plant. Meanwhile you have come down only one of half a dozen pipelines and the least important. Besides I trust the judgment of Father Lason. He talked to you for several days. He reported that you have a great hatred and in particular for Yuri Andropov. Why do you hate him so?’
At the mention of Andropov’s name Mirek’s features hardened like concrete. The priest had to lean towards him to catch the quiet words. They were washed along on a tide of loathing.
‘I discovered that he had done something to me so foul as to be beyond comparison.’
‘He personally?’
‘He gave the order.’
‘And the people you killed carried it out?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was it?’
Mirek had been looking down at the gravel path. Now he lifted his head and looked at the playing children. He opened his mouth and closed it. Then he said, ‘First I have something for you. Call it a present from me . . . in part payment for getting me out.’ He turned and looked at the priest and again had to force himself to realise that he was not an old woman. ‘Father, it’s a list of renegade priests in Poland. Priests in your organisation who have been turned by the SB. It’s in my head but it’s a long list. You had better write it down.’
The priest’s voice was sad. ‘I too have a good memory . . . tell me.’
Looking into the priest’s eyes, Mirek intoned, ‘Starting from the north down. Gdynia: Fathers Letwok and Kowalski. Gdansk: Nowak and Jozwicki. Olsztyn: Panrowski, Mniszek and Bukowski . . .’ He droned on while the priest sat mute with half-closed eyes. One hundred and twelve names later Mirek came to the end. There was a silence, then the priest sighed shudderingly and murmured, ‘God have mercy on their souls.’
Curious, Mirek asked, ‘Did you know about any of them?’
He nodded. ‘Quite a few and we suspected others, but. . .’ He murmured two names and shook his head in sorrow, then took a breath and said briskly, ‘That information is invaluable, and it will save lives. Now, Mirek Scibor, I have something to offer you.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s walk a little. That bench has become hard.’
They walked slowly down the path towards the lake, the priest adopting exactly the gait of an old woman.
He asked, ‘What are your plans now?’
Mirek spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. My objective was to meet and talk to you.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Do you have any ideas?’
The priest stopped and looked at the lake. It was mirror smooth. At one end white lilies were pancaked across the water. Three swans drifted close to the shore, vying for grace.
‘I have no ideas,’ the priest said. ‘But I have a plan. You may be interested.’
‘What plan?’
‘To kill Yuri Andropov.’
Mirek laughed loudly. The swans took fright and the water rippled as they surged away. The priest said sharply, ‘You laugh. I thought you hated the man.’
Mirek’s laughter stopped and he looked at him curiously.
‘I do. I would literally give an arm and a leg to kill Andropov. But I assumed you were joking . . . I mean you stand there and simply state that you have a plan to kill Andropov as though you were talking about a plan to go to the theatre.’
The priest turned and resumed hobbling along in his ridiculous shoes. He said, ‘You may not have heard. A senior General of the KGB, Yevchenko, defected in Rome.’
Mirek nodded. ‘I read some newspapers this morning. I know of Yevchenko. It must have made the KGB wet themselves.’
‘Yes, well, he advised Italian Intelligence that Andropov and the KGB were planning another attempt on the life of our beloved Holy Father.’
‘Ah.’ Mirek nodded thoughtfully. The path was skirting the lake and to their right the swans kept pace with them.
Briefly the priest sketched out the plan and the reasons for it. In a dazed voice Mirek asked, ‘And the Pope approves? It’s hardly Christian.’
‘The Pope knows nothing of it. The plan derives from . . . well, from a group
At the mention of Andropov’s name Mirek’s features hardened like concrete. The priest had to lean towards him to catch the quiet words. They were washed along on a tide of loathing.
‘I discovered that he had done something to me so foul as to be beyond comparison.’
‘He personally?’
‘He gave the order.’
‘And the people you killed carried it out?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was it?’
Mirek had been looking down at the gravel path. Now he lifted his head and looked at the playing children. He opened his mouth and closed it. Then he said, ‘First I have something for you. Call it a present from me . . . in part payment for getting me out.’ He turned and looked at the priest and again had to force himself to realise that he was not an old woman. ‘Father, it’s a list of renegade priests in Poland. Priests in your organisation who have been turned by the SB. It’s in my head but it’s a long list. You had better write it down.’
The priest’s voice was sad. ‘I too have a good memory . . . tell me.’
Looking into the priest’s eyes, Mirek intoned, ‘Starting from the north down. Gdynia: Fathers Letwok and Kowalski. Gdansk: Nowak and Jozwicki. Olsztyn: Panrowski, Mniszek and Bukowski . . .’ He droned on while the priest sat mute with half-closed eyes. One hundred and twelve names later Mirek came to the end. There was a silence, then the priest sighed shudderingly and murmured, ‘God have mercy on their souls.’
Curious, Mirek asked, ‘Did you know about any of them?’
He nodded. ‘Quite a few and we suspected others, but. . .’ He murmured two names and shook his head in sorrow, then took a breath and said briskly, ‘That information is invaluable, and it will save lives. Now, Mirek Scibor, I have something to offer you.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s walk a little. That bench has become hard.’
They walked slowly down the path towards the lake, the priest adopting exactly the gait of an old woman.
He asked, ‘What are your plans now?’
Mirek spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. My objective was to meet and talk to you.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Do you have any ideas?’
The priest stopped and looked at the lake. It was mirror smooth. At one end white lilies were pancaked across the water. Three swans drifted close to the shore, vying for grace.
‘I have no ideas,’ the priest said. ‘But I have a plan. You may be interested.’
‘What plan?’
‘To kill Yuri Andropov.’
Mirek laughed loudly. The swans took fright and the water rippled as they surged away. The priest said sharply, ‘You laugh. I thought you hated the man.’
Mirek’s laughter stopped and he looked at him curiously.
‘I do. I would literally give an arm and a leg to kill Andropov. But I assumed you were joking . . . I mean you stand there and simply state that you have a plan to kill Andropov as though you were talking about a plan to go to the theatre.’
The priest turned and resumed hobbling along in his ridiculous shoes. He said, ‘You may not have heard. A senior General of the KGB, Yevchenko, defected in Rome.’
Mirek nodded. ‘I read some newspapers this morning. I know of Yevchenko. It must have made the KGB wet themselves.’
‘Yes, well, he advised Italian Intelligence that Andropov and the KGB were planning another attempt on the life of our beloved Holy Father.’
‘Ah.’ Mirek nodded thoughtfully. The path was skirting the lake and to their right the swans kept pace with them.
Briefly the priest sketched out the plan and the reasons for it. In a dazed voice Mirek asked, ‘And the Pope approves? It’s hardly Christian.’
‘The Pope knows nothing of it. The plan derives from . . . well, from a group
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