Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  “In spite of our strict observance of privacy,” he said sternly, “I gather that it is no secret to anyone who is not deaf that I have received a letter from the White House.”

  He pulled the folded sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his cassock and waved it in the air.

  “Well, it is true! Here it is!”

  The burst of applause startled him. He took a step back and waited for it to die down.

  “This letter from the President is addressed to me, but it is really for all of you. As you know, I was fortunate enough to meet President Kennedy upon my return from Russia. At that time I assured him of the prayers of all the members of our community. My offering him my assurance of your prayers may have been presumptuous, but it seemed a good idea at the time. Like the rest of you, I am a poor man, so I had nothing else to offer him. I didn’t think you would object to my sharing your spiritual riches with him.”

  Slowly, he unfolded the letter. “The President has asked me to read this to you.”

  Please extend my heartfelt gratitude to all the members of your Jesuit community at Milford Novitiate—the priests and the brothers, the scholastics and the novices—for the prayers they said for me and for our country and, indeed, for all the people of the world during the anxious days in late October. The knowledge of such spiritual support did much to sustain me during those dark days and nights. Once more, the United States has passed through a dangerous crisis unscathed. That, I believe, may be more a result of your prayers than any efforts of mine.

  He folded the letter and slipped it back into his cassock. He stood staring at the floor for a moment, hands together, his fingers touching his lips. Then he walked quietly back to his pew in the back of the chapel.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Later that night when he was alone in his room, he examined his performance in the chapel. He had satisfied everybody’s curiosity while withholding the President’s personal references to himself. That was what the priest he portrayed would have done.

  Not that the President had been all that laudatory. He seemed sincere in thanking the man he believed to be for his good counsel. But the words the President had chosen were more formal than friendly. It was clear that the President was still intrigued by the priest, but he was cautious and obviously thought it best to keep him at a safe distance. At least, for now.

  So what was he to do? How best to respond? Oksana Volkova’s orders were to “maintain contact” with his “prime source” and he dared not disobey her or fail because of lack of effort.

  He stood up and began pacing back and forth across his room, holding the letter behind his back, six steps one way and six steps back. Finally, he gave up and went to bed.

  Early the next morning, when the electric bells roused the entire Jesuit community from sleep, the man who played Father Samozvanyetz went immediately to his desk and wrote his reply:

  Thank you for your letter. I have passed on your kind words to my fellow Jesuits here at Milford. All of them were deeply appreciative, especially our young novices. Thanks to a merciful God and your good judgment, the world is safe for the moment. We have been spared, but I remain pessimistic about the future and I hope you and I will talk again soon.

  Until then, rest assured that all of us here will continue to pray for you.

  I remain your servant in Christ.

  He signed the letter with the name Oksana Volkova had hung around his neck.

  C H A P T E R • 7

  Kathleen Coogan was suffering from a sudden, severe case of flu. Maybe that new strain from Asia? Whatever it was, there was a lot of it going around northeastern Ohio. It was a wonder Herb hadn’t come down with it. She could barely stagger from her bedroom down the hall to the bathroom; much less make the trip to Milford to visit her son that weekend.

  She had planned for the trip carefully. The Coogan family, she had decided, would use two of its six annual visiting days on the Saturday and Sunday before the start of Advent, since no visits were permitted during the penitential season leading up to Christmas. But the flu had knocked her down that Thursday and it seemed likely to keep her confined to her bed throughout the entire weekend.

  “It’s probably just as well,” she told her husband.

  She pulled a tissue from the box on her bedside table and blew her nose. “I must look awful. I sure feel awful.”

  “Try to drink a little juice,” said Herb, putting the glass in her hands. “And drink a lot of liquids while I’m gone. I’ve made sure there’s plenty of juice in the house.”

  Kathleen blew her nose again. “You and Charley have a nice visit,” she said. “And don’t worry about me. I have friends looking in on me and they can handle everything here until you get back. There’s not that much to do.”

  She looked away and sighed.

  “I’m almost glad I can’t go with you.”

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  “All that talk of war got me down, I think.”

  “It got everybody down,” said Herb.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand.

  “I was afraid something would go wrong,” she said at last. “I was afraid that it was all over. The world, I mean. I was afraid that we’d all end up dead, all of a sudden, you and me and Charley and all the neighbors and everybody else in the world. Did you feel any of that?”

  “Yeah, I did, when I wasn’t working and had time to think about it. It was scary as Hell.”

  “I thought my heart was going to break from just the thought of losing you and Charley.”

  She reached for another tissue. “And losing everybody and everything.”

  “Well, it’s over, Kathleen. We came pretty close, but it’s over.”

  “No, it isn’t. Not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about Charley. That’s not over. I feel like I’ve lost him forever.”

  She pushed his hand away.

  “Don’t try to make it better,” she said. “I just want to say this out loud.”

  Kathleen reached for another tissue and blew her nose.

  “October was just awful,” she said. “No letters from Charley and all that fear about war. It changed how I feel about Charley and what he’s doing. It doesn’t seem so wonderful now. I let him go off to the Jesuits and now it seems like he’s dead, almost, or dying.”

  She held up her hand.

  “No, let me finish, Herb. I know I shouldn’t be talking this way, but I have to say it. I wish Charley would just give it up and come home! Oh, God, Herb! I feel like Charley has died and God just lets him send us his little letters from Heaven every Tuesday.”

  Her husband just sat there, trying hard to find something to say.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Herb! I’m not going to let Charley know how I feel. I won’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to him. He has to do what he thinks is right for him. I know that. I’m not going to do anything or say anything to influence him one way or the other. But I don’t have it in me to face him right now, not this weekend. It’s just as well I’m not going with you. I’d probably end up trying to drag him home.”

  “Well, you don’t have to go. The flu’s taken care of that.”

  “Thank God for the flu.” She squeezed his hand. “Please, this is just between us. Don’t tell Charley how I feel.”

  “Believe me, I won’t,” said Herb. “I’ll give him your love and let it go at that. But I’m glad you talked to me about it.”

  “Well, what do you think?” she said.

  Herb stood up.

  “I guess this is one of those times when parents have to step back and let a child’s life play out.”

  He bent down to kiss her good-bye.

  “On the forehead,” said his wife. “You don’t want to catch what I’ve got.”

  She waved him away and, before he was out of the room, she took another tissue and blew her nose again.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Herb Coogan had done his best to hide his happiness. His game plan had w
orked. Charley was off the hook. Kathleen had come to her senses and changed her mind about offering up her son to God and the Jesuits. Charley could come home now, any time he wanted, no questions asked, no sighs of disappointment or disapproval from his mother. If there was no good reason for Charley to stay at Milford any longer, maybe he could get him home in time for Christmas.

  He stowed his suitcase in the trunk of his car and headed downtown to his office. He needed to call Washington before driving downstate to Milford. His secretary tracked down Mitchell Sloane at the Justice Department and got him on the line.

  “I wanted to get your opinion about keeping my son at Milford,” he told Bobby Kennedy’s man. “I’ve been thinking about pulling him out of there, but I wanted to check with you first.”

  “Offhand, I can’t see why we need to keep him there,” said Sloane. “The Secret Service doesn’t consider Samozvanyetz any threat to the President. He’s met with the President in private twice now. As for the Russians, it’s reasonable to assume that Soviet intelligence is aware of those meetings, but the Russians haven’t tried to contact him. Hell, as far as anybody can tell, they aren’t even trying to keep him under surveillance, if they ever were. Charley hasn’t seen any bad guys lurking around Milford, right? Neither have your people. The Russians probably have lost interest in Father Samozvanyetz.”

  “You think the Russians know about that meeting at the airport here?”

  “Well, we have no evidence that they do. But if they were interested, they could have found out, I suppose. You found out, didn’t you, Herb? Come to think of it, isn’t that the only actionable intelligence Charley’s come up with at Milford? And all you got out of it was some information nobody here thought you needed.”

  Herb laughed. “Maybe I should keep Charley there, just so I’ll know what you guys are up to in Washington. But, seriously, you think it’s okay to bring him home now?”

  “I can’t see why not,” Sloane said. “Father Samozvanyetz seems to pose no threat to the Soviet Union or to us. But he does remain something of a puzzle, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, yeah, he does. But judging from Charley’s reports, Father Beck may have been right about him all along. Maybe Father Samozvanyetz really is a saint. You probably think that’s crazy, right?”

  “No, not really. What Charley’s observing could be something like the Catholic notion of sanctity. Or maybe the priest has a mild case of dementia or eccentricity. Whatever the priest’s got, it seems to be benign. Either way, I don’t see that it would make any difference whether Charley stays at Milford or leaves. So it’s up to you and your son, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Right,” said Herb. “Well, I’ll be seeing Charley tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll call the Jesuit Provincial and tell him that I’m taking Charley off the case.”

  “With my blessing,” said Sloane. “And thanks for keeping me in the loop on this, Herb. I may even do the same for you some day.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Father Novak was standing in front of the window, hands clasped behind his back, when Brother Krause walked into his office with a sheaf of letters he had just finished typing and cleared his throat to make his presence known.

  “Just put the letters on my desk,” said the Provincial. “You’re itching to know about Agent Coogan’s phone call, aren’t you, Brother Al?”

  “Only if you want to tell me, Father.”

  Father Novak laughed and turned around.

  “He wanted to let me know that he’s decided to take his son out of Milford. He’s on his way there right now.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Just that the government can’t see any reason to keep him there any more. So, what do you think about that?”

  “Sounds like Father Samozvanyetz finally made the government’s list of people it’s not much interested in anymore. And I guess we’ve made that list, too.”

  “Right,” said Farther Novak. “Now everything can get back to normal at Milford. So, why don’t I feel good about that?”

  “Loose ends?” said Brother Krause. “The government may be closing this case, but there’s a bunch of odd things we’ve really never figured out. Maybe none of it’s important, but loose ends always give me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Me, too,” said the Provincial. “I guess you and I should start trying to tie them up.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz took Herb Coogan into one of the visitors’ parlors when he arrived at the novitiate late that afternoon. He listened carefully to what the FBI agent had to tell him. There was no longer any reason to suspect that his life was in danger and so the government’s investigation would soon be ended.

  He found it easy to act bemused.

  “What about those pictures you showed me?” he asked. “The people at the church? Have you apprehended them?”

  “No, we haven’t, Father. But they haven’t been seen since.”

  “And you are no longer concerned about them?”

  “Well, we’ll keep looking for them. But we don’t believe they’re interested in you, Father. They may have been at one time. But they don’t seem to be now.”

  “You’re sure of this?”

  “As sure as we can be. You haven’t noticed anything suspicious yourself, have you?”

  Appear to be guarded, he told himself, as if you are not absolutely convinced. “No, I can’t say that I have. Nothing at all.”

  “Good. If there ever was any Russian threat to your safety, it has passed.”

  “I wish I could say that I feel relieved, Mister Coogan, but that would not be entirely true. I doubt that I will ever get over the feeling of being watched, of being followed, of being in danger, no matter how long I am free. But it’s good to know that my fears don’t seem to be supported by facts.”

  He decided to test the limits of his new freedom.

  “What about your son?” he asked.

  “Well, Charley’s work is finished here, Father. I’d like to take him home now. Today or tomorrow, if that’s possible.”

  “Yes, of course, it’s possible. The timing’s right. The Long Retreat is over. From now on, the novices will be making their decisions to stay or to leave. So your son’s departure won’t raise any eyebrows here. But I must tell you that his classmates will be dismayed. Charles has played his part so well that the other novices admire and respect him. They will be upset when they suddenly find him gone.”

  “Won’t he have a chance to say good-bye to them?”

  “No, that’s not the way it’s done. The young men leave as quickly and as quietly as possible. No farewells permitted, no explanations, no good-bye notes. The ones who leave? They are just gone.”

  “That’s tough,” said Herb quietly. “That’s really tough. Have many of the other boys decided to leave, Father?”

  “Since the end of the Long Retreat? None, so far.”

  “Really? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  “I really wouldn’t know. I’ve never been a Master of Novices before.”

  “Well,” said Herb, “it’s been my experience that in any training situation, you can count on losing a fair percentage of the people who start the course. Sometimes it’s pretty high.”

  “Yes, I suppose that may turn out to be true with this class. But, so far, they all seem to be staying. That doesn’t strike me as being unusual. They’re a splendid group of young men. Serious and responsible. Your son included, Mister Coogan. You should be very proud of him.”

  “I am,” said Herb. “But enough is enough, I think.”

  “Oh, I agree, especially since you say that I am in no real danger.”

  He rubbed his chin and dropped his eyes.

  “Still, I’ll be sorry to see your son go, Mister Coogan. Charles is a good lad and I’ll miss having him around. We’ve had a rather close relationship, Charles and I.”

  He looked up with a half smile.

  “Co-conspirators, you might say.”
He took a deep breath. “But, as you say, enough is enough. I’m sure he’ll be glad to go home.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  It took several minutes to locate Charley Coogan and send him to the visitors’ parlor. The man who played Father Samozvanyetz stood aside and watched the FBI agent embrace his son and tell him that his job was done and that he was free to leave Milford. He was startled when the young man stepped back.

  “Do I have to go home?” he said. “Right now?”

  “No, you don’t have to, Charley. I thought you’d want to.”

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz struggled to conceal his surprise. The lad wants to stay! Keep your wits about you. Just watch young Coogan and listen for a cue.

  “I don’t think I should leave right now,” he was saying. “Not right away. Not today. I mean, I just didn’t think I’d have to be leaving this soon.”

  Herb Coogan was turning away from his son and looking at the priest as if to say: “What now? What am I to do?”

  Say nothing. Let their scene play out.

  “At least, don’t pull me out of here until after Christmas, Dad,” the young man was saying. “I want to stay just a little while longer, that’s all. I mean, I’m not ready to go back out there just yet, especially not right before Christmas. Not with all that holiday stuff going on.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Charley. I thought you’d jump at the chance to get out of here.”

  “It’s not jail, Dad.”

  “But you’ve got no business here, Charley. Your job is over. We don’t even know if you’d be allowed to stay.”

  Careful, he told himself. Buy some time. Both Coogan and his son were looking at him now.

  “Sit down, both of you,” he said. “Let me think for a moment, please.”

  He stared at the faded rug that covered the floor of the visitors’ parlor. It was worn, almost bare in spots. With Charles Coogan gone, it would be easier to carry on his performance. One less pair of eyes upon him, one less pair of ears. All to the good. But he had grown fond of the young man. An apt pupil. Much like his own son. What would Alex Samozvanyetz say? Why not work with what he himself felt?