In The Name of The Father (37 page)

‘Yes, Colonel.’

He went through and closed the door behind him. He was in a small space between the door behind him and the one in front. The door in front was heavily padded and soundproofed. This building had been used by a section of the Gestapo during the war and temporarily taken over at the end of the war by the KGB before being passed on to the SB. The whole floor had been known as the nursery since the Germans and the name had stuck.

Mirek paused for a moment and collected himself. He loosened the flap of his holster, then patted the top right-hand pocket of his tunic and felt the reassuring bulge. As he reached for the door handle he heard, even through the padding, the long thin scream. He pressed the handle and pushed the door open.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the bright overhead strip lighting. She was lying flat on her back, naked, wrists and ankles strapped to a table. Her scream was dying to a moan. Major Grygorenko was standing beside the table wearing his uniform trousers and an undershirt wet with sweat. Braces dangled alongside his knees. He was holding a metal rod between her legs against her crotch. A cord from it snaked away to a wall socket. Another man was standing at the head of the table, his hands pressing down against her shoulders. He wore the uniform of a Corporal. His wide Slavic face was also sweating. They both looked up, startled. Mirek smiled at them. Grygorenko pulled the rod away from Ania’s crotch. Her wet skin quivered.

‘Who the hell. . . ?’

Mirek moved forward saying pleasantly, ‘Colonel Josef Gruzewski at your service. “H” Section, Warsaw. I’m here to take over the interrogation.’

Grygorenko’s face showed his disappointment. Sullenly he said, ‘We weren’t expecting you for a couple of hours.’

Mirek said, ‘I happened to be in Cracow. The others are coming. Have you learned anything?’ .

He had moved up to the table. He saw Ania’s wet face turn towards him and hoped beyond measure that the sound of his voice had forewarned her. It had. She looked at him through listless eyes.

The Major replied, ‘Not yet.’

Mirek turned to him. ‘What the hell’s that you’re using?’

The Major shrugged. ‘A cattle prod. I was told that your lot are bringing equipment with them. It’s all I’ve got. . .’ He was looking at Mirek closely. ‘Haven’t we met before?’

Mirek shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Anyway I did a two-year course at Blatyn and I can tell you that if that’s all you’ve got you have to use it with skill.’

Grygorenko grinned. ‘I was about to ram it up her cunt!’

Mirek smiled again. ‘Hardly original. No, Major, it must be used against certain nerve endings which multiply its effect. I will show you.’

He undid the flap of the top right hand pocket of his tunic and took out a thick black marking pen. The brand name ‘Denbi’ was etched in yellow. He unclipped the top and leaned forward.

‘Now watch closely, Major. I will mark the points for you. And you, Corporal. Learn something.’

Slowly he reached out and inked a small cross at a spot on the inside of Ania’s knee. Her skin flinched slightly at the soft contact. Then he moved higher and touched the felt to her skin just under her right breast.

‘This is a particularly good spot, but it must be under the right breast and it must be in exactly the right spot. Look closely, Major!’

Fascinated, Grygorenko leaned over Ania’s body, craning his neck to see the spot. In an instant Mirek turned his wrist, pressed his thumb on the ‘D’ of Denbi and lunged upwards. Four inches of needle-like steel snaked out, penetrated Grygorenko’s left eyeball and pierced through to his brain. He went over backwards, his last living sound an agonised scream.

The Corporal was stunned. He had only just begun to move as Mirek’s left hand stabbed at his throat, fingers rigid. He went down with a choking gurgle. Quickly Mirek moved around the table, bent over him and slid the steel needle through his rib cage into his heart.

Both bodies were still twitching convulsively as he started to undo the buckles that bound Ania down.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, Mirek. You should not have come; it’s madness.’

He grinned down at her. ‘They all say that. Was it very terrible?’

Her arms were released and she sat up rubbing her wrists.

‘Not so much the pain . . . only the pleasure they got from it . . . I wanted to die . . . really.’

He unbuckled the last strap and she swung her feet to the ground. He took her in his arms in a brief embrace, then said urgently, ‘We’re not even half way there. We must be quick.’ He saw her clothes on a chair. ‘Get dressed, Ania. I’ll be back in a moment.’

He went out and she hurried to the chair and started pulling on her clothes. The bodies on the floor were now still. She looked at them and tried to find some compassion . . . even forgiveness. It would not come. She was just putting on her shoes when the door opened. Mirek’s head came round it and whispered, ‘Come on.’

She hurried over. In the space between the two doors was another body. It was twitching. Mirek was tucking the marker pen back into his pocket. He reached down and picked up a sub-machine gun from beside the body.

He handed it to her, saying, ‘You must hold that for me and the spare magazine and do everything I tell you exactly.’

She took the gun. The grip was sticky. She looked at her hand and saw the blood. She avoided looking again at the body. Mirek carefully opened the outer door and looked both ways down the corridor. He turned back and said, ‘We are going up two flights of stairs and then along a corridor. I will leave you at a corner there and go on alone. As soon as you hear gunfire you are to follow me as fast as you can and either hand me or throw me that gun. Then stay by me whatever happens.’

At that moment from the room behind them a phone started to ring stridently. To Mirek it sounded like an alarm.

He said, ‘Come on, Ania. Whatever happens they won’t capture us alive. Either we get out . . . or we die together.’

She followed him out into the corridor.

* * *

Two floors up Major Janiak was getting nervous and concurrently irritated.

‘How can there be no answer?’ he demanded.

With the phone at his ear, the Captain shrugged. ‘Major, I shall send Sergeant Boniek down. Maybe the phone is malfunctioning. It sometimes happens.’

The Major snorted. ‘Go yourself. You had no right allowing someone to go down there.’

‘Major, he was Colonel Gruzewski, from “H” Section . . . orders from General Kowski -’

‘So he said. Now get down there!’

The Captain had just begun to move around the desk when Mirek walked into the vestibule. He looked very irritated. His hands were clasped behind his back. To the Major he said starkly, ‘Who are you?’

‘Major Juliusz Janiak, sir. May I ask . . . ?’

‘No, you may not.’ Mirek’s arms came from behind his back. The Makarov was in his right hand. He shot Major Janiak between the eyes. A second later the barrel had swung and two shots were pumped into the heart of the Captain.

The Sergeant was very quick. His hand was reaching for his holster even as he ducked down behind the heavy desk. There were shouts from nearby offices. Mirek vaulted the desk, turning in the air. The Sergeant had his gun free. It was coming up. He fired at the same time as Mirek. Mirek felt the impact on his left side. He saw the Sergeant smashed back as his gun clattered to the floor. Mirek put a hand to his side. It was completely numb. The shouts were in his ears. He saw Ania running towards him and at the same time saw the door to the main entrance opening. He knew who would be coming through. He screamed at Ania, ‘Get down, Ania! Over here!’

She made it by the bat of an eyelid. The outside guard came through the door with his sub-machine gun raised and ready. He paused for a moment to take in the scene, then his finger squeezed the trigger. Ania slid feet first behind the desk as the bullets scythed across the room. Somebody screamed from down the corridor. Mirek grabbed the sub-machine gun from Ania’s fingers, flicked off the safety and dived sideways from behind the desk. The guard tried to swing his gun back but was too late. Still in the air Mirek fired a half-second burst. Half a dozen bullets slammed into the guard, spinning him against the doors. Mirek hit the ground and rolled onto his knees. He saw figures down another corridor and fired another burst. More screams. He shouted, ‘Ania, come on!’

She ran out from behind the desk in a crouch. The spare magazine was in her left hand. He grabbed it and, discarding the used one, clipped it in. Then he took her hand and they ran through the door.

They paused for a second at the top of the steps. People were running away in both directions. As they started down the steps they heard a car hooting and the blue BMW came screeching to a halt below them. As they reached it the back door opened. He pushed Ania in and then dived after her. The car surged forward and the door slammed with the momentum. As they straightened up Mirek heard the scream of a siren behind. He looked out the back window. A militia Jeep was fifty yards behind. He could see a figure leaning out of the window with a hand gun. He heard and felt the clang as a bullet ricocheted off the side of the Skoda. He felt a rage inside him. They were not going to be stopped now. He wound down his window and leaned out with the sub-machine gun held in front of him, twisted and emptied the magazine at the Jeep. He saw the windscreen disintegrate. The Jeep swerved across the street. He saw a militiaman leap from the back, then the Jeep crashed into and through a shop window.

A moment later they sped across the intersection. Still looking behind, Mirek saw a large van and an old Skoda collide head on. Two more cars crashed into the pile-up, completely blocking the road. He saw figures leaping from the vehicles and running away. He turned, tossed the sub-machine gun out of the window and said, ‘Slow down now. Drive normally. Well done, Marian!’

Chapter 22

Victor Chebrikov had no alternative but to wait out the silence. The last time he had broken it Andropov had simply stated, ‘Shut your mouth.’

He could not understand why the First Secretary had summoned him to lunch. Surely the reprimand could have been better delivered in Andropov’s office. It had been eighteen hours since the fiasco in Cracow. The First Secretary, of course, had been informed immediately. Chebrikov had spent a sleepless night sitting by the phone waiting for the summons. It had not come until now, the next day.

He had been surprised to see a table for lunch set for two. There was bread and sausages, Molossol caviar, soused herrings and a bowl of fruit.

Andropov had merely grunted at his respectful greeting and gestured at the table. But Chebrikov quickly discovered his boss’s mood. As he had spooned himself a generous dollop of caviar, Andropov had said, ‘So you haven’t lost your appetite.’

It was a famous and chilling phrase within the Kremlin, reportedly first coined by Beria when watching the inmates of a Siberian slave camp fighting over a bucket of thin gruel. Chebrikov had eaten half a spoonful of caviar and then pushed his plate away. Andropov appeared not to notice. Although he appeared increasingly ill, on this day he did have an appetite. He demolished half a bowl of caviar between mouthfuls of coarse bread. As he started on the herring Chebrikov had ventured to speak.

‘Comrade First Secretary, I wish to express . . .’

And then Andropov had said, ‘Shut your mouth.’

Now the First Secretary had finished the fish and was carefully peeling an apple with a red Swiss army knife that he had taken from his pocket. He seemed oblivious of Chebrikov or the silence. He managed to peel the apple in one continuous curling strip. He sliced the end and laid it on his plate with an air of satisfaction. Then he said, ‘I talked before of uncaught fish jumping out of boats. The fish you catch don’t jump out. They bite you.’

Chebrikov kept silent, staring down at the grey lumpy mass in front of him. It made him feel nauseous.

Andropov held the knife to his lips and sucked a piece of apple from the blade. He chewed reflectively, then said, ‘This Mirek Scibor is like an avalanche. It starts slowly, gathers speed and sweeps everything before it. You try to arrest him and his woman. He kills those who try. You arrest his woman and hold her in what should be the most secure place in Cracow . . . He takes her out as easily as picking an old drunk’s pocket. . . and kills people doing it. This avalanche kills people with ease; and this avalanche is gathering speed and coming my way. Tell me, Comrade Director of State Security, what percentage chance does this avalanche have of killing me?’

Chebrikov answered immediately and fervently.

‘No chance! None at all!’

Andropov’s eyes glittered with anger.

‘You are wrong! And you know it. What chance would you have given him to rescue his woman in Cracow? None, of course.’

He sat back breathing deeply. Chebrikov deemed it wise to keep his counsel. He had never seen his boss in this mood before. He supposed that it stemmed from his illness. After a few minutes Andropov spoke again, musingly, as if talking to himself.

‘I feel him coming. Like the onset of a bad cold. First a sneeze or two; then a headache. A nose that won’t stop running . . . a fever. I feel it coming.’ He raised his eyes and looked directly at Chebrikov. His voice hardened. ‘Ultimately I don’t care. I’m dying anyway. But understand this, Comrade. I care more than anything I have ever cared about that I outlive this Pope. He leaves on his tour in five days. Two days later he will be dead. After that I will face death myself. Now I am moving into the clinic early, in fact tomorrow morning. You will guard that clinic with your life . . . literally. If I die of unnatural causes before that bastard Pope, you will also die . . . within the hour. I have already made the arrangements. They are so tight that neither you nor my successor nor anybody else will be able to countermand them . . . You do believe that, Comrade?’

Slowly and solemnly Chebrikov nodded. He did believe it. Such arrangements were not unheard of in the Soviet Union.