In The Name of The Father (25 page)

He was leaning up on one elbow, his mind in disarray. Inches from his eyes was her ebony curly triangle. He could sense, smell its muskiness. His eyes travelled higher. He could feel his penis rising in automatic anticipation. Without prompting from his brain his free hand followed his gaze: over the soft swell of her belly, higher to her moving breast. His hand stopped there, sending tactile messages of perfection. His gaze went higher to her face. It was wet with flowing tears. Her mouth was open, lips shuddering like her body. Her eyes were narrowed. All he could see in them was unbearable pain.

She sobbed. ‘Do anything, but, please God, stop humiliating me!’

His hand dropped abruptly. So did his penis. He fell back on to the bed and covered his eyes, pressing his hands against them as if to blind himself for ever.

* * *

The dawn filtered in even through the thick curtains, casting a shadowy light over the bed. Mirek lay on his right side close to the edge. Ania lay in the middle, on her left side, an arm over his waist, her head resting among the hair on his chest between the opening of his pyjama jacket. They were both asleep as though drugged.

An hour after dawn she woke slowly, slipping in and out of consciousness. Her face was against the nape of his neck. Drowsily she realised that her body was alongside his, as close as two spoons. She stiffened and then reasoned that the night had been cold. She must have rolled over in her sleep and instinctively, like any mammal, sought bodily heat. She was frightened to move. It might wake him.

For another ten minutes she dozed. One of a pair of warm spoons. Then she heard the faint clatter of pottery from the kitchen below. Slowly, and with infinite care, she withdrew her arm and inched across and out of the bed and turned on the fire.

He slept on as she dressed. At the door she looked down at his face. In sleep it was carefree and, even with the moustache, looking younger than his years. His nostrils flared slightly as he breathed. She stood looking down for several minutes, then she quietly opened the door and left.

Chapter 14

George Laker whistled while he worked. The big Scania thundered down the highway towards Hate. George whistled a tune from
Joseph and his Technicolour Dreamcoat
. He liked rock opera. He’d seen that one back home in Melbourne. Australia seemed a million miles away but he didn’t miss it. George whistled when he was happy and what made him happy was when he made money. The more the happier. This had been a particularly happy trip. Only two days in all, but he’d made a load of money. Twenty ounces of gold for taking the young couple in, two thousand sterling for bringing the old couple out. He changed tunes to ‘I don’t know how to love him’ from Jesus Christ Superstar and thought about the old couple sardined into the compartment below. They were Russian Jews. He never asked questions but he’d guessed they had failed to emigrate from Russia and had managed to get to Czechoslovakia, probably on a short holiday visa. Anyway he didn’t care. He did know that the two thousand pounds was already in his Swiss account. Probably paid in by relatives in Israel or one of the Jewish relief organisations. They were old but they seemed spritely enough. Nervous but in high spirits. They had readily accepted the Trepalin injections as though he was pumping pure gold into their veins.

He glanced at his watch, then at his kilometre gauges and did a quick mental calculation. He gunned the motor a little. He would risk the mandatory on-the-spot speeding fines. He grinned to himself. It represented the tiniest percentage of what he’d made this trip. And Elsa was waiting for him in Vienna. Elsa of the long legs. He began to whistle again.

Twenty kilometres out of Hate he stopped whistling. The big engine had begun to hiccup. He cursed. It was the fucking fuel pump again! He’d had trouble with it for the last month. Fortunately he’d bought a spare in Vienna and had it in his toolbox but he hadn’t had time to change it before this trip. It was a time-consuming and messy job. He decided to try to nurse the Scania into Hate. He eased his foot on the accelerator and slowed right down. For the next half hour he covered fifteen kilometres and then, still five kilometres short, the engine groaned and spluttered and finally petered out as he pulled over to the verge. With another curse he glanced again at his watch. It would take him at least forty-five minutes to change the fuel pump and it was freezing outside. He had already cut it fine because travelling from the border to the West took much less time than going the other way. The old couple would start waking up in about two hours. Well, no matter. They’d keep quiet. Neither of them seemed to have a problem with claustrophobia; they had climbed into the compartment happily enough. He jumped down from the cab, hauled out the toolbox and set to work.

Two hours later he eased the Scania into line at the Customs post at Hate. There were eight trucks in front of him. Private cars and smaller vans were in another line. He switched off the engine, pulled on the handbrake, collected his satchel of documents from the glove compartment, climbed out and strolled into the Customs office. There was one driver at the counter explaining something to an officer. Six others were sitting patiently on a bench. Laker recognised one of them: a middle-aged Irishman from Dublin who specialised in trucking hanging garments East to West. He went over and shook hands and sat next to him.

‘Only one on today?’

‘No,’ the Irishman replied in his soft burr. ‘There’s some fuss at the other office with a private car. The other two have gone over to add a little more bureaucracy.’

Laker looked at his watch again. It was going to take longer than he thought.

‘Good trip?’ the Irishman asked.

‘It was until the fucking fuel pump packed up. Lucky I had a spare.’

The Irishman chuckled. ‘I passed Ernst Kruger just outside Ostrava. Steam was coming from under his truck’s bonnet - and from out of his ears. He’d picked up a nice little German girl - giving her a lift to Vienna. She was in a hurry so I did the decent thing and took her aboard.’

Laker laughed. ‘Where is she now?’

The Irishman winked. ‘Resting on the bunk in my cab . . . she looks the grateful type.’

The driver at the counter picked up his satchel with a muttered ‘Thanks’ and strolled out. The driver at the end of the bench stood up and walked to the counter. The others shuffled down the bench.

Laker said, ‘Did I ever tell you about that bit I picked up in Prague a couple of months ago?’

The Irishman shook his head. Laker grinned at the memory.

‘Christ, but she was a crazy Sheila. She hadn’t been in the cab more than sixty seconds when . . His voice trailed off. A Captain of the STB had walked in. The STB were the secret police - and serious business. He wore polished black boots and a small quizzical smile on his lips. He surveyed the seated drivers as if looking for any signs of guilt, then asked pleasantly, ‘Which of you is G. Laker?’

Laker’s stomach dropped as his heart beat speeded up. Slowly he raised a finger.

‘And you are the driver of the Scania number AGH 5034D?’

Laker swallowed. His voice came out in a croak.

‘Yes . . . What’s the problem, Captain?’

The Captain smiled. ‘The problem is that your vehicle is emitting strange noises from its innards - human noises, Laker — not unlike screams.’

The Australian sat paralysed. The Irishman had edged away from him and was surveying him with a look of pity, as were the other drivers.

The Captain said, ‘I think you had better come with me and explain this phenomenon.’ The softly spoken words sounded to Laker like a death knell.

Twenty minutes later he sat across a steel table from an STB Colonel. The Captain stood to one side with a contented look on his face. The Australian’s hands were handcuffed together on his lap. From the barred window came the wailing sound of the departing ambulance.

The Colonel pulled a lined yellow note pad towards him, took an old-fashioned fountainpen from his breast pocket and wrote ‘George Laker’ across the top of the page in large letters. He had the kind of face that is used to writing reports. He also had ribbons on his chest that denoted not bravery but efficiency. He looked up. His eyes were hooded as though from avoiding too much cigarette smoke. As if on cue he took an old battered silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket and lit up. He did not offer one to the Captain. The Australian’s system was screaming for nicotine. The Colonel blew smoke at the ceiling and said, ‘You were not lucky, Laker. The old man probably had a bad heart. What you injected him with could have made it worse. You will tell us about that. His dear wife wakes up and finds him going stiff next to her and has hysterics. Very bad luck. In half an hour you would have been through.’

His voice was soft and relaxed. Now it turned hard.

‘Of course an experienced man like you knows very well what the penalties are for smuggling criminal fugitives out of our country.’

Laker found his voice. ‘Those two weren’t criminals.’

The Colonel blew cigarette smoke at him. ‘Their very act was a crime, Laker. Ten years’ hard regime. Statutory minimum. It could be longer, much longer, depending on your level of co-operation.’ He twirled the pen in his fingers expectantly. ‘Now first: where did you pick them up and who put them on to you?’

Laker was thinking. His mind literally racing; considering all possibilities. He was a tough man physically and mentally; fully aware of what awaited him. All the truckers who ploughed the rich furrow of Communist trade knew the consequences of getting out of line. Laker had been out of line for over five years. He had nearly a quarter of a million dollars tucked away. He wanted time to spend it. He would do anything for that time. He was forty-seven years old. He would be sixty when they let him out - a broken old man.

‘Well?’ the Colonel demanded impatiently.

Laker held up a hand. ‘Just wait,’ he said harshly. ‘Let me think a minute.’

He thought for two minutes, while the Colonel tapped the top of his pen against his nose. Then he said confidently, ‘All right, Colonel, maybe we can do a deal.’

The Colonel laughed derisively.

‘We don’t do deals, you fool. You co-operate or else you spend your last living days in gaol. You know how it works. Now where did you pick them up?’

Laker leaned forward. ‘Sure I know how it works. I’ve driven trucks in this country, in Rumania, Poland, East Germany, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Russia itself. We truckers talk among ourselves. Shit, we don’t even need CB, we hear a hell of a lot. You bet I know how it works, Colonel, and after you hear what I have to say I’m going to do a fucking deal - but probably not with you or even your boss!’

He sat back and waited. He knew how these people thought. The Colonel glanced at the Captain and said, ‘Go on.’

Laker decided to press his advantage. He knew that the word ‘boss’ always triggered a Pavlovian response with these people.

‘I remember better with a cigarette.’

The Colonel stared at him with distaste but then took out his cigarette case, opened it and pushed it across the table together with a lighter. Laker reached forward with his manacled hands and fumbled one out. Then he reached for the lighter. It was also battered - an old American Zippo. He used it to light the cigarette and then admired it and said, ‘I bet you got this during the war.’

‘I’m not that old,’ the Colonel snapped. ‘Now talk and you’d better not be wasting my time.’

Laker drew deeply on the cigarette, letting the smoke lie in his lungs. Savouring it. As he spoke it puffed out of his mouth and nostrils. ‘What happened on the twenty-third of last month, Colonel?’

‘I ask the questions . . .’

The Colonel’s voice trailed off as the date and its implications registered in his mind. It was almost comical. Laker smiled at him.

‘I’ll tell you, Colonel. On that date you got orders. Orders to tighten up security to the maximum in your area and not just you, Colonel. Those same orders went out to every Customs post and Immigration point in the Soviet bloc. Air, land or sea. Or at least the Western end of it. From the Baltic to the Black Sea.’ He puffed again. The Colonel was looking at him warily.

‘It’s not so strange, Colonel. Truckers criss-cross the entire bloc. We talk to each other. There’s been a lot of speculation among truckers about the stepped-up security. It must cause problems. The movement of goods has been slowed right down. Even within the bloc. Tourism must be suffering. What with all the extra road blocks and identity checks, you chaps must be doing a hell of a lot of overtime. Must be costing the Governments a bomb. And it’s not just an exercise . . . not for two bloody weeks.’

He stopped and let the silence build. Finally the Colonel said, ‘So?’

‘So there’s a panic on. So you’re looking for someone. The scope of it suggests that Moscow is looking for someone desperately . . . maybe a spy . . . probably even more than a mere spy. You don’t know much yet. You don’t even know if who you’re looking for is in the bloc yet. Or if he is, where he is.’

Again a silence. The Colonel was thinking of the dossier which had arrived in his office that very morning. The dossier that was so urgent that it had arrived on the expensive Fax machine. The dossier with the photo. Again he repeated the single word: ‘So?’

‘So I might be able to clear up some of the confusion.’

The Colonel looked sceptical. ‘You’re bluffing, Laker. You’re just a petty smuggler trading in petty criminals. You’ve built up a mirage in your head. We are just having a normal, extended security exercise.’

‘Bullshit, and you can’t take the personal risk of not dealing with me.’

Laker dropped his cigarette on to the concrete floor and ground his heel on it.

The Colonel looked at the Captain. ‘When did he cross into Czechoslovakia?’

The Captain came to attention. ‘Two days ago, sir. Eight forty-five a.m. at this crossing.’

‘His destination?’

‘Brno, sir. A consignment of machine tools for the Skoda factory.’