In The Name of The Father (2 page)

The sound was a sharp thud. The Brigadier’s head snapped back as the bullet smashed through his open mouth, up through his brains and out through the back of his cranium.

Scibor turned the gun. Konopka was rising, terror on his face.

Three sharp thuds. Three bullets into the heart. As he fell he grabbed at the chair, pulling it with him on to the carpet. His voice was a gurgle as he tried to speak. Scibor stood up, took careful aim and fired a bullet into his head just above and in front of his left ear.

The Colonel lay still. Blood had spattered the carpet.

Scibor walked around the desk. The Brigadier had toppled backwards in his chair. His head lay twisted against the angle of the floor and the wall. The wall was smeared with blood.

Scibor stood still, looking and listening. The door to the office was thick. He doubted if the secretary would have heard anything. He breathed very deeply several times and then unscrewed the silencer. He put the briefcase back on the desk. His hands were shaking a little and he fumbled for a few seconds with the locks before getting them open. He dropped the silencer in and closed the briefcase, then he opened the holster at his waist and took out the wadded newspaper he had used to give it normal bulk. He slid the Makarov into the holster, snapped it shut, picked up the briefcase and turned to the door.

The secretary was surprised at his quick reappearance. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Thank you, Brigadier. I’ll be in my office.’ He closed the door and smiled at her. ‘Brigadier Meiszkowski and Colonel Konopka wish to discuss my report privately. They’ll call when they need me. Meanwhile he said that he’s not to be disturbed . . . under any circumstances.’

She nodded. He smiled at her again and walked out. Unconsciously she patted her hair into shape.

He ignored the lifts, which were notoriously slow, and walked down the five flights of steps. As he walked out of the building the duty desk officer threw him a laconic salute. He acknowledged it with a wave of his hand.

It was twenty minutes later when the doorbell of Father Josef Lason’s modest house on the outskirts of Cracow rang.

He sighed in exasperation. For two hours he had been trying to compose his homily for Sunday’s service. The Bishop was doing him the rare honour of attending the mass and was notoriously critical of slapdash homilies. During those two hours the phone had rung constantly, mostly on matters concerning trivia. He had considered taking it off the hook but sometimes a call to his phone could be vital.

He shuffled to the door in his favourite old carpet slippers and opened it while assuming an expression of impatience. A man stood there in the light drizzle holding a canvas bag. He was wearing blue corduroy trousers and a khaki anorak. A black scarf was wound around his neck and the lower part of his face. His black hair was wet.

In a slightly muffled voice he said, ‘Good morning, Father Lason. May I come in?’

The priest hesitated for a moment, then, realising the man was getting wetter, stood aside.

In the hall the man unwound the scarf and asked, ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes. My housekeeper is shopping.’ As he said the words the priest felt a stab of fear. The man’s face had a menacing set.

The man said, ‘I am Major Mirek Scibor of the SB.’

On hearing those words the priest’s fear increased a thousandfold. The SB - Sluba Bezpieczenstwa - was the notorious arm of the Polish Secret Police that was directed against the Catholic Church. Major Mirek Scibor was known and feared as one of its most deadly agents.

The priest’s fear showed on his face. Scibor said softly, ‘I am not here to arrest you or harm you in any way.’

The priest regained some of his composure. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘As a refugee . . . I seek sanctuary.’

Now the expression on the priest’s face changed from fear to suspicion. Scibor noted the change. He said, ‘Father Lason, less than half an hour ago I shot to death a Brigadier and a Colonel of the SB. You will hear about it on the news.’

The priest looked into Scibor’s eyes and believed him. He crossed himself and murmured, ‘May God forgive you.’

Scibor’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile. ‘Your God should thank me.’ He emphasized the word ‘your’.

The priest shook his head as though in sorrow and asked, ‘Why did you do it? . . . And why did you come to me?’

Scibor ignored the first question. He said, ‘I came because you are a link in an escape route to the West. I have known about you for the past four months. I suspect that the dissident Kamien was smuggled out through your route. I would have arrested you but had hoped to uncover more links.’

The priest was silent for several seconds. Then he said, ‘Come into the kitchen.’

They drank coffee, sitting opposite each other across the kitchen table. The priest again asked, ‘Why did you do it?’

Scibor sipped from his mug. His eyes were fixed on the table. In a cold voice he said, ‘Your religion preaches that vengeance belongs to God. Well, I borrowed a little from Him . . . That’s all I will say.’

He raised his eyes and looked at the priest and the priest knew the subject was closed. He said, ‘I admit nothing. But if you get to the West what will you do?’

Scibor shrugged. ‘First we will have much to talk about; but when I get to the West I will talk to the Bacon Priest. Tell him that . . .Tell the Bacon Priest I’m coming.’

Chapter 1

They chose Carabiniere General Mario Rossi to convey the news. It was a good choice. Rossi was not the kind of man to be overawed by a Pope or any other earthly being. Also it was a rational choice. He was the chairman of the committee which the Government had set up to oversee the safety and security of the Pope on Italian soil. His driver turned the black Lancia into the Damaso Courtyard. Rossi straightened his tie and climbed out.

He was an urbane and elegant figure, dressed in a three-piece suit of dark blue worsted with just a suggestion of a darker pinstripe. A pearl grey cashmere coat fell from his shoulders. In a city of fastidiously dressed men, he was a master tailor’s pride. A cream silk handkerchief gave a discreet contrast of colour at the top of his breast pocket. Above that another contrast of maroon from a small but perfect carnation in his lapel buttonhole. The whole assemblage could have looked effeminate on another man, but whatever anyone said about Mario Rossi, and they said plenty, no one ever questioned his masculinity.

His face was well known to the Swiss Guards. They saluted him respectfully.

At the Apostolic Palace he was met by Cabrini, the Maestro di Camera. With barely a word they walked to the lift and were sped to the top floor. Rossi could practically feel the vibrations of curiosity emanating from Cabrini. A totally private Papal audience was a rarity. Especially one organised at such short notice; the Italian Secretary of State requesting it only that morning - a matter of State importance.

They reached the dark, heavy door of the Pope’s study. Cabrini rapped on it sharply with bony knuckles, opened it, announced Rossi in his nasal voice and ushered him in.

As the door closed behind him Rossi watched the Pope rise from behind the small paper-strewn table that looked like the work station of a middling business executive. By contrast the Pope resembled exactly what he was. He wore a pristine white silk cassock, a small white skull cap, a dark gold chain and cross, and a patrician but warm smile of welcome.

He moved round the table. Deferentially Rossi knelt on one knee and kissed the proffered ring.

The Pope leaned forward, put a hand under his arm and gently raised him to his feet.

‘It gives us pleasure to see you, General. You are looking well.’

Rossi nodded his appreciation. ‘I am, Your Holiness. A week at Madonna di Campiglio works wonders.’

The Pope raised his eyebrows.

‘Ah, how was the skiing?’

‘Excellent, Your Holiness.’

With a twinkle in his eye, the Pope asked, ‘And the
après ski?’

‘Also excellent, Your Holiness.’

The Pope smiled wanly. ‘How we miss the slopes.’

He took Rossi’s elbow and steered him to a grouping of low leather chairs around a walnut table. As they seated themselves, a nun appeared through a side door bearing a tray. She poured coffees together with a Sambucca for Rossi, and for the Pope a small glass of amber liquid from an old unlabelled bottle. As she withdrew Rossi drained his coffee, took a sip of Sambucca and said, ‘I wish to thank Your Holiness for agreeing to see me at such short notice.’

The Pope nodded, and Rossi, knowing that he was a man impatient with small talk, plunged straight in.

‘Your Holiness, you will have heard about the defector Yevchenko.’

Again a nod.

‘We have questioned him for the past ten days. Now he moves on to the Americans. The first thing of note is that although his Embassy ranking here was rather low, he was far more senior in the KGB than we ever suspected. In fact he was a General, and one of the most significant defectors in decades. He has been co-operative . . . most co-operative.’

Rossi finished his Sambucca and laid the glass carefully on the table. ‘In our final debriefing session with him last night he talked about the lamented attempt on your life of May 19th, ‘81.’

He glanced up. Until now the Pope had been listening with polite interest. Now the expression in his eyes had changed to intense interest.

Rossi said, ‘He confirmed what is virtually self-evident: that the assassination attempt originated and was directed from Moscow through their Bulgarian puppets. Yevchenko also confirmed beyond doubt that the mastermind, the driving force behind it, was the then head of the KGB, Yuri P. Andropov.’

The Pope nodded and murmured sombrely, ‘And since elected Secretary General of the Communist Party of the USSR . . . and subsequently that country’s President.’ He shrugged. ‘But General, this was assumed from all the analysis.’

‘Yes, Your Holiness,’ Rossi agreed. ‘But what was not assumed was that because Andropov failed once, he would try again.’

A silence while the Pope digested that; then he asked quietly, ‘And Yevchenko indicated that he will try again?’

Rossi nodded. ‘Positively. He does not know details, but he was consulted. It appears that Andropov is obsessed with this matter. He is convinced that Poland is the linchpin of Soviet control of Eastern Europe. Its position has always been vital and, in their eyes, always will be. He is also convinced that Your Holiness represents a dire threat to that linchpin . . .’ He paused for effect and then said, almost sternly, ‘And frankly, Your Holiness, your actions and your policy towards Poland and Communism in general, these past eighteen months, will have done nothing to dispel those fears.’

The Pope waved a hand dismissively. ‘We have done everything with caution and in the light of Our Lord’s teachings and guidance.’

Rossi couldn’t help thinking: ‘And a dash of patriotism for good measure,’ but he didn’t voice the thought. The Pope gestured at him.

‘Would he really consider such a risk? After all, if the Polish people knew positively that we had been murdered on the direct orders of the leader of the Soviet Union, that could cause an uprising to shake the foundations of the Soviet Empire.’

‘True,’ Rossi conceded. ‘Indeed, Yevchenko indicated that there is much opposition to this in the Soviet hierarchy, but Andropov’s position appears to be totally secure. Also we must assume that the KGB learned something from the last attempt. . . You must face the reality, Your Holiness. One of the most powerful, amoral and ruthless men in the world, with vast resources at his disposal, is determined to see you dead.’

Another thoughtful silence while the Pope took a sip from his glass. Then he asked, ‘Are there more details, General?’

Rossi grimaced. ‘Very little. Only that the attempt will take place outside of the Vatican City, and outside Italy. Your Holiness is committed to a series of pastoral visits overseas. The details of your itineraries are well known. They have to be. You are to leave for the Far East in about two months. The attempt could be there or on a future trip. I believe that it will be sooner rather than later. Andropov is known to be an impatient man and is also not in good health . . . Your Holiness, an ailing man with an obsession is likely to wish to have that obsession satisfied quickly.’

The Pope sighed and slowly shook his head in sorrow. Rossi had the feeling that he would utter some words about God’s will and the forgiving of our enemies. It was not to be. There was a very long silence. The Pope’s eyes were half closed in thought. Rossi let his gaze wander round the room, taking in the blond wood panelling, the priceless paintings, the tall windows draped in gold damask. Windows up at which billions of pairs of eyes had stared in awe and reverence. His eyes came back to the Pope. He thought he saw a decision being taken. The Pope’s eyes opened. Thought was over. Those blue eyes that smiled so easily were now frosted.

With a wince of pain the Pope stood up. With uncertainty Rossi did the same. The two men faced each other. Quite curtly the Pope said, ‘General, this news is not welcome, but thank you for giving it to me personally and so promptly.’

Purposefully he moved towards the door. Rossi followed, saying with some bewilderment, ‘You will take every precaution, Your Holiness? You do realise the seriousness . . . perhaps you should cancel . . .’

He got no further. The Pope had turned at the door and was shaking his head emphatically.

‘We shall cancel nothing, General. Our life, and the way we lead it, will not be governed by any other power than that of the will of God. That atheist criminal in Moscow will not be allowed to affect or impair our pastoral mission on earth.’ He opened the door. ‘Again, thank you, General. Cardinal Casaroli will impart our thanks to the Minister.’

Slightly dazed, Rossi kissed the proffered ring, muttered a few words and was led away by Cabrini, who was looking even more curious. As they reached the lift, Rossi noticed the Pope’s personal secretary, Father Dziwisz, slip into the study.