Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  Herb’s assignment was to greet Charley’s friends at the front door. That was easy enough. He knew most of the neighborhood boys and girls by sight and by name. They were kids Charley had palled around with since first grade. But this afternoon they were wearing the clothes they’d worn to Sunday Mass and behaving as if they were still in church, especially the girls, who were uncharacteristically polite and circumspect, like bridesmaids waiting for their walk down the aisle.

  The boys had reached that age when they were greeting each other with handshakes rather than punches to the upper arm. This Sunday afternoon, even the most unruly young guys were subdued, almost reverent. One by one, the boys and girls added their signatures and personal notes to the pages of the remembrance book before proceeding to pay their respects to their soon-to-be-departed friend.

  Charley kept trying to keep things light-hearted. But Herb could see that his son’s pals were finding this affair a most solemn occasion. And an awkward one. Herb watched them as they stood with Charley, not knowing exactly what to say to him, for as long as they could.

  They were obviously relieved to be urged to slip back into Kathleen’s traffic pattern that carried them away to the dining room where they filled their paper plates at the buffet and flowed through the kitchen out into the back yard where they poured soft drinks into their plastic cups. Once there, Charley’s guests gathered in small groups outside the house at a respectful distance from their departing friend, to trade jokes and make dates.

  The back yard was, in all ways, brighter. Inside his somber house, Herb could hear the sudden bursts of laughter outside and thought about all the wakes he’d attended. At least, nobody today had remarked that Charley looked “so natural.”

  After an hour or so, the second wave of guests began to swamp the front porch as Charley’s high school friends and teammates reached Lakewood from parishes in other parts of Cleveland. Herb was surprised at how few faces he recognized.

  Herb was almost caught off guard by the appearance of the nice Catholic girl Charley had taken to his Senior Prom, but he was happy that he remembered her name in time. She shook Herb’s hand politely and then introduced him to her escort. He was not her brother, Herb was sorry to learn. He was her date.

  Herb watched the couple as they signed the guest book. Most of the other kids had taken the time to add a personal note. This girl did not. But she did stand looking at the book for a long moment before returning the pen to its holder. Then she took her escort’s arm and walked across the living room to say good-bye to the guest of honor. Herb half-expected the girl to give Charley a hug or a kiss on the cheek, but all his son got was a smile, a few kind words and a handshake from his prom date’s new boyfriend.

  Herb wondered what Charley thought about that and about everything else that was happening. He decided to find out, but he had to wait until the last guests had departed and Kathleen’s women friends and their husbands were helping clean up.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Herb found Charley standing off by himself on the empty front porch, alone outside his home with nothing but grown-ups inside. Herb put an arm around his son’s shoulder.

  “Are you okay, Charley?”

  “Not really.”

  “Want to take a ride with me? I have to pick up some stuff and I could use the company.”

  “Great,” said Charley. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Herb didn’t say anything until he’d turned the corner at the end of the block and headed downtown on Madison Avenue. “Something’s bothering you,” he said. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Yeah,” said Charley. “I’m really screwed, Dad. And I don’t know what to do.”

  “There’s nothing that can’t be fixed, Charley. What’s the matter?”

  “I made an awful mistake is what’s the matter.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes, Charley.”

  “Not one this big, Dad.”

  Herb let his son slouch in the passenger seat until he was ready to say something. It took several blocks before Charley sat up straight.

  “I don’t want to go to Milford, Dad.”

  “Well, okay,” said Herb.

  He kept his eyes on the road.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. But that’s not the problem.”

  “Okay, I’m listening. What’s bothering you?”

  “I really believed I was supposed to become a Jesuit, Dad. I really thought being a Jesuit was the greatest thing you could be. And I really thought I was good enough and smart enough.”

  “And now you don’t?”

  “Yeah, I was wrong. I know that now. I’m not good enough. I’m not smart enough. And I can’t give up everything forever. Not having a wife and a home and a family. I just don’t want to go there! But I have to!”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Charley.”

  “Oh, yeah? There’s no way I can’t go! I mean, you’ve spent all this money for clothes and stuff and Mom’s told everybody she knows how proud she is of me. And all my friends believe I’m going. And all my coaches, all my teachers. Everybody’s helping me, everybody’s proud of me and rooting for me. And if I don’t go, like I said I was, I’ll be letting everybody down. It’ll break Mom’s heart if I don’t go and I’d rather die than let her down. Or you either, Dad.”

  “You wouldn’t be letting us down, believe me, Charley.”

  “Yes, I would! And I hate myself for getting into this mess and getting you and Mom and everybody else to believe that I was going to do something really great. But I don’t want to be a Jesuit anymore and I can’t get out of it! I’m just screwed and it’s all my own fault! I don’t want to be a no-good quitter, but that’s what I’ll be if I don’t go! And oh, shit! What am I going to do, Dad? What can I do?”

  “First, you can calm down a little, Charley. Take a couple of deep breaths.”

  Herb spotted an empty parking space and pulled into it.

  “Look at me, Charley. You’re not the first guy in the world to change his mind about something. Especially something as big as what to do for the rest of your life. You wanted to be just like the Jesuits who taught you in high school. Well, they’re impressive guys and you wanted to be that kind of guy yourself. Nothing wrong with that, Charley. Nothing wrong with setting a goal for yourself and trying to achieve it. You’ve always aimed high ever since you were a little kid.”

  “But I was wrong,” said Charley. “I thought I could be like them, but I can’t.”

  “But at least you thought about it,” said Herb. “Most people can’t even do that.”

  “But I wasn’t good enough to follow through.”

  “Or maybe it’s just not the path you’re supposed to follow. Remember when you stopped wanting to be a fireman? You were just a little kid. I let you try to climb a ladder. You got up to the fifth rung and decided you’d rather be a cowboy.”

  Charley laughed. “Did I really? I don’t remember that.”

  “I told you being a cowboy was okay with me. Anyway, what you wound up becoming was a good student and a good athlete. So you’ve changed your mind about becoming a Jesuit. Okay! Maybe you’re supposed to become something else. A good coach or a good husband and father. That’s nothing to be ashamed about. And in no way are you letting me down, Charley. So, don’t worry about that. To tell you the absolute truth, I’m glad you changed your mind.”

  Charley looked away and said nothing.

  “As for your friends, if they’re disappointed in you, which I doubt, they’ll get over it.”

  “Yeah, probably,” said Charley. “But what about Mom?”

  “Well,” said Herb, “that’s something else again, isn’t it?”

  The two of them, father and son, sat there for a long moment until Herb sighed.

  “So that’s what our real problem is, isn’t it? You’re afraid of hurting your mother. As long as we’re being honest, so am I.”

  “So we’re bo
th screwed,” said Charley.

  “Let’s just say we’re in the same boat,” said Herb. “But maybe I can figure out how we can handle your situation without upsetting your mother or anybody else.”

  “No kidding? You think you can?”

  “Maybe. Something’s come up at work. You might not want to get involved in it, but I think you could handle it. You know what it means to go undercover?”

  “You mean like a cop pretending to be a crook?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Well, suppose I’ve learned that I might have a surveillance problem at Milford. The Jesuits suspect that some bad characters might be hanging around the novitiate. Visiting, making deliveries, keeping an eye on the place for some reason. They don’t have any hard evidence that there’s anything wrong going on. Just a hunch. It might not be much of anything, but they’ve asked me to check out their suspicions. I can’t justify staking out any of my agents. But I might be able to plant someone undercover there for a while.”

  “Someone like me?” said Charley.

  “Well, if you went to Milford undercover, you could stay a while until you see what the situation is, and then come home. And all your Mom has to know, or anybody else, for that for matter, is that you went to the novitiate, you gave it a good try and you found out that it’s not for you. That would take care of your Mom problem. And it would help me do my job.”

  “You mean I’d be just pretending to be a novice? The Jesuits wouldn’t go for that, would they?”

  “I think they would, once I explain it to them. If I can set it up, would you do it?”

  “Hell, yes!” said Charley.

  “Then I’ll make some calls in the morning. You come to my office around noon. I’ll tell you what you need to know and show you pictures of the people to watch out for. Then I’ll treat you to a Father and Son Farewell Lunch.

  “But, as of right now, you’ve gone undercover. So let’s go home and keep getting ready for your trip to Milford. We just don’t let on to your Mom that you won’t be staying there very long.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz stayed outwardly calm as the Rector spelled out the scheme to send Agent Coogan’s son to Milford.

  “As a watch dog, of sorts,” said Father Thornton. “Someone to keep an eye on things here without attracting attention and arousing curiosity.”

  Dammit, he thought. He would be under almost constant surveillance. How could he continue to play his part with an FBI agent’s son watching his every move, reporting his every word?

  “Certainly it’s not appropriate, Father Thornton! The young men are coming here to begin their religious training, not to work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It just won’t do.”

  Father Thornton raised his hand.

  “This young man won’t be here as a candidate for the Society. He will be pretending to be a novice. I admit that’s unorthodox, but Father Provincial’s decision has been made.”

  Stay in character; the man who played Father Samozvanyetz told himself. Lower your eyes!

  “Then we have no choice but to obey,” he said. “We shall have to do our best to help the Coogan boy do his job.”

  “Yes,” said Father Thornton. “No one else in the community is to know, except you and me. So you’ll have to teach him how to act properly so the other novices won’t think there’s anything unusual about him.”

  “Have you told Father Beck?”

  “No,” said the Rector. “Father Provincial doesn’t want him burdened with any of this.”

  “Very well,” said the man who played Father Samozvanyetz, “I will do the very best I can.”

  What else does one say now? he thought. God help me?

  C H A P T E R • 8

  Entry Day was almost over. There was only one hour left until midnight. The man who played Father Samozvanyetz knelt at his desk and reviewed the events of the emotionally exhausting morning and afternoon.

  The novitiate grounds were dark now. Inside, night-lights glowed along the baseboards of the long corridors and red EXIT lights marked the stairwells. Only a few household noises broke the sacred silence: a snore, a distant cough, the flush of a toilet. The last bells of the day had been rung and the newly arrived novices had long since fallen asleep in their unfamiliar beds.

  He was alone in his room. The door was closed. As always, his posture was correct. But his Examen was hardly orthodox. True Jesuits made their Examens at noon and at night, searching for faults or flaws. Therefore, so did he. But he was more like a motion picture director who screens raw footage looking for mistakes, discrepancies, false notes. He played back the day in his mind listening to his every word and studying his every gesture.

  At first, he had stayed close to Father Thornton and let the Rector guide him through Entry Day. It was not a festive occasion. Nothing like a wedding day. Far from it. The families of the young men had stood in clusters about the novitiate lawn, ill at ease, at a loss for something to say to each other. The families stood apart, separately, like mourners standing around a mass grave.

  Mothers and sisters in summer frocks and straw hats fussed and clutched at their young men and tried to gaze into their averted eyes. Fathers and brothers, hands in pockets, shuffled their feet, cleared their throats, scanned the leafy branches above their heads, then shuffled their feet some more. By mid-afternoon, the tall shade trees no longer lowered the August heat.

  He had followed the Rector about the novitiate lawn, from one family group to another, welcoming the young men and reassuring the parents. The words scarcely changed from group to group, so similar were their concerns. So it had not taken long for him to learn what was expected of him.

  As gently as possible, he had confirmed what the parents already knew. They would not be allowed to visit their sons until November, sometime after the thirty-day Long Retreat, and then only for the space of a day. And, yes, they would receive just one letter a week, but not during the Long Retreat. Yes, there were six visiting days a year, but no more than two in a row. The parents had known all that for months, of course.

  But now, as they lingered on the novitiate grounds, he could see that they were beginning to understand just what it all meant. It was more than some could bear. Even when there was nothing left to say to their sons, the families lingered. Mothers held onto their young men. Fathers took small steps toward the family automobiles parked along the curves of the driveway. He had walked with the mothers silently giving them permission to leave for home and, without saying a word, gently urging them on their way.

  The Coogans, as he had expected, were the last to depart. The FBI agent had asked to speak with him privately. So, while the Coogan boy spent some last moments with his mother, he had taken Herb Coogan inside the novitiate to the parlors outside the cloister where one could sit and chat in private, if not in comfort. He had led Coogan into one of those seldom-used rooms.

  Even with the window open, the room was stuffy and the upholstered Victorian furniture emitted a slight damp odor. The light from the tasseled lamp on the round table deepened the shadows.

  In this gloomy setting with its peculiar lighting, his eyes glinted. He knew that. And he had remembered to speak slowly and solemnly right from the very start. That had been easy enough. Coogan had visited John Beck in the infirmary earlier in the day and was distressed by his appearance. So it had been appropriate to offer words of comfort, which the agent had accepted gratefully.

  “Some days are hard to get through,” he had said. “Today is especially hard for you, I know.”

  “He seems so weak and fragile, Father. The fight’s gone out of him.”

  “I know, Mister Coogan. It is very sad. We are all deeply concerned. But you should know that he has his good days, too. Quite frequently, he is stronger and more active. I intend to involve him with the new novices as much as his health will allow. That will make him more cheerful, I know. And it will be good for the young men to get to know him.”
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br />   He had played that well, but it had come naturally enough. He was indeed sorry that Father Beck was suffering and he genuinely liked Coogan, who seemed to be a good, solid man, worthy of compassion. The agent had stood, head bowed, staring at the carpet, and it had taken him some time to get to his point. Finally, he had reached into his jacket and had taken out a manila envelope.

  “I want you to look at some photographs, Father. I’d like you to see if you recognize any of these people.”

  That was easy, too. At least, it was not unexpected. Thank God, the light was so poor that he had to strain to see the photographs. “These pictures,” he had murmured as he sorted through them, “I believe these are the same ones Brother Krause showed me. As I told him, I recognized most of the people, of course. Not that I know much about them. Parishioners, people from the neighborhood, some complete strangers who must have caught my eye for some reason.”

  He had handed Coogan the rest of the pictures. “When I am in the confessional, I can’t see out into the church, you understand.”

  He had allowed himself a gentle smile to break the tension. Coogan had not returned his smile. No matter. He hadn’t expected him to.

  “Please bear with me, Father. Just for a moment. Have you ever seen any of these people anywhere else? Outside of the area around the church? Somewhere else in the city? On the bus? Around the novitiate?”

  “No, never.”

  “Perhaps at some other time?”

  “I really don’t think so.”

  “In Russia, perhaps?”

  He had allowed the dawn to break very slowly. He had asked for and looked at the pictures again, had shook his head very slowly and had lowered his voice. “No, I am sure. Not in Russia.”

  But he had cautiously shown that he was worried and then allowed himself to feel and show the first touch of cold fear.

  “Why do you ask about Russia, Mister Coogan?”

  “We’ve got a report on these two, Father. They’re Russian intelligence agents.”