Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy

by Patrick Trese

  “Do you own this residence?” said the other man. “Or are you renting it?”

  “It is none of your business. Just go away and leave me alone.”

  “But we were sent here to interview you,” said the tall one. He took a notebook out of his pocket and riffled through it.

  “You have no business being here,” said Oksana. “You are mistaken.”

  “But we were given your name!” The tall one held up the notebook, “See? Right there. Major Oksana Volkova, GRU. That’s you, correct?”

  Oksana froze in place and said nothing.

  Herb held up his credential folder.

  “Allow us to introduce ourselves, Major. I am Special Agent Herbert Coogan of the FBI. My colleague is Mitchell Sloane of the Department of Justice. We are both pleased to meet you and we mean no harm.”

  “Perhaps you would be kind enough to allow us to come inside to continue our discussion?” said Mitchell. “It’s a bit cold out here.”

  Oksana Volkova took a step backward. “Of course, gentlemen,” she said. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I have only two chairs here so please take them. I will sit on the bed. But first remove the gun I keep under my pillow. Obviously, it is not of any further use for me.”

  Mitchell placed the weapon on the small table beside his chair. Herb checked the interior of the closet and the small chest of drawers.

  “You will find nothing dangerous or unusual,” said Oksana.

  “Only this,” Herb said. He had found a packet of Chesterfield King coupons secured with a rubber band. “I used to save them myself before I quit smoking. My wife used to say I was saving them to get a free casket for my funeral.”

  Mitchell chuckled. “No question that we found the right person. She was known for saving paper clips from any documents that crossed her desk at the GRU. Also ballpoint pens, rubber bands, that sort of stuff. I’ll bet that the Major doesn’t know that she had a nickname, is that right, Bielka?”

  Oksana stiffened and tried not to show her anger. She did not know that anyone had called her a squirrel. No one would have dared to say that to her face.

  Herb laughed and sat down, toying with the packet of coupons. “Yeah, Bielka,” said Herb. “And it turns out that this squirrel also saved human beings to use later, like nuts in a hollow tree.”

  “I am saying nothing,” said Oksana Volkova.

  “You are an intelligence officer in the GRU. And you have been engaged in espionage activities in our country.”

  “I am saying nothing.”

  “We know everything that we need to know about you and your operation,” said Herb. “Also enough for prosecutors to demand the death penalty.”

  “You will not execute a Soviet citizen. Not for espionage.”

  “Probably not,” said Herb. “Nowadays, spies are exchanged, aren’t they? But there is enough physical evidence to have you tried and convicted of first degree murder. Some states no longer impose the death penalty, but Pennsylvania still does. And you can bet your life that a jury in Bellefonte would convict you for the Vogel murder.”

  “I agree,” said Mitchell. “The reason we say that, Bielka, is that in small town America people take murder very seriously. Even more seriously when a sweet old woman is murdered by a vicious female secret agent from the Soviet Union.”

  “This has nothing to do with me,” said Oksana.

  “The hell it hasn’t,” said Mitchell with a smile.

  “Right,” said Herb. “You may be a master spy, Major Volkova, but you’re a lousy criminal. An amateur, by American standards. You made a big mistake in underestimating the skill and determination of our local police officers.

  “Even before Mrs. Vogel was buried, Bellefonte police notified the FBI of the unusually suspicious details at the crime scene. All we had to do, at the Federal level, was coordinate their efforts while we activated our counter-intelligence procedures.”

  “What the man is telling you,” said Mitchell, “is that you may have had a brilliant espionage scheme, but you screwed it up. The Bellefonte police and district attorney have more than enough evidence to put you in the electric chair. Do they electrocute murderers in Pennsylvania, Agent Coogan, or do they hang them?”

  “Who cares,” said Herb. “Dead is dead.”

  Oksana stared at her folded hands and remained silent.

  Herb walked back and forth across the room for a minute or two, as if considering what to do next, then extracted a card from his file folder. He stood there, unsmiling, fingering the card for a moment longer to give the woman more time to worry. Slowly he sat down and pushed the card across the table toward the woman on the bed.

  “While we were gathering background information about your murder victim for the Bellefonte police, we found this old document in Detroit, Michigan, where Mrs. Natasha Vogel was born and raised. Her maiden name was Samozvanyetz, as you know. When her brother Alex was ten years old, his teacher at Annunciation grammar school took her fourth grade pupils to the police precinct in the family’s neighborhood to visit the officers. Each child left with a souvenir like this one.”

  Oksana Volkova looked at it, but she did not pick it up. Nor did she did change expression.

  “Do I need to tell you that the fingerprints of the little boy in the police mug shot do not match those of your man at Milford Novitiate?” said Herb. “The man who has been pretending to be Father Alex Samozvanyetz? Nor do the boy’s fingerprints on the document match those on the forged letters and other items you planted at the Vogel residence.”

  “I do not understand this charge,” Oksana Volkova said. “What means ‘Third degree mopery with intent to loiter’?”

  “It’s a joke,” said Herb as he retrieved the card. “It was a good try, Major, but your game is over. You will be in custody under guard until we take your agent into custody. That may take a few days. Then we will send you back to the Soviet Union. We want to do it very quietly.”

  “Our assignment,” said Mitchell, “is to make it seem that you and your agent have never been here in the United States at all. And you had better pray that we are successful.”

  “Otherwise,” said Herb, “if one single word gets out to the public about you two and what you have been doing, you will have to stand trial in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, with the whole world watching.”

  “Do you understand what we have been telling you?” asked Mitchell.

  “Yes,” said Oksana Volkova. “I understand completely.”

  She stood up and stretched. “With your permission. I should pack some personal items and some warmer clothes for the trip. As you may imagine, it can become very cold in Russia. Very, very cold.”

  “If you don’t mind, we’d like to help you pack,” said Herb. “We can’t be too careful, can we, Major.”

  “As you wish,” she said. “I understand completely.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  The agents drove Major Volkova from the fishing shack in the outskirts of Cincinnati to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base not far from Dayton, Ohio. The military policemen at the main gate had been alerted to expect the agents and, after inspecting Herb’s credentials, they waved the car through. The agents drove past the barracks and the administrative buildings, past the aircraft hangars and the control tower and the runways, to an isolated section of the base where a solitary cinder block building stood apart, enclosed by a high wire fence topped with rolled barbed wire.

  The agents parked their car outside the fence. Once the woman had passed through, the Air Force sentries closed the gate and locked it from the inside. Several of the armed men took up positions outside the building while the others took the woman inside and walked her down a narrow corridor to an interrogation room.

  Save for the government-issue table and chairs, the room was bare. There were windows high up on the cinder block walls. Four lamps hung from the ceiling, the kind found in butcher shops and factories.

  “Please take a seat at the table, ma’am,” said a young w
oman in an Air Force uniform. “There is a toilet and sink behind that door over there. You’ll find soap, a wash cloth and a towel also.”

  “Thank you,” said Oksana. “It was a long trip.”

  “Just leave the door open, ma’am,” the young woman said. “We wouldn’t want any harm to come to you.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Time in the interrogation room passed slowly for Oksana Volkova who waited calmly for whatever was going to happen next. A round of questions perhaps? Some more threats? It did not matter. She was used to the drill. But she was surprised that only one of the American agents entered the room. The young woman left and closed the door behind her. She was alone now with Mitchell Sloane.

  “Your partner is not with you?” Oksana asked.

  “Agent Coogan does not have the proper security clearance for this conversation, Major Volkova. He has no idea that this is even taking place. This is Top Secret, just between you and me. I work for Robert Kennedy who is the brother of our late President. You should know that President Kennedy gave his brother detailed accounts of the conversations he had with the agent you control. I assume you are not surprised by that information.”

  “Not in the least. I always knew that was probable. Their close relationship was public knowledge.”

  “But what is not known is that the information you and your agent gave President Kennedy helped him avert nuclear war between our two countries. You made him aware of the GRU opposition to Khrushchev. That was invaluable. But that must remain unknown in the United States and the Soviet Union. Do we agree?”

  “Yes, at all levels,” said Oksana. “I agree completely.”

  “Good,” said Sloane. “Do you know what was behind President Kennedy’s assassination, Major?”

  “I have my suspicions, but no facts.”

  Sloane nodded. “Same here,” he said. “Why was he killed, do you think? For what reason?”

  “Revenge is the most likely motive. But I am also considering hatred in your own country, Mister Sloane. However, I must be more concerned about the here and now. I am sure you have plans for me and my agent.”

  “Of course,” said Sloane. “Well, you know that Herb Coogan would be happy to have you tried, convicted and executed for murder. But President Johnson has ordered that nobody learns that you and your agent ever existed. We both know what Khrushchev and the KGB will do if they ever learn what you and your agent accomplished with President Kennedy.”

  “You are correct about that,” said Oksana.

  “Fortunately for you, Major, the White House, the Vatican and the GRU all agree, for various reasons, that absolute secrecy is best for everyone involved.”

  “You have been in contact with the GRU?”

  “Yes, informally. We informed your General Kalenko about your role in the Cuban missile crisis and we have agreed on a cover story for your absence and return to the Soviet Union.”

  “I am most delighted to hear that. Please, continue.”

  “Several years ago, the GRU assigned you to train an agent to pose as an American Catholic priest in order to explore the possibility of using Catholic confessionals to identify and cultivate potential American espionage assets. You expended much time and effort to answer that question. But this intelligence gathering scheme proved to be impractical. Unfortunately, while trying to make it work, you were discovered by the FBI and kept under surveillance in hopes of finding other Soviet agents or assets. The FBI did not. Your unique two-person cell was allowed to function without incident until the assassination of the Catholic president. President Johnson ordered the FBI to arrest and send you back to Russia secretly in order to avoid a political scandal. Okay?”

  “Yes, I can work with that,” said Oksana. “It is very, very close to the truth.”

  “We thought so,” said Sloane. “Now, about returning you to the Soviet Union: Agent Coogan is making arrangements for taking your agent into custody and bringing him here to join you. I don’t know how long that will be. Soon, I hope. While you wait for him to arrive, you will stay in comfortable quarters here under guard. How much he is told about this conversation will be your decision.

  “My people will fly you to Europe. Your escorts will not be told of your identity. When you arrive in Prague, the GRU will quietly take charge. If all goes well, you will have been lost like playing cards in a GRU bureaucratic shuffle. Nobody in the Kremlin will give your return a second thought.”

  “Thank you, Mister Sloane.” Oksana Volkova reached out to shake his hand. “Please extend my gratitude and condolences to Robert Kennedy. It was not my intention to help his brother, but I am happy that we were able to do so. Strange how things work out.”

  C H A P T E R • 22

  It took a few days to work out all the details, but this Thursday before noon, the Visitor from Rome joined Charley Coogan in the empty visitors’ parlor. He lowered his lanky frame into the armchair opposite the seated novice.

  “Don’t get up, Charley. Just relax until the right time to start our Russian friend on his journey back to the Soviet Union.”

  “It’s amazing,” Charley said, “I just can’t get over how fast you got all this straightened out. What’s it been? Less a month? And you got all this done with nobody tumbling to what we were doing. Right under their noses. Amazing!”

  “We were hiding in plain sight, Charley. And you helped us do it successfully.”

  Father Fitz brushed his hair off his forehead. “By the way,” he said, “the Rector told me it was you who suggested how to set up study groups so the community could keep busy without paying any attention to us. What was your idea?”

  “I said they should create them the way we choose our baseball or football teams. Pick the academic stars to be the group leaders. Have them take turns and pick the members they want. It works out that each team ends up with a good cross-section of participants, a range of the most vocal quick-study guys to the most quiet hard-working guys. Everybody gets to play in the game. That was the idea, but how did it pan out?”

  “Like a charm, Charley. It worked splendidly with the novices and juniors. The priests wanted to draft their opinion essays by themselves. However, the entire community was involved in the project so nobody bothered to pay much attention to what we were doing. Actually, the Rector told me, they were more than merely involved. He said they were almost too excited. Some of the discussions became quite heated, I’m told.”

  “Really? I’m surprised to hear that. These guys don’t even shout at each other on the ball field. I can’t see them losing their tempers about religious stuff.”

  “You should spend some time in the Vatican, Charley. Just wait until the cardinals and the theologians get a look at the suggestions about changes in the church from lowly Catholics like us. Talk about the political dust-ups. There will be as many opinions, objections, and obstructions as there are cardinals. It should be a good show. Lots of fighting and much of it in Latin. Humility, one assumes, will be in short supply.”

  Father Fitz took off his spectacles and looked down at them.

  “Forgive me, Charley,” he said. “Did I shock you?”

  “I think I’m beyond shock.”

  Father Fitz laughed.

  “Well, I’m sure you found our project a good deal more than you bargained for.”

  “That’s for sure. I thought I could enter the Novitiate, keep an eye on things for my Dad, and go home when my job was finished. I hadn’t known all the really big, important stuff I’d get mixed up in. Stuff I didn’t understand or even know about. Like the Spiritual Exercises or the Cold War or Kennedy’s assassination or that any day the whole planet can be destroyed if somebody makes—what did the President call it?—a miscalculation. That’s been a lot to deal with, Father. But I learned a lot.”

  “Even though you were riding on an emotional roller coaster, Charlie. But you kept your eye on the ball. I must tell you that you were a great help to me all through this adventure.”

  “Re
ally, Father Fitz, I’m glad to hear that, but I don’t think I really did all that much.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Charlie. You overcame your disappointment and anger and found a way to draw the Russian out of his shell and allowed us to see who he really was and what he had become. And don’t forget, Charlie: Your ability to remember so accurately what you heard and observed during your conversations with Father Beck unlocked the clue he left us to solving the puzzle we were faced with. And solve it so quickly. Take a bow, Charlie. I only wish I could draft you for my team, but I know you have your own life to live.”

  “Well, I wish I knew what that was going to turn out to be.”

  “Time will tell. But already you have demonstrated some skills that will serve you in good stead in the church, in the theater, in law enforcement, in undercover investigation, in political intrigue or in crisis resolution. But, sad to say, our clandestine exercise is about to conclude.”

  “Well, it’s been quite a ride. You’ve taught me a lot. Thanks, Father Fitz.”

  “You’re welcome. So let’s finish with the final act which you suggested and which our Father General approved. We will make a Russian secret agent simply disappear. Do you remember your magic words?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Charley. “Keep it simple.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Thursday, as usual, was a recreation day at Milford and now the noontime Angelus bells were sounding through the building. Charley prayed silently and waited until the bells stopped ringing and the silence was broken as rumbling began, first along the cloister corridors and down the two main staircases into the first floor hall leading to the refectory where the sound of the community’s footsteps gradually ceased.

  The silence told Charley that all the Jesuits had taken their places at the dining room tables and were now standing behind their chairs with heads bowed. Then Charley heard the Jesuits reciting Grace Before Meals in unison and then the clatter of all those chairs being pulled back.

  Father Fitzmaurice checked his wrist watch. “Right on schedule,” he said. “Ten minutes to go.”