Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Oksana Volkova studied the face on the television screen. Kennedy was serious and tough. She had seen that in him from the very beginning. Why had not Khrushchev? Had he mistaken ordinary American good manners for weakness? That was a common, fatal mistake. Americans smile a lot. They like to be liked. But deep down, they are killers. Who else but these polite, friendly Americans, she thought, had ever actually used an atomic bomb? Did Khrushchev consider that, before he made his move?

  Oksana Volkova felt like celebrating. She had done a good job. Her years of preparation had paid off.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “The path we have chosen for the present is full of hazards, as all paths are; but it is the one most consistent with our character and courage as a nation and our commitments around the world. The cost of freedom is always high—but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender or submission.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The speech was over. Father Thornton got up and switched off the television set.

  “I think we should call the entire community to the main chapel. Everybody,” he said, “except the novices making the Long Retreat. Do you see any need for them to know about this, Father Samozvanyetz?”

  “No, Father. No need whatsoever. I think it would be too great a distraction for them. They’ll know soon enough.”

  “I agree,” said the Rector. “We must all do everything we can to protect them. But let’s gather everybody else in the Main Chapel: the juniors, the lay brothers, the second-year novices. In ten minutes. I’ll tell them what we’ve just heard and make it clear that the novices making the Spiritual Exercises are to be told nothing. And then,” he said, “we will say some prayers.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  At the Chief Intelligence Directorate of the Red Army in Moscow, General Kalenko reviewed the draft of a short document to be sent to the Kremlin. GRU agents on the ground in Cuba had been reporting unusual activity at the U.S. Naval base at Guantanamo, Cuba—a sharp increase in the number of C-130 Hercules transport planes arriving and departing. Those first reports said the Americans were evacuating the military families living at the base. A sensible precaution, Kalenko had thought, getting the women and children out of harm’s way.

  But now his agents were reporting that Hercules planes were bringing in fresh troops to reinforce the garrison. The GRU revised estimate of Guantanamo’s troop strength was 6,000 marines.

  General Kalenko took his pen to the draft and changed that figure to 16,000. He raised the number of tanks to 150 and handed the document to his clerk to be retyped.

  “Mark it Urgent,” he said. That report, along with his inflated estimates of American military and naval deployments, should add to Khrushchev’s distress and provide more ammunition for his political enemies.

  C H A P T E R • 3

  That October, everyone in the Jesuit community at Milford, with the exception of the first-year novices, had become involved in what Americans were calling “the Cuban Missile Crisis.” So the recreation room on Paters Row had become too dangerous for the man who played Father Samozvanyetz. It was difficult to stay in character while dodging questions about President Kennedy or to participate convincingly in the Jesuit priests’ constant speculation.

  He finally told the Rector that he found such discussions too distracting. They prevented him from focusing all his attention on giving his first-year novices the best spiritual instruction possible. Might it not be best if he sequestered himself with the retreatants and spent all of his time in their company—or by himself? The Rector agreed and ordered the community to respect the Novice Master’s self-imposed isolation. So while his young men were meditating, he would sit alone in the novice chapel or in his office with the door closed.

  Every night, he would take his rosary and walk out to the statue of St. Stanislaus and back. There were never any new thumbtacks under the bench, but he already knew everything he had to know. The Americans had established a naval blockade, not just to stop more missiles and nuclear warheads from reaching Cuba, but also to give the Soviet Union time to reconsider its reckless strategy.

  But, as far as he knew, the Russian freighters were still steaming toward the American warships. He wondered what would Alex Samozvanyetz have said about that? It is all in God’s hands? That was no answer for him. Quite the contrary.

  The fate of the entire world now rested in the hands of two men: John Kennedy and Nikita Khrushchev. Either of these flawed, fallible human beings could make a mistake and start the chain reaction that would lead to thermonuclear war. And that could be the end of everything. He could only hope that Oksana Volkova’s people in Moscow could find some way to put an end to this madness.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  He found he could ignore his dark thoughts about annihilation by concentrating on leading his strong young men through the spiritual battles of the Long Retreat. He didn’t believe much of what he was passing along to the novices, but some of it made sense. He could understand why a person of the Catholic faith would find it compelling and logical. The more he worked with the Spiritual Exercises, the more he could appreciate the old Basque soldier’s leadership skills.

  War! This Ignatius Loyola knew about war. This next exercise—“Meditation on the Two Standards”—was the product of a mind toughened by combat, a military mind that he could understand. It was Loyola’s simple, clear-cut view of a constant battle between the forces of good and the forces of evil. There was nothing subtle about it and, once again, the rhetoric was florid. He must remember to rely on John Beck’s notes and not overact.

  Loyola’s meditations continued to march along smartly and he could see that they inspired the novices to keep moving toward their personal decisions. Would they decide to make these absurd perpetual vows of poverty, chastity and obedience? Not an easy decision to make, but these novices seemed willing to face it. Even those who, in the end, would say “No.”

  As the days passed, he kept thinking about the eagerness and courage of the young soldiers he had led into battle so many years before. It was the faith and trust of the boys who followed him that gave him the courage to lead and kept him sane in the agony of combat. In the midst of all that fear and horror, just being in their company had given him hope, even when there was no reason to hope.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  That Friday evening, Charley Coogan began the Second Week of the Long Retreat.

  “Saint Ignatius asks us now to meditate on the Two Standards,” said his Master of Novices. “He asks us to picture the two great camps. In the fields near Jerusalem stands Christ our Lord, Commander-in-chief of the good. Lucifer, the chief of the enemy, has set up his standard in another vast field near unholy Babylon. Try to see Lucifer in that wretched stretch of parched desert seated on his throne of smoke and fire.”

  Charley closed his eyes. He failed to see Lucifer, “this chief of all the forces of evil, his shape and visage horrible and terrifying!” Nor could Charley “hear his blood-curdling screams as he scatters his demons throughout the world!”

  But, following Father Master’s voice, he could sure as Hell feel Lucifer’s presence and he could hear the orders he was yelling at his devils: “Cast out your nets to ensnare all kinds of men and women—and then bind them in chains! Tempt your victims with the lust for riches, so that they may gain the empty, vain honor of the world and then come to vast, unbounded pride!”

  The priest’s voice changed. Charley opened his eyes.

  “That’s his plan of attack, my dear brothers in Christ! That’s his strategy to capture the souls of human beings!

  “First, riches! Then, worldly honor and glory! Then, pride! One, two, three! Riches, honor, pride! From there he will drive his captives, bound in the chains of pride, to all the other vices!”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz paused and pulled back. Had he chewed up too much scenery? He let the suggestion of Lucif
er fade away.

  “Far from the desolation of the plains of Babylon,” he read from the book, “in the peaceful green fields near Jerusalem, Christ Our Lord has taken His stand in a lowly place. He is glorious and gracious to behold. See how He has gathered about Him so many humble, quiet people: His apostles and disciples, His servants and His friends. Listen as He prepares to send them to the four corners of the world to spread His sacred doctrine to all people of every state and condition everywhere. Listen as He tells them to help all the people in the world to avoid damnation and achieve salvation. Hear how gently Our Lord instructs His friends to encourage all people to embrace a life of spiritual poverty and, if it should please His Divine Majesty, a life of actual poverty. Hear how He instructs them to urge everyone to be willing to accept the insults and contempt of the world, for from these two things comes humility.”

  He put down the Exercises and raised his clasped hands to his lips.

  “When you reread that passage and when you meditate about it, try to put it in your own words. Break down what Ignatius suggests into three parts.

  “First: to counteract the lust for riches, seek poverty. Second: if you do not want to succumb to vanity and the desire for worldly honors, seek scorn and contempt. Third: to guard against pride, ask for humility.”

  He began to pace slowly, back and forth, in front of the altar, six steps forward and six steps back.

  “You have come to a fork in the road, my young friends. Take a look up ahead now. One road goes right, and the other goes left. The road to the right is smooth and level. The road on the left heads uphill. And, even from here, it looks rough and rocky. It winds through deserts and wastelands and up through the crags. It can be quiet and comfortable in places, but sometimes it will take you through terrifying wildernesses. It is the path that Christ followed to redeem Mankind.

  “Two roads. And you must take one or the other. That’s the choice you must make. Ignatius has a suggestion for you. Even if the idea of a life of poverty, scorn and humility is repugnant to you, even if your mind cries out against making such a choice, Ignatius suggests that you at least pray for the desire to make the choice anyhow.

  “Now, that’s frightening, isn’t it?” he said with a smile. “Well, Ignatius Loyola wants you to put your trust in God. Try, in spite of your fear. No harm will come to you. As Jesus tells us time and time and time again in the Gospels: Fear not.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Good advice, he thought as his novices filed out of the chapel and retired to their dormitory rooms. “Fear not.” Whatever was going to happen on the high seas would happen. There was nothing he could do about it. He would stay in this cloister with his novices, just as he had huddled with his young soldiers through those terrifying German bombardments.

  Had Alex Samozvanyetz been correct in believing that it was all in God’s hands? Probably not. But at least it was something to hang onto through the next weeks of this Long Retreat.

  C H A P T E R • 4

  Having no access to newspapers or radios, Charley Coogan remained ignorant of the peril that so transfixed and terrified the world beyond his cloister. What concerned him most during the Third and Fourth Weeks of the Spiritual Exercises was trying to find some way of getting through the hours of meditation without falling asleep.

  He was alert enough through most of the daily activities. But when he knelt down at his desk to begin his meditations, a great weariness would come upon him and he would have to fight to stay awake. It was not that the material upon which he wanted to meditate was boring. Far from it. Father Samozvanyetz was a great storyteller. He made the New Testament come alive. The story of Jesus was familiar to him, of course. He’d heard it all before, hundreds of times, in sermons and in religion classes. But never like this.

  When Father Samozvanyetz told his stories, Charley could almost see the people and hear their voices. Day by day, the figure of Jesus became clearer to him. Charley couldn’t describe what Jesus looked like, but He was becoming less distant and less mysterious. He seemed more like an older friend or an inspiring coach.

  So Charley spent those days of world crisis spellbound in the Novice Chapel as his Master of Novices led him from the marriage feast in Cana, around the Sea of Galilee and on toward the Passover supper in Jerusalem. With each story, Charley moved closer and closer to Calvary. He could feel the impending doom, the inevitable passion and death of Jesus.

  But, like the Apostles in the Garden of Gethsemane, he could barely stay awake through a single hour of meditation. He tried, as best he could. He had tried to use his mind. But he wasn’t used to thinking. That was something he’d come to realize. He had never really thought for himself—not much, anyhow—before coming to the novitiate. Well, maybe ponder might be a better word than think.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Kneeling at his desk that morning, he examined the verb “ponder” for a while, turning it over and over again in his mind until the odd word became ridiculous and lost all meaning.

  PON-der. It became nothing more than two meaningless sounds. He took a deep breath and heard “PON-der.”

  He sighed and thought: The hell with it. I quit.

  He stood up and sat down in his chair to clear his mind.

  He took another deep breath and closed his eyes. He breathed, in and out, slowly in and slowly out, and thought about nothing at all.

  He was too tired to PON-der, too dumb to PON-der, too numb to Pon-der. Pon-der in and nothing out. Ponder in and nothing out. Over and over and over again until there was nothing at all. Just slowly moving patches of light in the soft gray darkness.

  Pulsing dark grayness. Pressure behind his eyes. Gentle pressure inside his temples.

  Was he doing this right?

  He breathed away the intrusive question and drifted through soft, gray darkness, drifted deeper down into the soft, dark grayness, down and deeper, deeper and down, and further down and down and down and down.

  He came to rest in the deep, soft, bright white light inside undulating white clouds, all bright and white, misty and soft. Bright mist, pulsating, slowly pressing him forward through the soft whiteness glowing white towards the light.

  He stayed there for a while, breathing slowly in and out, so slowly and so softly, so softly and so slowly that there was almost no breath at all.

  His eyes pressed upward and outward, gently, as he began moving somewhere else. Time passed. How long, he could not tell. He didn’t care. Seconds, minutes, hours passed. He drifted through days and months and years.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Charley didn’t know where he was, but somehow he knew where he was going. It was hot, like summer. He pushed ahead through the crowds clogging the narrow street. Mostly men in robes, sweating in the late morning heat. The crowds were growing noisier.

  What was going on? The men in robes were sweeping him along. They were jostling each other, shouting back and forth. He could smell their sweat. He reeled along, buffeted, pushed and shoved by the crowd. But he felt nothing. He was there and yet he was apart, watching himself from afar.

  Where was he? It was all familiar, as if he’d been here before. He didn’t feel worried about being where he was. He was part of the crowd, part of the place, part of the time. But he couldn’t understand anything that was being said. He pressed forward.

  Father Samozvanyetz was waving him on. The Master of Novices was a few yards up ahead. Charley pushed through the sweating bodies. Reaching back, the priest grabbed Charley’s arm and hauled him forward through the crowd. Charley stumbled on the cobblestones.

  Men laughed. Men snarled. Men cursed with words he could not understand. What was going on? The crowd was agitated, excited. Father Samozvanyetz pulled him close and shouted in his ear.

  “Don’t you know where you are?”

  Suddenly, Charley knew where he was and what was happening. He tried to push forward.

  A Roman legionnaire blocked his way. The short, stocky soldier held his spear at the ready ac
ross his armored chest. With both hands, the soldier thrust the spear forward and pushed Charley back. He snarled in a language Charley couldn’t understand. The soldier was barking at him in Latin, Charley realized, but he’d never heard such Latin in a classroom or at Mass. The strange, shocking sounds were hard as rocks.

  Father Samozvanyetz pulled him away and pushed him along the street.

  “He’s over there! Do you see?”

  Charley strained forward. He desperately wanted to see, but he could not.

  All he could make out were the top parts of three wooden crosses moving slowly through the crowd. He couldn’t see who carried them.

  “This way!” cried Father Samozvanyetz.

  They were running now, the two of them, running down an alley away from the crowded street, through a less crowded bazaar, brushing away ribbons and banners that hung down in front of their faces. The stench was powerful: human sweat and urine, camel manure, the nauseating odor of food cooking. They ran through the rows of stalls, past the shoppers and ragged peddlers into an open space: a square of some sort, a patch of brightness where dark, narrow streets converged, emptied, and then moved on.

  Market stalls lined the square and the air was filled with the hacking cries of peddlers, shopkeepers and money changers. Children shrieked, sheep bleated, cattle bellowed, camels groaned. The men and boys who drove the animals were screaming and cursing. Everyone was busy with his trade, his business, his money. They barely glanced up when the three condemned criminals entered the square, dragging their crosses across the cobblestones.

  Some of the nearby merchants exchanged whispers and then returned to what truly concerned them. Just three more executions. Nothing to be concerned about.