A Woman Involved (51 page)

The cardinal said quietly: ‘You threatened me with a gun. I
had little option but to play along with you. A man with a gun shouting his head off that the Secretary of State is a communist agent? What a nice thing to hear. Besides, I’d like to know what I’m being accused of.’

Morgan looked at him furiously. ‘Why do you want the fucking evidence handed to you?’

‘Doesn’t any man who is being blackmailed, however unjustly? So that such a thing cannot happen again.’

Morgan was devastated that the relief he had felt was definitely proving wrong. He pulled the gun out of his shoulder holster angrily. ‘This is your last chance.’ He threw the gun onto the settee, on the opposite side of the room. ‘Now you are no longer threatened with a gun!’ He held his finger out at the man. ‘Now you have two options. You can either talk to me, or you can press the alarm button and your Swiss guards can throw me out. Unfortunately you cannot murder me, if that is up your street, because I am here officially. You will have got rid of me, but only for the night. Tomorrow you will be dealing with much heavier-weights than me.’

Cardinal Pieter Gunter was still standing, as if he intended to walk out on this nonsense.

‘Why are you involving yourself in this? Why don’t you just sell your story to the press for a million pounds?’

Oh Jesus
…! ‘I thought I’d made that clear! I don’t wish the Holy Roman Church to be manipulated! And I don’t want one of the corner stones of society shaken.’

The cardinal considered him steadily. Then he walked slowly back to his desk. But he did not sit down.

‘I think I believe you.’

Morgan snorted. There was something studied about the way he had said that, which robbed the statement of sincerity. Like there had been something theatrical in the way the man had first told him to get out once he had the list of other KGB trainees.

The cardinal sat down slowly.

‘And if I fail to convince you of my innocence?’

Morgan said bitterly: ‘I will hand the evidence over to the British. And let them sort it out. But they will probably try to use you for their own ends. Against the Russians. As a double-agent, probably. And if they can’t succeed in doing
that, they’ll expose you. Because they can’t afford to have a KGB agent in the Vatican.’

‘Why wouldn’t they just assassinate me?’

‘They might. But they might not feel sure that the microfilm tells the whole story, whether the next Secretary of State is a KGB agent or not. So they may decide it’s safer to expose the whole plot. And discredit the whole Church.’

The cardinal studied him grimly. Then he said:

‘Let me assure you of this: not only do I intend dismissing these ten people’ – he tapped the printout – ‘but I intend launching a full-scale investigation to ensure the rot has not spread any further.’ He added: ‘If you are in fact an agent, you can tell your masters that. With my compliments.’

Morgan nodded impatiently. All very well. But, even if he believed that statement, no investigation into communist rot conducted by an ex-KGB agent could be trusted. And he didn’t like the fact that the man assumed he was going to continue as Secretary of State. Did he take Morgan for a fool? But he only said, ‘Good.’

The cardinal laced his hands together. He said:

‘So instead of handing the evidence over to the British authorities, who have no jurisdiction over the Vatican, you should hand it over to the Vatican, surely? They are the best guardians of this information.’

‘
Quis custodiet ipsos custodientes?
Who will guard the guards themselves?’

The cardinal spread his hands earnestly. ‘Maybe, but how can the British conduct a proper investigation? They can’t send Scotland Yard into Vatican City – it’s a sovereign state, we could bar their entrance.’ He spread his hands again: ‘Give the evidence to the Pope himself! Let him worry about it.’

Morgan snorted. The Pope? Good man, no doubt, but a man so naive or so misinformed that he confirms Bishop Marcinkus in his post as president of the Vatican Bank after the God’s Banker scandal? And who does the Pope appoint to worry about it? But he said, ‘I’ll consider it.’

‘But you
must.
To protect the good name of the Church. And to ensure an efficient investigation. That’s what
you
want, if you are who you say you are.’ Then he shook his head with
finality. ‘I will not cooperate with you unless you assure me of that.’

Morgan wanted to rasp,
You’re in no position to stipulate anything! – I’ve got you like that
He said impatiently, ‘All right, you have my assurance, provided I am satisfied you have made a clean breast to me – starting right now.’

Cardinal Gunter looked away, and got up. He paced slowly across the room, his hands clasped. He said: ‘And what is going to happen to you after all this? You say they are trying to kill you?’

Was this a diversionary tactic? ‘I’ll cross the bridges as I come to them.’

‘I think the Vatican can help you across those bridges.’

Morgan snapped: ‘Provided I hand the evidence over to you? I will not be bribed.’

The cardinal smiled thinly. ‘It was not a bribe, Englishman. It was simply a Christian offer to help a brave man.’

He returned to his desk abruptly. He laid his hands flat.

‘It appears I have no option but to cooperate with you. So? How do I go about convincing you of my innocence?’

Oh Jesus, Morgan did not know what to make of him. A Christian offer? Or a ploy?

‘I need pen and paper. You tell me your story, from the beginning. Then I will cross-examine you.’

The cardinal sighed, then opened a drawer. He produced a pad of paper. He took a pen off the rack. He waited a moment, thinking; then said:

‘Very well. But may I suggest that first we pray …’ Morgan was taken aback. The cardinal paused, then he said: ‘But first I want to say this: I found God almost as soon as they started training me. As soon as I started studying the Bible. And, I was overjoyed! And I knew with all my heart that all I wanted to be was a priest.’ He turned to Morgan. ‘They thought they were going to double-cross the Holy Roman Church. But I double-crossed
them
.’

Pray?
What was this – more theatricals? Cardinal Gunter leant his elbow on the desk, rested his head in his hand, and closed his eyes. His lips began to move silently.

And Morgan did not know what to believe. With all his heart he wanted to pray too, lift his arms up wide and pray pray pray angrily, for guidance. But he kept his eyes fixed on the man, watching his every expression, his demeanour, desperately trying to assess his credibility. For a minute the cardinal was silent. Then he crossed himself, and opened his eyes.

He said: ‘From the very beginning?’

‘Yes, please.’

Cardinal Gunter sat back in his chair wearily, and looked at the ceiling. He was silent a moment. Then:

‘I was brought up in an orphanage in Leningrad. Evidently I was a bright pupil. One day I was sent for …’

Morgan watched him. And he saw it in his mind’s eye: the snowclad house in the woods outside Moscow, the orphan boy in his monk’s habit sitting on the bench.

Cardinal Gunter seemed to be warming to his story.

‘Boris really was an excellent teacher. A razor-brain intellectual. He knew his Bible backwards, and all the usual theological textbooks. And, of course, all the works on atheism. In fact, looking back, I’ve often thought the man was within a hair’s breadth of becoming a Christian himself. He was so
learned.
We often sat up till the small hours discussing obtuse metaphysical points. And the amazing thing is he didn’t
believe
any of these Christian principles he was so ardently expounding and making sure I understood.’

‘And this was all in English?’

‘Oh yes. We were never allowed to speak Russian. I had intensive coaching in German, of course, but all my theology was taught in English.’

‘And how did you feel about going to America?’

The cardinal smiled.

‘I cannot really describe the joy I kept bottled up inside me those years …  I didn’t care where I was sent, as long as I was doing God’s work. I suppose I would have been happiest to stay in Russia, and bellow my sermons to all those atheists …’ He shook his head. ‘America? The Land of the Free, where I could really spread my wings for God? – it was a tremendously exciting prospect for a lad of sixteen.’

‘They taught you that America was the Land of the Free?’

Pieter Gunter shrugged. ‘They knew they could not fool me, because I was going there. They taught me the realities of America, all the fundamentals of capitalism. But they also drummed into me all the principles of Marxism, and
proved –
yes
proved
to me – how
wrong
capitalism all was. How superior Marxism was. How capitalism was doomed to be defeated.’

‘And what did you think?’

The cardinal shook his head.

‘I remember having an open mind about economics. I
made
myself have an open mind. I could see both sides of the question.’ (Morgan didn’t believe that.) ‘I was sophisticated enough to be able to see some of the … shortcomings of communism. Men were drawing ploughs in those days, like oxen. Are you a student of economics?’

Morgan shook his head.

‘Nor am I, really. But I know enough to think that the answer – of Justice – lies somewhere between the two systems.’

‘Meaning?’

The cardinal looked at the ceiling.

‘The world’s resources are so finite. And the population is constantly increasing. A third of the world is hungry now. The day will surely come when the world’s goods will have to be rationed to all the people.’

That statement begged a question. But he let it go for the moment. ‘Apart from theology and politics, what else did they teach you? Espionage work? Like photographing documents?’

‘Yes. Cameras weren’t very sophisticated in those days.’

‘Radio work? Sending messages?’

‘Yes.’

‘Surveillance? How to follow somebody, how to shake off somebody who’s following you?’

‘Yes, all that sort of thing. Enough to get us by. After all, we were going to be priests, not James Bonds.’

‘Weaponry? Small arms? Knife work? Explosives?’

‘Yes. No explosives.’

‘Unarmed combat?’

‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘I could probably still throw you around the room, Mr Englishman. Though I’ve never had to use my pugilistic skills. Most priests don’t, you know.’

Morgan did not smile. ‘“Us”. “We”. So you knew that other people were being trained, like you?’

‘I presumed that. But I had no idea who or where they were. I asked my instructors, but they would neither confirm nor deny it. In case I defected, I suppose.’

‘And how did you feel about such people entering the Church?’

Pieter Gunter sat back. ‘I just wished I could share my joy of Christianity with them – so that I could
convert
them. I prayed for them – to see the same light I had.’ He added. ‘But I was very worried about them possibly corrupting the Church. And I have been ever since. That’s why I was so delighted tonight when you told the computer who they were.’

‘
Possibly
corrupting it! Having it taken over by atheist communists, you mean!
That
’s what you were all being sent to do!’

The cardinal held up a hand. ‘I was only sixteen. I believed the Church was invincible. God would prevail. I did not believe that us young trainees could really do much damage to such a mighty institution as the Holy Roman Church. It never occurred to me that I might one day be Secretary of State. We were but fleas.’

Morgan made a note of this inconsistency with his last answer. ‘Well, it certainly occurred to your mentors in the Kremlin.’

‘But remember that I was Russian. A Christian, yes, but I had been taught that Marxism was all good, and capitalism doomed. Human Rights was not a great issue in those days – Hitler was yet to come, the West had carved up the undeveloped world into colonies and were grinding the faces of the poor natives without much conscience. I did not know what Stalin was doing to my own people.’

‘So?’ Morgan demanded.

‘So, at sixteen I was only concerned that the Church be not
abused
– that it not be perverted, sullied by having atheists for priests – at sixteen
that
was my anxiety, the
sacrilege
of it.’

Morgan sat back. Had he caught the man out? Or had he honestly talked his way out of it? Hopefully his tape-recorder would make it clear. ‘So what did you do about it?’

The cardinal said: ‘Shall I come to that in due course? Tell my story my way?’

‘Very well,’ Morgan sighed.

Pieter Gunter sat back again. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘came the blessed day when my instructors declared I was ready to go forth into the world …’

There was no passing-out ceremony, no visit to KGB headquarters, there was only a bottle of vodka. The young spy-priest did not like vodka, but he gamely took a glass. Boris let his hair down that last night. He was proud of his protégé and convinced he was going to get to the top. ‘Your grasp of apologetics is remarkable!’

‘What’s apologetics?’ Morgan demanded.

‘Proving the existence of God by argument. Without using faith, or superstition or fear. One can prove God’s existence in exactly the same way as one can prove by logic that two and two make four, or that the world is round.’ He spread his hands: ‘God
exists,
that is provable.’

Morgan watched him. He nodded. The man went on: ‘The trouble is that ninety-nine per cent of the world knows no elementary logic. They are either suburbanites rushing around mindlessly making a buck, or they’re primitive people who think the world is flat. They don’t
think.
So, when it comes to God, they only believe because of vague superstition they learnt at their mother’s knee, and call it “faith”. If only we could get them to use a few simple rules of logic they would be better Christians.’

‘So Boris, your teacher of logic, was being
ill
ogical in not believing?’

‘Ah, yes. And that is why he was so nearly a believer. That last night, in his cups, he almost broke down and admitted it. He so badly wanted to pray. And how I prayed for him …’