In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  Gloomily Mennini asked, ‘Who are they?’

  Van Burgh chose the easy one first. ‘Father Jurek Choszozno of Poznan.’ He could see that the name meant nothing to Mennini, who was sipping at the remains of his wine. With over one hundred thousand priests within his Order that was not surprising. But Van Burgh guessed that the second name would get a reaction. ‘And, Your Eminence . . . this so pains me . . . Father Jan Panrowski of Olsztyn . . .’

  Mennini’s reaction was far greater than he could ever have expected. The Cardinal’s head jerked back. There was a sharp tinkle as the stem of his wine glass snapped and then the white tablecloth was stained red. Both Versano and Van Burgh started to rise. The Cardinal was looking at the priest as though he were a sudden and ghastly apparition. His mouth twisted as he tried to speak.

  ‘Jan Pan . . . No . . . God, no!’

  Then his lips pulled back from his teeth in agony and he was clutching at his chest and moaning and falling sideways.

  Versano caught him. Shouting at Van Burgh, ‘Quick! Get someone! A doctor!’

  The priest ran for the door, cursing himself. He knew that Panrowski must have been revered by his leader. He should have broken the news more gently.

  Thankfully Sister Maria was standing near a table close by. She saw the priest’s face and moved quickly towards him.

  ‘It’s the Cardinal,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Taken ill. I think it’s serious. Maybe a heart attack.’

  She was instantly in command of the situation. Most of her clientèle were senior, elderly clerics and such things had happened before. She swung into action. First her gaze swept the room; occasionally a doctor or two dined in the restaurant but not tonight. Quietly and firmly she said to Van Burgh, ‘Go back inside. An ambulance will be here within minutes with a doctor and special equipment. Then I’ll phone the Cardinal’s own doctor. Loosen his clothes.’

  She moved away quickly but not in a way to excite curiosity. He turned and went back into the private room.

  The Cardinal was on the floor. Versano was cradling his head with one hand and with the other holding a glass of water to his lips. Van Burgh quickly knelt on the other side and started loosening the clothes. He pulled at the tight sash and got it free and then reached behind Mennini’s neck and loosened his collar. A glance at his face made him sure that this was a heart attack. The Cardinal was gasping for air and his skin was ashen and clammy. He clutched at Van Burgh’s arm trying to say something.

  Just then one of the older serving girls came running in. She had two pillows and a blanket.

  ‘The doctor and ambulance are coming,’ she said and then quickly put the pillows under the Cardinal’s head and they lowered him down. He was still clutching at Van Burgh, who tried to comfort him.

  Versano stood up, saying gravely, ‘I must phone the Vatican. His Holiness must be informed immediately.’

  He backed away and walked quickly through the door into the restaurant. By now the patrons knew that something was amiss in the back room. He saw several familiar faces and saw their surprise as they recognised him. He ignored them. Sister Maria was in the foyer talking into a phone. She hung up at his approach and said calmly, ‘An ambulance will be here shortly from Policlinico Gemilli. The Cardinal’s own doctor is also on his way.’

  She hurried to the back room and Versano picked up the phone. He quickly dialled a number. It rang three times and then he heard the voice of the Pope’s secretary.

  ‘Dziwisz here.’

  Succinctly Versano told him the news. He heard Dziwisz sigh over the phone and then there was a silence while the Pole considered the implication. Versano could imagine what was going through his mind. The Cardinal’s Order was arguably the most radical section of the Church and one of the most powerful. It had often been a thorn in the side of past Popes. There had been a general sigh of relief in the Vatican when Mennini had been elected its leader. This time the man filling this most influential position had been on the same wavelength as the Pope and the Curia Cardinals. If he should die, a new leader, perhaps a radical, would be elected. Dziwisz asked which hospital the Cardinal was being sent to. Versano told him the Policlinico Gemilli. Another silence, then Dziwisz made up his mind.

  ‘I shall inform His Holiness now. Even if he’s asleep. I’ll phone you back. What is your number there?’

  Versano gave him the number and hung up. As he walked back through the restaurant he heard the distant wailing of a siren.

  In the back room Father Van Burgh was kneeling beside the Cardinal. His head was lowered close to Mennini’s mouth. The lips were moving painfully and sporadically, then the head jerked back and the body arched. Van Burgh put one hand on his chest and the other under his neck. Versano heard him mutter something like, ‘Did you tell . . . ?’

  Then Sister Maria was pushing forward. She carried a tray. On it was a tiny vial of water. She really is prepared, Versano thought. She put the tray on the carpet next to the Cardinal, then turned to look at Versano, her eyebrows raised in a query. Van Burgh straightened. His face was a mask of shock.

  Sister Maria said firmly, ‘Archbishop, I think you must give him Absolution.’

  Versano nodded numbly and started to move forward. Then he stopped with a frown. It had been so long since he had been a pastoral priest that the Latin words were lost to him.

  He gave an appealing look to Van Burgh, who seemed to understand. He was still kneeling. He leaned across the recumbent figure, picked up the vial of holy water and uncorked it. The wailing of the siren was much louder, homing in. As Van Burgh spoke the words, memory came back to Versano and his lips moved silently as he repeated them to himself.

  ‘Se sapax, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritu Sancti. Amen .’

  ‘If it is possible I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’

  Van Burgh made the sign of the cross on Mennini’s forehead, then moved his thumb, touching Mennini at all points of the cross.

  There was movement at the door but the priest ignored it. He sprinkled the holy water.

  ‘Per istam sanctum Unctionem . . .’

  ‘Through this holy Anointing. . .’

  Then the doctor was literally elbowing him aside. The priest pushed himself to his feet, still muttering the Absolution. Two attendants laid a stretcher and various bags and boxes alongside the Cardinal. They and the young doctor worked with practised skill. The top half of the Cardinal’s robes were scissored away. Versano leaned forward and was astonished to see beneath them a coarse hair shirt. This too was cut away. The bony chest beneath had been rubbed red by the hair shirt. It must have been agony. Versano felt a new and uncomfortable respect for Mennini. The doctor was asking short, sharp questions. Versano answered them equally shortly. The doctor listened to the chest and then issued a series of orders to the attendants. Wires snaked out from one of the boxes. Pads were pressed on to the Cardinal’s chest. A nod from the doctor, a flick of a switch. Then Mennini’s body arched as the electricity went through him. Versano had seen such things on American television. Three times the doctor tried, listening after each attempt. Then wordlessly he pointed at the stretcher. The attendants lifted the Cardinal, placed him on it and covered him with a blanket.

  They headed for the door with the doctor behind.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Versano asked him.

  Without turning the doctor said, ‘We’ll try again at the hospital.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Versano demanded.

  The doctor was at the door. Again, he said over his shoulder, ‘At the hospital.’

  Versano started after him, but Van Burgh called sharply, ‘Mario! Wait!’

  He was still standing with the vial of holy water in his hand. He had a strange expression on his face. Slowly he recorked the vial and placed it on the table. Impatiently Versano said, ‘I must phone the Vatican again.’

  Determinedly the priest shook his head.

&nb
sp; ‘No, Mario. There are more important things. I must make a phone call and then we must talk - urgently.’

  Sister Maria had returned to the room. There were tears in her eyes and she fingered her Crucifix muttering a prayer. Firmly the priest said, ‘Sister, please bring us two coffees - espresso. And brandy. After I return we must not be disturbed.’

  She looked at him in surprise. Versano himself was about to object but now this priest was showing his character and his strength. He turned to Versano.

  ‘Wait here, Mario. I will explain in a minute.’ He fixed his eyes on Sister Maria. ‘Do it, Sister. Now, please.’

  She turned away and Van Burgh followed her out of the door. He was gone ten minutes. As the minutes passed Versano’s irritation grew. A serving girl brought the coffee and brandy and made to serve it. He waved her away. Sadly she picked up the tray from the floor and the vial. After she had left Versano put three sugars into his cup, stirred and swallowed the lot in two gulps. He was just pouring the brandy when Van Burgh returned. Versano let his irritation show.

  ‘Father Van Burgh, will you explain yourself?’

  ‘Yes, Archbishop. I’m angry with myself. First for killing Cardinal Mennini and secondly for ever getting involved with amateurs such as he and yourself.’

  This silenced Versano totally.

  The priest poured himself a good measure of brandy and sat down on the opposite side of the table. He spoke harshly and Versano sat silently.

  ‘Mario, the Cardinal had a history of heart trouble. My revelation that Father Panrowski was a turncoat was a great shock. But not such a shock as to give him a heart attack. It appears that Panrowski was part of a delegation to Rome last week. The delegation had an audience with the Cardinal. At the end apparently Mennini must have had a feeling of great humility. He asked Panrowski to remain behind and . . . and he confessed to him. Confessed to him about Nostra Trinita and “Papa’s envoy”.’

  ‘Damn it to hell!’ The expletive came out as Versano lowered his head and tiredly massaged his brow. Then he asked. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘While you were out telephoning. In the last words he told me - struggled to tell me. I think he died in torment.’

  Versano sat back and blew out his breath. His mind began working again.

  ‘Just what did he confess?’

  The priest shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly. He mentioned just three things. Nostra Trinita and its purpose. The “Papa’s envoy” — the instrument; and his deception of His Holiness.’

  Versano leaned forward. ‘And where is this Panrowski now?’

  Van Burgh’s thick lips twisted in a grimace. ‘That’s what I went to phone about. He left Rome the day after the audience and returned home. He must have arrived in Olsztyn at least four days ago.’

  Versano stared gloomily into his glass. ‘And presumably informed his masters.’

  Van Burgh nodded. ‘It’s possible that he didn’t, but we must assume he did. We must assume that even by now Andropov knows that there is a plot in the Vatican to kill him.’

  ‘What will he do?’

  The priest reached for the brandy bottle, poured some into both glasses and said, ‘Andropov will take the threat very, very seriously. He will know of Yevchenko’s revelations. He knows well our capabilities. I doubt if Mennini mentioned our names but the KGB will certainly work out that I must be involved. Apart from putting my life even more in danger it makes the operation infinitely harder and more risky.’

  Versano was fully in control of himself again: decisive and incisive.

  ‘You want to call it off?’

  He watched Van Burgh keenly as he pondered the question. Finally the priest shook his head.

  ‘No, but Mirek Scibor might want to. He knows the implications.’

  ‘You’ll tell him?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  A silence. This time the priest studied the Archbishop, waiting for a reaction.

  Versano sighed and nodded. ‘It’s the only thing to do . . . Will he go on?’

  ‘He might, but in the meantime, Mario, we have to change our own strategy. Let me explain. In Rome alone the KGB will have at least ten agents and scores of informers. Dozens more agents will swarm in. Assume they’re on their way already. They will backtrack on all of Mennini’s movements. They will know he died here. Will know he also ate here on the occasion of our first meeting. They will try to find out who his dining companions were. They will probably succeed. They will try again - harder than ever - much harder, to plant listening devices in the Vatican — even in your bedroom. Also at the Russico. We cannot meet here again or anywhere outside the Vatican. You must never leave the Vatican while the operation is on — if it is on. The KGB are more formidable than the Italian fiscal police. If they want to talk to you and you step out of Vatican City - then they will talk to you. And not politely.’

  Belligerently Versano said, ‘They don’t scare me!’

  Van Burgh leaned forward. ‘Then you’re a fool, Mario. They scare me. All the time. Maybe that’s why I’ve survived. So far. Now, thanks to Mennini’s humility, they scare me even more. They will know that I’m directing the “Papa’s envoy”. They will leave no stone unturned to find me. Andropov will see to that. In your case you must talk to Camilio Ciban and arrange extra security. In your office, your apartments. Everywhere you go inside the Vatican.’

  Versano thought about that and then nodded.

  ‘Pieter, I know you think I’m an amateur but I take your warnings seriously. But how will I explain this to Ciban or, for that matter, to His Holiness?’

  ‘Very simply,’ Van Burgh replied. ‘Within the next few days you will receive several death threats . . . by mail and telephone. One will be addressed to L’Osservatore Romano. They will purport to come from the Red Brigade. That will justify the security.’

  Versano managed a smile and said, ‘But they will come from you, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Van Burgh did not smile. ‘But you must balance it out. The KGB will learn of it. They will understand it and receive confirmation that you are a member of Nostra Trinita.’

  Versano’s hand gestured between them. ‘I guess now we ought to call ourselves Nostra Due.’

  Sadly the priest shook his head. ‘Let us assume that the Cardinal, rest his soul, is still with us in spirit.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘He told me that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  Mirek turned to look at Father Heisl. They were in the same car, retracing the same route through Trieste’s dockland that had started Mirek’s journey to Libya a month before. It was two o’clock on a moonless morning and Father Heisl was driving with care and keeping a close watch on his rearview mirror.

  Mirek stretched again, easing his cramped limbs. He had just climbed out of the same packing case but this time after only a five-hour sojourn.

  ‘But you said he’s waiting at the house.’

  The dim shape of Heisl’s head nodded. ‘He wants to talk to you but you won’t see him.’

  Mirek took a swig from the cold bottle of beer that Heisl had thoughtfully brought along. His small canvas bag was at his feet. It contained exactly what he had taken with him with the addition of a ‘Denbi’ marker pen, a parting gift from Frank. He had given it to him as they stood by the truck waiting to take him to Tripoli.

  Mirek had thanked him, and said, ‘I know questions are taboo, but I’ve finished the course and I want to ask you one.’

  Frank had not said anything but his eyes had narrowed.

  Mirek asked, ‘So, Chief Instructor, how did I do on the course?’

  The engine of the truck started up. An Arab dropped the back flap. Frank gestured at it. Mirek climbed in assuming that he would get no answer. Silently Frank laced up the cover. Then Mirek heard his voice through the canvas.

  ‘Werner, this camp specialises in training assassins. I don’t know or care who your target is . . . but I’m damned glad it�
��s not me.’

  The truck had pulled away with Mirek feeling somehow complete.

  Now as they passed through the dark streets Mirek knew that he was different. He was less a human being than a deadly weapon. He knew a score of efficient ways to kill. He was in the prime of his physical life and at the apex of fitness. He was also sexually sated. That had been seen to by Leila and the pretty Filipino girl. He felt totally masculine. Like a lion leaving his pride of lionesses and stalking off to make a kill. He raised a hand to his upper lip and stroked the two weeks’ growth of hair.

  Father Heisl sensed something in him. He glanced sideways occasionally. Apart from stretching once in a while and raising the bottle to his lips, his passenger sat quiet and composed. He had a stillness and an emanation. A blend of confidence and calmness.

  They reached the house and went in through to the dining room. Mirek looked around. There was no one there. He was vaguely disappointed. He was looking forward to meeting the Bacon Priest again. He asked Heisl, ‘Where is he?’

  The priest pointed upwards with a thumb. ‘Sleeping. I’ll wake him while you eat.’

  He went out and a few minutes later the old woman came in with a plate of spaghetti carbonara and a bottle of wine. He greeted her but she ignored him. She put the pasta and the wine on the table and went out. He was ravenous. Between the thirty days of his journey out and back the food on the SS Lydia had not improved.

  He was sucking in the last strands when Heisl opened the door. He silently watched him mop up the plate with a hunk of bread and then beckoned.

  Mirek followed him up the stairs chewing the last mouthful. The room was split by a sheet hanging over a cord stretched from one wall to the other. There were two chairs placed in front of the sheet. Dim light came from a shaded lamp in a corner. Heisl took one chair and gestured at the other. As Mirek sat down the Bacon Priest’s voice came from behind the sheet. Mirek realised that the lamp was so placed that his own outline was visible but the other side of the sheet was in darkness.

  ‘Welcome back, Mirek. Was the training satisfactory?’