within the Church.’
At this Mirek slightly smiled. ‘Yes, I can imagine that such a group could be formed. Of course you are telling me this because you want me to be the envoy. The assassin.’
‘Yes.’
A long silence broken only by the crunch of their feet on the gravel and the distant, muted roar of traffic. The priest spoke at length. Not in a tone of persuasion but conversationally. Mirek above all knew of the capabilities of his organisation. So a hundred or so of his people had defected. Sad, but a drop in the bucket. There were tens of thousands more. Specialists in every field. Secret priests in factories who had been given special dispensation to marry and have children to tighten their cover. Secret priests in Governments, in agriculture, universities, hospitals. Even within Secret Services. When a Soviet grain shortage loomed the Vatican knew about it before the CIA. When a power struggle shaped up within the Polish Politburo the Vatican knew even before the KGB. At this point Mirek stopped walking and held up a hand.
‘I know. As you said: I know. I’ve spent eight years tracking and studying your organisation. I believe that you can put a man into the Kremlin. Especially as he won’t be expected. But can you get him out . . . alive? Or is that not in your plan?’
‘Indeed it is. Our best minds are working on it at this minute.’
Mirek’s lips moved in an ironic smile. ‘Jesuit minds, no doubt.’
‘Some of them.’
‘There were Jesuits on that list.’
‘Two of them.’
They continued walking. Mirek asked, ‘And what if I do it? What then? What happens to me afterwards?’
Without hesitation the Bacon Priest answered, ‘A new life. A new name. Even a new continent. North or South America, or Australia. The Church would resettle you . . . and protect you.’ He paused and then said, ‘And, of course, pay you. Substantially.’
The Pole’s lips twitched into an ironic smile. ‘Imagine. The Catholic Church paying Mirek Scibor! Money is not important. The resettlement would be . . . that, and plastic surgery.’ He took a breath, held out his hands palms upwards and said, ‘I’ll do it. You have your Papal atheist envoy. I’ll take your message.’ It was said simply, without a trace of drama.
The priest nodded. ‘Good.’
Another silence while both men collected their thoughts. Mirek mused, ‘I had a lot of training in the SB but not for this type of thing.’
Without stopping, Van Burgh pointed to the bench they had recently vacated. A man was sitting on it reading a newspaper.
‘That man there, he’s called Jan Heisl. When we’ve finished talking you will follow him. You will never see me again. He will give you papers, a passport . . . genuine . . . a whole identity. He will arrange for you to go to another country south of here . . . to a terrorist training camp in a desert. You will have strange bedfellows. Right wing, Left wing. Sometimes even from the same country.’
Astonished, Mirek asked, ‘You can arrange that?’
‘Certainly. Of course, they will think somebody else sent you. Heisl will arrange everything. They will teach you twenty ways to kill and to survive. Heisl will arrange money for you, and any equipment you might need.’
‘Does he know what my mission is?’
The priest nodded solemnly. ‘Yes. He is my right hand. He, and now you, are the only ones to know, the only ones who must ever know outside of Nostra Trinita.’
Mirek glanced at him.
‘So you are only three?’
‘It is enough . . . and safer.’ He took Mirek’s arm and they walked along like a down-at-heel mother and her son who has made good.
‘Now tell me why you hate Andropov.’
Chapter 4
Cardinal Angelo Mennini offered his hand and the nun knelt and kissed the ring. He made a sign with his eyes to his secretary. The secretary nodded and withdrew. As the nun rose the Cardinal graciously indicated a chair in front of his desk. Then with a rustle of his
At this Mirek slightly smiled. ‘Yes, I can imagine that such a group could be formed. Of course you are telling me this because you want me to be the envoy. The assassin.’
‘Yes.’
A long silence broken only by the crunch of their feet on the gravel and the distant, muted roar of traffic. The priest spoke at length. Not in a tone of persuasion but conversationally. Mirek above all knew of the capabilities of his organisation. So a hundred or so of his people had defected. Sad, but a drop in the bucket. There were tens of thousands more. Specialists in every field. Secret priests in factories who had been given special dispensation to marry and have children to tighten their cover. Secret priests in Governments, in agriculture, universities, hospitals. Even within Secret Services. When a Soviet grain shortage loomed the Vatican knew about it before the CIA. When a power struggle shaped up within the Polish Politburo the Vatican knew even before the KGB. At this point Mirek stopped walking and held up a hand.
‘I know. As you said: I know. I’ve spent eight years tracking and studying your organisation. I believe that you can put a man into the Kremlin. Especially as he won’t be expected. But can you get him out . . . alive? Or is that not in your plan?’
‘Indeed it is. Our best minds are working on it at this minute.’
Mirek’s lips moved in an ironic smile. ‘Jesuit minds, no doubt.’
‘Some of them.’
‘There were Jesuits on that list.’
‘Two of them.’
They continued walking. Mirek asked, ‘And what if I do it? What then? What happens to me afterwards?’
Without hesitation the Bacon Priest answered, ‘A new life. A new name. Even a new continent. North or South America, or Australia. The Church would resettle you . . . and protect you.’ He paused and then said, ‘And, of course, pay you. Substantially.’
The Pole’s lips twitched into an ironic smile. ‘Imagine. The Catholic Church paying Mirek Scibor! Money is not important. The resettlement would be . . . that, and plastic surgery.’ He took a breath, held out his hands palms upwards and said, ‘I’ll do it. You have your Papal atheist envoy. I’ll take your message.’ It was said simply, without a trace of drama.
The priest nodded. ‘Good.’
Another silence while both men collected their thoughts. Mirek mused, ‘I had a lot of training in the SB but not for this type of thing.’
Without stopping, Van Burgh pointed to the bench they had recently vacated. A man was sitting on it reading a newspaper.
‘That man there, he’s called Jan Heisl. When we’ve finished talking you will follow him. You will never see me again. He will give you papers, a passport . . . genuine . . . a whole identity. He will arrange for you to go to another country south of here . . . to a terrorist training camp in a desert. You will have strange bedfellows. Right wing, Left wing. Sometimes even from the same country.’
Astonished, Mirek asked, ‘You can arrange that?’
‘Certainly. Of course, they will think somebody else sent you. Heisl will arrange everything. They will teach you twenty ways to kill and to survive. Heisl will arrange money for you, and any equipment you might need.’
‘Does he know what my mission is?’
The priest nodded solemnly. ‘Yes. He is my right hand. He, and now you, are the only ones to know, the only ones who must ever know outside of Nostra Trinita.’
Mirek glanced at him.
‘So you are only three?’
‘It is enough . . . and safer.’ He took Mirek’s arm and they walked along like a down-at-heel mother and her son who has made good.
‘Now tell me why you hate Andropov.’
Chapter 4
Cardinal Angelo Mennini offered his hand and the nun knelt and kissed the ring. He made a sign with his eyes to his secretary. The secretary nodded and withdrew. As the nun rose the Cardinal graciously indicated a chair in front of his desk. Then with a rustle of his
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