In The Name of The Father (11 page)

After exercises came the ‘run’. Again, everybody in the camp did it. On alternate days it was either four miles carrying a twenty-kilo pack, or eight miles carrying nothing. Leila always brought up the rear, driving the slower runners, but inevitably, as they approached the camp, she would lengthen her stride and cruise past everyone to be first through the gates.

After that, half an hour was allowed for breakfast. This was buffet-style and good. Mounds of fresh baked bread, plates of cheeses and cold meats, eggs and even steaks. There was no bacon or ham.

After breakfast the trainees split up into groups. Obviously some were specialising in certain aspects of terror and spent more time on that aspect. Mirek was getting a general training. About half of his instruction was in groups and the other half individual. The lunch break was two hours to avoid the full heat of the sun. Lunch was a light affair. Usually a soup followed by cold meats and salad. After lunch some of the trainees slept. Others sat around in the mess chatting or reading from the selection of books available - mostly thrillers, westerns or science fiction. There were no political books on the shelves. There was also a television and video. This was only used in the evening. The selection of videos paralleled the books. On his first night in the camp Mirek had been fascinated by the contrast of two dozen diverse terrorists engrossed by
Gone With the Wind.

After lunch, four more hours of instruction. Then a shower, a change of fatigues and dinner. This was a lavish spread. Soup, a selection of pastas, Arab dishes, joints of beef and mutton and goat and fruit. Only water or fruit juices were drunk.

After dinner many of the trainees went straight to bed. The schedule was punishing. Others watched the video or read or chatted. Inevitably, in spite of the dire warnings against asking personal questions, they learned something about each other. No one actually asked questions but information was gleaned. Any group of young people living, learning and exercising together communicates. Within a week Mirek knew where the others had come from. There were two small groups of Spaniards: one Left-wing Basque Separatist; the other Francoite Fascists. There were two Italians from the Red Brigade and three from the Blacks. The group of five Germans which included two girls were more cohesive; all from a modern off-shoot of the Baader Meinhof vine. Two Filipino women, one very pretty, and one man, presumably from the Muslim Rebels. There was a solitary Irishman, a mournful man who sat by himself humming strange tunes. The rest were Arabs, mainly from the Lebanon. Four were Shi’ites of the Islamic Jihad group. They were the only ones who regularly unrolled their prayer mats and prayed to Mecca. They kept apart and had strange, set expressions on their faces. Mirek guessed that they would be the ones to swallow the body bombs and blast themselves and others to paradise and elsewhere.

* * *

On the tenth morning he did a hundred and fifty press-ups. The other trainees had given up long before. As he lay panting he sneaked a look at the instructors. Only two were still going. Frank and Leila. Frank was struggling. Leila was pumping her slim body up and down easily. Her dark eyes were watching him.

That night after dinner he was sitting naked on the bed in his room squeezing the hand exercisers. The door opened. It had no lock or bolt. Leila stood there. She silently looked at his body, then closed the door. He started to put aside the exercisers. She said, ‘Finish.’

He continued squeezing. She slowly undressed. She did it without obvious provocation but the combination of the masculine army fatigues being slowly discarded to reveal the lithe, dark, shapely body was intensely erotic. She dropped the shirt. High, pointed breasts with large aureoles and small nipples, a deeply recessed navel and narrow waist. He pumped the exercisers and felt his erection rising. She unzipped the mottled trousers, dropped them and stepped out. Her panties were brief and black. She slid them down sleek muscled legs. The triangle of pubic hair was as black as the panties. Now his erection was almost a pain. She slowly moved forward, raised her hands and cupped her breasts.

‘Squeeze these - hard.’

He dropped the exercisers and made to stand but she put a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his arms, moulded her breasts with his hands and squeezed. They were soft but firm. Her expression never changed. He squeezed harder, very hard. Her lips opened slightly, a pink tongue slid along between them. He pulled her forward by her breasts. She pushed him flat. That was the end of the foreplay. She slid a leg over him, grasped his erection and forced it into her. He held on to her breasts as she rode him, then pulled her down and tried to kiss her. She turned her face and he nuzzled her ear instead. It could not last long. He felt it building and tried to contain it but failed. His back arched involuntarily and he gasped with relief as he spurted into her.

Her face showed her disappointment. She sat back on him panting slightly. He could feel the muscles inside her still moving, trying to squeeze pleasure from his shrinking penis.

He muttered, ‘It’s been a long time for me . . . months.’

She shrugged and pushed herself up and off him. By the bed was a metal washbasin on a stand and a towel. She took the towel and wiped herself between the legs, then bent to pick up her clothes.

‘Wait.’

She turned. He was sitting upright on the bed.

‘Wait a few minutes. It will be all right.’

Sceptically she looked at his flaccid penis. He patted the bed beside him. With a shrug she dropped her clothes and sat down. They sat in silence for several minutes. He put an arm round her shoulder. Her flesh was unresponsive. It was as though she was waiting for a dental appointment. With his other hand he reached for hers and placed it on his penis. She moved her fingers and it stirred.

He muttered, ‘Kiss it. Take it in your mouth.’

Emphatically she shook her head. But her fingers moved faster and gradually it grew. She tried to push him back on to the bed but he resisted. Instead he twisted her by the shoulders, forcing her on to her back. This time he would be on top.

This time it was fine. He fitted himself into her and slid in and out rhythmically, coming down hard each time. For the first few minutes she was still; but then she started to arch up to meet him. Minutes later she locked her ankles behind his legs and began making short, urgent grunts as they slapped together. Her mouth opened and he lowered his head. Her arms came round him tight as their mouths met. She sucked at him and then thrust her tongue at his throat, gnawed with her teeth at his lips, tried to crush his ribs into hers. They rose towards it in a long, steady climb. He increased the pace. Her grunts got louder, her hot breath gusting into his mouth, then she pulled her face away, moaned loudly, clamped her mouth on to his shoulder and shuddered into her orgasm.

He climaxed in a mixture of pain and passion. When he pulled away from her blood dripped from his shoulder on to her breasts. She raised her finger and touched the teeth marks gently. For a moment he thought he saw compassion in her eyes, then it was gone.

Minutes later she, too, was gone. Again she wiped herself with the towel and rapidly dressed without looking at him. At the door his voice had stopped her.

‘Next time you will kiss it. . . and take it in your mouth.’

She had given him a long, level stare, then opened the door and left.

A half hour before dawn his door opened again. He was standing in his shorts exercising his fingers in the bucket of sand. He thought it must be her, but it was Frank. He was holding a piece of paper and he watched with approval as Mirek plunged his hands deep into the sand, then he noticed the bite mark on his shoulder.

‘Aha! I see Leila’s been giving you a little extra PT,’ he leered. ‘She’s OK that one, but a little too straightforward for my taste. You ought to try that little Filipino girl; now she knows all the tricks.’

Mirek ignored him and kept on with his exercise. Frank held out the piece of paper.

‘Signal for you.’

‘Who from?’

‘Obviously your people.’

Mirek shook the sand off his hands and took the paper. On it was written in longhand: ‘Werner, do not cut your hair. Grow a moustache.’

Frank saw his look of puzzlement. He said, ‘It must be in code. You don’t know what it means?’

Mirek shook his head. ‘I was given no code; expected no messages.’ Frank grinned. ‘They must think this is a bloody barber’s shop.’

That morning Mirek did two hundred press-ups. Only Leila was still going when he finished.

For the next two nights he waited for her. She did not come. On the third night at dinner he noticed the pretty Filipino girl watching him. He indulged in a little eye contact and body language.

She came to his room an hour after dinner. She was, he supposed, a nymphomaniac and Frank was right, she did know all the tricks. At one stage he sat on the bed while she knelt and fellated him. Looking down at her bobbing head and lustrous black hair he wondered how she could ever kill anyone. Just then the door quietly opened. He looked up to see Leila standing there. The Filipino girl tried to pull away but he held her head firmly, gazing steadily at Leila. She turned and went out, closing the door behind her.

The next morning he passed two hundred and fifty press-ups. He looked up. Leila was spreadeagled on the sand, her arms stretched out on either side as though crucified.

Chapter 7

Archbishop Versano popped another piece of
osso buco
into his mouth and murmured with approval. After swallowing he said, ‘The chef here is touched by God. No one makes it better.’

The Bacon Priest and Cardinal Mennini agreed. It was the second meeting of
Nostra Trinita
in the L’Eau Vive, and Van Burgh had much progress to report. Mennini was very gratified when he announced, ‘Eminence, your choice of the nun Anna was perfect. She is intelligent, composed and devout.’

Mennini inclined his head graciously.

‘And how is she doing in her training?’

‘Excellently. She has a natural acting talent. Having been in cloisters since infancy she is obviously sensitive about certain aspects of modern life. However I am exposing her to some such aspects and she is adapting well.’ He glanced at his watch and smiled. ‘Right now she’s doing aerobics.’

The other two looked at him blankly.

‘It’s a new sort of dance exercise. I want her to be fit. One of the lay girls she was introduced to is a dancer. Afterwards they’ll have dinner. Then on to Jackie “O”.’

Again he got blank looks and laughed.

‘That’s Rome’s most sophisticated disco.’

The Cardinal looked a little troubled. ‘Is that really necessary, Father?’

Van Burgh nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, Your Eminence. It is very necessary to broaden her horizons . . . after all they have discos in the East and are conversant with the latest Western pop music . . . so must she be.
La Cantante
must know the songs.’ He injected a placating tone into his voice. ‘Don’t worry, Your Eminence. Her faith is strong enough to protect her mind from such influences. Also the people she is with are sensible and respectful.’

‘What about the man?’ Versano asked. ‘Tell us about him.’

The Bacon Priest thought for a few moments, then said, ‘Had we searched for years for our envoy we would never have found one better. His background gives him expertise in certain vital areas. In other areas he is being trained now. He will have the skills, the equipment, the back-up and, of course, he has the motive.’

‘Which is?’ Versano asked. ‘He told you?’

Both he and the Cardinal were watching Van Burgh with curiosity. The Bacon Priest was looking down at the fine damask tablecloth. He nodded sombrely.

‘Yes, the motive is pure hatred centred on the person of Yuri Andropov. The reason for that hatred was an act perpetrated by Andropov some years ago. An act so base and vile that I should have never believed it possible . . . but I do believe.’ He looked up. They were watching him expectantly. He sighed. ‘But before he told me I had to swear on the Blessed Virgin that I would never, ever, tell anyone.’

They could not keep the disappointment from their eyes. On seeing it he said softly, ‘He told me only to convince me of his total determination . . . I can tell you this: after hearing the story any qualms I had about our causing the death of Andropov were completely dispelled.’

They were somewhat mollified by his words. He quickly changed the subject. To Versano he said, ‘Mario, I have done a costing on the operation. It is going to be expensive; certainly far too much for the resources of my Iron Curtain Church Relief Fund.’

‘How much?’ Versano asked cheerfully, happy to be back on familiar, fiscal ground.

‘In American dollars, about three hundred thousand.’

Mennini gasped in shock.

‘But how . . . ?’

Van Burgh held up a hand.

‘Your Eminence. That is cheap compared with what the CIA or KGB would spend on such an operation . . . Just a fraction of what they would spend.’ Mennini was looking sceptical. He was in no way naive about Vatican finances but his natural asceticism gave him qualms.

Feeling a little irritated the Bacon Priest explained. ‘First we have to train the “envoy”. That training, for example, will cost fifteen thousand. Then we have to set up a completely new pipeline through to Moscow. I cannot - will not - use any of our existing routes.’

He broke off as the door opened and two serving girls came in. One was pushing a trolley which was laden with fruit and a cheese board. The other quickly cleared the dirty plates, laid clean ones, put the fruit and cheese in the centre of the table and asked, ‘Three
espressos?’

‘Later,’ Versano said, smiling at her. ‘In about half an hour.’

As soon as the door closed Van Burgh turned to the Cardinal and went on, almost aggressively, ‘Your Eminence, I want you to understand what that entails. Several dozen people have to be positioned or repositioned. Certain properties have to be rented or even purchased. Transport certainly has to be purchased - and in the East that’s difficult and expensive. A safe house must be established in Moscow itself. Couriers must come and go. Some bribes may have to be paid . . . I assure you not a cent will be overspent.’