Cathedral

Burke slowly handed a bill to Flynn.

Flynn looked at it. “Five hundred sixty-one dollars and twelve cents. Not cheap to feed an army in New York, is it?” Flynn slipped the pistol into his waistband and counted out the money. “Here. Come closer.”

Burke moved nearer the gate and took the bills and change.

Flynn said, “I deducted the sales tax on principle.” He laughed. “Make certain you report that to the press, Lieutenant. They love that sort of nonsense.”

Burke nodded. Brian Flynn, he decided, was not a complete lunatic. He had the uneasy feeling that Flynn was sharper than Schroeder, and a better performer.

Flynn looked down at the cart laden with covered metal dishes. “It wouldn’t be Saint Paddy’s Day without the corned beef, would it, Burke? Had yours?”

“No. Been busy.”

“Well, come in and join us, then. Everyone would enjoy your company.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Flynn made a pretense of remembering something. “Ah, yes. Hostages will neither be given nor exchanged under any circumstances. Police will not take the place of hostages. But I’ll not keep you prisoner.”

“You seem to know a lot about this.”

Flynn thrust his face between the bars, close to Burke’s. “I know enough not to do anything stupid. I hope you know as much.”

“I’m sure we’ve had more experience with hostage situations than you—see that you don’t make any mistakes.”

Flynn lit a cigarette and said abruptly, “So, I should formally introduce myself now that Miss Malone was thoughtful enough to tell you my name. I am as the lady said—as you might have known from other sources—Brian Flynn. Ring any bells?”

“A few. Back in the late seventies. Over there.”

“Yes, over there. Over here now. Unlike John Hickey, I’m not officially dead, only unofficially missing. All right, let’s talk about our favorite subject. Is Major Martin present at your war councils?”

“Yes.”

“Get him out of there.”

“He’s representing the British consulate for now.”

Flynn forced a laugh. “Sir Harry will be distressed to hear that. Let me tell you that Martin will double-cross his own Foreign Office, too. His only loyalty is to his sick obsession with the Irish. Get him the hell away from the decision-making process.”

“Maybe I’d rather have him close where I can see him.”

Flynn shook his head. “You never see a man like that no matter how close he is. Get him out of the rectory, away from your commanders.”

Burke said softly, “So your people on the outside can kill him?”

A slow smile passed over Flynn’s face. “Oh, Lieutenant, you are the sharp one. Yes, indeed.”

“Please don’t do anything without talking to me first.”

Flynn nodded. “Yes, I’ll have to be straight with you. We may still be able to work together.”

“Maybe.”

Flynn said, “Look here, there’s a lot of double-dealing going on, Burke. Only the New York police, as far as I can tell, have no ulterior motives. I’ll count on you, Lieutenant, to do your job. You must play the honest broker and avert a bloodbath. Dawn tomorrow or—I promise you—this Cathedral will burn. That’s as inevitable as the sunrise itself.”

“You mean you have no control over that?”

Flynn nodded. “Very quick-witted of you. I control my people up to a point. But at dawn each man and woman in here will act on standing orders unless our demands have been met. Without a word from me the prisoners will be shot or thrown from the bell tower, fires will be set, and other destructive devices will automatically engage.”

Burke said, “You did a damned stupid thing to relinquish that kind of control. Stupid and dangerous.”

Flynn pressed his face to the bars. “But you could do worse than dealing with me. If anything happened to me, you would have to deal with Hickey and the woman we call Grania, so don’t you or Schroeder or anyone out there try to undermine me. Work with me and no one will die.”

“Better the devil you know than the devils you don’t know.”

“Quite right, Lieutenant. Quite right. You may go.”

Burke moved backward down a step, away from the gate. He and Flynn looked at each other. Flynn made no move to turn away this time, and Burke remembered the hostage unit’s injunction against turning your back on hostage takers. “Treat them like royalty,” Schroeder liked to say on television talk shows. “Never show them your back. Never use negative words. Never use words like death, kill, die, dead. Always address them respectfully.” Schroeder would have had a stroke if he had heard this exchange.

Burke took another step backward. Schroeder had his methods, yet Burke was becoming convinced that this situation called for flexibility, originality, and even compromise. He hoped Schroeder and everyone else out there recognized that before it was too late.

He turned his back to Flynn, went down the steps past the serving cart, and moved toward the corridor opening, all the while aware of the deep, dark eyes that followed him.

CHAPTER 30

Patrick Burke made the long underground walk from the sacristy past the silent policemen in the corridors. He noticed that the Tactical Patrol Unit had been replaced by the Emergency Services Division. They wore black uniforms and black flak jackets, they carried shotguns, sniper rifles, automatic weapons, and silenced pistols, and they looked very unlike the public image of a cop, he thought. Their eyes had that unfocused look, their bodies were exaggeratedly relaxed, and cigarettes dangled from tight lips.

Burke entered the rectory’s basement and made his way upstairs to the Monsignor’s office suite, through the crowded outer office, and into the next room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Burke met the stares of the twelve people whom he had labeled in his mind the Desperate Dozen. He remained standing in the center of the room.

Schroeder finally spoke. “What took you so long?”

Burke found a chair and sat. “You told me to get the measure of the man.”

“No negotiating, Burke. That’s my job. You don’t know the procedure—”

“Anytime you want me to leave, I’m gone. I’m not looking to get on the cover of Time.”

Schroeder stood. “I’m a little tired of getting ribbed about that goddamned Time story—”

Deputy Commissioner Rourke cut in. “All right, men. It’s going to be a long night.” He turned to Schroeder. “You want Burke to leave after he briefs us?”

Schroeder shook his head. “Flynn has made him his errand boy, and we can’t upset Mr. Flynn.”

Langley broke in. “What did Flynn say, Pat?”

Burke lit a cigarette and listened to the silence for a longer time than was considered polite. “He said the Cathedral will more or less self-destruct at sunrise.”

No one spoke until Bellini said, “If I have to take that place by force, you better leave enough time for the Bomb Squad to comb every inch of it. They’ve only got two mutts now—Sally and Brandy….” He shook his head. “What a mess … damn it.”

Schroeder said, “No matter what type of devices they have rigged, they can delay them. I’ll get an extension.”

Burke looked at him. “I don’t think you understood what I said.”

Langley interjected. “What else did he say, Pat?”

Burke sat back and gave them an edited briefing, glancing at Major Martin, who stood against the fireplace in a classic pose. Burke had the impression that Martin was filling in the missing sentences.

Burke focused on Arnold Sheridan, the quintessential Wasp from State, tight smile, correct manners, cultivated voice that said nothing. He was assigned to the security section but probably found it distasteful to be even a quasi-cop. Burke realized that, as the man on the scene, Sheridan might sway the administration either way. Hard line, soft line, or line straddling. Washington could push London into an accommodation, and then, like dominoes, Dublin, Albany, and the City of New York would tumble into line. But as he looked at Sheridan he had no idea of what was going on behind those polite, vacant eyes.

Burke looked back at Schroeder as he spoke. This was a man who was an accomplished listener as well as a talker. He heard every word, remembered every word, even interpreted nuances and made analyses and conclusions but ultimately, through some incredible process in his brain, never really understood a thing that was said. Burke flipped a cigarette ash into a coffee cup. “I don’t think this guy is a textbook case. I don’t think he’s going to bend in his demands or give extensions, Schroeder.”

Schroeder said, “They all give extensions, Burke. They want to play out the drama, and they always think a concession will come in the next minute, the next hour, the next day. It’s human nature.”

Burke shook his head. “Don’t operate on the premise that you’ll get more time.”

Major Martin interrupted. “If I may say something—Lieutenant Burke’s analysis is not correct. I’ve dealt with the Irish for ten years, and they are dreadful liars, fakes, and bluffers. Flynn will give you extensions if you keep him hopeful that—”

Burke stood. “Bullshit.”

The Irish Consul General stood also and said hesitantly, “Look here, Major, I … I think it’s unfair to characterize the Irish …”

Martin forced an amiable tone into his voice. “Oh, sorry, Tomas. I was speaking only of the IRA, of course.” He looked around the room. “I didn’t mean to offend Irish Americans either. Commissioner Rourke, Mr. Hogan, Lieutenant Burke”—he looked at Schroeder and smiled—“or your better half.”

Commissioner Rourke nodded to show there were no hard feelings, and spoke. “Everyone is a little tense. Let’s take it easy. Okay?” He looked at Burke. “Lieutenant, the Major has a lot of experience in these things. He’s providing us with valuable information, not to mention insight. I know Irish affairs are your specialty, but this is not an Irish-American affair. This is different.”

Burke looked around the room. “I’d like to make it an American affair for a few minutes. Specifically, I’d like to speak to the Commissioner, Captain Schroeder, Inspector Langley, Mr. Kruger, and Mr. Hogan—alone.”

Commissioner Rourke looked around the room, unsure of what to say. Major Martin moved to the door. “I’ve got to get to the consulate.” Tomas Donahue made an excuse and followed. Monsignor Downes nodded and left. Arnold Sheridan rose and looked at his watch. “I have to call State.”

Bellini said, “You want me here, Burke?”

“It doesn’t concern you, Joe.”

Bellini said, “It better not.” He left.

The Governor’s aide suddenly looked alert. “Oh …” He stood. “I have to go….” He left.

Roberta Spiegel sat back in her rocker and lit another cigarette. “You can either go talk in the men’s room—though that’s no guarantee I won’t follow—or you can talk here.”

Burke decided he didn’t mind her presence. He took Langley to the far end of the room and said quietly, “Did we hear from Jack Ferguson yet?”

Langley said, “We got through to his wife. She’s sick in bed. She hasn’t heard from him either.”

Burke shook his head. He usually felt his first responsibility was to an informant who was in danger, but now he had no time for Jack Ferguson. Ferguson understood that—and understood, he hoped, that he was in danger. Burke moved to the center of the room and addressed the remaining people. “I’ve dealt a few cards from the bottom of the deck myself over the years, but never have I seen a card game as stacked as this one. And since I’m the one who almost got his head blown off this afternoon, I think you’ll understand why I’m a little pissed off.” He looked at Kruger and Hogan. “You two have some explaining to do.” Burke took a long pull on his cigarette and continued. “Consider this—we have here a well-planned, well-financed operation. Too much so, from what we know of the IRA, domestic and foreign. I see here the hand of not so much the revolutionary but the counterrevolutionary—the government man.” He looked at Kruger and Hogan.

No one spoke.

“Brian Flynn has told me that Major Batholomew Martin suggested an American operation to him and provided the necessary resources to carry it out. And if that is true, then I don’t think Martin could have pulled it off without the help of some of your people—or at least without your well-known talent for looking the other way when it suits you.”

Langley stood. “Careful.”

Burke turned. “Come off it, Langley. You had your suspicions, too.” He turned back to the people in front of him. “This whole thing has been a staged performance, but I think it got out of control because Brian Flynn wasn’t playing his part as written. Maybe he was supposed to knock over an armory or blow a bank. But he got a better idea, and now we’re all up to our asses in the consequences.”

Kruger stood. “I’ve never heard such paranoid nonsense—”

Hogan reached out and put his hand on Kruger’s arm, then sat forward. “Listen, Burke, what you say is not altogether untrue.” He paused, then went on. “The FBI did stand to gain from this incident. Sure, when this is over they’ll fire some people at the top, but then the analysis will show how powerless we were to stop it. And maybe we’ll become the beneficiaries of a little power and money.” He leaned farther forward and put an aggrieved tone in his voice. “But to even hint that we—”

Burke waved his arm to cut off the disclaimers. “I have no real evidence, and I don’t want any. All I want you to know is that Patrick Burke knows. And I almost got my fucking head blown off finding out. And if Flynn starts making public statements, people will tend to believe him, and your two outfits will be in trouble—again.”

Hogan shook his head. “He won’t make any public charges about outside help, because he’s not going to admit to the Irish people that he worked with British Intelligence—”

Kruger looked at him sharply. “Shut up, Hogan.”

Douglas Hogan waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Kruger, there’s no use trying to play it coy.” He looked at the four policemen in the room. “We had some knowledge of this, but, as you say, it got out of control. I can promise you, though, that no matter what happens, we will cover you … so long as you do the same. What’s happened is past. Now we have to work at making sure we come out of this not only blameless but looking good.” Douglas Hogan spread his hands out in front of him and said coaxingly, “We have been handed a unique opportunity to make some important changes in intelligence procedures in this country. A chance to improve our image.”

Commissioner Rourke stood. “You people are … crazy.”

Langley turned to the Commissioner. “Sir, I think we have no choice but to keep to the problem at hand. We can’t change the series of events that brought us here, but we can try to ensure that the outcome won’t be disastrous … as long as we work together.”

The Commissioner looked at the FBI man, the CIA man, then at his two intelligence officers. He understood very clearly that their logic was not his logic, their world not his world. He understood, also, that anyone who could do what Kruger and Hogan had apparently done were dangerous and desperate men. He looked at Roberta Spiegel. She nodded to him, and he sat down.

Burke glanced around the room and said, “It’s important that you all understand that Bartholomew Martin is a danger to any negotiated settlement. He means to see that the Cathedral is destroyed and that blood is shed.” He looked at Rourke and Schroeder. “He is not your good friend.” He stared at Kruger and Hogan. “The most Martin hoped for was an arms steal or a bank heist, but Flynn presented him with a unique opportunity to influence public opinion in America the way the IRA murder of Lord Mountbatten did in the British Isles. However, if Flynn walks out of the Cathedral with no blood shed and the IRA prisoners are released, he’ll be a hero to a large segment of the Irish population, and no one will ever believe he meant to harm anyone or destroy the Cathedral—and Major Martin cannot allow that to happen.” Burke turned again to Kruger and Hogan. “I want him neutralized—no, that’s not like one of your famous euphemisms for murder. Don’t look so uncomfortable. Neutralized—inoperative. Watched. I want a regular Foreign Office man representing the British government in New York, not Martin. I’ve given you a unique opportunity to save your own asses.”

Kruger stared at Burke, unconcealed hostility in his eyes.

Hogan nodded; “I’ll do what I can.”

Roberta Spiegel said, “End of discussion.” She looked at Schroeder. “Captain, you’re on.”

Schroeder nodded and turned on the speakers in the rectory offices and in the Cardinal’s residence. He placed the call through the switchboard and looked around the room while he waited. New ball game for them, he thought. But his ball game hadn’t changed substantially. His only concern was the personality of Brian Flynn. His whole world was reduced to the electronic impulses between himself and Flynn. Washington, London, and Dublin could make it easier for him by capitulating, but they couldn’t make it any more difficult than it already was. A voice in the earphone made him sit up. “Hello, Mr. Flynn? This is Captain Schroeder.”

CHAPTER 31

Brian Flynn stood at the chancel organ and lit a cigarette as he cradled the receiver on his shoulder. “Schroeder, the corned beef was stringy. You didn’t butcher the horse now, did you?”

The negotiator’s voice came back with a contrived laugh in it. “No, sir. If there’s anything else you want, please let us know.”

“I’m about to do that. First of all, I’m glad you know my name. Now you know you’re dealing with Ireland’s greatest living patriot. Right?”

“Yes, sir….”

“There’ll be a monument erected to me someday in Dublin and in a free Belfast. No one will remember you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Flynn laughed suddenly. “I hear you writing, Schroeder. What are you writing? ‘Megalomania’?”

“No, sir. Just keeping notes.”

“Good. Now just listen and take notes on this. First …” Flynn leafed through Schroeder’s autobiography as he spoke. “…. make certain you leave the Cathedral’s floodlights on. It looks so grand bathed in blue light. Also, that will make it difficult for your ESD men to climb up the sides. I’ve people in skyscrapers with field glasses. If they see anything moving outside, they’ll signal the towers or call me directly. Which brings me to point two. Don’t interfere with my outside telephone lines. Point three, if the lights in here so much as flicker, I’ll shoot everyone. Point four, no psy-warfare, such as your usual prank of running that silly armored car you own around the Cathedral. My men in the towers have M-72 rockets. Anyway, we’ve seen more armored cars than you’ve seen taxis, Schroeder, and they don’t frighten us. Point five, no helicopters. If my men in the towers see one, they’ll fire on it. Point six, tell your ESD people that we’ve planned this for a long time, and an attack would cost them dearly. Don’t waste them. You’ll need them next time.” Flynn wiped a line of sweat from his forehead. “Point seven, I say again, no extensions. Plan to wrap it up by dawn, Schroeder. Point eight, I want a nice twenty-one-inch color television set. I’ll tell you when I want Burke to bring it. Point nine, I want to see continuous news coverage until dawn. Point ten, I want to hold a news conference in the press room below the sacristy. Prime time, 10:00 P.M., live. Got all that?”

After a long silence Schroeder’s voice came through, sounding strained. “Yes, sir. We’ll try to accommodate you on all those points.”

“You will accommodate me. What have you heard from Dublin, London, and Washington?”

“They’re tied into their representatives, who are here in the Cardinal’s residence. They’re making progress.”

“It’s good to see allies working so well together. I hope they’re all keeping their tempers as we are doing, Captain. What have you heard from Amnesty and the Red Cross?”

“They are willing to cooperate in any way possible.”

“Good for them. Good people. Always there to lend a hand. How about immunity from prosecution for my people in here?”

Schroeder cleared his throat. “The U.S. Attorney General and the State Attorney General are discussing it. So far, all I can promise you is—”

“A fair trial,” interrupted Flynn. “Wonderful country. But I don’t want any trial at all, Schroeder.”

“I can’t make that promise at this time.”

“Let me make something clear—at the same time you tell me those prisoners are being released, you’d better have a guarantee of immunity for us or it’s no deal. I’ll shoot the hostages and blow this place apart.” Flynn could hear Schroeder’s breathing in the earpiece.

Schroeder said softly, “Everything you ask for is being considered very carefully, but these things take time. All I’m concerned with at the moment is the safety—”

“Schroeder, stop talking to me as though I were some sort of criminal lunatic. Save that for your next case, if you have one. I’m a soldier, and I want to be spoken to as a soldier. The prisoners in here are being treated correctly. And your tone is very patronizing.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m only trying to assure you of our good intentions. My job is to negotiate a settlement we can all live with, and—”

Flynn suddenly stood and said, “How do you call it negotiation if you don’t intend to give anything?”

Schroeder didn’t reply.

“Have you ever made any real concessions in all of your career as a hostage negotiator, Schroeder? Never. You’re not even listening to me, for Christ’s sake. Well, you’d damn well better listen, because when this Cathedral is in ruins and the dead are lying everywhere, you’ll wish to God you paid more attention, and that you’d acted in better faith.” “

I am listening. I am acting—”

“You’ll be known, Captain Bert Schroeder, as the man who failed to save Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and who has innocent blood on his hands. You’ll never hold your head up again, and you’ll not accept many talk-show invitations, I think.”

Schroeder’s voice came back, agitated for the first time that anyone who was listening could remember. “I haven’t lied to you, have I? We haven’t tried to use force, have we? You asked for food, we gave you food. You asked—”

“I paid for the fucking food! Now listen to me closely. I know you’re only a middleman for a lot of bastards, but …” Flynn looked at Schroeder’s picture on the cover of his book. It was an action shot, taken during a bank robbery that had turned into a hostage situation. Schroeder, unlike his predecessor, who always wore a baseball cap and Windbreaker, was dressed nattily in a three-piece pinstripe. The face and massive body suggested was more the baseball-cap type, but Schroeder was reaching for his own style. Flynn studied the face on the cover. Good profile, firm jaw, erect carriage. But the eyes were unmistakably frightened. A bad picture. Flynn continued, “But I trust you, Schroeder—trust you to use your influence and your good offices. I want you to keep talking to me all night, Captain. I want you to carry my message to the people around you.”

Schroeder’s voice sounded surprised at the sudden expression of confidence. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that. You can talk to me.” Both men remained silent for a time, then Schroeder said, “Now I’d like to ask two favors of you.”

Flynn smiled and flipped absently through the autobiography in front of him. “Go on.”

“Well, for one thing, the jamming device is causing confusion in command and control, and we don’t want an incident to occur because of a lack of communication. Also, it’s causing interference with commercial radio and the sound portions of television broadcasts.”

Flynn threw aside the book. “Can’t have that. I’ll think about it. What else?”

“I’d like to say a few words to each of the hostages.”

“Maybe after the press conference.”

“All right. That’s fair. There is one other thing.”

“There always is.”

“Yes, well, since you and I are building a rapport—building confidence in each other—and I’m the only one talking to you, I wonder if you’d do the same for me. I mean, I spoke to Mr. Hickey before, and—”

Flynn laughed and looked around, but Hickey wasn’t in sight. “John gave you a bit of a rough time, did he, Captain? He enjoys making unpleasant jokes. Well, just play along with him. He loves to talk—Irish, you know.”

“Yes, but there could be a misunderstanding. You are the boss, and I want to keep my lines of communication open to you, and—”

Flynn dropped the receiver into its cradle and looked through a book of sheet music. He wanted to find something unchurchly that would take his mind away from the Cathedral. Of all the godforsaken places he’d ever found himself in, no place seemed more oddly forsaken than the Cathedral at this moment. Yet others, he knew, felt the presence of a divine spirit here, and he understood that the emptiness he felt was totally within himself. He found “The Rose of Tralee,” turned the key into the organ, and played as he sang very softly. “The pale moon was rising aboveThe green mountains,The sun was declining beneathThe blue sea,As I strayed with my love to thePure crystal fountain,That stands in the beauitful valeof Tralee….”

Bert Schroeder looked for a long time at the dead speaker, folded his hands on the desk, and thought. Flynn talked about immunity, which showed he thought of a future, and by implication his desire to keep his crime from being compounded was strong. He had no intention of killing anyone, least of all himself. More importantly, Flynn was beginning to depend on him. That always happened. It was inevitable as he came to realize that Schroeder’s voice was the only one that mattered. Schroeder looked up. “I think I’m getting an angle on this guy.”

Burke said, “It sounds like he has an angle on you.”

Schroeder’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded reluctantly. “Yes, he seems to know something of my methods. I’m afraid the media has given my bureau too much coverage.” He added, “I never sought publicity.”

“You mean your autobiography was unauthorized? Christ, you should have at least waited until you retired before you released it.” Burke smiled. “And now you’ve missed the big chapter. Catch it on the second printing. Talk to your agent about it.” Burke put a conciliatory tone in his voice. “Look, Bert, I don’t have all the answers, but—”

Schroeder stood. “No, you don’t. And I’m tired of your sideline quarterbacking!”

No one spoke. Burke stood and moved toward the door.

Schroeder said, “Don’t go far. Flynn may want coffee later.”

Burke turned and said, “Up to this point we’ve had double-crosses, incompetence, and some ordinary stupidity. And we’ve been damned lucky in spite of it. But if we don’t get our act together by dawn, we’re going to have a massacre, a desecration, and a lot of explaining to do.”

Schroeder stared ahead and spoke placidly. “Just leave it to me.”

CHAPTER 32

Father Murphy walked across the sanctuary and stood before the Cardinal’s throne. “Your Eminence, I would like to make my confession.”

The Cardinal nodded. “Take my hands.”

Murphy felt the scrap of paper sticking to his palm. “No … I would like to go into the confessional.”

The Cardinal stood. “We’ll go into the Archbishop’s sacristy.”

“No …” Murphy felt a line of sweat collect on his brow. “They won’t let us. We can go into the confessional where I heard Miss Malone’s confession.”

The Cardinal stared at him curiously, then nodded. “As you wish.” He came down from the throne and walked toward the rear of the sanctuary, then descended the side steps that led into the ambulatory. Father Murphy glanced back at Maureen and Baxter. They nodded encouragingly, and he followed the Cardinal.

Leary leaned over the choir loft parapet, placed the cross hairs in front of the Cardinal’s face, and led him as he walked from right to left across his magnified picture. Everyone in the triforia began shouting warnings to the two priests, shouting at Leary who they knew was about to fire, shouting for Flynn or Hickey.

The Cardinal seemed oblivious to the warnings. He stopped at the archway that led to the priests’ entrance to the confessional and waited for Father Murphy, who walked hesitantly across the ambulatory.

Leary centered his cross hairs on the gold cross that hung over the Cardinal’s heart and took up the slack in the trigger.

Flynn suddenly appeared in front of the two priests with his arms raised and looked into the balconies. The shouting stopped. Leary straightened his body and stood with his rifle resting in the crook of his arm. Even from this distance Flynn could see that Leary had that distinctive posture of a hunter who had just been denied his quarry, motionless, listening, watching. Flynn saw Megan appear in the loft and move beside Leary, speaking to him as though she were soothing his disappointment. Flynn turned to the two priests. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The Cardinal answered evenly, “I’m going to hear a confession.”

Flynn spoke between clenched teeth. “Are you mad? You can’t come down from there without permission.”

The Cardinal answered, “I don’t need your permission to go anywhere in this church. Please stand aside.”

Flynn fought down the anger inside him. “Let me tell you two something. Those people up there have standing orders to shoot…. All right, four of them may not be priest killers, but the fifth man would kill you. He would shoot his mother if that’s what he’s contracted to do. Just as you took your vows, he has taken his.”

The Cardinal’s face turned crimson; he began to speak, but Flynn cut him off. “That man has spent fourteen years as a sniper for a dozen different armies. By now he sees the world through cross hairs. His whole being is compressed into that solitary act. And he loves it—the sound of the gun, the recoil of the stock against his shoulder, the flash of the muzzle, the smell of burnt powder in his nostrils. It’s like a sexual act to him—can you two understand that?”

Neither the Cardinal nor the priest answered. The Cardinal turned his head and looked up into the shadows of the choir loft, then turned back to Flynn. “It’s hard to believe such a man exists. You should be careful he doesn’t shoot you.” He stepped around Flynn and entered the wooden archway, then turned into the door of the confessional.

Father Murphy glanced at Flynn, then pushed aside the curtain and entered the confessional.

John Hickey stood some distance off near the Lady Chapel and watched silently.

Murphy knelt in the dark enclosure and began, “Bless me, Father …” He peered through a space in the curtain and saw Flynn walking away. He spoke in whispered tones to the Cardinal, making a hasty confession, then broke off abruptly and said, “Your Eminence, I’m going to use the call buzzer to send a coded message.”

The dark outline of the Cardinal’s profile behind the black screen stayed motionless as though he hadn’t heard, then slowly the head nodded.

Murphy drew the curtain gently over the doorjamb and pressed the button in a series of alerting signals. He looked closely at the paper in his hand and squinted in the darkness. He began: THIS IS FR. MURPHY.

Suddenly a hand flew through the curtain and grabbed his wrist. Hickey’s voice filled the confessional. “While you’re in there, Padre, confess to using the confessional for treachery.” He flung the curtain aside, and Murphy blinked in the sudden light. Hickey snatched the paper out of the priest’s hand and pulled the curtain closed. “Go on, finish your damned confession. I’ll finish the message.”

Murphy slumped against the screen and spoke softly to the Cardinal. “I’m sorry….”

Hickey stood outside the booth and looked around. Flynn was gone. No one was paying any attention to him except Malone and Baxter on the sanctuary, who looked both angry and disheartened. Hickey smiled at them, then read the coded message, put his finger on the buzzer, and began to send. He repeated the salutation—. THIS IS FR. MURPHY IN CONFESSIONAL WITH CARDINAL.

He continued, reproducing the halting wrist of a man who was sending for the first time. He modified the written message as he sent. ESTIMATE OF FENIAN STRENGTH: NO MORE THAN EIGHT GUNMEN. ONE IN EACH OF EAST TRIFORIA. NONE IN WEST TRIFORIA. NONE IN CHOIR LOFT. ONE MAN AT SACRISTY STAIRS WITH THOMPSON—ONLY AUTO WEAPON SEEN. ONE MAN IN EACH TOWER. FIELD PHONES MALFUNCTIONING. HOSTAGES MOVED TO CRYPT. SAFE FROM FIRE.

He stopped and picked up the text of the message.MACCUMAIL IS BRIAN FLYNN. JOHN HICKEY, LIEUTENANT. MEGAN THIRD IN COMMAND.

He improvised again.NO MINES ON DOORS. GAS MASKS ARE OLD TYPE, INEFFECTIVE FILTERS.

He stopped and thought a moment. Then went on.FENIANS LOYAL TO HICKEY. WILL NOT NEGOTIATE IN GOOD FAITH. SUICIDAL TALK. BAXTER TO BE HANGED BEFORE DAWN DEADLINE AS AN EXAMPLE. DO WHAT YOU MUST. WE ARE NOT AFRAID. GOD BLESS YOU—FATHER MURPHY.

Hickey took his finger off the buzzer and smiled. The people out there were a bit confused now … and frightened. Fright led to desperation. Desperation led to reckless acts. Hickey put himself in their place—discounting the possibility of negotiation, concerned over the hostages, underestimating the force holding the Cathedral. The police would submit a plan to take the Cathedral, and it would be accepted. And the politicians would have the message to justify that use of force. The police would burst through the doors, and they’d be met by explosions and an unexpected volume of killing fire.

Hickey pictured it in his mind as he looked around the Cathedral. Shattered marble, crumbling statues, dark red blood running over the altars and floors, the dead lying draped over the pews. The attic would be set aflame, and the ceiling would fall into the nave, blowing their precious stained glass into the streets. He saw dying bodies writhing among the rubble and the flames. And when they thought it was over, long after the last shot had been fired, as the dawn streaked in through dusty shafts revealing the rescuers and medics moving through the ruins, then the time bombs would detonate, and the two main columns would tremble and shudder and collapse in a deafening roar of granite and marble, plaster and bronze, wood and concrete. The Cathedral would die, brick by brick, stone by stone, column by column, wall by wall…. And in years to come when people looked on the most magnificent ruin in America they would remember John Hickey’s last mission on earth.

Maureen Malone sat very still in the pew and watched as Hickey sent his message. She turned to Harold Baxter. “Bastard!”

Baxter looked away from Hickey. “Yes, well, that’s his prerogative, isn’t it? But, no harm done. Especially if the first message was received.”

“I don’t think you understand,” she said. “The people outside still believe we control that signal. Hickey is not sending them a rude message or something of that sort. He’s reading from our message and sending a misleading intelligence report over our signatures.”

Baxter looked at Hickey, and the comprehension of what she was saying came to him.

“And God only knows what he’s telling them. He’s mad, you know. Flynn is a paragon of rationality compared to Hickey.”

“Hickey is not mad,” said Baxter. “He’s something far more dangerous than mad.”

She looked down at the floor. “Anyway, I’ll not apologize for trying.”

“I’m not asking you to. But I think the next plan should be mine.”

“Really?” She spoke with a frigid tone in her voice. “I don’t think we have the time to wait for either your plan or your much discussed right moment.”

He answered without anger. “Just give me a few more minutes. I think I know a way out of here.”

Burke walked into the Monsignor’s inner office, followed by Inspector Langley. A uniformed officer handed them each a copy of the decoded message. Burke sat on Schroeder’s desk and read the message. He looked around at the people present— Schroeder, Commissioner Rourke, Roberta Spiegel, and Bellini—the hard core of the Desperate Dozen, with Langley and himself added or subtracted as the situation changed.

Captain Bellini looked up from his copy and spoke to Commissioner Rourke. “If this is accurate, I can take the Cathedral with an acceptable risk to my people. If the hostages are in the crypt, they have a fair chance of surviving … though I can’t guarantee that.” He looked at the message again. “They don’t seem to stand much chance with the Fenians anyway.” He stood. “I’ll need a few more hours to plan.”

Burke thought of Maureen’s statement at the sacristy gate. Twelve gunmen. Now Murphy said eight. He looked across the room at Bellini. “And if it’s not accurate?”

Bellini said, “How far off can they be? They’re heads-up people. Right? They can count. Look, I’m not real anxious to do this, but I feel a little better about it now.”

Langley said, “We can’t discount the possibility that one or both of these messages are from the Fenians.” He looked at his copy and compared it to the earlier message, which he held in his hand. “I’m a little confused. Something is wrong here.” He looked up. “Bellini, as an intelligence officer, I’d advise you not to believe either of these.”

Bellini looked distraught. “Well, where the hell does that put me? Square fucking one, that’s where.”

Roberta Spiegel said, “Whether or not we believe either of these messages, everybody in the Cardinal’s residence and in the next room is reading this last message, and they will come to their own conclusions.” She looked at Rourke. “This justifies a preemptive attack, Commissioner. That’s what’s going through their minds out there.” She turned to Bellini. “Captain, be prepared to mount an attack at very short notice.”

Bellini nodded distractedly.

The door opened, and Monsignor Downes came into the office. “Did someone want to see me?”

The five men looked at each other questioningly, then Roberta Spiegel said, “Yes, I asked to see you.”

Downes remained standing.

The Mayor’s aide thought a moment, then said, “Monsignor, neither the Mayor nor myself nor anyone wants to do anything that will harm this church or endanger the lives of the hostages. However—”

The Monsignor’s body stiffened.

“However, if the police and my office and the people in Washington decide that negotiation is no longer possible and that there is a clear and immediate danger to the hostages … will you and the diocese stand behind our decision to send in the Emergency Services Division?”

Monsignor Downes stood motionless without answering.

Spiegel said to Bellini, “Give the Monsignor a copy of that message.”

Downes took the paper and read it, then looked at Roberta Spiegel. “I’ll have to check with the Vicar General. I cannot take the responsibility for this on my own.” He turned and left the room.

Roberta Spiegel said, “Every time we uncover another layer of this problem I see how much we’ve underestimated Flynn. We’re sandbagged pretty badly all around, and as the time slips by it’s obvious that the easiest course of action is surrender— ours, not Flynn’s.”

Langley said, “Even surrender is not so easy. We may give in, but that doesn’t mean Washington, London, or Dublin will.”

Commissioner Rourke said to Bellini, “Captain, the only thing we can do unilaterally, without anyone’s permission except the Mayor’s, is to attack.”

Bellini answered, “That’s always the easiest decision, sir—it’s the execution that gets a little sticky.”

Schroeder spoke up. “I get the feeling you’ve given up on the negotiations.”

Everyone looked at him. Burke said, “Captain, you’re still the best hope we’ve got. If there’s any middle ground between our capitulation and an attack, I’m sure you’ll find it. Brian Flynn said, however, that there was no middle ground, and I think he was telling us the truth. Dawn or dead.”

Maureen watched Hickey as he spoke to the Cardinal and Father Murphy at the confessional. She said to Baxter, “He’s questioning them about the buzzer and about the first message.”

Baxter nodded, then stood. “Let’s pace a bit and stretch our legs. We’ll talk.”

They began walking across the altar sanctuary toward the throne, a distance of forty feet, then turned and walked back. As they walked, Baxter inclined his head. “Look over there—at the brass plate.”

Maureen glanced to the right of the altar. Beyond the sacristy staircase was the large brass plate through which Hickey and Megan Fitzgerald had descended with the suitcases.

Baxter looked over the length of the Cathedral. “I’ve been analyzing this building. When Hickey and Fitzgerald came up from that plate, they had earth on their hands and knees. So it must be mostly crawl space. There must be large areas that are unlit or badly lit. We have an area of almost a city block in which to disappear. If we can lift that plate quickly and drop into that space, they could never flush us out.”

As they paced back toward the right side of the altar the plate came into view again. She said, “Even if we could raise the plate and drop below before we were shot, we wouldn’t be free, and no one on the outside would know we were down there.”

“We would know we weren’t up here.”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s the point, isn’t it?” They walked in silence for a few minutes, then Maureen said, “How do you plan to do it?”

Baxter outlined his plan.

Father Murphy and the Cardinal entered the sanctuary, and both Maureen and Baxter noticed that the two priests looked very pale. Father Murphy looked from Maureen to Baxter. “Hickey knows, of course.”

The Cardinal spoke. “I would have had no objection to trying to signal the rectory.” He looked at Murphy sharply, then at Baxter and Maureen. “You must keep me informed—beforehand—of your plans.”

Baxter nodded. “We’re about to do that, Your Eminence. We’re considering an escape plan. We want you both to come with us.”

The Cardinal shook his head and said emphatically, “My place is here.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then said, “But I’m ready to give you my blessing.” He turned to Father Murphy. “You may go if you choose.”

Murphy shook his head and addressed Maureen and Baxter. “I can’t leave without His Eminence. But I’ll help you if I can.”

Maureen looked at the three men. “Good. Let’s work out the details and the timing.” She looked at her watch. “At nine o’clock, we go.”

CHAPTER 33

Captain Bellini said to Monsignor Downes as the Rector walked into the office, “Have you found the plans to the Cathedral yet?”

The Monsignor shook his head. “The staff is looking here and at the diocese building. But I don’t believe we ever had a set on file.”

Commissioner Rourke said to Langley, “What are you doing about finding the architect, Gordon Stillway?”

Langley lit a cigarette and took his time answering. He said finally, “Detectives went to his office on East Fifty-third. It was closed, of course—”

Rourke interrupted. “Are you getting a court order to go in?”

Langley noticed that the Deputy Commissioner was becoming more assertive. By midnight he’d probably try to give an order. Langley said, “Actually, someone already got in—without the benefit of a court order. No Cathedral blueprints. The detectives are trying to find a roster of employees. That’s apparently missing also.”

Monsignor Downes cleared his throat and said, “I don’t approve of an assault … but it must be planned for, I suppose …” He looked at the bookcase and said, “Among those books you’ll find about five that are pictorial studies of the Cathedral. Some have plans in them, very sketchy plans—for tourists to follow when they walk on the main floor. The interior pictures are very good, though, and may be helpful.”

Bellini went to the bookcase and began scanning the shelves.

Burke stood. “There may be a set of blueprints in Stillway’s apartment. No one’s answering the phone, and the detective we have stationed there says no one’s answering the door. I’m going over there now.”

Schroeder stood also. “You can’t leave here. Flynn said—”

Burke turned on him. “The hell with Flynn.”

Roberta Spiegel said, “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

Langley ripped a page from his notebook. “Here’s the address. Don’t gain entry by illegal means.”

Monsignor Downes said, “If you should find Gordon Stillway, remember he’s a very old man. Don’t excite him.”

“I don’t do anything illegal. I don’t excite people.” Burke turned and walked out into the adjoining office. A heavy cloud of blue smoke hung at face level over the crowded outer office. Burke pushed his way into the hall and went down the stairs. The rectory offices on the ground floor were filled with uniformed police commanders directing the field operations. Burke approached a captain sitting at a desk and showed his badge case. “I need a squad car and a maniac to drive it.”

The captain looked up from a map of midtown. “Do you? Well, the area on the other side of the cordon is jammed solid with people and vehicles. Where is it you’d like to go in such a hurry, Lieutenant?”

“Gramercy Park. Pronto-like.”

“Well, make your way to the IRT station on Lex.”

“Bullshit.” He grabbed a phone and went through the switchboard to the Monsignor’s office. “Langley, is the helicopter still in the Palace courtyard? Good. Call and get it revved up.”

Burke walked out of the rectory into Fifty-first Street and breathed in the cold, bracing air that made him feel better. The sleet was tapering off, but the wind was still strong. He walked into the deserted intersection of Fifty-first and Madison.

An eerie silence hung over the lamplit streets around the Cathedral, and in the distance he could see the barricades of squad cars, buses, and sanitation trucks that made up the cordon. Strands of communication wire ran over the sleet-covered streets and sidewalks. Sentries stood silhouetted against half-lit buildings, and National Guardsmen cruised by in jeeps, rifles pointed upward. Bullhorns barked in the wintry air, and policemen patrolled the sanitized area with shotguns. Burke heard their footsteps crunching in the unshoveled ice and heard his own quickening pace. As he walked, he thought of Belfast and, though he’d never been there, felt he knew the place. He turned up his collar and walked faster.

Across Madison Avenue a solitary figure on horseback rode slowly into the north wind. He stared at the rider, Betty Foster, as she passed beneath a streetlight. She didn’t seem to notice him, and he walked on.

The wind dropped, and he heard in the distance, past the perimeter of the cordon, the sounds of music and singing. New York would not be denied its party. Burke passed the rear of the Lady Chapel, then approached the Cardinal’s residence, and through the lace curtains on a groundfloor window he saw ESD men standing in a room. A lieutenant was briefing them, and Burke could see a chalkboard. Win this one for the Gipper, lads. Through another window on the corner Burke saw well-dressed men and women, the Governor and Mayor among them, crowded around what was probably a buffet. They didn’t exactly look like they were enjoying themselves, but they didn’t look as grim as the men around the chalkboard either.

In the intersection Burke turned and looked back at the Cathedral illuminated by its garden floodlights. A soft luminescence passed through the stained-glass windows and cast a colored shadow over the white street. It was a serene picture, postcard pretty: ice-covered branches of bare lindens and glistening expanses of undisturbed sleet. Perhaps more serene than it had ever been in this century—the surrounding area cleared of cars and people, and the buildings darkened….

Something out of place caught his eye, and he looked up at the two towers where light shone through the ripped louvers. In the north tower—the bell tower—he saw a shadow moving, a solitary figure circling from louver to louver, cold, probably edgy, watchful. In the south tower there was also a figure, standing motionless. Two people, one in each tower—the only eyes that stared out of the besieged Cathedral. So much depended on them, thought Burke. He hoped they weren’t the panicky type.

The police command helicopter followed Lexington Avenue south. Below, Burke could see that traffic was beginning to move again, or at least what passed for moving traffic in Manhattan. Rotating beacons at every intersection indicated the scope of the police action below. The towering buildings of midtown gave way to the lower buildings in the old section of Gramercy Park, and the helicopter dropped altitude.

Burke could see the lamps of the small private park encircled by elegant town houses. He pointed, and the pilot swung the craft toward the open area and turned on the landing lights. The helicopter settled into a small patch of grass, and Burke jumped out and walked quickly toward the high wrought-iron fence. He rattled the bars of a tall gate but found it was locked. On the sidewalk a crowd of people stared back at him curiously. Burke said, “Is anyone there a keyholder?”

No one answered.

Burke peered between the bars, his hands wrapped around the cold iron. He thought of the zoo gate that morning, the ape house, the sacristy gate, and all the prisons he’d ever seen. He thought of Long Kesh and Crumlin Road, Lubianka and Dachau. He thought that there were too many iron bars and too many people staring at each other through them. He shouted with a sudden and unexpected anger, “Come on, damn it! Who’s got a key?”

An elderly, well-dressed woman came forward and produced an ornate key. Without a word she unlocked the gate, and Burke slipped out quickly and pushed roughly through the crowd.

He approached a stately old town house across the street and knocked sharply on the door. A patrolman opened the door, and Burke held up his badge, brushing by him into the small lobby. A single plainclothesman sat in the only chair, and Burke introduced himself perfunctorily.

The man answered through a wide yawn, “Detective Lewis.” He stood as though with some effort.

Burke said, “Any word on Stillway?”

The detective shook his head.

“Get a court order yet?”

“Nope.”

Burke began climbing the stairs. When he was a rookie, an old cop once said to him, “Everybody lives on the top floor. Everybody gets robbed on the top floor. Everybody goes nuts on the top floor. Everybody dies on the top floor.” Burke reached the top floor, the fourth. Two apartments had been made out of what was once probably the servants’ quarters. He found Stillway’s door and pressed the buzzer.

The detective climbed the stairs behind him. “No one home.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Burke looked at the three lock-cylinders in a vertical row, ranging in age from very old to very new, showing the progression of panic with each passing decade. He turned to the detective. “Want to put your shoulder to that?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.” Burke moved to a narrow staircase behind a small door. “Stay here.” He went up the stairs and came out onto the roof, then went down the rear fire escape and stopped at Stillway’s window.

The apartment was dark except for the yellow glow of a clock radio. There was no grate on the window, and Burke drew his gun and brought it through the old brittle glass above the sash lock. He reached in, unlatched the catch, and threw the sash up, then dropped into the room and moved away from the window in a crouch, his gun held out in front of him with both hands.

He steadied his breathing and listened. His eyes became accustomed to the dark, and he began to make out shadows and shapes. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, nothing smelled; there was nothing that wanted to kill him, and, he sensed, nothing that had been killed there. He rose, found a lamp, and turned it on.

The large studio apartment was in stark modern contrast to the world around it. Bone-white walls, track lighting, chromium furniture. The secret modern world of an old architect who specialized in Gothic restorations. Shame, shame, Gordon Stillway.

He walked toward the hall door, gun still drawn, looking into the dark corners as he moved. Everything was perfectly ordinary; nothing was out of place—no crimson on the white rug, no gore on the shiny chromium. Burke holstered his revolver and opened the door. He motioned to the detective. “Back window broken. Cause to suspect a crime in progress. Fill out a report.”

The detective winked and moved toward the stairs.

Burke closed the door and looked around. He found a file cabinet beside a drafting table and opened the middle drawer alphabetized J to S. He was not too surprised to find that between St.-Mark’s-in-the-Bouwerie and St. Paul the Apostle there was nothing but a slightly larger space than there should have been.

Burke saw a telephone on the counter of the kitchenette and dialed the rectory, got a fast busy-signal on the trunk line, dialed the operator, got a recording telling him to dial again, and slammed down the receiver. He found Gordon Stillway’s bar in a shelf unit and chose a good bourbon.

The phone rang and Burke answered, “Hello.”

Langley’s voice came through the earpiece. “Figured you couldn’t get an open line. What’s the story? Body in the library?”

“No body. No Stillway. The Saint Patrick’s file is missing, too.”

Langley said, “Interesting …” He paused, then said, “We’re having no luck in our other inquiries either.”

Burke heard someone talking loudly in the background. “Is that Bellini?”

Langley said quietly, “Yeah. He’s going into his act. Pay no attention.”

Burke lit a cigarette. “I’m not having a good Saint Patrick’s Day, Inspector.”

“March eighteenth doesn’t look real promising either.” He drew a long breath. “There are blueprints in this city somewhere, and there are other architects, maybe engineers, who know this place. We could have them all by midmorning tomorrow—but we don’t have that long. Flynn has thought this all out. Right down to snatching Stillway and the blueprints.”

Burke said, “I wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that if Flynn had Stillway, then Stillway would be in the Cathedral where he’d do the most good?”

“Maybe he is in there.”

Burke thought a moment. “I don’t know. Flynn would tell us if he had the architect. He’d tell us he knows ways to blow the place by mining the hidden passages—if any. He’s an intelligent man who knows how to get maximum mileage from everything he does. Think about it.” Burke looked around the tidy room. A copy of the New York Post lay on the couch, and he pulled the telephone cord as he walked to it. A front-page picture showed a good fist-flying scene of the disturbance in front of the Cathedral at noon. The headline ran: DEMONSTRATION MARS PARADE. A subline said: BUT THE IRISH MARCH. The special evening editions would have better stuff than that.

Langley’s voice came into the earpiece. “Burke, you still there?”

Burke looked up. “Yeah. Look, Stillway was here. Brought home the evening paper and …”

“And?”

Burke walked around the room holding the phone and receiver. He opened a closet near the front door and spoke into the phone. “Wet topcoat. Wet hat. No raincoat. No umbrella. No briefcase. He came home in the sleet, changed, and went out again carrying his briefcase, which contained, I guess, the Saint Patrick’s file.”

“What color are his eyes? Okay, I’ll buy it. Where’d he go?”

“Probably went with somebody who had a good set of credentials and a plausible story. Somebody who talked his way into the apartment …”

Langley said, “A Fenian who got to him too late to get him into the Cathedral—”

“Maybe. But maybe somebody else doesn’t want us to have the blueprints or Stillway….”

“Strange business.”

“Think about it, Inspector. Meanwhile, get a Crime Scene Unit over here, then get me an open line so I can call Ferguson.”

“Okay. But hurry back. Schroeder’s getting nervous.”

Burke hung up and took his glass of bourbon on a tour around the apartment. Nothing else yielded any hard clues, but he was getting a sense of the old architect. Not the type of man to go out into the cold sleet, he thought, unless duty called. The phone rang. Burke picked it up and gave the operator Ferguson’s number, then said, “Call back in ten minutes. I’ll need to make another call.”

After six rings the phone was answered, and Jack Ferguson came on the line, his voice sounding hesitant. “Hello?”

“Burke. Thought I’d get the coroner.”

“You may well have. Where the hell have you been?”

“Busy. Well, it looks like you get the good-spy award this year.”

“Keep it. Why haven’t you called? I’ve been waiting for your call—”

“Didn’t my office call you?”

“Yes. Very decent of them. Said I was a marked man. Who’s on to me, then?”

“Well, Flynn for one. Probably the New York Irish Republican Army, Provisional Wing, for another. And I think you’ve outlived your usefulness to Major Martin— it was Martin you were playing around with, wasn’t it?”

Ferguson stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, “He told me he could head off the Fenians with my help.”

“Did he, now? Well, the only people he wanted to head off were the New York police.”

Again, Ferguson didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “Bastards. They’re all such bloody bastards. Why is everyone so committed to this senseless violence?”

“Makes good press. What is your status, Jack?”

“Status? My status is I’m scared. I’m packed and ready to leave town. My wife’s sister came and took her to her place. God, I wouldn’t have waited around for anyone else, Burke. I should have left an hour ago.”

“Well, why did you wait around? Got something for me?”

“Does the name Terri O’Neal mean anything to you?”

“Man or woman?”

“Woman.”

Burke thought a moment. “No.”

“She’s been kidnapped.”

“Lot of that going around today.”

“I think she has something to do with what’s happening.”

“In what way?”

Ferguson said, “Hold on a moment. I hear someone in the hall. Hold on.”

Burke said quickly, “Wait. Just tell me—Jack—Shit.” Burke held the line. He heard Ferguson’s footsteps retreating. He waited for the crash, the shot, the scream, but there was nothing.

Ferguson’s voice came back on the line, his breathing loud in the earpiece. “Damned Rivero brothers. Got some señoritas pinned in the alcove, squeezing their tits. God, this used to be a nice Irish building. Boys would go in the basement and get blind drunk. Never looked at a pair of tits until they were thirty. Where was I?”

“Terri O’Neal.”

“Right. I got this from a Boston Provo. He and some other lads were supposed to snatch this O’Neal woman last night if a man named Morgan couldn’t pick her up in a disco. I assume Morgan picked her up—it’s easy today, like going out for a pack of cigarettes. You know? Anyway, now these Boston lads think it was part of what happened today, and they’re not happy about what the Fenians did.”

“Neither are we.”

“Of course,” added Ferguson, “it could all be coincidence.”

“Yeah.” Burke thought. Terri O’Neal. It was a familiar name, but he couldn’t place it. He was sure it wasn’t in the files, because women in the files were still rare enough to remember every one of them. “Terri O’Neal.”

“That’s what the gentleman said. Now get me the hell out of here.”

“Okay. Stay put. Don’t open the door to strangers.”

“How long will it take to get a car here?”

“I’m not sure. Hang on. You’re covered.”

“That’s what Langley told Timmy O’Day last summer.”

“Mistakes happen. Listen, we’ll have a drink next week … lunch—”

“Fuck lunch—”

Burke hung up. He stared at the telephone for several minutes. He had a bad taste in his mouth, and he stubbed out his cigarette, then sipped on the bourbon. The telephone rang, and he picked it up. “Operator, get me Midtown North Precinct.”

After a short wait the phone rang, and a deep voice said, “Sergeant Gonzalez, Midtown North.”

“This is Lieutenant Burke, Intelligence.” He gave his badge number. “Do you have clear radio commo with your cars?”

The harried desk sergeant answered, “Yeah, the jamming isn’t affecting us here.”

Burke heard the recorder go on and heard the beep at four-second intervals. “You check me out after you hang up. Okay?”

“Right.”

“Can you get a car over to 560 West Fifty-fifth Street? Apartment 5D. Pick up and place in protective custody—name of Jack Ferguson.”

“What for?”

“His life is in danger.”

“So is every citizen’s life in this city. Comes with the territory. West Fifty-fifth? I’m surprised he’s not dead yet.”

“He’s an informant. Real important.”

“I don’t have many cars available. Things are a mess—”

“Yeah, I heard. Listen, he’ll want to go to the Port Authority building, but keep him in the station house.”

“Sounds fucked up.”

“He’s involved with this Cathedral thing. Just do it, okay? I’ll take care of you. Erin go bragh, Gonzalez.”

“Yeah, hasta la vista.”

Burke hung up and left the apartment. He went out into the street and walked back toward the park, where a crowd had gathered outside the fence. As he walked he thought about Ferguson. He knew he owed Ferguson a better shot at staying alive. He knew he should pick him up in the helicopter. But the priorities were shifting again. Gordon Stillway was important. Brian Flynn was important, and Major Martin was important. Jack Ferguson was not so important any longer. Unless … Terri O’Neal. What in the name of God was that all about? Why was that name so familiar?

CHAPTER 34

John Hickey sat alone at the chancel organ. He raised his field glasses to the southeast triforium. Frank Gallagher sat precariously on the parapet, reading a Bible; his back was to a supporting column, his sniper rifle was across his knees, and he looked very serene. Hickey marveled at a man who could hold two opposing philosophies in his head at the same time. He shouted to Gallagher, “Look lively.”

Hickey focused the glasses on George Sullivan in the long southwest triforium, who was also sitting on the parapet. He was playing a small mouth organ too softly to be heard, except by Abby Boland across the nave. Hickey focused on her as she leaned out across the parapet, looking at Sullivan like a moonstruck girl hanging from a balcony in some cheap melodrama.

Hickey shifted the glasses to the choir loft. Megan was talking to Leary again, and Leary appeared to be actually listening this time. Hickey sensed that they were discovering a common inhumanity. He thought of two vampires on a castle wall in the moonlight, bloodless and lifeless, not able to consummate their meeting in a normal way but agreeing to hunt together.

He raised the glasses and focused on Flynn, who was sitting alone in the choir benches that rose up toward the towering brass organ pipes. Beyond the pipes the great rose window sat above his head like an alien moon, suffused with the night-lights of the Avenue. The effect was dramatic, striking, thought Hickey, and unintentionally so, like most of the memorable tableaux he had seen in his life. Flynn seemed uninterested in Megan or Leary, or in the blueprints spread across his knees. He was staring out into space, and Hickey saw that he was toying with his ring.

Hickey put down the glasses. He had the impression that the troops were getting bored, even claustrophobic, if that were possible in this space. Cabin fever— Cathedral fever, whatever; it was taking its toll, and the night was yet young. Why was it, he thought, that the old, with so little time left, had the most patience? Well, he smiled, age was not so important in here. Everyone had almost the same lifespan left … give or take a few heartbeats.

Hickey looked at the hostages on the sanctuary. The four of them were speaking intently. No boredom there. Hickey cranked the field phone beside him. “Attic? Status report.”

Jean Kearney’s voice came back with a breathy stutter. “Cold as hell up here.”

Hickey smiled. “You and Arthur should do what we used to do when I was a lad to keep warm in winter.” He waited for a response, but there was none, so he said, “We used to chop wood.” He laughed, then cranked the phone again. “South tower. See anything interesting?”

Rory Devane answered, “Snipers with flak jackets on every roof. The area as far south as Forty-eighth Street is cleared. Across the way there are hundreds of people at the windows.” He added, “I feel as though I’m in a goldfish bowl.”

Hickey lit his pipe, and it bobbed in his mouth as he spoke. “Hold your head up, lad—they’re watching your face through their glasses.” He thought, And through their sniper scopes. “Stare back at them. You’re the reason they’re all there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hickey rang the bell tower. “Status report.”

Donald Mullins answered, “Status unchanged … except that more soldiers are arriving.”

Hickey drew on his pipe. “Did you get your corned beef, lad? Want more tea?”

“Yes, more tea, please. I’m cold. It’s very cold here.”

Hickey’s voice was low. “It was cold on Easter Monday, 1916, on the roof of the General Post Office. It was cold when the British soldiers marched us to Kilmainham Jail. It was cold in Stonebreaker’s Yard where they shot my father and Padraic Pearse and fifteen of our leaders. It’s cold in the grave.”

Hickey picked up the Cathedral telephone and spoke to the police switchboard operator in the rectory. “Get me Schroeder.” He waited through a series of clicks, then said, “Did you find Gordon Stillway yet?”

Schroeder’s voice sounded startled. “What?”

“We cleaned out his office after quitting time—couldn’t do it before, you understand. That might have tipped someone as dense as even Langley or Burke. But we had trouble getting to Stillway in the crowd. Then the riot broke.”

Schroeder’s voice faltered, then he said, “Why are you telling us this—?”

“We should have killed him, but we didn’t. He’s either in a hospital or drunk somewhere, or your good friend Martin has murdered him. Stillway is the key man for a successful assault, of course. The blueprints by themselves are not enough. Did you find a copy in the rectory? Well, don’t tell me, then. Are you still there, Schroeder?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you nodded off.” Hickey saw Flynn moving toward the organ keyboard in the choir loft. “Listen, Schroeder, we’re going to play some hymns on the bells later. I want a list of eight requests from the NYPD when I call again. All right?”

“All right.”

“Nothing tricky now. Just good solid Christian hymns that sound nice on the bells. Some Irish folk songs, too. Give the city a lift. Beannacht.” He hung up. After uncovering the keyboard and turning on the chancel organ, he put his thin hands over the keys and began playing a few random notes. He nodded with exaggerated graciousness toward the hostages who were watching and began singing as he played. “In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty …” His voice came out in a well-controlled bass, rich and full, very unlike his speaking voice. “ ’Twas where I first met my sweet Molly Malone …”

Brian Flynn sat at the choir organ and turned the key to start it. He placed his hands over the long curved keyboard and played a chord. On the organ was a large convex mirror set at an angle that allowed Flynn to see most of the Cathedral below—used, he knew, by the organist to time the triumphal entry of a procession or to set the pace for an overly eager bride, or a reluctant one. He smiled as he joined with the smaller organ below and looked at Megan, who had just come from the south tower. “Give us the pleasure of your sweet voice, Megan. Come here and turn on this microphone.”

Megan looked at him but made no move toward the microphone. Leary’s eyes darted between Flynn and Megan.

Flynn said, “Ah, Megan, you’ve no idea how important song is to revolution.” He turned on the microphone. Hickey was going through the song again, and Flynn joined in with a soft tenor. “As she wheeled her wheelbarrowThrough streets wide and narrowCrying cockles, and mussels,Alive, alive-o …”

John Hickey smiled, and his eyes misted as the music carried him back across the spans of time and distance to the country he had not seen in over forty years. “She was a fishmonger,And sure ’twas no wonder,For her father and mother wereFishmongers, too,And they each wheel’d their barrow …”

Hickey saw his father’s face again on the night before the soldiers took him out to be shot. He remembered being dragged out of their cell to what he thought was his own place of execution, but they had beaten him and dumped him on the road outside Kilmainham Jail. He remembered clearly the green sod laid carefully over his father’s grave the next day, his mother’s face at the graveside…. “And she died of a feverAnd no one could save her,And that was the end of sweetMolly Malone,But her ghost wheels her barrow …”

He had wanted to die then, and had tried to die a soldier’s death every day since, but it wasn’t in his stars. And when at last he thought death had come in that mean little tenement across the river, he found he was required to go on … to complete one last mission. But it would be over soon … and he would be home again.

CHAPTER 35

Bert Schroeder looked at the memo given him by the Hostage Unit’s psychologist, Dr. Korman, who had been monitoring each conversation from the adjoining office. Korman had written: Flynn is a megalomaniac and probably a paranoid schizophrenic. Hickey is paranoid also and has an unfulfilled death wish. Schroeder almost laughed. What the hell other kind of death wish could you have if you were still alive?

How, wondered Schroeder, could a New York psychologist diagnose a man like Flynn, from a culture so different from his own? Or Hickey, from a different era? How could he diagnose anybody based on telephone conversations? Yet he did it at least fifty times a year for Schroeder. Sometimes his diagnoses turned out to be fairly accurate; other times they did not. He always wondered if Korman was diagnosing him as well.

He looked up at Langley, who had taken off his jacket in the stuffy room. His exposed revolver lent, thought Schroeder, a nice menacing touch for the civilians. Schroeder said to him, “Do you have much faith in these things?”

Langley looked up from his copy of the report. “I’m reminded of my horoscope— the language is such that it fits anybody … nobody’s playing with a full deck. You know?”

Schroeder nodded and turned a page of the report and stared at it without reading. He hadn’t given Korman the psy-profiles on either man yet and might never give them to the psychologist. The more varying opinions he had, the more he would be able to cover himself if things went bad. He said to Langley, “Regarding Korman’s theory of Hickey’s unfulfilled death wish, how are we making out on that court order for exhumation?”

Langley said, “A judge in Jersey City was located. We’ll be able to dig up Hickey … the grave, by midnight.”

Schroeder nodded. Midnight—grave digging. He gave a small shudder and looked down at the psychologist’s report again. It went on for three typewritten pages, and as he read Schroeder had the feeling that Dr. Korman wasn’t all there either. As to the real state of mind of these two men, Schroeder believed only God knew that—not Korman or anyone in the room, and probably not the two men themselves.

Schroeder looked at the three other people remaining in the room—Langley, Spiegel, and Bellini. He was aware that they were waiting for him to say something. He cleared his throat. “Well … I’ve dealt with crazier people…. In fact, all the people I’ve dealt with have been crazy. The funny thing is that the proximity to death seems to snap them out of it, temporarily. They act very rational when they realize what they’re up against—when they see the forces massed against them.”

Langley said, “Only the two people in the towers have that visual stimulation, Bert. The rest are in a sort of cocoon. You know?”

Schroeder shot Langley an annoyed look.

Joe Bellini said suddenly, “Fuck this psycho-crap. Where is Stillway?” He looked at Langley.

Langley shrugged.

Bellini said, “If Flynn has him in there, we’ve got a real problem.”

Langley blew a smoke ring. “We’re looking into it.”

Schroeder said, “Hickey is a liar. He knows where Stillway is.”

Spiegel shook her head. “I don’t think he does.”

Langley added, “Hickey was very indiscreet to mention Major Martin over the phone like that. Flynn wouldn’t have wanted Martin’s name involved publicly. He doesn’t want to make trouble between Washington and London at this stage.”

Schroeder nodded absently. He was certain the governments wouldn’t reach an accord anyway—or, if they did, it wouldn’t include releasing prisoners in Northern Ireland. He had nothing to offer the Fenians but their lives and a fair trial, and they didn’t seem much interested in either.

Captain Bellini paced in front of the fireplace. “I won’t expose my men to a fight unless I know every column, pew, balcony, and altar in that place.”

Langley looked down at the six large picture books on the coffee table. “Those should give you a fair idea of the layout. Some good interior shots. Passable floor plans. Have your men start studying them. Now.”

Bellini looked at him. “Is that the best intelligence you can come up with?” He picked up the books in one of his big hands and walked toward the door. “Damn it, if there’s a secret way into that place, I’ve got to know.” He began pacing in tight circles. “They’ve had it all their way up to now … but I’ll get them.” He looked at the silent people in the room. “Just keep them talking, Schroeder. When they call on me to move, I’ll be ready. I’ll get those potato-eating Mick sons of bitches—I’ll bring Flynn’s balls to you in a teacup.” He walked out and slammed the door behind him.

Roberta Spiegel looked at Schroeder. “Is he nuts?”

Schroeder shrugged. “He goes through this act every time a situation goes down. He’s getting himself psyched. He gets crazier as the thing drags on.”

Roberta Spiegel stood and reached into Langley’s shirt pocket and took a cigarette.

Langley watched her as she lit the cigarette. There was something masculine and at the same time sensuously feminine about all her movements. A woman who had an obvious power over the Mayor—although exactly what type of power no one knew for sure. And, thought Langley, she was much sharper than His Honor. When it came down to the final decision on which so many lives hung, she would be the one to make it. Roberta Spiegel, whose name was known to nobody outside of New York. Roberta Spiegel, who had no ambitions of elected office, no civil service career to worry about, no one to answer to.

Spiegel sat on the edge of Schroeder’s desk and leaned toward him, then glanced back at Langley. She said, “Let me be frank while we three are alone—” She bit her lip thoughtfully, then continued. “The British are not going to give in, as you know. Bellini doesn’t have much of a chance of saving those people or this Cathedral. Washington is playing games, and the Governor is—well, between us, an asshole. His Honor is—how shall I put it?—not up to the task. And the Church is going to become a problem if we give them enough time.” She leaned very close to Schroeder. “So … it’s up to you, Captain. More than any time in your distinguished career it’s all up to you—and, if you don’t mind my saying so, Captain, you don’t seem to be handling this with your usual aplomb.”

Schroeder’s face reddened. He cleared his throat. “If you … if the Mayor would like me to step aside—”

She came down from the desk. “There comes a time when every man knows he’s met his match. I think we’ve all met our match here at this Cathedral. We can’t even seem to win a point. Why?”

Schroeder again cleared his throat. “Well … it always seems that way in the beginning. They’re the aggressors, you understand, and they’ve had months to think everything out. In time the situation will begin to reverse—”

Spiegel slammed her hand on the desk. “They know that, damn it! That’s why they’ve given us no time. Blitzkrieg, Schroeder, blitzkrieg. Lightning war. You know the word. They’re not hanging around while we get our act together. Dawn or dead. That’s the truest thing anyone’s said all night.”

Schroeder tried to control his voice. “Miss Spiegel … you see, I’ve had many years … let me explain. We are at a psychological disadvantage because of the hostages…. But put yourself in the Cathedral. Think of the disadvantages they must overcome. They don’t want to die—no matter what they pretend to the contrary. That and that alone is the bottom line of their thinking. And the hostages are keeping them alive—therefore, they won’t kill the hostages. Therefore, at dawn nothing will happen. Nothing. It never does. Never.”

Spiegel let out a long breath. She turned toward Langley and reached out not for another cigarette but for his pistol. She pulled it from his shoulder holster and turned to Schroeder. “See this? Men used to settle their arguments with this.” She looked closely at the blue-black metal and continued. “We’re supposed to be beyond that now, but I’ll tell you something. There’s more of this in the world than there are hostage negotiators. I’ll tell you something else—I’d rather send Bellini in with his guns than wait around with my finger up my ass to see what happens at dawn.” She dropped the pistol to her side and leaned over the desk. “If you can’t get a firm extension of the dawn deadline, then we go in while we still have the cover of darkness—before that self-destruct response levels this block.”

Schroeder sat motionless. “There is no self-destruct response.”

Spiegel said, “God, I wish I had your nerves—it is nerves, isn’t it?” She tossed the revolver back to Langley.

Langley holstered the gun. He looked at Spiegel. She got away with a great deal—the cigarettes, then the gun. She relieved him of his possessions with a very cavalier attitude. But maybe, he thought, it was just as well she didn’t observe the cautious etiquette that men did in these situations.

Roberta Spiegel moved away and looked at the two police officers. “If you want to know what’s really happening around you, don’t listen to those politicians out there. Listen to Brian Flynn and John Hickey.” She looked at a large wooden crucifix over Schroeder’s head and then out through the window at the Cathedral. “If Flynn or Hickey say dawn or dead, they mean dawn or dead. Understand who you’re dealing with.”

Schroeder nodded, almost imperceptibly. For a split second he had seen the face of the enemy, but it disappeared again just as quickly.

There was a long silence in the room, then Spiegel continued softly, “They can sense our fear … smell it. They also sense that we’re not going to give them what they want.” She looked at Schroeder. “I wish the people out there could give you the kind of direction you should have. But they’ve confused your job with theirs. They expect miracles from you, and you’re starting to believe you can deliver them. You can’t. Only Joe Bellini can deliver them a miracle—a military miracle—none killed, no wounded, no damage. Bellini is looking better to the people out there. They’re losing faith in the long hard road that you represent. They’re fantasizing about a glorious successful military solution. So while you’re stalling the Fenians, don’t forget to stall the people in the other rooms, too.”

CHAPTER 36

Flynn and Hickey played the organs, and George Sullivan played the pipes. Eamon Farrell, Frank Gallagher, and Abby Boland sang “My Wild Irish Rose.” In the attic Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty lay huddled together on a catwalk above the choir loft. The pipes of the great organ reverberated through the board on which they lay. Pedar Fitzgerald sat with his back against the crypt door. He half closed his tired eyes and hummed.

Flynn felt the lessening of the tensions as people lost themselves in reveries. He could sense a dozen minds escaping the cold stone fortress. He glanced at Megan and Leary. Even they seemed subdued as they sat on the choir parapet, their backs to the Cathedral, drinking tea and sharing a cigarette. Flynn turned away from them and lost himself in the thunderous organ.

Father Murphy knelt motionless before the high altar. He glanced at his watch.

Harold Baxter paced across the sanctuary floor, trying to appear restless while his eyes darted around the Cathedral. He looked at his watch. No reason, he thought, to wait the remaining minutes. They might never get an opportunity as good as this. As he passed by Father Murphy, he said, “Thirty seconds.”

Maureen lay curled up on a pew, her face buried in her arms. One eye peered out, and she saw Baxter nod to her.

Baxter turned and walked back toward the throne. He passed close to the Cardinal and said, “Now.”

The Cardinal stood, came down from the throne, and walked to the communion rail. He opened the gate and strode swiftly down the center aisle.

Father Murphy heard Baxter say, “Go.” Murphy made the sign of the cross, rose quickly, and moved toward the side of the altar.

Flynn watched the movements on the sanctuary in the organ mirror as he played. He continued to play the lilting melody as he called out to Leary. “Turn around.”

Leary and Megan both jumped down from the parapet and spun around. Leary raised his rifle.

Hickey’s organ stopped, and Flynn’s organ died away on a long, lingering note. The singing stopped, and the Cathedral fell silent, all eyes on the Cardinal. Flynn spoke into the microphone as he looked in the mirror. “Stop where you are, Cardinal.”

Father Murphy opened the circuit-breaker box recessed into the side of the altar, pulled the switch, and the sanctuary area went dark. Baxter took three long strides, passed the sacristy staircase, and hit the floor, sliding across the marble toward the brass floorplate. Maureen rolled off the pew and crawled swiftly toward the rear of the sanctuary. Baxter’s fingers found the grip on the brass plate and lifted the heavy metal until its hinges locked in place. Maureen pivoted, and her legs found the opening in the floor.

The four people in the triforia were shouting wildly. A shot rang out from the choir loft, and the shouting stropped. Four shots exploded in quick succession from the triforia.

Maureen dropped through the hole and fell to the earth floor below.

Baxter felt something—a spent bullet, a piece of marble—slam into his chest, and he rocked backward on his haunches.

The Cardinal kept walking straight head, but no one looked at him any longer.

Father Murphy crawled to the sacristy staircase and collided with Pedar Fitzgerald running up the steps. Both men swung wildly at each other in the partial darkness.

Baxter caught his breath and lunged forward. His arms and shoulders hung into the opening, and his feet slid over the marble trying to find traction.

Maureen was shouting, “Jump! Jump!” She reached up and grabbed his dangling arm.

Five more shots rang out, splintering marble and ringing sharply from the brass plate. Baxter felt a sharp pain shoot across his back, and his body jerked convulsively. Five more shots whistled through the dark over his head. He was aware that Maureen was pulling on his right hand. He tried to drop headfirst into the hole, but someone was pulling on his legs. He heard a shout very close to his ear, and the firing stopped.

Maureen was hanging from his arm, yelling up to him, “Jump! For God’s sake, jump!”

Baxter heard his own voice, low and breathless. “Can’t. Got me. Run. Run.” Someone was pulling on his ankles, pulling him back from the hole. He felt Maureen’s grip on his arm loosen, then break away. A pair of strong hands rolled him over on his back, and he looked into the face of Pedar Fitzgerald, who was kneeling above him, holding the submachine gun to his throat. In the half-light Baxter saw that there was blood spreading over Fitzgerald’s neck and across his white shirt.

Fitzgerald looked down at him and spoke between labored breaths. “You stupid son of a bitch! I’ll kill you—you goddamned bastard.” He pounded his fist into Baxter’s face, then crawled over him to the hole and pointed the barrel of the gun down into the opening. He steadied himself and fired two long, deafening bursts into the darkness.

Baxter was dimly aware of a warm wetness seeping over the cold floor beneath him. His eyes tried to focus on the vaulted ceiling ten stories above his face, but all he saw were the blurry red spots of the Cardinals’ hanging hats. He heard footsteps running toward the altar, coming up the stairs, then saw faces hovering over him— Hickey, then a few seconds later Flynn and Megan Fitzgerald.

Baxter turned his head and saw Father Murphy lying near the stairs, his hands pressed to his face and blood running between his fingers. He heard Megan’s voice. “Pedar! Are you hit? Pedar?”

Baxter tried to raise his head to look for the Cardinal. Suddenly he saw Megan’s shoe flying into his face, and a red flash passed in front of his eyes, followed by blackness.

Flynn knelt beside Pedar Fitzgerald and pulled the barrel of the gun out of the hole. He touched Fitzgerald’s bloody neck wound. “Just grazed you, lad.” He called to Megan. “Take him back to his post. Quickly.”

Flynn lay prone at the edge of the opening and called down. “Maureen! Are you all right? Are you hit?”

Maureen knelt a few yards from the opening. Her body was trembling, and she took long breaths to steady herself. Her hands ran over her body, feeling for a wound.

Flynn called down again. “Are you hit?” His voice became anxious. “For God’s sake, answer me.”

She drew a deep breath and surprised herself by answering, “No.”

Flynn’s voice sounded more controlled. “Come back.”

“Go to hell.”

“Come back, Maureen, or we’ll shoot Baxter. We’ll shoot him and throw him down there where you can see him.”

“They’re all dead anyway.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Let Baxter speak to me.”

There was a pause, then Flynn said, “He’s unconscious.”

“Bloody murdering bastards. Let me speak to Father Murphy.”

“He’s … hurt. Wait. I’ll get the Cardinal—”

“Go to hell.” She knew she didn’t want to hear any of their voices; she just wanted to run. She called back, “Give it up, Brian. Before more people are killed, give it up.” Hesitantly she called, “Good-bye.”

She drew away from the opening until her back came into contact with the base of a column. She stared at the ladder that descended from the opening. She heard someone speaking in half-whispered tones, and she had a feeling someone was ready to come down.

Flynn’s voice called out again, “Maureen—you’re not the kind who would run out on your friends. Their lives depend on you.”

She felt a cold sweat break out over her body. She thought to herself, Brian, you make everything so damned hard. She stepped toward the opening but then hesitated. A new thought came into her mind. What would Brian do? He’d run. He always ran. And not out of cowardice but because he and all of them had long ago agreed that escape was the morally correct response to tight situations. Yet … he’d stayed with her when she was wounded. She vacillated between the column and the opening.

Flynn’s voice cut into the dark basement. “You’re a damned coward, Maureen. All right, then, Baxter’s gone.”

A shot rang out on the sacristy.

After the report died away he called out again. “Murphy is next.”

Maureen instinctively moved back against the column. She put her face in her hands. “Bastards!”

Flynn yelled, “The priest is next!”

She picked up her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. She peered into the darkness. Her eyes adjusted to the half-light, and she forced herself to evaulate the situation calmly. To her right was the outer wall of the sacristy staircase. If she followed it she’d find the foundation wall, beyond which was freedom. That was the way she had to go.

She looked quickly back and saw a pair of legs dropping from the opening. More of the body was revealed as it descended the ladder—Hickey. Above Hickey’s head another pair of legs appeared. Megan. Both of them held flashlights and pistols by their sides. Hickey turned his head and squinted into the blackness as he climbed down. Maureen crouched down beside the column.

Hickey’s voice rolled through the black, damp air. He spoke as to a child. “Coming for you, darlin’. Coming to get you. Come to old John, now. Don’t let the wicked Megan find you. Run to Mr. Hickey. Come on, then.” He laughed and jumped down the last few steps, switched on the flashlight, and turned toward her.

Megan was right behind him, her fiery red features looking sinister in the overhead light.

Maureen drew a long breath and held it.

CHAPTER 37

Schroeder stood tensed with the phone to his ear. He looked up at Langley, the only person left in the office. “Goddamn it—they’re not answering.”

Langley stood at the window, staring intently at the Cathedral. On the other side of the double doors phones were ringing and people were shouting.

One of the doors burst open, and Bellini ran in looking more agitated than when he had last left. He shouted, “I have orders from fucking Kline to go in if you can’t raise them!”

Schroeder looked up at him. “Get in here and close the door!” He yelled at the police operator, “Of course I want you to keep trying, you stupid ass!”

Bellini closed the door, walked to a chair, and fell into it. Sweat streamed down his pale face. “I … I’m not ready to go in….”

Schroeder said to Bellini impatiently, “How fucking long does it take to kill four hostages, Bellini? If they’re dead already, Kline can damned well wait until you have at least a half-assed idea of how to hit the place.”

Suddenly Flynn’s voice came over the speaker. “Schroeder?”

Schroeder answered quickly, “Yes—” He controlled his voice. “Yes, sir. Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

Schroeder cleared his throat and spoke into the phone. “What is happening in there?”

Flynn’s voice sounded composed. “An ill-advised attempt to escape.”

Schroeder sounded incredulous. “Escape?”

“That’s what I said.”

“No one is hurt?”

There was a long pause, then Flynn said, “Baxter and Murphy are wounded. Not badly.”

Schroeder looked at Langley and Bellini. He steadied his voice. “We’re sending in a doctor.”

“If they needed one, I’d tell you.”

“I’m sending in a doctor.”

“All right, but tell him before you send him that I’ll blow his brains out.”

Schroeder’s voice became angry, but it was a controlled anger, contrived almost, designed to show that shooting was the one thing he wouldn’t tolerate. “Damn you, Flynn, you said there’d be no shooting. You said—”

“It couldn’t be helped, really.”

Schroeder made his tone ominous. “Flynn, if you kill anyone—so help me God, if you hurt anyone, then we’re beyond the let’s-make-a-deal stage.”

“I understand the rules. Calm down, Schroeder.”

“Let me speak to each of the hostages. Now.”

“Hold on.” There was silence, then the Cardinal’s voice filled the room. “Captain, do you recognize my voice?”

Schroeder looked at the other two men, and they nodded. He said, “Yes, Your Eminence.”

The Cardinal spoke in a tone that suggested he was being coached and closely watched. “I’m all right. Mr. Baxter has received what they tell me is a grazing wound across his back and a ricochet wound in his chest. He’s resting and seems all right. Father Murphy was also hit by a ricocheting bullet—in the face—the jaw. He’s stunned but otherwise appears all right…. It was a miracle no one was killed.”

The three men in the room seemed to relax. There were murmurs from the adjoining office. Schroeder said, “Miss Malone?”

The Cardinal answered hesitantly, “She is alive. Not wounded. She is—”

Schroeder heard the phone being covered at the other end. He heard muffled voices, an angry exchange. He spoke into the receiver, “Hello? Hello?”

The Cardinal’s voice came back, “That’s all I can say.”

Schroeder spoke quickly, “Your Eminence, please don’t provoke these people. You must not endanger your own lives, because you’re also endangering other lives—”

The Cardinal replied in a neutral tone, “I’ll pass that on to the others.” He added, “Miss Malone is—”

Flynn’s voice suddenly came on the line. “Good advice from Captain Courageous. All right, you see no one is dead. Everyone calm down.”

“Let me speak to Miss Malone.”

“She stepped out for a moment. Later.” Flynn said abruptly, “Is everything set for my press conference?”

Schroeder’s voice turned calm. “We may need more time. The networks—”

“I have a message for America and the world, and I mean to deliver it.”

“Yes, you will. Be patient.”

“That’s not one of the Irish virtues, Schroeder.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true.” He felt it was time for a more personal approach. “I’m half Irish myself, and—”

“Really?”

“Yes, my mother’s people were from County Tyrone. Listen, I understand your frustrations and your anger—I had a great-uncle in the IRA. Family hero. Jailed by the English.”

“For what? Being a bore like his nephew?”

Schroeder ignored the remark. “I grew up with many of the same hates and prejudices that you—”

“You weren’t there, Schroeder. You weren’t there. You were here.”

“This won’t accomplish anything,” said Schroeder firmly. “You might make more enemies than friends by—”

“The people in here don’t need any more friends. Our friends are dead or in prison. Tell them to let our people go, Captain.”

“We’re trying very hard. The negotiations between London and Washington are progressing. I see a light at the end of the tunnel—”

“Are you sure that light isn’t a speeding train coming at you?”

Someone in the next room laughed.

Schroeder sat down and bit the tip off a cigar. “Listen, why don’t you show us some good faith and release one of the wounded hostages?”

“Which one?”

Schroeder sat up quickly. “Well … well …”

“Come on, then. Play God. Don’t ask anyone there. You tell me which one.” “

The one that’s the most badly wounded.”

Flynn laughed. “Very good. Here’s a counterproposal. Would you like the Cardinal instead? Think now. A wounded priest, a wounded Englishman, or a healthy Cardinal?”

Schroeder felt an anger rising in him and was disturbed that Flynn could produce that response. “Who’s the more seriously hurt?”

“Baxter.”

Schroeder hesitated. He looked around the room. His words faltered.

Flynn said, “Quickly!”

“Baxter.”

Flynn put a sad tone in his voice. “Sorry. The correct response was to ask for a Prince of the Church, of course. But you knew that, Bert. Had you said the Cardinal, I would have released him.”

Schroeder stared down at the unlit cigar. His voice was shaky. “I doubt that.”

“Don’t doubt me on things like that. I’d rather lose a hostage and make a point.”

Schroeder took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck. “We’re not trying to make this a contest to see who’s got more nerve, who’s got more … more …”

“Balls.”

“Yes. We’re not trying to do that. That’s the old police image. We’re rolling over for you.” He glanced at Bellini, who looked very annoyed. He continued, “No one here is going to risk the lives of innocent people—”

“Innocent? There are no innocent civilians in war any more. We’re all soldiers— soldiers by choice, by conscription, by implication, and by birth.” Flynn drew a breath, then said, “The good thing about a long guerrilla war is that everyone gets a chance for revenge at least once.” He paused. “Let’s drop this topic. I want that television now. Send Burke.”

Schroeder finally lit his cigar. “I’m sorry, he’s temporarily out of the building.”

“I told you I wanted him around. You see, Schroeder, you’re not so accommodating after all.”

“It was unavoidable. He’ll call you soon.” He paused, then changed the tone of his voice. “Listen, along the same lines—I mean, we’re building a rapport, as you said—can I ask you again to try to keep Mr. Hickey off the phone?”

Flynn didn’t answer.

Schroeder went on, “I’m not trying to start any trouble there, but he’s saying one thing and you’re saying another. I mean, he’s very negative and very … pessimistic. I just wanted to make you aware of that in case you didn’t—”

The phone went dead.

Schroeder rocked back in his chair and drew on his cigar. He thought of how much easier it was dealing with Flynn and how difficult Hickey was. Then it hit him, and he dropped his cigar into an ashtray. Good guy—bad guy. The oldest con trick in the game. Now Flynn and Hickey were pulling that on him. “Sons of bitches.”

Langley looked at Schroeder, then glanced at the note pad he’d been keeping. After each dialogue Langley felt a sense of frustration and futility. This negotiating business was not his game, and he didn’t understand how Schroeder did it. Langley’s instincts screamed at him to grab the phone and tell Flynn he was a dead motherfucker. Langley lit a cigarette and was surprised to see his hands shaking. “Bastards.”

Roberta Spiegel took her place in the rocker and stared up at the ceiling. “Is anybody keeping score?”

Bellini stared out the window. “Can they fight as good as they bullshit?”

Schroeder answered, “The Irish are one of the few people who can.”

Bellini turned back to the window, Spiegel rocked in her chair, Langley watched the smoke curl up from his cigarette, and Schroeder stared at the papers scattered on the desk. Phones rang in the other room; a bullhorn cut into the night air, and its echo drifted through the window. The mantel clock ticked loudly, and Schroeder focused on it. 9:17 P.M. At 4:30 he’d been marching in the parade, enjoying himself, enjoying life. Now he had a knot in his stomach, and life didn’t look so good anymore. Why was someone always spoiling the parade?

CHAPTER 38

Maureen slid behind the thick column and watched Hickey as he stood squinting in the half-light. Megan came up behind him, swinging her big pistol easily by her side, the way other women swung a handbag—the way she herself had swung a pistol once.

Maureen watched them whispering to each other. She knew what they were saying without hearing a word: Which way has she gone? Should they split up? Fire a shot? Call out? Turn on the flashlights? She waited close-by, not fifteen feet away, because they’d never suspect she’d be this close, watching. To them she was a civilian, but they ought to have known her better. She was angry at their low regard of her.

Suddenly the flashlights came on, and their beams poked into the dark, distant places. Maureen pressed closer to the column.

Hickey called out, “Last chance, Maureen. Give up and you won’t be hurt. But if we have to flush you out …” He let his voice trail off, the implied meaning more unnerving than if he had said it.

She watched them as they conferred again. She knew they expected her to go east toward the sacristy foundation. Flynn may even have heard the four of them discussing it. And that was the way she wanted to go but knew now she couldn’t.

She prayed they wouldn’t split up—wouldn’t cut her off in both directions. She admitted, too, that she didn’t want Megan to be away from Hickey … though perhaps if she were away from Hickey … Maureen slipped off her shoes, reached under her skirt, and slid off her panty hose. She twisted the nylon into a rope, wrapped the ends around her arms, and pulled it taut. She draped the nylon garrote over her shoulders and knelt, taking handfuls of earth and rubbing them across her damp face, her legs and hands. She looked down at her tweed jacket and skirt—dark but not dark enough. Silently she took them off, reversed them so the darker lining showed, and put them back on again. She buttoned the jacket over her white blouse and turned up the collar. All the while her eyes were fixed on Hickey and Megan.

Suddenly another pair of legs dropped into the hole, and a figure descended the ladder. Maureen recognized Frank Gallagher by the striped pants of his parade marshal’s morning dress.

Hickey pointed toward the front of the Cathedral, and Gallagher drew a pistol and walked slowly west along the staircase wall toward the outer wall of the partially buried crypt. Hickey and Megan headed east toward the sacristy.

Maureen saw she had no way to go but south toward the crawl space beneath the ambulatory—the least likely place to find an exit, according to what Father Murphy knew of the layout. But as she watched Gallagher’s flashlight moving slowly, she realized she could beat him to the end of the crypt, and from there she had more options. She moved laterally, to her left, parallel to Gallagher’s course. Fifteen feet from the first column she came to another and stopped. She watched Gallagher’s light almost directly opposite her. The shaft of light from the brass-plate opening was dimmer now, and the next column was somewhere in the darkness to her left.

She moved laterally again, running silently, barefoot, over the damp earth, hands feeling for pipes and ducts. The next column was irregularly spaced at about twenty-five feet, and she thought she’d missed it, then collided with it, feeling a sudden blow against her chest that knocked the wind out of her and made her give an involuntary gasp.

Gallagher’s light swung out at her, and she stood frozen behind the column. The beam swung away, and she proceeded in a parallel course. She dashed toward the next column, counting her paces as she ran. At eight strides she stopped and felt in front of her, touching the stone column, and pressed against it.

She saw she was far ahead of Gallagher now, but his beam reached out and probed the place opposite her. The sanctuary floor above her ended a few feet beyond where she stood, and the steps that led to the communion rail sloped down to the crawl space below the main floor. She also saw, by the beam of light, the corner of the crypt where the wall turned away from her. She was no more than fifteen feet from it. She stooped down and passed her hands over the earth, finding a small piece of building rubble. She threw it back toward the last column she’d come from.

Gallagher’s light swung away from her intended path toward the sound. She dashed forward, trying to judge the distance. Her hand hit the brick outer wall of the crypt, and she moved left toward the corner. Gallagher’s light swung back. She ducked below the beam, then slid around the corner, bracing her back against the cold crypt. She sidestepped with her back against the wall, watching the beam of Gallagher’s light as it passed off to her left. She felt for the nylon around her neck and swung it from her shoulders. She conjured up a picture of Frank Gallagher: pleasant looking, sort of vacuous expression. Big, too. She wrapped the nylon tightly around her hands and looped it.

The beam of light was growing in thickness and intensity, bobbing closer to the corner of the crypt. She could actually hear Gallagher’s footsteps around the corner, could hear the tight-lipped nose-breathing she knew so well. God, she thought, God, I never wanted to kill so badly.

Discretion. When to run, when to fight. When in doubt, said Brian Flynn, run. Watch the wolves, he had said to her. They run from danger without self-recrimination. Even hunger wouldn’t cloud their judgment. There’d be other kills. She steadied her hands and took a long breath, then swung the nylon around her shoulders and moved along the wall, to her right, away from Gallagher’s approaching footsteps. Next time.

Something brushed across her face, and she stifled a yell as she swatted it away. Carefully she reached out and touched a hanging object. A pull chain. She reached up and found the light bulb, unscrewed it, and tossed it gently underhand into the crawl space in front of her. She pulled the chain, switching on the electricity. She thought, I hope he sticks his fucking finger into it and burns.

Gallagher came to the corner and knelt. He swung his light in a wide arc under the crawl space that began a few feet from the wall.

Maureen saw in the light in front of her the bottom of the steps that led down from the raised sanctuary above her. Farther back, in the crawl space, she saw the glowing red eyes of rats. She moved down the length of the crypt wall. It seemed to go on for a long way. Gallagher’s light swung up from the crawl space and began probing the length of the wall.

She moved more quickly, stumbling over building rubble. After what she judged was about twenty-five feet her right hand felt the corner where the wall turned back toward the sacristy. The beam of light fell on her shoulder, and she froze. The light played off her jacket, then swung away. She slid around the corner just as the light came back to reexplore the suspicious thing it had picked out.

Maureen turned and kept her right shoulder to the wall as she moved toward the sacristy foundation. She found another light bulb and unscrewed it, then pulled the chain. Rats squealed around her, and something ran across her bare feet.

The crypt wall turned in to meet the outer wall of the sacristy staircase, and she judged that she was on the exact opposite side of the staircase from where she’d come down through the brass plate.

So far she had eluded them, gotten the better of them in a game that was the ultimate hide-and-seek. Every Belfast alley and factory park flashed through her mind. Every heart-thumping, dry-throated crawl through the rubble came back to her, and she felt alive, confident, almost exhilarated at the dangerous game.

The ground rose, and she had to stoop lower until finally she had to crawl on all fours. She felt to her front as she moved. A rat scurried across her hand, another across her legs. Sweat ran from her face and washed the dirt camouflage into her eyes and mouth. Her breathing was so loud she thought Gallagher must hear it clearly.

Behind her the beam of Gallagher’s light probed in all directions. He could have no idea that he had actually been following her … unless he had heard her or had seen her footprints, or had found one of the empty light-sockets and guessed…. Stick your goddamned finger in one of them and fry. She hoped he was as frightened as she was.

She kept crawling until her hand came into contact with cold, moist stone. She ran her fingers over the jagged surface, then higher up, and she felt the rounded contour of a massive column. Her hand slid down again, and she felt something soft and damp and drew away quickly. Cautiously she reached out again and touched the yielding, putty-like substance. She pulled a piece of it and brought it to her nose. “Oh, my God,” she spoke under her breath. “Oh, you bastards. You really would do it.”

Her knee bumped into something, and her hands reached down and felt the suitcase that they had carried down into the hole—a suitcase big enough to hold at least twenty kilos of plastic. Somewhere, probably on the other side of the staircase, was the other charge.

She wedged into the space between the stairway wall and the column’s footing and took the nylon from around her shoulders. She found a half brick and held it in her right hand.

Gallagher came closer, his flashlight focused on the ground in front of him. She could see in the light the marks she had made when she had to crawl through the earth.

Gallagher’s light swung up and focused on the column footing, then probed the space where she was hiding. He crawled closer and poked the light between the column and the wall.

For a long second the light rested directly on her face, and they stared at each other from less than a yard away. Gallagher’s face registered complete surprise, she noticed. A stupid man.

She brought her hand down with the half brick in it and drove it between his eyes. The light fell to the floor, and she sprang out of her niche and wrapped the nylon garrote around his neck.

Gallagher thrashed over the earth floor like a wounded animal. Maureen hooked her legs around his torso and rode his back, holding the garrote like a set of reins, drawing it tightly around his neck with all the strength she could summon.

Gallagher weakened and fell forward on his chest, pinning her legs beneath hem. She pulled harder on the nylon, but there was too much give in it. She knew she was strangling him too slowly, causing him unnecessary suffering. She heard the gurgling coming from deep in his throat.

Gallagher’s head twisted around at an unbelievable angle, and his face stared up at her. The fallen flashlight cast a yellow beam over his face, and she saw his bulging eyes and thick protruding tongue. His skin was split where she had hit him with the brick, and his nose was broken and bleeding. Their eyes met for a brief second.

Gallagher’s body went limp and lay motionless. Maureen sat on his back trying to catch her breath. She still felt life in his body, the shallow breathing, the twitching muscles and flesh against her buttocks. She began tightening the garrote, then suddenly pulled it from his neck and buried her face in her hands.

She heard voices coming around the crypt, then saw two lights not forty feet away. She quickly shut off the flashlight and threw it aside. Maureen felt her heart beating wildly again as she groped for the fallen pistol.

The beam rose and searched the ceiling. A voice—Megan’s—said, “Here’s another missing bulb. Clever little bitch.”

The other flashlight examined the ground. Hickey said, “Here are their tracks.”

Maureen’s hands touched Gallagher’s body, and she felt him moving. She backed off.

Hickey called out, “Frank? Are you there?” His approaching light found Gallagher’s body and rested on it.

Maureen crawled backward until she made contact with the base of the column. She turned and clawed at the plastic explosive, trying to pull it loose from the footing, feeling for the detonator that she knew was embedded somewhere.

The two beams of light came closer. Hickey shouted, “Maureen! You’ve done well, lass. But as you see, the hounds are onto the scent. We’re going to begin probing fire if you don’t give yourself up.”

Maureen kept pulling at the plastic. She knew there would be no probing fire with plastic so close.

The sound of the two crawling people got closer. She looked back and saw two pools of light converging on Gallagher’s body. Hickey and Megan were hovering over Gallagher now. Gallagher was trying to raise himself on all fours.

Megan said, “Here, I’ve found his light.”

Hickey said, “Look for his gun.”

Maureen gave one last pull at the plastic, then moved around the column until she ran into the foundation wall that separated her from the sacristy.

She put her right shoulder against the wall and crawled along it, feeling for an opening. Pipes and ducts penetrated the wall, but there was no space for her to pass through.

Hickey’s voice called out again. “Maureen, my love, Frank is feeling a bit better. All is forgiven, darlin’. We owe you, lass. You’ve a good heart. Come on, now. Let’s all go back upstairs and have a nice wash and a cup of tea.”

Maureen watched as one, then two, then three flashlights started to reach out toward her.

Hickey said, “Maureen, we’ve found Frank’s gun, so we know you’re not armed. The game is over. You’ve done well. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Frank owes you his life, and there’ll be no retributions, Maureen. Just call out to us and we’ll come take you back. You’ve our word you won’t be harmed.”

Maureen huddled against the foundation wall. She knew Hickey was speaking the truth. Gallagher owed her. They wouldn’t harm her while Gallagher was still alive; that was one of the rules. The old rules, Hickey’s rules, her rules. She wondered about someone like Megan, though.

Her instincts told her that it was over—that she should give up while the offered amnesty was still in effect. She was tired, cold, aching. The flashlights came closer. She opened her mouth to speak.

CHAPTER 39

Inspector Langley was reading Monsignor Downes’s appointment book. “I think the good Rector entertained the Fenians on more than one occasion…. Unwittingly, of course.”

Schroeder looked at Langley. It would never have occurred to him to snoop through another man’s papers. That’s why he had been such a bad detective. Langley, on the other hand, would pick the Mayor’s pocket out of idle curiosity. Schroeder said acidly, “You mean you don’t suspect Monsignor Downes?”

Langley smiled. “I didn’t say that.”

Bellini turned from the window and looked at Schroeder. “You didn’t have to eat so much shit, did you? I mean that business about rolling over and all that other stuff.”

Schroeder felt his fright turning to anger. “For Christ’s sake, it’s only a ploy. You’ve heard me use it a dozen times.”

“Yeah, but this time you meant it.”

“Go to hell.”

Bellini seemed to be struggling with something. He leaned forward with his hands on Schroeder’s desk and spoke softly. “I’m scared, too. Do you think I want to send my men in there? Christ Almighty, Bert, I’m going in, too. I have a wife and kids. But Jesus, man, every hour that you bullshit with them is another hour for them to get their defenses tightened. Every hour shortens the time until dawn, when I have to attack. And I won’t hit them at dawn in a last desperate move to save the hostages and the Cathedral, because they know I have to move at dawn if they don’t have what they want.”

Schroeder kept his eyes fixed on Bellini’s but didn’t reply.

Bellini went on, his voice becoming more strident. “As long as you keep telling the big shots you can do it, they’re going to jerk me around. Admit you’re not going to pull it off and let me … let me know in my own mind … that I have to go in.” He said almost in a whisper, “I don’t like sweating it out like this, Bert…. My men don’t like this…. I have to know.”

Schroeder spoke mechanically. “I’m taking it a step at a time. Standard procedures. Stabilize the situation, keep them talking, calm them down, get an extension of the deadline—”

Bellini slammed his hand on the desk, and everyone sat up quickly. “Even if you could get an extension of the deadline, how long would it be for? An hour? Two hours? Then I have to move in the daylight—while you stand here at the window smoking a cigar, watching us get massacred!”

Schroeder stood and his face twitched. He tried to stop himself from speaking, but the words came out. “If you have to go in, I’ll be right next to you, Bellini.”

A twisted smile passed over Bellini’s face. He turned to Langley and Spiegel, then looked back at Schroeder. “You’re on, Captain.” He turned and walked out of the room.

Langley watched the door close, then said, “That was stupid, Bert.”

Schroeder found his hands and legs were shaking, and he sat down, then rose abruptly. He spoke in a husky voice. “Watch the phone. I have to go out for a minute—men’s room.” He walked quickly to the door.

Spiegel said, “I took some cheap shots at him, too.”

Langley looked away.

She said, “Tell me what a bitch I am.”

He walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of sherry.

He had no intention of telling the Mayor’s aide she was a bitch.

She walked toward him, reached out, and took the glass from his hand. She drank, then handed it back.

Langley thought, She did it again! There was something uncomfortably intimate and at the same time unnervingly aggressive about the proprietary attitude she had taken with him.

Roberta Spiegel walked toward the door. “Don’t do anything stupid like Schroeder did.”

He looked up at her with some surprise.

She said suddenly, “You married? Divorced … separated … single?”

“Yes.”

She laughed. “Watch the store. See you later.” She left.

Langley looked at the lipstick mark on his glass and put it down. “Bitch.” He walked to the window.

Bellini had placed a set of field glasses on the sill. Langley picked them up and saw clearly the man standing in the belfry. If Bellini attacked, this young man would be one of the first to die. He wondered if the man knew that. Of course he did.

The man saw him and raised a pair of field glasses. They stared at each other for a few seconds. The young man held up his hand, a sort of greeting. The faces of all the IRA men Langley had ever known suddenly coalesced in this face—the young romantics, the old-guard IRA like Hickey, the dying Officials like Ferguson, the cold-blooded young Provos like most of them, and now the Fenians—crazier than the Provos—the worst of the worst…. All of them had started life, he was sure, as polite young men and women, dressed in little suits and dresses for Sunday Mass. Somewhere something went wrong. But maybe they would get most of the worst crazies in one sweep tonight. Nip it in the bud here. He damn well didn’t want to deal with them later.

Langley put down the glasses and turned from the window. He looked at his watch. Where the hell was Burke?

He had a sour feeling in his stomach. Transference. Somehow he felt he was in there with them.

Maureen watched the circle of light closing in on her and almost welcomed the light and Hickey’s cajoling voice after the sensory deprivation she had experienced.

Hickey called out again. “I know you’re frightened, Maureen. Just take a deep breath and call to us.”

She almost did, but something held her back. A series of confused thoughts ran through her mind—Brian, Harold Baxter, Whitehorn Abbey, Frank Gallagher’s ghostly face. She felt she was adrift in some foggy sea—with no anchor, misleading beacons, false harbors. She tried to shake off the lethargy and think clearly, tried to resolve her purpose, which was freedom. Freedom from Brian Flynn, freedom from all the people and things that had kept her feeling guilty and obligated all her life. Once you’re a hostage, you’re a hostage the rest of your life. She had been Brian’s hostage long before he put a gun to her head. She had been a hostage to her own insecurities and circumstances all her life. But now for the first time she felt less like a hostage and less like a traitor. She felt like a refugee from an insane world, a fugitive from a state of mind that was a prison far worse than Long Kesh. Once in, never out. Bullshit. She began crawling again, along the foundation wall.

Hickey called out, “Maureen, we see you moving. Don’t make us shoot.”

She called back, “I know you don’t have Gallagher’s gun, because I have it. Careful I don’t shoot you.” She heard them talking among themselves, then the flashlights went out. She smiled at how the simplest bluffs worked when people were frightened. She kept crawling.

The foundation curved, and she knew she was under the ambulatory now. Somewhere on the other side of the foundation were the fully excavated basements beneath the terraces outside that led back to the rectory.

Beneath the thin layer of soil the Manhattan bedrock rose and fell as she crawled. The ceiling was only about four feet high now, and she kept hitting her head on pipes and ducts. The ducts made a noise when she hit them and boomed like a drum in the cold, stagnant air.

Suddenly the flashlights came on again, some distance off. Megan’s voice called, “We found the gun, Maureen. Come toward the light or we shoot. Last chance.”

Maureen watched the beams of light searching for her. She didn’t know if they had Gallagher’s gun or not, but she knew she didn’t have it. She crawled on her stomach, commando style, pressing her face to the ground.

The lights began tightening around her. Hickey said, “I’m counting to ten. Then the armistice is over.” He counted.

Maureen stopped crawling and remained motionless, pressed against the wall. Blood and sweat ran over her face; her legs and arms were studded with pieces of embedded stone. She steadied her breathing and listened for a sound from the basement that was only feet away. She looked for a crack of light, felt for a draft that might be coming from the other side, then ran her hands over the stone foundation. Nothing. She began moving again.

Hickey’s voice called out, “Maureen, you’re a heartless girl, making an old man crawl in the damp like this. I’ll catch my death—let’s go back up and have some tea.”

The light beams were actually passing over her intermittently, and she froze when they did. They didn’t seem to be able to pick out her blackened features in the darkness. She noticed that the stone wall turned again, then ended. Brick wall ran from the stone at right angles, and she suspected the brick wall was not a stress-bearing foundation but a partition behind which the foundation had disappeared. She rose to a kneeling position, reached for the top of the wall, and discovered a small space near the concrete ceiling. She pressed her face to the space but saw no light, heard no noise, and felt no air. Yet she was certain she was close to finding a way out.

A voice called out. Gallagher’s. “Maureen, please don’t make us shoot you. I know you spared my life—come on, then, be a good woman and let’s all go back.”

Again she knew they wouldn’t shoot, if not because of the explosives then for fear of a ricochet among all this stone. She was suddenly angry at their small lies. What kind of idiot did they think she was? Hickey might be an old soldier, but Maureen knew more about war than Megan or Gallagher would live to learn. She wanted to scream an obscenity at them for their patronizing attitude. She moved along the wall and felt it curve farther inward. She judged from the configuration of the horseshoe-shaped ambulatory that she was now below the bride’s room or confessional. Suddenly her hand came into contact with dry wood. Her heart gave a small leap. She faced the wall and knelt in front of it. Her hands explored the wood, set flush into the brick. She felt a rusty latch and pulled on it. A pair of hinges squeaked sharply in the still air. The flashlight beams came toward her.

Hickey called to her. “You’re leading us a merry chase, young lady. I hope you don’t give your suitors as much trouble.”

Maureen said under her breath, “Go to hell, you old bag of bones.” She pulled slowly on the door. Cracks of light appeared around the edges, showing it to be about three feet square. She closed the door quickly, found a broken shard of brick, and threw it farther along the wall.

The light beams swung toward the noise. She pulled the door open a few inches and pushed her face to the small aperture. She blinked her eyes several times and focused on a fluorescent-lit hallway.

The hallway floor was about four feet below her—a beautiful floor, she thought, of white polished vinyl. The walls of the corridor were painted plasterboard; the ceiling a few feet above her head was white acoustical tile. A beautiful hallway, really. Tears ran down her face.

She swung the door fully open and rubbed her eyes, then pushed her hair away from her face. Something was wrong…. She put her hand out, and her fingers passed through a wire grill. A rat screen covered the opening.

CHAPTER 40

Burke walked into the Monsignor’s inner office and looked

at Langley, the sole person present, staring out the window. Burke said, “Everybody quit?”

Langley turned.

Burke said, “Where’s Schroeder?”

“Relieving himself … or throwing up, or something. Did you hear what happened—?”

“I was briefed. Damned fools in there are going to blow it. Everyone’s all right?”

“Cardinal said so. Also, you missed two good showdowns—Schroeder versus Spiegel and Schroeder versus Bellini. Poor Bert. He’s usually the fair-haired boy, too.” Langley paused. “I think he’s losing it.”

Burke nodded. “Do you think it’s him, or is it us … or is it that Flynn is that good?”

Langley shrugged. “All of the above.”

Burke went to the sideboard and noticed there was very little left in the decanters. He said, “Why did God let the Irish invent whiskey, Langley?”

Langley knew the drill. “To keep them from ruling the world.”

Burke laughed. “Right.” His voice became contemplative. “I’ll bet no Fenian has had a drink in forty-eight hours. Do you know a woman named Terri O’Neal?”

Langley concentrated on the name, then said, “No. I don’t make it at all.” He immediately regretted the common cop jargon and said, “I can’t identify the name. Call the office.”

“I called from downstairs. Negative. But they’re rechecking. How about Dan Morgan?”

“No. Irish?”

“Probably Northern Irish. Louise is going to call back.”

“Who are these people?”

“That’s what I asked you.” He poured the remainder of the brandy and thought a moment. “Terri O’Neal … I think I have a face and a voice, but I just can’t remember… ?”

Langley said, “Flynn’s asked for a television in there. In fact, you’re supposed to deliver it to him.” Langley looked at Burke out of the corner of his eye. “You two get along real well.”

Burke considered the statement for a few seconds. In spite of the circumstances of their meeting, he admitted that Flynn was the type of man he could have liked— if Flynn were a cop, or if he, Burke, were IRA.

Langley said, “Call Flynn now.”

Burke went to the phone. “Flynn can wait.” He made certain the speakers in the other rooms were not on, then turned on the voice box on the desk so that Langley could monitor. He dialed the Midtown North Precinct. “Gonzalez? Lieutenant Burke here. Do you have my man?” There was a long silence during which Burke found he was holding his breath.

“He’s a prick,” said Gonzalez. “Keeps screaming about police-state tactics and all that crap. Says he’s going to sue us for false arrest. I thought you said he needed protection.”

“Is he still there?”

“Yeah. He wants a ride to the Port Authority Terminal. I can’t hold him a minute longer. If I get hit with a false arrest rap, I’m dragging you in with me—”

“Put him on.”

“My pleasure. Wait.”

Burke turned to Langley while he waited. “Ferguson. He’s onto something. Terri O’Neal—Dan Morgan. Now he wants to run.”

Langley moved beside Burke. “Well, offer him some money to stick around.”

“You haven’t paid him for today yet. Anyway, there’s not enough money around to keep him from running.”

Burke spoke into the telephone. “Jack—”

Ferguson’s voice came into the room, high-pitched and agitated. “What the hell are you doing to me, Pat? Is this the way you treat a friend? For God’s sake, man— ”

“Cut it. Listen, put me on to the people you spoke to about O’Neal and Morgan.”

“Not a chance. My sources are confidential. I don’t treat friends the way you do. The intelligence establishment in this country—”

“Save it for your May Day speech. Listen, Martin has double-crossed all of us. He was the force behind the Fenians. This whole thing is a ploy to make the Irish look bad—to turn American public opinion against the Irish struggle.”

Ferguson didn’t speak for a while, then said, “I figured that out.”

Burke pressed on. “Look, I don’t know how much information Martin fed you, or how much information about the police and the Fenians you had to give him in return, but I’m telling you now he’s at the stage where he’s covering his tracks. Understand?”

“I understand that I’m on three hitlists—the Fenians’, the Provos’, and Martin’s. That’s why I’m leaving town.”

“You have to stick. Who is Terri O’Neal? Why was she kidnapped by a man named Morgan? Whose show was it? Where is she being held?”

“That’s your problem.”

“We’re working on it, Jack, but you’re closer to it. And we don’t have much time. If you told us your sources—”

“No.”

Burke went on. “Also, while you’re at it, see if you can get a line on Gordon Stillway, the resident architect of Saint Pat’s. He’s missing, too.”

“Lot of that going around. I’m missing, too. Good-bye.”

“No! Stick with it.”

“Why? Why should I risk my life any further?”

“For the same reasons you risked it all along—peace.”

Ferguson sighed but said nothing.

Langley whispered, “Offer him a thousand dollars—no, make it fifteen hundred. We’ll hold a benefit dance.”

Burke said into the phone, “We’d like to exonerate all the Irish who had nothing to do with this, including your Officials and even the Provos. We’ll work with you after this mess is over and see that the government and the press don’t crucify all of you.” Burke paused, then said, “You and I as Irishmen”—he remembered Flynn’s attempt to claim kinship—“you mad I want to be able to hold our heads up after this.” Burke glanced at Langley, who nodded appreciatively. Burke turned away.

Ferguson said, “Hold on.” There was a long silence, then Ferguson spoke. “How can I reach you later?”

Burke let out a breath. “Try to call the rectory. The lines should be clear later. Give the password … leprechaun…. They’ll put you through.”

“Leper is more like it, Burke. Make it leper. All right. If I can’t get through on the phone, I won’t come to the rectory—the cordon is being watched by all sorts of people. If you don’t hear from me, let’s have a standing rendezvous. Let’s say the zoo at one.”

Burke said, “Closer to the Cathedral.”

“All right. But no bars or public places.” He thought. “Okay, that small park on Fifty-first—it’s not far from you.”

“It’s closed after dark.”

“Climb the gate!”

Burke smiled. “Someday I’m going to get a key for every park in this town.”

Ferguson said, “Join the Parks Department. They’ll issue one with your broom.”

“Luck.” Burke spoke to Gonzalez. “Let him go.” He hung up and took a deep breath.

Langley said, “Do you think this O’Neal thing is important enough to risk his life?”

Burke drained off the glass of brandy and grimaced. “How do people drink this stuff?”

“Pat?”

Burke walked to the window and looked out.

Langley said, “I’m not making any moral judgments. I only want to know if it’s worth getting Jack Ferguson killed.”

Burke spoke as if to himself. “A kidnapping is a subtle sort of thing, more complicated than a hit, more sinister in many ways—like hostage taking.” He considered. “Hostage taking—that’s a form of kidnapping. Terri O’Neal is a hostage.…”

“Whose hostage?”

Burke turned and faced Langley. “I don’t know.”

“Who has to do what for whom to secure her release? No one has made any demands yet.”

“Strange,” agreed Burke.

“Really,” said Langley.

Burke looked at Schroeder’s empty chair. Schroeder’s presence, in spite of everything, had been reassuring. He said half-jokingly, “Are you sure he’s coming back?”

Langley shrugged. “His backup man is in another room with a phone, waiting like an understudy for the break of a lifetime…. ” Langley said, “Call Flynn.”

“Later.” He sat in Schroeder’s chair, leaned back, and looked at the lofty ceiling. A long crack ran from wall to wall, replastered but not yet painted. He had a mental image of the Cathedral in ruins, then pictured the Statue of Liberty lying on its side half submerged in the harbor. He thought of the Roman Coliseum, the ruined Acropolis, the flooded temples of the Nile. He said, “You know, the Cathedral itself is not that important. Neither are the lives of any of us. What’s important is how we act, what people say and write about us afterward.”

Langley looked at him appraisingly. Burke sometimes surprised him. “Yes, that’s true, but you won’t tell that to anybody today.”

“Or tomorrow, if we’re pulling bodies out of the rubble.”

John Hickey’s voice came to Maureen from not very far off. “So, what have we here? What light through yonder window breaks, Maureen?” He laughed, then said sharply, “Move back from there or we’ll shoot you.”

Maureen cocked her elbow and drove it into the rat screen. The wire bent, but the edges stayed fixed to the wall. She pressed her face to the grill. To her left the hallway ended about ten feet away. On the opposite wall toward the end of the passage were gray sliding doors—elevator doors—the elevator that opened near the bride’s room above. She drove her elbow into the grill again, and one side of the frame ripped loose from the plasterboard. “Yes, yes … please …”

She could hear them behind her, scurrying over the rubble-strewn ground like the rats they were, faster, coming at the light source. Then John Hickey came out of the dark. “Hands on your head, darlin’.”

She turned and stared at him, holding back the tears forming in her eyes.

Hickey said, “Look at you. Your pretty knees are all scratched. And what’s that dirt all over your face, Maureen? Camouflage? You’ll be needing a good wash.”

He ran his flashlight over her. “And your smart tweeds are turned inside out. Clever girl. Clever. And what is that around your neck?” He grabbed the nylon garrote and twisted it. “My, what a naughty girl you are.” He gave the garrote another twist and held it until she began to choke. “Once again, Maureen, you’ve shown me a small chink in our armor. What would we do without you?” He loosened the tension on the nylon and knocked her to the ground. His eyes narrowed into malignant slits. “I think I’ll shoot you through the head and throw you into the corridor. That’ll help the police make the decision they’re wrestling with.” He seemed to consider, then said, “But, on the other hand, I’d like you to be around for the finale.” He smiled a black, gaping smile. “I want you to see Flynn die or for him to see you die.”

In a clear flash of understanding she knew the essence of this old man’s evil. “Kill me.”

He shook his head. “No. I like you. I like what you’re becoming. You should have killed Gallagher, though. You would have been firmly planted in the ranks of the damned if you had. You’re only borderline now.” He cackled.

Maureen lay on the damp earth. She felt a hand grab her long hair and pull her back across the floor into the darkness. Megan Fitzgerald knelt over her and put a pistol to her heart. “Your charmed life has come to an end, bitch.”

Hickey called out, “None of that, Megan!”

Megan Fitzgerald shouted back. “You’ll not stop me this time.” She cocked the pistol.

Hickey shouted, “No! Brian will decide if she’s to die—and if she’s to die, he wants to be the one to kill her.”

Maureen listened to this statement without any outward emotion. She felt numb, drained.

Megan screamed back. “Fuck you! Fuck Flynn! She’ll die here and now.”

Hickey spoke softly. “If you shoot, I’ll kill you.” Everyone heard the click of the safety disengaging from his automatic.

Gallagher cleared his throat and said, “Let her alone, Megan.”

No one moved or spoke. Finally Megan uncocked her pistol. She turned on her light and shone it into Maureen’s face. A twisted smile formed on Megan’s lips. “You’re old … and not very pretty.” She poked Maureen’s breast roughly with the muzzle of her pistol.

Maureen looked up through the light at Megan’s contorted face. “You’re very young, and you ought to be pretty, but there’s an ugliness in you, Megan, that everyone can see in your eyes.”

Megan spit at her, then disappeared into the dark.

Hickey knelt over Maureen and wiped her face with a handkerchief. “Well, now, if you want my opinion, I think you’re very pretty.”

She turned her face away. “Go to hell.”

Hickey said, “You see, Uncle John saved your life again.”

She didn’t respond, and he went on. “Because I really want you to see what’s going to happen later. Yes, it’s going to be quite spectacular. How often can you see a cathedral collapsing around your head—?”

Gallagher made an odd gasping sound, and Hickey said to him, “Only joking, Frank.”

She said to Gallagher, “He’s not joking, you know—”

Hickey leaned close to her ear. “Shut up or I’ll—”

“What?” She looked at him fiercely. “What can you do to me?” She turned toward Gallagher. “He means to see all of us dead. He means to see all your young friends follow him to the grave …”

Hickey laughed in a shrill, piercing tone.

The rats stopped their chirping.

Hickey said, “The little creatures sense the danger. They smell death. They know.”

Gallagher said nothing, but his breathing filled the still, cold air.

Maureen sat up slowly. “Baxter? The others … ?”

Hickey said in an offhand manner, “Baxter is dead. Father Murphy was hit in the face, and he’s dying. The Cardinal is all right, though.” He said in an aggrieved whisper, “Do you see what you’ve done?”

She couldn’t speak, and tears ran down her face.

Hickey turned from her and played his light over the open hatchway.

Gallagher said, “We better put an alarm here.”

Hickey answered, “The only alarm you’ll hear from down here is from about a kilo of plastic. I’ll have Sullivan come back and mine it.” He glanced at Maureen. “Well, shall we go home, then?”

They began the long crawl back.

Hickey spoke as they made their way. “If I was a younger man, Maureen, I’d be in love with you. You’re so like the women I knew in the Movement in my youth. So many of the revolutionary women in other movements are ugly misfits, neurotics and psychotics. But we’ve always been able to attract clearheaded, pretty lasses like yourself. Why is that, do you suppose?” He said between labored breaths, “Well, don’t answer me, then. Tired? Yes, me too. Slow down, Gallagher, you big ox. We’ve got some way to go yet before we can rest. We’ll all rest together, Maureen. Soon this will be over … we’ll be free of all our worries, all our bonds … before dawn … a nice rest … it won’t be so bad … it won’t, really…. We’re going home.”

CHAPTER 41

Schroeder came through the double doors of the Rector’s inner office. “Look who’s back. Did you call Flynn?”

“Not without you here, Bert. Feeling better?”

Schroeder came around the desk. “Please get out of my chair, Lieutenant.”

Burke vacated the chair.

Schroeder looked at Burke as he sat. “Can you carry a TV set?”

“Why didn’t he ask for a television right away?”

Schroeder thought. Flynn wasn’t a textbook case in many respects. Little things like not immediately asking for a television … little things that added up …

Langley said, “He’s keeping the Fenians isolated. Their only reality is Brian Flynn. After the press conference he’ll smash the TV or place it where only he and Hickey can use it for intelligence gathering.”

Schroeder nodded. “I never know if this TV business is part of the problem or part of the solution. But if they ask, we have to give.” He dialed the switchboard. “Chancel organ.” He handed the receiver to Burke, turned on all the speaker switches, then sat back with his feet on the desk. “On the air, Lieutenant.”

A voice came over the speakers: “Flynn here.”

“Burke.”

“Listen, Lieutenant, do me a great favor, won’t you, and stay in the damned rectory—at least until dawn. If the Cathedral goes, you’ll want to see it. Tape all the windows, though, and don’t stand under any chandeliers.”

Burke was aware that more than two hundred people in the Cathedral complex were listening, and that every word was being taped and transmitted to Washington and London. Flynn knew this, too, and was playing it for effect. “What can I do for you?”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask first about the hostages?”

“You said they were all right.”

“But that was a while ago.”

“Well, how are they now?”

“No change. Except that Miss Malone took a jaunt through the crawl space. But she’s back now. Looks a bit tired, from what I can see. Clever girl that she is she found a hatchway from the crawl space into the hallway that runs past the bride’s-room elevator.” He paused, then went on, “Don’t touch the hatch, however, as it’s being mined right now with enough plastic to give you a nasty bump.”

Burke looked at Schroeder, who was already on the other phone talking to one of Bellini’s lieutenants. “I understand.”

“Good. And you can assume that every other entrance you find will also be mined. And you can assume the entire crawl space is seeded with mines. You can also suspect that I’m lying or bluffing, but, really, it’s not smart to call my bluff. Tell that to your ESD people.”

“I’ll do that.”

Flynn said, “Anyway, I want the television. Bring it round to the usual place. Fifteen minutes.”

Burke looked at Schroeder and covered the mouthpiece.

Schroeder said, “There’s one waiting downstairs in the clerk’s office. But you have to get something from him in return. Ask to speak to a hostage.”

Burke uncovered the mouthpiece. “I want to talk to Father Murphy first.”

“Oh, your friend. You shouldn’t admit to having a friend in here.”

“He’s not my friend, he’s my confessor.”

Flynn laughed loudly. “Sorry, that struck me funny, somehow. That was no lady, that was my wife. You know?”

Schroeder suppressed a smirk.

Burke looked annoyed. “Put him on!”

Flynn’s voice lost its humor. “Don’t make any demands on me, Burke.”

“I won’t bring a television unless I speak to the priest.”

Schroeder was shaking his head excitedly. “Forget it,” he whispered. “Don’t push him.”

Burke continued, “We have some talking to do, don’t we, Flynn?”

Flynn didn’t answer for a long time, then said, “I’ll have Murphy at the gate. See you in no-man’s-land. Fifteen … no, fourteen minutes now, and don’t be late.” He hung up.

Schroeder looked at Burke. “What the hell kind of dialogue are you two carrying on down there?”

Burke ignored him and called through to the chancel organ again. “Flynn?”

Brian Flynn’s voice came back, a bit surprised. “What is it?”

Burke found his body shaking with anger. “New rule, Flynn. You don’t hang up until I’m through. Got it?” He slammed down the receiver.

Schroeder stood. “What the hell is wrong with you? Haven’t you learned anything?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

Schroeder pressed on. “Don’t like being at the receiving end, do you? Messes up your self-image. These bastards have called me every name under the sun tonight, but you don’t see me—”

“Okay. You’re right. Sorry.”

Schroeder said again, “What do you talk to him about down there?”

Burke shook his head. He was tired, and he was starting to lose his temper. He knew that if he was making mistakes because of fatigue, then everyone else was, too.

The phone rang. Schroeder answered it and handed it to Burke. “Your secret headquarters atop Police Plaza.”

Burke shut off all the speakers and carried the phone away from the desk. “Louise.”

The duty sergeant said, “Nothing on Terri O’Neal. Daniel Morgan—age thirty-four. A naturalized American citizen. Born in Londonderry. Father Welsh Protestant, mother Irish Catholic. Fiancée arrested in Belfast for IRA activities. May still be in Armagh Prison. We’ll check with British—”

“Don’t check anything with their intelligence sections or with the CIA or FBI unless you get the go-ahead from me or Inspector Langley.”

“Okay. One of those.” She went on. “Morgan made our files because he was arrested once in a demonstration outside the UN, 1979. Fined and released. Address YMCA on West Twenty-third. Doubt if he’s still there. Right?” She read the remainder of the arrest sheet, then said, “I’ve put it out to our people and to the detectives. I’ll send you a copy of the sheet. Also, nothing yet on Stillway.”

Burke hung up and turned to Langley. “Let’s get that television.”

Schroeder said, “What was that all about?”

Langley looked at Schroeder. “Trying to catch a break to make your job and Bellini’s a little easier.”

“Really? Well, that’s the least you can do after screwing up the initial investigation.”

Burke said, “If we hadn’t blown it, you wouldn’t have the opportunity to negotiate for the life of the Archbishop of New York or the safety of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

“Thanks. I owe you.”

Burke looked at him closely and had the impression that he wasn’t being completely facetious.

Maureen came out of the lavatory of the bride’s room and walked to the vanity. Her outer garments lay draped over a chair, and a first-aid kit sat in front of the vanity mirror. She sat and opened the kit.

Jean Kearney stood to the side with a pistol in her hand and watched. Kearney cleared her throat and said tentatively, “You know … they still speak of you in the movement.”

Maureen dabbed indifferently at her legs with an iodine applicator. She didn’t look up but said listlessly, “Do they?”

“Yes. People still tell stories of your exploits with Brian before you turned traitor.”

Maureen glanced up at the young woman. It was an ingenuous statement, without hostility or malice, just a relating of a fact she had learned from the storytellers—like the story of Judas. The Gospel according to the Republican Army. Maureen looked at the young woman’s bluish lips and fingers. “Cold up there?”

She nodded. “Awfully cold. This is a bit of a break for me, so take your time.”

Maureen noticed the wood chips on Jean Kearney’s clothing. “Doing some carpentry in the attic?”

Kearney turned her eyes away.

Maureen stood and took her skirt from the chair. “Don’t do it, Jean. When the time comes, you and—Arthur, isn’t it?—you and Arthur must not do whatever it is they’ve told you to do.”

“Don’t say such things. We’re loyal—not like you.”

Maureen turned and looked at herself in the mirror and looked at the image of Jean Kearney behind her. She wanted to say something to this young woman, but really there was nothing to say to someone who had willingly committed sacrilege and would probably commit murder before too long. Jean Kearney would eventually find her own way out, or she’d die young.

There was a knock on the door, and it opened a crack. Flynn put his head in, and his eyes rested on Maureen; then he looked away. “Sorry. Thought you’d be done.”

Maureen pulled on her skirt, then picked up her blouse and slipped into it.

Flynn came into the room and looked around. He fixed his attention on the bandages and iodine. “History does have a way of repeating itself, doesn’t it?”

Maureen buttoned her blouse. “Well, if we all keep making the same mistakes, it’s bound to, isn’t it, Brian?”

Flynn smiled. “One day we’ll get it right.”

“Not bloody likely.”

Flynn motioned to Jean Kearney, and she left reluctantly, a disappointed look on her face.

Maureen sat at the vanity and ran a comb through her hair.

Flynn watched for a while, then said, “I’d like to speak to you.”

“I’m listening.”

“In the chapel.”

“We’re perfectly alone here.”

“Well … yes. Too alone. People would talk. I can’t compromise myself—neither can you….”

She laughed and stood. “What would people talk about? Really, Brian … here in the bride’s room of a cathedral…. What a lot of sex-obsessed Catholics you all still are.” She moved toward him. “All right. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

He took her arms and turned her toward him.

She shook her head. “No, Brian. Much too late.” His face had a look, she thought, of desperation … fright almost.

He said, “Why do women always say things like that? It’s never too late; there are no seasons or cycles to these things.”

“But there are. It’s winter for us now. There’ll be no spring—not in our lifetime.”

He pulled her toward him and kissed her, and before she could react he turned and left the room.

She stood in the center of the bride’s room, immobile for a few seconds, then her hand went to her mouth and pressed against her lips. She shook her head. “You fool. You damned fool.”

Father Murphy sat in the clergy pews, a pressure bandage over the right side of his jaw. The Cardinal stood beside him. Harold Baxter lay on his side in the same pew. A winding bandage circled his bare torso, revealing a long line of dried blood across his back and a smaller spot of red on his chest. His face showed the result of Pedar Fitzgerald’s blows. Megan’s kick had swollen one eye nearly shut.

Maureen moved across the sanctuary and knelt beside the two men. They exchanged subdued greetings. Maureen said to Baxter, “Hickey told me you were dead and Father Murphy was dying.”

Baxter shook his head. “The man’s quite mad.” He looked around. Flynn, Hickey, and Megan Fitzgerald were nowhere to be seen. That, for some reason, was more unnerving than having them in his sight. He felt his hold on his courage slipping and knew the others were feeling that way also. He said, “If we can’t escape … physically escape … then we have to talk about a way to survive in here. We have to stand up to them, keep them from dividing us and isolating us. We have to understand the people who hold us captive.”

Maureen thought a moment, then said, “Yes, but they’re hard people to know. I never understood Brian Flynn, never understood what made him go on.” She paused, then said, “After all these years … I thought I’d have heard one day that he was dead or had a breakdown like so many of them, or ran off to Spain like so many more of them, but he just keeps going on … like some immortal thing, tortured by life, unable to die, unable to lay down the sword that has become so burdensome. … God, I almost feel sorry for him.” She had the uncomfortable feeling that her revelations about Brian Flynn were somehow disloyal.

The Cardinal knelt beside the three people. He said, “In the tower I learned that Brian Flynn is a man who holds some unusual beliefs. He’s a romantic, a man who lives in the murky past. The idea of blood sacrifice—which may be the final outcome here—is consistent with Irish myth, legend, and history. There’s this aura of defeat that surrounds the people here—unlike the aura of ultimate victory that is ingrained in the British and American psyche.” The Cardinal seemed to consider, then went on. “He really believes he is a sort of incarnation of Finn MacCumail.” He looked at Maureen. “He’s still very fond of you.”

Her face flushed, and she said, “That won’t stop him from killing me.”

The Cardinal answered, “He would only harm you if he thought you felt nothing for him any longer.”

She thought back to the bride’s room. “So what am I supposed to do? Play up to him?”

Father Murphy spoke. “We’ll all have to do that, I think, if we’re going to survive. Show him we care about him as a person … and I think at least some of us do. I care about his soul.”

Baxter nodded slowly. “Actually, you know, it costs nothing to be polite … except a bit of self-respect.” He smiled and said, “Then when everyone is calmed down, we’ll have another go at it.”

Maureen nodded quickly. “Yes, I’m willing.”

The Cardinal spoke incredulously. “Haven’t you two had enough?”

She answered, “No.”

Baxter said, “If Flynn were our only problem, I’d take my chances with him. But when I look into the eyes of Megan Fitzgerald or John Hickey … Maureen and I spoke about this before, and I’ve decided that I don’t want tomorrow’s newspapers to speak of my execution and martyrdom, but I would want them to say, ‘Died in an escape attempt.’”

The Cardinal said acidly, “It may read, ‘A foolish escape attempt’ … shortly before you were to be released.”

Baxter looked at him. “I’ve stopped believing in a negotiated settlement. That reduces my options to one.”

Maureen added, “I’m almost certain that Hickey means to kill us and destroy this church.”

Baxter sat up with some difficulty. “There’s one more way out of here … and we can all make it…. We must all make it, because we won’t get another chance.”

Father Murphy seemed to be struggling with something, then said, “I’m with you.” He glanced at the Cardinal.

The Cardinal shook his head. “It was a miracle we weren’t all killed last time. I’m going to have to insist that—”

Maureen reached into the pocket of her jacket and held out a small white particle. “Do any of you know what this is? No, of course you don’t. It’s plastic explosive. As we suspected, that’s what Hickey and Megan carried down in those suitcases. This is molded around at least one of the columns below. I don’t know how many other columns are set to be blown, or where they all are, but I do know that two suitcases of plastic, properly placed, are enough to bring down the roof.” She fixed her eyes on the Cardinal, who had turned pale. She continued, “And I don’t see a remote detonator and wire up here. So I have to assume it’s set to go on a timer. What time?” She looked at the three men. “At least one of us has to get out of here and warn the people outside.”

Brian Flynn strode up to the communion rail and spoke in an ill-tempered tone. “Are you plotting again? Your Eminence, please stay on your exalted throne. The wounded gentlemen don’t need your comfort. They’re comforted enough knowing they’re still alive. Miss Malone, may I have a word with you in the Lady Chapel? Thank you.”

Maureen stood and noticed the stiffness that had spread through her body. She walked slowly to the side steps, down into the ambulatory, then passed into the Lady Chapel.

Flynn came up behind her and indicated a pew toward the rear. She sat.

He stood in the aisle beside her and looked around the quiet chapel. It was unlike the rest of the Cathedral; the architecture was more delicate and refined. The marble walls were a softer shade, and the long, narrow windows were done mostly in rich cobalt blues. He looked up at one of the windows to the right of the entrance. A face stared back at him, looking very much like Karl Marx, and in fact the figure was carrying a red flag in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other, attacking the cross atop a church steeple. “Well,” he said in a neutral tone, “you know you’ve arrived as a lesser demon when the Church sticks your face up in a window. Like a picture in the celestial post office. Wanted for heresy.” He pointed up at the window. “Karl Marx. Strange.”

She glanced at the representation. “You wish it was Brian Flynn, don’t you?”

He laughed. “You read my black soul, Maureen.” He turned and looked at the altar nestled in the rounded end of the chapel. “God, the money that goes into these places.”

“Better spent on armaments, wouldn’t you say?”

He looked at her. “Don’t be sharp with me, Maureen.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you?”

She hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

He smiled. His eyes traveled upward past the statue of the Virgin on the altar, to the apsidal window above it. “The light will break through that window first. I hope we’re not still here to see it.”

She turned to him suddenly. “You won’t burn this church, and you won’t kill unarmed hostages. So stop speaking as though you were the type of man who would.”

He put his hand on her shoulder, and she slid over. He sat beside her and said, “Something is very wrong if I’ve given the impression I’m bluffing.”

“Perhaps it’s because I know you. You’ve fooled everyone else.”

“But I’m not fooling or bluffing.”

“You’d shoot me?”

“Yes … I’d shoot myself afterward, of course.”

“Very romantic, Brian.”

“Sounds terrible, doesn’t it?”

“You should hear yourself.”

“Yes … well, anyway, I’ve been meaning to speak with you again, but with all that’s been going on … We have some time now.” He said, “Well, first you must promise me that you won’t try to escape again.”

“All right.”

He looked at her. “I mean it. They’ll kill you next time.”

“So what? Better than being shot in the back of the head—by you.”

“Don’t be morbid. I don’t think it will come to that.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“It depends on things out of my control now.”

“Then you shouldn’t have gambled with my life and everyone else’s—should you? Why do you think the people out there will be rational and concerned about our lives if you’re not?”

“They’ve no choice.”

“No choice but to be rational and compassionate? You’ve developed quite a faith in mankind, I see. If people behaved like that, none of us would be here now.”

“This sounds like the argument we never finished four years ago.” He stared toward the windows for a while, then turned to her. “Would you like to come with me when we leave here?”

She faced him. “When you leave here it will be for the jail or the cemetery. No, thank you.”

“Damn you…. I’m walking out of here as free and alive as I walked in. Answer the question.”

“What’s to become of poor Megan? You’ll break her dear heart, Brian.”

“Stop that.” He held her arm tightly. “I miss you, Maureen.”

She didn’t respond.

He said, “I’m ready to retire.” He looked at her closely. “Really I am. As soon as this business is done with. I’ve learned a good deal from this.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve learned what’s important to me. Look here, you quit when you were ready, and I’m doing the same. I’m sorry I wasn’t ready when you were.”

“Neither you nor I believe a word of that. ‘Once in, never out.’ That’s what you and all of them have thrown up to me all these years, so I’m throwing it right back in your face. ‘Once in—’”

“No!” He pulled her closer to him. “Right now I believe I’m going to get out. Why can’t you believe it with me?”

She suddenly went limp and put her hand over his. She spoke in a despondent tone. “Even if it were possible—there are people who have plans for your retirement, Brian, and they don’t include a cottage by the sea in Kerry.” She slumped against his shoulder. “And what of me? I’m hunted by the Belfast IRA still. One can’t do the kinds of things we’ve done with our lives and expect to live happily ever after, can we? When was the last time you heard a knock on the door without having a great thump in your chest? Do you think you can announce your retirement like a respected statesman and settle down to write your memoirs? You’ve left a trail of blood all over Ireland, Brian Flynn, and there are people—Irish and British—who want yours in return.”

“There are places we could go—”

“Not on this planet. The world is very small, as a good number of our people on the run have found out. Think how it would be if we lived together. Neither of us could ever go out to buy a packet of tea without wondering if it would be the last time we’d see each other. Every letter in the mail could explode in your face. And what if there were … children? Think about that awhile.”

He didn’t reply.

She shook her head slowly. “I won’t live like that. It’s enough that I have to worry about myself. And it’s a relief, to be honest with you, that I have no one else to worry about—not you, nor Sheila … so why should I want to go with you and worry about when they’re going to kill you? … Why do you want to worry about when they’re going to catch up with me?”

He stared at the floor between the pews, then looked up at the altar. “But … you would like to … I mean if it were possible … ?”

She closed her eyes. “I wanted that once. I suppose, really, I still do. But it’s not in our stars, Brian.”

He stood abruptly and moved into the aisle. “Well … as long as you’d like to … that’s good to know, Maureen.” He said, “I’m adding Sheila’s name to the list.”

“Don’t expect anything in return.”

“I don’t. Come along, then.”

“Would you mind if I stayed here in the chapel?”

“I wouldn’t, no. But … you’re not safe here. Megan …”

“God, Brian, you speak of her as though she were a mad dog waiting to kill a sheep who’s strayed from the fold.”

“She’s a bit … vindictive…. ”

“Vindictive? What have I ever done to her?”

“She … she blames you, in part, for her brother’s capture…. It’s not rational, I know, but she’s—”

“Bloodthirsty. How in the name of God did you get mixed up with that savage? Is that what the youth of Northern Ireland’s turning into?”

Flynn looked back toward the chapel opening. “Perhaps. War is all they’ve known—all Megan’s known since she was a child. It’s become commonplace, the way dances and picnics used to be. These young people don’t even remember what downtown Belfast looked like before. So you can’t blame them. You understand that.”

She stood. “She goes a bit beyond war psychosis. You and I, Brian … our souls are not dead, are they?”

“We remember some of the life before the troubles.”

Maureen thought of Jean Kearney. She pictured the faces of the others. “We started this, you know.”

“No. The other side started it. The other side always starts it.”

“What difference does it make? Long after this is over, our country will be left with the legacy of children turned into murderers and children who tremble in dark corners. We’re perpetuating it, and it will take a generation to forget it.”

He shook his head. “Longer, I’m afraid. The Irish don’t forget things in a generation. They write it all down and read it again, and tell it round the peat fires. And in truth you, I, and Megan are products of what came long before the recent troubles. Cromwell’s massacres happened only last week, the famine happened yesterday, the uprising and civil war this morning. Ask John Hickey. He’ll tell you.”

She took a long breath. “I wish you weren’t so damned right about these things.”

“I wish you weren’t so right about us. Come along.”

She followed him out of the quiet chapel.

CHAPTER 42

Flynn descended the sacristy steps and saw Burke and Pedar Fitzgerald facing each other through the gate. A portable television sat on the landing beside Burke.

Flynn said to Fitzgerald, “Bring the priest here in five minutes.”

Fitzgerald slung the Thompson over his shoulder and left.

Burke looked at Flynn closely. He appeared tired, perhaps even sad.

Flynn took out the microphone detector and passed it over the television. “We’re both suspicious men by temperament and by profession. God, it’s lonely though, isn’t it?”

“Why the sudden melancholy?”

Flynn shook his head slowly. “I keep thinking this won’t end well.”

“I can almost guarantee you it won’t.”

Flynn smiled. “You’re a welcome relief from that ass Schroeder. You don’t bother me with sweet talk or with talk of giving up.”

“Well, now, I hate to say this after that compliment, but you should give it up.”

“I can’t, even if I wanted to. This machine I’ve put together has no real head, no real brain. But it has many killing appendages … inside and outside the Cathedral, each spring-loaded to act or react under certain conditions. I’m no more than the creator of this thing—standing outside the organism…. I suppose I speak for it, but not from it. You understand?”

“Yes.” Burke couldn’t tell if this pessimism was contrived. Flynn was a good actor whose every line was designed to create an illusion, to produce a desired response.

Flynn nodded and leaned heavily against the bars.

Burke had the impression that Flynn was fighting some inner struggle that was taking a great deal out of him.

After a time Flynn said, “Well, anyway, here’s what I wanted to speak to you about. Hickey and I have concluded that Martin’s abducted the resident architect of Saint Patrick’s. Why, you ask? So that you can’t plan or mount a successful attack against us.”

Burke considered the statement. There’d certainly be more optimism in the rectory and Cardinal’s residence if Gordon Stillway was poring over the blueprints with Bellini right now. Burke tried to put it together in his mind. The Fenians had missed Stillway; that was obvious by now. Maureen Malone wouldn’t have found an unsecured passage if Stillway was in there, because Stillway, no matter how brave a man he might be, would have been spilling it all out after fifteen minutes with this bunch.

And it wasn’t too difficult to believe that Major Martin had anticipated Stillway’s importance and snatched him before the Fenians could get to him. But to believe all that, you had to believe some very nasty and cold-blooded things about Major Martin.

Flynn broke the silence. “Are you seeing it now? Martin doesn’t want the police to move too fast. He wants to drag this out—he wants the dawn deadline to approach. He’s probably already suggested that you’ll get an extension of the deadline, hasn’t he?”

Burke said nothing.

Flynn leaned closer. “And without a firm plan of attack you’re ready to believe him. But let me tell you, at 6:03A.M.this Cathedral is no more. If you attack, your people will be ripped up very badly. The only way this can end without bloodshed is on my terms. You believe that we’ve beaten you. So swallow all that goddamned Normandy Beach–Iwo Jima pride and tell the stupid bastards out there that it’s finished and let’s all go home.”

“They won’t listen to that.”

“Make them listen!”

Burke said, “To the people out there the Fenians are no more the peers of the police and government than the New York street gang that calls itself the Pagans. They can’t deal with you, Flynn. They’re bound by law to arrest you and throw you in the slammer with the muggers and rapists, because that’s all terrorists are— muggers, murderers, and rapists on a somewhat larger scale—”

“Shut up!”

Neither man spoke, then Burke said in a gentler tone, “I’m telling you what their position is. I’m telling you what Schroeder won’t tell you. It’s true we’ve lost, but it’s also true we won’t—can’t—surrender. You could surrender … honorably … negotiate the best terms possible, lay down your guns—”

“No. Not one person in here can accept anything less than we’ve asked for.”

Burke nodded. “All right. I’ll pass it on…. Maybe we can still work something out that will save you and your people and the hostages and the Cathedral…. But the people in internment …” He shook his head. “London would never …”

Flynn also shook his head. “All or nothing.”

Both men lapsed into a silence, each aware that he had said more than he’d intended. Each was aware, too, that he had lost something that had been building between them.

Pedar Fitzgerald’s voice came down the stairs. “Father Murphy.”

Flynn turned and called back. “Send him down.”

The priest walked unsteadily down the marble staircase, supporting his large frame on the brass rail. He smiled through the face bandages and spoke in a muffled voice. “Patrick, good to see you.” He put his hand through the bars.

Burke took the priest’s hand. “Are you all right?”

Murphy nodded. “Close call. But the Lord doesn’t want me yet.”

Burke released the priest’s hand and withdrew his own.

Flynn put his hand to the bars. “Let me have it.”

Burke opened his hand, and Flynn snatched a scrap of paper from him.

Flynn unfolded the paper and read the words written in pencil. Hickey sent last message on confessional buzzer. There followed a fairly accurate appraisal of the Cathedral’s defenses. Flynn frowned at the first sentence: Hickey sent last message… What did that mean?

Flynn pocketed the paper and looked up. There was no anger in his voice. “I’m proud of these people, Burke. They’ve shown some spirit. Even the two holy men have kept us on our toes, I’ll tell you.”

Burke turned to Murphy. “Do any of you need a doctor?”

Murphy shook his head. “No. We’re a bit lame, but there’s nothing a doctor can do. We’ll be all right.”

Flynn said, “That’s all, Father. Go back with the others.”

Murphy hesitated and looked around. He glanced at the chain and padlock, then looked at Flynn, who stood as tall as he but was not as heavy.

Flynn sensed the danger and moved back. His right hand stayed at his side, but the position of his fingers suggested he was ready to go-for his pistol. “I’ve been knocked about by priests before, and I owe you all a few knocks in return. Don’t give me cause. Leave.”

Murphy nodded, turned, and mounted the steps. He called back over his shoulder, “Pat, tell them out there we’re not afraid.”

Burke said, “They know that, Father.”

Murphy stood at the crypt door for a few seconds, then turned and disappeared around the turn in the staircase.

Flynn put his hands in his pockets. He looked down at the floor, then lifted his head slowly until he met Burke’s eyes. He spoke without a trace of ruthlessness. “Promise me something, Lieutenant—promise me one thing tonight…. ”

Burke waited.

“Promise me this—that if they attack, you’ll be with them.”

“What—?”

Flynn went on. “Because, you see, if you know you’re not involved on that level, then subconsciously you’ll not see things you should see, you’ll not say things you should say out there. And you’ll not live so easily with yourself afterward. You know what I mean.”

Burke felt his mouth becoming dry. He thought of Schroeder’s foolishness. It was a bad night for rearechelon people. The front line was moving closer. He looked up at Flynn and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Flynn acknowledged the agreement without speaking. He looked away from Burke and said, “Don’t leave the rectory again.”

Burke didn’t reply.

“Stay close. Stay close especially as the dawn approaches.”

“I will.”

Flynn looked past Burke into the sacristy and focused on the priests’ altar in the small chapel at the rear that was directly below the Lady Chapel altar. There were arched Gothic windows behind this altar also, but these subterranean windows with soft artificial lighting behind them, eastward-facing windows, were suffused with a perpetual false dawn. He kept staring at them and spoke softly, “I’ve spent a good deal of my life working in the hours of darkness, but I’ve never been so frightened of seeing the sunrise.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Good…. Are they frightened out there?”

“I think they are.”

Flynn nodded slowly. “I’m glad. It’s not good to be frightened alone.”

“No.”

Flynn said, “Someday—if there’s a day after this one—I’ll tell you a story about Whitehorn Abbey—and this ring.” He tapped it against the bars.

Burke looked at the ring; he suspected it was some sort of talisman. There always seemed to be magic involved when he dealt with people who lived so close to death, especially the Irish.

Flynn looked down at the floor. “I may see you later.”

Burke nodded and walked down the steps.

CHAPTER 43

Brian Flynn stood beside the curtain entrance to the confessional and looked at the small white button on the jamb. Hickey sent last message … Flynn turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

Hickey stopped and looked at his watch. “Time to meet the press, Brian.”

He looked at Hickey. “Tell me about this buzzer.”

Hickey glanced at the confessional. “Oh, that. There’s nothing to tell. I caught Murphy trying to send a signal on it while he was confessing—can you imagine such a thing from a priest, Brian? Anyway, I think this is a call buzzer to the rectory. So I sent a few choice words, the likes of which they’ve never heard in the good fathers’ dormitory.” He laughed.

Flynn forced a smile in return, but Hickey’s explanation raised more questions than it answered. Hickey sent last message … Who sent the previous message or messages? He said, “You should have kept me informed.”

“Ah, Brian, the burdens of command are so heavy that you can’t be bothered with every small detail.”

“Just the same—” He looked at Hickey’s chalk-white face and saw the genial twinkle in his eyes turn to a steady burning stare of unmistakable meaning. He imagined he even heard a voice: Don’t go any further. He turned away.

Hickey smiled and tapped his watch. “Time to go give them hell, lad.”

Flynn made no move toward the elevator. He knew he had reached a turning point in his relationship with John Hickey. A tremor passed down his spine, and a sense of fear came over him unlike any normal fear he had ever felt. What have I unleashed?

Hickey turned into the archway beside the confessional, passing into the hallway of the bride’s room. He stopped in front of the oak elevator door and turned off the alarm. Slowly he began to deactivate the mine.

Flynn came up behind him.

Hickey neutralized the mine. “There we are…. I’ll set it again after you’ve gone down.” He opened the oak door, revealing the sliding doors of the elevator.

Flynn moved closer.

Hickey said, “When you come back, knock on the oak door. Three long, two short. I’ll know it’s you, and I’ll defuse the mine again.” He looked up at Flynn. “Good luck.”

Flynn stepped closer and stared at the gray elevator doors, then at the mine hanging from the half-opened oak door. I’ll know it’s you, and I’ll defuse the mine.… He looked into Hickey’s eyes and said, “I’ve got a better idea.”

Inspector Langley and Roberta Spiegel waited in the brightly lit hallway of the subbasement. With them were Emergency Service police and three intelligence officers. Langley checked his watch. Past ten. He put his ear to the elevator doors. He heard nothing and straightened up.

Roberta Spiegel said, “This bastard has all three networks and every local station waiting for him. Mussolini complex—keep them waiting until they’re delirious with anticipation.”

Langley nodded, realizing that was exactly how he felt waiting for Brian Flynn to step out of the gray doors.

Suddenly the noise of the elevator motor broke into the stillness of the corridor. The elevator grew louder as it descended from the hallway of the bride’s room into the subbasement. The doors began to slide open.

Langley, the three ID men, and the police unconsciously straightened their postures. Roberta Spiegel put her hand to her hair. She felt her heart in her chest.

The door opened, revealing not Brian Flynn but John Hickey. He stepped into the hall and smiled. “Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenians, sends his respects and regrets.” Hickey looked around, then continued. “My chief is a suspicious man— which is why he’s stayed alive so long. He had, I believe, a premonition about exposing himself to the dangers inherent in such a situation.” He looked at Langley. “He is a thoughtful man who didn’t want to place such temptation in front of you— or your British allies. So he sent me, his loyal lieutenant.”

Langley found it hard to believe that Flynn was afraid of a trap—not with four hostages to guarantee his safety. Langley said, “You’re John Hickey, of course.”

Hickey bowed formally. “No objections, I trust.”

Langley shrugged. “It’s your show.”

Hickey smiled. “So it is. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Inspector Langley.”

“Ah, yes…. And the lady?” He looked at Spiegel.

Spiegel said, “My name is Roberta Spiegel. I’m with the Mayor’s office.”

Hickey bowed again and took her hand. “Yes. I heard you on the radio once. You’re much more beautiful than I pictured you from your voice.” He made a gesture of apology. “Please don’t take that the wrong way.”

Spiegel withdrew her hand and stood silent. She had the unfamiliar experience of being at a loss for a reply.

Langley said, “Let’s go.”

Hickey ignored him and called down the corridor, “And these gentlemen?” He walked up to a tall ESD man and read his name tag. “Gilhooly.” He took the man’s hand and pumped it. “I love the melody of the Gaelic names with the softer sounds. I knew Gilhoolys in Tullamore.”

The patrolman looked uncomfortable. Hickey walked up and down the hallway shaking each man’s hand and calling him by name.

Langley exchanged looks with Spiegel. Langley whispered, “He makes Mussolini look like a tongue-tied schoolboy.”

Hickey shook the hand of the last man, a big flak-jacketed ESD man with a shotgun. “God be with you tonight, lad. I hope our next meeting is under happier circumstances.”

Langley said impatiently, “Can we go now?”

Hickey said, “Lead on, Inspector.” He fell into step with Langley and Spiegel. The three ID men followed. Hickey said, “You should have introduced those men to me. You ignored them—ignored their humanity. How can you get people to follow you if you treat them like jackstraws?”

Langley wasn’t quite sure what a jackstraw was, and in any case chose not to answer.

Hickey went on. “In ancient days combatants would salute each other before battle. And a man about to be executed would shake his executioner’s hand or even bless him to show mutual respect and compassion. It’s time we put war and death on a personal basis again.”

Langley stopped at a modern wooden door. “Right.” He looked at Hickey. “This is the press room.”

Hickey said, “Never been on television before. Do I need makeup?”

Langley motioned to the three ID men, then said to Hickey, “Before I take you in there, I have to ask you if you’re armed.”

“No. Are you?”

Langley nodded to one of the men who produced a metal detector and waved the wand over Hickey’s body.

Hickey said, “You may find that British bullet I’ve been carrying in my hip since ’21.”

The metal detector didn’t sound, and Langley reached out and pushed open the door. Hickey entered the room, and the sounds of conversation died abruptly. The press conference area below the sacristy was a long, light-paneled room with an acoustical tile ceiling. Several card tables were grouped around a long central conference table. Camera and light connections hung from trapdoors in the ceiling. Hickey looked slowly around the room and examined the faces of the people looking at him.

A reporter, David Roth, who had been elected the spokesman, rose and introduced himself. He indicated a chair at the head of the long table.

Hickey sat.

Roth said, “Are you Brian Flynn, the man who calls himself Finn MacCumail?”

Hickey leaned back and made himself comfortable. “No, I’m John Hickey, the man who calls himself John Hickey. You’ve heard of me, of course, and before I’m through you’ll know me well enough.” He looked around the table. “Please introduce yourselves in turn.”

Roth looked a bit surprised, then introduced himself again and pointed to a reporter. Each man and woman in the press room, including, at Hickey’s request, the technicians, gave his name.

Hickey nodded pleasantly to each one. He said, “I’m sorry I kept you all waiting. I hope my delay didn’t cause the representatives of the governments involved to leave.”

Roth said, “They won’t be present.”

Hickey feigned an expression of hurt and disappointment. “Oh, I see…. Well, I suppose they don’t want to be seen in public with a man like me.” He smiled brightly. “Actually, I don’t want to be associated with them either.” He laughed, then produced his pipe and lit it. “Well, let’s get on with it, then.”

Roth motioned to a technician, and the lights went on. Another technician took a light reading near Hickey’s face while a woman approached him with makeup. Hickey pushed her away gently, and she moved off quickly.

Roth said, “Is there any particular format you’d like us to follow?”

“Yes. I talk and you listen. If you listen without nodding off or picking your noses, I’ll answer questions afterward.”

A few reporters laughed.

The technicians finished the adjustments in their equipment, and one of them yelled, “Mr. Hickey, can you say something so we can get a voice reading?”

“Voice reading? All right, I’ll sing you a verse from ‘Men Behind the Wire,’ and when I’m through, I want the cameras on. I’m a busy man tonight.” He began to sing in a low, croaky voice. “Through the little streets of BelfastIn the dark of early morn,British soldiers came maraudingWrecking little homes with scorn.Heedless of the crying children,Dragging fathers from their beds,Beating sons while helpless mothersWatch the blood flow from their heads—”

“Thank you, Mr. Hickey—”

Hickey sang the chorus—“Armored cars, and tanks and gunsCame to take away our sonsBut every man will stand behindThe men behind the wii-re!”

“Thank you, sir.”

The camera light came on. Someone yelled, “On the air!”

Roth looked into the camera and spoke. “Good evening. This is David—” Hickey’s singing came from off camera:“Not for them a judge or jury,Or indeed a crime at all.Being Irish means they’re guilty,So we’re guilty one and a-lll—”

Roth looked to his right. “Thank you—”“Round the world the truth will echo,Cromwell’s men are here again.England’s name again is sulliedIn the eyes of honest me-nnn—”

Roth glanced sideways at Hickey, who seemed to have finished. Roth looked back at the camera. “Good evening, I’m David Roth, and we’re broadcasting live.. . as you can see … from the press room of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Not too far from where we now sit, an undisclosed number of IRA gunmen—”

“Fenians!” yelled Hickey.

“Yes … Fenians … have seized the Cathedral and hold four hostages: Cardinal— ”

“They know all that!” shouted Hickey.

Roth looked upset. “Yes … and with us tonight is Mr. John Hickey, one of the … Fenians….”

“Put the camera on me, Jerry,” said Hickey. “Over here—that’s right.”

Hickey smiled into the camera and began, “Good evening and Happy Saint Patrick’s Day. I am John Hickey, poet, scholar, soldier, and patriot.” He settled back into his chair. “I was born in 1905 or thereabouts to Thomas and Mary Hickey in a small stone cottage outside of Clonakily in County Cork. In 1916, when I was a wee lad, I served my country as a messenger in the Irish Republican Army. Easter Monday, 1916, found me in the beseiged General Post Office in Dublin with the poet Padraic Pearse, the labor leader James Connolly, and their men, including my sainted father, Thomas. Surrounding us were the Irish Fusiliers and the Irish Rifles, lackeys of the British Army.”

Hickey relit his pipe, taking his time, then went on. “Padraic Pearse read a proclamation from the steps of the Post Office, and his words ring in my ears to this day.” He cleared his throat and adopted a stentorian tone as he quoted: “‘Irishmen and Irishwomen—in the name of God and the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for freedom.’”

Hickey went on, weaving a narrative blend of history and fancy, facts and personal prejudices, interjecting himself into some of the more famous events of the decades following the Easter Monday rebellion.

Most of the reporters leaned forward in interest; some looked impatient or puzzled.

Hickey was serenely unaware of them or of the cameras and lights. From time to time he would mention the Cathedral to keep everyone’s interest piqued, then would swing into a long polemic against the British and American governments or the governments of the divided Ireland, always careful to exclude the people of these lands from his wrath.

He spoke of his sufferings, his wounds, his martyred father, his dead friends, a lost love, recalling each person by name. He beamed as he spoke of his revolutionary triumphs and frowned as he spoke darkly of the future of an Ireland divided. Finally he yawned and asked for a glass of water.

Roth took the opportunity to ask, “Can you tell us exactly how you seized the Cathedral? What are your demands? Would you kill the hostages and destroy the Cathedral if—”

Hickey held up his hand. “I’m not up to that part yet, lad. Where was I? Oh, yes. Nineteen hundred and fifty-six. In that year the IRA, operating from the south, began a campaign against the British-occupied six counties of the North. I was leading a platoon of men and women near the Doon Forest, and we were ambushed by a whole regiment of British paratroopers backed by the murderous Royal Ulster Constabulary.” Hickey went on.