Читать книгу Day of Judgment - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 8

In Rome, on the following morning, in an upper room of the Vatican, His Holiness Pope John XXIII, close to death due to the effects of the stomach tumour from which he had been suffering for a year, held audience propped up by pillows in his bed.

A young monsignor sat by his side, reading from one letter after another in a low voice. His Holiness listened with closed eyes, opening them occasionally to sign a document when requested and again when his physician entered to administer a pain-killing injection.

The phone at the side of the bed buzzed and the monsignor answered it. He said, ‘Father Pacelli is here.’

The Pope nodded. ‘Admit him.’

‘This is not good,’ the doctor said. ‘Your Holiness knows …’

‘That he has very little time, and a great deal to do.’

The doctor turned away, closing his bag, and the monsignor opened the door to admit a tall, gaunt old man with white hair and deepset eyes, a strangely mediaeval figure in the plainest of black habits.

‘You look more like a bird of prey than usual this morning,’ the Pope said.

Father Pacelli smiled lightly, for this was an old game between them. He was almost seventy years of age, a Jesuit, second only in that illustrious order to the Father General himself, Director of Historical Research at the Collegio di San Roberto Bellarmino on the Via del Seminario, from where he had been responsible for more than twenty-five years for the organization of the closest thing the Vatican had to a Secret Service department.

The Pope looked up from the document he was reading. ‘You Jesuits, Pacelli. The plain black habit, the lack of pomp. A kind of humility in reverse, don’t you think?’

‘I remind myself of the fact in my prayers each day, Holiness.’

‘Soldiers of Christ.’ The Pope waved the document at him. ‘Like Father Conlin. He reminds me strongly of a certain colonel of infantry I knew when I served as a military chaplain during the First World War. Whenever he went over the top to lead an attack he never ordered his men to follow him. Simply took it for granted that they would.’

‘And did they. Holiness?’

‘Invariably. There’s a moral arrogance to that sort of action that I’ve never been too sure about. Still …’ He handed the document to the young monsignor. ‘You’re certain as to the accuracy of this information?’

‘It comes from my valued contact in the West German Intelligence Service.’

‘And the Americans – have they been informed?’

‘Naturally, Holiness. Father Conlin is an American citizen.’

‘For whom they can do nothing.’

Pacelli nodded. ‘If the facts are as stated, the East Germans would certainly deny his presence.’

‘Even to us,’ the Pope pointed out.

There was a moment’s silence. Pacelli said, ‘There would, of course, be the inevitable moment when they produce him for this show trial.’

‘Like Cardinal Mindszenty, saying all the right things? That the Church with the aid of the CIA is engaged in some kind of underground struggle aimed at the destruction of the German Democratic Republic and everything Ulbricht and his friends stand for?’

‘A suggestion not entirely without merit,’ Pacelli said. ‘But in my opinion. Holiness, it seems to me that on this occasion it is not so much the Church that is the target as the Americans. It would certainly cause President Kennedy considerable embarrassment if they succeeded in stage-managing the affair to coincide with his trip to Germany.’

‘Exactly, and the Berlin visit is of primary importance. When he stands at the Wall, Pacelli, he places himself in the forward trench. He shows the Communist bloc that America is firm with the other Western powers.’

The Pope closed his eyes, one hand gripping the edge of the damask coverlets of his bed. There was sweat on his face and the doctor leaned over him and sponged it away.

Pacelli said, ‘So, Holiness, we do nothing?’

‘To do anything official is not possible,’ Pope John said. ‘On the other hand. Father Conlin is a member of the Society of Jesus, which has always, or so it seems to me, proved singularly apt at looking after its own.’ He opened his eyes, a touch of the old humour there again in spite of the pain. ‘You will, I trust, find time to keep me informed, Pacelli.’

‘Holiness.’ Pacelli leaned down to kiss the ring on the extended hand and went out quickly.

The black limousine bearing the licence plates of the Pope which had brought Pacelli to his audience returned him to the Collegio di San Roberto Bellarmino within twenty minutes of leaving the Vatican City, in spite of the heavy traffic.

When he entered the small library which served as his office on the first floor overlooking the courtyard at the rear of the building. Father Macleod, the young Scot who had been his secretary for two years now, rose to greet him.

‘Neustadt,’ Pacelli said. ‘Have you come up with anything of interest?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Macleod told him. ‘An agricultural village, typical of the region. These Franciscan Lutherans are the only remarkable thing about the place.’

‘And we have no church there?’

‘Yes, Father. Holy Name. Founded in twelve hundred and three. It’s been closed for five years.’

‘Why?’

‘Officially, because there’s no congregation.’

‘The old story. You can’t be a good Party member and go to church as well.’

‘I suppose so. Father. Is there anything further you would like me to do in this matter?’

‘Contact Father Hartmann, at the Secretariat in East Berlin. Get a message to him by the usual means. I wish to see him in West Berlin at the Catholic Information Centre the day after tomorrow. Get me a seat for the morning flight on that day. Inform him of Father Conlin’s predicament and tell him I will expect the fullest possible information.’

‘Very well, Father. The file on the American, Van Buren, is on your desk.’

‘Good.’ Pacelli picked it up. ‘Get me the Apostolic Delegate in Washington on the telephone. I’ll be with the Father General.’

The young Scot looked bewildered. ‘But Father, it’s three o’clock in the morning in Washington. Archbishop Vagnozzi will be in bed.’

‘Then wake him,’ Pacelli said simply, and walked out.

The Father General of the Jesuits, leader of the most influential order in the Catholic Church, wore a habit as plain as Pacelli’s. He removed his glasses and closed the file on Van Buren.

‘The Devil and all his works.’

‘A genius in his own way,’ Pacelli said.

‘And how will Father Conlin fare at his hands, would you say?’

‘He survived Sachsenhausen and Dachau.’

‘A remarkable man.’ The Father General nodded. ‘We all know that, but times have changed. New techniques of interrogation. The use of drugs, for example.’

‘I have known Sean Conlin for forty years,’ Pacelli said. ‘His is a faith so complete that in his presence I feel humble.’

‘And you think this will be enough to sustain his present situation?’

‘With God’s help.’

The phone rang. The Father General lifted the receiver, listened, then handed it to Pacelli with a slight, ironic smile. ‘For you. Archbishop Vagnozzi – and he doesn’t sound too pleased.’

It was a surprisingly chilly evening in Washington for the last day in May, and in the White House the Secretary of Rusk, stood at a window in the Oval Office. The room was dark, the only light the table lamp on the massive desk, the array of service flags behind it. The door clicked open and as he turned the President entered.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy had celebrated his forty-sixth birthday only three days before and looked ten years younger. He wore dinner jacket and black tie, white shirt-front gleaming.

He smiled as he moved behind the desk. ‘We were just going in to dinner and I’ve got the Russian Ambassador down there. Is it important?’

‘The Apostolic Delegate came to see me this evening, Mr President. It occurred to me that it might be advisable for you to have a word with him.’

‘The Conlin affair?’

Rusk nodded. ‘You’ve read the file I prepared for you?’

‘I’ve got it right here.’ The President sat down at his desk and opened a folder. ‘Tell me – did this come in through the German desk of the State Department?’

‘No. A coded message to me personally from Gehlen himself.’ There was a pause while the President leafed through the file. Rusk said, ‘So what do we do?’

The President glanced up. ‘I’m not certain. It’s one hell of a mess, that’s for sure. Let’s see what the Vatican has to say.’

The Apostolic Delegate, the Most Reverend Egidio Vagnozzi, wore a scarlet zapata on his head and the red cassock of an archbishop. He smiled warmly as he entered the room and the Secretary of State brought a chair forward for him.

‘It’s good of you to see me on such short notice, Mr President.’

‘A bad business,’ the President said.

‘And one which could be a considerable personal embarrassment to you if Father Conlin is brought to trial, as is suggested. I refer, of course, to your Berlin visit.’

‘Does the Vatican intend to make any kind of official representation to the East German Government?’ Dean Rusk asked.

‘What would be the point? At this stage in the game they would certainly deny having him in their hands, and there are other considerations. The position of Roman Catholics, indeed of all declared Christians, is a difficult one in East Germany these days. We must tread very carefully.’

‘In other words, you’ll do nothing,’ the President said.

‘Nothing official,’ Vagnozzi said. ‘On the other hand, Father Pacelli of the Society of Jesus is going to Berlin as soon as possible to assess the situation.’

The President smiled, ‘Pacelli himself, eh? So you’re letting him off the leash? Now that is interesting.’

‘His Holiness, in spite of his unfortunate illness, is taking a personal interest in the matter. He would like to know, in view of the fact that Father Conlin is an American citizen, what your own views are.’

The President stared down at the folder, a slight frown on his face, and it was the Secretary of State who answered. ‘There are various aspects which are far from pleasant.

This man, Van Buren, for example, has been a considerable embarrassment to us for years. Naturally, we’ve kept a very low profile on him, and so far that’s worked.’

‘And then there’s Conlin’s own position,’ the President said. ‘They’ll try to brainwash him into saying his Christian Underground has been a tool of the CIA for years. The point of the exercise: a total smear to ruin every good thing I’m hoping to achieve by the German trip. The improvement in relations between ourselves and Moscow since Cuba has been considerable. Together with the British, we’re to resume three-power talks in Moscow aimed at a nuclear test-ban treaty. In a few days’ time I’m making a speech here in Washington at the American University in which I intend to make clear our recognition of the post-war status quo in Eastern Europe.’

‘A move of profound significance,’ Vagnozzi said.

The President continued. ‘As far as East Germany is concerned, Ulbricht is a Stalinist. He hates Krushchev, so my visit to Berlin is of great importance in the general scheme of things because it shows Ulbricht that we mean business.’

‘Which helps Krushchev to handle him.’

‘But more than that – it shows the Russians where we stand also. That trying to be reasonable doesn’t mean we’ve gone soft. We stand by West Berlin.’

Vagnozzi said, ‘So there is nothing we can do about Conlin?’

The President shook his head and the steel that was always there just beneath the surface showed coldly in the eyes for a moment. ‘I didn’t say that. What I’d like you to do is give me a little more time, that’s all.’

Vagnozzi stood up. ‘Very well, Mr President. I will delay making my official reply until I hear from you.’

‘Before morning,’ the President assured him. ‘I think I can promise you that.’

The archbishop went out. Dean Rusk said, ‘With the greatest respect, Mr President, I must point out that to attempt an official move at this time – to involve the CIA, for example – would be madness. If anything went wrong, it could only add substance to the kind of charges they intend to bring against Conlin anyway.’

‘Exactly,’ the President said. ‘Which is why anything that is done will have to be on a completely unofficial basis.’ He reached for a copy of the Washington Post . ‘Did you know Charles Pascoe was in town?’

‘No.’

‘There’s an article here on page three. He’s giving the Vanderbilt Memorial Lecture at the Smithsonian tonight.’

‘I thought he’d given up the academic life,’ the Secretary of State said. ‘I heard his brother died last year and left him a fortune.’

‘No, he’s still Professor of Modern English Literature at Balliol.’ The President folded the newspaper, stood up and eased his back. ‘I’d like to see him – when he’s finished his lecture, of course.’

‘As you say, Mr President.’

The Secretary of State started for the door and President Kennedy called softly, ‘And – Dean?’

‘Yes, Mr President?’

‘Let’s make it the west basement entrance when you bring him in. No Press on this one – by request.’

Professor Charles Pascoe was bored, for the subject of his lecture at the Smithsonian, Aspects of the Modern Novel, was one he found increasingly unrewarding, as he did the company of the academics who surrounded him at the reception afterwards. The arrival of the polite young man from the State Department with a request that he visit the White House that very night had come as a happy release.