Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  “You’re a quick study, Charley.”

  The priest fiddled with his spectacles.

  “How many people know you’ve been working undercover here?”

  “Beside my Dad? Well, Father Novak and Brother Krause, and Dad told the Russian. But that was when everybody thought he was Father Samozvanyetz.”

  “And he would have reported that to the Volkova woman. But we needn’t worry about her. The FBI will take handle her,” said Father Fitzmaurice. He took off his glasses and toyed with them for a moment. “Tell me a little bit more about how you came to be here, Charley.”

  “Sure, Father. You see, all through high school I thought I wanted to become a Jesuit. But then, after my Mom had got all my stuff packed and had told all her friends how proud she was, I realized that I had changed my mind and couldn’t get out of going because, well, you know?”

  Father Fitzmaurice nodded and smiled. “And you asked your Dad what you could do. I understand completely.”

  “Well, that’s when Dad told me about the priest at Milford who’d just come home from Russia after years in captivity and that he needed somebody to go there to keep an eye on him and report if anything fishy was going on. Dad said I could stay there for a few months, tell my Mom and Dad that I found out I wasn’t cut out to be a Jesuit and then go home.”

  “Sounds like a good plan, Charley. What went wrong?”

  “I sort of really liked pretending to be a novice and I was really good at it. Too good, Father Samozvanyetz told me. He said I should relax, make some mistakes. Be more myself like the others were. Otherwise I wouldn’t be believable. So I did what he told me to do.”

  “That was good advice,” said Father Fitzmaurice.

  “Yeah, but later when it was getting time for the novices to start the Long Retreat, I asked him if I could do the retreat, like for real. And he told me not to get involved in it. I remember he said: ‘It’s not for you, Carissime.’ He said I should just go through the motions, stay detached, think about other stuff during meditation periods or read a book even. But I didn’t listen to him. I went ahead and did what I wanted to do. That was one helluva big mistake.”

  Charley pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “I don’t want to talk about that, Father Fitz. Maybe later. Ask me about anything else. Okay?”

  “Okay. Did Father Beck know about you?”

  “No, he didn’t and neither did the Rector. He only found out about me when the Russian confessed. But Father Thornton isn’t going to tell anybody. So I’m still undercover here. And that makes two of us, doesn’t it. That Vatican II stuff was just blowing smoke, right?”

  “No, it was legitimate, actually. That ‘so-called Vatican II stuff’ is going on in a lot of places. But it does give us the opportunity to do our work quietly.”

  Father Fitzmaurice filled is pipe and lit it. He watched the smoke rise.

  “Tell me what you think about this, Charley. The Provincial, the Rector and I have been wrestling about the novices. If we tell them the truth about their Master of Novices now, or if they find out about him later, how will they feel?”

  “I guess they’ll feel like I feel, Father.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Now? Or when I found out about him?”

  “As you wish, Charley.”

  “First I wanted to kill the son of the bitch. Then I just wanted to get the Hell out of Milford and go home. But after my Dad asked me to keep on acting like everything was normal and how it was for the country and the Jesuits, then I calmed down.

  “But I was feeling really lousy and just wanted to go off by myself. But I couldn’t let anybody see how I really felt. And it was hard being with the other novices and it’s been even harder to deal with the Russian guy like he was still Father Samozvanyetz. But then I guess I just got used to it.”

  “And how do you feel now?”

  “I don’t feel much of anything. It’s like a teacher erases a blackboard but you can still see some of what he wrote. What’s left is too dim or too faint to read. And you know that pretty soon all the words will be gone. You’ll remember that you saw something written up there but you won’t remember what it was. Probably it was nothing that important. So you can forget about it and move on.

  “That’s how I was feeling again this morning, Father Fitz. But now I feel better. I’ll try to do the best I can to finish this crazy game with you, Father Fitz, and then I’ll take my shower, get dressed and go home.”

  The Visitor from Rome leaned forward and tapped his pipe against the fireplace.

  “You’re a good man, Charley,” he said. “You didn’t ask for any of this, but I’m glad I can count on you.”

  He leaned back in his chair and fussed with his pipe for a minute or two while Charley waited for the next question.

  “Tell me about your fellow novices,” said Father Fitzmaurice. “How will the novices react if we tell them the truth about the Russian?”

  “I think most of them will feel like I felt, as I said. Maybe a few of them will stay, but most of them will pack up and leave.”

  “What if the Provincial swears all of them to secrecy. Even the ones who leave. Would they stay silent forever? Would you?”

  “Well, I would try and I think most of them would try. All of them, maybe, because they’re all really good guys. But we’re all human. Sooner or later, somebody gets too much to drink or gets rubbed the wrong way or gets in an argument or whatever and Bang! There goes your big secret. No way should we tell the novices. Or anybody else.”

  “Right you are, Charley. That’s what I think. We must keep the novices in the dark forever. So now we have to figure out how to get rid of our Russian. You don’t still want to kill him, do you?”

  “Not now. He was just doing his job, I guess. Undercover. Like you and me, Father Fitz. Just doing our job. So how can we get rid of him?”

  “I think we continue to isolate him from the rest of the community. He’s not feeling well, but not so sick that he can’t work with us on my Vatican II survey. Starting tomorrow, somebody will take over his Master of Novice position for the time being. It’s too much for him to handle until he gets better. Which, I strongly suspect, he will not. Sooner rather than later, he will get worse.”

  “He’s not going to really die, is he?”

  “I’m not sure about that yet. At least, not until he helps the FBI apprehend the female agent who controls him. In the meantime, you and I have to become our Russian’s best friends so that we learn everything we need to know. Or would you rather just pull out his fingernails?”

  “No way, Father.” Charley shook his head. “I don’t have the stomach for that. You’re kidding, right?”

  “Right. Charley. I’m kidding. But from now you’re going to have to fake friendship with the Russian.”

  “That’ll be tough, Father Fitz, but I’ll try. What is it that you’re trying to find out from him?”

  “Good question, Charley. I really don’t know. We won’t know until we hit on the right question to ask. We just have to keep listening to him. If we stumble on the right questions, as Socrates, Einstein and other smart blokes suggest, we’ll be halfway to the answers we really need.”

  “But where do we start?”

  “Let’s start by deciding what answers we don’t need. Take espionage, for example. What secrets were the Russians trying to discover in the United States? Well, that’s what the FBI may need to know, but we don’t. We must keep our attention focused on Milford. What was going on here that nobody knew or even suspected? And how much damage has been done to our novices and our Society?”

  “And,” said Charley, “what are you going to do about it?”

  “Exactly! My job is to figure out how to repair the damage. And I now see that you’re more than eager to get involved in helping. Well, good on you. If you keep your eyes and ears open, Charley, I think you’ll find playing this game quite interesting.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Lat
er that afternoon, when Father Fitzmaurice returned to his room on Paters Row, the Rector knocked on his door.

  “While you were out, I took a call from Brother Krause,” he told the Visitor from Rome. “He asked me to tell you that he had found what you were looking for. He said you’d understand. Do you?”

  “Indeed I do, Father Thornton, Thank you very much for bringing me good news, Very good news indeed.”

  “He said he was calling from Gary, Indiana.”

  “Interesting,” said the Visitor. “Well, I’m sure he’ll explain that when he gets back to Chicago.”

  C H A P T E R • 16

  Next morning after the other novices were busy with their manualia chores, Charley collected and disposed of yet another yellow thumbtack on his way to the Villa. He lit a fire and slid a third easy chair in front of the hearth. When the Villa became warm enough, Charley took off his jacket and settled down in his chair to wait for Father Fitzmaurice and the Russian to arrive.

  His anger was long gone but there was still a lot of sadness. It was as if someone he loved had died a while back. In a way, he thought, that was true. Charley had never known the real Father Samozvanyetz, but he had lost him nevertheless. Forever, he knew. And that was the saddest part of having to deal with this Russian stranger.

  He felt a familiar rush of adrenaline when the Visitor from Rome pushed open the Villa’s door and ushered the Russian to the fireplace. Charley was on his feet now, fully alert, poised to receive this day’s opening kick-off.

  “Many thanks for the fire, Charley,” said Father Fitzmaurice as he closed the door behind the Russian.

  “Take a seat at the hearth, Captain Ivanovich, and make yourself comfortable.”

  Charley took their hats and coats and hung them near the folded card tables.

  “That’s his real name?” asked Charley when returned to his chair.

  “Yes,” chuckled the Visitor. “You heard correctly. Ivan Ivanovich.”

  “I don’t get it, Father. What’s so funny?”

  “In Russia it’s one of the names they use when we use John Doe.”

  The Russian shrugged.

  “As I told Father Fitzmaurice walking here, my real name isn’t of any use to anyone and this name is easier to pronounce. And safer for me, I think.”

  “Still no red thumbtack under the bench, Charley?” asked the Visitor.

  “No, only another yellow one. I got rid of it.”

  “At least we know that Major Volkova is alive and still in communication, Captain Ivanovich, such as it is. But Charley is eager to find a red one soon. It will be his Ticket-to-Leave, you know.”

  “For me as well,” said the Russian. “But I am not eager to have my next meeting with her. It will be difficult. She can smell a dead rat on the other side of a lake. I must be very careful when I speak with her.”

  “I have good news for you in that regard,” said the Visitor. “Brother Krause reports that he has found evidence that Major Volkova’s preparations for your mission were demonstrably far from perfect and that the FBI caught you because of her serious mistakes. She will have no reason to harm your daughter.”

  “Thank God!” The Russian exhaled forcefully and clutched his chest. “Thank you for telling me. Tell me nothing more. That is everything I need to need to know. Nothing more. Anya is safe now. So let us proceed as planned, Father Fitzmaurice.”

  “Very well, Captain. Before we get started, I would like you to show this photograph to Carissime Coogan and identify the people he sees in it.”

  The Russian agent leaned toward Charley and pointed at the photo.

  “This picture of a group of Americans touring Russian farms was taken at a hotel in Siberia the night before I was found, shall we say, by one of the American farmers. He is the man standing next to the young woman on the left. She is my daughter, Anya.”

  The Russian agent muttered something in Russian.

  “Now this amazes me every time I see this,” he said. “Major Volkova has never allowed herself to be photographed, but there she is. The woman off to the right by herself. Major Volkova thinks she’s far enough from the group to not be included in an official photo by one of her staff. The man with Anya must have given his camera to somebody else, an amateur who had to make sure he got everybody in the picture. An amazing accident.”

  Father Fitzmaurice retrieved the photo and turned to Charley. “Now that you’ve seen what Major Volkova looks like, what do you think about her?”

  “Not what I expected,” said Charley. “More, well, ordinary. But I’m more curious about the younger woman Anya. How do we know that she’s really Captain Ivanovich’s daughter? Seems like everybody I’m learning about turns out to be somebody else.”

  “How about that, Captain?” said Father Fitzmaurice. “You hadn’t seen your daughter since you left for the war. She must have been an infant then. How do you know this Anya is your daughter?”

  “That is what I was told.”

  “By Major Volkova, I would imagine.”

  “Yes. During the third year of my training. Major Volkova told me that she had located my daughter. An orphan who had been raised and educated by the state. She had enlisted in the Red Army when she came of age.

  “Major Volkova arranged for my daughter’s transfer to her unit. She would be one of the Major’s assistants and I would be seeing her from time to time. However, Major Volkova told me, Anya’s continued well-being depended on my not giving Anya any indication that I was her father. She was, in fact, being held hostage to assure my loyalty and obedience.”

  “And you believed her? You truly believe that Anya is your daughter?”

  “What I truly believe is of no consequence. Major Volkova showed me documents and photographs as proof. I know they could have been forged or fabricated. But what difference would that make? She made it clear that Anya’s life was in my hands. Is she my daughter? I hope so, but there is no way of proving that. So what? If she is not my daughter, she is somebody’s daughter. And I must keep this innocent young woman safe, whoever she may actually be. So, I believe, must we all.”

  Father Fitzmaurice smiled at the Russian agent.

  “Yes,” he said, “we understand completely. Thankfully, Brother Krause has given the FBI enough material to turn the tables on your Major Volkova.”

  The Visitor finished tamping down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe and paused before lighting it.

  “Although I must say,” he said offhandedly, “your mission was brilliantly planned and executed. A good deal of the credit should go to the woman who trained you to take Father Samozvanyetz’s place. But you gave a masterful performance. Had you not confessed, I doubt anyone would ever have suspected that you were not who you purported to be. I dare say you could have gone on forever.”

  “If you say so.”

  Father Fitzmaurice nodded thoughtfully.

  “So why did you confess?”

  “Yes, why, indeed?”

  The Russian stood up and looked out the windows.

  “You know,” he said. “I killed a lot of Germans during the war. I do not know how many. You don’t see things clearly in a battle. But I committed only one murder. It was an act of revenge. The man was unarmed and no threat to me. The memory of that one German soldier has haunted me to this day. It was murder, pure and simple. As for the rest of those I killed, I hardly ever think about them. War is war.”

  “What about the murder of Father Samozvanyetz’s sister?”

  “When I learned of it, I was terrified. I could do nothing or say anything, not without endangering Anya. Major Volkova had proved herself to be a cruel and ruthless woman and I had to follow her orders.”

  “But why now? Why reveal yourself now?”

  “The murder of President Kennedy. That was more than I could bear. I had to stop the killing.”

  “Even at the risk of your own daughter’s life?”

  “I had no choice. A soldier can justify some killings in his own mind
. But things had gone much too far, even for me. I came here willingly enough to serve my country, to gather information as an intelligence agent. I did not come here to murder innocent women and priests and certainly not the President. I knew John Kennedy and I tried to help him. But I could not save him.”

  “From Lee Harvey Oswald?”

  “No,” said the Russian. “From himself.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Father Fitzmaurice. “Did the Volkova woman have something to do with the assassination?”

  “Certainly not!” The Russian was pacing back and forth, six paces one way, six paces the other.

  “President Kennedy was her greatest asset! Unwitting, of course. When we learned about the missiles in Cuba, we were able to make the President aware of the existence of the Russian military and political group who are eager to depose Khrushchev.”

  “Good Lord!” said the Visitor. “That intelligence may have helped Kennedy to convince Khrushchev to back down and remove the missiles!”

  “Possibly,” said the Russian. “I doubt we’ll ever know for sure. But Major Volkova believes that Khrushchev used Oswald to kill Kennedy. And I think she is correct.

  “So why did I confess? To stop all the killing. It was simply a matter of right and wrong, a matter of good and evil. I finally saw that. There was only one thing I could do. And I did it.”

  The Russian returned to his chair and sat looking at the fire. Charley was about to say something, but Father Fitzmaurice shook his head. The Visitor and the novice waited for the Russian to decide what he wanted to say.

  “There is something about John Kennedy that I should tell you,” he said, not looking up. “When both the United States and the Soviet Union were on trajectories that could collide and destroy the world, your President remained composed and in control of his emotions. One of his generals was advocating a massive first strike on the Soviet Union. His long-range B-52 bombers were already in the air waiting for the order to wipe out their targets in Russia. American missiles with nuclear warheads were prepared to be launched.