(1976) The R Document (11 page)

Rising with his briefcase, he began to fill it with what remained of his papers.

The telephone rang. He ignored it. Then he heard the sound of the intercom, and Marion’s voice coming through. ‘Mr Collins, there’s a Father Dubinski on the line. I don’t recognize the name. He says you might. He would not give me a message. He says it is important that he speak to you personally.’

Collins recognized the name at once and was immediately

curious. ‘I’ll take it. Thanks. See you in the morning.’

He sat down, took up the receiver, and punched the blinking button. ‘Father Dubinski? This is Christopher Collins.’

‘I didn’t know if you’d speak to me.’ The priest’s voice sounded very distant. I didn’t know if you’d remember. We met the night Colonel Noah Baxter died at Bethesda.’

‘Certainly I remember you, Father. In fact, I had considered getting in touch with you myself. I wanted to talk -‘

‘That’s exactly why I’m calling,’ said the priest. ‘I would like to see you. The sooner the better. In fact, if possible, I’d like to see you tonight. It’s about a matter that may be of some interest to you. Nothing I’d wish to discuss on the telephone. If you can’t make it tonight, then perhaps in the morning -‘

Collins was alert, his curiosity now totally aroused. ‘I can make it tonight. In fact, within the next half hour.’

‘I’m glad.’ The priest sounded relieved. ‘Would it be an imposition to ask that you come to the church to see me? It would be, well - rather awkward for me to call on you.’

‘Of course I’ll come to you. Holy Trinity Church, isn’t it?’

‘It’s on 36th Street, between N and O Streets in Georgetown. Actually, that’s the main entrance on 36th Street. I’d rather you not use it. I’d prefer that you come to the rectory where we can speak in privacy. From 35th Street you turn left, or west, on O, and it’s the first church building on your left.’ He paused, as if hesitant to say more. Then he added, ‘I think you deserve an explanation. The front entrance is being watched. It would be better for both of us if your visit is not observed. You’ll understand once we’ve had a chance to talk. In a half hour, then?’

‘Or sooner,’ said Collins.

*

All the way to Georgetown, in the back seat of the official Cadillac limousine, Chris Collins continued to speculate about why Father Dubinski wanted to see him as soon as possible. There was no clue. At their last meeting at

Bethesda, the priest had firmly refused to reveal Colonel Baxter’s final confession. There was no reason to think that he would ignore his vows of clerical secrecy now. Perhaps he had come across some other information that he felt Collins should know. But information about what? More unsettling had been his remark that the front entrance of Holy Trinity Church was being watched. If this was not paranoia but fact, then watched by whom and for what motive?

It was baffling. Collins was tempted to try out the riddle on the two men in the front seat. There was Pagano, an ex-prizefighter with a bashed face, whom he had imported from California as his chauffeur. He had once befriended Pagano - successfully defended him in a criminal action in Oakland - and Pagano had been forever grateful. He was thoroughly trustworthy. Beside him in the front seat, there was Special Agent Hogan, his carefully handpicked FBI bodyguard, who was also trustworthy.

But then Collins realized it was no use soliciting anyone’s opinion. A priest had sent for him on a matter of importance. There was no hint as to what it was all about. Truly, there was nothing to discuss, except Collins’ own inexplicable sense of foreboding.

Collins could see that they were on 35th Street, approaching O Street, and he leaned forward in his seat. ‘Pagano. Puli up at 35th and O. Drop me off on the corner. I don’t want anyone to see this car.’

When they reached the corner, Collins hastily opened his door. As he stepped out, he said over his shoulder, ‘Take the car north on 35th about a block or so, and park wherever you can. I’ll find you. No idea how long this will take. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes.’

He closed the door and stepped away, only to find Hogan beside him. Momentarily, they watched the limousine move on up the street. Collins considered his bodyguard. ‘Okay, you can come with me to the church rectory. I’ll go in myself. You can wait outside. But don’t be too conspicuous.’

They crossed the thoroughfare and proceeded a short distance on O Street. Collins pointed left. ‘There it is.’ The

rectory was a red brick building trimmed in white. ‘I’ll leave you here.’

As Collins neared the door, it was unexpectedly opened by an unseen hand. He heard and recognized the voice. ‘Come right in, Mr Collins.’

He entered a tiny vestibule, dimly lighted, and found himself confronting the dark-haired, olive-skinned, black-robed priest. After a brief handshake, Father Dubinski motioned for Collins to follow him.

They passed through a doorway into a hall. Midway down the hall, there was a door. The priest opened it. ‘Our larger rectory parlor,’ said the priest, adding, ‘it’s soundproof.’

In the parlor, Collins quickly got his bearings. Immediately to his right were a desk and two chairs. Straight across the room, against the wall opposite the door, was a credenza, and hanging above it a modern picture of Jesus Christ being removed from the Cross.

Father Dubinski had taken him by the elbow, and now was directing him toward the sofa and coffee table at the left.

‘No one saw me come in,’ said Collins. ‘Who is it that’s watching the front entrance?’

‘The FBI.’

‘The FBI?’ Collins repeated incredulously. ‘Watching you? For what reason?’

‘I’ll explain,’ said Father Dubinski. ‘Do sit down. Would you like coffee or tea?’

Collins declined both, and sat on the edge of the sofa at the end near the small lamplit table.

Briskly, Father Dubinski settled on the sofa a few feet from Collins.

The priest wasted no time. I had a visitor late this morning. A Mr Harry Adcock, whose identity card showed he is Assistant Deputy - or is it Associate? - to the Director of the FBI.’

‘He’s Director Tynan’s Associate. That’s correct. What was he doing here?’

‘He wanted to know what Colonel Noah Baxter confessed to me the night the Colonel died. He said it might involve

a matter of internal national security. I might have accepted the inquiry as well-meaning, if somewhat ill-advised, except for one thing. When I refused to repeat Colonel Baxter’s confession, Mr Adcock threatened me.’

‘Threatened you?’ Collins repeated with disbelief.

‘Yes. But before we go into that, I’m mystified by one thing. How could he have known that Colonel Baxter had time to speak to me - to confess - before dying? Had you told him?’

Collins was silent, trying to remember. Then he remembered exactly. ‘As a matter of fact, I did speak of it. We were driving away from Baxter’s funeral - Tynan, Adcock, and I - and we were discussing the Colonel, his death. Quite innocently - because it was on my mind -I mentioned how I had been summoned to the hospital the night he died. I mentioned that he had wanted to see me urgently, but I arrived at the hospital too late. He was dead. Then I must have spoken - I’m sure I did - of my meeting with you. That Colonel Baxter’s last words were his confession to you, but that a priest could not repeat what was told him in what amounted to the confessional.’ Collins’ brow furrowed. I brought this up with Tynan - and Adcock - because I thought they might have a clue to what Baxter wanted to tell me. I mean, Tynan was fairly close to Baxter. Unfortunately, they knew nothing that would be helpful.’ He paused. ‘Tynan actually sent Adcock here - Adcock always does Tynan’s dirties - to find out Baxter’s confession from you? And when you refused to cooperate, Adcock threatened you? That’s incredible.’

‘Maybe not so incredible. Only you can be the final judge of that.’

‘How did he threaten you?’

Father Dubinski fixed his gaze on the coffee table. ‘The threat was neither implied nor indirect. The threat was open and direct - well, blackmail. Apparently, the FBI had run a thorough check on me, on my past -I suppose that’s routine these days?’

‘Standard operating procedure when the Bureau is investigating someone.’

‘Or when the Bureau wants to get something on someone, to make him talk? Even someone innocent of any crime?’

Collins squirmed. ‘That’s not part of the procedure. But we both know it happens. There have been abuses.’

I assume this check of my past could have been instigated only by Director Tynan. You’ve indicated that Adcock is merely his - his flunky?’

‘Correct.’

‘Very well. The FBI unearthed what had long been buried, an unhappy incident in my past. When I was a young priest, on my first assignment - I had a church in a Trenton, New Jersey, ghetto -I started a drug-control program. To stop my crusade, some of the hard-core delinquent youngsters planted a small cache of drugs in my rectory, and then informed the authorities, with the idea of entrapping me. The police came around. They located the cache. They’d been notified I’d been peddling drugs. It could have ended my service. Fortunately, a scandal was averted when my bishop prevailed upon the chief of police to let me testify at a private hearing. Based on my testimony, I was cleared. Since the culprits were never found, the case rested entirely on my word. I can see how, reviewing the incident today, someone might consider my guilt - or lack of guilt - as unresolved. Somehow the whole abortive affair got into the FBI files. This is what Mr Harry Adcock confronted me with this morning.’

Collins was stunned. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘You had better. You had better believe it. Mr Adcock threatened to make this information about my past public if I continued to refuse to divulge the details of Colonel Baxter’s last confession. It was as blatant as that. I decided that my holy vows were more important than his threat of character assassination. Anyway, if the story does get out, it wouldn’t seriously harm my status. It could embarrass me. But little more. I told Adcock to do whatever he chose to do. I would not cooperate with him. I sent him packing. Afterwards - in fact, this entire afternoon - I was quite enraged. What concerned me most - now that it had happened to me - was the strong-arm methods being used by a Government agency against the very citizens it is supposed to protect.’

‘I still find it incredible. What could possibly have been so important about Baxter’s confession to make Tynan go to such lengths?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Father Dubinski. I assumed you might know. That’s why I called you.’

‘I don’t know what Colonel Baxter told you. So I have no way -‘

‘You shall know some of what Colonel Baxter told me. Because I’m going to tell you.’

Collins felt a thrill of excitement. Holding his breath, he waited.

Father Dubinski resumed, speaking slowly. ‘Mr Adcock’s visit had so angered me that I spent several hours today reconsidering my position. I know I could not cooperate with Mr Adcock or Director Tynan. But I began to see your own request, made at Bethesda, in a different light. Obviously, Colonel Baxter had trusted you. When he was sinking, it was you alone he sent for. Obviously, then, he was prepared to tell you some of what he told me. I began to see, also, that much of what he told me was probably meant for you. I realized more clearly that my duties were not only spiritual but temporal, and that perhaps I was merely the caretaker of information that Colonel Baxter wished passed on to you. That is how I came to my decision to repeat his last words to you.’

Collins felt his heartbeat quicken. ‘I deeply appreciate that, Father.’

‘Dying, Colonel Baxter was prepared, in the words of St Paul, “to be dissolved and to be with Christ”,’ said Father Dubinski. ‘He was reconciled with God. Once I had given him the Sacraments, and his confession was completed, he made a final effort to address himself to one remaining, fingering earthly matter’. His last words, spoken almost in his dying breath … ‘ The priest searched inside the folds of his cassock. ‘I wrote them down after Mr Adcock left so that I would not misstate anything.’ He opened a crumpled slip of paper. ‘Colonel Baxter’s last words, which I fully believe were meant for you, were the following: “Yes, I have sinned, Father - and my greatest sin -I must speak of it - they cannot control me now -I am free, I no longer have to be afraid

anymore - it’s about the 35th - ”’

‘The 35th,’ murmured Collins.

Father Dubinski cast him a sidelong glance, and resumed reading from the slip. ‘ ” - it’s about the 35th - ” He was momentarily incoherent, and then I caught this: ” - The R Document - danger - dangerous - must be exposed at all costs at once - The R Document, it’s - ” He drifted off, then tried again. Very difficult to make out what he was trying to say, but I’m almost sure he said, “I saw - trick - go see - ” There was a dying gasp, and then he was still and, moments later, dead.’

Collins sat chilled. He had heard a voice from the grave. Confused and troubled, he said, ‘The R Document? That’s what he spoke of?’

‘Twice. Clearly, he wanted to say something about it. He couldn’t.’

‘You’re sure he said no more?’

‘Those were his only intelligible words. There were more, but I could not make them out.’

‘Father, do you have the faintest idea of what The R Document might be?’

‘I’d hoped you might know.’

‘I never heard of it before,’ said Collins. He considered Colonel Baxter’s last words, what had likely been his urgent message for the new Attorney General. ‘He was saying he had sinned by being involved with this - this - whatever it is. He had been forced to be involved. Whatever it was concerned the 35th Amendment and something called The R Document, a trick which was dangerous and had to be exposed. He’d sent for me to tell me that.’

‘His legacy to the living, a desire to right a wrong.’

‘His legacy to me, his successor,’ said Collins, half to himself. ‘Why not the President? Or to Tynan? Or even to his wife? Only to me alone. But why to me?’

‘Maybe because he trusted you more than he did the President or the Director. Possibly because he felt you would understand where his wife would not.’