In The Name of The Father (13 page)

They headed for the door with the doctor behind.

‘Is he dead?’ Versano asked him.

Without turning the doctor said, ‘We’ll try again at the hospital.’

‘Is he dead?’ Versano demanded.

The doctor was at the door. Again, he said over his shoulder, ‘At the hospital.’

Versano started after him, but Van Burgh called sharply, ‘Mario! Wait!’

He was still standing with the vial of holy water in his hand. He had a strange expression on his face. Slowly he recorked the vial and placed it on the table. Impatiently Versano said, ‘I must phone the Vatican again.’

Determinedly the priest shook his head.

‘No, Mario. There are more important things. I must make a phone call and then we must talk - urgently.’

Sister Maria had returned to the room. There were tears in her eyes and she fingered her Crucifix muttering a prayer. Firmly the priest said, ‘Sister, please bring us two coffees -
espresso.
And brandy. After I return we must not be disturbed.’

She looked at him in surprise. Versano himself was about to object but now this priest was showing his character and his strength. He turned to Versano.

‘Wait here, Mario. I will explain in a minute.’ He fixed his eyes on Sister Maria. ‘Do it, Sister. Now, please.’

She turned away and Van Burgh followed her out of the door. He was gone ten minutes. As the minutes passed Versano’s irritation grew. A serving girl brought the coffee and brandy and made to serve it. He waved her away. Sadly she picked up the tray from the floor and the vial. After she had left Versano put three sugars into his cup, stirred and swallowed the lot in two gulps. He was just pouring the brandy when Van Burgh returned. Versano let his irritation show.

‘Father Van Burgh, will you explain yourself?’

‘Yes, Archbishop. I’m angry with myself. First for killing Cardinal Mennini and secondly for ever getting involved with amateurs such as he and yourself.’

This silenced Versano totally.

The priest poured himself a good measure of brandy and sat down on the opposite side of the table. He spoke harshly and Versano sat silently.

‘Mario, the Cardinal had a history of heart trouble. My revelation that Father Panrowski was a turncoat was a great shock. But not such a shock as to give him a heart attack. It appears that Panrowski was part of a delegation to Rome last week. The delegation had an audience with the Cardinal. At the end apparently Mennini must have had a feeling of great humility. He asked Panrowski to remain behind and . . . and he confessed to him. Confessed to him about
Nostra Trinita
and “
Papa
’s envoy”.’

‘Damn it to hell!’ The expletive came out as Versano lowered his head and tiredly massaged his brow. Then he asked. ‘How do you know?’

‘While you were out telephoning. In the last words he told me - struggled to tell me. I think he died in torment.’

Versano sat back and blew out his breath. His mind began working again.

‘Just what did he confess?’

The priest shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly. He mentioned just three things.
Nostra Trinita
and its purpose. The “
Papa
’s envoy” — the instrument; and his deception of His Holiness.’

Versano leaned forward. ‘And where is this Panrowski now?’

Van Burgh’s thick lips twisted in a grimace. ‘That’s what I went to phone about. He left Rome the day after the audience and returned home. He must have arrived in Olsztyn at least four days ago.’

Versano stared gloomily into his glass. ‘And presumably informed his masters.’

Van Burgh nodded. ‘It’s possible that he didn’t, but we must assume he did. We must assume that even by now Andropov knows that there is a plot in the Vatican to kill him.’

‘What will he do?’

The priest reached for the brandy bottle, poured some into both glasses and said, ‘Andropov will take the threat very, very seriously. He will know of Yevchenko’s revelations. He knows well our capabilities. I doubt if Mennini mentioned our names but the KGB will certainly work out that I must be involved. Apart from putting my life even more in danger it makes the operation infinitely harder and more risky.’

Versano was fully in control of himself again: decisive and incisive.

‘You want to call it off?’

He watched Van Burgh keenly as he pondered the question. Finally the priest shook his head.

‘No, but Mirek Scibor might want to. He knows the implications.’

‘You’ll tell him?’

‘Certainly.’

A silence. This time the priest studied the Archbishop, waiting for a reaction.

Versano sighed and nodded. ‘It’s the only thing to do . . . Will he go on?’

‘He might, but in the meantime, Mario, we have to change our own strategy. Let me explain. In Rome alone the KGB will have at least ten agents and scores of informers. Dozens more agents will swarm in. Assume they’re on their way already. They will backtrack on all of Mennini’s movements. They will know he died here. Will know he also ate here on the occasion of our first meeting. They will try to find out who his dining companions were. They will probably succeed. They will try again - harder than ever - much harder, to plant listening devices in the Vatican — even in your bedroom. Also at the Russico. We cannot meet here again or anywhere outside the Vatican. You must never leave the Vatican while the operation is on — if it is on. The KGB are more formidable than the Italian fiscal police. If they want to talk to you and you step out of Vatican City - then they will talk to you. And not politely.’

Belligerently Versano said, ‘They don’t scare me!’

Van Burgh leaned forward. ‘Then you’re a fool, Mario. They scare me. All the time. Maybe that’s why I’ve survived. So far. Now, thanks to Mennini’s humility, they scare me even more. They will know that I’m directing the
“Papa
’s envoy”. They will leave no stone unturned to find me. Andropov will see to that. In your case you must talk to Camilio Ciban and arrange extra security. In your office, your apartments. Everywhere you go inside the Vatican.’

Versano thought about that and then nodded.

‘Pieter, I know you think I’m an amateur but I take your warnings seriously. But how will I explain this to Ciban or, for that matter, to His Holiness?’

‘Very simply,’ Van Burgh replied. ‘Within the next few days you will receive several death threats . . . by mail and telephone. One will be addressed to
L’Osservatore Romano.
They will purport to come from the Red Brigade. That will justify the security.’

Versano managed a smile and said, ‘But they will come from you, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Van Burgh did not smile. ‘But you must balance it out. The KGB will learn of it. They will understand it and receive confirmation that you are a member
of Nostra Trinita.’

Versano’s hand gestured between them. ‘I guess now we ought to call ourselves
Nostra Due.’

Sadly the priest shook his head. ‘Let us assume that the Cardinal, rest his soul, is still with us in spirit.’

Chapter 8

‘He told me that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.’

‘You won’t.’

Mirek turned to look at Father Heisl. They were in the same car, retracing the same route through Trieste’s dockland that had started Mirek’s journey to Libya a month before. It was two o’clock on a moonless morning and Father Heisl was driving with care and keeping a close watch on his rearview mirror.

Mirek stretched again, easing his cramped limbs. He had just climbed out of the same packing case but this time after only a five-hour sojourn.

‘But you said he’s waiting at the house.’

The dim shape of Heisl’s head nodded. ‘He wants to talk to you but you won’t see him.’

Mirek took a swig from the cold bottle of beer that Heisl had thoughtfully brought along. His small canvas bag was at his feet. It contained exactly what he had taken with him with the addition of a ‘Denbi’ marker pen, a parting gift from Frank. He had given it to him as they stood by the truck waiting to take him to Tripoli.

Mirek had thanked him, and said, ‘I know questions are taboo, but I’ve finished the course and I want to ask you one.’

Frank had not said anything but his eyes had narrowed.

Mirek asked, ‘So, Chief Instructor, how did I do on the course?’

The engine of the truck started up. An Arab dropped the back flap. Frank gestured at it. Mirek climbed in assuming that he would get no answer. Silently Frank laced up the cover. Then Mirek heard his voice through the canvas.

‘Werner, this camp specialises in training assassins. I don’t know or care who your target is . . . but I’m damned glad it’s not me.’

The truck had pulled away with Mirek feeling somehow complete.

Now as they passed through the dark streets Mirek knew that he was different. He was less a human being than a deadly weapon. He knew a score of efficient ways to kill. He was in the prime of his physical life and at the apex of fitness. He was also sexually sated. That had been seen to by Leila and the pretty Filipino girl. He felt totally masculine. Like a lion leaving his pride of lionesses and stalking off to make a kill. He raised a hand to his upper lip and stroked the two weeks’ growth of hair.

Father Heisl sensed something in him. He glanced sideways occasionally. Apart from stretching once in a while and raising the bottle to his lips, his passenger sat quiet and composed. He had a stillness and an emanation. A blend of confidence and calmness.

They reached the house and went in through to the dining room. Mirek looked around. There was no one there. He was vaguely disappointed. He was looking forward to meeting the Bacon Priest again. He asked Heisl, ‘Where is he?’

The priest pointed upwards with a thumb. ‘Sleeping. I’ll wake him while you eat.’

He went out and a few minutes later the old woman came in with a plate of
spaghetti carbonara
and a bottle of wine. He greeted her but she ignored him. She put the pasta and the wine on the table and went out. He was ravenous. Between the thirty days of his journey out and back the food on the
SS Lydia
had not improved.

He was sucking in the last strands when Heisl opened the door. He silently watched him mop up the plate with a hunk of bread and then beckoned.

Mirek followed him up the stairs chewing the last mouthful. The room was split by a sheet hanging over a cord stretched from one wall to the other. There were two chairs placed in front of the sheet. Dim light came from a shaded lamp in a corner. Heisl took one chair and gestured at the other. As Mirek sat down the Bacon Priest’s voice came from behind the sheet. Mirek realised that the lamp was so placed that his own outline was visible but the other side of the sheet was in darkness.

‘Welcome back, Mirek. Was the training satisfactory?’

‘Very. Why the charade with the sheet?’

‘It saves me the trouble of putting on a disguise. Did you have any problems?’

‘None at all.’

‘Good. Now listen carefully. Father Heisl is a very accomplished artist. During the next two days while you rest from your journey I want you to describe to him everybody in that camp. Trainers and trainees. He will make sketches. You will tell him how to correct them. You well know the procedure. Also tell him about their personal characteristics, habits, anything you can remember.’

‘Why?’

Behind the curtain Van Burgh sighed. He was used to unquestioning obedience from his operatives, but he acknowledged to himself that this one was different. So he explained.

‘Mirek, in our work we co-operate sometimes with certain Western intelligence agencies. It’s very much a two-way street. In certain areas we are strong on the ground. We give them information; generally background stuff. For example, the state of agriculture in the Ukraine, harvest forecasts, and so on. The state of morale among certain occupied peoples. Obviously our priests, covert and overt, learn a lot in their work. That sort of thing. In return they help us with information, sometimes financial donations and occasionally with items of equipment we find difficult to come by. You understand?’

Mirek did. Once he had raided a vestry of a church in Cracow. His men had gone over it from top to bottom and found nothing. The priest under suspicion had been full of righteous indignation. Instinctively Mirek had known that he was hiding something. He renewed the search. Four hours later he found, concealed in a container of consecrated bread, a tiny but powerful radio transmitter, so sophisticated that neither he nor his superiors had seen anything similar. It had been sent to Moscow and a week later the KGB had advised that it was of West German manufacture and only recently in use by the BND.

Van Burgh saw the shape of his head dip in acknowledgment.

‘Well, right now, Mirek, our friends’ main concern is terrorism so any help we can give them in that department will be greatly appreciated.’

Mirek now knew where the Bacon Priest got much of his funds for his relief operations behind the Iron Curtain.

He said, ‘You should have told me before I went. I would have been more observant.’

‘True,’ Van Burgh replied. ‘But they get suspicious of people who are too observant. I wanted you to be natural. A couple of people have been killed in that camp.’

‘I know,’ Mirek answered drily. ‘You might have told me that beforehand.’

The Bacon Priest merely chuckled.

Mirek asked, ‘How are your preparations going?’

‘Well. But I’m afraid we have a problem.’

‘What problem?’

Without mincing words Van Burgh told him. At one point he was silenced as Mirek stood up and stormed about the room venting his rage in curses. The two priests waited patiently, unperturbed by the language. They had witnessed such things before. The frustration of meticulous planning and training. The building of fear and the coping with it. Then the sudden numbing set-back.

Finally Mirek sat down and asked, ‘What now?’

Van Burgh answered flatly, ‘That’s up to you.’