Father Beck did not reply.
“I have given you enough information to destroy me, to send me to the firing squad or the electric chair. But I know that you will not use it because you cannot. You cannot reveal any of this information or use it in any way. Is that not correct? You cannot betray me, can you? Answer me!”
“No, I can’t betray you.”
“There is one last thing you must not reveal, John. I have been invited to go to Washington to meet the President.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Do not worry. I will not harm him. My job is just to listen, remember?”
“I wish you had listened to that Oksana woman,” said Father Beck. “I would be better off dead.”
“That can always be arranged.”
The man picked up his cassock from the back of his chair and put it on. He wrapped his cincture around his waist and pulled it tight.
“I respect you, John Beck, and I trust you. But prudence demands that I keep a close watch, lest you give way to human weakness.”
He walked to the door and stopped.
“Look at me,” he commanded. “Don’t forget for a moment that your life is in danger, as well as your soul.”
The man turned around to face the door, paused for a moment, then turned back again.
There stood Father Alex Samozvanyetz, S.J.
“Please, John,” he said in that familiar voice, “do not do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
With that, the man who played the part of Father Alex Samozvanyetz left Father Beck’s office, closing the door behind him.
The latch clicked softly. Father Beck shuddered. He knew his prison cell door had been slammed shut. He could not move or think. He raised his eyes to the crucifix on the wall above him, but he could not pray. Like Alex Samozvanyetz in Lubianka, he had been condemned to a life of solitary confinement. Like the suffering Christ on the Cross, he was alone in the world, forsaken by his Father, cut off from all help.
∗ ∗ ∗
The sun was setting. Out in the corridor, the electric bells rang. It was time for Litanies and Benediction in the main chapel.
Father Beck pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up. He would have to carry on and act as if nothing had happened. God and the Russian agent would be watching him.
He worked hard to finish his supper that Sunday evening. It was the usual simple meal: bread, soup, cold cuts, potato salad, Jell-O for dessert. He had no appetite. He was afraid of calling attention to himself in any way, so he forced himself to eat.
Thank God, it was a silent meal. One of the juniors was reading aloud from the pulpit set between the swinging kitchen doors at the far end of the refectory. Father Beck, eating mechanically, had no idea what book was being read. The words were meaningless to him.
When supper ended, he joined the other priests in the second floor parlor for recreation because he was expected to be there. He did not contribute to the general conversation, but pretended to listen attentively, nodding or smiling or laughing when it seemed appropriate.
He tried to ignore the man who pretended to be Alex Samozvanyetz, but he couldn’t help himself. The man was mesmerizing. Even knowing the truth, it was difficult to see through the actor’s performance. And now this Russian spy had John Beck performing, too. He began to feel light-headed, almost giddy.
He seemed to be looking down upon the room from a great distance watching himself and the imposter. Could he leave early? The recreation period was drawing to a close. He yawned and walked toward the door, but the Rector intercepted him.
“Has Samozvanyetz told you he’s going to Washington next week?”
Father Beck didn’t know what to say, so he raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
“He’s going to meet the President,” said the Rector. “Pretty exciting, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very exciting,” said Father Beck.
“Are you feeling all right, John?”
“I’m just a little tired. I’m going to turn in early.”
Father Beck escaped to his room. The brief exchange had terrified him.
He sank down in the easy chair by his bed. Here, at least, in the solitude and privacy of his own quarters, he was in no danger of saying or doing the wrong thing. He was caught in a trap. There was nothing he could do without breaking the Seal of Confession.
But what about breaking the Seal? He tried without success to rid himself of the ugly question.
Why couldn’t he be as cynical as the man who had trapped him? Informing the authorities would be a mortal sin, a pre-meditated sacrilege. But couldn’t any sin be forgiven if one repents?
But would he repent? If he intentionally cut himself off from God’s grace, would he ever be able to regain it? Or would he be dragged farther from salvation like a swimmer caught in a strong current?
Was he being too scrupulous? Would a single mortal sin be such a terrible blot on a lifetime record? Wouldn’t a just and merciful God consider the extenuating circumstances?
He had been tricked and maybe it was God’s will that he risk damnation to fight such evil? God only knew what this false priest planned for the President of the United States!
Father Beck rushed from his chair to scan his bookshelves, but he knew there was no book anywhere with an Imprimatur and a Nihil Obstat that would set him free. He must remain silent. He had been rendered powerless to do anything except put on his pajamas, brush his teeth and go to bed.
∗ ∗ ∗
So where was brash, glib John Beck now, he asked himself. That happy-go-lucky fool was sitting in his pajamas, head bowed in despair, crushed by his secret burden, condemned to silence or damnation. Silence or damnation. John Beck’s only choices.
He tried to kneel, but crumpled to the floor beside his bed. His fingers clutched the bedspread.
“Alex!” he sobbed. “Help me, Alex!”
C H A P T E R • 18
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz spent a restless night in the Jesuit residence at Georgetown University. He woke up that morning with a dry mouth and queasy stomach, something he had often experienced before opening-night performances.
He breathed deeply and quietly vocalized as he showered and shaved and dressed. As always, his stage fright evaporated this morning as he stepped through the door and onto the Washington stage.
The President of Georgetown and the Provincial of the Maryland Province delivered him to the White House well in advance of his ten o’clock appointment with President Kennedy. He felt comfortable enough to feign polite interest in the furniture and paintings the young presidential aide pointed out as he guided the Jesuit visitors through the White House and into a parlor near the President’s office.
There were a few other visitors gathered there, all civilians, chatting nervously. He had no difficult identifying the two Secret Service bodyguards. They were calm and had nothing at all to say.
Two men with cameras arrived and were immediately allowed into the Oval Office. Good, he thought. The photographers might provide him with a moment alone with the President. Perhaps by taking a photo of the two of them shaking hands? A moment was all he needed. He resisted the urge to put his hand in his pocket. Bodyguards are trained to notice such mistakes.
His first impression of the Oval Office was that it was smaller than it appeared in the pictures Oksana Volkova had given him to study. But the dark blues, the golden draperies, the polished wood, the sunlit carpet with its presidential seal all heightened the desired effect of understated power.
The furnishings and decorations directed a visitor’s eye to the presidential desk. Off to the side of a conversational grouping of comfortable sofas and armchairs stood the President’s celebrated rocking chair with its cushioned seat and back.
“Quite impressive, isn’t it, Father?” whispered the Maryland Provincial.
“Indeed it is,” he replied in a hushed tone that indicated the correct amount of awe. “I never dreamed I would ever be here.”
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br /> He felt the dramatic tension intensify. The guests had been given just enough time to allow anticipation to reach its zenith. Then the presidential aides stopped making small talk and turned to the door through which the President would enter.
All eyes followed. A hush fell over the room. Eight seconds later, the door swung open.
President John F. Kennedy stepped into the Oval Office and advanced toward his audience with his Irish teeth and hair and eyes, the not-quite-straight posture, the confident stride with just the slightest hint of pain. The man who played Father Samozvanyetz joined in the visitors’ applause for a perfect entrance any actor would admire. He sensed that the Oval Office had become brighter. Was it charisma or lighting?
Shamelessly, the President of the United States waved aside the small ovation he had elicited.
“Good morning, Reverend Fathers, Ladies, Gentlemen!” he said with a smile.
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz responded with all the others in the room, “Good morning, Mister President!”
President Kennedy walked directly to him, clasped his right hand and held it with both hands.
“Welcome to the White House, Father Samozvanyetz! We’re all extremely happy that we were able to bring you home.”
“Thank you, Mister President,” he replied. “I am deeply appreciative.”
“I’m told you’ve been able to settle into a comfortable routine?”
“Yes, Mister President. A quiet and ordinary life, thanks to you. May I introduce my companions?”
“Oh, I know them very well, Father. You travel with some notorious characters.”
The President freed his hand ending their moment alone.
“We seem to be overrun with Jesuits today,” the President said to the other visitors. “Let’s hope our Southern Baptist friends don’t get wind of this. It will confirm their darkest suspicions.”
This was, of course, a joke. He could see that his Jesuit escorts were delighted by the President’s playfulness. But the man who played Father Samozvanyetz only smiled politely and did not join in the laughter. A man so long out of touch would not appreciate such a reference.
He noticed that President Kennedy had noted his lack of reaction.
While the President moved on to greet the other visitors, shaking hands and chatting, the man who played Father Samozvanyetz stood listening to the medley of easy banter, friendly teasing and respectful rejoinders. He smiled pleasantly, presenting an air of mild bewilderment, but not disapproval.
He was surprised when the President returned to him and guided him to the chair next to his rocker and waited until he sat down before taking a seat himself.
The other visitors were directed to the perimeter of the Oval Office where they watched out of earshot. The photographers moved forward and took several pictures of the serious young President focusing all his attention on the Jesuit priest sitting before him.
The photographers stepped away and President Kennedy spoke quietly. “Please stay seated while the others leave, Father.”
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz watched John F. Kennedy pose for photos of him shaking hands, one by one, with all the other visitors. When that ritual concluded, the President thanked his guests for having visited and allowed his aides to usher them out of the Oval Office.
The two Jesuits seemed flustered and a bit unhappy about being ushered out to the lobby while the priest they had brought to the show remained, as it were, backstage with the star.
So far so good, he thought.
The two Secret Service agents were standing apart at a discreet distance. Both, he saw, would have a clear shot if it proved necessary.
The President, having left his charm on the stage, returned to his rocking chair.
“I’ve been reading the transcript of your debriefing with considerable interest, Father Samozvanyetz. I want to ask you directly about certain details. Rather, certain omissions.”
Good. He was getting down to serious business.
“You did meet former Soviet officials in the labor camps?”
“That is correct, Mister President. A great many.”
“Knowledgeable people? Former high-level officials?”
“Yes, Mister President. Several of the very highest level.”
“And they told you things,” said the President.
It was a statement, not a question. So the man who played Father Samozvanyetz drew back slightly.
“I have a problem discussing this, sir.”
“I understand, Father. This is not the time or place to explore such a delicate matter. But I want to get a sense of how restricted any further discussion might be.”
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz looked down at his folded hands to conceal the excitement he felt. Wait, he told himself. Say nothing. Just listen. The President of the United States was leaning forward now.
“Please believe me, Father Samozvanyetz. I would never ask you to do anything that would violate your conscience. I am, however, deeply concerned about the probability of a serious miscalculation by either the Soviet Union or the United States. I believe it is inevitable. We don’t understand each other very well, if at all. I believe it is inevitable that one of us is going to make a serious mistake. Do you agree?”
“I am afraid that I do, sir.”
“Might it then be possible, within limits we both understand, that you might give me your insights, impressions or even just opinions about how the present leaders of the Soviet Union might be thinking?”
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz took his time answering.
“I would have to be extremely careful, Mister President. Some things I can never reveal.”
“I understand. I know I am asking you to walk a very thin line, Father. But could you, at least, think about it?”
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz glanced at the Oval Office door as if searching for a way out. How far the President was prepared to go? He decided to find out and looked the President in the eye.
“Could you guarantee that such consultations would be private? Just the two of us? Face to face?”
“Yes, I could guarantee that.”
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz pursed his lips as if he were pondering the matter. He let the pause play out, then spoke slowly and deliberately.
“I will give this serious consideration, Mister President. Your concerns are completely justified. Perhaps I can find some way to help you.”
“That’s all I need to hear today, Father. We’ll talk again.”
The President grasped the arms of his rocking chair. The man who played Father Samozvanyetz saw the flash of real pain in President Kennedy’s eyes as he pushed himself out of his rocking chair and rose to his feet. The President shook his hand and the private conversation was over.
One of the Secret Service agents held the door open. The man who played Father Samozvanyetz walked out of the Oval office and joined the two Jesuit superiors who were waiting for him.
“Is there anything you care to tell us, Father?” asked the President of Georgetown.
He shook his head and the two Jesuits nodded.
“Then we had best move on,” said the Maryland Provincial. Another polite young presidential aide swept them through the corridors of power and out to the White House driveway.
∗ ∗ ∗
That night, back in his room in Milford, he took Oksana Volkova’s secret weapon out of his suit coat pocket. It was a sheet of note paper, folded again and again so that it could fit into the palm of his right hand, small enough to be transferred during a handshake without anyone noticing but disturbing enough to cause the President to ask himself: “How did he learn about this? And what else does he know?”
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz unfolded the paper and put a match to it. He let it burn over his sink, turned on the faucet and watched the ashes disappear down the drain.
The way the meeting played out, there had been no need to use the list
Oksana Volkova had delivered to him. Nor would there be in the future. He had stored the names of all six women in his memory where he could recall them, just in case.
That Saturday morning, the man who played Father Samozvanyetz, acting as if nothing unusual had happened that week, took the bus downtown to hear more confessions at the Jesuit church.
C H A P T E R • 19
Father Beck labored at his desk that morning, forcing himself to personalize the form letters to the young men who would make up the new class of Jesuit novices. What had once been a pleasant task was now a joyless chore. He saved the most agonizing letter until last, the one to Herb Coogan’s son.
“My Dear Charles,” he wrote in the space above the typewritten text.
Our Very Reverend Father Provincial has notified me that he has passed favorably on your application for admission to the Novitiate. Allow me to congratulate you, and to assure you of a warm welcome to Milford. The enclosed papers should be of help.
I would advise you to get some expert help in marking down your cassock measurements, which should be returned to me as soon as possible. A good tailor can help our lay brothers avoid errors which can sometimes be costly and annoying. It would be wise, also, to visit both a dentist and an oculist if you have not done so recently. Any attention you may happen to need can be had now more conveniently than in the early weeks of the Novitiate.
We will be expecting you on August 21. In the meantime, I pray that our Dear Lord will have you in His good keeping, and that He will bring you safely to our doors after a pleasant vacation.
In the space above his typewritten title “Master of Novices,” he wrote: “Very sincerely yours in Christ, John Beck, S.J.” He folded Charley’s letter and its mimeographed attachments in thirds, the way the nuns had taught him in grammar school, and slipped them into the last envelope.
If only he could have written to all of the young men: “Stay away! Don’t leave your homes! I am in no condition to receive you, let alone start you off on your spiritual journey!” Warning them off, of course, was impossible. There was no way to stop them.
Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy Page 17