Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Later that night, sitting in his upholstered easy chair, Father Beck surveyed his own room: the clock, the lamps, the carpet, his bed with its comfortable mattress, the books he was keeping in his shelves, the gold fountain pen on his nightstand. He loved the fountain pen the women at the Provincial’s office had given him when he left for Milford. It was his own fountain pen.

  “Oh, come on, John!” he said to himself. “You’re teetering on the brink of scrupulosity.”

  If Alex Samozvanyetz was a saint or well on the road to becoming one, he had no business comparing himself to him. He knew that. Alex was who he was. And he was just plain old John Beck. That’s how God wanted things.

  Still, he felt guilty. He had given way to curiosity. He had used the storm as an excuse to enter another’s room without permission. It wasn’t much of a sin. A fault, maybe, and not a terrible one at that. He had, after all, stopped short of opening Father Alex’s notebook. He would mention his transgression to his confessor, of course. And he resolved never to do anything like that again.

  Snooping was never a good thing to do. Especially in a cloister. But when he said his bedtime prayers that night, he couldn’t help wincing at the words “forgive us our trespasses.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  It was late Sunday afternoon when Father Samozvanyetz returned from Cincinnati. He went directly to his room, closed his door and placed his valise on his bed. Then, as he always did after even the shortest absence, he stood motionless and let his eyes sweep across the floor, one row of tiles at a time.

  He saw a short length of straw near the wardrobe, another in front of the chest of drawers. Two short lengths of straw. He picked them up and walked to the desk. The Goodier book had been opened; the others had not been disturbed.

  He frowned at the two pieces of straw in his fingers and then placed them on the white cloth that covered the top of the chest of drawers. He finished unpacking and changed his clothes. He shook out his clerical suit and hung it in the wardrobe, along with the good cassock he wore when he said Mass.

  Then, after shutting the wardrobe door, he put the two pieces of straw back in the bottom drawer of his chest where they belonged. The next time his room was searched, they would drop to the floor again.

  That evening at recreation he acted as if nothing had happened. The only priest in the parlor who had difficulty meeting his eyes was John Beck. He pretended not to notice. Convincingly, he thought.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Major Volkova arrived at the Jesuit church early that following Saturday. Once again, she watched the priest leave the sacristy and make his way across the church to his confessional booth. But this time he carried his stole in his left hand, not draped around his neck. He had something to tell her.

  She waited until there were only a very few people left in the church. Only then did she leave her pew and enter the priest’s confessional. She knelt and waited for the panel to slide aside.

  “I saw your signal,” she whispered in Russian.

  “There are things you must know,” he said in a low voice. “Tuesday I received an invitation to a meeting in Washington the first week in July. Thursday a man from the White House telephoned and pressed me for an answer. He said the President wanted to meet me.”

  “You accepted, I hope.”

  “Yes, I knew you would want me to accept. The White House man said he would take care of travel arrangements. I had to tell the Rector because I needed his permission to make the trip. He has arranged for me to stay at Georgetown University.”

  “Will you be meeting the President face-to-face?”

  “Only for a moment, I think.”

  “A moment is all that is required. I will send you a message tomorrow. I have information you will need about the President.”

  “I will watch for it. But I must tell you that John Beck searched my room last weekend.”

  “You are certain?”

  “My markers were dislodged.”

  “Could he have found anything?”

  “No. I keep nothing in my room.”

  “You are sure it was Beck? Not one of the others?”

  “Yes, Beck. He has become extremely suspicious.”

  “Most unfortunate. Has he communicated his suspicions to anyone else?”

  “I don’t think so. He suspects something, but he is not certain of anything. Why else would he search my room, if not to find evidence to justify his suspicions? But he found nothing, so he will say nothing.”

  “We cannot assume that he will remain silent forever. Does he know you are meeting the President?”

  “I am sure he will learn about it this week.”

  “Then he may tell his FBI friend about his suspicions, even if he has no evidence. One word from him can ruin everything. So Beck has to be eliminated. And quickly, too.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I can make it look like an accident.”

  “No, it could not work. Too much commotion in a quiet place like Milford.”

  “But he must be silenced.”

  “Then leave him to me. I am certain I can handle this.”

  “You can eliminate him yourself?”

  “I think I can silence him permanently. Give me two days.”

  “Two days, but no more. If you think your plan is not going to work, signal me immediately and I will take over. Do you understand? Beck must be silenced. If not by you, then by me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I must leave now.”

  “Yes, of course. Go in peace. But don’t forget to say your penance.”

  “Don’t be impudent.”

  “I am serious. You have been in here a long time. Say five decades of the rosary and be sure to look contrite. You never know who may be watching.”

  She cursed him in Russian and left.

  C H A P T E R • 16

  The Sunday morning sun, rising in a clear sky, dried out the air around Milford Novitiate and now it was just downright hot. Hotter than Hades, thought Father Beck. When his Mass in the main chapel ended, he knelt on the altar steps and prepared to lead the community in one of his favorite prayers.

  “Saint Michael the Archangel!” he intoned. And the young men in the pews, the novices on the right side, the juniors on the left, responded forcefully:

  “Defend us in battle. Be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil. Command him, Dear Lord, we humbly beseech You, and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all the other evil spirits who roam through the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Later that morning in the refectory, Father Beck toyed with his breakfast. The heat had taken away his appetite. He ate slowly and watched his silent novices attacking their corn bread and stew with gusto.

  He liked that word gusto, a good Roman word, as strong as any words the Anglo-Saxons had made their own. In the same way, he liked the prayer to Saint Michael the Archangel. The prayer had gusto. You could zip right through it without thinking too much about its content.

  Not that he doubted the existence of Michael and Lucifer and all the other angels and devils. He’d just never encountered any pure spirits in his lifetime, but that didn’t prove that they weren’t out there, somewhere, probably.

  Their existence was an article of faith, of course. But Father Beck’s spiritual life had always been more down-to-earth, becoming more mundane as he matured. As a small boy, he had been devoted to his own Guardian Angel whose small-framed image looked down upon him from his bedside wall. His name, he knew with childhood certainty, was Bill.

  Was Bill still hanging around? Father Beck liked to think that maybe he was.

  But even before his three years of theological studies, John Beck had come to regard pure spirits intellectually. He accepted the existence of angels much as he believed in the existence of gravity or torque or centrifugal force. As for the fa
llen angels? Well, Satan had never threatened him directly, not that he was aware of, probably because he’d never achieved a level of spirituality that might attract the Tempter’s attention.

  He recalled the shudder he felt when first seeing Salvador Dali’s painting: “The Temptation of Saint Anthony.” The naked saint thrusting his crucifix against the horses of temptation might have been able to challenge the forces of evil tormenting him, but John Beck? A face-to-face encounter with even one of Lucifer’s lesser lackeys would probably scare him to death.

  What was it his old Master of Novices had said? “If you ever meet the Devil, he’ll be wearing a black cassock.” He had never been able to decode that remark. Maybe it didn’t mean anything, he decided. But it had sure sounded profound.

  He looked at the clock on the refectory wall. It was time for the bell to end the breakfast period. Father Beck arranged his knife and fork on his plate and sat back. The novices, he saw, had long since emptied the serving bowls and platters on their tables and were now waiting to stand and recite Grace after Meals in Latin.

  For a moment, he considered joining the novices on their Ambulatio, but decided it was just too darn hot for a hike in the country. He would catch up on his paperwork and spend some time in the chapel instead.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  And so it was that Father Beck was in his office later that morning when Father Samozvanyetz telephoned from downtown Cincinnati.

  “I’m glad you’re there, John,” he said. “I need to have a talk with you. Could you give me some time this afternoon?”

  “Of course, Alex. Is something wrong? You sound troubled.”

  “You’re right, I am troubled, John, and it would help me if you could hear my confession this afternoon. Would you be willing to do that for me?”

  “Of course I would,” said Father Beck.

  “I don’t know when I’ll get there. I’ve been asked to say the eleven o’clock Mass, so I’ll have my noon meal here before catching the bus back to Milford.”

  “Then I’ll see you when you get here, Alex. I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Father Beck went to the third-floor chapel which, he knew, would be empty until the novices returned from their Ambulatio. He knelt in prayer for a while and then sat down to think about the phone call.

  What on earth would trouble a saint, he wondered? He had read about saints, of course, but he’d discounted a lot of the depictions of their inner lives as being overly pious. If Alex was troubled, it must be about something subtle, some minor fault or imperfection. Well, he would find out soon enough.

  Father Beck doubted that he had much, if anything, to offer Alex Samozvanyetz in the way of spiritual guidance. But he had to admit that he was eager to be given even a glimpse of his friend’s inner life. It might satisfy his curiosity or even confirm his suspicions about Alex’s sanctity.

  He closed his eyes and listened to his own breathing. Sometime later, he became aware of voices outside the building. The novices were returning from their hike. He knelt for one last prayer, asking God to help him help his friend. He felt a surge of confidence and happiness as he gazed at the tabernacle.

  “I’ll probably only have to dust off his wings a little,” he murmured. “I think I can handle that. With Your help, of course, Lord.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Father Samozvanyetz settled into his seat on the bus to Milford and kept an eye on the other passengers now boarding. He recognized the young man wearing a sweatshirt and a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap who took a seat several rows behind him. The man would only ride for two stops, he knew, so he opened his Breviary and waited.

  As the bus approached the second stop, the young man stooped beside his seat and stood up with an envelope in his outstretched hand.

  “I think you dropped this, Father,” he said just loud enough to be heard by anyone sitting nearby. Father Samozvanyetz accepted the envelope with thanks and slipped it into the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. He would wait to read his message in the privacy of his room, but he knew that it was his marching orders and what Oksana Volkova called her “secret weapon.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Father Beck sat at his desk reading his Office, silently reciting the prayers for the canonical hours of Sext, those hours from noon to three o’clock when the day’s conflict between good and evil is supposed to be at its climax and the powers of Hell are supposed to have the greatest influence over mankind.

  “They have all but put an end to me on the earth,” the Psalmist was chanting, “but I have not forsaken your precepts.” Father Beck was thinking, not about himself, but about his Savior who hung on the Cross through the dreadful hours of Sext while Satan brought all his forces to bear against Him.

  Father Beck felt a presence. He looked up from his breviary.

  His friend Alex was standing in the doorway, a dark figure wearing the good cassock he wore while celebrating Mass. His expression was grave.

  “You are sure you are willing to accept this burden, John?”

  “Of course I’m willing,” said Father Beck. “I’ll finish this later.” Setting aside his breviary he removed his stole from the middle drawer of his desk. “Your burden can’t be all that heavy, Alex.”

  “Don’t take it lightly, John.”

  Father Beck kissed his stole and draped it around his neck.

  “Just shut the door and sit down beside the desk, Alex. There’s no need to kneel.”

  He lowered his eyes and waited.

  He heard the click of the door latch and the faint rustle of his friend’s cassock as he walked across the room and stood with his hands on the back of Father Beck’s chair.

  “I told you on the telephone that I am troubled. Deeply troubled. You said you would help me unburden myself. Is that correct?”

  “Of course, Alex.”

  “You place yourself under the Seal of Confession with no reservations whatsoever?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Because there must be no mistake. What I tell you must be held secret forever. Nothing must be used by you in any way whatsoever. I desperately need that assurance, John, and you must not give it lightly.”

  “You have my assurance,” said Father Beck with a smile. “I am certainly not going to break the Seal. Never.”

  “Even if you find you cannot give me absolution?”

  “I don’t see how that could happen,” said Father Beck.

  “But if it does, will you break the Seal?”

  “Never, Alex. You have no need to worry so. I will never break the Seal of Confession.”

  “Very well. Then I shall begin.”

  Father Beck watched his friend sit down and arrange the folds of his cassock. Only then did he meet Father Beck’s eyes.

  “I have not told you the complete truth, John. But now that you are bound by the Seal of Confession, I shall.”

  Father Samozvanyetz took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “I have no choice,” he said. “Sometime last weekend you entered my room and searched it. Is that not correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.” Father Beck lowered his eyes. “I am truly sorry about that, Alex.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are. Or soon will be.”

  His friend sounded sad, disappointed.

  “Look at me, John. Tell me what you see.”

  Father Beck clutched the arms of his chair. The room turned cold.

  “What is happening?” he said. “What are you doing? I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”

  “You can believe it, John. Just keep watching.”

  “Something’s happening to your face! What are you doing?”

  “I am relaxing.”

  “Your face is falling away!”

  “Something like that. An actor is leaving the stage and wiping off his make-up. Isn’t that what you are seeing?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You are beginning to see what is r
eal. Not what you have only imagined.”

  “Your voice is changing!”

  “It is my real voice you are hearing. And your eyes are open wide now. Are you seeing what you have been looking for?”

  “What is happening to you?”

  “I am allowing myself to be myself.”

  Father Beck pushed back hard, shoving his chair away from the stranger before him.

  “Dear God in Heaven! Who are you? You are not Alex!”

  “Of course I’m not! You didn’t know that?”

  “What have you done with Alex?”

  “God damn it, Beck! You didn’t know? Then why the hell were you searching my room?”

  Father Beck had retreated as far as he could.

  “I was just looking around. It was raining. I went in to close your windows. I looked around. I’m sorry.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Nothing. I was just curious.”

  “Just curious!”

  The man slammed his fist into his hand, cursing in Russian.

  “But you suspected me of something, Beck. You have been watching my every move. What did you suspect me of?”

  “Not of being a fraud, an imposter! That never crossed my mind!”

  “Then, what?”

  “I believed you were who you said you were. I truly believed you were Alex! You took me in completely.”

  The man threw himself into the chair beside the desk.

  “What a terrible, terrible, terrible mistake I have made!”

  “For God’s sake,” Father Beck pleaded. “Tell me what you’ve done with Alex! Is he still alive in Russia?”

  “No, he is dead. Some three years now.”

  Father Beck slumped in his chair.

  “I see,” he sighed.

  “I am afraid you do not see, Beck. And you must see, for your sake as well as mine. You and I, we must go on, Beck. What is done is done and now there’s no turning back.

  “I have come to you to confess, remember? That is why I am here. I am confessing in order to keep you silent. So you must hear it all.”

  Father Beck stared at the stranger before him. He felt the Seal of Confession tightening around his chest.