Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  “Well, maybe. He wants me to show you some pictures taken at the church when you hear confessions. See if you recognize any of these people.”

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz was surprised, but he did not flinch. He controlled his breathing and expressed curiosity and mild bewilderment. No more than that.

  “I recognize most of the people,” he said as he looked through the photographs. “They are parishioners. Not that I know their names or anything much about them. Some are familiar to me. This one. And her. And her. And him and him. And him.”

  He dropped the pictures slowly on his desk, one by one, with just the trace of a frown, eliminating those who made no difference.

  “The old lady, of course,” he said. “She’s always there. Very faithful.” Quite casually, he dropped Oksana Volkova on the desk and studied the next picture.

  “This man is a barber. I pass his shop on the way to the church and he always waves to me. But these others, I do not know.”

  “The old woman,” said Brother Krause, taking her picture from the discarded photos. “You said you recognized her, Father?”

  “Yes, I do,” he replied quickly. An immediate response was quite appropriate. “She’s there every Saturday, rain or shine, this one. I don’t know about the other days of the week, but I suspect that she’s one of those lonely women who spend most of their lives in churches where they are not alone, but where nobody bothers them.”

  “But you don’t know who she is?”

  “Not her name or where she lives, if that’s what you mean. I’ve never spoken to her, not outside of the confessional.”

  He gave Brother Krause a look of deep earnestness.

  “Inside the confessional? Well, nothing out of the ordinary goes on. That’s all I can say about that.”

  “I meant outside, of course, Father. You’ve never had any dealings with her face to face outside of the confessional?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “How about these three men, Father. Recognize them?”

  He fingered the pictures slowly, trying not to show any reaction. Were they three of Oksana Volkova’s people? Had they been identified? Probably not. He made a quick decision.

  “This man I have seen in the church. This other, I’m not sure. Maybe. The light is not so good.”

  He studied the pictures carefully.

  “Yes, this man I definitely recognize. But, again, I can’t tell you anything about him. I’ve seen these other two in the church. They were there, I’m sure, but they gave me no reason to remember them.”

  He sighed and, frowning, slowly pushed away the photos.

  “I am somewhat disturbed about all this, Brother Krause. Is spying on all those people really proper? They come to the church to worship and to have their confessions heard. What possible harm could they be doing? That pious old woman, for instance. She’s not hurting anyone, is she?”

  “I guess not,” said Bother Krause. “Agent Coogan was just being thorough.”

  “I’m sure he believed it was the right thing to do. Please tell him that I thank him for being so concerned about my safety.”

  He shook hands with Brother Krause. “Have a safe journey home to Chicago and give my best wishes to Father Novak. Rest assured that we will be taking good care of Father Beck.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  There was nothing the man who played Father Samozvanyetz could do until that Saturday when he was scheduled to go to the Jesuit church downtown. For the rest of that anxious week, he followed his regular routine.

  The murder of Alex Samozvanyetz’s sister was a terrifying reminder of how tightly he was controlled by Oksana Volkova. Any doubt he ever had about her ruthlessness was gone. He had to continue to perform flawlessly, or else. He despised her, but he still had to warn her.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  That Saturday morning, he left the novitiate thirty minutes ahead of schedule to catch an earlier bus to Cincinnati. He could be late for many reasons. Leaving early was a clear, simple and safe signal.

  The bus was nearly empty and so he was able to underline his signal by sitting exactly where he wanted to sit, not in his regular place, but in a seat on the street side of the bus, not the curbside. He bowed his head over his Breviary, pretending to pray, and did not look up all the way to downtown Cincinnati.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Ten minutes after her agent had boarded his bus, Oksana Volkova’s phone rang.

  She did not say “Hello.” That would have meant: “Ring off. There’s trouble here.” Instead, she simply said, “Yes?”

  “Is Helen there, please?”

  “No, she is not. Is this William?”

  “No, it’s George.”

  “Ah, yes. Helen’s friend. She’s not here, as I said before.”

  “Could I leave a message for her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Please tell Helen that her friend will arrive in the city earlier than usual.”

  “Thanks for letting us know. By the way, Helen and I are going on vacation. Perhaps you and your friends could join us?”

  “I’ll call around and see if I can arrange that and call you back.”

  “Better hurry. I’ll be leaving in forty-five minutes.”

  Oksana Volkova swept through the house, packing clothing in two suitcases and stuffing disposable items into two shopping bags she would throw away. She thought for a moment about throwing out the packet of Chesterfield cigarette coupons she had saved, but tossed it into one of the suitcases.

  She slipped out of her robe, nightgown and slippers, and tucked them neatly into one of the suitcases. Naked, she worked on her make-up and wig and then got into her old woman’s costume. She checked her appearance in the mirror and went back downstairs to wait.

  Her man called back promptly, exactly as ordered.

  “Your automobile is parked against the wall of the garage. Fifteen spaces to the right after you come through the door. The keys and parking ticket are under the floor mat on the passenger’s side. A spare key is taped to the underside of the brake pedal. I checked your route. Everything seems in order. No construction that would force you to make a detour. Your package is ready. The shop is open until six this evening. You have your claim ticket?”

  “I have it,” she said. “Did you check the toilet?”

  “Women were going in and coming out, so everything seems to be in working order. Anything else?”

  “Nothing. Good-bye.”

  She cradled the receiver and checked her watch. It was almost time to leave. Five minutes later, the owner of the safe house arrived, the American man who always drove her to town on Saturdays.

  “I am closing down my operation and I won’t be coming back,” she told him as his sedan thumped along the country lane toward the highway. “Give the house a thorough cleaning. Remove anything of mine you might find. I’ve put everything in one place, but you may find something I have overlooked.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “There won’t be a trace of you left.”

  The car was approaching the paved road.

  “Better duck down until we pass the neighbors’ houses. So there’s trouble?”

  “Nothing that need concern you,” she said.

  It was difficult to sound brusque while crouching with her head almost in the man’s lap. Unwise, as well. One had to keep sleeper assets happy and loyal.

  “We’re on the main highway now,” he said at last. “It’s safe now.”

  She raised herself up and adjusted her skirt.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry,” the man said. “I’m just concerned about the integrity of the safe house.”

  “I completely understand.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?”

  “No, everything’s taken care of. You have nothing to do now but wait for someone to contact you when your house is required.”

  “I’ve learned how to wait. But it does get lonely, being the only one.�
�

  “That I can well imagine, Tovarich. Let me tell you that your patience and loyalty is deeply appreciated in Moscow and by me.”

  “Tovarich,” he murmured. He was smiling, but keeping his eyes on the road. “That sounds wonderful coming from you.”

  They drove in silence for several minutes.

  “May I make a suggestion? If we stay on this road a few more miles, we’ll cross another bus route, not the one I usually take you to. You’d get off at the same place downtown, but you’d be arriving from a different direction. Would that help you?”

  “Yes, very much,” she said. “Better still, follow the new route closer into town. Perhaps we’ll catch up with a bus instead of waiting for one. That would get me downtown even more quickly.”

  “You want to arrive earlier than usual?”

  “Let us say that I don’t want to be late.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Once Oksana Volkova arrived at the Jesuit church, she sat down in the back, but not in her usual pew. Her agent would know that his warning had been received. She fingered her rosary beads while she waited for him to emerge from the sacristy.

  Slowly, she gazed around at the other people in the church. Some she recognized, some were strangers. She saw two young men who seemed out of place. Were they watching her? She could not tell. But what could they see? A devout old woman. What covert activity could they observe? None. None of her people were here. She had seen to that.

  She sat back and waited until her priest strode through the sacristy door. She watched him closely as he passed through the gate in the communion rail and made his way across the front of the church, genuflecting at the center aisle as he passed before the tabernacle on the main altar. He had draped his stole around his neck. Good, she thought. We will be able to speak in his confessional.

  Suddenly, he broke his pattern. Before turning up the side aisle, he paused and glanced up at the statue of Saint Francis Xavier above the side altar. So, she thought, he thinks the church is being watched.

  When he was half way up the aisle, she pushed herself forward into a kneeling position, signaling that she understood that there was danger, but that they had to talk nevertheless.

  When he reached the confessional, he opened the middle door and then paused to look slowly about the church. His sweeping counter-clockwise glance assured her that his confessional was still a safe place. No listening device had been installed.

  Even so, she waited a long time before entering the booth and kneeling down.

  “I wish to speak Russian, Father,” she said in English.

  “As do I,” he replied through the screen. “I had to risk this meeting, but I had to warn you. I know that the FBI has me under surveillance. For my own safety, they say. I have been shown pictures the FBI has taken in this church. I was questioned about three men and an old woman they think are watching me. Why, they do not know. Be careful. The FBI may pick you up at any moment or at least follow you. I know they are very curious about the old woman.”

  “You were right to warn me,” she said. “Do not worry. I have shut down my operation at the church. It is over and done with. I have sent all the others away. I suspect that two agents are watching me right now. If I can leave this church without being arrested, the old lady will be gone forever. When they reach for her, they will grasp only a puff of smoke.”

  “And I will not be coming here myself,” he said. “I also wanted you to know that, just this week, I was ordered to take Father Beck’s place as Master of Novices.”

  “Why?”

  “He became ill and has not recovered enough strength to handle such a demanding job. The new novices arrive soon. Someone had to take Beck’s place immediately. They chose me.”

  “That is something we did not anticipate. Can you do it?”

  “I believe I can. Samozvanyetz was never trained for this position. So I can ask for help and guidance without arousing suspicion. That is not a problem.”

  “I agree,” she said. “And if you continue to play your part well in this new situation, you will increase your credibility a hundred fold. Concentrate on that. But stay alert for whatever may come your way from the President. That is what is most important. But until you hear from him, Father Samozvanyetz has nothing to do but tend to his business and say his prayers. It is time to become devoted to Saint Stanislaus. Understand?”

  “Understood,” he said and closed the grille shut.

  Satisfied that he did, Oksana Volkova returned to her pew and pretended to say her penance. She waited for fifty minutes, then genuflected in the aisle and left the church.

  Clutching her handbag, she walked slowly but deliberately, as if on an errand. She made no attempt to hide her destination nor did she look back. She assumed that the two FBI agents were following her. She walked directly to Shillito’s department store and climbed the stairs to one of the small shops on the mezzanine.

  If she was being followed, the agents would see an old lady handing a piece of paper or a ticket to a clerk behind the counter of Shillito’s Weavers. They would observe the clerk pull a package from a shelf and hand it to the old lady. Only later, might they notice the smaller sign that said this was a shop where people brought clothes to be tailored or repaired.

  Without glancing behind her, Oksana Volkova accepted the package and walked along the balcony, down the staircase and across the main floor to the elevators.

  One car had its door open. The green light above showed that the car was going Up. She timed her approach and made sure that she was the last person to enter the car. She got off on the fourth floor: Infants Wear, Junior Dresses and Half-Sizes. There were no men in sight.

  Without hurrying, she selected two dresses in her size, one with stripes and one with a floral print. She took them to the fitting rooms. Once inside a cubicle, she worked quickly, whipping off her wig, wiping off her make-up and exchanging her old woman’s costume for the clothes she had picked up at Shillito’s Weavers. She folded the costume and wrapped it in the paper from the tailor shop.

  Using the fitting room mirror, she brushed out her hair and put on fresh make-up. Satisfied that she now looked her own age and just as American as all the other women shopping in the department store, Oksana Volkova draped the two dresses over her package, left the fitting room, and confidently approached the nearest sales clerk.

  “I’ll take these two,” she said.

  “Of course,” said the young woman. “Will that be cash or charge?”

  “Cash. And would you be kind enough to give me a shopping bag large enough for the dresses and my package? I’d appreciate that.”

  “I’d be happy to,” said the young woman.

  Oksana Volkova leaned on the counter by the cash register and gazed idly about while the clerk wrote up her sale. Across the racks of dresses, a young man was pretending to be shopping and not doing a good job of it. She would have to walk right past him on her way out.

  “Your change, ma’am,” said the clerk. “And your receipt.”

  “Thank you,” said Oksana Volkova. Slowly, she counted her change, put the money in her purse, picked up her shopping bag and walked briskly through the racks of dresses.

  When the elevator arrived, she descended to the bargain basement. She paused at one of the counters to examine some cheap underwear on sale. She glanced back. No one was following her.

  She smiled and walked through the rest of the counters to the door marked GARAGE.

  Passing through, she turned right without hesitation and climbed into the driver’s seat of the blue sedan parked in the fifteenth space along the wall. She reached down, rolled back the floor mat on the passenger’s side of the car and picked up the automobile keys, the garage ticket stub and four one-dollar bills. Good thinking, she said to herself. She would have no need to fumble about in her purse at the cashier’s booth.

  Later, as she drove through downtown Cincinnati, she passed by the Goodwill Industries second-hand store where she had purc
hased the clothes for her old lady. She was tempted to stop and return them along with the new dresses she had purchased. But she knew it would be safer to drop them off along the road somewhere farther on. Someone would walk off with them and that would be the end of the little old lady in the church.

  She wondered if the FBI had lost patience by now. She imagined the agents ordering all the women out of dressing rooms and bathroom stalls. By now they must have realized that they had been outwitted. But by whom?

  At any rate, she was well out of it for the moment, heading toward the open highways that would lead her to yet another safe house where she would be able to gather herself together.

  Would her Samozvanyetz survive? So much depended on his wit and cunning. He would certainly survive, she told herself. He knew he had every reason to do so. She had made sure of that, too.

  C H A P T E R • 7

  It was Kathleen Coogan’s idea to hold a Sunday afternoon “Going Away” party before Charley left for Milford. It would be much nicer than a Saturday night party which might end with inappropriate teenage behavior. Getting young people together for a few hours after Sunday Mass would be more manageable. Less chance of anything getting out of hand and the celebratory affair would be over by sundown.

  Kathleen’s women friends arrived early that Sunday with their covered dishes for the buffet in the Coogan’s dining room. Their husbands helped Herb set up card tables and chairs in the back yard. In the living room, Charley’s trunk had been replaced by a wooden stand upon which Kathleen had placed a registry book for guests to sign and add personal comments. A nice keepsake for Charley in years to come, she told her husband.

  “Very nice,” said Herb. He tapped the registry with his fingertips and looked around the living room. “You’ve thought of everything, Kathleen. It’s perfect!”

  Herb kept smiling although the registry reminded Herb of the memorial books mourners sign at funeral parlors. Now all the Coogan living room needed were the floral arrangements and a casket. He was glad that Charley’s trunk was on its way to Milford, not sitting here ominously.