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
