Day of Judgment. Jack Higgins
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walked across to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a Scotch and went out on the terrace. It was really very pretty, the lights of the city down there, but for some reason all he could think of was Margaret Campbell, trapped at Neustadt with her injured leg and probably frightened to death.
‘Poor stupid little bitch,’ he said softly. ‘You shouldn’t have joined, should you?’
It was perhaps fifteen minutes later that
Teusen and Konrad came out on the terrace.
‘Not so good,’ the Colonel said.
‘Can you do anything?’
‘For Conlin?’ Teusen shrugged, ‘I don’t hold out much hope. I’ll get in touch with the Federal Intelligence Service in Munich, but I don’t see what they can do, other than inform interested parties.’
‘And who might they be?’
‘The Vatican, for one. He is a priest, after all. Where was he born – Ireland?’
‘Yes, but he’s an American citizen.’
‘They might be interested then, but I wouldn’t count on it. And we haven’t any proof that Conlin’s over there. If anyone approaches the East German Government officially, they’ll simply deny any knowledge of him. In any case, from the sound of it, getting him out of Schloss Neustadt would take a company of paratroopers dropping in at dawn, and Skorzenys are thin on the ground these days.’
Brother Konrad said, ‘And the girl?’
‘We might be able to do something for her.’ Teusen turned to Vaughan. ‘Would you be willing to help there?’
For a moment Vaughan saw again her pale face, the dark weary eyes in the early morning light on the bridge over the Spree. He smiled. ‘Julius won’t like it.’
‘I know. Something for nothing again.’ Teusen glanced at Konrad. ‘When do you have to be back?’
‘My permit allows me a seven-day stay in East Berlin.’
‘And where are you staying now?’
Konrad turned uncertainly to Vaughan, who said, ‘At our place in Rehdenstrasse. You might have to sleep in a coffin, but it’s home.’
Teusen said, ‘I’ll be in touch. Possibly tomorrow – certainly by the day after. We should have the responses of all the interested parties by then.’
He closed the door behind them and poured himself a cognac. Then he went to the telephone, dialled a Munich number and asked to speak to General Reinhardt Gehlen, Director of BND, the Federal Intelligence Service. Strange that he no longer felt tired.
4
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