‘True.’
Thank God he had been right. And please God he was right in what he yet had to do. Pieter Gunter said:
‘And now? Have I satisfied all your conditions?’ He held out a trembly hand: ‘Have you got the evidence?’
Morgan felt sick anger flare that this had been thrust upon him. He said: ‘Yes. But I have another condition to impose first.’
Pieter Gunter closed his haggard eyes again. ‘What is it now?’
Morgan’s mouth was dry. God, now he wanted the answer to be the wrong one, to make it easier: if the answer was the right one it was going to be even more terrible. Perhaps it would be easier not to know, to execute judgement on what he already knew, but he had to ask it. He said:
‘The world is rapidly becoming over-populated. A big part of it is starving already. In a hundred years there will be chaos.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know that you cannot countermand the Pope’s ruling on the subject. But as Secretary of State you can lead a powerful movement to persuade him to lift the Catholic Church’s prohibition on contraception …’
There was a silence. Pieter Gunter looked at him, his eyes haggard. Then he said:
‘And if I agree, you will give me the microfilm?’ He cleared his throat. ‘And if I then break the agreement, you will blackmail me, by using my hand-written confession. And if I still don’t do your bidding, you will expose me.’
Morgan’s nerves were near breaking. ‘Just answer the question!’
Cardinal Gunter went on unsteadily: ‘And if I refuse this new condition, you will not give me the microfilm? And I, and the Church, will ever more be liable to be blackmailed by you – we’ll live under the constant sword of Damocles that you will use the microfilm against us, for whatever purpose, expose this whole sordid story and bring the Church into disgrace. So I cannot trick you. You have all the cards.’
‘Correct.’
Pieter Gunter said shakily: ‘So all is lost. So I have nothing to lose, my friend. Nothing to lose by giving you a truthful answer. And that answer is No.’
Morgan wanted to bellow his fury to the sky because this answer made it harder. The cardinal went on grimly:
‘This may be wasted effort, but I also have nothing to lose by trying to persuade you.’ He took a tremulous breath. ‘This matter of contraception has been a bitter bone of contention between the Church and modern man for decades. And the arguments in favour of contraception are weighty. But the hard fact is that human life is sacred. It is God-given, for His purpose. And I will not now, nor ever, allow that divine purpose to be frustrated by man.’
Morgan did not know why he was arguing with the man because it made no difference but he cried, ‘But the world’s only so big – how can we keep filling it with people who’re going to starve?’
‘I am familiar with all the arguments, believe me. And if you like I will debate them with you till the cows come home. But the end result will be the same: as long as I have any power I will not permit the matter to be bargained about …’ He looked at Morgan, his exhausted eyes liquid. Then said with controlled anger: ‘You may expose me for what happened in my youth! You may shake the Holy Roman Church to its foundations by so doing, but I will not bargain about the sanctity of human life! God’s will is not negotiable!’
Morgan wanted to retch. His task had not been made easier for him. Cardinal Pieter Gunter said, white-faced:
‘So? Now you are not going to give me the evidence?’
Morgan wanted to break down and weep. Before he could answer, the cardinal said: ‘And now you’re going to kill me?’
Morgan’s throat was thick. He said: ‘You are the Secretary of State. You know so much. The Russians can make you talk if they ever catch up with you …’
The cardinal interrupted shakily: ‘I anticipated this. So I have something further to offer you … My last card …’
He put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out another envelope, sealed. It trembled in his hand.
Morgan took it. He began to open it. The cardinal’s hand shot back inside his jacket and he pulled out a gun.
He pointed it at Morgan tremblingly.
Morgan crouched in the open door, astonished, staring at the gun. The cardinal clutched it in both hands, his face a mask of horror at what he was doing. He whispered:
‘For God’s sake let me spare your life, Englishman. Give me the microfilm …’ Morgan’s mind was stammering. The cardinal blurted: ‘If you don’t, I’ve got to kill you, Englishman! And damn myself … ’
Morgan whispered: ‘You said human life is sacred.’
The gun trembled three feet from his face. ‘But so is the Church! The Church is worth much more than your life and my immortal soul in purgatory. The Church must live so that mankind can live, and you have the evil power to destroy the Church!’
‘I do not want to destroy it! – I’m trying to save it!’
‘Then in the name of God give me the microfilm, Englishman! And save the Church and your life and my immortal soul!’ The gun trembled in his clasped hands.
Morgan blurted: ‘I haven’t got it on me –’
The cardinal cried desperately: ‘You’re lying! You said you had it on you!’
‘I’m not!’
‘I can’t afford to believe you, Englishman! Nor can the Church! Nor can mankind! If you don’t give it to me now I’ve got to kill you! I can’t take the risk on behalf of God and the whole of mankind! Your life isn’t worth that risk! So in the name of Jesus Christ I beg you to remove the risk and give me the evidence now and save your precious life! This is the last time I ask!’
‘Tomorrow! – I haven’t got it with me now …’
And Pieter Gunter’s eyes widened and his face seemed to swell with horror and Morgan stared at the gun aghast; Pieter Gunter’s clutching hands tremblingly tightened, and the bile welled up in his throat. And he could not pull the trigger, and Morgan flung himself sideways.
He flung himself wildly onto the ground beside the car. He scrambled up and pulled out his gun and crouched against the rear mudguard, his heart pounding. He heard the driver’s door burst open and the cardinal scramble out. Morgan looked desperately at the trees, for cover to run to. But the car was stopped right out in the open. He raised his head and peered through the rear-door window. He jerked his head down again. He could not see the man. He looked frantically behind him, then peered under the car, looking for the man’s feet. He could see nothing. Blackness. He scrambled to the very rear of the car. Gun up. He peered around the rear light.
Nothing. He dashed to the other rear light. He crouched there, gun ready. Then he peered around the corner.
Again nothing! He swivelled and faced the other way, then scrambled backwards to the rear left mudguard, his heart hammering: then he peered through the rear passenger window, and he saw the man. Saw his horrified face looking back at him, and they both jerked their heads down simultaneously. Then Morgan heard the man vomit.
He heard a heaving sound, and a retch, then out it came in a gush. Morgan was amazed; then he scrambled back around the rear of the car. Then he leapt out into the open, his gun clasped in both hands in front of him, his heart pounding.
He stared. Cardinal Pieter Gunter was on his hands and knees, his head hanging, his gun on the ground. He retched once more, then coughed, and shuddered; then he raised his head.
His haggard eyes were streaming, his face suffused. Vomit on his chin. He seemed quite unsurprised to see Morgan covering him with the gun, quite unafraid; just exhausted; nauseous, finished. He raised his wrist to his chin, and wiped the vomit off. He looked at Morgan, his eyes wet, and he said: ‘Forgive me …’
Morgan stared, the trembling gun trained on him. The man lifted his other wrist and wiped his eyes.
‘Forgive me,’ he repeated, ‘I’m not man enough for the job. I thought I could, but evidently I haven’t the guts for it.’ He clambered shakily to his feet. He left his gun on the ground. He had flecks of vomit on his jack
et. He slumped back against the car, his arms hanging, utter exhaustion on his face.
‘Well, get on with it, man. I know I should fight to the last drop of blood for the Church but I’ve done my best and you’ve outgunned me.’ He added, almost wearily: I made my last confession before I came here, so make it quick.’ Then he closed his eyes impatiently, buried his fingers into his shirt and pulled out a crucifix. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t compromised anybody, I said my confession to this.’
Morgan stood there, knees bent, both hands training the gun on the man, and with all his sick heart he just wanted to break down and weep. He said hoarsely,
‘You understand why I’ve got to do it?’
‘Yes, yes, man, I’m not – a fool – for the same reasons I had to kill you. For the sake of the Church. I can be made to talk by the Russians. Et cetera, et cetera. I know that. If one sticks one’s nose into politics, one must expect to get it bloodied. So get it over, Englishman. Quickly please!’
And Morgan Wanted to vomit also, and bellow his anguish to the skies, and before he could lose his nerve he strode at the man. He pulled out the canister of nerve gas and thrust it at the cardinal’s startled face, and he pressed the plunger.
Pieter Gunter’s knees buckled, and he collapsed, unconscious.
Morgan grabbed him up by his armpits, and he dragged him.
Dragged him round the front of the car, gasping, rasping, the tears running down his face. He dragged him to the driver’s door. He dropped the man, opened the door. He heaved him up again, and he wrestled the top half of him onto the driver’s seat. Whimpering. He then ran around to the passenger door and scrambled in. He heaved the cardinal into the car. Then he ran back to the driver’s door. He shoved and wrestled his legs in. Then he heaved the man up, into the seated position. The head hung forward. Morgan wrestled his seat-belt on. Then he ran back to the passenger side.
He picked up the cardinal’s gun. The tears were running down his face. He scrambled into the back seat of the car. He leant over and grabbed the cardinal’s right hand. He fumbled the pistol into the palm. He closed the fingers around the butt. He bent the elbow and brought the pistol muzzle against the man’s temple. He closed his gloved finger around the trigger. He screwed up his eyes, and he wanted to bellow his anguish. He cried: ‘God, forgive me …’ And his finger tightened on the trigger.
He felt it click, and tighten. And a retch of horror welled up in him. One more hair’s breadth and the man was dead.
And he could not pull the trigger.
He could not pull it, and he let the arm drop.
Morgan scrambled out of the car, and the dam of tears broke. He staggered back against the car and he dropped his head, and he wept.
And oh God they were tears of happiness, of overwhelming relief, and he wept out loud:
‘Okay, God … It’s up to You now … I’ve done my best … Just get me to the Pope …’
Part Ten
58
The snow lay crisp on the rocky orchards, thick upon the old tiled roof of the farmhouse, and smoke curled up the chimneys.
It was a wonderful feeling coming back to his beautiful woman in this beautiful house, knowing that his work was done. He was not even worried that she would be furious with him for tricking her again – he had the best news in the world to tell her. He hooted from the top of the land, and rolled down his window and hollered, but he did not expect her to come bursting out of the door this time. He rolled the car down the track. As he got to the house, the door opened and Makepeace came out with the rifle. He looked very worried. He came to the window and said: ‘She’s in the bedroom.’
Morgan walked into the courtyard, a smile all over his face.
She was standing by the fire in the bedroom. She turned, unsmiling. Morgan walked up to her, a grin all over his face. He wanted to take her in his arms and laugh. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the envelope containing Cardinal Gunter’s confession and all the resignations. He said:
‘It’s all over. I’ve confronted the Secretary of State, and got everybody’s resignations, including his. And I’ve seen the Pope. He’s going to do a full investigation. And he’s going to see that the British leave us alone.’
Her eyes were wide.
He had told her everything, in detail. They lay on the double bed, the confessions and resignations scattered on the floor; she felt absolutely limp and laughy with relief. She wanted to throw her arms wide and laugh her praises to the Lord.
‘And the great man himself?’
Morgan smiled.
‘Very impressive, even in his dressing gown. Had a dragon on it. His English is a bit awkward. Very formal.’
‘A dragon?’
‘A gift from somebody in Korea, he said.’
‘Popes shouldn’t sport dragons, should they? And how did he take all this, you and the Secretary of State walking in at midnight?’
‘Thunderstruck when the cardinal confessed. Couldn’t believe it.’
‘But he took notes, and all that?’
‘Of course.’
‘But didn’t want the microfilm?’
‘Of course. Very anxious. But he finally accepted that I couldn’t hand it over until his papal investigation was satisfactorily finished.’
‘And how did the cardinal really behave throughout all this? Except “very correctly”?’
‘Really, very correctly. He had recovered his composure. A man of great fortitude. Made a clean breast. Gave in his resignation, et cetera.’
She said, ‘And, you’re satisfied he’ll cooperate fully with the investigation, and accept banishment to some obscure outpost of the Church’s empire?’
‘He has no choice, because I’ve got his confession. And for the same reason the Pope must make him go. The Pope won’t risk a scandal like that.’
‘But do you think he’s innocent now?’
‘Yes. I wasn’t sure before. Not at all. But when he couldn’t bring himself to shoot me, and then vomited and surrendered – no man could have acted that out. And when he regained consciousness, amazed to be alive …’ He shook his head. ‘We were both very emotional.’
She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand. ‘Thank God he couldn’t pull the trigger. And thank God you couldn’t either.’ She sighed. ‘But you said he knew too much, the Russians could still get at him? Do you think it’s safe now, if he’s sent to some obscure outpost?’
Morgan hardly cared any more. He had done his best.
‘The Church must be able to spirit him away somewhere. Like the Congo. Or the Outer Hebrides. It’s safer to keep him within the cloisters than throw him out into the big wide world.’
She smiled at the ceiling. ‘Oh, just thank God …’ Then she turned to him with a smile from all her heart. ‘I admire you so much. And love you so much.’
He had never been happier in his life.
‘I love you too. And admire you.’
She sat up and shook her fingers through her hair.
‘So, we’re full of mutual admiration. And it’s all over! …’ She held her happy face with both hands a moment, then said: ‘Now all we’ve got to do is get the British and Russians off our backs.’
‘The Pope guarantees that. “‘They’ll have me to deal with”, he said.’
She smiled. ‘You think he likes you, huh?’
‘There’ll always be a bed for us in the Vatican.’ He added, ‘If we’re married, of course.’
‘Oh, I’ll marry you, Jack Morgan, RN Retired …’
Makepeace left the next day, carrying a letter to post to Carrington from London, telling him to get off their backs:
‘You can tell the French government that they can go ahead and prosecute Klaus Barbie. Because the microfilm has been destroyed. And you can tell Her Majesty’s government that I have written a lengthy account of what they tried to do, sparing no sordid details, and I have placed this, sealed, in the hands of a very competent lawyer to be published if we suffer any furth
er harassment whatsoever. It will make Watergate look like a caper. So tell Brink-Ford and Her Majesty to call off their goons, and tell our ambassador in Moscow to tell the Kremlin to call off their goons too. And never darken my horizons again, Carrington, or you and Her Majesty’s government will come tumbling down …’
In fact he had not yet written the story for the lawyer to hold: he had intended doing so that very night, for Makepeace to deliver, but he had been too tired and too happy to face the task. However, he fully intended doing so, when they returned to England. But for the time being he was sure that his letter to Carrington, plus the Pope’s message, was enough to intimidate them. And he was sure that nobody would find them.
But, after Makepeace left, Morgan did work out an escape route, in case they ever needed it. He went to a village and bought a second-hand motorcycle, a Guzzi 350cc track cycle, with a pillion. About a mile downstream from the farmhouse, the forestry road crossed the river at a small bridge. He hid the motorcycle under the bridge, covered in a plastic sheet and shrubbery. They went over the escape route together. They would jump into the stream that ran past the house and make their way down to the river, leaving no tracks. Once in the river, they would make their way down to the bridge, still leaving no tracks. They would get on the motorcycle and ride away down any number of forestry trails, to the main road. It was a good plan but he did not think they would ever need it. They practised it once, then put it out of their minds: they did not want to think about anything but each other until the new year.
They had a lovely time that December, without the fear any more. It felt as if the weight of the world had fallen from their shoulders. He still Went out every day, with the FN rifle, to check the snow for footprints, but he was sure that they were safe. Every second day or so they drove to one of the villages to buy groceries, and now they no longer dashed in and out; they stopped in a bar if they felt like it, or a restaurant and had lunch. It was nice way out here in the country, the snow-clad Alps rearing up, the narrow streets white with snow, the fires in the hearth, the good smell of cooking, the red-cheeked children playing with their sleds, the innkeeper jolly. A week before Christmas they went to buy a suckling pig for dinner; but when the butcher produced a piglet, squealing, for her admiration before slaughtering it, she squealed herself and insisted on buying the animal on the hoof, alive and well.
A Woman Involved Page 43