The Hounds of Rome - Mystery of a Fugitive Priest

by Tom Clancy

  While he was at the monastery in Arizona, Steve had tried to rationalize excuses for the brothers when they beat a number of priests which led to the death of some priests. He could understand the sheer frustration and anger they must have felt towards the derelict priests housed there. But he, Steve, had done nothing to deserve such punishment. He was aware that the brothers could be seeking revenge for that night at the monastery when he gave them a beating in a fair fight. He recognized that because he refused to quit the priesthood, the bishops could well have been playing on the brothers’ need for revenge. It would suit the bishops’ objective: to forcibly eliminate him from the ranks of the Catholic clergy. And if that failed, and if convinced that he was merely a subhuman chimera, to forcibly remove him from the ranks of the living.

  But sitting here alone in Dutch Harbor, a thousand miles from nowhere, Steve sensed that something else was troubling him. Reared on a heavy ration of Catholic guilt, might his going to the Aleutians represent a way of helping him punish himself? Did the guilt also stem from falling in love with Janet? As he sipped his after-dinner coffee, he thought grimly that the cold Aleutian Islands would help chill that relationship. On the other hand, maybe the guilt came from his hardheaded notion that he intended to continue his ministry as a priest, defying the hierarchy of his church, when others in the same situation would have succumbed to the wishes of Holy Mother Church. One thing was certain—living in the Aleutian Islands in the middle of winter was an excellent way to do penance. Penance—the pain suffered in the name of Christ that washes away guilt and sin and opens the door to paradise.

  Steve considered it likely that many Aleuts and others, isolated on a string of tiny islands, could benefit by visitations of a priest. But he wondered if there would be a welcome mat for a Catholic priest who would fly into a little village unannounced to talk to them about someone they may never have heard of: Jesus.

  After dinner, he read his breviary in his room and knelt by his bedside to say evening prayers. As he lay in bed, dimly aware of the throbbing music coming from the inn’s cocktail lounge, he lit a cigarette. Alone and anxious about the future, he needed the crutch it offered. He went over the outline of a plan in his head: in a few weeks, rent an apartment or a small house; lease a plane that could be equipped alternately with skis and pontoons; start hopping to nearby islands that perhaps had church facilities but no priest and begin a ministry among the Aleuts and others who were perhaps Christian or possible converts to the Catholic faith. He would discover later his plan had a few flaws that were difficult but not fatal—notably that the Roman Catholic religion came into fairly sharp conflict with Russian Orthodoxy which had been established hundreds of years before as settlers came from the Siberian mainland to the islands, a faith that was deeply entrenched in the minds and hearts of many of the locals. Then there were the remnants of shamanism, especially among the older generation, and there might have been protestant religions that had touched some of the islands. So the principal difficulty might not be in bringing religion to the island people, but rather in convincing them to convert.

  *****

  The next morning Steve set out in six inches of snow against a biting wind to visit Dutch Harbor’s most famous landmark, the Russian Orthodox Church of the Holy Ascension that stood on a small bluff overlooking the harbor with its cold, gray churning sea. Steve wore his black suit with Roman collar. Over it he wore a newly purchased parka with fur-lined hood and calf-high rubber boots. In the reflection in a window of a store he passed, he thought he looked like an Arctic explorer. The bleak, windswept harbor, teeming with small fishing vessels, smelled of fish. He saw an American President Lines container ship docked across the bay. He couldn’t tell whether it was bringing supplies to the island or loading to carry away the island’s principal export: fish from the local canneries.

  He had dressed as a priest because he wanted to be identified easily as such with whomever he would meet at the church. The small cemetery in the churchyard was filled with wooden white Russian crosses—easily identified by the short extra slanted bar below the horizontal cross bar. He knew that the lower bar was an added touch of Russian orthodoxy, representing Christ’s foot-rest on the Cross. Implanted gravestones on some of the graves showed they were ancient, dating back to the early 1800s. As Steve walked through the cemetery, he looked up to see a dark green, cross-topped onion dome on the bell tower and another on the main body of the church, each capped with a layer of snow. From an earlier visit to Russia, he had learned the onion domes represent the flames of candles with their pointed tips soaring to heaven. A reminder perhaps that all things holy eventually rise to heaven. On mounting the front step, he read the inscription on the brass plate at the door: Church of the Holy Ascension, l890, National Historic Landmark.

  Stepping inside, he glanced around looking to bless himself until he remembered that unlike Roman Catholic churches, the Russian churches had no holy water font. He knelt to say a few prayers on the floor of the church in front of the richly decorated iconostasis. He was alone in the church. The iconostasis, a wall of gold-framed icons, had large gold-painted scrolled doors behind which the celebrant would conduct the service. Steve gazed up at the colorful banners, golden icons of Christ, the Blessed Virgin and biblical figures that decorated the wall in front of him. The iconostasis was fronted by an elaborately carved white wooden railing. After the manner of Russian churches, there were no pews. The small, quaint wooden church—Dutch Harbor’s cathedral, struck him as a far cry from the huge granite and stained glass edifices he had seen in cities like New York, Washington and Rome, but he supposed this small church was all that a frontier town needed and all it could afford.

  As Steve got to his feet intending to look at the side chapels, he was startled when he literally bumped into a short stocky priest who had come into the church and remained silently standing behind him.

  “Forgive me for startling you, my name is Sergius. I am the pastor here.

  “My name is Steve Murphy. I’m a Catholic priest. Roman Catholic.”

  “Welcome to our humble church. I suppose I should tell you I took the name Sergius in the seminary—after the patron saint of Russia. Are you new in Dutch Harbor? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “Yes, I just arrived.”

  “Since this is your first visit, let me show you our chapel dedicated to Saint Sergius.”

  Steve followed the short, stocky priest who, dressed in a black cassock had a shock of jet black hair, plopped atop a round face that held smiling black eyes—an appearance that seemed to combine Russian, Aleut and perhaps some Eskimo.

  “Do you know anything about the Russian Church, Father Murphy?”

  “A little. Not much really. I have visited orthodox churches in Russia.”

  “Our first church was built in 1826. This is the third church on this site. There are over one million Russian Orthodox in the U.S. About thirty years ago, the largest of the jurisdictions, the Russian Orthodox Church in America was given independent status by the Patriarch of Moscow. Our metropolitan who is the equivalent of say, one of your archbishops or cardinals, resides in Anchorage. So, although we are a ‘Russian’ church, we’re not really tied to Russia any longer.”

  “And your parishioners?”

  “Almost all Aleut.”

  As Steve studied the golden icon-covered wall in the side chapel devoted to Saint Sergius, he was reminded of a visit he once made to the Trinity Monastery of Blessed Sergius located in the town of Zagorsk, north of Moscow. “The body of the saint is preserved under glass in one of the churches inside the walls of the monastery,” he said. Then, glancing at the Russian priest, he asked, “Ever been there?”

  “No. Some day perhaps.” Upon saying it, the Russian priest clasped his hands together and with a wide smile raised his eyes to heaven as if asking for the favor.

  “By the way, Father Sergius, do you mind my asking—the Roman Catholic clergy are celibate—are you in the Russian church celibate?
”

  “Yes. But as you know, some of the eastern rite churches permit priests to marry. Permit me a little joke I always tell: Since there are not too many women here in the Aleutians, it is not all that difficult being celibate.”

  “By the way, how bad does the weather get here? It started snowing soon after the plane landed at Unalaska.”

  “Not bad, actually. It’s surprisingly mild compared to the Yukon and northern Alaska territories. I suppose it’s because of the warm Japanese current. By the way, please call me Sergei.”

  “And you can call me Steve.”

  As the pair of priests stood, heads bowed, saying a few prayers in the side chapel, Steve had to think that the Russian priest’s notion of mild weather was not in a category a lot of people would think of as mild. The cold, dank air and the wind had cut through him like a knife when he walked from the hotel to the church.

  As they left the chapel, and walked to the outer lobby of the church, the Russian priest turned, bowed in the direction of the sanctuary and made the two-finger Russian Sign of the Cross. The two priests lingered in the lobby as Steve pulled on his boots and began to put on his parka. “By the way, Steve, where are you staying?”

  “At the Dutch Inn.”

  “Planning a short or long visit?”

  “Long. I plan to live here permanently. Make it my home. I’m planning to buy a plane and begin a ministry in the outer islands. I won’t be spending a lot of time in Dutch Harbor, but I do need sort of a base of operations if you’d call it that.”

  “Let me insist that you stay here at the Bishop’s House. It’s the building over there next to the church. It’s a historic building, kind of a museum, but it does have some private quarters. If you agree, I’ll have a room made ready for you. You’ll find it much more affordable than the hotel because the lodging is complimentary. All I ask is that you make a small contribution for the food served in the refectory. And frankly, since I am the only priest assigned here, I could use some company.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate the offer,” Steve replied hesitantly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to live in such close quarters with another priest. He was afraid of the questions that would surely arise. Where was his ministry in the lower forty-eight? Why did he come to the Aleutians? Had he been assigned here by his bishop? Was he now attached to the Roman Catholic bishopric in Anchorage?

  On and on....

  “I did look through the local newspaper and the bulletin board at the new mall and didn’t see a single thing to rent,” Steve said. “But let me ask, you call it the Bishop’s House. Do you have a bishop here?”

  “Oh no. Our archbishop, who as I said, we call the ‘metropolitan’ resides in Anchorage. As I said, I am the only one here on a permanent basis. And we have a housekeeper, of course.”

  “How often does the metropolitan visit?” Steve asked, unable to conceal a trace of nervousness in his voice.”

  Noticing his discomfort, Sergei was given to wonder but made no direct comment. “Not often. He’s scared to death of volcanoes and as you know, the Aleutian chain has upwards of eighty active volcanoes. The chain is recognized as part of the Ring of Fire that extends all the way over to Japan. The metropolitan paid a visit just a few months ago after we completed renovation of the church. Since he is responsible for all of Alaska, I expect he won’t be back again for a couple of years.”

  Steve smiled. A look of relief came over his face. The Russian priest’s eyes widened. His mind raced with a dozen questions but he was too polite to say anything. He would wait until his fellow priest was ready to confide in him, if ever.

  “I really do appreciate the offer,” Steve said, “but let me think about it for a few weeks. I am booked for a month at the Dutch Inn. They gave me a monthly rate. I wouldn’t want to let them down. They seem to be pretty empty.”

  “Yes, Dutch Harbor doesn’t get many visitors this time of year. There are some ski parties however. The skiing is quite good on surrounding mountains, but for some reason it is not well advertised.”

  Steve buttoned his parka, shook hands with Sergei, and braced himself for the biting cold as he left the church.

  The Russian priest walked back to a table in the lobby of the cathedral where he straightened up a stack of picture postcards of the cathedral and its inner chapels. At a dollar each, the postcards did not sell very well, although he noticed that Father Murphy had picked up a couple and had left a twenty dollar bill on the table.

  Sergei couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about Father Murphy that he liked and he welcomed the idea of having another priest living in the Bishop’s House. The fact that Father Murphy was a Roman Catholic and thus a competitor, didn’t bother him. Naturally, he had questions but he was not overly concerned about Father Murphy’s background. It would all be sorted out in due time, he thought philosophically. All in due time.

  31

  “Father, let me ask you, why do you want such a big airplane? You know the Twin Otter can carry upwards of l6 passengers. You going into the air taxi or charter service? If you are, there’s licenses you’re gonna need. You can’t just lease an airplane from us and start operating.” The speaker, a very tall skinny former used-car dealer from Phoenix stood on the dock shivering and wondering why he had ever left the warm sun. He shook his head as he looked at this priest who seemed to be completely unaware of flying in Alaska, if in fact he had ever done much flying anywhere. Although the dealer’s name was Henry, he had picked up the name Totem because he was a beanpole, stiff as wood, with an angular face that looked carved and a round bald head sticking partway out of the top of his parka. Although he would have been a lot warmer with a hat, he didn’t like hats because they kept sliding off his shiny dome.

  “Added to that, Father,” Totem said, “there’s already a number of air charter and air taxi outfits operating on the Alaska peninsula and out in the Aleutians. And every third guy is a bush pilot. They’ve been in business a long time. How do you know you’d get any business?”

  “I’m not looking for business—at least not the kind you’re referring to,” Steve said as he stood on the dock at Juneau staring up at the DeHavilland Twin Otter 100 Series as it rocked gracefully on its floats. He liked the sleek look of the dark blue aircraft with the red and white stripe running down the length of the fuselage and the two streamlined turboprop engines. He knew the Otter was a rugged airplane that had short takeoff and landing capability. It would come in handy visiting some of the tiny villages scattered throughout the Aleutians. And most importantly, since the Aleutians comprised over 200 islands, he would be flying over a cold ocean much of the time and if one engine went out, the Otter could bring him home on the other one. In his curiosity about the plane, Steve ignored the dealer’s questions.

  “What cruise speed and what range will it get, Mr. Totem?”

  “It ain’t Mr. Totem, Father. It’s just Totem. It’s a nickname. In Phoenix they called me Saguaro—like the tall cactus. Here it’s Totem. Well anyway, that plane will do maybe l50 to 160 miles an hour and probably 500 to 600 miles range with a full load. Empty, you can probably stretch it to 900 miles, give or take. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Can you outfit it with a commercial airline type lavatory by taking some seats out in the rear of the fuselage? And can some seats be removed to make room for a bedroll?”

  “It’ll cost, but yes, we can do it. Of course, you’d have to pay to have the toilet taken out again and the seats replaced after the lease is up. New people may want the extra seat capacity and no toilet. But listen here, you still didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m not going into the charter business, Totem. I already have a job, I’m a priest. But to answer your question—I intend to visit a number of small villages in the outer islands and if I’m out somewhere and the weather turns bad I may wind up sleeping in the plane.”

  “If you do, bring plenty of blankets because you’ll freeze with the power off. Well if you li
ke to fly, you came to the right place because I guess you’ve noticed when you get away from the big cities in Alaska there aren’t many roads. And especially in the Aleutians—it ain’t like the Florida Keys—these islands aren’t connected by causeways.” As Totem talked, he reached down and grabbed one of the heavy duty pontoon struts giving it a shake. “This is a lot of airplane, Father. Got a copilot in mind?”

  Steve laughed and pointed an index finger skyward.

  “I see...the man upstairs is your copilot,” Totem said, trying somewhat uncertainly to join Steve in the laugh.

  “But seriously,” Steve said. “I have an instrument rating, 1,600 hours total flying time—most of the hours on floatplanes. I was part owner of one. Also, a current commercial license, plus 3l0 hours multi-engine, so other than the fact that the Otter has two turboprops rather than piston engines, I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it after a couple of check rides. Now let me ask you a couple of questions. How old is the plane? It’s a l00 series so they didn’t manufacture it last Wednesday. And how many hours on the engines?”

  “The airplane’s twelve years old,” Totem said, now quite a bit more impressed with the priest. “The turboprops are brand spanking new. No more than ten hours on them. The plane also comes with a pair of skiis. You may find them handy if you land on a strip covered with packed snow. You take off the pontoons and install the skis before you leave home base. Store the pontoons in brackets under the wings. But taking off the pontoons is a two-man job so you’ll have to grab someone to help you. However, since you’ll be hitting the islands, you’ll most likely be using the pontoons landing in a bay here and there. You’ll soon be able to spot where the coves are located. Unless we get a real bad winter, the water around the islands doesn’t freeze up. We fitted this bird out with new heavy duty wheels and tires. So let’s say you land on the water and if there’s a beach, you can taxi right up onto land, as long as it ain’t too steep and as long as there’s not a lot of snow. You won’t find many airplanes got that kind of power where they can haulass themselves right out of the goddamn water.”