In The Name of The Father (26 page)

The Colonel pulled at his nose thoughtfully. Laker helped himself to another cigarette. Finally the Colonel asked, ‘You brought someone in on that trip?’

Laker exhaled smoke. ‘Colonel, I think it’s time you called your boss . . . the big one.’

Four hours later the phone on Colonel Zamiatin’s desk rang. It was the KGB station head in Prague - Garik Sholokhov, an old friend. He was very excited. After listening to him for twenty seconds Zamiatin was also excited. Although the call was being recorded he pulled a pad close and started to make notes. Occasionally he glanced at the huge wall map. Finally he grinned and said, ‘Excellent, Garik. Now the Australian was certain on identification? . . . Good. Yes, with a moustache. Clever to send the woman along. . . but not clever enough. Now listen. It’s obvious that village is their first stop. They might be still there resting up. I want a complete cordon thrown around it and road blocks on every road within fifty kilometres of it. If you have to, use the army. No one is to go in or out until you arrive. Give the instruction now, Garik. I’ll wait.’

He laid the phone on his desk and grinned at the three Majors who were watching him intently. Then he stood up and walked over to the map saying, ‘Thanks to the good work of Major Gudov, plus a little well-deserved luck, we are closing in on him.’ He put his finger on the map. ‘He crossed the border here in company with a woman hidden in a secret compartment of a freight truck. He was set down here four kilometres from the village of Blovice. That was two days ago. Pray that he’s still there.’

He walked back to his desk and picked up his phone. Thirty seconds later Sholokhov was back on the line. For five minutes Zamiatin issued terse orders, then he hung up and glanced at his watch. It was nine forty-five. He put a call through to his boss, Victor Chebrikov. While waiting for the connection he thought about the dacha in Usovo and General’s stars.

Chebrikov briefed Andropov over an early lunch in the First Secretary’s private dining room. Andropov was in a pensive mood. He greeted the news without the enthusiasm Chebrikov had expected. The head of the KGB said, ‘Yuri, that cordon is going around the village now. There’s a good chance that within the hour we’ll have caught our fish.’

By coincidence they were lunching on pickled herrings and sour cream. Andropov forked a piece into his mouth, chewed without enthusiasm, swallowed and said, ‘Victor, a fish is never caught until it’s in the boat . . . and then, unless you kill it quickly, it sometimes jumps out.’

Chebrikov sighed inwardly. His boss was having a bad day. His pale face was haggard. Before the meal he had swallowed three different kinds of pills.

‘Anyway,’ Andropov said. ‘If you don’t catch him he will be in Moscow before the tenth of next month.’ He looked up. Chebrikov was obviously puzzled. ‘Work it out, Victor. That’s the date that the Pope flies to the Far East. The Bacon Priest and his cronies in the Vatican will have assumed, correctly, that our attempt on him will be there. They will know from that bastard Yevchenko that I face opposition on it. Even from Chernenko and Gorbachev. They don’t see the grand design. If I drop dead tomorrow you would very soon get orders to cancel the operation.’

Chebrikov nodded in agreement. He well understood the power structure and how it worked. If Andropov died he would be fighting for his own job.

‘Well, we shall catch him, Yuri, and boat him - and kill him quickly. Meanwhile the arrangements for your personal security are as stringent as I know how to make them.’

For the first time Andropov smiled.

‘I can rely on you, Victor. Anyway, from the seventh of next month I go into the Serbsky clinic for a week of rest and treatment. That’s probably the most secure place in the world. By the time I come out that damned Pope will be finding out if there really is a heaven.’

It was eleven thirty local time on a cloudless morning as Garik Sholokhov helicoptered into the little village square of Blovice. All the inhabitants, including infants and babies, were waiting, herded into a group in front of the old church. They were very nervous, knowing that their village was ringed by a cordon of soldiers but not knowing why. Within minutes Sholokhov had learned that his quarry had left early that morning.

As his men started to take the little cottage apart he went to an army communications truck and sent out orders to hunt down an old grey Skoda, registration number TN 588 179. In case the plate had been changed all pre-1975 Skodas were to be stopped and thoroughly searched. He knew that this would inconvenience thousands of people but was not concerned a whit. He gave a very detailed description of the two men and two women. He warned that they could be dangerous, especially the younger man.

That done, he phoned Colonel Zamiatin. He could practically feel the disappointment transmitted down the line as he told him the news.

‘Don’t worry, Oleg. They can’t have got far. They won’t suspect yet that we are on to them. Their cover was that the Uncle and Aunt were going to give them a two-day tour of the area before they returned to Poland by train. There could be some truth in it.’

Zamiatin started to tell him what to do. Sholokhov cut in.

‘Oleg, let me tell you what I’ve done first. It will save time.’

He quickly ran through the orders he had given and what he personally was going to be doing over the coming hours. When he finished there was a silence while Zamiatin considered everything. Then he said, ‘Very good. You appear to have covered everything.’ The tone of his voice turned a little plaintive. ‘Garik, let me know the moment you have any developments.’

‘Of course, Oleg.’

Chapter 15

The setting was serene and they looked exactly what they purported to be: an elderly couple taking younger relatives out for a treat. Albin and Sylwia sat with their backs to the river, leaving the view for Mirek and Ania. Their table was outside on a wooden platform which jutted out over the river bank. It was enclosed in glass, protecting them from the cold and giving a greenhouse effect in the wintery sun. They had lunched well and drunk a bottle and a half of a Bulgarian Cabernet. The air itself seemed imbued with contentment. Only Sylwia was still not totally relaxed. Her problem was curiosity. It had always been so. She was still wondering about the relationship between the younger couple. Still curious about the events of the night before last. She and Albin had heard, through their bedroom door, the faint sound of argument. They had not heard the words but the awful anguish in Tatania’s sobbing voice had penetrated the wood and their minds.

Albin had wanted to go through and intervene but, despite her curiosity, Sylwia had restrained him. However, after the voices had stopped she got up and very quietly went to the bathroom. When she came out she edged along the landing towards their door and listened. She could hear his voice, very faint. She could hear no words but it had a strange tone to it. A sort of pleading tone. It went on for ten minutes and then there was silence.

The next morning Tatania came down first and helped her prepare breakfast. She appeared serene and relaxed in a way that a patient is relaxed after breaking a fever.

During that breakfast it was obvious that whatever had occurred the night before had affected him deeply. He was withdrawn and quiet, but his attitude towards Tatania was strangely protective. His eyes were constantly drawn to her.

It had been that way ever since. On the journey; at the museum in Brno; and now here at the restaurant. He had been attentive towards her, helping her out of the car, helping her off with her coat, holding her chair when she sat down. It was as though he was trying to make up for a lovers’ quarrel.

Albin noticed that he kept the small duffle bag with him at all times. Even now it was slung over the back of his chair.

Mirek leaned forward, picked up the bottle and poured more wine into Ania’s glass.

She tried to protest but he smiled and said, ‘You’ve only had one glass, Ania. Have a little more.’

Both the older couple noticed the slip but said nothing. Ania said pointedly, ‘Thank you, Tadeusz.’

He nodded as if acknowledging his mistake but was not at all put out.

Albin glanced at his watch and signalled for the bill, saying, ‘It’s thirty kilometres to Cieszyn and your train leaves in just over an hour.’

Albin and Sylwia were in front as they walked out of the restaurant. Albin stopped so suddenly that Mirek bumped into him. Then over his shoulder he saw the reason why the old man had frozen.

Their grey Skoda was forty metres away. A police car was parked broadside in front of it, with both front doors open. One policeman was standing by the windscreen of the Skoda peering at the licence disc. Another was standing by the driver’s door of the police car talking urgently into a microphone. They all saw each other at the same time and for a second were a frozen tableau. Then both policemen reached for their holstered guns and the one by the Skoda shouted, ‘Halt! Stay where you are!’

All four of them ran back through the restaurant, dodging among the tables and startled customers. Albin’s hip slammed into one of the tables and sent it over with a crashing of glasses and crockery and yells of shock.

They raced out on to the wooden platform. Near the table where they had been sitting was a flight of steps leading down to a gravel path that paralleled the river. A teenage boy and girl were coming up. Mirek crashed into them, slamming them back and down amid terrified screams. He was holding the duffle bag with his left hand. His right hand was inside it searching frantically. He leapt over the prostrate girl and sprinted down the path. He heard a shout and turned to look. Ania was close behind him. The older couple were trailing. One of the policemen was on the wooden platform raising his gun. He shouted again and then fired. Albin cried out and tumbled on to the path, his hands clutching at his left thigh.

At last Mirek’s fingers felt the steel butt of the Makarov and pulled it out in one motion, turning and dropping into a crouch. Ania passed him as he lined up the sights. In his mind he was back in the camp in the desert on the firing range. He squeezed the trigger and heard the wet thwack as the bullet hit the centre of the policeman’s chest. He didn’t wait to watch him fall. Sylwia had run back to Albin screaming, ‘Josef! Josef!’ which must have been his real name. Mirek somehow knew that she would not leave him now. He turned and raced after Ania who was about forty metres ahead, approaching some trees and a bend in the path. On the river twenty metres to her left were two old men in a rowing boat watching the scenario with stunned faces. Mirek heard another shout behind him, then the sound of a shot and simultaneously the crack of the bullet over his head. He did not turn. Ania was already passing out of sight around the bend. He dodged to his right, leaping over low bushes, towards the trees. Another shot, again high. Irrationally he heard again the saturnine Portuguese instructor’s voice. ‘The tendency with pistols is to shoot high.’ He hurtled into the little copse as a bullet whacked into a tree next to him. The policeman behind had corrected the tendency, but this time had pulled to the right. He caught up with Ania on the other side of the copse. She had slowed, her head twisted, looking back anxiously. He saw the relief on her face as he sprinted across.

‘The others?’ she gasped.

‘Had it. Come on!’

He grabbed her arm and urged her on. The river twisted back and forth and the path followed. He wondered whether the policeman was coming after them or had gone back to his car to radio a report. He hoped he was following.

He had to slow down to avoid getting ahead of Ania.

‘Go on!’ she panted. ‘Leave me.’ He grabbed her arm again, urging her on.

They turned a bend. In front of them the gravel path expanded into an oval parking place. A track from it led away from the river to the right and to the main road. A youth and a girl were just climbing off a motorbike. They wore matching blue crash helmets. They turned as Mirek and Ania ran up. The youth had half raised his helmet. His eyes were startled as they looked at the gun in Mirek’s hand. Mirek pointed it at him.

‘I’m taking your bike. Where are the keys?’

Fear paralysed the youth. Mirek glanced at the motorbike. The keys were still in the ignition. He thrust the duffle bag at Ania and she grasped it to her chest, panting.

Keeping the gun pointed at the youth, Mirek straddled the motorbike and switched on the ignition. It was a Russian Nerval 650CC. Again he had an irrelevant thought. This kid was obviously the son of someone important. He noted that both he and the terrified girl were wearing faded, genuine Levi jeans and skiing jackets. While these thoughts had been going through his head he had been turning the bike so that his right hand was facing the direction they had come. He listened and heard the thudding crunch of someone running. He raised the gun, his arm ramrod straight, and drew a breath.

The policeman came round the bend at full tilt. As he saw Mirek and the gun he started to slow and tried to jink to his left. His foot slipped on the gravel. Mirek waited for him to complete the fall then fired twice. The first bullet stopped his forward motion. The second punched him back to the edge of the river bank. Slowly his body rolled over and into the river.

The girl was screaming hysterically. Mirek kicked the starter and the Nerval shuddered into life. Ania was watching him. He tucked the pistol into his waistband.

‘Quick. We have to get to Gottwaldov.’ She started to move. ‘Hurry, damn it.’

Quickly she climbed on, wedging the duffle bag between them.

‘Hold tight.’ He felt her hands grip his waist and gunned the motor. Gravel spurted from the back wheel and then they were heading up the track, the girl’s screams fading behind them.

The Nerval was well silenced according to the law and as they neared the main road Mirek heard the sound of distant sirens. He pulled off the track into a clump of bushes and waited.

On the road ahead four police cars screamed by in quick succession. He waited as he heard the sirens whimpering into silence at the restaurant and then moved out of the bushes back on to the track. As they slowed at the main road Ania said in his ear, ‘You told them we were going to Gottwaldov.’