A Woman Involved

by John Gordon Davis

  So he had missed him. Cardinal Pieter Gunter was at the bar, his back to him, laughing at something somebody had said. Then he turned sideways, and Morgan could see his face. He was much more impressive in the flesh than in his photographs. He was bigger than he had imagined, six foot two easily, broad in the shoulder. And that leonine sweep of well-groomed grey hair. His cheeks flushed from the cold, he looked a vigorous, confident man in his mid-fifties, in the prime of his professional life. He was dashing in his well-cut clothes. Morgan could almost feel the man’s charm and natural authority from where he sat. He was a natural leader. Now he was telling a funny story. His companions craned forward, grinning in anticipation. It was quite a long story, and Morgan had a good chance to observe him. The man was a natural story-teller, a natural actor, using his hands, his eyes. Then he came to the punchline, and his group roared with laughter, and the cardinal laughed as heartily as any, delighted with his own joke.

  Morgan sat, pretending to read Letters to the Mighty. Glancing up and down, watching the man peripherally. He saw him glance at his watch several times. But for twenty more minutes he hung on with his group. Then, suddenly, he excused himself, and he turned and left the bar.

  Morgan looked at the cardinal’s drink – it was finished. The man was striding down the bar jauntily, waving to people. Morgan hastened up out of his chair after him. The cardinal turned the corner and disappeared. Morgan turned the corner; and the man was nowhere to be seen.

  There were two possibilities. He had either disappeared into the toilet, or down into the changing rooms. Morgan strode for the toilet door, pushed it open. Nobody. He hurried down the stairs, two at a time. Into the changing rooms.

  It was full of golfers, changing. He saw the cardinal holding his bag of clubs, talking to somebody. At that moment the two men started walking slowly towards him, talking earnestly. Morgan turned and started mounting the stairs. At the bend he looked back. The two men appeared at the bottom, still talking. Morgan mounted the stairs, to the top.

  He walked into the toilet. It was still empty. He kept the door open a crack. He saw the two men reaching the top of the stairs. They stopped, and shook hands. Then the cardinal turned and headed towards the toilet.

  Morgan retreated to the wash basins. He slammed on a tap. Cardinal Gunter walked in. He went to the urinal. Morgan turned to him, his heart knocking. He opened his mouth, to say the passwords; and the toilet door opened again, and another man walked in.

  Morgan slammed off the tap. He dried his hands on a paper towel shakily, and walked out of the toilet.

  He retraced his steps, back to the lounge, without looking back. He picked up his empty coffee cup, and pretended to drink, and he looked back. He saw the cardinal come around the corner.

  He walked back down the bar, carrying his clubs, to his group. Morgan sat down. The cardinal waved his finger, refusing another drink. He said a few jolly words of farewell. Then he turned and walked out of the lounge again. Morgan hurriedly got out of his chair.

  He hurried across the lounge. The cardinal was entering the hall purposefully. There were some people coming up the steps into the club, smiling. The cardinal stopped, and talked to them.

  Morgan turned towards a notice board, his heart knocking. He pretended to read it. He realized he was trembling. He felt as if everybody in the club was looking at him suspiciously. The cardinal was talking Italian. Morgan could stand it no longer. He walked around the cardinal. Down the steps, into the cold dusk. Into the car park. He looked back. The cardinal was saying farewell. He turned and began to descend the steps.

  Morgan stooped, and fumbled with his shoelace. He peered around. The cardinal was striding down a line of cars. Morgan scrambled up and strode after him; he called:

  ‘Cardinal Gunter?’

  The man strode on. Morgan called again: ‘Cardinal!’

  The man looked back over his shoulder. Morgan forced a smile and he waved the book. The cardinal stopped. Morgan called: ‘I just want to thank you for autographing my book …’

  ‘Oh, a pleasure.’ He smiled and turned to walk on.

  ‘Cardinal?’

  He stopped again. Morgan’s heart was knocking. He slipped his hand inside his jacket and switched on the tape-recorder. He stopped in front of the man. He looked him in the eye. He said:

  ‘The elk is not only a Siberian creature.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  The cardinal stared at him, as if he could not grasp what was happening. Then he blinked, ashen. He glanced towards his car, then back to Morgan. He whispered: ‘Who are you?’

  Morgan’s mouth was dry. ‘You know who I am, Cardinal. I’ve got instructions for you.’

  The cardinal was suddenly agitated. He glanced back towards the club house, as if frightened of being seen. Morgan whispered shakily:

  ‘There’s no running away. Not only am I armed, but there’s always tomorrow.’

  The cardinal shook his head hastily in denial. He took a breath, to control himself. ‘Well, what is it, man?’

  Morgan said, ‘We’re going to your apartment in Vatican City.’

  The cardinal looked more alarmed. ‘Why there?’

  It seemed unreal that this was happening. He had rehearsed it all, but he felt a fraud. He did not feel like a KGB agent. ‘Because those are the orders. The safest place. And because that’s where the computer is.’

  ‘What computer?’

  ‘And I must be officially in your company. With an official permit. My name will be John Armstrong. An old friend of yours from America.’

  ‘Why the official permit?’

  ‘So you can’t deny afterwards that I was with you. Now, let’s go please, Cardinal.’

  The man suddenly seemed more in control. Still ashen, but his shock had turned to grimness. For an instant Morgan thought he was going to tell him to go to hell. Then he said: ‘Why would I deny that?’

  Morgan did not know what to make of him. ‘Let’s get on with it, please. I’m coming with you in your car. You’ll instruct your driver to stop at Saint Anne’s Gate, and get a permit for me. Then have me escorted to your apartment.’

  Cardinal Gunter looked at him, then clamped his mouth shut. He jerked his head and turned.

  Morgan followed him. He wanted to retch.

  53

  He’d had over a day, driving to Rome, to rehearse his role, his lines, his cross-examination, to cover every possibility: but he still had to remind himself that it was the cardinal who was on trial, not him. He rode up in the elevator beside the Swiss guard. It stopped on the second floor. A large door was opposite. The guard opened it. Morgan entered a gilded ante-room. He hardly noticed the furniture. Across the room was another door. The guard opened it and stood aside. Morgan walked through.

  The door closed behind him. He was alone. The room was richly carpeted. Big windows looked onto Saint Peter’s Square. There was a large, ornate desk, a large, marble fireplace. The walls were lined with books. In the corner was another door.

  Morgan put his hand inside his jacket and switched the tape-recorder on again. He waited grimly. He was still shaky. Then the corner door opened, and Cardinal Pieter Gunter, Secretary of State for the Vatican, entered.

  He had changed into official robes, and the transformation from the jolly man in golfer’s garb was profound. He had composed himself. Gone was the shocked, unnerved man Morgan had accosted at the golf club. Morgan could not tell whether his grimness suppressed anger or fear. And Morgan could feel his natural authority – this was a leader, every inch a man to be reckoned with. The cardinal walked to the high-backed chair behind his desk and sat down. He did not invite Morgan to sit. He looked at him steadily, and said:

  ‘Well? What do I call you?’

  Morgan’s mouth was dry. ‘For the time being just call me English.’ The cardinal snorted softly, and Morgan said, ‘You didn’t expect an Englishman?’ He walked to the chair opposite the desk and sat.

  ‘What identification
have you got?’

  Morgan closed his eyes angrily. Because this was the behaviour of a guilty man, on his guard. And he desperately wanted a frightened, innocent man. ‘My identification is: “The elk is not only a Siberian creature”. That’s good enough for you, Cardinal, or I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’ He added: ‘We half-expected this.’

  ‘Half-expected what?’

  ‘That you might fence with us. Prevaricate. Stop it, Cardinal. It’s all on file.’

  ‘What is?’

  Morgan had almost stopped being nervous now. He said:

  ‘The class of 1931. A brilliant Russian boy being tutored in Catholicism in a dacha outside Moscow. In English. Pieter Otto Gunter. Fictionally German, bound for America.’ Morgan waved his hand. ‘So let’s get on with business.’

  The Secretary of State was ashen, but in control of himself. ‘Well, spit it out, Englishman!’

  Morgan held up two fingers. ‘We need to know two things.’

  He was not sure whether the man was acting, but now the cardinal was all attention.

  ‘Number one. If the cardinals of the Church were convened tomorrow, what are your chances of being elected pope?’

  Cardinal Gunter stared at him. Then he cleared his throat and said:

  ‘When is it to be?’

  ‘What?’

  The cardinal said: ‘The murder of Pope John Paul II.’

  A knot came into Morgan’s gut. ‘There is no need for you to know.’

  The cardinal sat back slowly in his chair. He looked unnerved again.

  ‘I don’t know what my chances of election are.’

  ‘We want a realistic answer, not a modest one.’

  The cardinal shook his head harassedly.

  ‘No idea. These things are not canvassed in advance.’

  ‘We consider that you’d be a strong candidate. Do you agree?’

  The cardinal blinked. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, think about it. Add up the votes you think likely. We want an answer the day after tomorrow.’

  The cardinal nodded, agitated. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He leaned forward. ‘But I must know when.’

  Morgan stared back at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can prepare.’

  ‘Prepare what?’

  The cardinal waved a hand. ‘Myself. My thoughts. My department. It would be a grave mistake to go at this like a bull at a gate.’

  Morgan felt sick. Because he knew now the man would have to die. He tried to say it coldly: ‘You’ll be told what you need to know when you need to know it.’

  The cardinal sat back in his chair. His pale face was wooden. ‘And the other thing?’

  Morgan pulled out the list of names he had compiled from Klaus Barbie’s tape. It was a newly written list, without the passwords.

  ‘Somewhere in the Vatican there is a computer which lists all your priests, all over the world?’

  The cardinal blinked. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Showing where they are now. Their rank. Their histories, how they’ve progressed since joining the Church.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we can punch in these names,’ he tapped the list, ‘and the computer will print it out for us?’

  ‘Yes. Though I don’t know how to work the machine myself.’ He held out his hand, for the list.

  Morgan did not give it to him. ‘There must be somebody available who knows how to work it?’

  The cardinal glanced distractedly at his watch. ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Instruct your secretary to find somebody, please.’

  The cardinal held out his hand again. ‘Who are these people?’

  Morgan said grimly, ‘People we trained as agents and planted into the Church decades ago, as we did you. We want an update on them.’ He added: ‘We know who’s done what, but we want an internal assessment of them.’

  Cardinal Gunter was staring at him. Then he blinked.

  ‘I see. Of course.’

  ‘And assuming that our assessment accords with your computer, you will summon them to Rome. And fire them.’

  Cardinal Gunter’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘Fire them? Why?’

  Morgan said deliberately: ‘Those are the orders, Cardinal. But if you must know, we suspect a weak link in the chain. And we’ve got what we want, and we think that too many cooks may spoil the broth.’

  ‘But there are procedures for this sort of thing –’

  ‘Procedures be damned! You’re the Secretary of State! You summon them to Rome on the next aeroplane. You haul them up on the carpet, one at a time. They do not know that you are one of them. You tell them that you have incontrovertible proof that they are Russian-trained agents. You say their passwords to them, which I will supply you with. They will know the game is up, as you did. You demand their resignations forthwith. They’ll go, without a fight, I promise you.’

  ‘But some of them may protest innocence! They may have found God.’ He changed it: ‘May imagine they have found God …’

  Morgan gave a smile he did not feel. ‘Occupational hazard, we’ve found.’

  ‘But if they have found God, they may insist on their legal rights’ trial by our ecclesiastical court!’

  ‘Rubbish! If they’ve found God, they’ll get out gracefully to save harming the Church with a scandal. And any who don’t go gracefully, we will deal with.’

  Pieter Gunter sat back in his chair. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Very well.’ He held out his hand again, for the list. ‘I doubtless know some of them.’

  Morgan kept the list. ‘Call in your secretary and tell him you want the computer operator on the job.’

  The cardinal said: ‘The operator will find it strange if we’re standing over him as he works the machine.’

  ‘Too bad. Make up a story. Or better still, tell him to mind his own business.’ He stood up. His legs felt shaky. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  The cardinal pressed a button. A few moments later the corner door opened. A priest of about Morgan’s age entered. The cardinal said:

  ‘I want to show my friend our central computer. We’re trying to trace a distant relative of his. If the office is closed, have it opened up, please. And find somebody who understands the machine.’

  An hour later they returned to Cardinal Gunter’s apartment in the papal palace with two copies of the computer’s printout. Morgan pulled his chair up to the desk, and spread his copy on it. He said:

  ‘Sit down and we’ll go through the list together, and you tell me about them, anything significant that is not on the printout.’

  The cardinal remained standing. ‘And then?’

  ‘Then you will summon them to Rome. By telephone. You will get their resignations.’ He tapped the printout. ‘Seven of them are already deceased, so that only leaves ten. And those ten are all in Europe, so they’ll be here tomorrow night at the latest.’

  ‘And then?’ There was an edge to the man’s voice.

  ‘Then,’ Morgan said grimly, ‘the night after that you will meet me at a place I will specify. You will bring with you photocopies of their resignations, on official Vatican stationery, plus your official acceptance, signed by you.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I have further instructions for you but I’ll tell you after we’ve been through the printout.’

  Cardinal Pieter Gunter looked at him a long hard moment; then he said:

  ‘Well, I have some instructions for you, Englishman! …’ He glared, then pointed at the door theatrically. ‘Get out! … Get out of here and tell your masters that I serve only God!’

  54

  Morgan was absolutely taken by surprise.

  Cardinal Gunter glared, then snatched up his copy of the computer’s printout and shook it with malicious pleasure: ‘I’ve got what I’ve wanted to know for forty years! Thank you, Englishman. You’ve served your purpose, now get out! And never darken the doors of the Vatican again!’

  Morgan stared. Incredulou
s relief was welling up inside him. He could hardly believe this. He daren’t believe this … ‘Are you trying to tell me? –’

  ‘I’m telling you loud and clear to tell your masters in the Kremlin that I am not one of their agents, nor have I ever been!’

  God, this was too good to be true! If this was true all his troubles were over. He leant forward and lifted his finger at the man: ‘But you asked me when the Pope was going to be murdered! You asked for time to prepare yourself …’

  ‘Of course, you fool! I wanted to know the details of your plot so I could foil it! But I’ll talk to you no more! Leave this moment or I’ll call the guards.’

  Morgan slumped back in his chair.

  ‘Oh thank God,’ he whispered. The cardinal’s hand moved to the button on his desk, and Morgan said urgently: ‘For Christ’s sake, Cardinal, if you don’t talk to me you soon will be talking to the KGB – and MI6 and the CIA!’

  The cardinal looked at him, his hand poised on the button. Morgan shook his head urgently: ‘Father, I am not a KGB agent – nor a British or American agent! But I do have the evidence about you – and about the others on this printout. I am the only person in the world who has the evidence and I’ve come to try to do something about it, to save the Church!’

  The cardinal’s face was a mask.

  ‘You’re not KGB?’

  ‘No.’

  Then who are you?’

  ‘An ordinary Englishman! But I have the evidence about you.’

  The man’s eyes did not flicker. ‘What evidence are you talking about?’

  Morgan leant forward earnestly. ‘A microfilm of a KGB file, stolen by a Nazi agent in Russia during the Second World War.’

  The man stared. ‘And how do you come to possess it?’

  ‘That’s too long a story for now! The bottom line is “The elk is not only a Siberian creature”.’ He held out his hands. ‘How the hell would I know that if I didn’t possess the evidence?’ He pointed at the printout: ‘How would I know about these other agents?’ He held out his hands. ‘I’m here to try to save the Church, not to harm it!’