Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  C H A P T E R • 11

  It was eight o’clock at night in Milford.

  “Amazing,” Father Beck told himself as his head sank deeper into his pillows. Here lies John Beck who has been searching for answers, trying to save the world from evil all by himself, and straining against God’s will until his health was broken.

  And then the Good Lord in His infinite wisdom and mercy sends a kind and humble novice with a good heart and a tray of milk and cookies to deliver His message: Leave the Russian to Heaven, John. I can handle it. You don’t have to do a thing.

  So I can just put my trust in God, Father Beck told himself. I can stop worrying and keep the Seal of Confession unbroken. The longer the impostor plays his part, the better. It is truly amazing!

  Father Beck clasped his hands and smiled.

  “I love you, God,” Father Beck whispered as he drifted off to sleep. “Sometimes you’re very, very funny.”

  Father Beck closed his eyes and slipped out of the cage that the Russian agent had lured him into. The key had been on the inside, plain as day.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The last bell rang at nine o’clock that Thursday night. Charley Coogan had spent the last fifteen minutes pretending to be doing his Examen. He could think of nothing but the scary view from Tibi Dabo. At the sound of the bell, he rose to his feet to join in the recitation of the De Profundis, a morose Psalm if ever there was one:

  “Out of the depths

  I have cried to thee, O Lord.

  Lord, hear my voice.

  Let thy ears be attentive

  To the voice of my supplication . . .”

  The prayer sounded even gloomier in Latin. It marked the beginning of the hours of Sacred Silence when no conversation was permitted, not even in Latin, until the morning except in an emergency.

  After the prayer ended, Charley walked down the hall to the castle and emptied his bladder. He made a quick visit to the novices’ chapel where he tried to say a few prayers and then he returned to his dormitory room.

  He drew the curtains around his cubiculum, changed into his pajamas, climbed into his bed and waited. The overhead lights, controlled by the novice closest to the switch, flicked off and then on again. Nobody coughed. That meant that everyone in the room had finished his chores. After a moment, the overhead lights went off for good.

  Charley stared up into the darkness, listening to the others, waiting for sleep to take him.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  It was ten minutes before midnight.

  Outside the Novitiate, rosary in hand, the man who played Father Samozvanyetz stepped through the shadows, dodging the patches of light falling from the few windows of the rooms still lit. When he reached the edge of the woods, he paused to let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. Out here, beyond the playing fields, there was only the moon to light his way. Not quite a full moon, but one bright enough to keep him from stumbling.

  He had no trouble finding the gravel path that would take him through the pines to his rendezvous. He followed the path almost silently, as he had been trained to do so many years before in the war. The woods were still and he moved like a ghost through the trees.

  Up ahead, he saw a dark figure standing motionless in the half-light. He froze in place.

  “Damn it,” he said to himself. One of the Jesuits was out for a stroll in the night. The priest was too far away to recognize, but he could make out the shape of the black cassock, the navy pea jacket, the knitted watch cap.

  There was nothing to do but keep walking forward, eyes downcast, not breaking stride. He would just nod and pass by. His rosary beads would deflect any attempt at conversation.

  But the dark figure blocked his path.

  “You are two minutes early,” Oksana Volkova said in Russian.

  “You startled me,” he said. “I thought you were one of the priests.”

  “Good,” she said. “It was my intention to look as if I belonged here.”

  “You do,” he said. “Even so, meeting here is dangerous.”

  He could see her better now. Her hair was pulled up under her cap.

  “I had to take the chance. I have had a message from Moscow. Something you must know. Have you heard anything from President Kennedy?’

  “Nothing. Not a word.”

  “That may change quite soon. Do you know where Cuba is in relation to the United States?”

  “A hundred or so miles from the State of Florida.”

  “Yes, very close. Well, that is where that bastard Khrushchev has decided to have his next insane adventure. He is constructing guided missile bases in Cuba. It is madness.”

  “Is he talking about it or doing it?”

  “It is all but done. Some missiles are already there, we think. Perhaps some nuclear warheads.”

  “I cannot believe it.”

  “It is true. Our general is furious. It makes no military sense. He sees it as a stupid reckless provocation by Khrushchev and I agree. But the ignorant fool is determined to increase pressure on the United States. He has chosen this way to do it.”

  “So what will happen now?”

  “Who knows? A full-scale war that no sane person wants? That’s entirely possible. It all depends on the Americans. How will they react when they find out? And they will find out. Sooner rather than later.”

  “Yes, of course they will. So what can we do?”

  “At the moment, nothing. We can only wait and hope that President Kennedy makes contact with you.”

  “That seems unlikely.”

  “Not as unlikely as you imagine. He believes you know things about our leadership that he does not know. I believe that once he learns about the missiles in Cuba, he will be desperate for any information possessed by Father Samozvanyetz. You may hear from him soon.”

  “And if I do?”

  “Try to ascertain his intentions. Will he stand up to Khrushchev? Will he fight? We must know that! When he tries to persuade you to tell him what you know—and I am sure that he will—you may learn enough about his intentions to discredit Khrushchev and get rid of him and the lunatics who are advising him before he destroys the world!”

  “I never imagined it would come to this.”

  “And yet it has,” said Oksana Volkova. “But we are positioned to do something, if we get the chance. This is not just a matter of gathering intelligence. Khrushchev undoubtedly believes he can force Kennedy to back down. He is a fool, of course. But enough powerful people back home think he may be right. At least that is what they think right now.

  “But there is no evidence to prove that he has made a catastrophic blunder. We need that evidence.”

  “If I do get to meet with the President, what can I do except listen?”

  “Use your wits. Find some way to convey the fact that opposition to Khrushchev exists. At the very least, Kennedy must be given a reason to suspect that such opposition exists.”

  “Why not have a diplomat tell him directly? Or someone in our military?”

  “Who would dare? That would be suicide. You know that.”

  “Yes, to be sure.”

  “Even if someone had the courage to take such a chance, why would Kennedy believe him? Better that he thinks he is discovering it himself through his own source. And that trusted source is you.”

  “He may never call for me. He may just attack Cuba and get rid of the threat as soon as he finds out about it.”

  “That’s what our general fears,” she said. “The United States attacks. We retaliate. We both escalate. And the world ceases to exist. Our only hope is that Kennedy delays taking action and gives our general’s people some time to maneuver in Moscow.”

  “When is all this supposed to come to a head?”

  “Who knows? Tomorrow? Next month? Next year? It all depends on when the Americans learn about the missiles.”

  “Should I attempt to initiate contact with the President? I don’t know how I could do that. But I could try.”

 
“No! Absolutely not! It would make him suspicious. Think about that. For no reason at all, you have had a change of heart? Suddenly you are willing to share the secrets you have sworn to guard with your life? No, if what you reveal is to have any value for him, he will have to pry it out of you. It has to be his discovery and on his initiative. Otherwise, he won’t believe it.”

  “So all we can do is wait for me to be summoned?”

  “That is all we can do.”

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz paced up and down on the gravel path before the state of Saint Stanislaus.

  “Do you ever pray, Major Volkova?”

  “I am not a believer. But if I were, right now I would pray. And you? Have you begun to pray in this place?”

  Careful, he warned himself. She is not your friend.

  “I will ask my novices to pray,” he said. “If there is a God, he will listen to them sooner than he would listen to you or me.”

  He sat down next to her on the bench to evoke a sense of comradeship.

  “We start the Long Retreat in a few days. Thirty days of silence and meditation and prayer. I will be leading them. Imagine that.”

  “Are you ready to do it?”

  “Yes, I think I can carry it off.”

  That was a lie, of course. He was far from confident, but it would be dangerous to allow her to even suspect that. No telling how she would react.

  “About the FBI agent’s son,” she said. “How much trouble is he causing you?”

  “No trouble at all. In fact, he helps keep me sane. I am teaching him how to live undercover with a false identity, you see. He is quite talented.”

  “Could we recruit him?”

  “Never. He is a strong young man who could never betray anyone.”

  “Except you, my lonely friend. Be very careful with him. What about Father Beck?”

  “He’s dying, I think. His load is too heavy to carry.”

  “Will he crack under the strain?”

  “No, not John Beck. He will carry my secret to his grave.”

  “He had better. You may be correct about him, but there is too much at stake. If you suspect in the slightest degree that he may give you away, put him out of his misery at once. It is more important than ever that you remain undetected.”

  “I know. I’m prepared to do what has to be done.”

  “You agree with me, don’t you? That Khrushchev must go? Of course you do. I know you do. That’s why I trust you completely to deal with all this. Not just because of your Anya. All our lives are at stake. Everybody in the world.”

  “Yes, I see that. How is Anya? Is she well?”

  “Quite well. She is well protected, even when I am absent. You should remember that. I am not threatening you,” she said. “I am just reminding you.”

  With that, she left him there in the darkness.

  C H A P T E R • 12

  Just before midnight on the second Wednesday of October, Charley Coogan woke from a sound sleep. Brother Hegstad was shaking him by the shoulder.

  “Wake up, Cris-may!” whispered the infirmarian. “I need help! Get to the infirmary as fast as you can!”

  “I’m not dressed,” Charley stammered.

  “Get dressed when you get there. It’s Father Beck! I think he’s dying! Grab your shoes and clothes and come on.”

  Charley snatched his cassock from his coffin and ran barefoot down the corridor in his pajamas. He caught up with Brother Hegstad at Father Beck’s room.

  The priest’s face was sallow against his white pillow. His eyes were closed. He was breathing, but very shallowly.

  “What do you want me to do, Brother?”

  “Just stay with him. I don’t think he’ll regain consciousness. But if he does, I want you here with him so he won’t be frightened when he wakes up.”

  Charley put on his cassock over his pajamas and slipped into his shoes. He wished he’d brought his socks.

  “I’ve called the doctor,” whispered Brother Hegstad. “He’s on his way. I’ve got to go tell Father Rector and then I’ll come right back. I’ll just be a minute or two. Do you know how to set up for Extreme Unction?”

  “I think so.”

  “Everything’s in the cabinet over there,” said the lay brother as he smoothed Father Beck’s blanket. “Clear off his bedside table and set it up there, Cris-may. I’ll be back real quick.”

  For several moments, Charley could only stand and stare at Father Beck. It was cold and he’d never seen anyone die before.

  Then, as quietly as he could, he took the drinking glass and water pitcher and stainless steel urinal from the bedside table and put them on the floor outside the room. He took the cloth off the top of the bedside table and put it in the top drawer along with a thermometer, a pencil and Father Beck’s breviary.

  The sick-call kit was just where Brother Hegstad had said it was. Charley spread the linen altar cloth on top of the bedside table. He took the silver crucifix from its polished wooden box and set it up. He wedged the beeswax candles into their silver holders and placed them on either side of the crucifix.

  Something on the floor beside the bed caught his eye. He bent down and picked it up. It was The Imitation of Christ by Thomas A’Kempis. The book must have slipped from Father Beck’s fingers when he passed out.

  Charley held the slender book against his chest and took a closer look at Father Beck. He could see the priest’s chest move, just slightly.

  At least he’s not in pain, thought Charley. Only then did it occur to him to say some prayers for Father Beck.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz always slept with one eye open, as the expression had it, even in the relative safety of the novitiate. So he got out of his bed the moment he heard the knocking at his door. It was Father Thornton, summoning him to Father Beck’s deathbed.

  “What time is it?” he asked the Rector, buying a little time to clear his mind.

  “About twelve-thirty,” said Father Thornton. “All the priests are being called. We won’t wake the rest of the community. The novices are all sleeping, except for young Coogan.”

  Young Coogan? Damn it to Hell! He had better get to the infirmary fast. If Beck begins to babble, he has the world’s most dangerous listener at his bedside.

  “I’ll get dressed as quickly as I can, Father. I’ll join you in Father Beck’s room. Is he conscious?”

  “Not when I saw him a few minutes ago.”

  So far, so good. With any luck, Beck will stay unconscious until the end. Why doesn’t this fool Thornton leave and let me get moving! Now what was the man saying to him?

  “It’s the custom of the house for the Rector to administer the Last Sacrament,” said Father Thornton. “But I want you to have that honor, Father Samozvanyetz.”

  As if he didn’t have enough to worry about! Now he was going to have to perform in front of every priest in the community! Extreme Unction! And no chance to refresh his memory! Take a breath, he told himself.

  “Of course, Father Rector,” he said with what he hoped was disarming humility. “That’s most kind of you.”

  Now look about, as if bewildered.

  “I’m not sure if I remember the ritual exactly.”

  “Yes, I know,” the rector was saying. “It’s been a long time for you, I know. You can use my Rituale Romanum. Everything else—the Eucharist, the holy oils—it’s all been brought to the infirmary. Don’t worry, Father.”

  “Of course, of course.” he said. “Well, then, let me get dressed.”

  Alone, with the door closed, he put on his clothes and adjusted his face and his posture. In the prison camps, he had seen Samozvanyetz give men the Last Rites often enough. He had assisted him, in fact. Just a furtive little ritual: the whispered prayers, the almost imperceptible gestures, the whole procedure permeated with fear of being observed by guards or informants.

  Don’t worry, he told himself. They’ll expect you to be rusty and rattled. Beck is your
dear old friend, remember? But he could not put down his fear.

  This was more than stage fright. It was a real possibility that pain-killing drugs had weakened Father Beck’s resolve, that he would be unable to keep his vow of silence. If only Beck would remain unconscious until death took him!

  Had Beck already come awake while young Coogan was with him? Was the game up, even now?

  Don’t try to drive away the fear, he told himself. That’s why you’re so good at this. Use the fear to keep yourself sharp! Stay aware of every movement, every little quirk, every tremor.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  When he entered the sick room, he saw that Father Beck was as still as death, his skin waxen, his breathing shallow. His translucent hands were resting on his rough gray blanket. Had he regained consciousness? Had he spoken?

  From behind his actor’s mask, he scrutinized young Coogan’s open face. There was no anger or suspicion, just sorrow and bewilderment. He gave the lad a half-smile. Coogan had learned nothing!

  Some of the priests had arrived and were kneeling on the floor. He could hear others coming down the hall. He bowed his head, as if in prayer, and studied the table beside Father Beck’s bed. Affecting the proper reverence, he inventoried his props: the silver crucifix, the two candles, a silver container which, he assumed, held sacramental oils with which he would have to anoint the dying man.

  But where on the body? Think, man!

  Ah, yes! The five senses! He remembered that now. The eyes, the ears, the nose, the lips, the fingers. All must be solemnly dabbed with the oil.

  But in what order? Surely the rubrics in the Rituale Romanum would tell him. But what if his Latin failed him?

  Improvise! Make your mistakes with confidence!

  Also resting on the bedside table was a small dish with six small swabs of cotton wool and some little pieces of bread. To cleanse his fingers after anointing Father Beck with the oil? But with what?

  Right there! He saw the small bowl, the cruet filled with water, and the towel!

  More priests and lay brothers were entering the room and kneeling on the floor. Brother Hegstad was whispering something to young Coogan.