A Woman Involved

by John Gordon Davis

  Then he got dressed, sat on the bed, drinking coffee, chainsmoking, and listening to the tape-recording he had made of Cardinal Pieter Gunter. Listening hard to every inflection, desperately looking for every point in the man’s favour, trying to remember his demeanour with each answer. He rewound the tape and listened again. Then he collapsed back on the bed.

  The judgement was still No.

  No … If he were sitting on a jury, then, yes, he would have to give the man the benefit of the doubt, as required by law, and acquit him – just. He would have had to find in his favour that it was not proven beyond reasonable doubt that Pieter Otto Gunter had not found God at age fifteen and had, for the next forty years, miraculously escaped Russian memory and detective powers – despite continuing to use the very name they had given him, despite becoming a household name. Okay, the Klaus Barbie tape gave that story some credence – the KGB file stolen, turmoil in war-torn Russia, after the dust settled nobody in the KGB could remember the name Pieter Otto Gunter nor the passwords.

  Nobody?

  Okay, just credible. Maybe there was only one man in the whole KGB in the 1940s who knew the whole file, and he had died. Nobody else knew the passwords. Hence nobody knew how to get at the boys in monks’ habits, nor even where they were.

  Credible? A big project like getting the Vatican in the Kremlin’s pocket, and only one man knows?

  Okay, Klaus Barbie’s story made that credible. Just.

  But who was Klaus Barbie? The Butcher of Lyons, that’s who. Was such a man to be believed on every point? All we know for sure is that he came into possession of the file some time after the war, and tried to use it for his own ends. We don’t independently know when it was stolen from the KGB – it might have been stolen only recently, in which case it was not credible that nobody in the KGB remembered Pieter Otto Gunter’s passwords …

  And there were inconsistencies or improbabilities in the man’s story. Several.

  Why go to America once he had escaped Russia – why not run away to the nearest place, like France?

  Why report to his controller once he was safely in America?

  Why keep using the same name the KGB had given him?

  And why, oh why, confess his ‘very-white lie’ after he felt he had successfully escaped his Russian mentors. Why does a nineteen-year-old, who counts himself lucky and who doesn’t count his ‘petty subterfuge’ a sin, risk losing all by confessing?

  Credible? …

  And the man had changed his story for a while – after discovering Morgan was not KGB he had tried to bluff it out. To use his high authority.

  But the most sinister evidence against him was his question: When is the murder of the Pope going to be?

  Oh, Jesus. The man had just jumped to that conclusion. And then asked for time to prepare himself. ‘It would be a grave mistake to go at this like a bull at a gate …’

  Okay, he had explained it away, by saying he wanted to know the details of the murder plot so he could foil it. ‘You fool!’ But anybody would have given that explanation, anybody could have acted that out. And he was an experienced orator.

  Morgan pressed his fingertips to his eyes.

  But there was one big point in the man’s favour, which any lawyer would have hammered home to a jury: Cardinal Gunter, once they had the computer’s printout listing the whereabouts of the other KGB trainees, had told Morgan to get out. Said that he now had what he always wanted to know. Said that he served only God. Said ‘Never darken the doors of the Vatican again …’

  Why would the man do and say that unless he, was genuine?

  Several possibilities. One: Maybe he was testing Morgan. Maybe he suspected that he was not KGB – he did not sound like a KGB man, did he? Wasn’t it suspicious that after all these years a strange Englishman shows up from nowhere claiming to be a KGB messenger? So, why not test him? If Morgan stuck to his guns and proved himself to be KGB, what would the cardinal have lost? Nothing.

  Two: Develop that argument further. If Morgan was not a KGB man, it was quite possible he was a blackmailer, an ordinary crook. In which case, what better way to intimidate the blackmailer than to send him packing, to piously deny being a spy, claim that he served only God? Pretend to be impervious to blackmail?

  Three: If Morgan was not KGB, then there was a strong possibility he was an MI6 or CIA man. In which case, it was equally important to Cardinal Gunter to throw him off the scent, to pretend he was a pious defector.

  Morgan dragged his hands down his face.

  And there was something else about that incident which smelt bad – there had been something theatrical about the way the cardinal had told him to get out. The authoritative stance, the pious finger pointed at the door, the threat to call in the Swiss guards (a hollow threat, when you examine it, because Morgan could have initiated a scandal throughout the Vatican by shouting his head off to the Swiss guards about KGB spies – the cardinal would not have risked that). And then, when Morgan had been overwhelmed with relief that he was dealing with an honest defector, and said he was not a KGB messenger, the cardinal had changed his stance yet again. Bluffed. Acted. ‘You threatened me with a gun’. Denial of his past. Then, another contradiction: ‘What do you want? – money? …’

  Morgan shook his head. Sick in his heart.

  And then the man’s whole attitude and demeanour had changed yet again. ‘I think I believe you’. And then he had appeared to become totally cooperative, ‘I double-crossed them’. ‘First let us pray’. Then patiently, earnestly telling his whole story. Little anecdotes about the plate-scullion stuffing himself on rich people’s leftovers, the fights at the one-biscuit banquet at Moose Head mine, the Calgary Stampede … Throughout there had been a certain glibness, as if he had had the matter rehearsed for years, And the man was an experienced talker, accustomed to the pulpit, to wheeling and dealing in the corridors of power … And he had brought all these skills to bear with ease on Morgan, an honest Jack Tar, a babe in the woods.

  And there was something else that Morgan found almost contemptible: not once had the man offered to, or even hinted that he would resign his high office as part of the bargain to save the Church. Why not? It was an elementary offer for an innocent man of God who admits his guilty past! But no: Morgan had not stipulated it, even though insisting that the other ten be dismissed, and it was as if the man had seized on this oversight by a country boy and proceeded to consolidate his gain by browbeating: ‘You must give me the evidence, otherwise I won’t cooperate.’

  Morgan held his hands to his face.

  That left the car park at the golf club – the only other point to be made in the man’s favour. The cardinal had been shocked when Morgan first accosted him. He had gone ashen, unnerved, looked as if he wanted to run for it. A complete change from the confident, jolly man he had observed in the club house.

  Was he frightened because he was an innocent man?

  Oh Jesus … Yes, possibly – but wouldn’t any man be shocked by being accosted by a stranger mouthing passwords he hadn’t heard for decades? Wouldn’t any man, let alone an important personage, be intensely worried that an embarrassing scene could develop in a public place? Even a guilty man, a willing KGB agent, would be taken by surprise, and intensely worried by that. And the hard fact was that the man had not tried to bluff it out then – he had not stormed off protesting his innocence then. But he had tried to do so when he had discovered that Morgan was not a KGB messenger after all.

  Morgan lay on the bed, his fingertips pressed to his eyelids.

  All right! Two or more explanations for all these points. And if he were sitting on a jury he would probably feel he had to acquit him, declare that the case was not proven that he was now a KGB agent, That maybe he had indeed found God, that he was therefore no danger to the Holy Roman Church. But Jack Morgan was not sitting on a jury.

  And the terrible fact remained that even if he was wrong in convicting the man now, even if the man was innocent and would not wil
lingly damage the Holy Roman Church nor Western society, even if he willingly resigned his high office – the terrible fact remained that the Russians could still get at him. The fact was that even if the cardinal resigned his office, the Russians could still force him to reveal all he knew about Western diplomatic affairs. About the Church’s intentions and secret policies. And once they’d made the cardinal talk they could still blow the whole story and bring the whole Catholic Church into disrepute …

  The terrible fact was that even if the man was innocent-he knew too much. He was too valuable to be allowed to live …

  Morgan sat up, and held his brow. Sick in his guts. An honest man who had just had to sentence another man to death.

  Oh God, wasn’t there another way?

  Couldn’t he just hand this whole problem over to the Pope? Tell Cardinal Gunter to take him to Pope John Paul II, and tell His Holiness to conduct a full-scale investigation, weed out the rot, set his house in order? Wouldn’t that be enough?

  He sat, holding his head. And the terrible answer was No.

  No, for two reasons.

  Firstly, how could Pope John Paul be trusted to conduct a complicated investigation of his own vast Church? A man so misinformed, or so naive, or so easily led that he rescinds his predecessor’s orders and re-instates a man like Bishop Marcinkus as head of the Vatican Bank after the God’s Banker scandal? Pope John Paul was doubtless an honest man, a wonderful spiritual leader, maybe the best the Church has ever had, but ‘horses for courses’. How good a detective would he be, how bad a judge of confused, labyrinthine evidence, the tangled webs and dupes of modern espionage, if he was so dumb as to re-appoint Bishop Marcinkus? Would he not even re-appoint Cardinal Gunter as Secretary of State? Or be persuaded to whitewash the whole thing? … You do not put a rabbit, not matter how well intentioned, in charge of investigating a lettuce patch …

  And the second terrible reason was the old one: even assuming His Holiness did fire Cardinal Gunter, the Comrades could still get at him, make him talk, do tremendous damage and bring the Church into calumny and the West into disarray.

  Morgan took a deep, trembly breath.

  Oh God … That left only one last question.

  Who? Who was going to do it?

  Now don’t flinch from the final decision: Who?

  No, not Danziger for an accomplice.

  Then who?

  Himself?

  Could he do it? Have the courage of his convictions? In cold blood?

  He slumped back on the bed.

  Sit up and review the evidence again. Try to find something more in the man’s favour.

  Then suddenly he thought of another question he could ask the man. He was surprised he had not thought of it before. A trick question! He stared across the room, thinking it through. He almost felt excited.

  A trick question. It could save the man’s life. If he answered Yes, and agreed, then Morgan would know he was not to be trusted. And it would be that much easier to get rid of him.

  And if he answered No and refused? Would that mean that he was to be trusted? That his life could be spared?

  Morgan stared across the room, trying to think straight.

  Then he collapsed back on the bed again, in despair.

  No. It didn’t make any difference to the final result. Because even if the man anwered No, it may be because he saw through the question, saw the trick – but, even if that wasn’t so, the fact remained that the KGB could still find him and force him to reveal all he knew …

  But he should still put the question. If only in the hopes the man answered Yes. And thereby made it easier.

  But oh God, if he answered No it was going to make it even harder …

  Morgan squeezed his eyes closed. At the end of his tether.

  Who? Danziger?

  And all he had to do was pick up the telephone and call Danziger in Marseilles. And it would all be over.

  He took a deep breath, sick in his guts.

  That terrible day went that way.

  At eight-thirty that night, he left the hotel. At nine o’clock he drove past Saint Anne’s Gate at Vatican City, and began to time himself.

  He drove along the route he had selected, across Rome, and out onto the Appian Way towards the beauty spot. He passed the public telephone half a mile before the intersection. He drove on, to the intersection. He timed it: about thirty-five minutes.

  He turned around, and drove back towards Rome. Tomorrow he had to buy gloves. And binoculars.

  The next day was the longest of his life.

  57

  At eight o’clock that night he paid his bill, up until the next day. He explained that he might be leaving very early in the morning. He returned to his room, packed everything into his handgrip and left the hotel with it. Then he drove carefully across Rome, and out onto the Appian Way.

  It was a few minutes before nine when he came to the public telephone, half a mile before the intersection. He waited until exactly nine o’clock. He went to the box.

  He dialled Cardinal Gunter’s private telephone number.

  The cardinal answered immediately. He sounded very tense. Morgan said: ‘What kind of car do you have? Your own private car, not your official one.’

  The cardinal said nervously: ‘A Citroën.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Blue. Dark blue.’

  ‘Number?’

  The cardinal told him. Morgan said: ‘Leave the Vatican immediately, driving this car. Drive out onto the Appian Way. About sixteen kilometres from the centre of Rome you will encounter an intersection, in the forest, with a stop sign. There’re some street lights there. About five kilometres further on you will see a truckers’ hostel, called Bar-Ristorante Venezia. Go inside and get something to drink. You’ll see a public telephone in the corner. Sit near it. When it rings, answer it. Got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ the cardinal whispered.

  Morgan hung up. His face and hands felt clammy.

  He got back into his car and he drove on down the dark Appian Way. He came to the intersection and turned left. He drove five hundred metres, then came to the track leading up into the forest. He swung onto it. He drove up through the forest. Over the hill. He came to the fork. He first turned down the right fork. He drove to the picnic tables. He switched off his lights and peered around. There were definitely no other cars. He turned and drove back, up to the fork. He turned down the left fork. He drove for a hundred yards, then pulled into the trees. He got out of the car. He left it unlocked. He started running back up the track, towards the tarred road.

  He walked back to the intersection. Then he scrambled up the bank, into the forest again. He crouched down, and peered down the Appian Way, towards Rome. He could see the road well.

  He sat down, and pressed his hands to his face. They trembled.

  He looked at his watch. He had at least fifteen minutes to wait. With all his sickened heart he wanted to pray. But for what? For help? For forgiveness? He could not bring himself to try.

  He put his new gloves on.

  Four cars passed. Each time Morgan’s stomach turned over. He peered through the binoculars. But as soon as each car came within a hundred metres, into the lamplight, slowing down for the stop sign, he could see it was not a blue Citroën. And he untensed, sick in his guts. Then, after seventeen minutes he saw new headlights coming. And this was a Citroën.

  The car came up the hill, slowing for the stop sign. Morgan crouched, his heart pounding, peering through the binoculars. Then he could make out the car’s number. Only one person in it. It came rolling to a halt, abreast of him. And Morgan came bursting out of the trees, onto the road.

  He flung open the front passenger door. Pieter Gunter jerked, shocked, his face ashen in the panel lights, it’s me,’ Morgan snapped. He got in and slammed the door. ‘Go. Turn left here.’

  The cardinal hastily surged the car forward. ‘I thought you were going to telephone –’

  ‘Change of plan. Just drive
.’

  The car swung left, down the road. The cardinal looked ill. ‘Why the change?’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘In case you have people covering the bar. To jump on me.’

  ‘I see. Well, I haven’t.’

  ‘Good.’ Sick in his guts. He looked through the rear window. There was nobody following. He said, ‘There’s a turn-off into the forest, on the right. Take it.’

  The car turned off the tarred road, onto the forest track. It ground up the hill. Then came the fork. ‘Take the right.’

  The cardinal Obeyed. Two hundred yards on they came into the picnic area.

  ‘Stop. Switch the headlights out. Put the interior lights on. Leave your safety strap on.’

  The cardinal obeyed. He turned to Morgan. He was haggard.

  ‘Now?’ he said.

  Morgan opened his door and climbed quickly out. He crouched on his haunches in the open doorway. He took a trembly breath. ‘Have you got the resignations?’

  Pieter Gunter was very frightened. ‘Why have you got out?’

  ‘Elementary self-defence. Have you got the resignations?’

  Pieter Gunter put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a large envelope. It trembled in his hand. He passed it over.

  Morgan fumbled it open. He pulled out a sheaf of photocopied documents.

  There were twenty sheets, stapled together in twos. The top copy was in Italian. The second was in English. All on official Vatican paper. Morgan speed-read the English copies. They were exactly as he had ordered: a simple, one-line confession; a simple, unequivocal resignation. ‘Was there any trouble?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Meaning?’ He did not care.

  ‘Meaning I’m convinced that some of them are holy men, to whom an injustice has been done.’

  ‘They all protested their innocence? Claimed to have found God?’

  Pieter Gunter closed his eyes briefly, and nodded. ‘True.’

  ‘But in the end they all accepted the inevitable? And agreed to resign quietly.’