In The Name of The Father by A. J. Quinnell Read Free Book Online Page B

he heard sharp piping voices. He looked back to see the striped rubber ball heading towards him and the two tots gesturing behind it. He reached out a foot, gave it a sharp tap and watched with satisfaction as it headed straight back towards them. The nanny called ‘ Danke ’ and then a voice beside him said, ‘Do you have a light, please?’
    He turned. The old hag was holding a cigarette. She had screwed her features into what she expected to be a coquettish look. It made his stomach turn. With yet another inward curse he reached into his pocket for his new bright blue lighter. He decided he’d give the damn thing to the hag in exchange for her going away. But even as his hand encountered it the years of mental training took over and his muscles froze. Surely it couldn’t be. Hesitantly he said, ‘I don’t carry matches.’
    She tut-tutted, shook an admonishing finger at him and said, ‘You were supposed to say “never”, not “don’t”.’
    Hell, this really was the contact.
    ‘That’s . . . that’s right,’ he stammered. ‘I never carry matches.’
    She glanced around her and lowered her voice.
    ‘So you are the Pole?’ She giggled. ‘Such a handsome young man!’
    Impatiently he replied, ‘Yes. Are you going to pass me on . . . to the Bacon Priest?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘No!’
    ‘No, Mirek Scibor. You are talking to him.’
    The words took several seconds to penetrate, then his mouth literally opened in surprise.
    ‘You? The Bacon Priest? Pieter Van Burgh?’
    She nodded. He recovered and studied the face carefully. He reviewed what little he knew of the Bacon Priest. The man was known to be between sixty and sixty-five years old. Just under six feet tall, well built with a big paunch. Round faced. This apparition looked like nothing more than the scabrous hag he took her to be. He was about to express his scepticism when he remembered the Bacon Priest’s legendary reputation for disguise. He studied her some more. She sat slumped on the bench making it difficult to judge her height. The voluminous black dress could be hiding a girth. Her face was round but covered with pancake make-up and rouge; also partly obscured by straggles of limp grey hair and the grey lace scarf. But still her posture and gestures were that of a woman of at least seventy. He did know one way to tell. The dress had sleeves that came down almost to her knuckles. He leaned forward and said sternly, ‘Show me your wrists.’
    She smiled without trying to be coquettish and slowly raised her arms. The sleeves dropped to reveal the thick sturdy wrists of a man.
    Mirek shook his head in admiration. ‘I would never have known.’
    The Bacon Priest chuckled. ‘Three years ago I stood this far away from you on the railway station in Wroclaw.’
    ‘Maybe,’ Mirek conceded. ‘But you weren’t dressed like that.’
    ‘No. I was dressed in the uniform of a Colonel in the Polish Tank Corps. We travelled on the same train to Warsaw . . . but I went first class!’
    Again Mirek shook his head in wonderment.
    The Bacon Priest’s voice dropped several decibels to its normal tone.
    ‘Come closer.’
    Mirek edged down the bench and said, ‘Hell, but you stink!’
    The priest’s teeth showed in a smile.
    ‘Mirek Scibor, you should know that it’s a major element in a good disguise. I mix the solution myself. People stay away from body odour and don’t look at the source too closely. You will have to suffer while we talk.’
    Mirek nodded. ‘I will suffer. I suffered during a long journey to get here.’
    ‘You did. I know why you needed to escape but why did you insist on seeing me?’
    Mirek was looking at him curiously. He asked, ‘Weren’t you . . . aren’t you worried that I might be a “black” planted into your organisation to compromise it? Even on this journey I have discovered a great deal.’
    The priest smiled and shook his head. ‘Neither the SB, nor even the KGB would sacrifice two of its top officers to effect a