by Bill Granger
There were two men—one was a priest, the other was an American.
The priest in his plain black cassock might have been from some slum church in the ancient city. His face was ravaged by age and his hair was dull. He stared at the surgeon and did not speak, but his look asked a question anyway.
The surgeon shrugged. “It’s up to her. The bleeding is stopped. She can heal herself or not. She seems… so composed. As if for passing on.”
“Did she speak?”
“Not at all. She was nearly dead when she got here. Do they know who did this to her?”
“It is a complete mystery,” said the priest.
“Are you a friend?”
“Yes,” Cardinal Ludovico said. “A close friend.”
“Well, this will certainly be a scandal,” the surgeon said. He was very tired from the act of healing. He looked at Devereaux. “And what is your interest, signor?”
“I have no interest. I found her body in St. Peter’s. I called the guard.”
“Muggers and murderers working even in San Pietro. There is no safe place anymore,” the surgeon said.
“No,” Devereaux agreed.
“I have done my best. It’s up to God,” the surgeon said. He meant only civil piety and intended the words for the priest, because he had long concluded that if God existed, He was a Being the surgeon did not wish to know.
The priest nodded as though he understood, and made the sign of the cross to continue the fiction of piety.
The surgeon walked away from them. There were others in the waiting room, others full of jokes, whispers, sobs, all waiting for life or death to be announced. The hospital was full, the corridors were crowded with litters and wheelchairs, as though some great disaster had just been visited upon the city.
“I will pray for her,” Cardinal Ludovico said.
“How decent of you.”
“I did not intend—”
“I know. I was mistaken in what I saw.”
The old man turned to the American, and there was a cold thing in the leonine eyes that was meant to be disdain. It was a look that had terrified servants and staff, but it withered in the face of this American.
“I do not know the tape or what Michael intended,” Cardinal Ludovico said at last in precise English.
“He intended to give it to you. He intended to be safe after he gave it to you.”
“I did not kill him.”
“No. It would have been foolish to kill him when he would have given you the thing. Whoever killed him did not want you to have the tape. Or Michael’s memory of what was on the tape.”
“Then who did kill him?”
“We must listen to the tape.”
The cardinal stared at Devereaux for a silent moment. He said, “Will you know the secret then? Adam will have knowledge and will know the difference between what is good and what is not good. Will you eat the same fruit?”
Devereaux almost smiled.
“A madness seized me,” the cardinal said. “I will pray for her the rest of my days. I will commend my soul to God for her sake. It is madness, whatever is on that tape is madness and evil for its own sake. I think we should destroy the tape—”
“No. I don’t think that at all,” Devereaux said.
Devereaux held the tape cassette in his left hand for a moment and then slipped it into the Sony recorder on the large, walnut table.
Devereaux pressed Rewind. The key clicked immediately.
They sat in the most secret room of the Congregation for the Protection of the Faith on the Borgo Santo Spirito. Bright morning had faded to the gloom of afternoon, and there were more clouds scudding in from the Alps. Along the western coast of Italy, the waves swelled and there was a smell of the coming rain in the brittle air.
They had no amenities between them. The cardinal finally remembered Devereaux from the matter of Father Tunney in Florida years ago, when R Section and the congregation had first found themselves at odds. The man had not seemed so cold then, only hostile. The man had not seemed so detached then, as though the events of the world did not touch him. He had been touched since then; that was certain.
Cardinal Ludovico had no illusions about Devereaux or what Devereaux might do to achieve his ends. He studied the other man as he thought of the possibilities that might exist for the congregation—for the church—depending on what was on the tape.
But Devereaux sat there without playing the tape.
Cardinal Ludovico said, “Are you afraid, then?”
“Tell me about Michael Hampton.”
“He was a free-lance. He was employed by us from time to time.”
“This tape was intended for you. For your use. Someone intended it. If Michael Hampton was the innocent courier, then who gave him the tape? Who knew he worked for you at the conference in Malmö?”
Silence. Thunder suddenly rumbled across the hills of the city, and the cardinal seemed startled. He rose and went to the window and closed the glass and locked the frame. The room was still for a moment, and then thunder insisted again. Cardinal Ludovico looked down at the Borgo, at the traffic, at the people hurrying along the walk to get to their destination before the rain.
“Michael was recommended to us by Central Intelligence a long time ago.”
The words were quiet. The cardinal did not turn to look at the American agent.
“Do not believe that Michael was our agent. He was a translator and interpreter. He knew the congregation was an intelligence apparatus in the church, but he was not our agent. He was our eyes and ears.”
“Until he heard too much.”
The cardinal stared at his fingers. His hands trembled on his lap.
Devereaux said, “What is the relationship of the congregation to the CIA?”
Ludovico finally looked at him. “We have no… relationship. The Central Intelligence Agency is aware of our existence only, as we are aware of theirs.”
“That isn’t true, priest,” Devereaux said. He said it as though he was not guessing this time. “You sent Michael Hampton to a naval conference in Malmö with expectations. The church has no navy. What did you expect?”
The cardinal opened his hands to show his honesty. “Intelligence is to be gotten in unlikely places at unlikely times.”
“You commissioned him. He called you seven times in five days. Someone at the conference gave him the tape, even if he might have been reluctant to have it. Someone knew he would take the train home to Stockholm. It’s a long trip across Sweden. He would listen to the tape at some point, and as soon as he knew the contents, he would know he had to get the tape to you… for his own safety. It was a very cynical plan and you were part of it.” Devereaux paused. “And it cost Michael’s life.”
The old man pressed thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut so that he would not cry for Michael. When he opened his eyes, the American was sitting still, staring at him.
“I did not wish the death of Michael.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wished. You were part of the maneuvering. But what had to come to you, what information could you use that would benefit the CIA?”
Thunder rattled the windows. It startled both men.
“I cannot remember so much rain in November,” Cardinal Ludovico said.
“Perhaps it’s the deluge,” Devereaux said.
“God promised never to flood the world again.”
“Perhaps God was joking.”
The two men stared at each other. Then Devereaux shifted in his chair and sighed. He pressed the play button, and the silence of the room was filled with the clear, concise voice of the American secretary of state, reading from a memorandum. The secret agenda of Malmö was laid before both men.
There were four points, all interconnected.
First, the Soviet Union agreed to lend to the United States the antiterror computer program called Skarda, which would insure that records kept by secret agencies would be “immune” from
outside viruses, that “hackers” would not be able to imperil the ability of the United States to keep its programs and memories secret. This was in the interest of the Soviet Union because a blinded American government, stripped of memory in records, would become a dangerous American government, suspicious and impotent against world order at the same time. The Soviets wanted to deal with a strong United States.
The second part of the agreement said the United States, in return for the gift of the program called Skarda, would back down on its research into the Strategic Defense Initiative. Specifically, $200 million already targeted for missile testing research would be rescinded.
Third, the Soviet Union, in the spirit of glasnost, would enable ninety thousand Soviet Jews and other dissidents to have visas issued them in the coming calendar year.
Finally, in the same spirit of openness between the great powers, the United States agreed that continued funding of the Lithuanian dissident movement through the CIA would be halted.
Devereaux listened to the secretary’s words and watched Ludovico through it all. Only at the last point did he see the cardinal make a movement. It was involuntary. The cardinal’s right hand started to tremble. And Devereaux thought he began to understand.
He switched off the tape at the sound of the Russian voice. The Soviet foreign secretary was repeating the memorandum of agreement just read by the American secretary of state.
Silence for a long moment and then thunder again. The rumble filled the room for a moment, and then there was another dead silence.
“Hardly enough to kill a man,” Devereaux said.
Ludovico looked at Devereaux. “You do not understand, Mr. Devereaux. Lithuania is important. To the West and to the church.”
“So that’s the CIA connection,” Devereaux said.
“I don’t understand.”
“You understand everything, priest. The church was the connection to Lithuania. The conduit for the CIA funds. The funds are drying up, and in exchange, the Russians will let some of its dissidents go.”
“Networks. Agents. Dozens of networks in Vilnius, throughout Lithuania. Set up by patriots willing to risk their lives, and all of it washed away in a stroke by a secret agreement. Last year, forty-nine thousand Soviet Jews were let free. This year, ninety thousand. I am glad they will be free.… But at the cost of Lithuania’s freedom?”
“The church was funding the movement in Lithuania. With CIA monies. Is that it? Is that why CIA arranged to get the tape to you, so that you could make it public? And making it public, kill the deal. And Michael was the innocent in all this,” Devereaux said. He stood up and put the tape in his pocket.
“What are you going to do?”
“Not pray,” Devereaux said.
Ludovico shook his head. “I grieve for Michael.”
“Tears are easy at the end. You grieve for the loss of this tape. You were going to make it public, Ludovico, sabotage the agreement.”
“They have no right… to agree to disarm Lithuania, to destroy the movement for freedom.…”
Devereaux stared at him another moment. “It’s their money, Cardinal. Not yours. Not the CIA’s.”
“It is more than ending something that exists. There are lives involved, more lives than Michael’s or that girl’s. Is all this to be done for… for a computer system?”
“You were the man removed,” Devereaux said. “You could reveal the secret tape as long as the Soviets and the Americans were convinced that Michael stole it for you. Michael was set up from the first moment in Malmö. Even before Malmö, when you agreed to send him there. Who told you to send him to Malmö?”
“I sent him… for intelligence—”
“Both sides would officially believe that this was the act of a third party, the Congregation for the Protection of the Faith. But it was directed by you, Cardinal, and you got your marching orders from someone. Who was it?”
“I cannot say—”
“Someone in Central Intelligence.”
“I cannot say.”
“Who do I blame this on, Cardinal Ludovico?”
“Please.” He held up his hand. “Before you turn this tape over to the Soviets, at least you must contact your superiors. At least you must contact the CIA—”
Devereaux said, “Who do I ask for?”
“You must… contact…” The old man wiped his forehead and was surprised he was sweating. Rain drummed at the windowpanes. So much rain, it was unbelievable. The days were all full of gloom now.
“You must contact Mr. Vaughn Reuben,” the old man said.
Devereaux stood still for a moment. He absorbed the name, saw the connection, saw how everything connected in that moment. Reuben did not want the memory program called Skarda; he didn’t give a damn about the Soviet Jews or the Lithuanian network. The important thing was to queer the deal on Skarda in exchange for Star Wars. Let the old priest steal the tape through his agent in Malmö and let the bricks fall down on the congregation. Not on CIA. It was at least two steps removed from Langley, and no one could blame Langley for interfering with American negotiations. So Vaughn Reuben kept shifting blame to R Section for not protecting the conference in the first place and for not getting Michael in the second place. The administration would blame Section, would blame the church, would blame Michael… in fact, would find blame everyplace but at the building in Virginia that housed Central Intelligence.
Devereaux turned from the priest without a word.
“You must not betray Lithuania.”
“I owe nothing to you. Or Lithuania.” And in that moment, he saw Rena in his mind, saw the flawless cold beauty of her perfect face, saw her small act of betrayal against Michael. No one wished Michael dead. Not the cardinal, not the woman he loved. But they had betrayed him to the death dealers.
Devereaux took a step toward the tall doors at the far end of the room.
The doors opened, and two large men stood shoulder to shoulder and stared at the American.
“You must not,” the cardinal said.
Devereaux took out the Beretta and snapped the safety.
“Tomaso. Guglielmo.” The cardinal stood and waved his hand. “Do not put yourselves in the way of harm. He has a gun. It’s not worth a life.”
And Devereaux turned at that, pistol in hand, and stared at the priest.
“Not even Michael’s,” he said.
39
COPENHAGEN
Skarda himself sat at the thin-legged rickety table on the second floor of the house in Copenhagen. It was the same house Henry McGee had been brought to before by the blond girl named Christina.
This time, he was brought by the fat leather spy. The fat leather spy had picked him up as he left the terminal building at Kastrup, and there had been a driver and another man who was strictly for muscle. Henry let himself be muscled. He tried to talk to the fat leather spy, but there was nothing but silence from the other end.
Up the old-fashioned staircase. Grandmother was still downstairs, still carrying her Uzi.
They searched him at the door and took away his pistol and the knife. He went into the room and sat down in a straight chair opposite Skarda. Skarda motioned with his hand, and the fat leather spy closed the door on the two men.
Skarda stared at Henry McGee for a moment, and they both understood the silence, understood there was some finality hidden in this moment.
“The tape recording was retrieved two hours ago,” Skarda said. “We have an assurance from the Americans in London that it will be returned, that no damage has been done. Can I inquire what you were doing the past twenty-four hours?”
“Inquire away. I was in Stockholm, Malmö, trying to go back over the trail.”
“You did not make contact.”
“Happens.”
“We had men in Rome, they contacted Mr. Michael Hampton. But he did not have the tape recording on his person.”
“So he was going to Rome with it,” Henry said. He was staying one step behind because
Skarda was one of those arrogant kind of explainers: You asked him what time it was, and he explained how a watch works. Besides, Henry was just now measuring the cell of the room, trying to see where the walls were and how much time he was going to have.
“He was in Rome. He had a confederate, a girl named Marie Dreiser. She is the one who saved him in Berlin. We investigated her thoroughly, and she is in a Roman hospital. It isn’t clear, but she did not have the tape. The Americans recovered the tape—I cannot say how. They have contacted us through the embassy in London. Soon it will be delivered to us.”
“What was on the tape exactly?”
“You have no need to know,” Skarda said.
“No. I suppose not.” He waited.
“You murdered Viktor Rusinov. For what purpose?”
Henry just felt the chill in the walls, felt the words shut like a prison door. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“What is on the tape? Do you have so much curiosity? Then I’ll satisfy it.”
Henry went cold. The door was locked and they were throwing away the key.
Skarda tented his fingertips and smiled. It took him less than a minute to tell him the contents of the tape.
“And so when you get the Americans to start programming Skarda, they’ll screw up their communications system.”
“Is that what you believe?” Skarda said.
“That’s what Skarda was supposed to be, wasn’t it? Something or other to put a virus in American communications with the Europeans?”
“The Americans will examine Skarda as a primitive culture might examine… what should I say? Exactly as the Trojans examined the wooden horse. Carefully. Unbelieving at first. And then accepting it. They will program Skarda in bits, slowly, turning each bit over to see if it fits and is genuine. It will be very genuine, Henry McGee, that is the genius of it. Skarda is exactly what it seems to be.”
“Then I don’t get it. Sounds like a good deal for the Americans.”
“No. You don’t get it.”
“Whatever this Lithuanian thing is, can’t amount to very much,” Henry said.
“But it is important to the CIA. We suspected them immediately. CIA sabotaged the conference in Malmö. CIA stole the tape. CIA set up this courier run to Rome.”
