‘We have a unique way of getting you there,’ Anton said importantly.
‘Who’s we?’ Mirek asked.
‘Our cell . . . well, our cell leader took that decision. Apparently there is a time scale to your journey.’
‘What does the Bacon Priest say about it?’
Anton shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know the circumstances yet. It takes some time to communicate with him. This is a field decision.’
Mirek looked a little sceptical.
Ania asked, ‘When do we go?’
Anton turned to her. ‘You don’t, Tatania. It’s been decided that Tadeusz goes alone.’
‘Why?’ Mirek asked sharply.
Anton spread his hands. ‘It’s obvious. They’re looking for a couple. Your faces are well known - in all the papers and on television. A photograph of you, Tadeusz, and an accurate sketch of Tatania. If anyone sees you they are to report to the authorities on pain of severe punishment. My cell leader has decided that it is safer now for Tadeusz to travel alone.’
Mirek was looking at Ania. His lips tightened and he turned to Anton and said belligerently, ‘We’ll wait for the Bacon Priest’s decision.’
The young man abruptly became stubborn and authoritative.
‘You will not. You are under our protection and our discipline. The chain of command is clear. My cell leader has the full confidence of the Bacon Priest and is authorised to take field decisions . . .’ He paused and said, ‘This is a crisis situation. Such decisions must be made on the spot and they have been. At such times it can be unwise to wait. As it happens we have a virtually foolproof way of getting you to that lake and across it to Poland. Such an opportunity might not occur again for some time . . .’ He gestured at the bag. ‘Besides, there is only equipment for one, and that was very hard to find at short notice.’
He sat back and waited with folded arms. Mirek looked at Ania. She shrugged.
‘What about her?’ Mirek asked severely.
‘She will be fine. She will have to stay here for some time - a week or ten days. She will be safe here. Then when the pressure is off we take her out to Prague and then over the Austrian border. She will be safely back in the West in two or three weeks. By that time the search for you will have moved far to the east of Poland.’
Still Mirek looked unhappy. In sudden understanding Anton softened his voice and said, ‘She will be safe, I promise you. Far safer than going with you. The risks for you are very great. You understand them well.’
Ania interjected. ‘I don’t mind the risks . . .’
Anton smiled at her admiringly. ‘I know, but you must abide by your orders . . . we all must.’
Mirek made up his mind. ‘All right, what’s in the bag?’
Anton grinned, jumped up and pulled the bag over. He squatted beside it and pulled out a tightly wrapped bundle of black rubber. It was dusted with talcum powder. Carefully he undid it to reveal a one-piece wet suit. Then, while Mirek and Ania looked on with puzzlement, he hefted out an aqualung tank and laid it carefully on the floor.
‘Hell,’ Mirek muttered. ‘I’ve got to cross that lake under water?’
Anton grinned and stood up. ‘No, my friend. You’ve got to reach the lake under milk!’
He laughed loudly at their expressions, then explained. Three times a week a co-operative tanker collected milk from all the small farms in the area and took it to the main dairy at Liptovsky. One of those farms was Anton’s. On the way to Liptovsky it picked up milk from a farm just outside Namestovo which is on the lake shore. The farmer there was one of them. So was one of the drivers of the milk tanker. He was on duty the next day. Mirek would be hidden inside the milk tanker. By the time it reached Anton’s farm it would be half full. By the time it reached the lakeside it would be threequarters full. It would certainly be stopped and searched on the way, maybe several times, but they would hardly think of looking under the milk. It would be cold and very uncomfortable, but he was very fit, as he had demonstrated.
Mirek was looking at the aqualung in consternation.
‘But I’ve never used one of those things.’
Anton smiled disarmingly.
‘It’s very simple. They showed me. Anyway you’re not going anywhere. You only have to go under the milk when the tanker stops. It’s foolproof.’
Mirek was still sceptical.
‘Have you done this before?’
‘No,’ Anton admitted. ‘We have never transported anybody like that, but we have sent other things. Many times. The tanker is on a regular scheduled route. It’s above suspicion.’
Ania had been listening carefully. She asked, ‘What then? When he reaches the lake?’
Anton was glad to change the subject. Enthusiastically he answered, ‘The farmer at Namestovo is an old hand at crossing that lake at night. His farm is only three kilometres from the Polish border. He goes by large rowing boat with muffled oars. Quite a few people fish on the lake at night, especially on moonless nights like tomorrow. They use bright lights to attract the fish. It is normal behaviour. Tadeusz will be slipped through, and landed on the Polish side. His contact will be waiting. By dawn he will be in a safe house and ready to go on up the pipeline.’
It was all said with earnest candour.
Mirek asked, ‘This farmer at Namestovo is a smuggler? Is he being paid for this?’
Anton hesitated and then nodded. Mirek was relieved. He would rather trust himself to a mercenary professional than an idealistic amateur.
‘You leave at three tomorrow,’ Anton said, watching him hopefully.
Mirek sat for a minute or two looking down at the wet suit and aqualung. Then he said, ‘You had better show me how to use this stuff.’
* * *
It was the first time that Father Heisl had openly disagreed with the Bacon Priest; and he disagreed fiercely.
They were holding a council of war in the Vienna safe house, discussing the information that had just arrived from Prague.
Again the Bacon Priest tapped the piece of paper in front of him and repeated, ‘But why did he not kill her and go on alone?’
Stubbornly Heisl said, ‘Maybe he thought her body would be a pointer to his hunters. A pointer to his direction.’
Van Burgh smiled and shook his head. ‘Think, Jan, put yourself in his place. Had he thought that he could have killed her, lashed her to the motorbike and dropped her in the river with it, she would not have been found for days . . . if ever.’
Heisl persisted. ‘So maybe he thought the sound of a gun shot, even muffled, would have been heard.’
The Bacon Priest snorted in derision. ‘Now you’re being deliberately obtuse. He could have killed her ten different ways without a sound - we spent fifteen thousand dollars ensuring that.’
Heisl dropped his eyes, knowing that he was losing the argument. Van Burgh mused, ‘He carried her ten kilometres. Swiatek in Prague knows that area well. He describes that feat as incredible. Now why should Scibor do it? You well know what sort of man he is. You remember what he told her. “If you become a burden I’ll dump you.” Well he carried that burden ten kilometres. Why?’
The Bacon Priest knew why. He also knew that Heisl knew why. He wanted to hear him say it. He pressed. ‘Why?’
Father Heisl lifted his head and said dejectedly, ‘Because he’s fallen in love with her.’
‘Precisely.’ Van Burgh squeezed his nose between thumb and forefinger and thought deeply. Heisl waited miserably, guessing what was coming.
‘And what,’ the Bacon Priest asked, ‘would you think Ania’s reaction would be to having her life saved by a man she would expect to kill her without compunction? Saved at enormous risk to himself.’
Heisl remained determinedly silent. He heard Van Burgh answer his own question.
‘It is not unlikely that she in turn fell in love with him. Any analyst in this city of analysts would conclude that such an outcome was likely.’
Frostily Heisl remarked, ‘You are forgetting that
she is a very devout nun.’
‘No, I am not. Neither am I suggesting physical, carnal love. But remember she left on that journey thinking him to be an evil, uncaring human being totally obsessed with his own mission. So did we. It is not possible that she thinks that any more. What he did was not the action of an evil, uncaring man. At least not as it applies to her.’ He tapped the paper again. ‘I think Swiatek made a mistake. He should have sent them on together. He argues that the Russians would expect us to pull her back now that they know about her. He fails to realise that we must always do the unexpected. The Russians are not subtle. They will now be searching for a man on his own. We shall send word to Prague that they must continue as a couple - disguised, but as a couple.’
‘It may be too late. It will take time. He may be gone by then.’
‘In that case,’ Van Burgh replied firmly, ‘she must catch up with him.’
Heisl sighed and stood up to go and arrange the message. The Bacon Priest’s voice stopped him. ‘We both know, Jan, that two people working as a team . . . a very close team, are always more effective than one person working alone. We have seen over the years many examples. But to work closely there must be a bond - and the strongest bond is love.’
Heisl leaned forward and put both palms on the table and said with great emphasis, ‘You are right, of course. But being right in one thing can make you very wrong in another. By sending her on with him you risk destroying her . . . even if she does not get caught.’
The Bacon Priest nodded solemnly. ‘Jan, I have to take that risk. I have taken it many times in the past, for the greater good . . . of our Church.’
Chapter 17
Mirek reached the decision with total certainty.
For the rest of his life he would never again drink milk.
He sat behind bales of hay in a barn right on the edge of Lake Oravska. They had pulled him out of the milk tanker twenty minutes before but his chest still heaved slightly as his heart pumped from the preceding hours of physical effort and near panic. He knew that time was relative; understood the theory very well. But his time in the milk tanker had been a practical demonstration of terrifying proportions.
The journey of just over one hundred kilometres together with five stops to take on milk had lasted just over three hours. Every single minute of the last hour had felt like an hour in itself.
He had climbed into the tank just after three p.m.
The parting from Ania had been painful. They had stood together in the barn. Tactfully Anton had left them alone for this moment. Mirek had felt somewhat ridiculous in his black wet suit. Had he felt no pain at the parting he might have been amused at the incongruity of standing in such a garb in the middle of a continent. As it was, he had watched her eyes carefully, anxiously. He ached to see something in them. Some hint. He did see compassion, even care, but not what he had hoped to see.
His head also ached from the night’s drinking and he had cursed himself for his unprofessionalism. Ania had offered aspirin which he had curtly refused, not wanting, in those last moments, to show weakness. His canvas bag was at his feet, tightly wrapped and sealed in a large black plastic bag.
He had put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her towards him. She turned her head and offered her cheek to his lips. He pressed his own face against hers. She said, close to his ear, ‘Good luck, Mirek. Think only of yourself now. Don’t worry about me.’
He felt her body against his, but it was not yielding. With a sigh he released her and bent to pick up his bag. As he straightened he started to say something but then stopped. He nodded briskly and turned towards the door. As he reached it she called his name. He stopped and turned. The light was not good in the barn. He could not make out her expression.
‘Yes. What is it?’
She moved towards him. He saw her arms lifting and then he saw that her eyes were wet. He dropped the bag as her arms went around him and her body clung to him.
‘I’ll . . . I’ll pray for you, Mirek.’
He felt the wetness of her cheek against his and then she moved her head and was kissing him on the lips. A chaste, tender kiss, but on the lips. She pulled back and loosened her grip and repeated, ‘I’ll pray for you.’
He had slowly picked up his bag and said with finality, ‘Ania Krol, when this is over, if I get through it, I’ll find you.’
Before she could answer he had turned and walked out of the door.
At first the journey had appeared to be simple. Metal rungs were fixed up the bulging side of the tanker. The round hatch on top was open. A metal ladder was fixed to the inside. Anton was sitting on top next to it, holding the aqualung. The driver, an old but burly man in his sixties, took Mirek’s bag saying, ‘I’ll pass it up, son.’
A thought struck Mirek. He looked up at Anton and said, ‘If anyone opens that hatch they’ll see the bubbles from the aqualung.’
Anton grinned and shook his head.
‘Come up and look.’
Mirek climbed up and looked down the hatch. The tanker was about a third full. There was a thick foam on top of the milk.
Anton said, ‘That will hide the bubbles. When the tanker is moving you hold on to the steps.’ He pointed. ‘When it stops you move off to the end there and submerge. It’s very unlikely that anyone will even open this hatch. It’s only used for cleaning. Just be careful that you don’t bang the aqualung against the side when you’re moving about.’
Mirek had felt consciously reluctant to climb down; an uncharacteristic touch of fear. The white layer of foam below him looked innocent enough.
‘How full will it get?’
‘About two-thirds. Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of head room. Remember that there’s only two hours of air in your tank. Use it sparingly.’
Just then had come the distant sound of a dog barking. Anton looked up sharply.
‘I sent the old man into town on an errand. That will be him returning. You’d better get a move on.’
Mirek was grateful for the spur. He lowered himself down the first few rungs, then leaned forward and rumpled Anton’s hair.
‘Thanks. Look after her.’
Anton nodded reassuringly. ‘She’ll be safe.’
Mirek descended further, his feet splashing into the milk, then he looked up. Anton was lowering the aqualung slowly through the hatch. Mirek reached up, took the weight and called, ‘OK.’
He had practised during the morning and it only took him two minutes to slip into the harness and adjust it comfortably. Anton’s voice came down urgently.
‘Check it. Quickly, before I close the hatch.’
Mirek fumbled the rubber bit between his teeth. He checked that the air was coming through, then spat out the mouthpiece and called, ‘OK.’
Anton passed down his black plastic bag and said, ‘Good luck, Tadeusz. Go with God.’
There was a clang and Mirek was in total darkness. He heard the echoing scrape of Anton’s footsteps as he climbed down. A minute later the tanker vibrated as the engine started and Mirek was up to his mouth in milk as the load surged backwards with the sudden forward movement. Quickly he moved up a couple of rungs, worried that milk would have got into the mouthpiece. He checked it and decided that he would have to hold it loosely between his teeth the whole way.
During the first hour they had stopped twice to take in milk. By the end of that first hour Mirek knew that he had a major problem. First it was the cold. Gradually it penetrated the wet suit. He wore nothing under the wet suit. Anton had told him that the theory was that it quickly got wet and then insulated the moisture between it and the skin. Body heat then warmed the moisture. It was no longer warm. Then the cold penetrated his skin and his flesh. Finally it seeped into his bones.
Second it was his fingers. Many of the roads the tanker travelled over were nothing but country lanes, winding and bumpy. He had to hang on tight. His fingers began to ache. He tried to put an arm through the ladder to support himself but it was not desi
gned for that. The metal was sharp in places, rough in others. His mind went back to the desert camp and the hours he had used the springed exercisers to strengthen his ten primary weapons. He sent mental thanks to Frank.
Third was the aqualung itself. It was designed to be worn submerged and for a limited period. Above water it was damned heavy and, as the minutes passed, the straps began to bite into his shoulders. Fourth was the milk. It surged back and forth and side to side with a force he had never imagined. It was like being caught in a crazy riptide. The tanker was half full. He knew that by the time it had taken on its final load he would be fighting for survival.
By the end of the second hour that was exactly the situation. His hands were frozen claws, his whole body numb from the cold and the pounding of the milk. They had taken on the last load and he was having to use the aqualung most of the time.
During that last hour survival became a battle of mind over matter. He knew that the human body, and particularly a body as fit as his, could perform beyond normal human tolerances - if the mind willed it. He willed it. He cut off from his mind the pain in his fingers and arms and shoulders. He thought of other things. First of his childhood. His parents and his sister Jolanta. But that memory was also a pain and he quickly moved his mind to other things. His training in the SB, women he had known, songs and tunes he had learned. Twice he vomited into the milk. When he felt himself weakening he dwelt on his target and on his hatred. Finally, towards the end, while each minute passed as an hour, he occupied his mind with Ania. He painted a mental picture of her face, remembered words she had spoken to him, actually heard her voice with its strange husky rasp. He had rubber and milk in his mouth but he could actually taste the touch of her lips and feel their slight pressure. Ania was on his mind, the sight, the feel and the smell of her, as the tanker finally braked to a halt and the milk washed over him for the last time.
In The Name of The Father Page 23
