In The Name of The Father (45 page)

Abruptly the ambulance swung off the main road and down a narrow street. The driver flicked off the switch and, as the sound of the siren died, said, ‘So, apart from your shoulder, how are you, Mirek Scibor?’

Mirek turned his head around to look at him. The big old man glanced at him and smiled. At first Mirek was totally bemused, then realisation dawned. He laughed and said, ‘I suppose your best minds worked on this.’

‘You could say that,’ agreed the Bacon Priest.

Forty-eight hours later the Alitalia DC8 carrying His Holiness Pope John Paul II touched down at Seoul’s international airport.

A day earlier three Filipinos had boarded a JAL flight for Tokyo from the same airport.

Two of them were young women. The other a young man.

One of the women was very pretty.

Chapter 29

Archbishop Versano warmly embraced the Bacon Priest and led him over to a leather chair in the corner of his office, saying, ‘Welcome and well done, Pieter. You look tired. Coffee? Or something stronger?’

The priest sat down, shaking his head. ‘No thanks, Mario.’

The Archbishop went to his desk and came back carrying a sheet of paper. He sat opposite the priest, grinned at him and said, ‘This was issued by the Kremlin three days ago. Quote: Comrade Yuri P. Andropov, President of the USSR and Secretary General of the Communist Party of the USSR, died at sixteen fifty hours on February 9th, 1984. Cause of death: Interstitial nephritis, nephrosclerosis, chronic kidney deficiency, dystrophic changes of internal organs, progressive hypertension and cardio-vascular insufficiency.’

He looked up at the Bacon Priest and grinned again. ‘Yet another Kremlin lie. They obviously don’t want their own people - or anyone else’s - to know that their vaunted security was breached.’

Wearily the priest shook his head.

‘Not necessarily, Mario.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that. He could well have died of those causes.’

Puzzled, Versano cocked his head to one side and studied him. Then he said, ‘Pieter, what’s the matter with you? What about the
“Papa
’s envoy” and “
La cantante”?’

The Bacon Priest sighed.

‘They never existed, Mario. They were figments of imagination.’

The Archbishop stared at him, then an expression of horror crossed his face. ‘Oh God . . . you didn’t . . . have them eliminated . . . to destroy your evidence?’

Van Burgh sighed again. ‘Mario, you cannot eliminate something that never existed.’

Now exasperation was on the Archbishop’s face and in his voice. ‘Have you gone crazy? Scibor was a real person!’

‘Yes, there was a Mirek Scibor. He did kill two of his superiors. Doubtless they caught him and, doubtless, quietly executed him.’

Incredulously Versano barked, ‘And the nun - Ania Krol . . . ? Mennini found her in a convent in Hungary.’

Van Burgh spread his hands. ‘If you check the records of that convent you will find no mention of a nun called Ania Krol. If you question the Mother Superior she will have no recollection of such a person.’

Versano sneered. ‘And of course Mennini is dead.’

‘Yes. God rest his soul.’

‘And
Nostra Trinita
?’

Van Burgh made a throw-away gesture.

‘Three foolish men fantasising after too much wine and brandy.’

‘I see, and of course all the well-documented fuss in Eastern Europe, the huge security turn-out, that was just a figment of my imagination, and of millions of others?’

The Bacon Priest shook his head. ‘Not at all. My guess is that it resulted from a disinformation campaign, probably the Americans . . . CIA. They would certainly have discovered the extent and mobility of the East’s security system.’

‘And the killings? At that restaurant? And in Cracow?’

Van Burgh shrugged. ‘Dissidents, renegades, such things happen, even in repressed countries.’

Another silence, then Versano remembered something. He leaned forward, angry but triumphant. ‘What about the money?’

‘What money?’

The Archbishop shouted, ‘The dollars! The gold! I sent them! Me! Is that a figment of my imagination?’

The Bacon Priest slowly stood up and stretched. His face was infinitely weary. Very softly he said, ‘Mario, the Church spent no money that I know of. . . neither did you personally.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go.’ He gestured at the piece of paper in the Archbishop’s hands. ‘It is better, for once, that we all believe the Kremlin. Goodbye Mario.’

The Bacon Priest had reached the door and opened it before Versano spoke. He said coldly, ‘Whatever you say I know what to believe.’

The Bacon Priest turned and looked at him for a moment, then said, ‘As Cardinal Mennini would have said, “Belief is a state of mind.” And remember, the Cardinal had a conscience . . . and wore a hair shirt. The knowledge that the “
Papa
’s envoy” never existed is your hair shirt - wear it well.’

He went out, closing the door gently behind him.

EPILOGUE

The Vumba mountains in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe look out over Mozambique. Or they do when the mists which give the mountains their name dissipate.

In that part of Zimbabwe there are, apart from the indigenous tribes, quite a few Europeans from the Colonial days. These comprise mostly British who have stayed on; a small community of Greeks, and another of Portuguese who crossed the border after Mozambique’s independence. There are a few Dutch and a few Germans, mostly farmers. The Poles constitute the smallest community, with barely half a dozen souls.

Early in 1984 their number was increased significantly with the arrival of two more Poles. They came within three weeks of each other. The woman turned up first. She was a nun and joined the convent high in the Vumba which had taken over an old, beautiful but unprofitable hotel. Most of the nuns were Irish, as was the Mother Superior. They looked after orphans and refugees from war-torn Mozambique. The new nun taught English.

The man arrived quietly, stayed at the Impala Arms Hotel for two weeks and then bought three hundred acres of land in the lush Burma Valley. It was rumoured that part of the purchase price had been paid in gold.

There was no house on the land but he pitched a tent and started building one, using the local stone and timber cut from his own trees. He planted coffee and bananas and Protea shrubs for eventual export to Europe.

At first he was looked on as a bit of a joke by his farming neighbours. He was a complete amateur. But he learned fast and he listened. He worked on the house at a leisurely pace, sometimes hiring casual labour but mostly working by himself.

Every evening he would climb into his Land Rover and drive up the Vumba to the convent. He would wait, sitting on an old tree trunk, near the overgrown eighth green of the old golf course. The nun would join him there after evening prayers and they would talk for an hour or so, the nun in her starched white habit, the man in rough work clothes.

On March 9th, 1987, almost three years after he had arrived, the man finished the house. That afternoon a delivery van from a department store in Mutare arrived with furniture, including a large double bed. In the evening the man changed into his best suit and drove up to the convent. This time he parked in front of the main entrance. He climbed out of the Land Rover and waited. After ten minutes the woman came out. She was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt. She carried a suitcase.

She was accompanied by the Mother Superior, who kissed her cheek before she climbed into the Land Rover. It was not a goodbye. The woman would be back the next day and the following days to continue her work. But not as a nun. In her suitcase was a Papal dispensation. This time genuine. The date on it was almost three years old. Three years given as penance for a sin she could not explain except to the man she was now joining.

She did not regret the three years.

Neither did he.