In The Name of The Father (14 page)

Mirek’s voice changed. ‘Why did you tell me? It was bad procedure. I could never have known.’

The Bacon Priest sighed. ‘Mirek, I recruited you on the basis of one set of circumstances. That has now changed. It was decided that you should be told. It was the only moral way.’

Mirek snorted. ‘Morality! You plan such an operation and then you talk of morality?’ A thought struck him. ‘Who else is in on this? Who knows apart from we three in this room?’

‘One other.’

‘Who is he?’

Without hesitation Van Burgh said, ‘Archbishop Versano.’

He waited, curious, for a reaction. With Mirek’s knowledge of the Catholic Church he would know about Versano.

Mirek simply said, ‘It fits.’

Now for the first time Heisl joined the conversation. He said to Mirek, ‘The risk is greatly increased. You know that as well or better than we do.’

With the thumb and forefinger of one hand Mirek was thoughtfully stroking his embryonic moustache. It reminded him of something. He said at the sheet, ‘Did you send me a signal?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did it mean?’

‘What it said.’

‘Why?’

‘Father, show him the photograph.’

Heisl rose and went to a table in the corner near the light. He said, ‘Come here.’

Mirek went over and watched as the priest slid a thick file out of an envelope. He opened it. Pinned to the front cover was an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph of the face of a man. Heisl tilted it under the lamp. It was a youngish man. Perhaps in his middle thirties. Handsome and quite rugged. Dark hair cut stylishly long and a black moustache curling on each side to the corners of his lips. Mirek noted a reasonable similarity to his own features. He asked, ‘Who is he?’

The answer came from behind the sheet.

‘Dr Stefan Szafer of the University of Cracow. His parents defected with him to the West when he was fourteen. Brilliant mind. Studied medicine at Edinburgh University and then at Guy’s Hospital, London. Later did postgraduate work at the John Hopkins in the United States. Was always an idealist. Two years ago at the age of thirty-four he returned to Poland.’

Mirek was studying the photo. He said, ‘And if I go he is part of the plan?’

‘He is part of one of the three plans we have under consideration. I must say the most promising one at this stage.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘No.’

Mirek turned and walked back to his chair. The Bacon Priest’s voice went on.

‘If you decide not to go, and in such a case I’ll completely understand, we may be able to find somebody else. It’s better then that you know no more.’

There was a pause, then Mirek said firmly, ‘I’m going.’

He could detect relief in the Bacon Priest’s voice.

‘Good. Dr Stefan Szafer, even at his young age, is one of the world’s top specialists in renal medicine.’

‘So?’

‘So Yuri Andropov is suffering from, among other things, chronic kidney deficiency.’

‘Ah!’ Mirek quickly worked it through his mind. ‘And he’s been attending Andropov?’

‘Not yet. But it’s not entirely impossible that he will be some time soon. It would be quite natural. We shall try to see that it’s inevitable.’

Mirek glanced sideways at Heisl who was smiling slightly. He marvelled at the audacity of their thinking.

‘How will you make the switch?’

In a throw-away voice, Van Burgh answered. ‘That’s being worked out . . . by our best brains. Meanwhile two other plans are being designed as contingency. There is no need for you to know about them until you reach Moscow. The pipeline to get you there is almost in place. So is the safe house and back-up team in Moscow. As yet they have no knowledge of the actual operation.’

Mirek felt the tingle of fear and excitement.

‘When do I leave?’

‘That day has not been fixed. After you leave here I had wanted to send you to Rome to spend a week in a hospital funded by the Order learning something about kidney diseases and how to comport yourself as a specialist. That’s not possible now. The KGB will soon be swarming all over Rome. Instead you will go to Florence. They will not be interested in that city. A specialist there will instruct you on kidneys. Also during that week you will make the acquaintance of your wife.’

‘My what?’

Van Burgh chuckled.

‘Your wife . . . or your supposed wife. A nice Polish girl. She will travel with you to Moscow.’

Mirek leaned forward and hissed at the sheet.

‘You’re crazy! When I go in there I go alone!’

Van Burgh’s voice hardened.

‘You are very experienced at hunting down people and sometimes catching them. You have no experience of the other side of the coin. I’ve had forty years of it - and never been caught. That day I stood near you on the platform at Wroclaw . . . well, my “wife” was next to me. That one was a rather dowdy woman, I admit. Mirek, a man travelling in those parts with his wife rarely excites suspicion. Think on it.’

Mirek did not. Instead, he said bitterly, ‘You told me that Versano was the only other person in the know. Bacon Priest, you lied to me.’

‘I did not. The woman’s mission is to travel with you to Moscow. Then we bring her out. She knows nothing of your purpose. And, of course, you will tell her nothing.’

Mirek remained totally sceptical. He remarked, ‘A woman will be a weak link on such a mission. I don’t like it.’

The voice came back through the sheet. ‘She goes with you or, Mirek Scibor, you do not go. It is time that you clearly understand. I run the operation. I plan and you execute. You must be under my discipline. From this moment you understand that - or I discard you.’

Father Heisl slowly turned his head and watched Mirek. Van Burgh had told him of the Pole’s words, ‘I would literally give an arm and a leg to kill Andropov.’ A minute passed, then another. Mirek was looking at the floor in front of him. Gradually he raised his head and stared at the sheet with such intensity that Heisl had the crazy thought that his gaze could penetrate it. The Pole stated flatly, ‘Bacon Priest, I understand. You command. I will obey for the sake of my purpose. Now who is this woman?’

‘Her name is Ania Krol. And if anything she will be the strongest link in your chain.’

‘Her background?’

Heisl noted the pause before Van Burgh answered.

‘In fact she is a nun.’

Mirek’s laughter echoed around the room. He threw his head back and laughed. Then he stood and laughed. He walked to a wall, placed his forearms against it and his head against them - and laughed. When finally he stopped he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the tears from his cheeks and eyes, then said in an incredulous voice, ‘On that journey you’re sending with me a nun? As my wife? Will she be wearing a habit and Crucifix? Will she be saying her rosary under the noses of the SB?’

In a tired voice the Bacon Priest said, ‘Sit down, Mirek. For the last month you have been in training. So has she. No one will ever guess she is a nun.’

Mirek sat down. Heisl saw his grin.

‘So she travels as my wife. In all things? Is she attractive?’

Before the Bacon Priest could answer Father Heisl did it for him.

As he spoke he had an impression of Ania Krol’s face in his mind. His voice was as cold as an icicle.

‘She happens to be beautiful in her body and in her love of Our Lord. You will travel together. She has been taught to behave towards you as a devoted wife - in public. Only in public. There will be times, many times, when you will be alone with her. Even sleeping in the same room. Understand this, Mirek Scibor: if you harm her mentally or physically, I will hunt you down myself.’

Mirek opened his mouth to speak, then even in the half light saw the expression on the priest’s face. He closed his mouth.

Van Burgh’s voice came through the sheet.

‘You must be tired, Mirek. Sleep now. I will be gone when you awake. I may talk to you again after Florence, depending on developments. Father Heisl will travel with you and make all arrangements. Listen to everything he has to say - everything.’

Mirek followed Father Heisl down the staircase. Half way down he stopped abruptly. Heisl turned.

Mirek said, ‘He did lie to me. He said “our best brains are working on it”. So others do know details of the operation.’

Heisl smiled. He turned and proceeded down the stairs. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Relax, Mirek. Our Bacon Priest is a man of many parts. He is our best brains!’

Chapter 9

Victor Chebrikov carried an elephant-hide briefcase - a gift from his station chief in Zimbabwe. As he strode down the corridor it lightly brushed the seam of his trousers. Colonel Oleg Zamiatin strode three paces behind him. There were guards spaced at intervals down the corridor. All of them recognised the tall erect figure as the head of the KGB. As they drew close each one would click his heels and snap off a salute. Chebrikov ignored them all. He had much on his mind.

They came to doors that stretched from floor to ceiling. Two KGB guards with sub-machine guns stood at ease in front of them. They did not come to attention at Chebrikov’s approach and did not salute. The sub-machine guns were firmly held and ready for instant use.

Both Chebrikov and Zamiatin produced small flat yellow plastic cards. Each was embossed with a series of black stripes. They held them up to one of the guards. He studied them carefully and then said, ‘Proceed, Comrade Chebrikov and Comrade Colonel.’

They went through into a large room lit by two fine chandeliers. There were three desks ranged down one side. On the other side was a settee and chairs grouped around a low table. Across the room was another set of floor-to-ceiling doors.

An elderly woman sat behind one desk. She was reading a sheet of paper and making notes in the margin. She merely lifted her head briefly at the entrance of the two officers and then went back to work. At the next desk was a middle-aged man. He too was working over a paper. He looked up, smiled and nodded a greeting. At the third desk was a young KGB captain. He jerked to his feet and saluted stiffly. This was Andropov’s ADC. Unlike most of his predecessors Andropov liked to follow a military formality. The captain glanced at a wall clock. It showed five to three. He said:

‘Please have a seat, Comrade Chebrikov; Comrade Colonel. Will you take tea?’

Chebrikov said, ‘Not for me, Captain.’

Zamiatin shook his head. They sat down and Chebrikov worked the combination lock of his briefcase, opened it and extracted a thin folder. He closed the briefcase and passed it to the Colonel, who put it at his feet. Chebrikov opened the folder and studied the single sheet it contained.

At precisely three o’clock the Captain picked up one of the three phones on his desk, punched a button and after a pause spoke softly into it. He hung up, stood stiffly and said, ‘The Comrade First Secretary will see you now, Comrade Chebrikov.’ He moved out from behind the desk and walked towards the doors. Chebrikov followed, leaving Zamiatin behind. The Captain opened the doors and Chebrikov strode through.

He had been in this room many times but it never failed to please him. A soft Bokhara carpet, silk tapestries, gilt chandeliers. The room was perfectly proportioned from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. There was a desk in the middle. A man was reclining on a large chaise-longue in a corner. He looked to be asleep, his head resting on a big black pillow; his eyes were closed. They opened with the sound of the door closing. The supreme leader of the Soviet Empire sighed, swung his feet to the floor and slowly stood up.

Victor Chebrikov studied his mentor closely. This was the man who had risen to the top of the KGB and then manoeuvred himself from there to be supreme leader of the entire country.

He hardly looked the part. He was wearing dark blue trousers with turn-ups, felt slippers, a cream shirt and an old grey cardigan buttoned half way up. His thin grey hair was tousled and the skin of his face pale and waxy. He looked avuncular until one noted the depth of coldness and calculation in his eyes.

They greeted each other warmly. Andropov was obviously fond of his subject. After enquiring about each other’s families Chebrikov apologised for disturbing him. He knew that on Wednesday afternoons, apart from a few absolutely necessary duties, his leader liked to rest and meditate.

Andropov waved to a chair in front of the desk and then shuffled round behind it and sat down. Chebrikov wanted to ask about his health but did not. He was aware that of late Andropov had become irritated at such questions. There was no formality between the two men when they were alone.

Andropov pushed a silver cigarette box across the desk. Gratefully Chebrikov took one. They were Camel filters. He lit it with a matching lighter. As he exhaled the smoke Andropov said, ‘So, my dear Victor, what is so important that you cannot discuss on the phone, that brings you hurrying here?’

Chebrikov had laid the file on the desk. He leaned forward and tapped it.

‘Yuri, we have uncovered a plot to kill you.’

Andropov’s response was immediate. ‘Internal or external?’

‘External. The plot is centred in the Vatican.’

Andropov was renowned for his imperturbability and his poker face, but he could not hide his astonishment.

‘The Vatican! . . . The Pope is trying to kill me?’

Chebrikov shook his head and opened the file.

‘Not the Pope. Our information is that he is personally unaware of it. Apparently it’s some kind of cabal in the Curia. We have few details at the moment but that will change. Obviously the traitor Yevchenko talked to the Italians about our operation “Ermine”. He knew no details, but it is equally obvious that the Italians passed on the bare information to the Vatican. This is their reaction.’

Andropov’s own reaction was succinct.

‘Impertinent bastards!’ He sat back in his chair, anger showing in his eyes. ‘What exactly do we know?’

Chebrikov turned the file and pushed it across the desk.

‘Only this.’

Andropov read the words on the sheet of paper. Then he sat back again and said maliciously, ‘So the damned Cardinal died a few days after his confession. May he rot in hell. . . ! Where is this priest Panrowski now?’