In The Name of The Father (32 page)

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?’

Irritation 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?’

He took her glass across the room. As he poured the drink he heard the slam of the outer door. Marian jumped up and hurried to the living room door. She opened it and went through. After a moment Mirek heard her little-girl voice.

‘My God. Is she all right?’

He heard Jerzy’s urgent voice. ‘Barely. Let’s get her close to the fire.’

They came into the room sideways, Jerzy first, enormous in his fur coat. He had his arm around a smaller figure, supporting it. Natalia and Marian followed.

Mirek stood by the cabinet, bemused, a glass in each hand. As they reached the fire Jerzy pulled the fur coat off the smaller figure. It was Natalia’s coat. Mirek’s view was blocked. He moved forward. It was a woman with her back to him. Marian was rubbing the woman’s hands. Natalia pulled a scarf from the woman’s head. Her hair was ebony black. Mirek knew that hair. He heard the crash as both glasses dropped to the floor.

‘Ania!’

She turned. Her face was white, her black eyes sunken and narrowed. Her lips were quivering. She muttered his name and moved and she was in his arms.

The others stood back silently. Her body was ice cold. He raised her in his embrace and moved her back closer to the fire. Jerzy lifted more logs on to it. Mirek felt her cheeks. They were slabs of ice.

‘How did you get here?’

She held on to him and muttered, ‘The same way as you.’

It took seconds to penetrate, then anger took over.

‘They sent you in that tanker . . . after knowing what I went through? I’ll kill the bastards!’

‘No, Mirek. It was my decision. They warned me. They helped make it easier.’

‘But why?’

‘The Bacon Priest. He decided I should continue with you.’

Mirek’s mind was in turmoil, but then one thing became clear. The body he was holding was both frozen and exhausted.

He turned his head and said, ‘Marian, please fill that sunken bath with hot water. That will warm her quicker than this fire. Jerzy, a brandy please.’

Marian and Natalia left the room. Jerzy brought a glass with an inch of brandy. Mirek held it to her lips. Some went down her throat and some down her leather jacket. She coughed violently. With his hand Mirek wiped her chin, then held the glass up again.

‘Try and drink more. It will help.’

He poured some more through her lips and she coughed and spluttered and shook her head. ‘Enough, Mirek. I’m all right.’

He reached down and got one hand behind her knees and one under her shoulders and lifted her. ‘Come, you’re going into the biggest bath you ever saw.’

Jerzy opened the door and then preceded them up the stairs. The bedroom door was open. As they went through they saw steam coming out of the bathroom.

Natalia came out and said, ‘All right, we’ll take care of her now.’