In The Name of The Father (22 page)

Mirek glanced at Ania. She shrugged non-committally.

The priest said soothingly, ‘Even with the increased level of border security there should be no problem. The flow of trade across this border is very considerable. The Australian’s load is vitally important for the Skoda factory. He has papers proving that. He is very experienced.’

Mirek was looking more confident. He asked, ‘How long will we be sardines?’

Carefully Heisl replied, ‘We think between eight and twelve hours.’

‘Hell. In a compartment like the one in which I was loaded on to the boat?’

Slowly the priest shook his head.

‘Much smaller, Mirek. It measures one metre by half a metre and is less than half a metre high.’

Incredulously Mirek said, ‘For up to twelve hours . . . two of us?’

The priest nodded. ‘And your bag. But you will not be conscious.’

‘What do you mean?’

Heisl sighed. ‘It’s a sort of insurance that the Australian insists on. He was once transporting a man out of East Germany to the West. The man had a bad attack of claustrophobia and started screaming. They were very nearly caught. Since then the Australian insists on injecting his passengers with a drug that causes a deep sleep for about ten hours. It’s a sensible precaution. You are both fit. It will do you no harm.’

Before Mirek or Ania could comment he pointedly glanced at his watch and said, ‘Talking of sleep I think you should get some now; and in the morning take only a little food and no liquid. There are no ablution facilities in that compartment.’

He smiled and finished the last of his brandy.

The journey started from a warehouse on the outskirts of Linz. Heisl drove them there at five in the morning, with little conversation. There was not much to say that had not already been said. The warehouse was deserted except for a huge Scania truck, painted bright green, and a rugged, freckle-faced man with long red hair, long sideboards and a long, rough-cut beard. He was dressed in paint-streaked denim overalls. Deep blue eyes twinkled as he examined them. The eyes finally rested on Ania and he grinned. In workable but badly accented German he said, ‘You’ll be very cosy in my little cubby hole.’

He showed it to them. The concealment was simple but ingenious. He unscrewed the large fuel tank cap just behind the driver’s door and put his hand inside. They heard a click and then a gap appeared at the lower edge of the panelling. He leaned down, got his fingers under it and pulled up. A flap opened, its hinge neatly concealed in the seam of the panelling which ran the length of the truck. The flap itself was very heavy and about six inches thick. The Australian propped it open with a stick.

‘These Commies are bloody cunning,’ he explained. ‘They have plans of all common makes of trucks. If all the dimensions don’t match they take everything apart.’ He pointed under the flap. ‘That was originally part of the fuel tank.’ He squatted down and indicated the long bulge of the tank. ‘It’s cut my fuel capacity in half but that’s no problem. I always keep a dozen big jerry cans of diesel in the back. The stupid buggers always suspect that I smuggle things in those.’ He grinned through his beard. ‘They always push sticks down them.’

Mirek bent down and looked into the compartment. It had padded sides and an old carpet on the floor. It hardly looked big enough for him, let alone the two of them. He said so. The Australian grinned again. His teeth were discoloured by nicotine. He said lightly, ‘Don’t worry, mate, you’ll be snug as bugs in a rug.’ He turned to Heisl. ‘I had a call from Hate. There’s quite a line building up. I want to get started earlier. In fact, the sooner the better.’

‘That’s fine,’ Heisl replied quietly.

The Australian walked over to a bench by the wall and came back with a small polished wooden box. He asked Heisl to hold it and then opened the clasp. Inside was a rubber-topped bottle and half a dozen disposable syringes. He took one out, and the bottle. With practised ease he slid the needle through the rubber top and measured up a quantity of the colourless liquid. Then he turned to Mirek with a grin.

‘All right, mate. Roll up your left sleeve. Time to shoot up. How much do you weigh?’

As Mirek rolled up his sleeve he said cautiously, ‘Eighty-six kilos. What is that stuff?’

‘Trepalin, mate. It’ll give you sweet dreams. When you wake up you’ll have a mild headache and a bit of nausea. Something like a medium hangover. It’ll clear up in a couple of hours. This will take effect in about fifteen minutes.’

He gripped Mirek’s arm just below the elbow and pressed his thumb hard down on the inside. He watched the vein expand and then slid the needle in. Mirek watched his eyes as they watched the calibrated gauge on the syringe. It only took a moment then he pulled out the needle and tossed the syringe into a corner. He picked up another one and injected the rubber bottle top saying, ‘Can’t be too careful these days, hey?’ He turned to Ania. ‘What’s your weight, lady?’

‘Sixty kilos,’ she replied in a confident voice. She had already rolled up her sleeve.

‘And very nicely distributed too,’ he said, gripping her arm.

She didn’t flinch as the needle went in, just watched the Australian with an air of disdain. He tossed the syringe away and announced, ‘Right, let’s get you loaded up and on the way to the People’s Democratic Paradise.’

The farewells were quick and, on the surface, unemotional, but as Mirek shook Father Heisl’s hand and as Ania hugged and kissed his cheek they both felt sad and suddenly lonely. This priest, rapidly passing from middle to old age, had been a wise and caring mentor. He had, in his diffident way, been a teacher and friend. As they turned away with his words of good wishes in their ears they felt that their journey was truly about to start. Their few belongings were in a small canvas duffle bag. The Australian stowed that first, squashing it into the far end of the compartment and remarking that it would make a good pillow. The compartment was lit by a tiny torch bulb in one upper corner. He explained that it could be turned on and off from his cab and he would turn it off in twenty minutes when they were in lullaby land.

Mirek climbed in, sliding head first towards the duffle bag. He was beginning to feel drowsy. He rested his head on the bag. He could feel the holstered gun which he had packed close to the drawstring. It gave him comfort. Ania struggled in beside him. He could feel her soft body as it moved up against his. She had her back to him. He felt her buttocks against his knees and then his crotch. Her hair was in his face. He could feel her straining away from him.

‘Are you all right? Try to relax.’

‘I’m fine.’ The tone of her voice belied the statement. She was acutely uncomfortable, not only physically but mentally. They heard Father Heisl’s voice distantly.

‘God go with you.’

Then they heard the flap being clamped shut and they were like twin chrysalises in a larva. Faintly they heard the slam of the cab door and after a moment the compartment vibrated as the engine started. A minute later and they felt the movement as the truck moved out of the warehouse. The brakes were applied and Ania was forced hard against Mirek. She edged away again, her body rigid. Impatiently he said, ‘I didn’t ask for you to be here. For God’s sake relax . . . I’m not going to assault you. In a few minutes we’ll be unconscious.’

She did relax a little. He felt the pressure of her back on his chest but she kept her bottom away from his crotch.

He was getting very drowsy now. In a crazy moment he wondered if she snored - or if he did. He moved his left arm, trying to get it comfortable. There was nowhere to put it except over her. He put it on her hip. She did not move. He could hear the deepening of her breathing. Her hair smelt like a pine forest. Almost of its own accord his arm moved and his hand felt up her rib cage and cupped her left breast. With a feeble effort she tried to push it away but she was already losing consciousness. He could feel the nipple rising against his hand. He followed her into sleep.

Father Heisl passed back the binoculars. The Bacon Priest put them against his eyes and readjusted the lenses. It was eight forty-five and they sat in the car on the crown of a hill four miles from the border town of Hate. Beyond it was the bridge over the March River. Trucks and cars crossed it at steady intervals. They were watching for the green truck. Neither of them displayed any anxiety but both were very tense inside. Weeks of planning were coming to fruition. When that green truck crossed that bridge the die would be cast. They had been the puppet masters, but from then on the puppets would be without strings.

The Bacon Priest lowered the binoculars and said, ‘You gave him the gun?’

‘Yes.’

He raised the binoculars again and said thoughtfully, ‘It’s better that way . . . I mean that he should ask for it. . . not that we pressed it on him.’

Heisl replied dolefully, ‘I suppose so, Pieter, but I worry about the girl. Scibor is so determined, obsessed even, that he won’t hesitate to get rid of her if he thinks she’s a hindrance. He won’t think twice.’

Without moving his gaze from the bridge and talking softly, almost to himself, the Bacon Priest said, ‘We can’t have it both ways. His obsession, his motive, gives the plan a greater chance of success. Having Ania travel with him also increases the chances. Yes, she is at great risk, even from him . . . but Jan, our Church was built on martyrdom and will always be sustained by it.’ He took one hand from the binoculars and gestured in front of him. ‘Even now over there some of our people are being tortured, mentally and physically. We must be compassionate for all and yet not fear for a single individual. In our task we -’ He suddenly straightened and steadied the binoculars. ‘There it is. They are through, crossing the bridge.’

With the naked eye Heisl could make out the bright green of the truck. He watched it reach the far side and disappear behind some buildings. The Bacon Priest turned to him with a broad grin on his face.

‘They are through. The
“Papa
’s envoy” is on his way.’

Heisl found that he could not share his boss’s delight. He was touched by a sense of foreboding. The Bacon Priest punched him lightly on the shoulder.

‘Come on, cheer up. You did a magnificent job preparing them. They will not fail.’

Father Heisl smiled back bleakly.

Chapter 13

Ania woke before Mirek. Her head ached from the nape of her neck to her cranium. Her mouth felt gummy, her limbs were painfully stiff. Mirek’s hand was on her left breast. Carefully she placed it on her thigh. She felt him move and then he settled again and his breathing resumed a deep rhythm. She flexed her muscles one by one. Her right arm beneath her was totally numb and without feeling. The truck was moving fast. She could feel the motion of it as it swayed around the long curves. She ran her tongue along dry lips and wondered how much longer. She hoped that Mirek would remain asleep until they arrived. She wished her watch was luminous. Mirek woke up. First she felt him stiffen and then his blurred curses as his brain registered his body’s discomfort. She said thickly, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ he grunted. ‘But if this is what he calls a mild hangover I’d hate to have a bad one. How do you feel?’

‘I’ve never had a hangover but if this is like one I don’t know why people ever drink. Can you see what time it is?’

He lifted his hand from her hip and twisted his head. ‘Almost three. The Australian was right. It’s just about ten hours.’

‘So we should be there soon.’ There was a note of anxiety in her voice.

He said brusquely, ‘It all depends how long he took to clear through the border. It might have been ages. We could be in for several more hours. You’ll just have to stick it out.’

She resented the implication and said angrily, ‘I can stick it as long as you can.’

But it was only another half an hour. They felt the truck turn off to the right. From the rougher surface it had to be a secondary road.

‘The Blovice diversion,’ Mirek muttered. He had a clear plan of the route in his head.

Five minutes later the truck slowed and turned again to the right. This road was even rougher but in less than a minute the truck slowed further and then stopped. Nothing happened for ten minutes, then they heard and felt a slight thump which must be the driver closing his cab door. A minute later light and ice cold fresh air flooded in and they both breathed in with relief. Mirek twisted and peered down the length of his body. The light almost blinded him, then it was partially blocked by the Australian’s hairy red face.

‘You two all right. . . awake?’

They both muttered, ‘Yes.’

‘Good. We got here early. I was worried you’d still be asleep. Come on out quick; ladies first.’ He grabbed Ania’s ankles and pulled her swiftly out. At first she could hardly stand. With his hands under her armpits he half carried her across the road and helped her to sit on a fallen tree trunk. As he turned back Mirek was already out, leaning against the truck. Quickly the Australian reached in and pulled out the duffle bag. He dropped it at Mirek’s feet and said:

‘All right, mate, I’m off.’

‘Hang on!’ Mirek pushed himself away from the truck and staggered a few paces, then straightened up. ‘Are you sure this is the right spot?’

The Australian was hurrying to the door of the cab.

‘Sure,’ he called out pointing off to his left. ‘Blovice is four kilometres over that hill.’

Mirek looked. Below the hill was the small copse imprinted on his mind. He waved acknowledgment. The Australian swung up into the cab and slammed the door. The engine was still running.

‘Good luck,’ he shouted out of the window. There was a hiss from the air brakes and the truck accelerated away, the rear wheels narrowly missing the duffle bag. The Australian expected no thanks. All the thanks he wanted were in another, much smaller, secret compartment in the truck. Ten pliable wafer-thin strips of pure gold.

Mirek retrieved the duffle bag and hobbled over to Ania.