later he was slammed back against the seat as the Zil rapidly accelerated.

  He knew instantly. There could be no other explanation. Maybe Andropov had died faster than expected. He grabbed for the door handle but then knew that to dive out at this speed was suicide. The driver would have to slow down somewhere along the road but meanwhile every police and militia car would be heading to intercept them. Within a couple of minutes it would be too late. He cursed that he had no gun; no way to kill himself.

  They were speeding down the centre lane, the lane reserved for VIP transport. Up ahead the road curved sharply and in front of them was a car travelling at a more sedate speed. They would have to slow down.

  Mirek heard the horn as the driver pounded frantically on it. They were still going too fast but he had no choice. He had to risk it. He reached for the door handle again and steeled himself. Then he heard a siren close alongside. He looked up. It was a white ambulance pulling up on their left side. If he jumped now he would end up under its wheels. He cursed the thing. He could see the driver looking at him.

  Suddenly he saw the driver wrench the wheel over.

  The front wing of the ambulance slammed into the side of the Zil. Mirek was thrown violently across the back seat. He felt the car swing and heard the scream of its tyres. Then a rending crash as they slid into the central barrier. They had started into the curve. Mirek covered his head with his arms and crouched against the glass partition.

  The Zil rolled twice and then came to a screeching stop on its side, across the road. Mirek felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder. He pushed himself to his feet. He was standing on the right-side window. The left door above him had been torn off. Through the glass partition he could see the driver’s body crumpled against the splintered windscreen.

  He put his left foot on the arm rest in the centre of the seat and, with a gasp of agony, pushed himself up into the space where the door had been. He saw that the ambulance had overshot them and was turning around. He felt light-headed from the shock. Irrationally he thought how convenient it was to get wrecked by an ambulance. Then the instinct for survival took over. He could smell petrol. He pushed himself up and over the side and fell heavily onto the road. People were running towards him. He managed to stagger to his feet.

  The ambulance pulled up in front of him. A woman in a red coat had arrived and was asking if he was all right. He was in a daze. Then he heard a deep voice talking to the woman, telling her it was all right, that he would be taken to the hospital in the ambulance. A big hand gripped his arm above the elbow and propelled him forward towards the open front door of the ambulance. He looked up. It was a big old man with a florid face. He was astonishingly strong. He more or less pushed Mirek into the cab, slammed the door and then ran around to the driver’s side. A crowd had gathered.

  In a haze Mirek heard someone shout, ‘What about the driver?’

  The ambulance driver shouted back, ‘Another ambulance is coming.’

  They moved forward, slowly at first, through the parting crowd. Then the driver leaned forward and flicked a switch and the siren started screaming. They accelerated away.

  Mirek held his shoulder. He thought it might be dislocated. His brain was telling him that he had to get out, before they reached the hospital.

  Abruptly the ambulance swung off the main road and down a narrow street. The driver flicked off the switch and, as the sound of the siren died, said, ‘So, apart from your shoulder, how are you, Mirek Scibor?’

  Mirek turned his head around to look at him. The big old man glanced at him and smiled. At first Mirek was totally bemused, then realisation dawned. He laughed and said, ‘I suppose your best minds worked on this.’

  ‘You could say that,’ agreed the Bacon Priest.

  Forty-eight hours later the Alitalia DC8 carrying His Holiness Pope John Paul II touched down at Seoul’s international airport.

  A day earlier three Filipinos had boarded a JAL flight for Tokyo from the same airport.

  Two of them were young women. The other a young man.

  One of the women was very pretty.

  Chapter 29

  Archbishop Versano warmly embraced the Bacon Priest and led him over to a leather chair in the corner of his office, saying, ‘Welcome and well done, Pieter. You look tired. Coffee? Or something stronger?’

  The priest sat down, shaking his head. ‘No thanks, Mario.’

  The Archbishop went to his desk and came back carrying a sheet of paper. He sat opposite the priest, grinned at him and said, ‘This was issued by the Kremlin three days ago. Quote: Comrade Yuri P. Andropov, President of the USSR and Secretary General of the Communist Party of the USSR, died at sixteen fifty hours on February 9th, 1984. Cause of death: Interstitial nephritis, nephrosclerosis, chronic kidney deficiency, dystrophic changes of internal organs, progressive hypertension and cardio-vascular insufficiency.’

  He looked up at the Bacon Priest and grinned again. ‘Yet another Kremlin lie. They obviously don’t want their own people - or anyone else’s - to know that their vaunted security was breached.’

  Wearily the priest shook his head.

  ‘Not necessarily, Mario.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. He could well have died of those causes.’

  Puzzled, Versano cocked his head to one side and studied him. Then he said, ‘Pieter, what’s the matter with you? What about the “Papa’s envoy” and “La cantante”?’

  The Bacon Priest sighed.

  ‘They never existed, Mario. They were figments of imagination.’

  The Archbishop stared at him, then an expression of horror crossed his face. ‘Oh God . . . you didn’t . . . have them eliminated . . . to destroy your evidence?’

  Van Burgh sighed again. ‘Mario, you cannot eliminate something that never existed.’

  Now exasperation was on the Archbishop’s face and in his voice. ‘Have you gone crazy? Scibor was a real person!’

  ‘Yes, there was a Mirek Scibor. He did kill two of his superiors. Doubtless they caught him and, doubtless, quietly executed him.’

  Incredulously Versano barked, ‘And the nun - Ania Krol . . . ? Mennini found her in a convent in Hungary.’

  Van Burgh spread his hands. ‘If you check the records of that convent you will find no mention of a nun called Ania Krol. If you question the Mother Superior she will have no recollection of such a person.’

  Versano sneered. ‘And of course Mennini is dead.’

  ‘Yes. God rest his soul.’

  ‘And Nostra Trinita?’

  Van Burgh made a throw-away gesture.

  ‘Three foolish men fantasising after too much wine and brandy.’

  ‘I see, and of course all the well-documented fuss in Eastern Europe, the huge security turn-out, that was just a figment of my imagination, and of millions of others?’

  The Bacon Priest shook his head. ‘Not at all. My guess is that it resulted from a disinformation campaign, probably the Americans . . . CIA. They would certainly have discovered the extent and mobility of the East’s security system.’

  ‘And the killings? At that restaurant? And in Cracow?’

  Van Burgh shrugged. ‘Dissidents, renegades, such things happen, even in repressed countries.’

  Another silence, then Versano remembered something. He leaned forward, angry but triumphant. ‘What about the money?’

  ‘What money?’

  The Archbishop shouted, ‘The dollars! The gold! I sent them! Me! Is that a figment of my imagination?’

  The Bacon Priest slowly stood up and stretched. His face was infinitely weary. Very softly he said, ‘Mario, the Church spent no money that I know of. . . neither did you personally.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go.’ He gestured at the piece of paper in the Archbi
shop’s hands. ‘It is better, for once, that we all believe the Kremlin. Goodbye Mario.’

  The Bacon Priest had reached the door and opened it before Versano spoke. He said coldly, ‘Whatever you say I know what to believe.’

  The Bacon Priest turned and looked at him for a moment, then said, ‘As Cardinal Mennini would have said, “Belief is a state of mind.” And remember, the Cardinal had a conscience . . . and wore a hair shirt. The knowledge that the “Papa’s envoy” never existed is your hair shirt - wear it well.’

  He went out, closing the door gently behind him.

  EPILOGUE

  The Vumba mountains in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe look out over Mozambique. Or they do when the mists which give the mountains their name dissipate.

  In that part of Zimbabwe there are, apart from the indigenous tribes, quite a few Europeans from the Colonial days. These comprise mostly British who have stayed on; a small community of Greeks, and another of Portuguese who crossed the border after Mozambique’s independence. There are a few Dutch and a few Germans, mostly farmers. The Poles constitute the smallest community, with barely half a dozen souls.

  Early in 1984 their number was increased significantly with the arrival of two more Poles. They came within three weeks of each other. The woman turned up first. She was a nun and joined the convent high in the Vumba which had taken over an old, beautiful but unprofitable hotel. Most of the nuns were Irish, as was the Mother Superior. They looked after orphans and refugees from war-torn Mozambique. The new nun taught English.

  The man arrived quietly, stayed at the Impala Arms Hotel for two weeks and then bought three hundred acres of land in the lush Burma Valley. It was rumoured that part of the purchase price had been paid in gold.

  There was no house on the land but he pitched a tent and started building one, using the local stone and timber cut from his own trees. He planted coffee and bananas and Protea shrubs for eventual export to Europe.