Pagan's Spy Page 5

  It had been almost exactly a year since the UFO sightings over Washington, repeated over two successive weekends. Donovan waved as they entered the room. “Hello there, Father Paulson. Good to see you again. You too, my dear.”

  Edna was ready to object to his tone of condescension, but Donovan put his finger to his lips. He mouthed the words ‘not here’ and pointed at the door. She turned to Paulson, who merely shrugged his shoulders. It sounded odd hearing Paulson referred to as ‘Father’ because she’d only ever seen him in plain clothes. She didn’t think of him as a priest.

  Donovan led them through his roomy eat-in kitchen and through two glass-paneled doors and into the back garden, where a table had been set up under the shade of a large umbrella with a pitcher of iced lemonade and three glasses.

  “Please,” Donovan urged, “sit down, pour yourselves a drink.” He scanned the perimeter before taking his seat beside them. “I’m sorry to be so jumpy, but I’m quite certain my walls have ears. I doubt we’ll be overheard out here though.”

  “Overheard by who exactly?” Paulson asked him.

  “The CIA,” Donovan replied matter-of-factly. “They still have somebody listening.”

  “Still?” she repeated.

  “They took an interest in me last year, during the whole FS-1 farrago,” Donovan explained. “I’d be doing the same thing now if I were them, knowing a man with my background and extensive overseas contacts is about to become the Ambassador to Thailand.”

  “Why wouldn’t the CIA trust you?” Paulson asked.

  Donovan laughed quietly. “They don’t trust anybody — they’re completely paranoid. They see reds under the bed everywhere.”

  “Good work, Senator McCarthy,” said Edna, screwing up her face as if merely saying the name aloud left a bad smell into the air.

  “Indeed,” Donovan agreed. “But he’s not alone. There are people inside the CIA these days who make Joe McCarthy look like a liberal.”

  Edna asked after Gordon Gray. She had been rather hoping to see him here.

  “His wife died just a couple of days ago,” said Donovan.

  “Oh God,” said Edna. “That poor man.”

  Donovan smiled apologetically. “Which means you get me as a solo act.” He knew he wasn’t Edna’s favorite person.

  “To think this time last year, you were holding a gun to my head,” she said. “Why do I get the feeling it’s happening all over again?”

  Paulson chuckled sardonically. “Bill and Donald are good at that.”

  “Edna,” Donovan replied, “here’s the thing — your country needs you.” Coming from almost anyone else, it would have sounded hokey.

  “All right then, General, but let me warn you — I won’t be holding my tongue about the Catholic Church and Pius XII.”

  “You won’t offend me.”

  “Really? You’re a believer.”

  “You think you’re more intimidating than Truman or Eisenhower? Truman is a little man with a short temper,” said Donovan. “Ike is a big man with big expectations.”

  She looked quizzically at ‘Father’ Paulson, wondering where he sat these days on the Catholic spectrum.

  In answer to her raised gaze, Paulson told her there was no love lost between himself and the Roman Curia. “I’ve been all but defrocked. They tried to have me denounced as madman and a heretic. I’d be happy to end my days with an ocean in between me and the Vatican.”

  “Yet you’re coming with me.”

  Paulson offered a smile that came off as more of a grimace. “Because you need me.”

  “All right then,” she said, staring at Donovan, “first off, let me say this: I believe your Pope is an anti-Semite who colluded with the Fascists. But you’re going to tell me I need to keep my opinions to myself, right?”

  Donovan could see she was spoiling for a fight. He let the words hang in the air for a moment. Edna expected him to blow his stack, but his response was much more measured. “Pius is actually nothing of the sort. Nobody has ever outsmarted the Vatican on secrecy and subterfuge. They’ve been at it for hundreds of years. That’s why there’s been no better place to hide Paolo Favaloro. Pius hid Jews and rebels a few doors away from the Nazis in Rome during the war and the Germans never knew. You need to look past the surface. You’re entering a world where things are not what they seem to be.”

  She nodded. “Play nice. I get it.”

  “You’re not going to Rome as Edna Drake, reporter and truth-seeker. You want these men to see as little of the real you as possible. That means playing the role of a subservient woman. You are Father Paulson’s meek and mild personal secretary, appointed to the position personally by me.”

  “Why subservient?” she asked angrily.

  Donovan’s face hardened. “These are men who see women as weak and fragile. Apart from their mothers and sisters, the only females in their lives are monastic nuns who do their bidding like indentured servants. You need to be compliant — be seen and not heard.”

  She stared back at him scornfully. “This is getting better by the minute.”

  “You’re a spy,” said Donovan. “You’re playing a role. I’m just here to prepare you for it.”

  She sighed. “All right, misogyny I can deal with. But how hard is it going to be getting Favaloro out of the archives — I assume they’re guarded?”

  “Day and night,” said Donovan.

  “We know the head of the Swiss Guard,” said Paulson. “I believe he’ll help us.”

  “Am I right in saying you two both have the power to summon Paolo Favaloro’s apparition?” Edna asked them. “Why don’t we do that now and see what else he can tell us?”

  His body might be locked in the Vatican vaults, but Paolo could travel to any point on the globe at will.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Donovan.

  “Me neither,” Paulson agreed.

  “If we tell him what we’re up to,” said Donovan, “we have no way of preventing him from spilling the beans to one of his Russian harlots. I believe he’s very much in their thrall. I’m certain he’s been telling them about the saucer since they threatened to withdraw their favors if he didn’t.”

  “Which is why we need to get him out of there,” said Paulson.

  “How do these women actually get to him?” Edna asked.

  “Graft and corruption. Sleight of hand. Sparrow honey pot. All the usual tricks. We agreed to look the other way to make it easy for them — it was part of the deal I struck with Stalin.”

  “I’m starting to understand why you don’t want the CIA listening in,” said Edna. “You’re making me very nervous.”

  “Good,” said Donovan. “You need to watch your back all the time to look for anything out of place.”

  “We should be fine,” said Paulson confidently. “Like I said, I know the head of the Swiss Guard, Leopold von Altishofen. He’s a good man. He’s also ambitious. The Vatican Archive is not under his control — it’s currently under the control of the Vatican Gendarmerie. But I know for a fact Leopold thinks the Gendarmerie are undeserving of the task. I’m certain he’ll agree to help us.”

  “Really?” said Edna. “You’re saying this all hangs on persuading a ‘good man’ to turn a blind eye to a kidnapping?”

  “She’s got a point,” Donovan agreed. “And I wonder if you’re over-complicating things. Why not just pay off the men on the door?”

  Paulson shook his head. “It’s not wartime, Bill. If they refuse, we can’t just shoot them. Leopold will help because it means he gets two birds with one stone. He blames the gendarmes at the archives who, after all, are the ones breaking the rules by letting in Russian spies. Plus, he gets rid of Paolo Favaloro. The priests in the archives are terrified of Paolo, they think he’s demonic.”

  “What else can you tell us?” Edna asked Donovan. “I don’t want to be walking in there blind.”

  Donovan smiled. She was starting to think like a spy. “Trust your intuition. If somethi
ng is worrying you, don’t ignore it. But above all, trust Clarence. He knows what he’s doing.”

  ELEVEN

  Monday July 13, 1953

  Storm clouds were rolling in over Washington National Airport. It was still light outside, but much darker than normal for this time of the afternoon. The Lockheed hangar was some distance from the main terminal and was lit up inside like the Times Square Christmas tree.

  There was barely a soul to be seen on the hangar floor. This was by design; the fewer people who saw them leaving, the better. Donald Menzel’s black Packard pulled up a short distance from Skunkworks chief Garrick Stamford, who was waiting at the front stairs of his beloved Super Constellation, its silver hull gleaming under the spotlights.

  Menzel shook Stamford’s hand and introduced him to Edna Drake and Clarence Paulson. He shook Paulson’s hand and stared at Edna with a look that immediately creeped her out. He waved his hand at the uniformed air steward standing nearby, ordering him to ferry their bags onto the plane. The man leapt to the task like his future depended on it.

  “The flight will take about 16 hours, but you won’t need to refuel,” said Stamford.

  Edna held up her passport. “Does anybody else need to see this?” she asked him.

  “Not until you land in Rome,” Stamford said. “My man on the ground there will look after you. He knows our third passenger won’t have his papers. I await your return with great enthusiasm. In the meantime, sit back and relax.”

  The propellers started to spin. The pilot was wasting no time.

  “This weather won’t be a problem, will it?” Paulson asked.

  “Not at all,” said Stamford. “You will literally rise above it. The cabin’s pressurized, which means you can fly higher and faster, above the storm.”

  “Well then,” said Menzel. “I suppose it’s bon voyage.”

  “Isn’t that for ships?” said Paulson, giving a dismissive wave goodbye as he began climbing the stairs.

  “Good luck, Miss Drake,” said Stamford. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how valuable Favaloro will be to our work.”

  “Hopefully luck won’t come into it,” she said, offering him a confident smile. “Thanks for the classy ride.”

  Stamford followed her up the stairs and shut the hatch once she was safely inside the cabin. They were the only passengers and had their choice of seating — there was the cocktail lounge up front or their choice of a dozen leather recliners that lined the windows on either side of the cabin further to the rear.

  Yes, this would do nicely.

  She figured she might as well start in the lounge. She hadn’t been in plane since the war. This one beat the hell out of an Army DC-3. Returning from stowing their luggage in the rear, their steward welcomed them aboard. “My name is Richard. I’ll be taking care of you on the flight to Rome. Would you like to start with a cocktail?”

  “Why yes,” Edna told him with a glint in her eye, “I believe I would.”

  Paulson opted for water.

  Out over the Atlantic and well into her third Tom Collins, she was staring down at the water when she realized Paulson, sitting on the lounge chair opposite, had barely said a word since take-off. “Everything all right, Father? I see you’re still out of uniform.”

  “I’ll change when we land,” he said quietly.

  She continued to stare. He was quite handsome really, though he did his best to hide it. With a decent haircut and a good suit, he could come off as dashing. She was starting to make herself uncomfortable. Good looks were something she’d never associated with priests. As a child, the only men of religion in her corner of the world had been bitter old curmudgeons spouting hellfire and brimstone. Her mother was a devout Catholic who attended church every Sunday, though her father didn’t have a religious bone in his body. They’d been happy together nonetheless, a classic case of opposites attracting. But Edna had followed in her father’s footsteps on questions of religious faith.

  “How old are you, Clarence?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Why aren’t you drinking? Not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “I’m 43,” he told her.

  “Christ — really?”

  He stared back at her disparagingly.

  “Oh, sorry. But then again, is that really taking the Lord’s name in vain? Using it as an exclamation? I’d argue that’s neither positive nor negative. Besides, what I meant was you don’t look that old.”

  “Clean living.”

  She laughed. “Now I know you’re lying.”

  Something that might have been a smile lifted the corner of his lips. He stared at her intently for a moment before slowly shifting focus to stare at the clouds out the window beside her. Like he was seeing her for the first time and trying not to pay attention. “Tell me more about this alien friend of yours. I hear he’s quite tall.”

  “About 11 feet at full stretch.”

  “Christ. I mean... goodness, that is tall. So how does that work with the ladies? Is everything, you know, in proportion? He’d be splitting those poor Russian girls in half, wouldn’t he?”

  She was deliberately trying to embarrass him, but he didn’t take the bait. “Fornication is not my strong point.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “But there’s more than one way to...”

  “Skin a cat?”

  “Something like that. And I’m not drinking because I hate flying and I want to be at full alert when we land.”

  “What’s not to like? This is a flying palace. Heck, Richard says they’re serving us lobster for dinner. I could get used to this.”

  “I hope it doesn’t give Paolo ideas. He used to a be a king, you know. Long time ago. Wives, concubines, the whole nine yards.”

  She leant forward. She caught a whiff of his Old Spice aftershave and thought it suited him. “He looks like us then? I mean, he’s not alien-looking?” she whispered.

  “Well, he’s the tallest person you’ll ever meet in your life,” he replied. “He’s half human.”

  “Which half?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Sure, I do. You mean he’s hung like a donkey.”

  Paulson blushed. “You have a mouth like an open sewer, you know that?”

  She smiled demurely. “Where are the rest of the Ryl now?”

  “We’re not sure, he admitted. “We believe they’re somewhere close, though that might not be anywhere on Earth. Could be Mars.”

  Edna shook her head in amazement. In the space of a few short months, she had discovered a world within a world. She still marveled at how successfully a veil of secrecy masked the truth from the public. A veil that was not to be easily pulled aside. People liked seeing their world a certain way and didn’t like it when their views were challenged.

  “Anything more you can tell me about how the Russians are getting in past the gendarmes?”

  “Money. Favors. To be a gendarme you need to be in your early 20s and unmarried. I imagine an attractive woman could lead them around like obedient puppy dogs.”

  Richard pushed a silver service tray toward them, declaring “dinner is served”.

  As he placed a plate of the most delicious seafood in front of her, she asked, “What about you, Richard? What are your views on aliens and flying saucers and the like?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss Drake.”

  “Nothing to see here, eh? I guess Stamford trained you well. I understand. Now tell me, is there any chance you have French champagne on board?”

  “Moet or Bollinger?”

  “She’ll have neither. Cold water will do fine.”

  Edna frowned. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll save the champagne for the flight home.”

  TWELVE

  Tuesday July 15, 1953

  They landed in Rome shortly after three in the afternoon. Stamford’s man on the ground ushered them quickly through immigration formalities and had them in a
cab within 15 minutes.

  It was a hot, sunny day and the wind through the rear window was baking. Paulson had changed into his cassock shortly before they landed, knowing it would facilitate their journey through the city. She could see the sweat on his brow and suspected it had as much to do with the job ahead as the warm weather.

  Everything smelled and sounded different. The car horns, the taxi driver’s cigarette, the odd aromas wafting out of the cafes and restaurants they passed along the way. She had been to Rome during the war and felt a certain distant familiarity with the place. It was incredibly exciting to be back. She wished they could stay longer.

  The driver chattered away to Paulson in Italian. When the priest responded, his tone was somehow different. Not just because he was speaking in another language, but because he had assumed the persona of a cleric. Wise, graceful, distant. She wondered whether it was an act or if he was reverting to kind.

  The driver delivered them just outside St Peter’s Square on Via di Porta Angelica near the entrance of the Swiss Guard Barracks. The street was thick with pedestrians. It was, after all, peak tourist season.

  The office of the Commander of the Pontifical Swiss Guard on the first floor was a wood-paneled office that smelled like a church and felt like a courtroom. Edna happy to keep her mouth shut while Clarence Paulson did the talking. She felt she had nothing of value to add to the conversation. In fact, she found herself struggling to stay awake.

  Leopold von Altishofen listened intently as Paulson outlined the situation. In so doing, she was impressed by how closely Paulson stuck to the truth. He merely avoided certain facts that risked painting the story in a different light. He was supported by a letter from General Donovan, which stretched the truth to breaking point by implying Paulson had been sent to Rome on behalf of President Eisenhower. Donovan was held in high esteem in Rome and his word carried weight. He described Paulson’s mission as a delicate matter of the utmost importance, but best handled outside of official channels. Under no circumstances, he insisted, must Paolo Favaloro be permitted to provide technical assistance to the Russians.