‘We should have been tougher in Poland,’ Andropov said bitterly. ‘Tougher a long time ago. Back in the Fifties we should have smashed the Church. Just like in Czechoslovakia. Stalin made a bad mistake, and Khrushchev compounded it. . . bloody fools!’
Chebrikov kept silent. He knew from past experience that Andropov would vent his spleen for a while about a problem and then turn his formidable mind to solving it. He was looking down at the paper.
‘Nostra Trinita,’ he snorted. ‘Sounds like an offshoot of the Mafia. Well, it indicates there were three in the cabal. Now Mennini is dead - two left. They will follow him . . . the “Papa’s envoy” . . . what an obscenity! They are impudent!’ He took a deep breath and looked up at Chebrikov. ‘So Victor, what are your counter-measures?’
Chebrikov was prepared.
‘Of course, my first reaction was to drop everything and devote my personal attention entirely to smashing this plot. However I know what your reaction to that would have been. You would have reminded me of my duties in other areas.’ He was pleased to see that Andropov was nodding in agreement. ‘Nevertheless, it is important that our counter-measures are handled by the most competent officer under my command . . . Yuri, that does not mean to say a General.’
Andropov smiled and interjected. ‘Certainly not. Half your Generals got there by kissing Brezhnev’s arse . . . when they could find it. So who will you appoint?’
‘Colonel Oleg Zamiatin.’
‘Ah yes, Zamiatin.’ Andropov nodded in approval. ‘A good brain and very dogged. He thinks like a detective.’
Chebrikov knew he had chosen well. Zamiatin had been personally promoted to Colonel by Andropov after a very successful operation in West Berlin. He said, ‘This information only came in late this morning. Since then we have analysed our response. Zamiatin is waiting outside . . .’
‘Good.’ Andropov leaned forward and picked up a phone. ‘Send in Colonel Zamiatin.’
As the door closed behind the Colonel he placed the briefcase on the carpet, came to attention and saluted smartly.
Affably Andropov waved at a chair. ‘Sit down, Colonel. I’m pleased that you are directing this.’
Zamiatin sat down, keeping his back straight and his head erect. He was in his late thirties. A narrow face, sallow skin and a slight tic in his left eye. He said stiffly, ‘Comrade Secretary, this filthy plot against your person is an outrage and will be crushed. We will show no mercy. I pledge my duty to yourself and our Motherland.’
Andropov inclined his head in acknowledgment. ‘Colonel, the threat must be taken very seriously. Now what is your strategy?’
The stiffness left both Zamiatin’s voice and his back. He relaxed as he moved into the familiar territory of Intelligence planning. He had no need to refer to notes. Everything was contained in his head. He explained that the strategy of response would be four-pronged. The first prong would be directed at the Vatican itself. It was necessary to learn the identity of the other perpetrators. The assumption was that there were two. He considered it very possible that one of them would be the Bacon Priest. Certainly they would have to use his network. In any event a major operation would be immediately mounted in Rome. Resident agents would concentrate on identifying the individuals and extra agents would be sent in. He himself would go to Rome shortly to co-ordinate the operation. Once identification had been achieved a massive surveillance would follow. Extra efforts would be made to eavesdrop electronically on the Vatican. The extra risk of detection would have to be accepted. A decision would have to be taken once identification had been made whether an abduction and interrogation should be carried out.
At this Chebrikov gave Andropov a meaningful look and got one back. Zamiatin noticed the interchange and he went on confidently.
‘The second prong would be to identify the ‘envoy’ himself. For such a mission the cabal in the Vatican would have to recruit a top assassin. With the vast funds at their disposal this would not be difficult. And so every arm of the KGB and the satellite agencies would be put on the alert. Computer profiles would be run on all possibilities. Every station inside and outside of the Soviet bloc would be alerted. Every known assassin and terrorist would be investigated.
The third prong was physical protection on the outer perimeters. The screening of people at every border crossing would be intensified to the maximum. Not just Soviet borders, but those of the satellites, particularly Poland. There would be protests from the various tourism ministers but in the coming weeks they must be ignored.’ Again a look passed between Andropov and Chebrikov who gave a slight nod of understanding.
Zamiatin explained that counter-measures against the Bacon Priest’s network would be intensified. Suspects, many of whom had been under surveillance, would be interrogated with the utmost severity.
He paused briefly and there was a silence. All three men knew what utmost severity meant.
‘The fourth prong would be the personal protection of the First Secretary himself. Security of the Soviet leader was already the tightest in the world. It would be made tighter still: even if, against all odds, the ‘Papa’s envoy’ managed to reach Moscow, the chances of him getting within a mile of the First Secretary would be so remote as to be negligible.’
Having made his report Zamiatin once again resumed his stiff and erect position. There was a reflective silence. Andropov scratched his left arm. Chebrikov reached forward and mashed his cigarette into an ashtray. He brushed a little ash from his uniform jacket and said, ‘Of course, Comrade Secretary, a team of our best brains is being assembled to work under Colonel Zamiatin. For the duration of this alert they will operate under a separate directorate. Their requirements will supersede any other. In order to stop speculation it would assist us if you issued personal instructions accordingly.
Andropov nodded. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, but Chebrikov knew that he could listen and think at the same time. He knew that as soon as the interview was over instructions would be sent to the top dozen or so people in the Soviet hierarchy. He and Colonel Zamiatin were to be given total and unquestioned assistance. Andropov ran a hand through his grey hair and ceased his cogitation. He pointed a finger at Zamiatin.
‘Colonel, I approve of your strategy. I want a short report from you every forty-eight hours. The original to me and a copy to Comrade Chebrikov. No other copies. I agree that the Bacon Priest is sure to be involved. Find him. If you can, eliminate him. That will be difficult. During all my years at the KGB I tried to do just that. You must try even harder than I did. Put a team solely on that. With him out of the way his organisation will be a headless chicken. In the case of Poland, concentrate your attention on the Order. It is no accident that Cardinal Mennini was part of this “Nostra Trinita”. They are the most disciplined arm of the Catholics, and the most dedicated.’
Zamiatin jerked his head forward in a short bow.
‘Yes, Comrade Secretary. Thank you for your advice. I will not fail you.’
‘I know, Colonel. You have my confidence. Now wait outside for a moment.’
Zamiatin stood up, saluted, turned and marched to the door. As he reached it Andropov called sharply.
‘Colonel Zamiatin!’
He turned, his sallow face showing attentive devotion. He listened to Andropov’s words, dripping like syrup.
‘On the day that you catch or kill that man I will promote you to General. You will be given a dacha in Usovo.’
Zamiatin could not disguise his pleasure. He actually gasped and muttered, ‘Thank you, Comrade.’
Usovo was the area where the elite had their dachas. It was not until he had left the room that he realised there had been no mention of the consequences of his failure. But then that had not been necessary. If an assassin’s bullet killed Yuri P. Andropov the same bullet would, in effect, kill Colonel Oleg Zamiatin.
Andropov pushed the cigarette case towards Chebrikov again. He shrugged.
‘Victor, there is always the stick and always the carrot. I
t is necessary to know when and how to use them. Zamiatin is a brilliant officer . . . and ambitious. I judge that he responds to the carrot more than the stick. Just as you always did.’
Chebrikov lit another Camel nodding his head in agreement.
‘He will think of only two things now. Catching this man, and his reward.’
Andropov smiled. ‘I agree. Tell me how preparations for operation “Ermine” are going.’
‘Very well, Yuri. The team finish their training in Libya in a few days. They will take a circuitous route and be in the Far East two weeks before the Pope’s visit. Their cover is perfect and at arm’s length. Don’t be at all concerned. This time we will succeed. They will destruct themselves at the same moment. The plan is perfect. Even Karpov could not extricate himself.’
Andropov smiled and pushed himself to his feet, shuffled to one of the tall windows and gazed out towards the massive edifice of the Arsenal. Chebrikov puffed away into the silence, waiting patiently.
After a few minutes Andropov turned and said musingly, ‘The Bacon Priest . . . Imagine that he has survived so long. It’s ironic, Victor. In ‘75, an operation I mounted tracked the Bacon Priest to a house in Rome. We could not identify him but we knew he would be one of two dozen clerics meeting there on a certain day and at a certain hour. I proposed to eliminate him using the Red Brigades. They were very willing. Their price was a billion lire - peanuts! Brezhnev turned it down. It would have meant blowing up the whole building. The death of everyone inside. Brezhnev was squeamish about killing a couple of dozen priests . . . there were also two or three nuns . . . But then he never really understood our work. By that time he was interested only in his fancy cars and his nepotism.’ He smiled without mirth. ‘And now for the sake of a few priests and nuns the Bacon Priest threatens me.’ He massaged his face, looking very tired.
Victor Chebrikov stood up. He could not keep the concern from his voice.
‘Yuri, I’ll leave you now. Please try and get some rest.’
Immediately he regretted the words. He saw Andropov’s lips tighten, then speak.
‘Don’t worry about my health. I promise you one thing . . . I will outlive that bastard Pope!’
Chapter 10
‘Go over it again,’ Father Lucio Gamelli demanded.
Mirek sighed and repeated, ‘The kidney is a four-inch-long organ supplied by the renal artery and drained by the renal vein. Urine passes from the kidney down the urethra to the bladder.’
The priest sharply tapped the chart. ‘Ureter, not urethra. Concentrate. Fix your attention! You only have five more days. In total, twenty-five hours of instruction, and much more to learn.’
Aggressively Mirek asked, ‘How long have you been studying medicine?’
‘General medicine six years, and ten years renal medicine.’
Mirek grunted. ‘And you expect me to learn about it in two weeks?’
Father Gamelli gave one of his very rare smiles. In the past nine days he had driven this young man very hard. Father Heisl had impressed upon him that a reasonable or superficial knowledge of the kidney could mean the difference between his life and death. In fact he had been impressed by Mirek’s intelligence, dedication and learning ability but Gamelli would not let up. As a teacher that was not his nature. He said, ‘You will have to absorb a little of what I have learned. In five days from now you will be tested by somebody independent. Someone who is unaware that you are not a doctor. If you can fool him you will pass the test. If you fail, Father Heisl will be unhappy with me and I do not want that.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come, we must be in the operating theatre in ten minutes. Time to scrub up.’
Mirek stood. ‘OK, Doctor.’
It would be his fourth operation. They were in the St Peter’s Institute of Medicine. Father Gamelli was chief surgeon specialising in the kidney. He had a worldwide reputation. Over the past few days Mirek had formed an immense respect for the man, if not affection. For five hours a day he had given Mirek personal instruction. Mirek knew that he did not allow those five hours to detract from his time away from his other students and his patients. Consequently for the past nine days Father Gamelli had been working an eighteen or nineteen hour day. Mirek also knew that for this he would be drawing a pittance. He found it difficult to understand. True, he had sometimes worked such hours in the SB but then there had been the rewards of promotion and special privileges.
They scrubbed up while Gamelli explained the case, both to Mirek and his assistant, a shy young intern. The patient was a woman in her early forties.
She had irreparably damaged kidneys as a result of multiple infections over the years. Her heart was now defective and her only hope lay in a kidney transplant.
In the theatre Mirek stood between Gamelli and the anaesthetist. He watched the surgeon’s capable fingers make the huge incision, then quickly and competently cope with the flow of blood. In ten minutes he had exposed the kidney.
The assistant was on the other side of the table. Both he and Mirek peered forward as Gamelli explained, ‘Now the patient’s blood is being adequately dialysed by the machine. We can safely remove the kidney and replace it with the donor part.’
The operation lasted two hours. Afterwards as they washed and dressed outside the theatre Mirek guessed that Father Gamelli was satisfied.
‘What are her chances?’ he asked.
Gamelli shrugged but then gave one of those rare smiles.
‘Certainly better than fifty per cent. Maybe even eighty per cent.’
That smile gave Mirek an insight as to why this man worked such hours for a pittance. Perhaps he had just extended a life by thirty or forty years.
He was still reflecting on that as he walked across the Ponte Vecchio back to the safe house. It was twilight and the bridge was crowded. Noisy vendors selling trinkets and souvenirs to passing residents and tourists. There were beggars here and there. That had surprised him at first - beggars among such wealth - but Father Heisl had shaken his head and told him that here even the beggars were wealthy.
He was halfway across the bridge when he felt someone jostle him from behind. He turned and saw a black-haired youth darting away. With a curse he slapped at his back pocket. His wallet was gone. He started to give chase but a scooter pulled up and the youth jumped on to the pillion. He made an obscene gesture at Mirek as the scooter weaved away.
Mirek was next to the stall of a fruit vendor. Enraged, he grabbed a bright yellow lemon the size of a tennis ball but much heavier. He raced down the bridge dodging through the crowd. At the end of the bridge the scooter had been slowed down by traffic. Mirek saw the driver skilfully swing in between a small truck and the kerb and slip down the narrow gap. The scooter turned left off the bridge. Mirek was forty metres away broadside to it. He hurled the lemon.
It connected just behind the scooter-driver’s ear. The dull thud was clearly audible and the result immediate. He went off the scooter sideways. The handlebars twisted, the front wheel hit the high kerb and it reared up on to the pavement narrowly missing a woman and a young girl who screamed piercingly. The pickpocket was thrown against a plate glass window and bounced off on to his back.
When Mirek arrived on the scene the scooter driver was on all fours trying to push himself to his feet. Moving fast, Mirek swung his right leg and slammed his boot into the youth’s face. He heard and felt the crack of bone. As the youth rolled away unconscious Mirek turned to the other one. He was coming to his feet fast, his pretty-boy face showing fury, his right hand scrabbling in the pocket of his denim jacket. Mirek saw the glint of steel and then he was mindless as his recent training took over. He feinted with his left hand, saw the youth turn his eyes towards it, then pivoted and stabbed out with his right hand, two fingers extended like a cobra’s tongue. He felt the ends pulp into the youth’s eyes, heard the scream of agony. This time he swung with his left foot fast and high into the youth’s crotch, felt the contact; first soft, then hard. The youth went over backwards and down,
his hands covering his eyes, his body curling into a ball of agony. In all it had taken less than five seconds. Mirek swept his gaze in a circle. People were standing like petrified rocks, shock on their faces. There was a crash and a tinkle of glass as a taxi bashed into a bus whose driver had stopped abruptly to see what was happening. A police whistle sounded from down the street.
The scooter was lying on its side with the front wheel spinning. Mirek’s wallet was on the pavement next to it. He scooped it up and walked rapidly away past the stunned faces, remembering the words of his instructor.
‘Don’t run unless you’re actually being chased. Walk quietly with head lowered, looking neither to left nor right. Use your ears rather than your eyes. You will always hear pursuit.’
He heard no pursuit.
There were three places set for dinner. Mirek wondered who would be joining them. Father Heisl was in the other room talking on the telephone. An appetising aroma drifted in from the kitchen. Heisl seemed to have a legion of little old ladies dressed in black who looked after these safe houses and happened to be culinary geniuses. He supposed they were nuns or members of a lay religious order.
He helped himself to an Amaretto from the bottle on the sideboard and sipped at it, liking the sweet almond taste. He heard the tinkle as the phone was hung up and turned as Father Heisl came in. His face was sombre. Mirek held up the bottle. Heisl shook his head and said:
‘One of them has his jaw broken in three places. It will have to be wired up. The other will certainly lose the sight of one eye. They are trying to save the other - that, and his reproductive organ.’ He looked down at the shiny tips of Mirek’s new shoes. ‘Don’t you think you over-reacted somewhat?’
Mirek drained his glass and poured himself another shot.
‘They were criminals. What should I have done? Stroked their cheeks and said, “Sorry, please return my wallet”?’
Heisl sighed and murmured, ‘Both only eighteen . . . you’re sure no one saw you come here?’
In The Name of The Father Page 12
