The Pope's Men

By Peter Tarjanyi and Rita Dosek

Serious secrets hide within the walls of the Church: priests no longer loyal to the cloth, lobby groups vying for position, underworld connections. The Pope’s Men paints a very real portrait of Pope John Paul II’s secret war with the KGB. With tales of conspiracy, recruitment and crimes dating back through the years, the mysterious p

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Sep 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643678054

Peter Tarjanyi

Péter Tarjányi was born in Budapest, 1969. He started his career in the Police Regiment, which he left for the Special Service of the Police Force in 1991, where he worked in various posts as commander, before heading up the Operations Section and then the Special Section. After his retirement from active service, with a wealth of professional expertise and long experience, he worked for the FBI Academy - National Training Centre on the preparation of several military and police deployments in theaters of war. Since 1999 he has worked in the private sector as executive and owner of IT, financial and real estate consultancy businesses.

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The Pope’s Men

Copyright © 2019 by Péter Tarjányi & Rita Dosek. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

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Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-64367-806-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64367-805-4 (Digital)

25.06.19

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: 1940

Chapter Two: 2005

Chapter Three: 1940

Chapter Four: 2005

Chapter Five: 1945

Chapter Six: 2005

Chapter Seven: 1979

Chapter Eight: 2005

Chapter Nine: 1981

Chapter Ten: 2005

Chapter Eleven: 1940

Chapter Twelve: 2005

Chapter Thirteen: 2005

Prologue

The town of Leányfalu, Hungary

September 2, 2005

Tom was in mid-air, having just pushed himself off the ground to seek shelter before the impact. He was split seconds from disaster, yet in the mind’s eye everything around him seemed to slow to a crawl. His brain went into overdrive, recording everything in sharp detail. He could feel the muscles of his thigh stiffen as he leaped into the air, hurling himself to safety as quickly as he could. He was aware of the rough texture of Fritz’s jacket in the palm of his hand. He had just enough time to grab him by the shoulder and pull him along to safety. But the explosion came much faster than he had anticipated. The ear-splitting blast came simultaneously with the sweeping energy that hurled him into the air. A gigantic wave seemed to sweep him along with it, and he lost mastery over his movements. The pressure squeezed the air from his lungs as a feeble moan came from him with the remnants of his last breath stuck between his ribs. He saw the statue in the niche being blown to smithereens and fill the air with flying debris.

The debris hung around him like a cloud as he was hurled through the air. In spite of the stifling sensation of pressure and dust, he felt that he was floating in outer space. If only this were a dream, he thought. But it wasn’t a dream, and though he shielded his face with his hand, he was helpless against the devastating force destroying everything in its wake. The next instant he heard his head crash against the concrete and felt a searing pain zigzag across his forehead. And then he felt nothing more.

Chapter One

1940

Death is the solution to all problems.

No man – no problem.

Joseph Stalin

Temporary NKVD¹ headquarters, Soviet Union

March 13, 1940

The sound of the pencil plowing across the page veritably echoed through the vast hall as the stenographer diligently scrawled down what she had just heard. The members of the general staff seated across the conference table dared hardly breathe while their chief was lost in thought. The stenographer’s gaze did not leave the white sheet in front of her, as though she were hoping that she could remain invisible as long as she did not look up. Not that anyone gave her a second thought; she was sitting on a wooden chair by the wall at some distance from the table, her back forced into a straight line, her thighs tightly clasped together as if she were standing at attention. She didn’t dare look up, she didn’t dare move. Even so, she felt as if she were the only one disturbing the profound silence. She was desperately trying to wish away the agonizing fifteen minutes that remained of her shift before she would be relieved and could return to her station to type up the proceedings and be free of this oppressive atmosphere.

Judging by its size, the conference room was large enough to house a village parade. The long conference table covered only about a third of the floor, but it could still seat around fifty. The walls were draped in bright red swatches of canvas, and the drab, faded wallpaper behind the diagonally arranged red flags was sooty from the dust that had settled there through the years. The omnipresent symbols of the USSR graced what was left of the walls: the red star, the hammer and sickle, the latter painted gold despite the fact that they were supposed to stand as symbols of the working class.

The whole back wall was covered by a huge portrait of Stalin. The light that was aimed at the center gave the painting an air of awe, while the interplay of light and shade made one feel that the great man himself was hovering over the proceedings. He was everywhere – on the walls, in the air, but first and foremost, he was there in people’s thoughts. His rule was total and stretched from his immediate circle through thousands of kilometers without losing any of its fearful authority, for the executioners of his will were held in as much reverence as the head of the Soviet Union himself.

Accordingly, a tense aura of humility and fear hung over the room. Only Chief of State Security Beria felt at ease in this stifling atmosphere. Situated atop a platform, his oversized desk stood flush against the far end of the conference table – a further sign of his superiority.

The thirteen officials sitting around the table in their buttoned-up uniforms were waiting for his orders in watchful discipline. No one stirred, but even so they could hardly hear what their chief was saying because in keeping with custom, he began in a near undertone. The issue at hand was the fate of the prisoners of war captured in Poland. Beria, who at first drummed his fingers absent-mindedly on his desk, now stood up, and having removed his glasses while he paused between two sentences, started wiping them. He briefly paced up and down, then sat down again and turned to the stenographer.

Read it back! How many POWs have we got altogether?

Unaccustomed to being addressed directly, the stenographer looked up at the head of the NKVD with terror in her eyes. Beria had in the meantime put back his frameless glasses, which lent further emphasis to his deep-set, black eyes. The bushy eyebrows that offset his bald head lent an air of implacable cruelty to his countenance. Compounded by the presence of the general staff, his murderous glance further aggravated the stenographer’s unease. She was so disconcerted, she jumbled up the sheets in front of her, and was now groping around for the figures with trembling fingers. She hoped she’d find them quickly, because on no account did she wish to incite the wrath of the NKVD’s top dogs. Luckily, she soon found what she was looking for, cleared her throat, and her voice raspy with fear, she began reading from the notes:

We hold fourteen thousand seven hundred Polish soldiers captive in Western Belarus and the Western Ukraine. There are a further one thousand two hundred Polish officers in our jails along with nearly seventeen thousand Russian political prisoners.

She looked up, even straightening her posture a bit to increase the semblance of professional discipline.

Pass the documents around, ordered the head of the secret police, then stood up once again as the heavy gold stars decorating the front of his uniform jangled in the strained silence. The urgency in the chief’s voice nearly petrified the stenographer, but she soon managed to draw the documents from the folders she had brought with her and headed towards the chiefs of staff to hand them out. In her attempt to remain inconspicuous she was nearly walking on tiptoes, but the heavy silence of the room amplified her tentative footfall all the same, along with the shuffling sound of the papers in her hand. She was terrified of making the slightest mistake, which could cost her life. She had hardly gone around the table with the documents when the door opened and the stenographer and typist who’d come to relieve her entered the room to take her place on the chair by the wall. The stenographer felt a sense of relief. She cast a last timid sideways glance at the Chief to see if he was likely to ask anything else of her, but Beria ignored her. She slipped out of the room unobserved, gingerly closing the door behind her.

*     *     *

As he watched the pathetic antics of the terrified stenographer, Vasilyevich Semyonov, who was sitting facing the door, was secretly enjoying himself. She must be thanking her lucky stars for having gotten off so lightly, he reflected with disdain before he turned to scan the documents lying in front of him. They contained an inventory of the Polish POWs along with a list of confiscated German military equipment. Fyodor loathed people who quivered with fear. He held them in contempt even though at times, like now, he had to put up a show of fear himself if he wanted to be safely out of harm’s way. As he looked through documents in front of him, he took a quick mental assessment of the officers sitting around the table. He was the youngest of the lot and, as a major, also of junior rank among them. The fact that he was present as their peer surely rankled the generals and colonels on the committee. However, Beria had requested that he be present at the meeting. Semyonov was well aware that this could turn out to be his death sentence, but he had no choice. He had to obey his orders.

Leaning on his desk, Beria studied the portrait of Stalin for effect. Then his eyes wandered back to his men, who were diligently going over the reports that had been handed them. He paused briefly as he studied his chiefs of staff, then circled his desk, came up to the table, and leaned his hands against the back of a chair.

There are too many of them, he said after a while. He sounded worried. The thirteen men sitting around the table abruptly stopped their fidgeting and looked up at him. They were all members of the NKVD, regional leaders, deputies, and military commanders.

Beria removed his glasses, and with two fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit he had whenever something weighed on his mind.

Too many intelligentsia, he added.

They pose a danger to us, agreed the rather corpulent regional head who hailed from Smolensk, and who now drew his chair closer to the table as he spoke.

These soldiers are Polish army reserve, snorted the police commissioner from Harkov, jabbing a finger at the list in front of him. Teachers, bankers, historians. A ‘sleeper’ alternative general staff!

Once they walk free, they’re bound to mastermind a counter offensive, the NKVD general from Harkov agreed.

The last thing we need is a Polish counter-offensive, nodded the commander from Smolensk. Not now. Not later.

Nor do we need a strong Poland either, cut in Beria as he straightened up and folded his arms over his chest.

The men sitting around the vast conference table now raised their heads in unison and looked up at him. I think we can safely say that these prisoners are enemies of the Soviet state, he announced, looking around at his men. They must be eliminated.

A murmur of approval filled the room.

A detailed plan must be drawn up, though, if we’re to liquidate them. There’s a great many of them, offered one of the commanders. Fifteen thousand men can’t be done away with in a single stroke. And there’s also a chance of rebellion amongst their ranks.

Beria nodded. Any suggestions? he asked, then turned to the clerk. You! Enter all suggestions on the record! he instructed his underling busily scribbling in a corner of the room.

The effect was instantaneous. Suggestions and counter-suggestions came from all directions. The decision had been made, there was no doubt about that. All they had to do now was to agree on the most efficacious manner of liquidating fourteen thousand souls.

Fyodor, commander of the secret NKVD unit responsible for Church affairs, did not take part in the brainstorming session. He preferred to watch from the sidelines, as it were, seated on the right flank of the conference table at a safe distance from the Chief, between the commanders from Harkov and Kalinin, who had joined the heated debate about the liquidations. He took great pains that his countenance should not betray his thoughts, for he had learned early on that the best policy was to take no sides. He was just twenty-one when he was promoted to major for services rendered to the motherland, but he knew perfectly well that it all could have just as easily turned out otherwise. It was easy as pie: follow orders blindly and ask no questions. It was a sure way of getting ahead, and getting ahead fast within the ranks of the NKVD. He evicted people, forced priests from their flock, set fire to churches, and distributed whatever little remained of the ecclesiastical assets. And, needless to say, he fought the enemy – the enemy of the moment designated as such by top-level Communist Party officials. At times he had to liquidate his own colleagues within the NKVD, at times the citizens of the motherland. He was fully aware that sooner or later he’d be singled out himself; and this is why he never spoke with anyone and never gave his opinion at consultations such as this committee meeting.

He couldn’t have cared less about the preposterous ideas he was hearing from the others. He wanted to concentrate only on what he’d have to do. It amused him to see the generals become more and more worked up in the course of the debate. He noted who was thrilled by the idea of slaughter, and who appalled. Almost instantaneously he could seize up the strengths and weaknesses of each of the men around the table and decide on how each could best be compromised, who were puppets in the hands of the authorities, and who carried out their henchman’s orders with a mixture of horror and dread.

The musty smell of the room was now grown heavy with the odor of men sweating inside their heavy uniforms. The heady medley of gestures, glances, voices and sounds lent the room a strange atmosphere as Fyodor continued to follow events from a remove, firmly on the outside looking in.

Let’s divide the lot into manageable sized units, like truckloads, for instance, someone sitting at the table opposite from Fyodor suggested.

As little as three hundred men can start a revolt, and we can’t very well risk them turning on us, protested the commander from Kalinin sitting at Fyodor’s elbow. The pungent smell of vodka issuing from the folds of his uniform assailed Fyodor’s nostrils.

We need some sort of diversion… a physical examination or a transfer, let’s say. Then we lock them in a soundproofed basement, so they won’t catch on to what’s happening to their mates… We must allay their suspicion at all cost.

We could tie the strong ones up, offered an elderly man from the other side of the table. With their hands behind their back, there’s not much they can do. Then a bullet in the back of the head, and it’s done.

We can’t take chances in such a large-scale operation! We should stab the victims through the heart, just to make sure, someone else offered.

We could use German guns. They’re more reliable.

And bury them on state vacationing grounds. No one will look for them there!

Fyodor continued to go unnoticed in the midst of the vehemently gesticulating officers, but had anyone bothered to pay attention to him, he’d have seen the same tall, well groomed, blond, round faced youth with the freckles and expressionless face that he always showed to the world.

At last a proposal was formulated that each man signed, but when it was Fyodor’s turn to add his name to the document placed in front of him, he made sure that his signature should be perfunctory and illegible. Should history turn the participants into heroes, he could say that he was among their ranks, but should it condemn them, he’d be pretty much in the clear. Satisfied, the commanders around him eagerly shook hands and exchanged smiles of relief. The plan was ready at last for execution.

Fyodor was hoping that once the meeting was over, he could sneak out of the room unobserved, but as he headed for the door, Beria called to him to stay, stopping him in his tracks.

The major slowly turned, got out of the way of the others by the door, and nodded in acknowledgement of Beria’s order. He thought he could detect a smile of pity on the faces of the commanders trooping past him. He knew perfectly well that not one of them would like to be in his shoes right now. In the Soviet Union, special assignments usually ended in death, and it was rare indeed for someone to be promoted instead of shot. In this game there was no room for error, except no one could say what constituted error. An ill-advised word or inadvertent grimace of the lips could easily warrant a bullet in the back of the head.

The young officer waited until everyone had left the room before slowly walking up to the platform. Beria didn’t look up from the file lying in front of him. He was intent on gingerly pushing the pages aside with his pen. He had an aversion for touching anything that had been touched by someone else before him, which may have explained his fondness for young ballerinas. They were as innocent and immaculate as blank sheets of paper.

Fyodor fixed his eye on the wall behind Beria’s desk that bore a red star and was hidden by curtains. Try as he might, he could not see through the heavy tassels. Another room, a couple of armed guards or even a blank wall – anything could be behind those curtains, he thought. Either way, he was sure that the old curtains were concealing grave secrets.

I have a special assignment for you, Beria began.

The major bit his lip in order to hide his loathing behind a semblance of fear. He loathed everyone who stood a rung above him. He constitutionally hated his superiors.

I have studied your files and couldn’t help but notice the curious fact that you are a Catholic, Beria said raising an eyebrow and studying the young officer’s face. It says here that you were brought up by priests in Lithuania.

Fyodor clenched his hands into a fist, but his expression remained inscrutable.

That is so, he confirmed. I lost my parents when I was a child and priests took me in. I was brought up in a monastery until I was eight, when the building was burned to the ground. I then became the ward of the state, and from there the army was the natural choice, he said, providing a brief summary of his life to date, giving away no more than he assumed Beria already knew. He did not mention how he’d been repeatedly humiliated in the monastery, or how he had to fight for his food in the orphanage where verbal conflicts quickly turned in bloody fights. He also neglected to mention how he had set fire to the hated houses that had provided him with a home once he was in a position to do so.

As you’ve just heard, Beria continued, we have found a way to deal with the POWs. But the fate of the camp chaplains is still unresolved.

Fyodor’s eyebrow edged up a fraction of an inch. That the Soviet regime should hesitate on any issue whatever was new to him.

As you know, the Vatican is sending a papal nuncio to seek special treatment for the soldiers of the Church. They insist that their holy men should come to no harm.

Holy men, Fyodor breathed, bowing his head in an attempt to hide the sneering cough that had involuntarily escaped him. He fixed his eyes on the toes of his shoes, waiting for his facial muscles to relax once again. He noticed how carefully the old parquet floor was buffed to a shine. To make it easier to wipe up the blood, no doubt, he reflected bitterly.

Beria was known for his temper; he’d have anyone shot without a second thought anywhere, even here in this oversize office. Once Fyodor had collected his thoughts, he raised his head and focused his eye on a spot behind Beria’s back. It would have been ill advised to look the Chief straight in the eye, he’d have taken it as a challenge.

The Germans are a god-fearing people and they’re relying on support from the Vatican. Which is why they’re providing the Vatican’s Nuncio with diplomatic and military escort, an officer of the Abwehr.²

Beria paused, then slowly raised a fist in front of him, stretching out two fingers to add emphasis to what he was about to say.

By my count, that’s one top ranking representative each from two world powers.

Fyodor was beginning to see what Beria’s sudden eagerness to play along was all about. Here was the NKVD’s big chance to recruit two influential men in a single swoop – one from right next to the Pope, the other snatched from German intelligence.

There is no room for mistakes in this operation, the Chief announced as he leaned across his desk and looked intently at his subordinate. I am appointing you, as NKVD commander for Church affairs, to make the necessary arrangements. Give them free passage through the Molotov-Ribbentrop checkpoints, receive the delegation personally, lead them into the lion’s den, and turn them around!

When he finished, Beria brought his fist down on the desk with such force, the momentum made him spring up from his chair.

Use your histrionic abilities! Blackmail them or bribe them, do whatever it takes. I don’t care how you do it, as long as you show results. Soviet intelligence needs those two! Beria said, his arms flailing wildly through the air, his voice trembling with rage and determination.

The major felt Beria’s eyes burn into his cheeks. The man’s vehemence was overwhelming. He knew he had to pretend he was afraid. Beria was banging his fist and yelling to make him understand – he succeeds, or he dies. Or succeed but die all the same. With Beria, there were no guarantees. He knew perfectly well that this latest mission might mean his death sentence, but then again, it might prove to be the ticket to the top. And so, taking his promotion for granted would not have been wise. Especially not here, and not now.

I understand, he said in a low voice, careful as ever to avert his eyes from Beria’s piercing gaze.

Seeing that he had evidently cowed the young officer, Beria regained his composure. He loved dictatorship, his own dictatorship above all, for the Great Leader did not interfere with his affairs, letting him be the cock on his own dunghill.

The chaplains have been separated from the rest of the prisoners. The rest is up to you, Beria went on, his manner now relaxed as he began to pace up and down the room. Let the envoy see them. Let him talk to them. Tell him he can have them. Do whatever you have to, as long as you keep up appearances.

I understand, Fyodor said and nodded. But what’s to become of the chaplains afterwards?

Beria stopped in his tracks and turned to Fyodor with a contended smile on his face, evidently pleased that his subordinate understood what he had in mind.

Everything will proceed according to plan, he said, spreading his arms as if the answer were obvious. You heard the committee decision. They’re POWs, just like the rest.

Fyodor nodded. It was clear as day what was expected of him. Only the mode of its accomplishment was still to be worked out. But it would not have been wise to ask any more questions. No man was irreplaceable in the Soviet Union, and no man was too valuable to be sacrificed for the greater good. In keeping with communist etiquette, he thanked his chief for the appointment and started for the door.

I expect your usual thoroughness with this job, Beria called out before Fyodor could reach the door, tapping the folder in front of him with his pen.

The hint was not lost on Fyodor. He always made sure that there were no witnesses to any of his assignments.

Your job is to solve this matter without causing us any nuisance, the Chief added by way of dismissal.

Behind German Lines

March 14, 1940

Otto von Wrede cupped one hand around his cigarette and lit it. He waited for the tobacco to glow red hot, then flicked away the now useless match, pulled his leather gloves on, and took a long drag. During this series of ritual-like movements he never once let his eye stray from the bridge in the valley below that marked the Soviet border. From this distance the guards were no bigger than tin soldiers, but he could clearly make out their movements.

He glanced at his watch and shook his head in dismay. He should have been over the border by now with the papal nuncio. He walked back to the military jeep, a Mercedes, reached for the peaked hat he had tossed on the back seat, and carefully put it on, smoothing his painstakingly combed hair under the visor. He drew the documents he’d need for the transfers out of an inner pocket, checked each one carefully, then tucked them inside the top right-hand pocket of his olive green uniform so he shouldn’t have to bother with buttons once they had reached the border. He adjusted his jacket, pulling it neatly over his chest, then adjusted the position of the cross sewn into the neckband. He looked down at his boots. They were partly sunk in the soft, boggy soil. He took a tuft of grass that hadn’t been flattened by passing vehicles and leaning against the side of the jeep, tried to coax the mud from his otherwise impeccable footwear. The papal nuncio might arrive at any moment, and he wanted to look his best.

Though his Catholic upbringing predisposed him to feel a certain reverence for the diplomatic envoys confined to his care, he liked to look his best regardless of the situation. He was tall and athletic, and his uniform was flattering. His trim, light-brown hair was almost completely tucked in under his peaked hat. The look in his brown eyes suggested a reserved but intelligent mind. Otto was proud of his qualifications and achievements – he spoke four foreign languages fluently, and thanks to his law degree, he could count on regular promotions, though never over anybody’s head, of course.

Thanks to the Prussian military family he hailed from, his career in the intelligence service was a given. His father had fought in the First World War, his brothers were all high-ranking officers in various divisions of the military, while he had received his promotion directly from Admiral Canaris, head of German intelligence, for helping to negotiate the German-English Declaration of Peace in 1938. He was liaison officer to the British delegation, but his real mission was to record every night what was being said in the British delegation’s hotel room. Thanks to this diplomatic coup, his efforts played a major role in the doubling of the German intelligence budget by orders from Adolf Hitler personally. But above and beyond these achievements, he was a favorite figure in diplomatic circles; the medals he had won in rifle shooting, fencing, and swimming were part of his charm and reinforced his high esteem. He enchanted the ladies and entertained the men with his calculated witty hunting stories. He was by far the best man for the present delicate mission; after all, he was one of the best – if not the best qualified officer in the German army, just the man to get the papal delegates behind the Russian lines.

For all his respect and reverence for the papal nuncio, the latter’s tardy arrival was beginning to annoy him more than he liked. The two Vatican ambassadors, the nuncio and his secretary, had arrived at the temporary military base with time to spare, but had asked Otto for a couple of hours to rest up from their tiring journey. Since the delegation was not due to arrive on the other side of the frontier yet, he graciously offered them a room. Except, the time when they were supposed to cross the frontier at a designated spot was drawing uncomfortably close. Given the present state of hostilities, the journey was a dangerous undertaking by itself. Starting off late would only stretch the volatile agreement near its limits. Otto threw the cigarette butt away and stamped it into the mud. He was just about to start off towards the house when he saw the nuncio’s secretary approach.

I was beginning to worry, Otto said, stepping up to him. We must start off without delay. We can’t cross the valley and the bridge after dark. Frankly, it’s risky enough, even so. Let’s not keep them waiting.

I am sorry, the perturbed secretary began, but something’s come up. The nuncio is suffering from severe intestinal pains and needs a doctor. He can’t go anywhere in this state!

Otto gave a nervous shake of the head. That’s out of the question. I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. They’re waiting for you across the border, and he pointed in the direction of the valley. We must get twelve captive priests out of the war zone, and do it now! This is no time to negotiate a new meeting. It’s either now, or never, he announced, looking the Vatican ambassador firmly in the eye.

But I just told you, the secretary tried again, wringing his hands. The papal nuncio is not well.

Luigi!

A faint voice coming from inside the house cut his plea short. It was the aged nuncio, white as a sheet, standing by the window, beckoning his aide to his side.

Please excuse me, said the secretary to Otto as he hurried away.

Exasperated, Otto turned back toward the valley where the units charged with receiving them had taken their posts at the bridgehead that served as the makeshift border.

Damn, he cried. If they keep the Soviets waiting too long, they can kiss the entire mission good-bye.

The secretary, however, was soon back. He’d slipped a long cape-like coat over his cassock.

I’m ready, he announced.

What about His Reverence? Otto asked, furrowing his brow.

He’s not coming. He asked me to represent His Holy Highness’s interests in his place.

Much as he would have liked to protest, Otto felt that there was nothing more he could do. It took three weeks to get this meeting off the ground, and the POWs were waiting. They didn’t have another three weeks to set up yet another appointment.

Right. Let’s get on then, he said with a nod toward the driver who hurriedly opened the jeep door for them.

*     *     *

The blanket of fog was gradually dispersed by the descending twilight. The driver was taking it slow, careful not to stray from his designated route. He didn’t want to risk their getting lost or god forbid, being shot through the head.

The secretary was sitting in the jeep silently gazing out the window into no-man’s land, his lips curled into an amused smile. It was Otto’s impression that the young Italian was actually pleased to have taken the nuncio’s place. He was, perhaps, dreaming of a promotion even now. He was fairly good at reading people’s body language and was somewhat surprised that priests were prey to dreams of glory, just like ordinary mortals. But then, we’re all human, after all, he concluded. The poor man, though, had no idea of what he’d gotten himself into, of this he was sure.

They reached the bridge well past the appointed time. The Soviet officer on duty took their documents, then looked quizzically at the men sitting in the jeep.

The orders are for four, he said to Otto," ignoring the driver and speaking German but with a thick Russian accent.

One of the group has been taken ill, Otto replied in fluent Russian. The guard looked surprised, but Otto couldn’t tell whether it was because of what he had said or how he’d said it; in any case, he could almost read the Russian’s thoughts on his face. He was clearly trying to make up his mind. Then after a brief pause, he decided to let the jeep through.

They arrived at the designated meeting point one and a half hours later. It took Otto by surprise when they stopped on a desolate clearing in the middle of nowhere. The driver, who was supposed to jump out and hold the door for them, made no move to do so. He was afraid that he may have driven those in his charge into an ambush.

What are you waiting for? Otto barked at him. The orderly jumped out of the car.

Captain von Wrede got out, too, and inch by inch, inspected the terrain. The smell of mud and gasoline mingled in the air and the thick web of tire marks that had left deep grooves in the ground indicated heavy movement in the area not long before their arrival. He took his binoculars and looked around. He saw a group of buildings in the distance surrounded by a barbed wire fence, a POW camp, probably, as well as two wooden cabins lying at some distance from each other. In the opposite direction a wooden bridge straddling a river he could not see led towards the hills. A serpentine dirt road passed three cliffs on its way up to the top of a hill densely covered by trees.

They soon heard the sound of engines, and a Russian 4x4 immerged from behind the cliffs. It took the jeep the best part of ten minutes to negotiate its way over the muddy, uneven terrain.

Otto von Wrede? the Soviet officer asked as he got out of the vehicle. He extended a hand and offered a salute, but his eyes remained as cold as steel. Major Fyodor Vasilyevich Semyonov, he said.

While Otto returned the military greeting, the secretary climbed out of the relative safety of the jeep.

I’m Luigi De Monte, papal emissary and the nuncio’s private secretary, he said, extending a hand himself. Ignoring the gesture, the Russian ran his eye up and down the short young man standing before him, his stooped back wrapped in a priest’s cloak.

I have been told that you speak our language, he said turning back to the German major.

That is so, Otto replied in Russian. His eye was caught by a Soviet officer’s aide studying the papal emissary with deep suspicion from the other side of the Soviet jeep.

Follow me please, Semyonov ordered. I will take you to the camp.

He gestured to his aide, who immediately stepped up to the group. Otto couldn’t have said why, but there was something about the short, lean, brown haired soldier that gave him the shivers. There was nothing peculiar about his physique or his face, but the profound darkness that radiated from his eye made him seem more than human.

Have we got far to go? he asked the Russian to take his mind off the sense of restless unease that the sight of the orderly triggered in him.

About two kilometers, Semyonov said. My orderly Andrei will be at your service, he offered, pointing at the soldier with the dark eyes who was still staring so fixedly at the papal emissary, one would have thought he was placing a curse on him. Otto automatically reached for the pistol bolster on his belt, but checked himself. He stepped in front of the secretary to shield him from hard and ordered the man with the unsettling eyes to lead the way.

Advancing along the bumpy terrain proved difficult, especially since they were not dressed for a hike. But the increased sound of barking dogs and the rattling of their chains indicated that they were nearing the camp. Having grown ferocious from the scent of strangers, the dogs behind the fence were running amok, tugging furiously at their chains.

They must be huge, if their bark is anything to go by, the captain observed.

And famished, replied Semyonov curtly, watching for the other’s reaction from the corner of his eye. Frightened, the nuncio’s secretary shrank away, leaving the German closer to the fence. Otto, however, just smiled at the veiled threat and thought no further of it.

*     *     *

By the time they reached the buildings, the camp chaplains had already been lined up along the fence under the watchful eyes of guards with raised bayonets intent on their every move. They must have been positioned near the entrance on purpose to shock the visitors. The Soviets were so numerous, there were two guards for nearly each one of the prisoners. The prisoners’ faces, caked with dirt, spoke of great suffering, but every one of them watched the approaching delegation with heads held high.

Otto could feel the secretary walking up behind him trying to use his back for shelter. He was probably feeling ill at ease in front of the other priests. His cloak was speckled with mud from the road, but he was a free man wearing comfortable garments, while the chaplains reeked of sweat and dirt.

Semyonov led them into one of the barracks. Father Luigi crossed the threshold on Otto’s heels; he didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire of the gaze of his peers.

The barrack was simply furnished, even Spartan. There was a huge beech table in the middle of the floor flanked by heavy wooden chairs. Everything was cumbersome and bulky, like the Soviet soil itself. Otto did not like negotiating with the Russians; he much preferred the subtle and sophisticated British way of handling things. Everything here seemed much too primitive and crude to him. He had expected a proper meeting room with catering, and not trudging for miles over bog land to sit on dust covered chairs in a windowless room.

Good heavens! sighed the Vatican’s emissary when the door was closed behind him. Indignation and despair played hide and seek on his countenance when it dawned on him why the papal nuncio had been taken ill so suddenly.

You saw what the problem is, the Soviet major said to the secretary, coming straight to the point as he noisily drew up a chair for himself.

Let these people go, the secretary said, making for the Soviet officer, but Otto gently took hold of his arm and detained him. They are servants of God!

No, Semyonov shot back. He wanted to make it abundantly clear at the outset that emotional blackmail cut