Charley knew that would give the novice waiters enough time to bring the food to all the tables and for the designated junior to start reading from the pulpit. Only then did Father Fitzmaurice step through the parlor door into the cloister and climb the Juniorate stairway to the Rector’s office on Paters Row.
“It’s time,” he said to the man who had played Father Samozvanyetz. The Russian was wearing clerical garb: black suit, white Roman collar, black hat in hand. His black overcoat was folded over his arm.
“I’m ready,” he said.
Father Fitzmaurice picked up the Rector’s telephone and dialed the number he had been given. “All clear,” he told the FBI agents waiting for his call. “You can come on in.”
He cradled the phone. “Let’s go,” he said.
He led the Russian along Paters Row and down the stairwell, staying half a flight ahead to make sure no stragglers were wandering about, then waving the Russian forward when the coast was clear.
On the first floor landing, both men paused. Father Fitzmaurice looked around the corner and saw Charley stationed by the visitors’ parlor giving him a thumbs-up.
“Let’s go,” he said and walked swiftly along the hallway past the refectory door on the left and the main chapel doors on the right.
Charley was holding open the door to the parlor and the Russian and the Visitor from Rome passed through.
“Nice going,” said Charley. “So far, so good. Nobody saw you.”
He went to the window and pulled back the edge of the lace curtain. He saw the black sedan moving slowly up the driveway. “They’re here,” he told Father Fitz. “Right on time.”
“So it is time for me to leave you,” said the Russian. “Do you know where they will be taking me?”
“No idea,” said the Visitor. “But don’t forget to act surprised when you get there.”
Charley helped the Russian put on his overcoat and handed him his hat. Then the man who had played Father Samozvanyetz walked to the foyer and stood just inside the heavy door of the main entrance. He squared away his black hat and adjusted his overcoat.
“How do I look?” he said.
“Quite presentable. Every inch a priest,” said Father Fitzmaurice.
The Russian shook the Visitor’s hand. “Thank you for finding a way to keep my Anya safe from harm, Father Fitzmaurice. And for showing me my way home.”
He turned and clasped Charley by the shoulders.
“Don’t forget to pray for me, Charles.”
“I won’t,” said Charley. “I won’t ever forget you.”
“And I know you will keep our secret forever,” said the Russian. Then he said something in Russian.
Charley could only nod vigorously and wipe his eyes.
He watched the Russian descend the gray stone stairs to the waiting black sedan. He saw one of the FBI agents holding the back door open. Charley saw the Russian pause and stare over the roof of the car at the white statue of the Sacred Heart that faced the Novitiate—its arms outstretched in forgiveness? Acceptance, maybe?
Charley looked at Father Fitz for an answer. “He’s seeing the German soldier he shot in the war,” the priest told him.
“He said something to me in Russian,” said Charley.
“Strong young man! It’s what Russians say when they’re cheering a hero.”
Charley and Father Fitzmaurice watched the black sedan move down the black driveway and curve toward the street. They stood watching until the evergreen pine trees at the end of the driveway blocked their view.
“He’s gone, Charley. Vanished.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Snow was starting to fall, just a light dusting of white on the dark frozen lawns. As far as they could tell, nobody had seen the Russian leave.
“Game’s over, Charley,” said the Visitor from Rome. “It’s time for us to get out of the cold and go to the refectory to join the waiters at Second Table. We have to eat, Charley. It’s been quite a day. Quite a day indeed.”
Charley pulled the heavy front door shut and followed the Visitor from Rome back into the Novitiate cloister.
C H A P T E R • 23
Some light snow had begun to sweep across the roads in southern Ohio, but the FBI agents made the trip from Milford to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in less than two hours. It was not quite three o’clock in the afternoon when the man who had played Father Samozvanyetz was brought into the cinder block building and led down a corridor to what he assumed was an interrogation room. He pretended to be startled to see Oksana Volkova seated at the table with Herb Coogan and Mitchell Sloane.
“Say nothing,” said Oksana.
“Oh, come now,” said Coogan impatiently. “He doesn’t have to say anything. Nothing he has to say is of any particular interest to us. We know everything we need to know about him.”
“I don’t understand,” said the Russian. “What is going on here? Why have I been brought here?”
“Oh, can it,” said Coogan. “You can drop the act. You’re under arrest. That’s what’s going on. Your boss has blown your cover higher than a kite.”
“Say nothing,” said Oksana. “It is over. They are sending us home.”
“Yes,” said Sloane. “You can relax now. You don’t have to pretend to be a priest any longer. It’s all over.”
He turned to Coogan. “Didn’t your men tell him he was being taken into custody?”
“No, I thought I’d surprise the bastard. I let my guys think they were taking him to see some high-level government official again.”
“You shouldn’t have done that, Herb. You could have given the man a heart attack.”
“No such luck,” said Coogan. “He didn’t drop dead when he saw his boss here, did he?”
“No thanks to you.”
“Well, maybe I’ll still get lucky,” said Coogan. “Maybe the two of them will try to escape.”
“Oh, come on,” said Sloane. “You know our orders. We’re just supposed to get them back to Russia. No muss, no fuss.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Coogan. “The damn politicians win again.”
“Tell your man what’s happening,” Sloane said to Oksana. “In English, please.”
“Sit down and listen carefully,” Oksana said. “The Americans do not intend to bring any charges against us. We are admitting nothing about anything. But that seems to be beside the point. President Johnson does not want anybody to know about your meetings with President Kennedy. The President feels, so they have informed me, that it is in the best interests of both our countries that we be returned to the Soviet Union in secrecy and as soon as possible.”
“Well,” said the man who had played Father Samozvanyetz. “What can I say about that?”
“Not a word,” said Oksana. “Remain silent. We will just go.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Sloane. “I’m sure your agent would like to change into ordinary clothes. You have a long trip ahead of you.”
“Yes, that is a good idea,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Come this way,” Herb said. “You’ll have to hurry. Your plane is scheduled to leave at five o’clock.”
He led the Russian along the corridor and into another room where there was a table and a chair.
“I see that you brought the clothes I was wearing when I left Moscow,” the Russian said. “So I left Russia with nothing, and with nothing I shall return.”
He turned back to Coogan. “I must thank you, Agent Coogan, and compliment you on your acting skills. Your display of anger was most convincing. Major Volkova was completely taken in.”
“I wasn’t acting. And get rid of that damn Roman collar. I can’t stand looking at it.”
“I understand,” said the Russian. He unhooked the collar, tossed it on the table, took off his jacket and draped it over the collar. “There, you don’t see it anymore. I’m sorry about that.”
“Just hurry up and get changed,” said Coogan.
The Russian sat down and took o
ff his black shoes and socks. He stood up and got out of his black trousers. “Underwear also?” “Yeah.” Coogan turned away. “Put on the underwear you brought from Moscow.”
The Russian did as he was told.
“Are you decent?” asked Coogan. “Yes,” said the Russian as he slipped his old trousers up over his old shirt. He carried his Russian shoes and socks to the table and sat down in the chair.
“Look, Ivanovich. I’m more angry about myself than about you, for getting myself and Charley mixed up in this whole mess.”
“You don’t have to worry about your son,” said the Russian as he tied his laces. “Charles is going to be just fine. Let me tell you something that may make you feel better. It’s about what Charles is going through now.” He leaned back in the chair. “The Jesuits call it ‘discernment’. Simply put, it is trying hard to honestly understand what our real motives are in making a decision. I know that Charles now has all the tools he needs to make a decision that will be best for him. Does that make you feel better about this?”
“Maybe,” said Coogan. “But thanks for telling me that.”
“Well, I have a plane to catch,” said the Russian. He extended his right hand and Coogan clasped it and said, “Good luck in Russia, Ivan.”
“Thanks, Herb,” said the Russian. “But when we rejoin Major Volkova and the others, don’t forget that you still hate me.”
C H A P T E R • 24
The Dayton airport was decorated for the holidays with evergreen wreaths and colored lights. “I keep forgetting that Christmas is almost here,” said Mitchell Sloane.
“Next Wednesday,” said Herb Coogan. “Got your shopping done?”
“I’m not doing much. I usually don’t get Christmas spirit.”
The U.S. Air Force airplane carrying the two Russian agents and their armed guards had taken off from Wright-Patterson precisely at five o’clock that evening and had sped east trying to stay ahead of the gathering winter storm. Oksana Volkova and the man who had played Father Samozvanyetz would change planes at another Air Force base on the east coast, then fly across the Atlantic to a base in Europe. Sometime Saturday they would be taken to some obscure border crossing and enter one of the Eastern Bloc countries. Just where, Herb Coogan did not know or much care.
“They’ll be home for Sunday dinner in Moscow,” said Mitchell Sloane.
“What do you think will happen to them?”
“Who knows? It’s anybody’s guess,” said Sloane. “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to get you on a flight to Washington. Then I’m going to check into a hotel downtown and get a good night’s sleep. In the morning, I’ll drive back down to Milford and pick up Charley.”
“The roads may be pretty bad by morning,” said Mitchell.
“Maybe,” said Herb. “We’ll see.”
“I’m glad I’m getting out of here tonight before the storm really hits.”
“Yeah, it’s going to be a big one.”
∗ ∗ ∗
There were a few empty seats on the next flight to Washington. “Cancellations,” the clerk behind the counter explained. Herb stood by while Mitchell bought his ticket and then walked with him to the departure gate. “I’ll hang around until I know you’re off the ground,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that, Herb.”
“Well, I’d hate to have you stranded overnight in the Dayton airport.”
“Thanks,” he said. He was about to say something, but he did not.
∗ ∗ ∗
The waiting area for the flight was crowded with anxious travellers trying to listen to the flight announcements on the airport’s public address system that interrupted the incessant Christmas music.
“Herb,” said Mitchell suddenly. “Don’t go to Milford tomorrow. Do Charley a favor and leave him alone. If he decides he wants to go home, he can call you.”
Herb nodded but didn’t reply.
“Well,” said Mitchell Sloane at last. “Nice working with you again, Herb. See you on the next big one.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Herb Coogan went to the bar and sat there for twenty minutes or so, nursing a highball, before walking back to the airline ticket desk. “Did your flight to Washington get off okay?” he asked.
The young woman behind the counter made a phone call.
“Yes, they’re off,” she said. “They were held up for a few minutes because of the snow, but they’re up and on their way now. The weather is clear around Washington, by the way.”
“Thanks for checking,” said Herb. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, “and Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah,” said Herb. “Merry Christmas.”
He walked through the snow to the parking lot and sat in his car for a while, waiting for the defroster to clear the condensation from the windshield. If he started now, he could be home in four hours or so. And if the snow got too heavy, he could pull into a motel somewhere along the way. It would be a hell of a lot better than spending the night in some hotel bar in Dayton.
He blew his nose and wiped his eyes, pulled out of the airport parking lot, and headed north ahead of the storm.
C H A P T E R • 25
Charley Coogan slept well that Thursday night. He awoke when the Beadle passed through the dormitory rooms clanging his brass bell well before sunrise Friday morning. Charlie was eager to start his first day as an ordinary novice with no special job and no special privileges.
The slowly moving winter storm had reached Milford sometime after midnight and had hovered there for several hours. There had not been much wind and so the large white flakes fell silently until the storm moved off to the east leaving the novitiate grounds blanketed with snow.
The dormitory room was cold and dark when Charley began his day. He put on a sweater before he slipped into his cassock and began his morning ablutions. While shaving, he considered removing his sweater as an act of penance, but then he recognized the impulse for what it was: just another manifestation of Pride.
When the meditation period began, the window beside Charley’s desk was covered with frost. He could see his breath clearly enough, but he could not see outside. From time to time, he warmed his hands over the metal shade of his gooseneck desk lamp, but that relief from the cold was only temporary.
At this hour, he knew, the only true and lasting warmth would be found in sleep. The recurring drowsiness he felt was almost overwhelming. He had to fight to stay awake. But it was hard to keep his mind on the points for the meditation he had outlined the night before. There was too much else to think about that morning.
The distractions caused his mind to race and helped him forget about the cold. So, he thought, why not just give up trying to contemplate something that happened to the Apostles in the Holy Land many centuries ago? Why not just review what had happened early yesterday morning right here at Milford? That had been pretty darn amazing.
∗ ∗ ∗
Thursday, the day of the Russian’s departure, had been a scheduled recreation day, so it was not remarkable that all the novices, secundi anni and primi anni, left the grounds in a body shortly after breakfast to begin a long ambulatio to the summit of Tibi Dabo. What none of them knew was that Charley, Father Fitz and the Rector had left by car once the coast was clear. They were taking the Russian to that abandoned weather-beaten barn in a meadow many miles away from Tibi Dabo.
The skies were overcast that Thursday morning. Even so, it took Charley a few moments to adjust his vision when he brushed away a cobweb and entered the ramshackle barn. The gloom inside was broken only by pale shafts of light leaking though cracks in the walls and roof. So Charley suggested that the barn doors should remain open to brighten the interior.
The barn was mostly empty, except for some wooden boxes, a few bales of hay, several pieces of rickety farm equipment and some rusty tools from another era.
A few minutes later, the Provincial and his secretary, Brother
Krause, walked into the barn, accompanied by a man who appeared to be East Indian. He was the newly consecrated bishop Father Fitz had told Charley about, a Jesuit on his way back to the Society’s mission in Kathmandu. The bishop wore no symbols of office and, like all the others in the barn, he was dressed for hiking. He moved off to one side and sat down on a bale of hay. A bishop was needed, Father Fitz had explained, for his plan to work “according to Hoyle, as you Americans say.” Whatever that meant.
Charley kept a close eye on the Russian who was taking his time walking around the barn, looking at everything. He was wearing dark trousers, a dark heavy sweater and a pair of work boots, and he paused to examine the old workbench standing against one of the walls. Charley watched the Russian slowly rubbing his hand over the surface of the workbench and he wondered what the Russian was thinking about. Then he saw Brother Krause walking up to speak to the Russian and Charley heard the lay brother say, “Does this remind you of something?”
“Oh yes, indeed. Everything looks much like the barn where the American tourist discovered me in Siberia.”
“Yeah,” said Brother Krause. “I saw that photo he took of you standing there. I guess barns are pretty much the same wherever we go.”
“It would seem so,” said the Russian.
Charley picked up a signal from Father Fitz and hustled to the other side of the barn to fetch an old Hudepohl beer case and a well worn whisk broom to brush away a decade of dust. He placed the wooden box near the bishop so that he could hear everything being said.
“I wish we had something more comfortable for you to sit on,” Father Fitz said to the Russian. “But I’m afraid this will have to do.”
“This will be just fine,” the Russian said with a smile.
“Very well,” said the Visitor from Rome. “Today during the midday meal, we will deliver you to FBI agents who will be sending you back to the Soviet Union. We’ve gathered here to bid farewell to you and to assure you that we will be keeping you in our prayers as long as we live.”
The Russian nodded quietly and said, “Thank you very much, all of you.”
Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy Page 51