In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  He glanced at his watch, then at his kilometre gauges and did a quick mental calculation. He gunned the motor a little. He would risk the mandatory on-the-spot speeding fines. He grinned to himself. It represented the tiniest percentage of what he’d made this trip. And Elsa was waiting for him in Vienna. Elsa of the long legs. He began to whistle again.

  Twenty kilometres out of Hate he stopped whistling. The big engine had begun to hiccup. He cursed. It was the fucking fuel pump again! He’d had trouble with it for the last month. Fortunately he’d bought a spare in Vienna and had it in his toolbox but he hadn’t had time to change it before this trip. It was a time-consuming and messy job. He decided to try to nurse the Scania into Hate. He eased his foot on the accelerator and slowed right down. For the next half hour he covered fifteen kilometres and then, still five kilometres short, the engine groaned and spluttered and finally petered out as he pulled over to the verge. With another curse he glanced again at his watch. It would take him at least forty-five minutes to change the fuel pump and it was freezing outside. He had already cut it fine because travelling from the border to the West took much less time than going the other way. The old couple would start waking up in about two hours. Well, no matter. They’d keep quiet. Neither of them seemed to have a problem with claustrophobia; they had climbed into the compartment happily enough. He jumped down from the cab, hauled out the toolbox and set to work.

  Two hours later he eased the Scania into line at the Customs post at Hate. There were eight trucks in front of him. Private cars and smaller vans were in another line. He switched off the engine, pulled on the handbrake, collected his satchel of documents from the glove compartment, climbed out and strolled into the Customs office. There was one driver at the counter explaining something to an officer. Six others were sitting patiently on a bench. Laker recognised one of them: a middle-aged Irishman from Dublin who specialised in trucking hanging garments East to West. He went over and shook hands and sat next to him.

  ‘Only one on today?’

  ‘No,’ the Irishman replied in his soft burr. ‘There’s some fuss at the other office with a private car. The other two have gone over to add a little more bureaucracy.’

  Laker looked at his watch again. It was going to take longer than he thought.

  ‘Good trip?’ the Irishman asked.

  ‘It was until the fucking fuel pump packed up. Lucky I had a spare.’

  The Irishman chuckled. ‘I passed Ernst Kruger just outside Ostrava. Steam was coming from under his truck’s bonnet - and from out of his ears. He’d picked up a nice little German girl - giving her a lift to Vienna. She was in a hurry so I did the decent thing and took her aboard.’

  Laker laughed. ‘Where is she now?’

  The Irishman winked. ‘Resting on the bunk in my cab . . . she looks the grateful type.’

  The driver at the counter picked up his satchel with a muttered ‘Thanks’ and strolled out. The driver at the end of the bench stood up and walked to the counter. The others shuffled down the bench.

  Laker said, ‘Did I ever tell you about that bit I picked up in Prague a couple of months ago?’

  The Irishman shook his head. Laker grinned at the memory.

  ‘Christ, but she was a crazy Sheila. She hadn’t been in the cab more than sixty seconds when . . His voice trailed off. A Captain of the STB had walked in. The STB were the secret police - and serious business. He wore polished black boots and a small quizzical smile on his lips. He surveyed the seated drivers as if looking for any signs of guilt, then asked pleasantly, ‘Which of you is G. Laker?’

  Laker’s stomach dropped as his heart beat speeded up. Slowly he raised a finger.

  ‘And you are the driver of the Scania number AGH 5034D?’

  Laker swallowed. His voice came out in a croak.

  ‘Yes . . . What’s the problem, Captain?’

  The Captain smiled. ‘The problem is that your vehicle is emitting strange noises from its innards - human noises, Laker — not unlike screams.’

  The Australian sat paralysed. The Irishman had edged away from him and was surveying him with a look of pity, as were the other drivers.

  The Captain said, ‘I think you had better come with me and explain this phenomenon.’ The softly spoken words sounded to Laker like a death knell.

  Twenty minutes later he sat across a steel table from an STB Colonel. The Captain stood to one side with a contented look on his face. The Australian’s hands were handcuffed together on his lap. From the barred window came the wailing sound of the departing ambulance.

  The Colonel pulled a lined yellow note pad towards him, took an old-fashioned fountainpen from his breast pocket and wrote ‘George Laker’ across the top of the page in large letters. He had the kind of face that is used to writing reports. He also had ribbons on his chest that denoted not bravery but efficiency. He looked up. His eyes were hooded as though from avoiding too much cigarette smoke. As if on cue he took an old battered silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket and lit up. He did not offer one to the Captain. The Australian’s system was screaming for nicotine. The Colonel blew smoke at the ceiling and said, ‘You were not lucky, Laker. The old man probably had a bad heart. What you injected him with could have made it worse. You will tell us about that. His dear wife wakes up and finds him going stiff next to her and has hysterics. Very bad luck. In half an hour you would have been through.’

  His voice was soft and relaxed. Now it turned hard.

  ‘Of course an experienced man like you knows very well what the penalties are for smuggling criminal fugitives out of our country.’

  Laker found his voice. ‘Those two weren’t criminals.’

  The Colonel blew cigarette smoke at him. ‘Their very act was a crime, Laker. Ten years’ hard regime. Statutory minimum. It could be longer, much longer, depending on your level of co-operation.’ He twirled the pen in his fingers expectantly. ‘Now first: where did you pick them up and who put them on to you?’

  Laker was thinking. His mind literally racing; considering all possibilities. He was a tough man physically and mentally; fully aware of what awaited him. All the truckers who ploughed the rich furrow of Communist trade knew the consequences of getting out of line. Laker had been out of line for over five years. He had nearly a quarter of a million dollars tucked away. He wanted time to spend it. He would do anything for that time. He was forty-seven years old. He would be sixty when they let him out - a broken old man.

  ‘Well?’ the Colonel demanded impatiently.

  Laker held up a hand. ‘Just wait,’ he said harshly. ‘Let me think a minute.’

  He thought for two minutes, while the Colonel tapped the top of his pen against his nose. Then he said confidently, ‘All right, Colonel, maybe we can do a deal.’

  The Colonel laughed derisively.

  ‘We don’t do deals, you fool. You co-operate or else you spend your last living days in gaol. You know how it works. Now where did you pick them up?’

  Laker leaned forward. ‘Sure I know how it works. I’ve driven trucks in this country, in Rumania, Poland, East Germany, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Russia itself. We truckers talk among ourselves. Shit, we don’t even need CB, we hear a hell of a lot. You bet I know how it works, Colonel, and after you hear what I have to say I’m going to do a fucking deal - but probably not with you or even your boss!’

  He sat back and waited. He knew how these people thought. The Colonel glanced at the Captain and said, ‘Go on.’

  Laker decided to press his advantage. He knew that the word ‘boss’ always triggered a Pavlovian response with these people.

  ‘I remember better with a cigarette.’

  The Colonel stared at him with distaste but then took out his cigarette case, opened it and pushed it across the table together with a lighter. Laker reached forward with his manacled hands and fumbled one out. Then he reached for the lighter. It was also battered - an old American Zippo. He used it to light the cigarette and then admired it and said, �
��I bet you got this during the war.’

  ‘I’m not that old,’ the Colonel snapped. ‘Now talk and you’d better not be wasting my time.’

  Laker drew deeply on the cigarette, letting the smoke lie in his lungs. Savouring it. As he spoke it puffed out of his mouth and nostrils. ‘What happened on the twenty-third of last month, Colonel?’

  ‘I ask the questions . . .’

  The Colonel’s voice trailed off as the date and its implications registered in his mind. It was almost comical. Laker smiled at him.

  ‘I’ll tell you, Colonel. On that date you got orders. Orders to tighten up security to the maximum in your area and not just you, Colonel. Those same orders went out to every Customs post and Immigration point in the Soviet bloc. Air, land or sea. Or at least the Western end of it. From the Baltic to the Black Sea.’ He puffed again. The Colonel was looking at him warily.

  ‘It’s not so strange, Colonel. Truckers criss-cross the entire bloc. We talk to each other. There’s been a lot of speculation among truckers about the stepped-up security. It must cause problems. The movement of goods has been slowed right down. Even within the bloc. Tourism must be suffering. What with all the extra road blocks and identity checks, you chaps must be doing a hell of a lot of overtime. Must be costing the Governments a bomb. And it’s not just an exercise . . . not for two bloody weeks.’

  He stopped and let the silence build. Finally the Colonel said, ‘So?’

  ‘So there’s a panic on. So you’re looking for someone. The scope of it suggests that Moscow is looking for someone desperately . . . maybe a spy . . . probably even more than a mere spy. You don’t know much yet. You don’t even know if who you’re looking for is in the bloc yet. Or if he is, where he is.’

  Again a silence. The Colonel was thinking of the dossier which had arrived in his office that very morning. The dossier that was so urgent that it had arrived on the expensive Fax machine. The dossier with the photo. Again he repeated the single word: ‘So?’

  ‘So I might be able to clear up some of the confusion.’

  The Colonel looked sceptical. ‘You’re bluffing, Laker. You’re just a petty smuggler trading in petty criminals. You’ve built up a mirage in your head. We are just having a normal, extended security exercise.’

  ‘Bullshit, and you can’t take the personal risk of not dealing with me.’

  Laker dropped his cigarette on to the concrete floor and ground his heel on it.

  The Colonel looked at the Captain. ‘When did he cross into Czechoslovakia?’

  The Captain came to attention. ‘Two days ago, sir. Eight forty-five a.m. at this crossing.’

  ‘His destination?’

  ‘Brno, sir. A consignment of machine tools for the Skoda factory.’

  The Colonel pulled at his nose thoughtfully. Laker helped himself to another cigarette. Finally the Colonel asked, ‘You brought someone in on that trip?’

  Laker exhaled smoke. ‘Colonel, I think it’s time you called your boss . . . the big one.’

  Four hours later the phone on Colonel Zamiatin’s desk rang. It was the KGB station head in Prague - Garik Sholokhov, an old friend. He was very excited. After listening to him for twenty seconds Zamiatin was also excited. Although the call was being recorded he pulled a pad close and started to make notes. Occasionally he glanced at the huge wall map. Finally he grinned and said, ‘Excellent, Garik. Now the Australian was certain on identification? . . . Good. Yes, with a moustache. Clever to send the woman along. . . but not clever enough. Now listen. It’s obvious that village is their first stop. They might be still there resting up. I want a complete cordon thrown around it and road blocks on every road within fifty kilometres of it. If you have to, use the army. No one is to go in or out until you arrive. Give the instruction now, Garik. I’ll wait.’

  He laid the phone on his desk and grinned at the three Majors who were watching him intently. Then he stood up and walked over to the map saying, ‘Thanks to the good work of Major Gudov, plus a little well-deserved luck, we are closing in on him.’ He put his finger on the map. ‘He crossed the border here in company with a woman hidden in a secret compartment of a freight truck. He was set down here four kilometres from the village of Blovice. That was two days ago. Pray that he’s still there.’

  He walked back to his desk and picked up his phone. Thirty seconds later Sholokhov was back on the line. For five minutes Zamiatin issued terse orders, then he hung up and glanced at his watch. It was nine forty-five. He put a call through to his boss, Victor Chebrikov. While waiting for the connection he thought about the dacha in Usovo and General’s stars.

  Chebrikov briefed Andropov over an early lunch in the First Secretary’s private dining room. Andropov was in a pensive mood. He greeted the news without the enthusiasm Chebrikov had expected. The head of the KGB said, ‘Yuri, that cordon is going around the village now. There’s a good chance that within the hour we’ll have caught our fish.’

  By coincidence they were lunching on pickled herrings and sour cream. Andropov forked a piece into his mouth, chewed without enthusiasm, swallowed and said, ‘Victor, a fish is never caught until it’s in the boat . . . and then, unless you kill it quickly, it sometimes jumps out.’

  Chebrikov sighed inwardly. His boss was having a bad day. His pale face was haggard. Before the meal he had swallowed three different kinds of pills.

  ‘Anyway,’ Andropov said. ‘If you don’t catch him he will be in Moscow before the tenth of next month.’ He looked up. Chebrikov was obviously puzzled. ‘Work it out, Victor. That’s the date that the Pope flies to the Far East. The Bacon Priest and his cronies in the Vatican will have assumed, correctly, that our attempt on him will be there. They will know from that bastard Yevchenko that I face opposition on it. Even from Chernenko and Gorbachev. They don’t see the grand design. If I drop dead tomorrow you would very soon get orders to cancel the operation.’

  Chebrikov nodded in agreement. He well understood the power structure and how it worked. If Andropov died he would be fighting for his own job.

  ‘Well, we shall catch him, Yuri, and boat him - and kill him quickly. Meanwhile the arrangements for your personal security are as stringent as I know how to make them.’

  For the first time Andropov smiled.

  ‘I can rely on you, Victor. Anyway, from the seventh of next month I go into the Serbsky clinic for a week of rest and treatment. That’s probably the most secure place in the world. By the time I come out that damned Pope will be finding out if there really is a heaven.’

  It was eleven thirty local time on a cloudless morning as Garik Sholokhov helicoptered into the little village square of Blovice. All the inhabitants, including infants and babies, were waiting, herded into a group in front of the old church. They were very nervous, knowing that their village was ringed by a cordon of soldiers but not knowing why. Within minutes Sholokhov had learned that his quarry had left early that morning.

  As his men started to take the little cottage apart he went to an army communications truck and sent out orders to hunt down an old grey Skoda, registration number TN 588 179. In case the plate had been changed all pre-1975 Skodas were to be stopped and thoroughly searched. He knew that this would inconvenience thousands of people but was not concerned a whit. He gave a very detailed description of the two men and two women. He warned that they could be dangerous, especially the younger man.

  That done, he phoned Colonel Zamiatin. He could practically feel the disappointment transmitted down the line as he told him the news.

  ‘Don’t worry, Oleg. They can’t have got far. They won’t suspect yet that we are on to them. Their cover was that the Uncle and Aunt were going to give them a two-day tour of the area before they returned to Poland by train. There could be some truth in it.’

  Zamiatin started to tell him what to do. Sholokhov cut in.

  ‘Oleg, let me tell you what I’ve done first. It will save time.’

  He quickly ran through the orders he had given and what
he personally was going to be doing over the coming hours. When he finished there was a silence while Zamiatin considered everything. Then he said, ‘Very good. You appear to have covered everything.’ The tone of his voice turned a little plaintive. ‘Garik, let me know the moment you have any developments.’

  ‘Of course, Oleg.’

  Chapter 15

  The setting was serene and they looked exactly what they purported to be: an elderly couple taking younger relatives out for a treat. Albin and Sylwia sat with their backs to the river, leaving the view for Mirek and Ania. Their table was outside on a wooden platform which jutted out over the river bank. It was enclosed in glass, protecting them from the cold and giving a greenhouse effect in the wintery sun. They had lunched well and drunk a bottle and a half of a Bulgarian Cabernet. The air itself seemed imbued with contentment. Only Sylwia was still not totally relaxed. Her problem was curiosity. It had always been so. She was still wondering about the relationship between the younger couple. Still curious about the events of the night before last. She and Albin had heard, through their bedroom door, the faint sound of argument. They had not heard the words but the awful anguish in Tatania’s sobbing voice had penetrated the wood and their minds.