In The Name of The Father (43 page)

‘Very frightened . . . but the hatred is building. It holds down the fear.’

She was very close. They looked at each other. Slowly she reached out a hand and laid the back of it against his cheek. Then she turned away and went to the small window and looked out at the grey morning. For a while he watched her back, then from the dressing table picked up a small device that looked like a hearing aid. He worked it into his left ear.

Gogol inspected him in the book-lined lounge. He held a metal box in his hand the size of a packet of cigarettes. He pressed a button on it twice.

‘Do you hear it?’

Mirek nodded. ‘Very clearly. You can’t hear it from there?’

Ania and Gogol shook their heads.

Gogol took a deep breath and said, ‘All right. We go now. Say your goodbyes. I’ll wait for you in the hall.’

He left them alone. There was an awkward silence. They both knew that even if Mirek succeeded they would not see each other again in Russia. He would be spirited out through one route and she through another. They had not discussed the future. They had tried not to think about it. They embraced. She was dry-eyed.

He said, ‘It will be over in a few hours. I love you, Ania.’ He held her tight, then kissed her on the cheek, waiting for her to say something. Her body was rigid.

‘Please, Ania. Wish me good fortune.’

She shook her head and said, ‘I love you. Just go now.’

He stared at her and finally nodded in understanding and turned away.

She heard the outside door close. Slowly she sank to her knees.

She prayed for his soul, and for hers, and for that of Yuri Andropov.

Chapter 27

Professor Stefan Szafer shaved with meticulous care. He had suffered from four o’clock shadow since his late teens. It was now ten thirty and he was determined there would be no shadow on this day.

The bathroom of his hotel room was an amalgam of marble and mirror. He felt suitably important. He splashed water over his face and dried it with a fluffy white towel. Then he picked up a pair of long, delicate scissors and carefully trimmed his moustache. He examined himself in the mirror and decided that he was indeed handsome. He shook two Amplex pills out of a bottle and swallowed them. Then he walked out into the bedroom. His white shirt, maroon tie, and dark grey suit were laid out on the double bed. He had just pulled on the trousers and was tucking in the shirt when there came a tap at the door. He zipped up his fly, went over and opened it.

Halena Maresa was standing there with a smile on her face and a half bottle of champagne in her hand. Her smile graduated to a grin when she saw his look of surprise.

‘I came to wish you luck, Stefan.’

Bemused, he backed away from the door. She swept in, exclaiming in delight at the luxuriousness of the room, deposited the champagne on a table, shrugged off her fur coat and tossed it on to the bed. Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely on the lips.

He disentangled himself and asked, ‘Halena, what are you doing here so early?’

She pouted. ‘Our boring session ended early, thank God. I was just in time to pick up that bottle of champagne and get here before you left. I thought I would wait here and welcome you on your return. Now, where are some glasses?’

He smiled at her fondly. ‘Halena, I cannot drink champagne now. I must have a clear head.’

She had opened a cupboard and found glasses. She selected two with long stems and put them on the table saying, ‘Pooh! Of course you can have one glass. It will make your head clearer. Are you not happy to see me?’

‘Of course.’ He moved to the bed, picked up his tie and slipped it under his collar. Over his shoulder he said, ‘But no champagne yet, darling. Save it for my return.’

He jumped at the sharp retort. The cork hit the ceiling and bounced into a corner. The champagne foamed into the two glasses. He slipped on his jacket, smiling and shaking his head.

‘I cannot drink it, Halena. Save it for my return.’

She looked piqued. ‘It will be flat.’

‘Never mind. I’ll order another bottle.’

‘You don’t love me.’

He smiled again. ‘Of course I do.’ He moved to her and enfolded her body in his arms and squeezed tightly. ‘They will be picking me up soon. Will you really wait for me here?’

‘Yes, Stefan. I will wait for you in that big bed . . . I will wait naked.’

Abruptly she felt his hardness rising against her thigh. In a kittenish voice she said, ‘Now don’t be a spoilsport. Have a little champagne with me.’

He relented and whispered in her ear. ‘All right, but just half a glass.’

He released her and reached for the glass just as the phone rang.

He shrugged and walked to the bedside table and picked it up, saying, ‘Szafer here.’

Halena opened her handbag.

Szafer said into the phone, ‘Yes, Professor Chazov, I am ready. I will come down immediately.’

He cradled the phone and turned. Halena was facing him. Her legs were straddled, her left hand was holding her right wrist, her right hand was holding a pistol, lengthened by the slug of a silencer. It was pointed at his heart.

Her voice was cold. ‘It would have been easier if you had drunk the champagne.’

His mouth opened in astonishment. ‘Halena . . . ? What . . . What are you doing?’

She said, ‘If you move I will kill you. I know how to use this gun. I’m an expert shot.’ Her bag was open on the table beside her. She freed her left hand and reached into it. The aim of the gun never wavered. From the bag she took a small metal box, the size of a cigarette packet. She laid it on the table and, without taking her eyes from Szafer, felt across the front of it for the button and pressed it twice. That action took some of the tension out of her. She breathed more easily and moved closer to Szafer, saying, ‘Sit in that chair there. We are going to wait a couple of hours and then I never have to see your face again or smell your stinking breath.’

In a room two floors below, Mirek took the hearing aid from his ear and tossed it to Gogol.

‘That’s it. I’m going.’

He picked up the black doctor’s bag and straightened his tie. Gogol said, ‘Good luck. I’ll be waiting.’

Mirek swallowed and nodded and walked to the door.

As he got out of the lift he took a deep breath and told himself that this was the culmination of everything. He purged his mind of extraneous thoughts and walked briskly towards the entrance. Gogol had shown him a photograph of Academician Yevgeny Chazov. Mirek recognised his portly figure standing by the concierge’s desk. He slowed and angled to pass close to him. Confidently Chazov said, ‘Professor Szafer. This is an honour and a pleasure.’

Mirek shifted his bag to his left hand and took the proffered hand. It was a limp grasp. Chazov took him by the arm and led him out of the hotel. A long black Zil limousine was waiting with the uniformed driver holding open the rear door. Chazov ushered Mirek into the interior. A glass partition separated them from the front seats.

As they pulled away he said enthusiastically, ‘I was intrigued by your recent article in
Sovetskaya Meditsina,
“Metabolic Acidosis after Dialysis”. How many patients were in the test sample?’

Mirek felt icy fingers clawing at his guts. He had no knowledge of the article and no knowledge of what would constitute a viable test sample. His mind froze up and then he remembered that Szafer was professionally an egoist and renowned for his abrasiveness. He decided to start as he would continue and said calmly, ‘A statistically significant amount.’

Silence. Then Chazov cleared his throat and said apologetically, ‘Yes, of course . . . And the conclusion was very positive . . .’

That stifled the conversation for ten minutes as they worked their way out of central Moscow, then Academician Chazov tried again. After another discreet cough he said, ‘I had the pleasure of meeting Professor Edward Lenczowski at a symposium in Budapest last October. I understand you’ve worked with him . . . What’s your opinion?’

Mirek glanced at him and said drily, ‘I hope I updated his surgical technique.’

This time Chazov smiled bleakly and said, ‘Yes. I got the impression that he was somewhat . . . shall we say, overly traditional in his outlook.’

Mirek merely nodded and turned his gaze to look out of the window. A light snow was falling. The few figures on the streets were reduced to anonymous bundles of fur. Mirek had studied the route on a map. He knew they were only minutes away. He felt Chazov stir beside him as he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a plastic wallet of papers. Again his voice was apologetic as he said, ‘I have your pass here. I’m afraid that security is extremely strict. You will understand that, of course . . . It does entail a thorough body search . . .’

Mirek glanced at him again and said, ‘I fully understand.’

The car turned left into a narrow tree-lined avenue. Mirek noted the soldiers stationed every few metres on each side. He also noted that all carried sub-machine guns.

After two hundred metres they came to a road block. Chazov wound down his window and passed the plastic wallet to a stone-faced Captain. The contents were carefully examined and then, without a smile or a word, the Captain handed back the wallet and waved the driver on. Another hundred metres and they came to a pair of high steel gates set into a concrete wall. Again the papers were scrutinised, and their faces. Again there was no cordiality in the process. Finally the gates were opened and they drove through into a floodlit courtyard.

Mirek counted at least a dozen KGB guards spread around. Some were stamping their feet against the cold. The driver stopped the car, jumped out and opened the rear door. A KGB Major came out and escorted them into the building.

He led them first to a room just inside the entrance. There were several KGB officers waiting including Victor Chebrikov himself. Chazov introduced Mirek with flowery phrases about his professional brilliance. Mirek knew all about Chebrikov. As he shook hands he could feel his heartbeat quickening.

Chebrikov said genially, ‘We are grateful for your presence. I regret that you will have to be searched. Please understand that it’s routine. Everybody has to go through it.’

Mirek nodded quietly and put his bag on to a table. The search was indeed thorough. He had to take off his jacket and turn out his pockets. Academician Chazov did the same. A young KGB Lieutenant conducted the body search. His careful fingers even probed Mirek’s genitals. Mirek tried to look bored and disdainful of the whole thing, while he wondered if he would ever get out of this building alive.

The Lieutenant was finally satisfied. Two other KGB officers had been going through his bag. He saw them open the flat leather case and then close it again upon seeing the familiar shape of the stethoscope. They opened another case, this time of walnut, which contained a set of Solingen scalpels. One of them glanced at Chebrikov who shook his head and said to Mirek, ‘Sorry, Professor. Those will have to stay here.’ Mirek shrugged disinterestedly.

His bag was carefully repacked and then Chebrikov led the way to the Chief Administrator’s office. There was another Russian doctor waiting. Introductions were made. Mirek recognised the name: Academician Leonid Petrov. A man in his late sixties with a bulbous nose and a big reputation. Back in Florence, at what seemed a lifetime ago, Father Gamelli had talked about him. He was Russia’s foremost expert in renal medicine and a man often contemptuous of what he liked to call ‘Western gimmickry’. He had a cynical, bad-tempered air about him. His attitude made it plain that he considered the Polish professor to be nothing but a young upstart. Mirek, through his nervousness, was grateful that Father Gamelli had given him a few tips on how to handle such a man.

Tea was served and Chazov handed Mirek a file which, he said, contained an in-depth summary of the patient’s condition. Mirek placed it on his knees, opened the cover and started to read. It was in Polish. Obviously they were thorough. Obviously they wanted no errors of translation.

Polish or not, most of it was beyond his knowledge. He knew that he had to resort to the cover of Szafer’s reputation. It took him fifteen minutes to pretend to study it. There were X-rays, ECGs and the results of biochemical tests of both blood and urine. As he read, the Russians talked quietly among themselves. When he closed the file they stopped talking and looked at him expectantly.

He sniffed and shrugged. Looking at Petrov he asked, ‘Is the nephron damage very great?’

Petrov answered, ‘Well, it’s not good.’

Mirek sighed. ‘Naturally. By the way, how current are these tests?’

Chazov said, ‘All within forty-eight hours.’

Mirek gave him an enigmatic look which could have meant ‘that’s good’ or ‘that’s pathetic’. He said, ‘Does that include the creatinine test?’

‘Yes.’

A look of slight scorn crossed Mirek’s face. He said, ‘I’d like a very recent urinary sediment test and a current electrolyte profile. I suggest you do one every twelve hours or so.’ He was looking at Petrov, who shrugged noncommittally. Mirek took a breath and said, ‘Now I am ready to see the patient.’

They all stood up. Chazov picked up Mirek’s bag. Chebrikov led the way.

They passed down a long white-walled corridor. They had to go through three sets of swing doors. In front of each was a pair of KGB guards cradling SMGs. There were two more outside the twin ceiling-high doors of the clinic’s main VIP suite. They waited outside while Chebrikov went in.

After a couple of minutes of silence Mirek asked, ‘How is the patient’s mental state?’

Instantly Petrov said harshly, ‘That does not concern you. Restrict yourself to his physical condition.’

Mirek knew how Szafer would have reacted to that. He said curtly, ‘The mental and physical is intertwined and effective treatment must take both into account. No matter, I will form my own opinion.’

Petrov started to answer but was interrupted by the door opening. Chebrikov beckoned them. They filed through a small anteroom into what could have been the bedroom of a luxurious hotel suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with damask curtains. A deep pile carpet was underfoot. In one corner was a grouping of easy chairs around a table. The bed was close to the window, its back raised. There were two KGB guards standing in corners, legs apart, submachine guns cradled in their arms. Their eyes watched Mirek coldly. Andropov, dressed in a green surgical gown, was sitting up talking on a telephone. He hung up as they came in.