For the Good of the State

‘Same thing. Does it matter?’

‘To me it does.’ A knot of anger twisted in Tom’s guts. But then the dominant Arkenshaw half of him, descended from a long line of cold-blooded Englishmen, warned him that that particular length of gut was unreliably Polish. ‘What same thing, David?’

The old man watched him thoughtfully. “They’re both doing time in some Polish jail, aren’t they? Officially, anyway, if not actually.

And… twenty-five years each, wasn’t it?‘ Sniff. ’Isn’t there a typical Polish joke about that—about Piotrowski and Pietruszka getting twenty-five-year sentences for murdering Father Jerzy Popieluszko? One year for the murder—and twenty-four for getting caught?‘

The knot twisted again, even though it was a typical Polish joke. ‘I didn’t know you were an expert on Polish affairs, David.’

‘I’m not. Although I did learn quite a lot of Polish history when I was pursuing your dear mother so unavailingly long ago, when I cherished the foolish belief that the way to her heart might be through a profound knowledge of the Jagiello dynasty, and Sobieski’s ride to the relief of Vienna, and Pilsudski’s tactics against Trotsky.’ Audley smiled disarmingly again for a second.

Then his face blanked over again. ‘But the murder of Father Popieluszko did rather interest me for historical reasons as well as professional ones, you see, Tom. Historical analogies always interest me, particularly as they bear on the conflict between the

“Accident” and “Conspiracy” theories.’

Tom’s Arkenshaw 51 per cent restrained his Dzieliwski 49 per cent. ‘What historical analogy?’

Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State

‘My dear boy!’ Audley seemed genuinely surprised. ‘ You, with your special hobby, shouldn’t ask that! Don’t you remember when Henry Plantagenet cried “Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?”, or words to that effect?

So Fitz-Urse and the other three knights instantly caught the next cross-Channel ferry and murdered Thomas Becket in his own cathedral just as messily and incompetently as the Poles and the KGB murdered your Father Jerzy. And Henry threw up his hands in horror, and promptly disowned them?‘ Audley’s lip curled cynically. ’And he did penance for it. And his Thomas—your patron saint maybe, Tom?— he got his sainthood wings… But then Henry Plantagenet of England didn’t have to worry about his turbulent priest any more, did he? And your General Jaruzelski—‘

‘Not my General Jaruzelski, damn you!’ snapped Tom.

‘I do beg your pardon, Tom!’ The old man raised his palm. ‘I mean, of course, their General Jaruzelski— agent for Messrs Comrades Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, Gorbachev and Company Limited, registered in Moscow and Warsaw and other places too numerous to mention— their good General… he didn’t have to worry about his turbulent priest again, either. And neither did they, eh?’

‘You’re wrong.’ In spite of his Arkenshaw self, Tom couldn’t leave it at that. ‘People come from all over Poland to pray at his grave, David. And there’s always a mound of flowers on it. And men from his Warsaw steel plant stand guard there, night and day.’

‘Oh yes!’ Audley cut through his words. ‘And, in God’s good time, Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State as interpreted by the Vatican, he’ll be Saint George Popieluszko, just like our Saint Thomas Becket—you can bet on it! And they’ll go on coming to—where is it, Tom—?’

‘St Stanislaw Kostka, in Zoliborz.’ The words came out stiffly.

‘St Stanislaw Kostka, in Zoliborz.’ Audley just about managed to parrot the pronunciation. ‘Just like Thomas Becket’s shrine in Canterbury, only without so much gold and precious stones—

‘ “Thenne longen folk to go on pilgrimages—”

‘—just like we all have to learn for School Cert, out of Chaucer…

or it would have been “O-Levels” for you, presumably—

‘“And specially, from every shires ende Of Engelond, to Canterbury they wende, The holy blisful martir for to seeke, That them hath holpen when that they were weeke.”

‘Remember?’ Again the lip curled. ‘I’ve always thought that that was the one big mistake Marx made—not incorporating the Opium of the Masses into his formula somehow… Or Lenin might have managed an interpretative footnote or two, just to keep the non-party peasants quiet, like the feudal Church and State did, with a Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State

“treasure-in-heaven” clause… Just for the time being, anyway, before they were likely to get anything much on earth, while they were very obviously getting the rough end of the Revolution.’

That was enough. In fact, with Panin at their backs (maybe even now getting his feet muddy in Mr Rodger’s farmyard), it was too much, even disregarding its casual blasphemy.

‘How does Zarubin fit in with Father Popieluszko’s murderers, David?’

Audley beckoned him. ‘In the most obvious way. Can’t you guess

—if you really don’t know?’

Tom felt the soft hillside under his feet holding him back, in spite of the image of Panin at his back. ‘It was a KGB assassination?’

Audley looked surprised again, momentarily. ‘You really don’t know?’ Surprise warred with suspicion. ‘Of course… you are just… Damn! That sounds too damn patronizing for words, when I don’t mean it that way-’

‘Just a minder?’ If Audley was being honest now, then he was good. But then he was good. ‘A high-class minder?’

The old man’s face suggested that he found himself where he didn’t want to be. ‘I suppose… if I said that I wouldn’t like that job, because I don’t think I could do it—?’ Audley shook his head.

‘But the hell with that! Because… the truth is, I don’t know whether it was a KGB hit, or whether they just agreed to it.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Maybe Basil Cole could have told us more —

I don’t know that, either—whether Jaruzelski was in on it, or not…