A Woman Involved (31 page)

So?

But, again, what was this doing in Max Hapsburg’s box?

He feverishly picked up the first strip of film negatives, and held it up to the light again.

People. Groups standing, looking at the camera. Male and female, but he could not identify faces. A tractor in this one. This one looked like a picnic, a bottle of something being flourished. More party scenes … He snatched up the second strip. And frowned.

These were more indistinct. Taken indoors. A window – a bedroom. Two people lying on the bed? Embracing? In this one, they were sitting up. One person was definitely female. Breasts. She appeared to be naked. Clothes on the floor? He glanced at the other frames hurriedly. All he could make out was bodies. Pornographic pictures? Blackmail? … 

There was a knock on the door. ‘Your tape-recorder has arrived, sir.’

Morgan scrambled up and unlocked the door. ‘Thank you!’

He relocked the door. Sat down and examined the machine.

He inserted the Klaus Barbie cassette. He put a blank tape into the other side. The earpiece in his ear. He took a piece of paper from the rack. He switched the recorder on, and listened intently.

There was a hissing noise: then a guttural voice began, in French:

‘My name is Klaus Barbie.

‘I was an officer in the SS during the Third Reich. At the end of the war I returned to Germany openly and despite spurious
allegations that I was wanted by the French and American governments as a so-called war criminal, I was employed by the CIC, a department of the American occupying army which hunted down communist spies in post-war Germany. In 1951, this employment ended, and the Americans arranged and paid for the passage of myself and my family to South America, providing me with all travel documents. This surely proves that the allegations that I am a war criminal are groundless.

‘During my employment by the American army authorities in Germany, I came into possession of certain evidence which is most important to the Western world. It was a file compiled by the KGB, as it is now called, and it was stolen from them during the Second World War by a German spy within the KGB, and brought to Berlin. I took this file with me to South America and subsequently had a microfilm made of it, because it was so bulky, and destroyed the file itself. When the film is developed it will reproduce, in actual size, photographs of all the original KGB documents. How I came into possession of this file is not important, as the film proves its own authenticity.

‘I am now about to summarize, on this tape-recorder, the evidence contained in that film, because it’s too lengthy for me to write.’

Morgan was exultant. He was right! … He heard the rustle of notes. Then the voice continued:

‘The story begins in the year 1931, in Moscow, under Joseph Stalin …’

It was the depths of winter in Russia. The wind had encased the trees with ice, so it looked as though they were made of glass. Deep in the white forest outside Moscow was a
dacha
, a holiday house. Smoke curled out of the chimney and lights twinkled in the windows. It looked cosy. But it was surrounded by a high security fence, and inside it was little more than a classroom.

One wall was a blackboard, at which stood the teacher. He
was dressed as a Jesuit priest. There was only one pupil, a youth of sixteen. He was being intensively tutored in the advanced tenets of Catholicism. He was being taught in the English language, and his accent was American. He answered to the name of Pieter Gunter.

The lesson ends, and another instructor enters, also in Jesuit robes. He tutors Pieter in advanced Marxist theory. When that lesson ends, other priests take over. They are all experts in their subjects: Latin, modern European languages, the science of espionage. They work long hours with the boy. Each tutor leaves the house dressed as a civilian, and drives to another isolated house.

There are half a dozen such houses in the countryside around Moscow. In each there is only one student. None of these students knows of the others. Each is characterized by his very high intelligence, they are being tutored in the same subjects, but each in a different European language. They are fluent and their accents perfect.

They are all doing exceptionally well in their studies. They are almost ready to be sent out into the Western world, to join Catholic seminaries.

Klaus Barbie paused. He forgot to switch the machine off. He muttered to himself, then shuffled some papers. Morgan waited, pent, staggered by the enormity of the idea. Barbie gave a cough, then continued:

‘It had been, and was to continue to be, a long process, and it would be decades before the Kremlin’s investment began to pay dividend. But it was worth it … For the Roman Catholic Church is the biggest, richest, most powerful and influential institution in the world, with more adherents than the entire population of Europe and America combined: and one day the Kremlin may have the prize of archbishops and cardinals as their agents, and, one day, the Vatican itself in their pocket. One day one of their protégés may be Pope . . ’

Barbie paused, then added: ‘I repeat, not one of the students knew of the existence of the others.’

Morgan snapped the machine off. And held his head.

What was he going to do about this? … 

He could not think straight. But thank God he had taken
this out of Anna’s hands! But what was he going to do with it? If this was true, if the Pope was a communist agent, he had to be got rid of! And the rest of his kind in the Church. But by whom? By Jack Morgan? How? By shooting him in Saint Peter’s Square again? … 

Morgan held his fingertips to his eyelids.

God’s Banker hanging from Blackfriars Bridge in London.

Murdered because he knew about the Barbie microfilm?

Oh, this was too big for Jack Morgan. This needed the might of Great Britain to handle. The expertise, the manpower.

‘
I’d rather die like God’s Banker
.’

Yes, and if he handed this over to the British he would lose Anna Hapsburg forever. She would never trust him again. He would have cheated her, broken solemn oaths. Destroyed her love, destroyed himself over something she would rather die for than divulge. Yes, and that’s what would happen to her, if he didn’t – she would die like God’s Banker too. And that’s what would happen to him, also … 

He dragged his hands through his hair.

And who were ‘They’?

Who killed God’s Banker?

How could he trust the British after they had tried to kidnap Anna Hapsburg?

He pressed his fingertips hard to his eyelids and tried to put fear out of his mind and concentrate.

Klaus Barbie’s gravelly voice continued:

‘I proceed now to list the assumed names of the youths who were infiltrated into the Catholic Church over the years. Thereafter I will list the coded passwords assigned to each.’

Morgan waited impatiently. There was a rustle of papers, then Barbie read out:

‘1931. Antonio Perrelli, joined the seminary in Rome.

‘Juan Santiago, joined in Madrid.

‘Clive James Watson, joined the seminary in London.

‘PieterGunter, joined the seminary in Portland, Oregon …’

Morgan listened, eyes closed. The voice rasped on. And on. The names meant nothing to Morgan.

‘The class of 1934:

‘Angelo José Hevilla, to Barcelona; Roger Benjamin Whitfield to Plymouth …’

He could hardly bear to listen. He pressed the forward button and advanced the tape. He hit the play button again.

‘Michael Otto Oetz, to Switzerland …’

He hit the advance button again, then pressed play again. Barbie said:

‘…  because the Allied forces were advancing on Germany and our agent within the KGB was unable to continue his work. But what we know for a fact is that between 1931 and 1945 a total of eighteen young Russian agents were planted in the Catholic Church.’

Barbie paused, but left the tape running. Morgan waited, numbed.
Eighteen.
Desperately trying to think what to do, trying not to think about what was going to happen outside this bank … Barbie began again, but in a new tone now, that of a man delivering a prepared speech:

‘And now we come to 1945 …’ He paused dramatically. ‘The year of crossroad for all mankind … The year the decadence of the West began … The beginning of the end for world justice and decency … The year the West made a fatal error that will ultimately lead to its downfall and repression under the communist yoke and whip.’ He paused. ‘I am not referring here to the defeat of Germany but to what the
Allies failed
to defeat, and in so doing abysmally failed the whole of mankind …’ He paused again; then continued bitterly: ‘The Allies, to defeat Germany, had aligned themselves with Russia, with the greatest forces of evil the world had ever seen, and, knowing this, failed to annihilate their evil partner when there was no more use for him – to scotch the snake, to kill the evil python in its nest! History will forever condemn the Allies for this terrible weakness, this sheer
criminal
dereliction of duty to mankind. For, as the Allies advanced on war-ravaged Germany from the south, the Russian army was racing down from the north, spreading east and west as hard as it could in order to seize forever as much of Europe as it could to expand her evil empire. Russia’s intentions were well known and it was known to German Intelligence that there was urgent debate in the highest corridors of Allied power about whether, after Germany had fallen, the Allies should not turn their cannon on the
Russians and drive them back whence they came, even march on to Moscow and liberate the whole vast Soviet empire from the communist yoke.’ He paused dramatically. ‘But no, they did not! … They were war weary and gutless, and’ – a sneer came into his voice – ‘
it would have been electorally unpopular . .
.’ He snorted bitterly. ‘So, the deafening sounds of war subside, and Russia stands head and shoulders the greatest winner! She has wrested from Europe,
forever
, Poland, East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and the other “eastern bloc” countries.
Even Berlin is divided
…’ He snorted again. ‘For the Russians do
not
have to face an electorate back home – by definition, there is no democratic nonsense in Russia! They immediately imposed puppet communist regimes and their rod of iron … They made a giant leap forward in their overall strategy of global domination. And the West took their first big step backwards, into decline, moral decadence, and eventual servitude …’

Barbie paused again: then cried: ‘
And they knew it … How gutless can a generation be, to sign the death warrants of future generations, for the sake of a little temporary peace and quiet? …’

He took a deep breath for dramatic effect. Then went on scornfully:

‘And they soon began further steps backward, opening further corridors for Russian advance – they began to dismantle their colonial empires with
cowardly
haste. Laudable though it may be to create democracy where people are ready for it, it cannot be denied that the West recklessly
abandoned
their responsibilities, towards their colonialists, towards the native peoples they governed,
and towards the world
… by hastily handing huge tracts of the earth over to primitive people, to hastily elected, immature, local self-seekers, thereby creating tribal fighting and oppression, warlordism, corruption, mismanagement and abysmal poverty and starvation, ripe for Russian subversion and takeover. In short, the Russians did not need to resort to arms any more to achieve their goal of ruling the world, because the West was handing it to them on a plate …

‘What a
feast
, for Russia, the next forty years were to prove …’

Barbie paused. Morgan waited, his nerves stretched. Barbie shuffled papers. When he continued it was in his storyteller’s voice again:

‘And so we come to the year 1978, and our scene moves to Rome … The old Pope, Paul VI, is dead. The cardinals are arriving from all over the world, to elect a new pope. And one of them, of course, is Pieter Gunter, the brilliant cardinal from America who is now the Papal Secretary of State …’

Morgan slammed off the machine.

He recognized the name now.
Cardinal Pieter Gunter!
‘The Henry Kissinger of the Vatican.’ The man on the cover of
Time. The Man Behind the Throne
, they called him
…  Oh God no … 

Morgan sat there sick in his guts. Trying to think. Then he slammed the machine on again.

‘…  who in many countries is a household name. Academically he is renowned for his erudite books on Christianity, comparative religion, morality, ethics and his stance on nuclear disarmament. Long before he became Papal Secretary of State he was a voice to be reckoned with by the powers that be, a man who could arouse a huge groundswell of public opinion: as Vatican Secretary of State he walks the corridors of international power, a clever advocate of moderation, of peace in a world of superpower confrontation. As a priest he is a remarkably charismatic holy man, as an intellect he is a giant, as a politician he is consummate, as a man he is loved by all who know him, for his warmth, his wit, his charm. When the cardinals gathered in Rome in 1978 to elect a successor to Paul VI, he was widely tipped by the press to be the next Pope …’ Barbie paused. ‘And he
is
, of course, one of the Russian agents who was infiltrated into the Roman Catholic Church as a youth.

‘But Cardinal Pieter Gunter was
not
elected Pope in 1978. To the world’s surprise, Cardinal Albino
Luciani
was elected, and became Pope John Paul I. And what happened to Pope John Paul I?’ Barbie snorted. ‘He
died
after only thirty-three days …’

Barbie paused, then laughed shortly. He said rhetorically: ‘He
died
? … Yet he was in perfect health! … He “
died
”? … And yet the Vatican permitted no autopsy to be performed!
…  He “
died
”, they say? … I say to you,
Pope John Paul I was murdered … 
’

Morgan held his head, sick in his guts. Barbie continued theatrically: