Charles McCarry - The Miernik Dossier

Q. I see. Well, this really isn’t necessary, Miss Miernik. As you’ve said, it’s a private matter.

A. There are no private matters in this world, my friend. Paul and I could not have found a place where we were less likely to be found making love than in that oasis. All the same, you were following us, weren’t you? You did not actually walk into our camp and shine a torch on our bodies. You just want to look into our minds. The picture is still there, and that’s better than the reality for you. Ordinary life, for you, is pornography. No, no, I’m not blaming you or any of the others who are like you from Russia to America. The South Pole as well, I suppose. It’s what you do; it’s a fact of existence. Please note that I am showing no anger. I am smiling. Some things cannot be taken down in writing.

15 July. If anyone but Kalash had come to me with the information that he had lost Miernik in the mountains on an archaeological expedition I would have reached for my revolver. In Kalash’s case, it was perfectly believable. “Miernik has been rooting in my father’s library ever since he arrived,” Kalash told me, “looking for a link between our family and the old sultans of west Sudan. He will not be convinced that we came from Arabia. One indulges these fantasies in scholars. I thought he’d like to see the ruins; there are some rather dim pictures on the old walls. As I was going right by on my way to see someone I offered to drop him off. I could not have been more astonished when he vanished.”

I immediately assumed that Miernik had taken advantage of Kalash’s expedition in order to make contact with the ALF. When Kalash told me that his meeting was with his half brother Qemal, I no longer had any doubt that Miernik had slipped away to take command of the guerrillas. In a way, it was amusing that Miernik had in the end outwitted me through such a simple device. While I slept the morning away, he got in a Land Rover and rode innocently away, making no attempt at concealment because he had equipped himself with one final perfect cover story. The ancient kings of Darfur. It was a pretty operation.

No doubt I could have accepted his disappearance as the proof we’ve wanted that he is the Soviets’ principal agent to the ALF. But a mixture of duty and pride (mostly pride) made me think that I had to follow him to make absolutely certain. I was curious to know what change would come over him once he was freed of his cover personality and acting as head terrorist.

I did not imagine that Miernik would have been so careless as to leave any clues behind him, but I searched his room anyway. His clothes were all neatly hung and folded; there was nothing in the pockets. I felt the linings of his suitcases and looked for hidden compartments; it seemed possible that Miernik would use such devices. Finally, in a locked valise, I found three oblong metal boxes filled with file cards. These were covered with Miernik’s large handwriting, in green ink and in Polish. There was nothing else. The small briefcase that Miernik always carries with him was missing. I took the card files to my own room and told my boy to let no one touch them in my absence.

Kalash agreed to let me have a Land Rover. He wanted to send along a couple of his father’s men as protection, but I refused. Later I had cause to regret this: I could have used a couple of strong natives for some of the work that lay ahead. I thought the best protection I could have was Zofia Miernik. If there was anything genuine about her brother, it was his blundering love for Zofia. I didn’t plan to use her as a human shield as I shot my way out of the camp of the ALF, but I did believe that Miernik would control his men if she was present. Also, I didn’t want her disappearing while I was wandering around looking for Miernik. She agreed to come without hesitation. Her agitation over Miernik’s disappearance seemed genuine.

After I left Zofia I went outside to load the Land Rover. Kalash was already on hand, and with him was Aly Qasim. They gave me a marked map and a walkie-talkie, and we agreed on a radio routine that would permit them to keep track of my movements as long as I didn’t get out of radio range. Qasim was very direct. “I assume,” he said, “that we have a mutual friend in Harrison Burbank. [10]He is a splendid chap. I will mention to Harrison what you are doing when I speak to him today. He will have a natural interest in the activities of an American citizen. I will tell you now what I shall have to tell Harrison later on-that I cannot offer you any protection once you are out of my sight. This is a very large country, very wild.” Qasim unfolded the map and drew a circle around a spot on the middle fork of the Wadi Magrur. “I advise you to avoid this place,” he said. “Good luck.” He shook hands, smiled brightly, and walked into the palace.

Zofia and I found the ruins where Miernik had last been seen, and a little distance away the tracks of the other Land Rover. These led southeast for two or three miles, then turned straight north. As the ground rose, it became less sandy, and following the tracks became increasingly difficult. Mostly I guessed at the route: in that terrain, which is a jumble of ffinty hills and gravel fields, there in nowhere to go except through the passes. Occasionally, on a patch of soft ground, I’d find a tire track, and once a smear of oil where the Land Rover had apparently been parked while Qemal and Miernik and their friends ate lunch: there were pieces of food strewn over the ground, and behind a rock a pile of human excrement.

The country was absolutely empty and silent, with not even a bird showing itself against the sky. The sun was very strong. I had taken the canvas roof off the cab of the Land Rover: I wanted to see behind me. Zofia rode beside me, not talking, not complaining. I put her to work as a lookout, wondering all the time if she would tell me if any of the ALF came sneaking over a hilltop. I more or less thought she would; she couldn’t be certain that any armed men she happened to see belonged to her brother. I couldn’t be certain that she knew anything about her brother’s mission.

We covered perhaps seventy miles, mostly in first gear, before dark. We camped in an oasis and went separately to the spring to take bucket showers. I made contact with Kalash at nine o’clock, the agreed transmission time, before we went to bed.

Zofia had difficulty sleeping. I awoke about midnight when I heard her rummaging around in the Land Rover. She was looking for her cigarettes, she said. She sat down near me to smoke, and in the flare of the match I saw that her face was wet with tears. She has a silent way of crying-no sniffling or whimpering; the tears just squeeze out of the corners of her eyes and run down her cheeks. Zofia is a very appealing girl. She asked in a perfectly steady voice if I minded her talking to me. I told her to go ahead.

“Have you any curiosity about my brother at all?” she asked. “I’d like to know what you really think about him, Paul.”

“What do you think about friends?” I said, shrugging into my wonderful-person role. “You take them as they are. Tadeusz is certainly a little more colorful than most people. I like him. It’s natural to like a man who interests you.

“Not many people have ever liked Tadeusz. You and Sasha. My father never liked him. He was an ugly man, like Tadeusz. Perhaps he didn’t want to be reminded of his own looks every time he saw his son. That’s Tadeusz’s explanation. He was badly damaged by our father’s indifference. It was not cruelty. Father wasn’t even unkind. He simply ignored his son. That’s always been Tadeusz’s fate, to be ignored.”

“Well, he seems to have broken that mold with a vengeance. Half the people in these mountains are thinking of nothing but Tadeusz at this moment.”