In The Name of The Father (18 page)

In the evening she found some ham and salami in the fridge and served it at the kitchen table with a salad. Mirek opened a bottle of wine but she refused a glass. Her mood was introspective.

He asked her, ‘Ania, have you been realising that there’s a different life to lead? That the walls of a convent can be much the same as the walls of a prison?’

She stood up and stacked the dishes and took them to the sink. As she began to wash up he thought he would get no answer but then she said quietly, ‘I was never locked up. I chose that path knowingly. I have been happy. Of course I knew life outside would be very different - and it is - but I would not want it. Yes, it’s interesting seeing it, like going to another planet. But I tell you, I will be happy when this is over and I can return to my vocation . . . and to my vows.’

He tried to think of another avenue to explore but she turned, drying her hands, and said, ‘I shall go to bed now. I enjoyed it today, Mirek . . . thank you.’

He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘So did I. And I learned a few things.’

As she moved towards the door he said, with a trace of sarcasm, ‘Won’t you give your husband a goodnight kiss?’

She turned at the door and in her husky voice answered him.

‘Indeed I will. I am wedded to my Lord. I have my Crucifix in my room. I will kiss it before I sleep.’

He went to the sitting room and found a bottle of cheap brandy in a cupboard. It burned his throat but he drank half a glass before he heard the sound of a car and then the latch of the door.

Father Heisl looked tired. This time when Mirek held up the bottle he nodded acceptance.

‘It’s lousy stuff,’ Mirek warned.

‘No matter. It will clear the dust from my throat.’

As he passed the glass Mirek asked, ‘What happened?’

Heisl coughed on the brandy. ‘How did your test go?’

‘Apparently I passed.’

Heisl drank more brandy and grimaced. ‘Good. Tomorrow you and Ania leave for Vienna. The next day you cross into Czechoslovakia. Your journey begins.’

‘Good. What happened to send you rushing to Rome?’

Father Heisl sighed. ‘Only confirmation of bad news. Obviously Mennini’s confessor did pass on the information. Now the KGB know you are coming. Last night they started cracking down on all border crossings. They are being meticulous. Long queues are piling up.’

He held out his glass and Mirek poured two more fingers and said, ‘But you expected that.’

‘Yes. But they are reacting with unprecedented severity. We have learned that many of our people in the East have been picked up in Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia and Russia itself . . . scores of them.’

He drank and massaged his forehead. Mirek said, ‘That too must have been expected.’

Heisl grunted in exasperation.

‘Yes, Mirek, but not to that extent. Several were beaten in their homes before being dragged away . . . even in Poland. I pray for them.’

‘In that case,’ Mirek said thoughtfully, ‘the KGB, indeed Andropov, are close to panicking . . . they are taking me seriously. Is my route likely to be compromised?’

‘No.’ Heisl finished his brandy and set the empty glass firmly on the table. ‘But we think one of our other pipelines has been smashed and another is threatened.’

‘That can help,’ Mirek answered. ‘It could divert attention.’

‘Yes,’ Heisl agreed with a sigh. ‘At the cost of a lot of suffering. You know what the KGB can do when they are desperate.’

‘Be sure that I know,’ Mirek said grimly. ‘And that reminds me. I want a gun - a pistol.’

Heisl’s response was firm. ‘Forget it, Mirek. The Bacon Priest would never agree. He’s totally against that.’

Mirek poured himself a little more brandy. He looked at the priest over the top of the glass.

‘Father, you tell him that I am not one of his usual operatives — and neither is Ania. OK, they’ve picked up some of your people over there. They will be roughed up, some will probably go to the Gulag, but if they ever catch me I would prefer to die early - and by my own hand. I’d rather go straight to hell than have a few months’ initiation to it . . . And the girl. I don’t know how good your imagination is, but just try to think what will happen to her. She may well end up in heaven, but she will pass through hell to get there. If they catch us, the first bullet will be for her, the second for me.’

Heisl looked very unhappy. He picked up his glass. Mirek drained the last of the brandy into it. The priest sipped and said, ‘The Bacon Priest will not countenance it. Anyway it’s too late. I shall be unable to see him or talk to him before you leave.’

Mirek chuckled sarcastically. ‘You take me for a fool. You know your Bacon Priest better than I do, but I know he will be in Vienna tomorrow. It is not possible that he would stay away from the beginning of this operation. He will certainly be in Vienna, in one of his disguises. You tell him that without a pistol I don’t go.’

‘That’s blackmail.’

‘No. That’s insurance. Mine and the girl’s.’

In exasperation Heisl said, ‘Where would I find a pistol?’

Mirek burst into scornful laughter.

‘You can put me into the most notorious terrorist camp but can’t find one little pistol in a city like Vienna?’ He prodded the priest in the chest. ‘Heisl, if you wanted to you could lay on a battery of field artillery complete with laser range finders. All I want is one pistol.’

Heisl shrugged. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Mirek was satisfied. He tapped Heisl’s almost full glass with his empty one. The sharp ping echoed in the room.

‘One pistol with a spare magazine. Good night, Father.’

After he left the room Father Heisl walked to the window and stared out gloomily. He wondered why his beloved Bacon Priest had ever got involved in this. He had a feeling of great disquiet about the morality of the whole operation, apart from his own part in it — and apart from the awful danger that they were sending the young nun into. He felt no disquiet about Mirek’s fate.

Chapter 11

Colonel Oleg Zamiatin considered himself primarily a solver of complicated puzzles. He had a good mind for it. He was a master of crossword puzzles and a formidable and imaginative chess player. He approached this puzzle with the relish of an addict and with the added weaponry of three assistant addicts and the most sophisticated computer centre in the Soviet Union.

The three assistants sat at three desks in a line facing him at the far side of the spacious room. Zamiatin believed in the open-plan office theory. He could monitor his assistants’ work rate and also bounce questions off them.

The Ryad R400 computer and its satellites were housed in the basement. Zamiatin was pleased with his new organisation and its location. Although it was on Dzerzhinsky Street it was not exactly in the KGB headquarters’ building but next to it in an annex of the department store Detsky Mir - ‘Children’s World’ - which sold everything from baby clothes to sports gear. The irony of its proximity was lost on him.

The priority given him by the First Secretary had wrought immediate co-operation in all corridors of Soviet power. He had been able to requisition whatever people or equipment he had wanted without question. On one wall of the vast office was a giant electronic map of the European USSR and its immediate neighbours. Different coloured lights showed all border crossings according to their status and usage. An information room next door, staffed by a dozen experts, monitored all incoming and outgoing communications and operated the computer. All this had been achieved in four days. Zamiatin had spent one of those days in Rome closeted with the senior KGB officers of that city’s station. He had perused and examined their plans for infiltrating the Vatican, being both critical and encouraging. He approved the risks of detection they were going to take. It might mean a few expulsions but the prize was worth it. Before catching his evening plane he had himself driven to the Vatican.

It had been a cool evening but nothing to compare with Moscow. He did not bother to take off his coat. He had strolled around just like any other tourist. In St Peter’s Square he had stood looking up at the lighted windows of the Papal apartments. He wondered if the Pope was behind one of them.

An elderly American couple stood next to him. Reverently the woman said to her husband, ‘Do you think he’s eating, honey?’

The man wore a brightly checked coat and a German-style hat with a green feather in the band. ‘Naw,’ he replied, ‘too early. He’s probably prayin’ or somethin’.’

He’d better be, Zamiatin had thought, turned on his heel and walked briskly back to his car.

The three men sitting at the desks opposite him were all Majors and in their early or mid thirties. They were the best young analysts in the KGB. Academics rather than Intelligence agents. To Zamiatin’s satisfaction all had been abruptly pulled off other high-priority work. For three days now they had been sifting through the flood of information that flowed in, twenty-four hours a day. They worked mainly in silence, occasionally conferring in low voices. They only addressed Zamiatin when they thought they had something significant.

So far the dramatic clamp-down at the borders had netted a variety of criminals. Scores of smugglers of drugs, religious tracts and pornography on the way in, and illegal exports of icons and other works of art on the way out. A suspected courier of Britain’s MI6 had been picked up. They had also intercepted four dissidents with false papers trying to cross the Finnish border. All in all a good haul, but nothing relating to the ‘
Papa
’s envoy’. Of course, the Minister of Tourism had protested vehemently at the chaos and ill-feeling caused, but a phone call from Andropov had silenced him.

Zamiatin had already submitted his first forty-eight-hourly report to the First Secretary. It had succinctly detailed all the initiatives taken by Zamiatin. He was now working on the second report. He would dearly have liked to include something significant but it was early days yet and surely Andropov would understand that, impatient for concrete news though he might be.

In the background he heard the quiet voices of two of the Majors consulting, then one of them called, ‘Comrade Colonel Zamiatin.’

Zamiatin looked up. It was the youngest and perhaps the brightest, Boris Gudov. He always looked a bit scruffy and had a distinct body odour but he had a brain like a needle. Now his normally sleepy eyes were animated.

‘What is it?’

Gudov glanced at Major Jwanow on his right, then said confidently, ‘Four days ago an order was given activating certain of our long-term dormants in Western Intelligence Services.’

‘Yes,’ Zamiatin said, remembering the brouhaha that had caused among certain senior KGB officers.

‘You remember the agent in the German BND codenamed “Mistral”?’

‘Of course.’ Zamiatin remembered very well. ‘Mistral’ had been planted in the BND as early as ‘63, long before the big shake-up that followed the Guillame scandal. He had survived the shake-up and risen steadily until he had reached the top level, becoming, in effect, Director of Strategy. Even in that position he was kept dormant in the hope that he might one day become Director of the entire agency. Only Andropov’s fear of his own life had prompted his activation.

‘Well,’ Gudov said, ‘he and the others were ordered to report only on matters of vital State interest . . . and matters relating to the Vatican and the Catholic Church and its Intelligence network.’

‘So?’

Gudov tapped a file on his desk.

‘“Mistral” made contact with his case-man in Bonn yesterday. He passed on this file which contains an Intelligence “gift” from a third party. It gives portraits of twenty-four trainees and seven instructors in the terrorist camp of Ibn Awad in the Libyan desert as of the twenty-second of last month.’

‘Go on,’ Zamiatin prompted. He was not impatient but he felt a tingle of anticipation. Gudov spoke with a precise inflection. The other two Majors were watching him.

‘Well, Colonel, normally that would not be significant. All Western Intelligence agencies, especially the CIA and Mossad, spend a lot of time trying to crack the security in these camps. But this gift came from none of them . . .’ He paused.

Now Zamiatin was impatient. Sharply he said, ‘Who gave it to them?’

Gudov smiled. ‘The Iron Curtain Church Relief.’

Zamiatin frowned and then as the implication sank in, he, too, smiled.

‘Ah. Our friend the Bacon Priest. . . bring it here.’

The Major picked up the file and carried it over. The other two Majors were watching Zamiatin. He beckoned and they joined him, crowding round the desk.

Zamiatin slowly turned the pages of the file. Each page contained two ink drawings of a man’s or woman’s head. One full face, the other in profile.

Beneath the drawings were written descriptions. With his assistants peering over his shoulder he came to the drawings of a young, pretty Oriental girl. Major Gudov pointed to a sentence at the end of the written description. It read: ‘Sexually promiscuous to the point of nymphomania.’

‘So,’ Zamiatin murmured. ‘The compiler of this did a little more than mere training in that camp.’

Gudov nodded. ‘He sure did. There’s more later.’

Five pages further on they were looking at the severely attractive face of Leila. Again Gudov pointed at the last sentence. It read: ‘Sexually active. Sado-masochistic tendencies.’

One of the Majors grinned and said, ‘How do I get into that place?’

They all laughed, including Zamiatin who was feeling elation and relief.

‘You don’t,’ he said. He jerked a thumb at Gudov. ‘But Boris here does, and very soon. Sit down all of you.’

They went back to their desks and sat and waited patiently. Zamiatin turned over the last pages of the file, then sat silently in thought for a few minutes. Finally he raised his head and spoke with brisk authority.

‘Major Gudov, you will go home now and change into civilian clothes and pack an overnight bag and proceed to Lublin Air Force Base. A military jet will be standing by waiting to fly you to Libya. You will be met there by a senior officer of Libyan Intelligence who will accompany you by helicopter to Ibn Awad camp. They are not supposed to photograph the trainees but you can be sure they do, surreptitiously. You will obtain those photographs and compare them with the drawings in this file. Obviously there will be one extra. That is our man . . . or woman. Presumably a man, unless the
“Papa
’s envoy” is a lesbian.’ No one smiled; his expression and tone of voice precluded that. ‘You will then interrogate all the instructors and any trainees in the camp who were there up to the twenty-second of last month. Particularly the Filipino woman and the instructress Leila. You will do all this in twelve hours. I want your report on my desk by ten o’clock tomorrow night. Try to sleep on the way out and back. Do not fail me. Go now.’