In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  He looked around the sumptuous bathroom. Gold-plated taps; heated towel rails; deep pile carpet; gleaming mirrors. He could imagine it in the West. Here it was an obscenity. He felt pleasure at the thought of the Deputy Commissar for Cracow being bamboozled by his sexy renegade daughter. Then he contrasted this luxury with the Spartan conditions that Ania was enduring in her cellar. His thoughts dwelt on her. He felt a lassitude; wondered if she was thinking of him. Tried to imagine her in the bath with him. He closed his eyes to picture it better.

  Half an hour later he was coughing and spluttering, with soapy water in his mouth. He had fallen asleep in the bath.

  Chapter 18

  Professor Stefan Szafer decided to wait until the coffee was served before making his announcement. It was their usual lunchtime setting of the Wierzynek Restaurant and he thought that Halena had never looked more beautiful. On this occasion she was wearing a roll-neck jet-black pullover and a cream linen skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a tight chignon. He decided that the line of her jaw from chin to ear was nothing less than a work of art. She wore tiny earrings in the shape of a bell.

  He was about to impart his news, savouring the moment, when she said, ‘You make me unhappy, Stefan.’

  The statement alarmed him. He leaned forward with a frown of concern.

  ‘Why, Halena? What have I done?’

  She pouted. ‘Well, it’s almost two weeks now since I told you about my trip to Moscow. You promised to try to visit me there but you’ve told me nothing since. I assume you don’t want to go.’

  He smiled with relief, beckoned a waiter and ordered a cognac for himself and a Tia Maria for her. Then he said, ‘I was keeping it as a surprise.’

  She glared at him in mock anger. ‘That’s cruel, Stefan. Unfair . . . I’m so anxious.’

  He reached forward and took her hand in his. ‘You know I would never be cruel to you. The fact is I only found out for sure this morning. I’ve always known that I could take a few days off, but some time ago a suggestion was advanced which would make my visit official . . . and longer. The Director, Comrade Kurowski, called me to his office this morning. The official aspect of my visit has been confirmed by the Ministry. The Director was very excited and naturally so am I.’

  The waiter brought their liqueurs and refilled their coffee cups. Halena took a minuscule sip of Tia Maria and said, ‘Then so am I. What will you be doing in this official capacity?’

  He shrugged with great nonchalance. ‘Giving a couple of lectures.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  He smiled. ‘Halena, my audiences will be the cream of the Soviet medical profession. Also I’m to be interviewed by Sovetskaya Meditsina, one of the most respected medical journals in the world . . . It’s a great honour.’

  She sipped again at her drink, watching him closely.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Oh come on, Stefan! I know you so well. What are you keeping back?’

  For a moment he sat watching her, then he glanced quickly around the room and said quietly, ‘Halena, naturally while I’m there I’ll be consulting with my Russian counterparts about some of their most difficult cases . . . Well, I’ve been told that one of those cases will concern a very important man.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t ask me who, because I cannot tell you. I can tell you that it will be a major step in my career.’

  She finished the last of her drink and put the tiny glass on to the table. It clinked against a saucer. He waited eagerly for her reaction, for her plaudits.

  She surprised him. Her mouth turned down and she sighed deeply and said in a sombre voice, ‘Stefan, I beg you not to do it.’

  For a moment he was speechless, then he muttered, ‘Why? What do you . . . ?’

  Her voice, quiet but incisive, cut him off. ‘I’m not a fool. Why do men always think attractive blondes are stupid? Stefan, it’s obvious who your important man is. Don’t worry, I won’t mention his name. There have been rumours - well, there are always rumours in Poland - but these are very strong. Your important man is very ill . . . very. What do you think will happen to your career if you treat him and shortly afterwards he dies? Never mind your career; what about your life? Stefan, never forget that you are a Pole. Never forget how the Russians like to have a scapegoat tied and ready for sacrifice.’

  He smiled at her, very touched by her obvious concern. In a reassuring tone he said, ‘I am not going to treat him, Halena. I am merely going to be consulted by his very eminent doctors, in particular about my work on dialysis.’

  ‘Oh. Does that mean you won’t examine him personally?’

  He smiled again. ‘Of course I will have to examine him. But I will not personally treat him . . . And another thing: the rumours that you talk about are greatly exaggerated - as usual. I’ve seen a preliminary report; very confidential. He is not about to die next week, or next month. I will not be a scapegoat for anyone.’

  She was mollified and brightened up.

  ‘Well anyway, it’s wonderful news that we shall be in Moscow together. Now tell me exactly your itinerary.’

  He was pleased at her brighter mood and glad to change the subject. Enthusiastically he said, ‘I arrive in Moscow on the afternoon of February 8th.’ He grinned. ‘Aeroflot, first class, of course. You will be there already. They have booked me a suite at the Kosmos.’

  It was her turn to grin. ‘Oh, what an important boyfriend I have. I’m sharing a room in the Yunost, which I’m told is little better than a flea pit.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said very offhandedly. ‘If you like you can share my suite.’

  She smiled archly at him. ‘Not the first night, I can’t. On the 8th our group is going to a mime show in Kaunos. We stay the night there and get back to Moscow early the next morning. I’ll come straight to your palace to see you.’

  He nodded. ‘My first appointment is the important one. They are picking me up at noon. They wanted to take me to lunch afterwards but I delayed it to the next day in anticipation of taking you to lunch at the Lastochka.’

  She nodded her head in solemn thanks and asked, ‘What then?’

  He shrugged. ‘Then I have three days of lecturing and visits followed by four days of holiday. Can you take time off from your seminar to go to Leningrad with me?’

  She said, ‘Well. Of course it will be very difficult. My schedule is very packed and my work so vital to the national interest and humanity as a whole. I must give it very serious thought. I must balance my contribution to the arts and society against the company of a lecherous . . . and, shall we say, poorly qualified, young doctor . . .’

  He saw her lips twitching upwards and he smiled with her. Very lightly she said, ‘Well, I’ve always wanted to visit the Hermitage . . . so yes, Stefan. I shall go to Leningrad with you.’

  ‘Good. Let’s have a last drink to celebrate that.’ He looked around for a waiter and only then noticed that they were the last couple left in the place. With a frown he glanced at his watch and then abruptly stood up.

  ‘Halena, it’s almost three. I’m due in the operating theatre in fifteen minutes.’ He took out his wallet and extracted twenty hundred-zloty notes and put them on the table.

  ‘Please pay the bill. I’ll see you on Friday night. Just before nine.’ He bent his head and kissed her quickly and hurried out.

  The head waiter approached with the bill on a silver salver. She placed the notes on it, smiled and said, ‘Keep the change, but first extract enough to bring me another Tia Maria.’

  He smiled and turned away. She called after him. ‘Make it a double.’

  He half turned and nodded. A couple of paces later her voice stopped him again.

  ‘And waiter. Put a little cream on top.’

  * * *

  In Moscow Victor Chebrikov had also lunched well in a private dining room in the Presidium. He had been invited there by two men senior enough to command his respect. They had been charming and polite but also firmly insistent that he
tell them something of what was going on. He could have kept silent or even become angry, invoking the name of his mentor, but he did neither. He was wise in the political maze of the Presidium. He had talked in parallels and fables and they too, being wise, had understood him.

  As he walked into Zamiatin’s Situation Room he was chewing an antacid pill in opposition to a second portion of chocolate cake.

  The Colonel and his three Majors rose rapidly to their feet and saluted crisply.

  Amiably Chebrikov asked, ‘Anything to report?’

  Zamiatin was surprised and relieved by his boss’s tone.

  He said, ‘Very little, sir. Under drugs the Pole calling himself Albin admitted to being a secret priest named Josef Pietkiewicz, legally married to the woman captured with him. We had a strong reaction when we questioned him about the Bacon Priest but the prognosis is that he’s never actually met him. Meanwhile the wife suffered a mild heart attack during rigorous interrogation. Before that she had yielded nothing under drugs.’

  Chebrikov waved a hand indicating that they should be at ease and sit down.

  Major Gudov said musingly, ‘It’s strange that, but confirms a pattern. Women are more resistant to drugs than men. I don’t really understand it.’

  Chebrikov replied, ‘You would if you’d been married to my wife for thirty years.’

  They all laughed, but not too loudly.

  Major Jwanow asked, ‘Would you like tea, sir?’

  Chebrikov nodded and Jwanow went to the samovar which had recently been installed in the corner. His boss was studying the huge wall map when he brought him the glass. There were several minutes of silence while Chebrikov sipped noisily, never taking his gaze from the map.

  Then he said to Zamiatin, ‘Forget the old couple. The cut-outs will have been complete. We must crack the next pipeline.’ He pointed at the map to an area near the East German border.

  ‘Keep concentrating there. That’s where you’ll find it. That’s the weak point. Meanwhile, move the bulk of the Polish SB to the north-west . . . to the border area west of Wroclaw. That’s a more likely area than the south-eastern regions. The SB are the only Poles worth using. After all, Scibor was one of them - and they hate renegades.’

  Zamiatin seemed about to say something but then closed his mouth. Chebrikov continued studying the map, nodding his head. Then he said, ‘I’m ordering our own army units back into their cantonments. They’re not doing much good sitting at road blocks and their use goes against general policy.’

  Zamiatin was about to protest that such an order would mean taking Polish militia units away from urban searches to man road blocks, but again, at the last moment, held his tongue. He sensed that Chebrikov’s amiability would quickly wane if he started arguing.

  With a touch of confident finality Chebrikov said, ‘He’s still in Czechoslovakia. The Bacon Priest is sending him north. It’s my guess that he’ll try to move him over in the next forty-eight hours. Those hours are crucial.’ He turned and gave Zamiatin a considered look. ‘Crucial, Colonel. If he gets into Poland his position is stronger. We don’t like to admit that but it’s true. Now your next report to the Comrade First Secretary is due at noon tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope it contains something positive.’

  He strode to the door, depositing his empty glass on Gudov’s desk.

  His departure left a silence. The three Majors could sense Zamiatin’s unease.

  Finally Gudov said, ‘Colonel, should I give the order to concentrate the Polish SB to the border area west of Wroclaw?’

  Still thoughtful, Zamiatin nodded, but as Gudov reached for the phone the Colonel said, ‘Leave the units in Cracow itself intact.’

  Gudov’s hand froze on the phone. He and the other two Majors stared at Zamiatin. He shrugged.

  ‘Comrade Chebrikov ordered me to concentrate the SB to the north-west border. He did not order me to denude the south totally. I am following his orders; but Cracow has always been a centre of subversion. Also it is only one hundred and fifty kilometres from the place where Scibor was discovered. If he is across the border already he will be in Cracow . . . or heading there.’

  There was another silence, then Major Gudov sucked in air through his teeth and picked up the phone.

  Meanwhile Major Jwanow was hesitantly fingering a folder. Finally he made up his mind.

  ‘Comrade Colonel . . . I don’t know if this might be important . . .’ . ‘What is it?’

  Jwanow opened the folder. He said, ‘Ever since we knew that the Bacon Priest was involved we have been keeping a close watch on the Collegio Russico in Rome. We photographed people going in and coming out. Well, I was going through those photographs a few days ago. On several occasions a woman was photographed. I noticed a resemblance between her and the drawing of the woman who was with Scibor in Czechoslovakia.’ He paused and licked his lips.

  Zamiatin said, ‘So? Did you follow it up?’

  ‘Yes Comrade Colonel, but I fear it was a dead end. She turned out to be a nun. Polish, but from a convent in Hungary.’

  Zamiatin snorted. ‘A nun!’

  ‘Yes, but the thing is, Comrade Colonel, I had a report yesterday that she has not returned to her convent. No one seems to know where she is. And the likeness is very close.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Major Jwanow stood up and carried over the folder. He opened it and pointed to a photograph pinned to the flap. Opposite it was the drawing. Zamiatin studied them for several seconds. Then he nodded and flipped the page.

  From the report he intoned: ‘Ania Krol. Aged 26. Born Cracow, Poland. Parents killed in car crash October 7th, 1960. Buried Cracow . . .’

  He lifted his head and gazed off into space for several minutes.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past the Bacon Priest to use a nun. Gudov, when you get through to Cracow I want to speak to the top man there.’

  Chapter 19

  ‘You must be in love.’

  Mirek sighed. ‘What makes you think that?’

  Marian Lydkowska pointed a red-tipped finger at him. ‘You are not gay. You are certainly not a devout Catholic. Yet I offer myself to you and you don’t respond.’

  Mirek smiled at her frankness. They were alone in the huge sitting room of the lakeshore villa. It was evening. The curtains were open and, from across the lake, pinpoints of light were reflected on the black water. Antoni and Irena had left for Cracow early in the morning. The phone had rung just an hour before and Jerzy had answered it, listening for a few minutes and then replying with a few cryptic words that made no sense to Mirek. Shortly afterwards he and Natalia had wrapped themselves in fur coats and gone out into the night, saying they would be back shortly. Mirek had listened for the sound of a car but had heard nothing. He expected that a courier was arriving and hoped it would mean the recommencement of his journey. This safe house was luxuriously comfortable and certainly safe, but on this second day he was impatient. He looked at Marian sitting beside the crackling log fire, waiting patiently for an answer. She was wearing a short black clinging jersey dress. It was obvious that she was wearing nothing under it.

  He said, ‘Does every man who is not gay, and not a priest, and not in love, respond to you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It must get tiresome.’

  She smiled. ‘I choose only the ones I want. In a way for them it is truly tiresome . . . So who is she?’

  He stood and walked to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a Scotch and soda. The bottle was encased in a blue velvet rag. Someone had once told him that such whisky cost over sixteen thousand zlotys in Poland. He poured sparingly, not because of the expense but because he wanted to keep a clear head.

  He turned to Marian. ‘You want a drink?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll have the same.’

  He poured the drink and carried it over. As he offered it she caught his wrist and said petulantly, ‘Tell me. Who is she?’

  Irrit
ation washed over him. He pulled his wrist away, spilling some of the whisky on her dress. He put her glass down on the table next to her and moved to the fire, turning and warming his back.

  He said harshly, ‘You and your friends. You are the kacyki - the princesses. As an SB officer I was hated by the people . . . but they hate your type as much or more. Living like royalty. Having everything without work or queuing or contributing a single thing. Look at you - a little red kacyk who’s miffed because for once in her life she can’t have something. I don’t need to be in love not to want your body.’

  She shook her head, smiling.

  ‘But you do want it. I can tell. I can always tell. I see you looking at it. At my breasts, my legs . . . You want it, Mirek Scibor, but something holds you back. It can only be love for another woman. For a man like you to want, and not to take, she must be special . . . Someone you met in the West?’

  He shrugged. ‘Forget it, Marian. I’m not here for chit-chat. My mind is on other things. More important things than an over-used, if nubile, body.’

  The smile left her face. She said seriously, ‘Don’t be cruel, Mirek. I am only teasing you. It is only superficial. It passes the time. I am more discerning and less used than you think. Yes, we are kacyki but we use that image to be useful. We care about Poland. Don’t forget that we use our image to bring truth to the people . . . at great risk . . . and to help people - even you.’

  In spite of himself he felt a measure of contrition. He raised his glass to her.

  ‘I know. I don’t mean to be cruel. It’s just that for many years I had been conditioned to hate people like you. I realise that for your group it’s partly an act but, Marian, you don’t have to keep up the act for me.’

  She smiled winsomely.

  ‘It’s just habit. Anyway, my intuition is that you are in love. So be it. We shall just be friends. Now you spilled most of my drink. Can I have another?’