Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  “It’s no palace, but it’s warm and dry,” said the man. “I’ve insulated the place and made some improvements over the years. Bit by bit, so as not to make anybody jealous or suspicious. You can cook and eat in this here room. Back of that curtain, there’s a bed and a shower and a toilet. And the trunk that was in storage.”

  “Communications?” asked Oksana.

  The man smiled and opened a closet door.

  “The phone’s in here,” he said. “The neighbors don’t know about it. The line runs out underground. It’s legal, but be careful with it.”

  “I won’t be making any outgoing calls from here. Except to you. When I need you to take me someplace, I’ll let your phone ring three times and then hang up.”

  “Right. And I’ll come up here by boat. I’ll leave the truck out front for you. Here’s the keys. There’s plenty of public pay phones in the area, so you should be okay if you need to call anybody else.”

  “How will you get out of here tonight?”

  “There’s two rowboats underneath the cabin. Tonight, I’ll take one and leave you the other. Somebody’s waiting downstream to pick me up.”

  He walked to the door.

  “Be careful outside until you look the place over in the daylight. The cabin sticks out over the river. That back part is built on stilts. You could take a nasty fall.”

  “I’ll watch my step,” said Oksana. “You’ve done a good job. It seems like a good safe house.”

  “Thanks,” said the man. “I should tell you that we’re a couple miles upstream from a school for priests. Thursdays and Sundays seem to be their regular days off and sometimes they hike past here along that road out front, usually in the morning, and then come back before noon. But don’t worry. They never stop. They don’t even look up.”

  “Even so,” said Oksana, “I will stay out of sight.”

  After the man left in his rowboat, Oksana opened the trunk. It contained everything she would need for her work. She took out the cassock and hung it up in the closet.

  C H A P T E R • 11

  As he had done every afternoon since John Kennedy’s funeral, the man who played Father Samozvanyetz pretended to read his Office while walking out to the little shrine in the woods at the edge of novitiate property. Once again, he sat in the shade contemplating the statue of Saint Stanislaus. His Breviary rested in his lap ready to be picked up should anyone approach and, once again, his left hand explored the bottom of the bench.

  This time, he found the thumbtack.

  Slowly, he looked around and, seeing nobody, he dislodged the thumbtack from the wood. The cap was bright red in the autumn sunlight. He put the thumbtack in his cassock pocket and walked back to the novitiate. He would return to the statue that night, as ordered.

  After the evening meal in the silent refectory, he went upstairs to the Novices Chapel to prepare his young men for their evening Examen and morning meditation. Then he returned to his room on Paters Row to wait for the corridors to empty and the novitiate to become dark and still.

  He slipped out of the building well before midnight and walked slowly through the darkness to meet Oksana Volkova at the shrine in the woods. As he approached, he saw her standing before the statue, looking up at the face of the saint. The woman in the cassock was the same size as the figure on the pedestal.

  “Who was he?” she whispered to him when he reached her side.

  “Stanislaus Kotska,” he told her. “A Jesuit novice. Polish. He died before he could take his vows.”

  “And before he could commit any sins, I suppose.” She turned toward the bench. “Well, good for him.”

  “What is happening, Major?”

  “All I know is that you and I are cut off from any of our own people at home and we dare not attempt to communicate with them in any way. We must stay in place and wait until the smoke clears. When that will be, I have no idea. Have you heard anything from the new President?”

  “Not a word from him or anyone else in the American government. I doubt that President Kennedy ever told Lyndon Johnson about our conversations. But he may have found out and that worries me.”

  “Why? What have you been hearing?”

  “Nothing but speculation. The priests here are wondering why Oswald was in the custody of the local police and not the FBI or Secret Service. Why had the police allowed that man Ruby to get close enough to shoot Oswald dead? They wonder if it was part of some plan.”

  “What about the Georgetown Jesuits? They know important people in Washington. Do they have any theories?”

  “The Jesuits there have heard that some people suspect that Texas billionaires may have been involved. And some of Kennedy’s people believe that Lyndon Johnson may have been behind the whole thing, including the murder of Oswald.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  “I do not know what to believe. But, if they are correct about Johnson, he may come to regard me as a loose end to be tied up.”

  Oksana Volkova shook her head.

  “No, I do not believe that Johnson planned the assassination,” she said. “But that does not make our situation any better. Unlike the speculators, I have a fact. A small but frightening fact. When I saw Oswald being killed on the television, I recalled seeing him in Moscow.”

  “Everybody knows he was in Moscow, Major. It was on the news.”

  “Let me finish! One day in Moscow, my general pointed him out to me. ‘Avoid him,’ he said. ‘Do not let him get anywhere near you or your operation. He is a disgruntled American too mentally disturbed to be of any use to the GRU. Too great a risk. We are sending him on his way, as we do other unhinged people like him.’ I had forgotten about Oswald, but I now remember him and my general’s warning. And now I wonder if someone high up in the Kremlin found a use for a homicidal lunatic like Oswald.”

  “You don’t suspect Khrushchev, do you?”

  “Revenge can be a powerful motive for a knuckle-dragging lout who has been humiliated. Remember how Kennedy capitalized on Khrushchev’s Cuban blunder?”

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz sat in silence, staring at the ground.

  “Do you think I am wrong?” she said.

  “No, I must assume that you are correct, Major. You know more than I do about such things.”

  “Consider this also: I have heard nothing from our people in Moscow. That may be due to extreme caution. Or it may mean that the KGB rounded them up and took care of them.”

  “So what are we to do now?”

  She kicked at the gravel and sat down on the bench.

  “Nothing,” she said. “We must carry on as we have been. I hope I am wrong. But, if I am correct, we must hope the KGB never finds out anything about you and me.”

  “How many in Moscow were aware of us?”

  “Only a very few, but perhaps one too many.”

  She stood up suddenly.

  “I had better leave,” she said. “Check the bench every day. A red thumbtack means we must meet that night. A yellow one will mean that all is well with me. Remove it and get rid of it. If you find no yellow thumbtack for two days in a row, you will know that I am gone and you are alone.”

  “And that I am next on the list,” he said, standing up.

  “Exactly.”

  She clasped his right hand and held it for a moment, something she had never done before.

  “Until we meet again,” she whispered.

  He watched her walk away, off the gravel path and into the trees. He stood for several minutes staring into the darkness and then he sat back down on the bench.

  Khrushchev, he thought. Of course: Khrushchev.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The next morning after his meditation, Charley left his dormitory room to attend Mass in the chapel on the main floor. Walking down the corridor toward the stairway, he glanced into the Novice Chapel and paused. He saw his Master of Novices sitting on the steps of the altar, holding Ignatius Loyola’s little green book in his lap. The priest wa
s not moving at all.

  Charley slipped into the chapel. He cleared his throat to let the priest know he was not alone. But Father Samozvanyetz did not look up. So Charley moved closer to the altar steps.

  “Father Samozvanyetz?” he said quietly.

  The priest remained silent and motionless.

  Was he breathing? Charley couldn’t tell at first, but he saw the fabric of the priest’s cassock stir a little bit. He knelt on one knee to get a better look at the priest’s face. His eyes were open, so he wasn’t asleep. He was just staring at the tiles on the chapel floor.

  Charley passed his hand in front of the priest’s eyes. Father Samozvanyetz blinked. But he didn’t move or speak.

  Charley stood up. Should he get Brother Hegstad? Maybe not. Father Samozvanyetz didn’t look sick. Not even uncomfortable.

  No, I’ll just wait, he decided. Father Samozvanyetz was probably wrestling with some problem and collecting his thoughts. Maybe when he was in that Russian prison he had learned how to close his mind to distractions. Charley wondered if he could ever learn to do that someday. Well, maybe. He’d learned a lot since he came to Milford.

  Charley sat down on the chapel floor beneath the Twelfth Station of the Cross and tried to collect his own thoughts.

  Here it is December already, he told himself. Pretty soon we’ll be celebrating Christmas again, the second time since I left home. And I don’t feel homesick like last year. I’ll miss being with Mom and Dad but I won’t miss the shopping and the presents and all that other stuff. But, right now, I feel like I’m supposed to be here with the other guys.

  I guess the other novices feel like I do. None of them have left here except those guys who checked out before making the Long Retreat with Father Samozvanyetz.

  I guess it’s because he’s such a good leader. He doesn’t tell us how to become a good Jesuit. He just shows us.

  Charley wondered what Father Samozvanyetz was thinking about right now. Something important, obviously. Maybe he would tell Charley later or maybe not. He would just keep waiting and keep his eyes and ears open.

  But time passed slowly, as slowly as it had those mornings when he was sitting quietly at Father Beck’s bedside in the infirmary. After a while, Charley began feeling drowsy and finally dozed off.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The electric bell jolted Charley awake.

  Had he been sleeping? Was everything okay?

  Father Samozvanyetz was still sitting on the altar steps, thank God. But Charley saw some slight movement. Then the priest gave a long sigh and raised his head. Had the bell called him back from wherever he had been? He didn’t seem surprised to see Charley. He was just looking at him steadily, without much expression at all.

  “Are you all right, Father?”

  “Yes, of course. Is something wrong? You look worried.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to finish your prayers.”

  The priest didn’t seem to understand.

  “For more than an hour, Father.”

  “Was that the bell for Manualia?”

  Charley nodded.

  “So you’ve been here for some time. You missed Mass? And breakfast as well? I’m sorry about that, Charles.”

  “That’s okay, Father. I was just a little worried.”

  “Did I do or say anything to frighten you?”

  “No, Father. You were just very still and quiet.”

  The priest stood up and tucked The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola into the side pocket of his cassock.

  “Well, then, let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we? Where are you supposed to be working this morning?”

  “The laundry, Father.”

  “How many others are assigned there today?”

  “Five, Father. Not including myself.”

  “More than enough to handle the work. You won’t be missed. Is your bed made? Your cubicle in order?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Then get on your feet and come with me.”

  Father Samozvanyetz wheeled around toward the door, squared his shoulders and marched out of the chapel.

  Charley hurried after him, trotting to keep up with the priest as he double-timed along the corridor, down the stairway and along Paters Row. Charley caught up just as his Master of Novices rapped sharply on the Rector’s office door, swung it open and shoved Charley into the office ahead of him.

  “Take that chair by the window, Charles,” the priest commanded. “Sit there and keep your eyes and ears open.”

  Charley did as he was told.

  What was happening? As he sat down he had seen Father Thornton swivel around from his desk and heard: “Is there a problem, Father?”

  “Yes, there is a problem. A very serious problem.”

  “Does this concern the novice?”

  Charley caught his breath.

  Was he in trouble? Otherwise, why he was here?

  “I have brought Carissime Coogan with me because both of you have to hear what I have to say to his father.”

  “His father?” said Father Thornton. “The FBI agent?”

  Charley saw that the Rector was as startled as he was. His Master of Novices was speaking quietly and respectfully, but he seemed kind of different.

  “Yes, Father Novak. I must inform Agent Coogan about something important as soon as possible. But first I must inform your Provincial of what I intend to tell the FBI.”

  Charley watched Father Samozvanyetz step closer to the Rector’s desk and jab his finger at the telephone.

  “So, please, place the call.”

  Charley’s muscles tightened as he saw the Rector hesitate.

  “Just make the call, dammit! Right now!”

  Father Thornton gasped and started dialing.

  “Brother Krause?” the Rector said. “I have Father Samozvanyetz in my office. He has to speak with Father Novak. He says it’s urgent.”

  Keep breathing, Charley told himself.

  “He’s getting him, Father. Take the phone and sit at my desk.”

  “Stay where you are. I will stand.”

  Charley gripped the arms of his chair. The priest was different. Even his voice was different. He stood by the Rector’s desk, holding the phone to his ear, eyes cold, shoulders squared, chin up, his back as straight as a soldier at attention.

  “Please listen to what I have to tell you, Father Novak. I can no longer go on this way. Not one more day. I am placing myself in your hands and I will do whatever you tell me to do. Help me, I beg you. Help me put an end to all this!”

  Charley strained to remember everything he was hearing. But there was too much to take in.

  Father Samozvanyetz was gone. Dead, the man had said. A Russian Army intelligence agent was standing there now talking on the phone.

  The Russian was saying that he had to stop pretending. Too much deception, too many lies, too many murders. The dead priest’s sister, the President, Oswald, even Father Beck! He will help the FBI capture the woman who controls him. But this Russian has a daughter in Moscow who needs protection!

  Charley’s mouth was dry. He could barely swallow.

  Father Samozvanyetz was dead! He was never here. He had never been his Master of Novices. He had not led him through the Long Retreat. This Russian had. Everything this Russian had told him was a lie and I believed him! We all did!

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “There you have it,” Charley heard the Russian say at last.

  He saw the man’s body collapse as if all the air had been sucked out of him.

  “My story is finished. And, I fear, so am I,” he said. “I am your prisoner. I will remain in your custody until your government decides how to dispose of me.”

  The Russian fell silent and stood listening to whatever he was being told by the Provincial. Charley heard the Russian murmur some words of agreement and saw him hand the phone to the Rector.

  Charley waited for Father Thornton to finish the call and cradle the phone. The Rector was about to
say something, but Charley stood up.

  “I have to call my father,” he declared. “My father has to know about this right now.”

  “Of course,” said Father Thornton. “Of course, he does. And Father Novak is calling your father this very moment.”

  “Shouldn’t we do something?” demanded Charley.

  “Not yet, Carissime. All we can do is wait for your father to call and tell the three of us what to do. But what that is, only God knows. I surely don’t.”

  “So we wait,” said the Russian. “Doing nothing is better than doing the wrong thing.”

  Charley stared at the Russian son-of-a-bitch who had betrayed him. But then he sat back down in his chair and waited for the phone to ring.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Brother Krause had taken off his headset, closed his stenographer’s notebook, and carried it into Father Novak’s office.

  “You got all that down, Brother Al?”

  “Every damn word, Father.”

  He laid the notebook on the Provincial’s desk.

  “Unbelievable!” said Father Novak. “This is the worst mess I’ve ever run into. Or even heard about. All those novices he’s trained! Two classes of them! Are they going to have to start their novitiate all over? Or do we have to send them home?”

  “And if we do,” said Brother Krause, “what can we tell them?”

  “Yeah, what the Hell do we tell them?” said Father Novak.

  The Provincial walked to the window and studied the leafless trees for a few minutes.

  “Okay,” he said and turned back to face his secretary. “First, I have to give Herb Coogan a heads-up before I talk to the Father General’s office in Rome. While I’m talking to Coogan, clear out any externs. Give the office workers the rest of the day off. Nobody in the building except our Jesuits. Get our guys to handle our incoming calls and keep anybody from barging in on us. I want you to stick with me while I’m talking to Rome and then after that I’ll have to bring Coogan up to speed. And you’ll have to transcribe everything that’s said, okay?”

  “I can handle that,” said the lay brother.

  “And you’ll be able to come up with some exact quotes from your shorthand notes?”

  “Verbatim?” said Brother Krause. “English is no problem. Latin and Italian? If I can hear it, I can quote it. But I may need you to translate some of it.”