Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Father Thornton was in his office checking over the draft of the Father Minister’s monthly financial report. It was the Rector’s habit to turn on his radio every afternoon at 1:55 to listen to NBC’s five-minute “News on the Hour.” And so he was the first person at the novitiate to hear what had happened in Dallas.

  His first concern was for Father Samozvanyetz who knew the President personally. He would tell Father Samozvanyetz first before informing the other priests. He hurried down Paters Row to break the news as gently as possible. He tried, but there was no gentle way to report that President Kennedy had been shot.

  The Novice Master’s serene countenance shattered before his eyes.

  “My God! It can’t be true!”

  The priest gripped the Rector’s arm.

  “He is dead? Is the President dead?”

  “No one knows, Father. He’s been shot and rushed to a hospital. That’s all we know now. But it doesn’t sound good.”

  The color had drained from the priest’s face. He seemed near collapse.

  “Are you all right? Is there anything I can get you?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz waved aside his help.

  “I just have to catch my breath.”

  “Perhaps you should lie down. Just for a while.”

  “Yes, you’re right. Just a short rest. Help me to the bed. I’ll be all right if I lie down for a few minutes.”

  The Rector walked him into his bedroom.

  “Just rest yourself now,” he said. “I’ll get Brother Hegstad. He’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Go tell the others. I’ll be all right. But, Father, before you leave? On the desk, please. My rosary?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Father Thornton. “It’s a terrible shock, I know.”

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz waited until the Rector was safely down the corridor. Then he sat up on the edge of his bed and held his head in his hands.

  “Dammit!” he said aloud.

  He had lost his concentration. He had allowed his emotions to take him completely out of character. But it could have been worse. He would not be the only one in the novitiate to lose his composure. The Rector had been in shock himself. Father Thornton probably had not noticed his lapse. He lay back on the bed and tried to control his breathing.

  The infirmarian arrived, checked his heart and lungs and blood pressure and declared him fit. The short rest had revived him.

  When he felt enough in command of himself, he joined the Jesuit priests in the recreation room to watch the news reports on the television set. Once inside the room, he realized that there was no need to conceal the emotions that surged through him. No one was paying the least bit of attention to him. The priests were sitting silently, each lost in his own thoughts. Was the President alive? Or was he dead?

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Oksana Volkova’s television set showed a reporter in Dallas who was saying that a priest had given the President the Last Sacraments. That caused a flurry of speculation among the television commentators in New York, but one of them, evidently a practicing Catholic, managed to point out that Extreme Unction is administered to those “in danger of death.” The fact that the President had received these Last Rites did not mean that the President was actually dead.

  Oksana knew that, even if most Americans didn’t. She nodded as the Catholic commentator urged his colleagues (and those watching the coverage) to wait for an official announcement. His colleagues agreed that was the wisest course.

  Oksana also agreed. Even so, she began making plans to disappear, at least until she could find who was behind this assassination attempt.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz bowed his head. He didn’t want to believe it, but surely the young President must be dead. If the President were still alive, someone in the press or the government would have said so by now. Even if he was gravely wounded. So, be careful now. The Rector was at his side.

  “Are you feeling better, Father?”

  “Much better. I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  “Did Brother Hegstad look you over?”

  “He did. He said a shot of brandy would fix me up. He was correct.” The man who played Father Samozvanyetz allowed himself a slight smile.

  “Good,” said Father Thornton. “I was worried about you.”

  The Rector’s eyes were red. “I’ll sit beside you for a while,” he said. “It’s terrible. It makes no sense. No sense at all.”

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz suspected that it made entirely too much sense, but he nodded absently in agreement and glanced around the room, more to escape the rector’s concern than anything else.

  He saw that most of the priests were now looking in his direction. As they caught his eye, they gave him small sympathetic smiles and gestures, as if to say: “We’re with you. We know what you’re going through.”

  He nodded to them all, acknowledging their kindness, accepting the silent condolences. What gullible fools, he thought. How they love their Father Samozvanyetz!

  He sat in the recreation room for an hour or more until one of the television commentators solemnly announced the official word from Dallas. The President was dead. He closed his eyes and let the breath leave his lungs. He lowered his head and pressed his right hand against his chest. His mouth opened, but he made no sound. Hot tears filled his eyes.

  “Oh, God,” he cried softly. “Oh, dear God. I knew him.”

  He felt the rector’s arm around his shoulder.

  Dammit to hell, he thought. I am not acting. This is real.

  The President is dead.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Charley Coogan, sitting in the Atrium, knew something was wrong. The novices had arrived for their early afternoon conference as scheduled, but their Master of Novices had not appeared. After ten minutes passed, Charley decided to do something. He told the novices to stay put and went up to the second floor to find out what was happening. The priest who taught Greek was just entering the stairwell.

  “Carissime,” he said. “I was just coming down to find you. Father Rector wants everybody to assemble in the main chapel. Right now. Everybody. No exceptions.”

  Charley went to the Atrium and led the novices to the main chapel, all the time wondering what was up.

  Sitting in his pew, he heard cassocks rustling as the priests entered the chapel and took their places in the back. The novices were all wearing cassocks, but most of the juniors and lay brothers who straggled in from their studies or jobs were wearing their work jackets. Except for a few whispers, the chapel was silent, but Charley could feel the tension.

  The Rector walked briskly up the center aisle and genuflected at the foot of the altar. He paused to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief and quietly blow his nose. Then he stood to face the community.

  “I have terrible news for you. We have just learned that President Kennedy is dead. He was shot and killed in Dallas, Texas. I can’t tell you much more than that.”

  He stuffed his handkerchief into the side pocket of his cassock.

  “I am canceling all scheduled activities until we meet here before supper for Litanies. The brothers will move radios into the atrium, the refectory and main work areas. While they’re doing that, let the rest of us pray for the repose of President Kennedy’s soul, for his widow and his two young children and for our country.”

  Charley Coogan knelt and joined in the recitation of the Rosary. When that was concluded and the chapel fell silent, some of the Jesuits rose from their pews, genuflected and left the chapel. Charley stayed where he was, staring at the altar candle, not praying, not thinking, just letting the time pass.

  After an hour or so, he went to the Atrium to listen to the radio with some of the other novices.

  C H A P T E R • 10

  Oksana Volkova had enough food in her refrigerator and two cartons
of cigarettes in her kitchen cupboard, so she did not have to leave her flat to go shopping that weekend. She was able to stay close to her television set and by day’s end she had learned that Vice President Lyndon Johnson had taken the oath of office, that the new President and the dead President’s widow had flown back to Washington with the dead President’s coffin.

  Later she learned that the assassin had been tracked down and taken into custody, just hours after killing the President. He had shot and killed a policeman who had stopped him for questioning. Dallas police found the assassin hiding in a nearby movie theater. He did not resist arrest and had been taken to the city jail.

  She was getting the information in bits and pieces. His name was Oswald. Lee Harvey Oswald. He worked in the building from which the shots were fired: the Book Depository, whatever that might be. TV reports said Oswald lived in Dallas with his wife, a Russian woman he had met in the Soviet Union where he had gone to defect, with no success.

  That information troubled her. The assassin’s name seemed vaguely familiar, but Oksana could not recall ever having had any contact with him. Perhaps Oswald’s odd name might have crossed her desk in some official document and had stuck in her memory. Had she actually seen him when he was in Moscow?

  Sooner or later, his picture would be shown on the TV and that would jog her memory if there were anything there. She lit another cigarette and waited.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The television coverage continued through the night, the same reports reworked and repeated, solemn music accompanying live pictures of the lighted monuments in Washington, flags at half staff, the Capitol, the White House where the President’s casket rested.

  Oksana Volkova fell asleep in her chair.

  The television was still on when she awoke the next morning. All three networks were showing pictures of Washington, D.C., and the preparations being made to move President Kennedy’s coffin from the White House to the Capitol Rotunda later in the day. The commentators were explaining how that would be happening this afternoon and recounting all that had happened the day before.

  Satisfied that she had missed nothing of importance, she took a shower, put on clean clothes, and returned to the television set to resume switching from channel to channel. By chance, she was tuned to the NBC station when it cut away to Dallas where reporters and camera crews were waiting for Lee Harvey Oswald to be moved from the city jail to the county jail.

  The picture showed her what seemed to be an underground corridor crowded with newsmen shuffling about, waiting for something to happen. Only one reporter was broadcasting live, describing what was and wasn’t going on beyond the reach of the cameras. There was no need to sit staring at the TV. Oksana kept the TV tuned to that station and left the living room to make some breakfast. She could hear the reporter quite clearly from the kitchen.

  She was scrambling two eggs when she heard the reporter saying that there was something going on at the far end of the corridor. He thought he could see something.

  Yes! He could see plainclothes police officers approaching with Oswald.

  Oksana dumped the scrambled eggs onto a plate, turned off the flame under the pan and scurried into the living room just as the reporter was saying: “He’s been shot! Lee Harvey Oswald has been shot!”

  She was too late. By the time she reached the TV set, the screen showed only the backs of men fighting to get pictures. She could not see Oswald.

  Oksana Volkova cursed and sank into her chair.

  “There is absolute panic. Pandemonium has broken out.”

  The television reporter’s voice was remarkably calm as he described what he had just witnessed and, moments later, the capture of the man who had managed to get through the crowd of reporters, photographers and police to get close enough to shoot Oswald at point blank range.

  With any luck, the TV people would replay the event and she would get a good look at this Oswald.

  Was Oswald dead? The reporter didn’t know. His view was blocked.

  Oksana leaned forward, fists clenched in her lap. She did not have to wait long. She saw the detectives approaching, holding a stooped dark-haired little man by his armpits and upper arms. He seemed to be pressing his handcuffs into his chest as he was marched through the crowded corridor closer to the camera. Oksana could now see Oswald clearly. He seemed confused, disoriented. He looked up and to the side.

  Oksana saw his expression change. Surprise? Fear?

  Again, the reporter’s voice: “He’s been shot! Lee Harvey Oswald has been shot!”

  She could no longer see Oswald. Again, only the backs of the photographers and reporters. But Oksana Volkova had seen enough. Yes, she had recognized him. He was the American she had once seen in Moscow. Not only did she remember him, she remembered where and when and what she had been told about him.

  A little later, she heard that Oswald was officially dead. Even so, she remained seated before the TV and watched Oswald being shot to death again and again and again. He had destroyed the awesome intelligence gathering operation she had so skillfully created. The little bastard deserved to die more than once.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  For the rest of that weekend, Oksana Volkova stayed within earshot of her television set collecting scraps of information, moving them around in her mind, trying to separate speculation from fact, finding more questions than answers.

  From time to time, she would stare at her telephone. But it did not ring.

  The night that the public was allowed to view President Kennedy’s flag-draped casket, Oksana Volkova did not go to bed. There was no commentary over the pictures from the Capitol Rotunda. Not a word was spoken. There was only the sound of the scores of silent people shuffling slowly past the President’s coffin. Once again, she fell asleep in her chair while watching the television. But several times during that long night, Oksana Volkova would awaken suddenly and stare at the television pictures to make sure that the world was still there.

  Her telephone was not going to ring. She knew that. The American counter-intelligence agencies would be on full alert now. There would be no communication of any kind from Moscow, direct or indirect. Not until the situation became clearer, if ever. For the first time in her career, she was completely on her own.

  No one was able to tell her what to do next, let alone protect her. The only thing she knew for sure was that she had to be in close contact with her man at Milford. He was alone in the dark just as she was. He had good reasons to remain steadfast, of course, but there was no telling how Kennedy’s murder had affected him. She had to get moving.

  Oksana started packing, working quickly, disposing of any personal items she could not carry in a small overnight case, wiping down the flat, eliminating all evidence of her occupancy. It felt good just to be doing something. Later, she would use a public telephone to alert the sleeper agent with a safe house near the novitiate. She hoped he was still there and had her cassock hidden away.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The man who played Father Samozvanyetz soldiered on. What else could he do?

  He had been as shocked as the Milford Jesuits by the assassination. The young man he had come to know and admire had been shot dead; his character’s reason for being had been eliminated and his own existence threatened by forces beyond his knowledge and control. He had been rendered useless and vulnerable by events.

  It had taken him only a few hours after the murder of Oswald to regain his composure and focus on his own survival. His mission, however it might be changed or even eliminated, now depended on maintaining his cover.

  So he stuffed his nagging questions and fears into his rucksack and sought refuge in his role of a Jesuit priest going about his business, a character that concealed a Russian infantry officer under fire, dug in, waiting for orders.

  As the days passed, he found that his concentrating on playing Father Alex Samozvanyetz calmed him down. He began to feel sheltered and secure.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Oksana Volk
ova rode through the darkness that night in the cab of a battered, seven-year-old pickup truck, which was in excellent driving condition. The new man at the wheel had made sure of that. This new sleeper agent had too much to say, Oksana thought, but it didn’t really matter. She felt no obligation to respond. The man was not interested in a conversation. He was just talking to hear himself talk.

  Just as well. She was tired.

  Oksana Volkova had changed her appearance. At a dimly lit parking lot, she had shed the last remnants of her female attire and climbed back into the truck wearing a flannel hunting shirt, dungarees, boots and a cap that concealed her hair. The man at the wheel had nodded his approval.

  “You’ll fit right in,” he said. “No one along the river will look at you twice.”

  “The neighbors, they mind their own business?”

  “Yeah, they’re odd people. Not neighbors, really. Just strangers who ended up in the same place. Some may be hiding from the law, for all I know. I don’t ask questions and neither do they.”

  They clattered across a bridge. Oksana peered out the window to see the river below.

  “That’s the Little Miami we’re crossing over,” said the man. Oksana knew that, but she said nothing. The less this new sleeper agent knew or guessed about her and her business, the better.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Fifteen minutes later, the driver dimmed the headlights as he left the main road and followed a dirt trail through a stand of trees. “We’re here,” he said.

  The man parked the truck on a patch of level land about ten yards from the cabin and got out. The cabin on the river was dark.

  “Wait here,” the man said. “I’ll make certain it’s safe to turn on a light so you can see your way.”

  After a few minutes, a light flashed on. Oksana could see the man standing at the open door of the cabin, waving to her to come on. She climbed down from the cab and walked carefully across the open ground to the cabin. It was a one-story wooden shack covered with black tar-paper. From outside, it looked like the dilapidated home of some poverty-stricken family. Inside, it was better. Plain, but clean and comfortable.