Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  “That’s a great picture,” he said. “Did your mother ever tell you about it?”

  “Many, many times,” said Emmett Madigan. “Mom was always arranging class trips for the children. She was a beautiful young woman and the policemen and firemen always made a big fuss over her kids. To impress her, I’m sure. Well, this day, the policemen went all out for her. They put the kids in handcuffs, let them sit in the jail cells and took their pictures. What do they call them, mug shots? They took their fingerprints and they put them all in a line-up. It was a very exciting day for the children.”

  “Did any of the children grow up to be police officers?”

  “Not that I know of. But that little boy in the handcuffs? Timmy O’Leary. He was shot and killed years later while trying to rob a bank in Defiance, Ohio. Mom was really broken-hearted about that. It made her really sad, him ending up that way.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it did,” said Brother Krause. “Do you happen to know what happened to the children’s mug shots and the fingerprint cards?”

  “I have no idea. I would imagine they were probably given to the children to take home. But I have Mom’s! I had it framed one year for her birthday. Do you want to see it?”

  “Oh, I sure do,” said Brother Krause.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Half an hour later, he left Emmett Madigan’s house on Yorkshire with his mother’s mug shot and fingerprints, the fourth-grade’s class picture and several snapshots, all in a carefully wrapped package. Just before getting into his car, he again assured Madigan that his mother’s relics would be returned safely as quickly as possible.

  Then he drove back downtown to visit the police station shown in the teacher’s photo. It was worth a try, he thought, but he doubted that the police would have kept the cards on which Alex Samozvanyetz and his fourth-grade classmates had rolled their inky little fingerprints so many years before.

  What he found was a vacant lot. The old brick building was gone, demolished. He drove along Jefferson to St. Jean where he found the Fifth Precinct’s new station house, a modern one-story metal and glass structure.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this,” said the young sergeant at the desk. “but you won’t find what you’re looking for here. Any juvenile mug shots we take and keep on file nowadays are the real thing.”

  “You’re sure?” said Brother Krause.

  “Absolutely. I supervised the file transfers from the old place myself. I never came across any pretend mug shots like that. If I had, I probably would have tossed them out with the rest of the junk. When I was a rookie, I heard that the older guys used to make a fuss over school kids, but teachers don’t bring them around to visit. Not here, anyway.”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Maybe they still do some places farther out, like Warren or Royal Oak, but not here. Whatever good times there were in this precinct are long gone. Anyone who’s looking for the past, they won’t find it here in the Fifth.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Sergeant.” He shook the young man’s hand. “Thanks for pointing that out to me, Sergeant. I needed to hear that.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Brother Krause climbed back into his rental car and tried to decide whether to drive or fly back to Chicago. It would probably cost the same, either way. He thought about what the young police sergeant had said about not finding the past in Detroit.

  True enough, thought Brother Krause. But he had found some things he could use in Emmett Madigan’s attic. He couldn’t find the past, but he did remember an elderly ex-con who served time for forgery who now lived in Gary, Indiana, and who could create enough of a dead priest’s past to convince a Soviet perfectionist that she was not so perfect after all.

  Smiling, Brother Krause drove out onto Jefferson Avenue and found a highway heading west.

  C H A P T E R • 15

  At Milford, having been introduced by the Provincial, the Visitor from Rome took his place at the front of the Main Chapel to address the Jesuit community.

  “My dear brothers in Christ,” he began. “I can well imagine how startling it is to have someone like myself suddenly appear before you. You have questions, I know. But let me spare you from any nagging questions and frustrating speculation. Allow me to put you at ease.”

  The Provincial sat forward in his chair. Father Novak realized that the Visitor from Rome had gradually shucked his English accent and was now speaking, more or less, like an American. He smiled as he watched Father Fitzmaurice sweep his hair away from his forehead and throw open his arms.

  “I stand six feet and nine inches tall,” he said.

  The chapel erupted with laughter. When it began to subside, Father Fitzmaurice crossed his arms across his chest and leaned forward as if to share a secret.

  “And I wear a size eighteen shoe.”

  More laughter.

  The Visitor from Rome raised his hand. “Let me assure you, straight off, that I am not here on an inspection tour. So why am I here?”

  The Visitor looked up at the ceiling, blinked three times and slipped his horn-rimmed glasses back up.

  “As you are well aware, the Vatican II deliberations are continuing apace in Rome. Among the topics being discussed are what, if any, changes ought to be made in religious orders, including our own.

  “So our Father General has sent me to solicit your ideas about how American Jesuit novitiates might be conducted in the future. Which practices do you think might be abandoned, which might remain intact and what new ones might be instituted?

  “Why choose Milford? Well, look around this chapel. I see brothers, priests, novices and scholastics. Young, old and in between. Each man here in this chapel knows first-hand what it is like to be a novice and to go through the Spiritual Exercises.

  “I am asking all of you to review your novitiate experiences and give them some serious thought. See if you become aware of any problems or concerns or suggestions which might be helpful. Discuss them among yourselves. Form your opinions, jot down your comments and pass them on to your superiors. Neatness will not count. Signatures will be optional. Personal anecdotes, for once, will be appreciated.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Father Novak was listening carefully. Everything Father Fitzmaurice had said was true enough. By keeping the Milford community busy with discussions, writing and follow-up interviews about Vatican II, he was making sure that nobody would notice what he was really up to. What he did not say was nobody’s business.

  And now he was changing the subject.

  “You will be pleased to know,” the Visitor was saying, “that the Holy Father sends you his warmest personal greetings. His Holiness has asked me, in his behalf, to grant all of you this special Papal gift: a general absolution from all past sins.

  “So, my dear brothers in Christ, please kneel and recite the Act of Contrition.”

  Neatly done, thought Father Novak as he knelt with the rest of the community. With the Latin words of absolution and one sweeping Sign of the Cross, Father Fitzmaurice had dealt with an immediate canonical problem: what to do about all the confessions the Russian agent had heard.

  The general absolution from the Holy Father had given the novices and everybody else in the chapel a clean slate. One big item was now erased from Father Novak’s list of Problems to Solve with no one the wiser.

  And then it struck him. The man who pretended to be Father Samozvanyetz was kneeling in the chapel with the others. He was continuing to play his part, of course. But by accident or by design, he too had received the Pope’s general absolution. Whether the Russian agent believed it or not, God had wiped away all of his sins.

  There’s more to this Father Fitzmaurice than meets the eye, Father Novak said to himself. I wonder what else he has up his sleeve?

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  After the noon meal, the Visitor from Rome and the Provincial joined the Rector in his office on Paters Row for a closed-door meeting.

  “I suggest we start with a damage estimate,” said Father Fitzmauri
ce. “Do we have any idea of how much harm the Russian has done here?”

  “Well, it’s quite surprising,” said Father Thornton. “As Rector, I’ve been able to observe the young men for almost two years and a few private talks have confirmed what I’ve been observing. This Vatican exercise you’ve instituted will allow us to interview all the novices and give us a better idea. But my hunch is that my preliminary assessment will turn out to be correct.”

  Father Fitzmaurice settled back in his chair. “An educated hunch is better than no hunch at all,” he said. “Fire away and skip the footnotes, Father. I’m prepared to believe you.”

  “Okay,” said the Rector. “Here goes. The level of maturity is much higher than I expected to find. None of the overt piety that often afflicts novices and makes them so unbearable at times. Without exception they are sincere, level-headed individuals eager to take their vows. They have realistic expectations about the religious life they are choosing.”

  “Most interesting,” said the Visitor, nodding. “What about the Russian?”

  “Whatever his motives, the Russian led two excellent Long Retreats. The Russian has given us two classes of fine young men with solid spiritual foundations. I’m satisfied that both classes of novices are well-prepared to continue in the Society.”

  “But will they choose to do so?” the Provincial asked.

  “That,” said Father Fitzmaurice, “is the question. When they learn that their Master of Novices was a fraud, won’t they feel betrayed? And leave?”

  “I’m sure they will,” said the Provincial. “I know I would.”

  “But there’s this to consider,” said the Rector. “The novices were not misled. He instructed them truthfully about everything.”

  “Everything, except about himself,” said the Provincial.

  “Well, yes, of course,” said Father Thornton. “But, otherwise, he did a splendid job.”

  “Didn’t he have to?” asked Father Fitzmaurice.

  “Yes,” said Father Thornton. “He had to in order to carry out his mission. But the novices can’t be punished for the Russian’s wrongdoing.”

  “And there’s the matter of secrecy to be considered,” said Father Novak. “The White House and the Vatican and the FBI all agree that nobody should find out what the Russian had been doing here. If we tell the novices and even just a few leave? Well, there goes the secret. Right?”

  Father Fitzmaurice swept the hair from his brow and gazed up at the ceiling. “What would you say if we could figure out a way to keep the novices in the Society, but keep the truth from them?”

  “That would, in effect, be telling them another lie, wouldn’t it?” said the Rector.

  “Yes, I suppose it would. So we can’t do that, can we? That’s unfortunate,” said Father Fitzmaurice. He tapped his glasses on his chin. “I think, Father Provincial, we are going to lose two classes of novices.”

  “It seems that way,” he said. Father Novak stared at the floor. “They’ll all have to be dismissed.”

  “Without any explanation?” said Father Thornton. “That would be very unfair to the novices, wouldn’t it? I mean, we’ve determined that they’re exceptional candidates. There must be a better way of handling this.”

  “Perhaps there is,” said Father Fitzmaurice, “but I doubt that we’ll figure it out today.”

  “Yes,” said the Provincial, “we should give it a lot more thought.”

  “And prayer,” said Father Thornton.

  “Yes, prayer, indeed,” said Father Fitzmaurice absently. He crossed his legs and peered at his ruled notepad. “What do you make of the Russian himself, Father Thornton?”

  “He’s a tough nut to crack. Stiff and correct in a military sort of way, you know? But I think he’s deeply depressed and seems repentant. But he could still be acting, I suppose.”

  “That’s entirely possible,” said Father Fitzmaurice. “He hasn’t claimed to have had any sort of conversion experience, has he?”

  “Not in so many words. But I can’t help feeling that maybe he has. He hasn’t said so, however. Not to me, at any rate. You’ll want to interview him yourself, of course.”

  “When the time comes,” said the Visitor from Rome. “Before I talk to the Russian, I want to find out what Carissime Charles Coogan thinks about all this.”

  “The novice?” asked the Provincial. “Why Coogan?”

  “Because the son of the FBI agent handling this case has spent almost two years working under cover for his father pretending to be a Jesuit novice. I’m certain that young Coogan knows more than the three of us put together.”

  Father Fitzmaurice picked up his notepad and pencil and stood up.

  “Father Thornton, please summon young Coogan to your office. Relieve him of his regular activities and order him to be my guide, messenger, orderly, personal assistant, whatever you want to call it, until further notice. Tell him to meet me at the side door because I want to begin a tour of the novitiate property in half an hour.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Bundled up against the cold, Charley Coogan led the Visitor from Rome along the black asphalt roadway from the Novitiate toward the laymen’s retreat house.

  “That’s where my Dad interviewed the guy when he first showed up from Russia,” Charley said when they approached the two-story structure. “There’s a big dining room inside that they used as a conference room.”

  “Is there much coming and going there?”

  “Only on weekends when the externs show up for their retreats, but it’s pretty cold and drafty, Father. It’s not too bad in the spring and the fall. But I wouldn’t recommend it at this time of year. Unless you want to give the Russian a hard time.”

  “Definitely not, Carissime. I want him to be comfortable and undisturbed. Father Thornton mentioned a farm some distance away that I might use. He said nobody goes there except for an occasional recreation day picnic. Would that do, do you think?”

  “No way, Father. I’ve only hiked out there twice since I’ve been here and that was enough. You leave the highway and walk about a quarter mile up a dirt road to the place. It’s not a real farm anymore. Just a meadow in a patch of woods and a creaky old barn. The farm would be private alright. Nobody would think of going there in December. But there’s no way to heat up that old barn unless you set it on fire.”

  “So we’ll forget the farm as well as the retreat house. But what is that odd structure over there?”

  “That’s called the Villa, Father. The Jesuits didn’t demolish it when they got this estate and the Juniors use it for recreation on first-class feast days. I’ve never been inside, but I think it’s worth taking a look.”

  “From here,” said Father Fitzmaurice, “it appears that your benefactor was unable to decide whether he wanted a Swiss chalet, an Elizabethan inn or an Irish circular stone hut, so he settled for a structure that combined the worst features of all three. It’s absolutely dreadful! It even has a turret!”

  “I’m sorry, Father. I thought you might like it.”

  “Oh, but I do, Carissime. It’s awesomely ghastly! However, it seems well off the beaten track. Does anybody else use it?”

  “Only the Juniors and only in warm weather. Nobody would bother you there.”

  “Does it have a fireplace?”

  “Probably, Father. See the chimney?”

  “Ah, yes, the chimney! Well, then, if the chimney is attached to a stove or a working fireplace it should suit me perfectly. Unless some Wicked Old Witch returns to disrupt our work. Shall we inspect the interior?”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The first floor of the Villa was one large room surrounding a brick and stone fireplace. Tall windows on every side could be opened in warm weather to catch the breezes. But it was December and the windows were tightly shuttered. With no central heating, it was colder inside the Villa than out. There were enough logs and kindling for the priest and the novice to build a fire. It took a while, but the Villa warmed up enough for them to le
ave the hearth and move about comfortably.

  “What a marvelous assortment of odd furniture,” Father Fitzmaurice remarked as he walked among the chairs and sofas and tables that had been donated over the years by different individuals with widely differing tastes. There were folded card tables, well-used playing cards, board games and chess sets.

  The Visitor and the novice found a wind-up phonograph and old vinyl records of mostly classical music and light opera, but nothing that might set a young man’s toes tapping.

  “I’m sorry you had to see this devilish paraphernalia, Carissime. You must find all this luxury and frivolity quite shocking.”

  “Yeah, it’s a regular den of iniquity, Father. But do you think the Villa is what you’re looking for?”

  “Oh, I think so,” said the Visitor from Rome. “Let’s sit by the fire while we try it out.”

  The priest and the novice wrestled two easy chairs to the fireplace and sat quietly enjoying the warmth.

  “So this is where you’ll interrogate the Russian. It seems pretty darn comfortable to me, Father. Not what I expected when we started looking.”

  “It’s even better than I had hoped to find, actually. You see, Carissime, what I’m trying to figure out is who the Russian really is, not only who he was before he came to Milford but who he has become here. How has he changed, if at all? I doubt he knows himself.

  “But you can’t beat information out of him with a rubber hose. You try to make him comfortable, put him at ease and listen to what he says as you would listen to a good friend. Be patient. He’ll tell us what we need to know eventually, Charles.”

  Father Fitzmaurice took off his glasses.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “May I call you Charles? We’ll be working on this Russian together, you know.”

  “My friends call me Charley.”

  “Charley it is then. My classmates called me Fitz. But now I’m known as Father Fitz. Okay by you, Charley?”

  “You betcha, Father Fitz.” Charley laughed. “And now I’m going to start telling you everything I know?”