In The Name of The Father

by A. J. Quinnell

  The Major watched for another minute. The couple in the car were completely still. He had toppled back into the corner, pulling her with him. Her head rested on his chest. The Major went to the back of the car and turned off the valve. Then, holding a handkerchief over his nose, he opened both rear doors, walked a few metres away and waited. Five minutes later he went back to the car, pulled down the roller blinds over the rear windows, closed the doors and climbed into the driver’s seat. He took off the dark glasses, turned the mirror, looked at his face and decided that the moustache definitely suited him. As he pulled it off and tucked it into his top pocket he resolved to grow a real one; but perhaps not so large.

  He took a circular route around the city. Twice he came to militia road blocks. Both times he simply drove forward at walking pace until one of the militiamen noticed the car and its pennant, came stiffly to attention and saluted. Both times the Major took his right hand off the wheel, returned the salute and accelerated away.

  Forty minutes later they arrived at the military airport at Wolomin. Again, as he approached the guardhouse the Major slowed the car to a walking pace. The guards knew the car very well; and the Major. An order was shouted and the barrier raised. As he passed under it the Major returned the salutes.

  He drove to a small hangar several hundred metres from the administration block. Its sliding door was open. A Sergeant stood outside and watched as the Zil drove straight into the hangar. Then he pulled the door closed and went inside through a smaller recessed door, locking it behind him.

  Inside the hangar sixteen coffins were laid out in a row. Fourteen were closed and draped in Hammer and Sickle flags. Two at the end were open.

  As the Major climbed out of the car a figure stood up from a bench against the wall. He was portly and middle-aged and wore the uniform of a Captain. On his epaulettes were the tabs of the medical corps. He carried a black bag. He asked, ‘It went all right?’

  ‘I think so,’ replied the Major.

  He opened the car door. Mirek’s head flopped out. Quickly the Sergeant reached forward and cradled it with his hands. The Captain said, ‘Let’s put them straight into the coffins. I’ll check them there.’

  The Sergeant shifted his hands under Mirek’s armpits and gradually eased him out from under Ania’s torso. The Major took his legs and they carried him the few metres to the waiting coffins.

  The open coffins were thickly padded. They eased Mirek into one and then went back for Ania.

  The Captain opened his black bag and took out a stethoscope. He checked Ania first. He had to pull up her sweater and then undo her blouse. The Major and the Sergeant watched. As the Sergeant saw the swell of her breasts under the white brassiere he muttered, ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of that.’

  The Major gave him a look and the Sergeant swallowed and said, ‘Sorry, sir.’

  The Captain listened to Ania’s heart and then pulled back an eyelid and studied the pupil for a moment. Satisfied, he moved over to the other coffin and examined Mirek. Then he straightened saying, ‘No problem.’ He looked at his watch. ‘They leave in half an hour . . . I’ll give them the shots now.’

  He reached into his bag and took out a grey box. Inside were syringes and a selection of rubber-topped little bottles. The Major helped him roll the sleeves up, first of Ania, then Mirek. Deftly the Captain gave them both two injections. He grinned and explained to the Major.

  ‘The second one is a large dose of morphine. Should they by chance wake up ahead of schedule they’ll think they’re in heaven.’ He took from his bag another flat plastic box and placed it on Mirek’s chest. To the Major he said, ‘That’s the antidote. Instructions are inside.’

  The Major asked, ‘Are you sure they’ll have enough air?’

  ‘Plenty,’ answered the Captain. ‘The coffins are well ventilated. Besides, in their unconscious state they use less oxygen than normal . . . like a hibernating animal.’

  He straightened up and the three of them stood looking down at the two supine figures. The Sergeant said, ‘They look comfortable enough.’

  ‘They do,’ agreed the Captain. ‘The ultimate resting place . . . Let’s close up.’

  The coffin lids were on hinges. When lowered they were fastened by wing nuts. The wing nuts were very significant. Military coffins arriving back in Russia fitted with wing nuts invariably contain the contraband of some high officer, especially when accompanied by a Major wearing the red tabs of a staff appointment. Invariably a blind eye is turned. It is unofficially accepted as the perk of a General.

  Half an hour later the sixteen coffins were lined up beside an Antonov AN24. A brass band played the national anthem. An honour guard presented arms. The coffins were loaded. The Major went with them.

  Three and a half hours later the coffins were unloaded at a military airport outside Moscow. A brass band played the national anthem. An honour guard presented arms. A General on a low dais made a brief speech to assembled, tearful relatives. He pointed out that to die in the uniform of the Red Army was to die a hero, even if the death had been accidental.

  A line of military hearses took away the coffins. The General noted that the last two went into a single hearse and were accompanied only by a staff Major. He noted that they were closed by wing nuts. He felt a pang of jealousy.

  Chapter 26

  An hour later the hearse pulled up in a street behind the Lenin Stadium. The buildings had been spared modernisation. On one side they consisted of old four-storey houses converted into apartments. On the other side was a row of store rooms and lock-up garages. The street lighting was sparse and the shadows long. The Major took out his false moustache and, feeling a bit silly, stuck it into place. Then he told the driver to wait with the engine running. He climbed out and crossed the street. He found the shabby brown door of a garage with the figure eight painted boldly in black. Beside it was an old-fashioned bell pull. He pulled it and heard a distant tinkle. A minute passed and then one of the garage doors opened, a crack of light filtered out and a voice asked, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wish to speak to Boris Gogol.’

  ‘You are.’

  The Major leaned forward and said quietly, ‘I have returned your children.’

  The door opened further. The man standing there was no taller than five feet but one look at his face dispelled any awareness of lack of stature. It was disproportionately large with a high, domed forehead and white hair falling down to narrow, hunched shoulders. But it was the eyes that dominated. Bright blue, crinkled as though observing a perpetual joke; luminous with intelligence. The Major judged him to be in his mid-fifties. He looked round and saw the hearse and said, ‘I have been waiting for them.’

  The Major asked, ‘Where do you want them?’

  ‘In here.’

  The little man pulled up the bolt of the other door and pushed it open. The Major went back to the hearse and told the driver to back it into the garage.

  Fortunately the Major and driver were fit and strong. It appeared that Boris Gogol was on his own. He did try to help as they grunted with exertion, sliding the coffins out and lowering them to the oily floor, but his efforts were mostly confined to exhorting them to be careful. The Major told the driver to take the hearse outside and wait. He and Gogol closed the doors behind it. Then the Major said, ‘The antidote is in the coffin with the man. Instructions are in the box. You know how to use a syringe?’

  The little man bobbed his head. The Major turned to leave and then stopped and said, ‘They had a big dose of morphine about six hours ago. If they wake up extra happy, that’s the cause.’

  ‘I understand.’

  The Major let himself out. As he walked to the hearse he mused that it had been a strange mission and dangerous. No matter. He knew with certainty that within one month he would be a Colonel and within five years a General.

  Boris Gogol had trouble opening the first coffin. The Sergeant back in Warsaw had tightened the wing nuts with very strong fingers. Eventually he took a ham
mer from a workbench and loosened them with a couple of sharp taps. He opened the lid and found himself looking down at the lovely and serene face of Ania. For several seconds he stood there, head cocked to one side, gazing down, then his face suddenly showed alarm. Quickly he bent and picked up her right wrist and felt for the pulse. It was there and steady and he sighed audibly with relief. He dropped the wrist and quickly opened the other coffin. Mirek’s face was also serene. Gogol studied it carefully and then nodded with satisfaction. The flat plastic box had slipped down against his left elbow. Gogol retrieved it and opened it. Inside, on top of the syringes and little rubber-capped bottle, was a brief handwritten note. Gogol read it and then read it again. He picked up the bottle and checked the gradations. Then he slid the needle of a syringe through the rubber and extracted the required amount. He injected first Mirek and then Ania. Then he pulled a chair up and sat waiting patiently, taking bets with himself as to who would wake up first.

  It was Ania. After ten minutes her eyelids flickered and then opened. It took a while for her eyes to focus. When they did she saw a light bulb hanging on a cord from a dirty ceiling. Then something loomed over her. It was a face. Long white hair, laughing eyes, smiling lips. She smiled back. She felt as though she was floating. The face spoke.

  ‘Do not be alarmed. You are safe. Do you feel all right?’

  She realised he was speaking Russian. She answered in the same language and in a slurred voice.

  ‘Yes . . . What. . . where am I?’

  ‘In Moscow.’ His smiled widened. ‘Actually lying in a coffin . . . but very much alive.’

  She lifted her head and looked down. Then to her left and right. She saw the other coffin. Her senses cleared.

  ‘Mirek?’

  ‘He is fine, sleeping in that coffin. He will wake soon.’

  She raised herself higher and flexed the muscles of her arms and legs. He said, ‘Can you get up? Here, give me your hand.’

  With his help she slowly stood up and stepped unsteadily out of the coffin, saying, ‘I feel a bit light-headed.’

  ‘Apparently you had a dose of morphine. It will pass soon.’

  Just then they heard a moan. Mirek was rubbing a hand over his eyes. Quickly Ania moved and knelt by his head and took his hand in hers. Gogol did not understand Polish but her rapid sentences were obviously an explanation. He heard Mirek ask several questions, some of which she answered briefly, the others she had no answers to. Then she was helping him up. He stepped out of the coffin, ran a hand through his hair and looked at the little Russian with a puzzled expression.

  Gogol smiled and said, ‘Welcome to Moscow, Mirek Scibor. Apparently you have been unconscious for about six and a half hours. My name is Boris Gogol.’

  Mirek shook his head to clear it, then walked forward a little unsteadily and held out his hand. Gogol’s grip was very firm.

  Mirek asked, ‘How did we get here from Warsaw?’

  Gogol shrugged. ‘I know very little. I was just told that you would be delivered and the approximate time . . . and that the deliverer would use the passwords, “I have returned your children.” My answer was, “I have been waiting for them.”‘

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was dressed in the uniform of a Red Army Major.’

  ‘Did he have a moustache that looked false?’

  Gogol smiled. ‘Yes, very . . . He kept touching it to see if it was still there.’

  Mirek nodded and ran a hand across his face and then looked around the garage and asked, ‘Where are we to stay?’

  Gogol gestured at a door set in the rear wall and said apologetically, ‘There are modest quarters here, converted from what was a bigger garage. Come, I will get you some tea.’

  They followed him through into a tiny, cluttered hallway and then into another room.

  The immediate impression was books. They stretched from floor to ceiling and were piled on tables and on the worn carpet. He cleared several from two old armchairs which were in front of a small electric fire and urged them to sit down. Then he went into an alcove kitchen and, after fussing around an ancient samovar, came back with a tray and cups. After pouring the tea he cleared more books from a wicker chair, pulled it over and sat down. Then he said, ‘You had an eventful journey.’

  Ania answered, ‘We are glad that it’s over.’

  He smiled at her. ‘The harder the journey the sweeter the homecoming. Of course, this is not home but I will try to make you comfortable. I’m afraid it’s very cramped but you will not be here long.’

  Mirek asked, ‘Are you alone here?’

  With a trace of wistfulness Gogol gestured and answered, ‘Yes, apart from my books. They are my friends and family. It is temporary here. I should not have brought them . . . But I need them with me.’

  ‘Have you read them all?’ Ania asked.

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Some many times. Through them I see the world.’

  Mirek asked, ‘What are the plans?’

  The little man took a last sip of tea and laid the cup carefully down. When he looked up his eyes and face were serious and authoritative. He said, ‘From this point you come under my direct orders. This is the final phase and I direct it. The planning has been meticulous. The execution and timing of the plan must be equally so if you are to survive.’

  Mirek said firmly, ‘I place myself in your hands. Is Ania to stay here?’

  Gogol dipped his head to her courteously. ‘Yes.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It has now just become February 8th. Professor Szafer’s appointment with Andropov at the Serbsky Clinic is for eleven thirty on the morning of the 9th. He will be picked up from his hotel by Academician Yevgeny Chazov at about eleven o’clock. I will go over details of the switch tomorrow. It must be like clockwork. The journey from the hotel to the Clinic, in an official car, takes between fifteen and twenty minutes. After the consultation you will return to the hotel. You will try to dissuade Professor Chazov from accompanying you. It should not be difficult. Szafer is known to be an abrasive personality.’

  Mirek said, ‘It sounds simple.’

  Gogol nodded. ‘The best plans are simple. But make no mistake, there are various elements which make it simple. If only one element goes wrong the whole plan collapses.’

  Mirek nodded soberly and asked quickly, ‘How do I actually kill him?’

  Gogol stood up. ‘Come, I will show you.’

  Mirek rose and looked at Ania. She shook her head and turned it away.

  He followed Gogol into another room. It was a bedroom; two narrow single beds, a small table, a chest of drawers and a wooden dumb valet. From it hung a smart dark grey suit. Gogol pointed at it.

  ‘I want you to try that on tonight before you sleep. It should fit you well. If not it can be altered in the morning. Also there is a pair of shoes in the cupboard. They have slightly raised heels. Try those on as well. They should fit.’ He gestured at the table. ‘There are textbooks there on renal medicine. I thought you might like to refresh your memory over the next twenty-four hours.’

  Mirek hardly heard him. He was looking at a series of four photographs pinned to the wall. They were all of the head and shoulders of Stefan Szafer in life size. One in profile, one from the back and two full face. In the full face shots he was gazing fondly at the camera. He studied those two carefully and then moved to a mirror hanging alongside them. The likeness was remarkable. He would have to trim his moustache a little and increase the depth of his eyebrows. His face was a little leaner than Szafer’s but that too could be minimised.

  Mirek had been nervous, but that was now diminishing. He sensed that the little man had everything under control.

  Gogol went to the chest of drawers and pulled open the top drawer. From it he took a small flat leather case. He took it to the table and carefully opened it, saying, ‘Even with modern computerised scientific aids, doctors - even specialists - like to listen to their patients’ hearts.’

  Mirek was looking at an ordinary stethoscop
e coiled neatly on a bed of velvet. Gingerly Gogol picked it up at the junction of the earpieces. He raised it high. The chrome-plated head dangled in front of Mirek. Very gently Gogol lowered the head on to his left palm. He said, ‘You will not use the stethoscope until the end of your examination. In the head of it are two short and very fine needles. You will, of course, place the head on several parts of his chest. You will press the head down firmly with your finger. He will not feel the minute pin-pricks . . . Believe me, we have tested it. These tiny needles are impregnated with an extraordinary poison called “Ricin”. Interestingly it was developed by KGB researchers and field-tested for them by the Bulgarian Secret Service against defectors in Paris and London. They used an umbrella with a needle tip. Very clumsy but it worked in Paris and almost did in London. Applied directly over the heart it will be totally effective.’

  Mirek was staring mesmerised at the piece of metal.

  Finally he said, ‘How long? Before it takes effect?’

  Gogol carefully folded the stethoscope back into the leather box. He said, ‘Within twenty minutes he will feel drowsy and fall asleep. Within an hour he will be in a coma. Within two hours he will be dead. You have ample time to return to the hotel and disappear.’

  He walked over to the chest of drawers and put the box away.

  Mirek asked, ‘Is there no antidote?’

  Gogol’s silver locks swayed as he shook his head.

  Twenty-four hours passed in fitful sleep, snatched meals and intensive study. At times Mirek despaired. He imagined a thousand questions thrown at him, of which he had answers for no more than a dozen.

  Ania tried to help by taking the role of an inquisitor and reading him questions from the book, but that exercise was short-lived. At the first question for which he had no answer he lost his temper. She understood the tension in him and went into the other room, where Gogol gave her a smile of sympathy and a book to read.

  At six o’clock on the morning of Friday 9th, Mirek snapped shut the textbook in anger and frustration. He would rely on wit and aggression.