In The Name of The Father (30 page)

Mirek descended further, his feet splashing into the milk, then he looked up. Anton was lowering the aqualung slowly through the hatch. Mirek reached up, took the weight and called, ‘OK.’

He had practised during the morning and it only took him two minutes to slip into the harness and adjust it comfortably. Anton’s voice came down urgently.

‘Check it. Quickly, before I close the hatch.’

Mirek fumbled the rubber bit between his teeth. He checked that the air was coming through, then spat out the mouthpiece and called, ‘OK.’

Anton passed down his black plastic bag and said, ‘Good luck, Tadeusz. Go with God.’

There was a clang and Mirek was in total darkness. He heard the echoing scrape of Anton’s footsteps as he climbed down. A minute later the tanker vibrated as the engine started and Mirek was up to his mouth in milk as the load surged backwards with the sudden forward movement. Quickly he moved up a couple of rungs, worried that milk would have got into the mouthpiece. He checked it and decided that he would have to hold it loosely between his teeth the whole way.

During the first hour they had stopped twice to take in milk. By the end of that first hour Mirek knew that he had a major problem. First it was the cold. Gradually it penetrated the wet suit. He wore nothing under the wet suit. Anton had told him that the theory was that it quickly got wet and then insulated the moisture between it and the skin. Body heat then warmed the moisture. It was no longer warm. Then the cold penetrated his skin and his flesh. Finally it seeped into his bones.

Second it was his fingers. Many of the roads the tanker travelled over were nothing but country lanes, winding and bumpy. He had to hang on tight. His fingers began to ache. He tried to put an arm through the ladder to support himself but it was not designed for that. The metal was sharp in places, rough in others. His mind went back to the desert camp and the hours he had used the springed exercisers to strengthen his ten primary weapons. He sent mental thanks to Frank.

Third was the aqualung itself. It was designed to be worn submerged and for a limited period. Above water it was damned heavy and, as the minutes passed, the straps began to bite into his shoulders. Fourth was the milk. It surged back and forth and side to side with a force he had never imagined. It was like being caught in a crazy riptide. The tanker was half full. He knew that by the time it had taken on its final load he would be fighting for survival.

By the end of the second hour that was exactly the situation. His hands were frozen claws, his whole body numb from the cold and the pounding of the milk. They had taken on the last load and he was having to use the aqualung most of the time.

During that last hour survival became a battle of mind over matter. He knew that the human body, and particularly a body as fit as his, could perform beyond normal human tolerances - if the mind willed it. He willed it. He cut off from his mind the pain in his fingers and arms and shoulders. He thought of other things. First of his childhood. His parents and his sister Jolanta. But that memory was also a pain and he quickly moved his mind to other things. His training in the SB, women he had known, songs and tunes he had learned. Twice he vomited into the milk. When he felt himself weakening he dwelt on his target and on his hatred. Finally, towards the end, while each minute passed as an hour, he occupied his mind with Ania. He painted a mental picture of her face, remembered words she had spoken to him, actually heard her voice with its strange husky rasp. He had rubber and milk in his mouth but he could actually taste the touch of her lips and feel their slight pressure. Ania was on his mind, the sight, the feel and the smell of her, as the tanker finally braked to a halt and the milk washed over him for the last time.

It was as though he had been glued to that ladder. They had to prise his fingers from it. The driver was old but strong. The farmer was younger and strong; his son stronger still. It took all three of them to lift him bodily through the hatch and lower him to the ground, then half carry him to the barn.

Now wrapped in three blankets and a quilt, with his feet in sheepskin boots, the circulation slowly returned to his body. Painfully he exercised his fingers. The barn door opened and a moment later the farmer peered over the bales. He had a long pointed nose and thinning brown hair combed straight back. He looked like an avaricious ferret but he smiled pleasantly enough and lifted a metal canteen on to the top bale and a hunk of crusty bread.

‘Get that inside you. It’s beef broth, home-made. It’ll warm you from the inside and put you right. Then try and sleep. We leave at ten o’clock. That’s in three and a half hours.’

The head disappeared and, with a muffled groan, Mirek pushed himself to his feet. He prised the top off the canteen and a moment later was drinking what he decided was the best soup in the world. There must have been over a litre of it. He drank it all, washing down chunks of bread. Then he lay down on the straw and tried to sleep.

It was impossible but he did doze a little and when the farmer came back he still ached all over but he felt rested.

The night was dark and cold. Both the farmer and Mirek were dressed in black clothing. Black scarves were adjusted over their faces. The five-metre wooden rowing boat was painted black. Only the white licence numbers showed. The farmer draped a black cloth over them. He was confident and reassuring. He pointed at some distant lights on the lake.

‘Polish fishing boats.’ He tapped the globe of the light moving from a framework at the stern of his boat. ‘If we’re stopped the story is that the connection from the gas tank to the light is faulty. We’re heading for the other boats to see if anyone has a spare. Your papers are good. Leave all the talking to me.’

He took Mirek’s bag and dropped it in the stern, then he sucked his forefinger, held it up high and grunted in satisfaction.

‘What wind there is will be astern. We should be there in about two hours. In you get.’

Mirek scrambled in and sat at the stern with his bag at his feet. The farmer cast off from the small jetty, climbed in and pushed off. Quickly he unshipped the oars and set them in the heavily padded rowlocks. The oars were long and heavy.

Mirek whispered, ‘I’ll take my turn rowing.’

From behind his scarf the farmer said emphatically, ‘No, you won’t. On a night like this the only way we’ll be detected is by the splashing of an oar. Even if you were an Olympic rowing champion I wouldn’t let you do it - not in this boat.’

Mirek noted that he was stroking the heavy oars through the water with scarcely a ripple. At the beginning of each stroke the blades turned to a fine angle as they slid into the water.

The farmer explained their route. They would contour the shoreline about four hundred metres out. There was one Polish and one Czech patrol boat. Some nights they were out and some nights they were not. They always kept to the centre of the lake, looking for unlicensed fishing boats. The Polish boat was not much of a problem. The two-man crew usually just drifted and drank vodka.

Finally the farmer said, ‘I assume you’ve got a gun in that bag. If we’re challenged you drop it straight over the side, understand?’

‘Sure,’ Mirek replied. He had no intention of doing so. Nor was he about to tell the farmer that also in the bag was the uniform of an SB Colonel.

‘Right,’ the farmer said. ‘Now no more talking. It’s amazing how the sound travels over still water.’

So for two hours they travelled in silence. The farmer stopped rowing several times; not to rest - he appeared to be tireless - but to listen. From far away across the lake Mirek could hear fishermen calling to each other. On the first few occasions the voices were in Czech. Then Mirek began to hear voices talking in his native Polish and was warmed by it. Truly it was amazing how far the sound travelled over the lake. The lights of the boats were very distant but he heard one fisherman laughingly call to another that he couldn’t catch a cold at the North Pole.

Several times Mirek saw the sweeping arc of a searchlight away to their right but its beam reached nowhere near them and the farmer rowed on unconcerned. Just after midnight Mirek noticed that they were gradually angling in towards the shore. Now the farmer stopped frequently to peer at the dim dark line. Finally he grunted softly and stroked the left oar a couple of rows and headed straight in.

They bumped softly. The farmer silently shipped the oars, climbed over the bow and pulled the boat further up.

Mirek picked up his bag, climbed forward and with a soft thud jumped onto the mossy shore. The farmer pointed.

There’s a path there. Go up it about a hundred paces. On the left there’s a big birch tree, by itself. They’ll be waiting for you there . . . Good luck, wherever you’re going.’

In one motion he pushed the boat out and jumped into it. Mirek whispered, Thanks,’ at the departing shadow. Then he opened his bag, took out his gun and slipped off the safety. He located the path and was about to start up it when he remembered he was still wearing the farmer’s sheepskin boots. Instinctively he stopped and turned, then smiled to himself. It was too late now. Anyway, the farmer would have been paid well enough.

Cautiously he moved up the path which rose quite steeply from the shore. After counting off eighty paces he saw the loom of the birch tree on his left. As he got closer he saw another darker nucleus beside it. A high-toned woman’s voice called softly, ‘It’s a cold night for a walk.’

He answered, ‘It’s a cold night for anything.’

The woman giggled. ‘Not for anything. Follow me, Mirek Scibor. You’re in time for the party.’

She moved up the path. Mirek stood rooted to the spot. She turned. ‘Come on then.’

He found his voice. ‘How do you know my name? What party? Are you crazy?’

She giggled again. ‘Some people think so, but I’ve never been certified. Who else could you be? I suppose they sent the woman back. Now come on, I’m damned cold.’

She started moving again. Mirek had no choice but to follow. He put his gun on to safety and started to tuck it into his waistband, but then thought better of it and held it ready.

The path veered to the left and paralleled the lake below. After about five hundred metres they crossed a dirt road. Below them were the lights of a house. In all he followed the woman for about two kilometres. They passed two other lakeshore houses. He assumed they were weekend cottages of senior party officials.

He heard the music before he saw the place. Rock music. Fifty metres later the path turned down towards the lake and he stopped abruptly and looked at the rambling house, all the windows lit up, a bright light over the door. He heard the tinkling of laughter.

‘Wait!’ he called. ‘I’m not going in there among a bunch of people. You really are crazy.’

She turned. Against the light he saw she was tall, wearing an ankle-length fur coat with the hood up covering her head. ‘Not a bunch,’ she said. ‘Just four - and they all know you’re coming.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Friends, good friends. Now do come in. There’s hot food and cold vodka and a warm bed.’

He hesitated. She said firmly, ‘Don’t be concerned. You will be safe here. You are a hero to these people - and to me.’

He sighed and moved forward. He really had no choice.

At the door she paused and pulled the hood back from her face. His immediate impression was of beauty. Mischievous beauty. Blonde curly hair, vivid blue eyes radiating merriment. A mobile mouth with full red lips. About twenty-five years old. She too was studying him. Her lips curved upwards.

‘You are indeed handsome. I was worried that you might just be photogenic.’

‘Whose house is this?’

‘It belongs to the Deputy Commissar of the fair city of Cracow.’

‘Does he know you’re using it?’

Her eyes twinkled. ‘Of course. I’m his daughter.’

While he absorbed that she pulled off a fur glove and held out her hand.

‘Marian Lydkowska. Very much at your service.’ The hand was fine-boned, soft and warm to the touch. It squeezed his intimately. He felt disorientated and she obviously sensed it. She giggled again and then opened the door.

As he followed her through into the opulent hall she asked, ‘Do you like Genesis?’

‘What’s that?’

She laughed. ‘This music.’

‘Never heard it before.’

‘Oh, of course,’ she said teasingly. ‘It’s hardly the sort of stuff the SB would dance to.’ She pointed to a chair by the door. ‘Leave your bag there. I’ll take you up to your room later . . . and you can put that gun away.’

He dropped the bag on to the chair and pushed his gun under his waistband, wondering what on earth the Bacon Priest was up to. As he turned Marian was slipping off the fur coat. Under it she wore a red silk dress with a short flared skirt and a bodice cut to the waist. He could see the outline of her nipples against the thin silk. The skin of her midriff was as pink as a blush. He looked up at her face. She was smiling as if in appreciation of his thoughts. She walked to a door and opened it. The music blared forth. With a sweep of her hand she gestured for him to go in. Feeling bemused and a little irritated, he walked through. It was a vast room with full-length French windows facing the lake. Twin crystal chandeliers cast light over deep plush armchairs and settees, on which the four occupants were sprawled. Two young women in their early twenties, one man of similar age, and one man in his early thirties. Both men wore beards, spectacles and faded denims. One of the women, red-headed and pretty, wore green and white striped overalls over a black blouse; the other, dark, gypsy looking, wore a red shirt dress with blue sequins on the collar. She was the first to jump up, exclaiming, ‘It is him! It is Mirek Scibor!’

She rushed over, hugged him and planted a mighty kiss on each cheek. From behind him Mirek heard Marian say, ‘Careful, Irena, he’s carrying a gun.’

She stood back, saying, ‘But of course he is.’

The older man stood up and came over with an outstretched hand. ‘Welcome back to Poland. I’m Jerzy Zamojski.’ He waved a hand at the younger man and the other woman. ‘Antoni Zonn . . . Natalia Banaszek . . . Antoni, please turn that down.’