A Woman Involved

by John Gordon Davis

  ‘Do those mean anything to you?’ he said.

  ‘Anything else?’ she said.

  ‘Do the names Sanchez, and Hank mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Was there anything else?’

  He pulled out the film negatives. ‘I think some of these are pornographic.’

  She took them. She held them up to the firelight.

  She studied them grimly, her face set.

  ‘Do they mean anything to you?’ Morgan said.

  ‘Are there any more?’ She looked in the envelope.

  ‘No. Can you identify anybody?’

  ‘No. But yes, they look pornographic,’ she said flatly. She looked at the film again. Then put them back in the envelope carefully.

  ‘Now, please tell me what happened in Rome?’

  First he played the Klaus Barbie tape. She listened grimly, her head in her hands. She made no comment. Then he told her about Rome.

  He did not tell her about going to the golf club, nor how he tried to see the Secretary of State disguised as Reverend Anderson from Zambia. He wanted her to believe that he had no plan yet. He told her about Whacker Ball and Renata, what information she had dug up about the death of Pope John Paul I, but he did not tell her about the police waiting at Pensione Umberto, lest that alarm her. He consulted his notes and told her everything that Miguel Milano had told him: about God’s Banker and his crooked deals with the Vatican Bank, the ghost companies they set up together, about Bellatrix and the arms it supplied to the military régimes of South America; he told her about the masonic lodge called P2 of which God’s Banker was the paymaster, how God’s Banker was robbing his own banks, the deep financial crisis he got into, about the Vatican Bank’s ‘comfort letter’ in respect of Bellatrix and their subsequent denial that they were responsible for Bellatrix’s debts: he told her Milano’s theory that God’s Banker fled to London to try to get his hands on certain documents from somebody in P2 with which to blackmail the Vatican into paying so that P2 could get arms.

  Anna sat on the bed, listening expressionlessly. She said:

  ‘So this Miguel Milano thinks that the Vatican had God’s Banker murdered, to stop him blackmailing them?’

  ‘Yes. But he’s wrong. Obviously the Russians murdered him. To stop him getting the microfilm and exposing their secret weapon in the Vatican.’

  ‘Did Miguel have any theories about what weapons were needed, and for whom?’

  ‘No.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you know? You haven’t told me everything that Max told you.’

  She started to get up, but he put a hand on hers. He said: ‘If Miguel’s theory is correct, Max must have been a member of P2, because God’s Banker was going to get the evidence from a P2 member. Was he?’

  She got up and paced away. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But P2 is fascist! Fiercely anti-communist. And Max was hand in glove with the communist government of Grenada.’

  She sighed bitterly.

  ‘That’s where he was so damn clever. He was hand in glove with everybody. He was pals with Somoza of Nicaragua and pals with the Sandinista guerrillas. Pals with both Castro and Washington DC. That was his value to P2 – his assignment was to infiltrate the communists in the region.’

  Morgan sat back on the bed.

  ‘I see. And? How did he get the microfilm from Klaus Barbie?’

  She said: ‘Barbie wanted to join P2. Max did business in Bolivia, and they knew each other. Barbie approached Max and wanted to join P2, for protection, because the French were after him, and he offered the microfilm to prove how valuable he could be.’ She snorted softly. ‘And Max hung onto it. And tried to use it for his purposes.’

  ‘And that purpose was? Was it in fact for arms?’

  She got up and paced away. He said: ‘Why’re you reluctant to tell me, Anna?’

  She said tensely: ‘What am I going to do about this, Jack?’

  He said: ‘I thought you wanted to destroy the microfilm as a scurrilous lie?’

  She cried impatiently: ‘I didn’t want to believe it. Even though I suspected it was true. And now –’ she jabbed her finger at the tape-recorder – ‘I know it’s true. It all fits …’ She sighed angrily: ‘I was never going to destroy it if it was true, Jack.’

  ‘What would you have done?’

  She put her hands to her face. ‘Oh darling Jack … you don’t know how grateful I am for all you’ve done to help me …’ She dropped her hands. ‘I didn’t know what I was going to do. Get hold of the microfilm and verify it somehow. Then … Somehow I was going to see the Pope about it. Maybe I was going to hire somebody to help me.’ She appealed: ‘But what am I going to do now?’

  And oh God he hated to trick her again, but he had to.

  ‘We’re not going to do anything for the time being. The heat’s on us, Anna. We’re going to lie low in these mountains until after Christmas.’

  For a moment intense relief flickered across her face. Then she appealed: ‘For God’s sake, there are communists in the top ranks of the Holy Roman Church! What are we going to do after Christmas?’ Her eyes were suddenly glistening. ‘And please don’t suggest that we hand the problem over to the British! …’

  He snorted. ‘You still have a lingering suspicion that I’m working for the British?’ He smiled mirthlessly: ‘The Spy Who Loved Me?’

  She stood, nerves tight. ‘And don’t imagine that I can ever go and live in Britain after this.’

  He said emphatically, ‘We will. We’ll face them down once this is over.’

  She looked at him, then cried:

  ‘Oh – I’m the spy, don’t you see? …’ She thumped her breast: ‘I’m a trained Russian spy! … And I can never run to England … ’

  He was astonished. She glared at him, then cried:

  ‘Because it wasn’t the Russians who murdered God’s Banker – or the Vatican! It was the bloody British! And they’ll do the same to me!’

  He stared at her, absolutely astonished.

  She cried: ‘You’re blind, Jack – and your friend Miguel Milano! The answer’s staring you in the face and you don’t see it! Think! You ask what weapons God’s Banker and the P2 wanted the money for! For which country! Think! What was going on when God’s Banker was hanged from Blackfriars Bridge on the 18th of June 1982?’ She jabbed a finger at him: ‘You were there, Jack! The Falklands War! Between Britain and Argentina!’

  ‘Jesus Christ …’ Morgan said.

  ‘Think. Mr Gelli, the Grand Master of P2, was an Argentinian subject! And he was supplying arms to fascist countries with money provided by God’s Banker. And now Argentina is at war with Great Britain, and losing, and she desperately needs more arms. But God’s Banker is bankrupt …’ She jabbed her finger at Morgan again: ‘That’s what P2 wanted out of the deal. Money for arms, so Argentina could win the Falklands War! So P2 was going to give God’s Banker the microfilm with which to blackmail the Vatican into paying up on that “comfort letter”. And God’s Banker rushed to London to get it from Max.’ She glared, then cried: ‘It was exocet missiles that Max was going to buy with the money …’ She pointed at the envelope. ‘That airline waybill is for sixteen crates of exocet missiles, not bulldozer parts!’

  ‘Jesus Christ …’ Morgan whispered. She cried:

  ‘And the British murdered God’s Banker to stop the Argentinians getting any! And the very next day Galtieri, the military president of Argentina, fell! And the war was lost …’

  She looked at him, her chest heaving.

  ‘The British murdered God’s Banker and made it look like suicide! And that’s what they’ll do to me …’

  49

  The night was unreal. Makepeace knocked on the door and asked them if they wanted any supper, but they didn’t. He said the coast was clear, and went to bed. Morgan and Anna lay close together in the glow of the fire and the unrealness of the snowy night. She was calm again now, drained.

  ‘I never actually joined the Party at university. But I was a communist all
right. I still am a socialist, but an older, wiser, moderate one now. But in those days I was young and starry-eyed.’ She snorted wearily. ‘I believed in the spontaneous creative vigour that would emerge from the masses if they were unshackled from the yoke of international capitalism. I wanted to see the means of production nationalized, instead of the profits of sweated labour going to Wall Street. I considered the workers of the Third World were getting a raw deal and I wanted to see oppressive, undemocratic governments got rid of. As I still do. Including oppressive communist governments.’

  He waited. She went on: ‘And of course I was reading Marx and Lenin and Mao Tse-tung for my political science degree – along with Adam Smith and Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. I was awfully knowledgeable, if not particularly wise.’ She sighed. ‘Then … I never told you this, but at the end of my second year I visited Russia.’

  He was surprised. ‘No.’

  She smiled wearily. ‘Nor did my parents know. They thought I was spending the summer holidays touring Europe. And when I met you two years later I didn’t think it would be smart to tell one of Her Majesty’s nuclear submarine commanders, whom I fell in love with at first sight.’ She sighed bitterly. ‘Anyway, that’s where they recruited me.’

  He could hardly believe this. She went on:

  ‘A girlfriend called Cynthia and I went. It was supposed to be one of those cultural student tours, arranged by Intourist. And that’s how it started – art galleries, ballet, theatre, universities. The Russian students assigned to Cynthia and me as guides made a great fuss of us. We met Russian students who invited us to parties. No real politics at first. Then we went on to the heavier stuff. Touring factories. Collective farms. They were excellent, the ones we saw. Rosy-cheeked Russian girls singing as they worked, stalwart Russian lads in love with their tractors. Tables groaning with food, jolly sing-a-longs in the evening, vodka flowing like water.’ She smiled bleakly. ‘We really had a splendid time. And everything so cheap. And the Russian boys who were squiring us around were most charming.’ She breathed: ‘I got very fond of one.’ She paused, wearily. ‘His name was Ivan, of course. He had just graduated. He was going to join the diplomatic corps.’ She sighed wearily. ‘We had an affair … It got pretty intense. He wanted me to stay in Russia, and marry him, et cetera.’

  Morgan was amazed. ‘Did you consider it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Even though I was young and starry-eyed, I was old enough to know that so far it was only a sweet holiday romance.’ She went on flatly: ‘In the last week, they began to put the pressure on me.’

  ‘How?’

  She ran her hand over her head.

  ‘We were invited to various student functions. Much talk of international peace and brotherhood, freedom from hunger and want. All good heady stuff. Then, came the soft-soap: Would I join the International Brotherhood of Students? And contribute articles for their newsletter? Yes, I would. Wonderful, sign here please.’ She took a breath. ‘Then came the punchline: Would I like to come back at Christmas, as a guest of the Soviet People, to attend a short but intensive course in “Comparative Philosophy”, to be held in the Urals?’ She looked at Morgan. ‘Would I? A free trip to Russia, plus a university course – in my subject. What an enrichment of my student life! Of course I accepted.’

  Morgan lay back. Oh Jesus. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The next day I left for England. With a tear in my eye for Ivan. And a lump in my throat for Russia. Back to dear old Exeter University. But the next month what happens? A phone call from Ivan! From London. He had indeed joined the diplomatic service. And posted to London!’ She clasped her hands coquettishly. ‘Oh, joy. How romantic. My handsome Russian has shown up! That weekend he came down to Exeter by train. And most weekends after that. A couple of times I went to London, and stayed in his quarters. All very romantic …’

  Morgan did not particularly want to know the details. ‘Did you ever send any articles to the International Brotherhood of Students?’

  She snorted bitterly. ‘A few. But only extracts of essays I had already written for my own professors, I was busy and I only did it to keep my end up.’ She took a weary breath. ‘Then, towards the end of November, my ardour for Ivan-the-Terrible began to cool. I began to find him boring. Repetitive. And I began to resent his constant assumption that I was a full-blooded, dedicated communist. His “Us against Them” attitude. I was beginning to mature, as a student of political science. Things weren’t so black and white as they had seemed. I was turning into a moderate socialist. I found I wasn’t even looking forward to going back to Russia. But I felt I should – it was too interesting an experience to miss.’ She sighed. ‘So; anyway, at the beginning of December I broke it off with Ivan. I told him I was sorry but I didn’t love him after all. That I had met somebody else – which I hadn’t.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘Apparently, very badly. He plagued me with anguished telephone calls. Flowers. Impassioned letters.’ She shook her head. ‘Finally he gave up, swearing eternal love.’

  Morgan waited.

  ‘And … so Christmas came. And off I went to Russia. Rather unenthusiastically. I arrived in Moscow, transplaned to the Urals. Met, and taken up to the so-called university building. Very pretty setting, but it was like a small military barracks. Fenced. Dormitories. Mess hall. Not that I minded any of that, except there was no bloody bar. What I objected to was the course.’

  Morgan smiled.

  ‘There were about thirty students. Both sexes. All nationalities, mostly black, but they all came from different parts of the British Commonwealth.’ She turned to him. ‘But they were all there to study so-called Intelligence Techniques. I was the only sucker who thought we were going to be studying Comparative Philosophy!’

  Morgan smiled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I soon found out. The first lecture: Surveillance. Second: Coding. Third: Communications … At lunchtime, I went to the boss and said, Hey, what’s all this crap for? Are you training me to be a spy? He said it was just basic survival instruction for friends of the Soviet Union – the philosophy lectures would start soon. He cautioned me not to cause trouble for myself.’ She looked at Morgan. ‘“Survival!” Trouble! I began to get scared then.’

  Morgan nodded.

  She said: ‘Bloody scared. What had I let myself in for? What would the authorities do back in Britain if they found out? Or America? But there was nothing I could do. There were military guards and we were miles from anywhere, in the depths of winter. And I worried what they might do if I kicked up a fuss. Nobody knew I was in Russia. So … I just had to grin and bear it. And attend the lectures.’ She sighed bitterly. ‘But I must admit they were quite interesting. I even did quite well in the tests. Especially in self-defence.’ She smiled wanly: ‘As you saw in Amsterdam.’

  He smiled. ‘What were the other students like?’

  ‘All red-hot communists. Going to be spies and freedom fighters. We were under strict orders not to discuss our personal histories. But our dedication to the glorious revolution was taken for granted.’

  ‘What was discipline like?’

  ‘Strict. And hard work. Breakfast at six-thirty. First lecture at seven. Last lecture at eight pm. Lights out at ten.’

  ‘What else did they teach you?’

  She waved a hand. ‘Later, let me tell the tale … So, at the end of three weeks I emerged from the Urals, a fully fledged little spy. I flew back to London, furious, but very relieved to be out. And who should be waiting for me at Heathrow airport? Ivan-the-Terrible. With flowers and a car, to drive me back to Exeter.’ She snorted. ‘I was terrified of him now. Maybe he was part of the plot. I said ‘’No thank you, Ivan,” and I headed for the buses. He followed me, protesting love. Finally, I yelled “Leave me alone!” and I ran.’

  ‘Of course he was part of the plot. Did you ever see him again?’

  She held up a silencing hand. ‘I lay low at Exeter for a month. I never went out except in a group. Iv
an phoned several times but I refused to speak to him.’ She rubbed her brow. ‘I received several letters from the International Brotherhood begging for more pieces, but I destroyed them. Boy, was I scared. They hadn’t spent all that money on me for nothing, they’d want me to start spying soon, I was sure. But they didn’t contact me.’ She paused. ‘After a while I grew more confident that I had put them off.’ She took a weary breath. ‘What I didn’t realize was that I was a “sleeper”. Somebody they keep on ice, until they need him.’

  He said grimly: ‘And? When was that?’

  She took a sip of her wine.

  ‘I wrote my BA finals. Went home to Grenada for the summer holidays. Then I returned to university and started my Honours year. Still nothing happened. Then … I met you.’

  She turned her head to him. ‘“Ninety glorious days,” we called it.’ She smiled sadly. ‘How many times did we make love in those ninety days, I wonder? Lord, how did we ever pass our exams? And I wonder why I didn’t get pregnant, with all that loving?’

  His eyes burnt. ‘You told me you’d gone on the pill.’

  She smiled sadly, and turned back to the fire. ‘Another little lie. I didn’t want worry to spoil anything. And I was so in love I longed to be pregnant by you.’

  He put his hand on hers. ‘Well, maybe you are now.’

  She sat up. She ran her hands through her hair.

  ‘So, we did pass our exams. And we went to Grenada to introduce you to my parents, then you went back to sea for four terrible months. And I began to prepare for our wonderful wedding.’

  Morgan waited. Then said: ‘But there was Max.’

  ‘There was always Max. Since I was a teenager. We were never lovers. But he was always hanging around. Always waiting to marry me. And yes, he really put the pressure on me now. And there was pressure from my family and friends to think again – they said I hardly knew you. And yes, there were times when I was assailed by doubts …’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘But oh God, that isn’t why I didn’t marry you, Jack …’

  He waited. She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids; then lowered her hands. She said: