Cathedral

Langley watched him from the corner, then looked around at the news people. They seemed unhappy, but he suspected that John Hickey was doing better with the public than with the media. Hickey had a hard-driving narrative style … a simplicity and almost crudeness—sweating, smoking, and scratching—not seen on television in a long time.

John Hickey—sitting now in fifty million American living rooms—was becoming a folk hero. Langley would not have been surprised if someone told him that outside on Madison Avenue vendors were hawking John Hickey T-shirts.

CHAPTER 44

Brian Flynn stood near the altar and watched the television that had been placed on the altar.

Maureen, Father Murphy, and Baxter sat in the clergy pews, watching and listening silently. The Cardinal sat nearly immobile, staring down at the television from his throne, his fingertips pressed together.

Flynn stood in silence for a long while, then spoke to no one in particular. “Long-winded old man, isn’t he?”

Maureen looked at him, then asked, “Why didn’t you go yourself, Brian?”

Flynn stared at her but said nothing.

She leaned toward Father Murphy and said, “Actually, Hickey seems an effective speaker.” She paused thoughtfully. “I wish there were a way to get this kind of public platform without doing what they’ve done.”

Murphy added as he watched the screen, “He’s at least venting the frustrations of so many Irishmen, isn’t he?”

Baxter glanced at them sharply. “He’s not venting anyone’s frustrations—he’s inflaming some long-cooled passions. And I think he’s embellishing and distorting it a bit, don’t you?” No one answered, and he went on. “For instance—if he’d been ambushed by a regiment of British paras, he wouldn’t be here to talk about it—”

Maureen said, “That’s not the point—”

Flynn overheard the exchange and looked at Baxter. “Harry, your chauvinism is showing. Hail Britannia! Britannia rules the Irish. Ireland—first outpost of Empire and destined to be the last.”

Baxter said to Flynn, “The man’s a bloody demagogue and charlatan.”

Flynn laughed. “No, he’s Irish. Among ourselves we sometimes tolerate a poetic rearrangement of facts mutually understood. But listen to the man, Harry—you might learn a thing or two.”

Baxter looked at the people around him—Maureen, Murphy, Flynn, the Fenians … even the Cardinal. For the first time he understood how little he understood.

Megan Fitzgerald walked up to the sanctuary and stared at the television screen.

Hickey, in the tradition of the ancient seanachies, interrupted his narrative to break into song:“Then, here’s to the brave men of Ireland.At home or in exile away;And, here’s to the hopes of our sire land,That never will rust or decay.To every brave down-trodden nation,Here’s liberty, glorious and bright. But,Oh! Let our country’s salvation,Be toasted the warmest, to-niiight!”

Megan said, “Bloody old fool. He’s making a laughing-stock of us ranting like that.” She turned to Flynn. “Why the hell did you send him?”

Flynn looked at her and said softly, “Let the old man have his day, Megan. He deserves this after nearly seventy years of war. He may be the world’s oldest continuously fighting soldier.” He smiled in a conciliatory manner. “He’s got a lot to tell.”

Megan’s voice was impatient. “He’s supposed to tell them that the British are the only obstacle to a negotiated settlement here. I’ve a brother rotting in Long Kesh, and I want him free in Dublin come morning.”

Maureen looked up at her. “And I thought you were here only because of Brian.”

Megan wheeled around. “Shut your damned mouth!”

Maureen stood, but Father Murphy pulled her quickly into the pew.

Flynn said nothing, and Megan turned and strode off.

Hickey’s voice blared from the television. The Cardinal sat motionless staring at some point in space. Baxter looked away from everyone and tried to filter out Hickey’s voice, concentrating on the escape plan. Father Murphy and Maureen watched the screen intently. Flynn watched also, but his thoughts, like Baxter’s, were elsewhere.

John Hickey took out a flask and poured a dark liquid into his water glass, then looked up at the camera. “Excuse me. Heart medicine.” He drained off the glass and let out a sigh. “That’s better. Now, where was I? Right—1973—” He waved his arms. “Oh, enough of this. Listen to me, all of you! We don’t want to hurt anyone in this Cathedral. We don’t want to harm a Prince of the Roman Church—a holy man—a good man—or his priest, Father Murphy … a lovely man….” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “We don’t want to harm one single altar or statue in this beautiful house of God that New Yorkers—Americans—love so dearly. We’re not barbarians or pagans, you know.”

He held his hands out in an imploring gesture. “Now listen to me….” His voice became choked, and tears formed in his eyes. “All we want is another chance for the young lives being wasted in British concentration camps. We’re not asking for the impossible—we’re not making any irresponsible demands. No, we’re only asking— begging—begging in the name of God and humanity for the release of Ireland’s sons and daughters from the darkness and degradation of these unspeakable dungeons.”

He took a drink of water and stared into the camera. “And who is it who have hardened their hearts against us?” He thumped the table. “Who is it who’ll not let our people go?” Thump! “Who is it that by their unyielding policy endangers the lives of the people in this great Cathedral?” He pounded the table with both fists. “The bloody fucking British—that’s who!”

Burke leaned against the wall in the Monsignor’s office and watched the screen. Schroeder sat at his desk, and Spiegel had returned to her rocker. Bellini paced in front of the screen, blocking everyone’s view, but no one objected.

Burke moved to the twin doors, opened them, and looked into the outer office. The State Department security man, Arnold Sheridan, stood by the window in deep thought. Occasionally he would eye the British and Irish representatives. Burke had the impression that Sheridan was going to give them the unpleasant news from Washington that Hickey was scoring heavily and it was time to talk. An awkward, almost embarrassed silence lay over the office as Hickey’s monologue rolled on. Burke was reminded of a living room he had sat in once where the adolescents and adults had somehow gotten themselves involved in watching an explicit documentary on teenage sex. Burke turned back to the inner office and stared at the screen.

Hickey’s voice was choked with emotion. “Many of you may question the propriety of our occupation of a house of God, and it was, I assure you, the hardest decision any of us has ever made in our lives. But we didn’t so much seize the Cathedral as we took refuge in it—claimed the ancient privilege of sanctuary. And what better place to stand and ask for God’s help?”

He paused as though wrestling with a decision, then said softly, “This afternoon, many Americans for the first time saw the obscene face of religious bigotry as practiced by the Orangemen of Ulster. Right here in the streets of the most ecumenical city in the world, the ugliness of religious intolerance and persecution was made unmistakably clear. The songs you heard those bigots sing were the songs the little children are taught in homes, schools, and churches….” He straightened his posture; on his face was a distasteful look that melted into an old man’s sadness. He shook his head slowly.

Schroeder turned away from the screen and said to Burke, “What’s the latest with those Orangemen?”

Burke kept staring at the screen as he spoke. “They still say they’re Protestant loyalists from Ulster, and they’ll probably keep saying that until at least dawn. But according to our interrogators they all sound like Boston Irish. Probably IRA Provos recruited for the occasion.” Given all the externals of this affair, Burke thought, psychological timing, media coverage, tactical preparations, political maneuverings, and last-ditch intelligence gathering—it was clear that Flynn would not extend the deadline and risk the tide turning against him.

Spiegel said, “It was a tactical blunder to let Hickey on television.”

Schroeder said defensively, “What else could I do?”

Bellini interjected, “Why don’t I grab him—then we’ll use him to negotiate for the hostages.”

Schroeder said, “Good idea. Why don’t you go cold-cock him right now before they break for a commercial?”

Burke looked at his watch. 10:25P.M. The night was slipping away so fast that it would be dawn before anyone realized it was too late.

Hickey looked around the press room. He noticed that Langley had disappeared. Hickey leaned forward and spoke to the cameraman. “Zoom in, Jerry.” He watched the monitor. “Closer. That’s it. Hold it.” He stared at the camera and spoke in low tones that had the suggestion of finality and doom. “Ladies and gentlemen of America—and all the unborn generations who will one day hear my words—we are outnumbered two thousand to one by police and soldiers, besieged and isolated by our enemies, betrayed by politicians and diplomats, compromised and undermined by secret agents, and censured by the world press….” He placed his hand over his chest. “But we are not afraid, because we know that out there are friends who wish us success and Godspeed in our mission. And there are the men and women, old and young, in Long Kesh, Armagh, Crumlin Road—all the hellholes of England and Northern Ireland—who are on their knees tonight, praying for their freedom. Tomorrow, God willing, the gates of Long Kesh will be thrown open, and wives will embrace husbands, children will weep with parents, brothers and sisters will meet once more….”

The tears were running freely again, and he took out a big bandanna and blew his nose, then continued, “If we accomplish nothing else this night, we’ll have made the world aware of their existence. And if we die, and others die with us, and if this great Cathedral where I sit right now is a smoldering ruin by morning, then it will only be because men and women of goodwill could not prevail against the repressive forces of darkness and inhumanity.” He took a long breath and cleared his throat. “Till we meet again in a happier place … God bless you all. God bless America and Ireland and, yes, God bless our enemies, and may He show them the light. Erin go bragh.”

David Roth cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Hickey, we’d like you to answer a few specific questions….”

Hickey stood abruptly, blew his nose into the bandanna, and walked off camera.

Inspector Langley had returned; he opened the door, and Hickey moved quickly into the hall, followed by Langley and the three ID men. Langley came up beside Hickey and said, “I see you know when to quit.”

Hickey put away his bandanna. “Oh, I couldn’t go on any longer, lad.”

“Yeah. Listen, you got your message across. You’re way ahead. Now why don’t you come out of there and give everyone a break?”

Hickey stopped in front of the elevator. His manner and voice suddenly became less teary. “Why the hell should we?”

Langley dismissed the three ID men. He took a notebook from his pocket and glanced at it. “Okay, Mr. Hickey, listen closely. I’ve just been authorized by representatives of the British and American governments to tell you that if you come out of the Cathedral now, the British will begin procedures to release—quietly and at intervals—most of the people on your list, subject to conditions of parole— ”

“Most? What kind of intervals? What kind of parole?”

Langley looked up from the notebook. “I don’t know anything more than I’m telling you. I just got this over the phone. I’m only a cop, okay? And we’re the only ones allowed to speak to you people. Right? So this is a little difficult but just listen and—”

“Pimp.”

Langley looked up quickly. “What?”

“Pimp. You’re pimping for the diplomats who don’t want to make a direct proposition to us whores.”

Langley flushed. “Look … look you—”

“Get hold of yourself, man. Steady.”

Langley took a breath and continued in a controlled voice. “The British can’t release all of them at once—not when you’ve got a gun to their heads—to everyone’s heads. But it will be done. And also the State and U.S. Attorney General have agreed to allow all of you in there to post a low bond and go free awaiting trial—you understand what that means?”

“No, I don’t.”

Langley looked annoyed. “It means you can skip out on the fucking bail and get the hell out of the country.”

“Oh … sounds dishonest.”

Langley ignored the remark and said, “No one has been killed yet—that’s the main thing. That gives us a lot of leeway in dealing with you—”

“It makes that much difference, does it? We’ve committed a dozen felonies already, terrified half the city, made fools of you, caused a riot, cost you millions of dollars, ruined your parade, and the Commissioner of Police has dropped dead of a heart attack. But you’re willing to let bygones be bygones—give us a wink and run us off like Officer Muldoon stumbling onto a crap game in an alley—as long as no one’s been killed. Interesting. That says a great deal about this society.”

Langley drew another breath and said, “I won’t make this offer again—for obvious reasons, no one will ever mention it over the telephone. So that’s it.” He slapped the notebook shut. “It’s a fair compromise. Take it or leave it.”

Hickey pressed the elevator button, and the doors opened. He said to Langley, “We wouldn’t look very good if we compromised, would we? You’d look good, though. Schroeder would be booked solid on TV for a year. But we’d not have access to the airwaves so easily. All anyone would see or remember is us coming out the front doors of Saint Patrick’s with our hands up. We’d do that gladly if the camps were emptied first. Then there’s no way anyone could hide or steal our victory with diplomatic or journalistic babble.”

“You’d be alive, for Christ’s sake.”

“Did you get my grave dug up yet?”

“Don’t pull that spooky shit on me.”

Hickey laughed.

Langley spoke mechanically, determined to deliver the last lines he had been instructed to say. “Use your power of persuasion with the people in there and your influence as a great Irish Republican leader. Don’t tarnish with senseless death and destruction what you’ve already accomplished.” He added his own thoughts. “You snowed about half of America tonight. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“I had a horse at Aqueduct this afternoon that quit while he was ahead…. But I’ll pass your kind offer on to Mr. Flynn and the Fenians, and we’ll let you know. If we never mention it, then you can assume we are holding fast to all our demands.”

Hickey stepped into the elevator. “See you later, God willing.” He pushed the button, and as the doors slid closed he called out, “Hold my fan mail for me, Inspector.”

CHAPTER 45

Brian Flynn stood opposite the elevator’s oak door, an M-16 rifle leveled at it. George Sullivan stood to the side of the door, listening. The elevator stopped, and Sullivan heard a soft rapping, three long and two short. He signaled in return, then defused the mine and opened the door.

John Hickey stepped out. Flynn lowered the rifle a half second too slowly, but no one seemed to notice.

Sullivan extended his hand. “Damned fine, John. You had me laughing and weeping at the same time.”

Hickey smiled as he took Sullivan’s hand. “Ah, my boy, it was a dream come true.” He turned to Flynn. “You would have done even better, lad.”

Flynn turned and walked into the ambulatory. Hickey followed. Flynn said as he walked, “Did anyone approach you?”

Hickey walked ahead to the chancel organ. “One fellow, that Inspector Langley. Gave us a chance to surrender. Promised us a low bail—that sort of thing.”

“Did the British relay any information—any indication they would compromise?”

“The British? Compromise? They’re not even negotiating.” He sat at the keyboard and turned on the organ.

“They didn’t get word to you through anyone?”

“You’ll not hear from them.” He looked at Flynn. “You’ve got to play the bells now, Brian, while we still have everyone’s attention. We’ll begin with—let’s see— ‘Danny Boy’ and then do a few Irish-American favorites for our constituency. I’ll lead, and you follow my tempo. Go on now.”

Flynn hesitated, then moved toward the center aisle. Hickey began playing “Danny Boy” in a slow, measured meter that would set the tempo for the bells.

The four hostages watched Flynn and Hickey, then turned back to the television. The reporters in the Cathedral press room were discussing Hickey’s speech. Baxter said, “I don’t see that we’re any closer to being let out of here.”

Father Murphy replied, “I wonder … don’t you think after this, the British … I mean …”

Baxter said sharply, “No, I don’t.” He looked at his watch. “Thirty minutes and we go.”

Maureen looked at him, then at Father Murphy. She said, “What Mr. Baxter means is that he, too, thinks they were probably considering a compromise after Hickey’s speech, but Mr. Baxter’s decided that he doesn’t want to be the cause of any compromise.”

Baxter’s face reddened.

Maureen continued. “It’s all right, you know. I feel the same way. I’m not going to be used by them like a slab of meat to be bartered for what they want.” She said in a quieter voice, “I’ve been used by them long enough.”

Murphy looked at them. “Well … that’s fine for you two, but I can’t go unless my life is in actual danger. Neither can His Eminence.” He inclined his head toward the Cardinal, who sat looking at them from his throne. Murphy added, “I think we all ought to wait….”

Maureen looked back at the Cardinal and saw by his face that he was struggling with the same question. She turned to Father Murphy. “Even if Hickey’s speech has moved the people out there toward a compromise, that doesn’t move Hickey toward a compromise—does it?” She leaned forward. “He’s a treacherous man. If you still believe he’s evil and means to destroy us, destroy himself, the Fenians, and this church, then we must try to get out of here.” She fixed her eyes on Murphy’s. “Do you believe that?”

Murphy looked at the television screen. A segment of John Hickey’s speech was being replayed. The volume was turned low, and Hickey’s voice wasn’t audible over the organ. Murphy watched the mouth moving, the tears rolling down his face. He looked into the narrow eyes. Without the spellbinding voice the eyes gave him away.

Father Murphy looked out over the sanctuary rail at Hickey playing the organ. Hickey’s head was turned toward them as he watched himself on television. He was smiling at his image, then turned and smiled, a grotesque smile, at Father Murphy. The priest turned quickly back to Maureen and nodded.

Baxter looked up at the Cardinal’s throne; the Cardinal bowed his head in return. Baxter glanced at his watch. “We go in twenty-seven minutes.”

Flynn rode the elevator to the choir practice room, then stepped out into the loft. He walked up behind Leary, who was leaning over the parapet watching the hostages through his scope. Flynn said, “Anything?”

Leary continued to observe the four people on the sanctuary. At some point years ago he had realized that not only could he anticipate people’s movements and read their expression, but he could also read their lips. He said, “A few words. Not too clear. Hard to see their lips.” The hostages had reached a point in their relationships to each other where they communicated with fewer words, but their body language was becoming clearer to him.

Flynn said, “Well, are they or aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“How? When?”

“Don’t know. Soon.”

Flynn nodded. “Warning shots first, then go for the legs. Understand?”

“Sure.”

Flynn picked up the field phone on the parapet and called Mullins in the bell tower. “Donald, get away from the bells.”

Mullins slung his rifle and pulled a pair of shooters’ baffles over his ears. He snatched up the field phone and quickly descended the ladder to the lower level.

Flynn moved to a small keyboard beside the organ console and turned the switch to activate the nineteen keys that played the bells. He stood before the waist-high keyboard and turned the pages of bell music on the music desk, then put his hands over the big keys and joined with the chancel organ below.

The biggest bell, the one named Patrick, chimed a thunderous B-flat, and the sound crashed through the bell tower, almost knocking Mullins off his feet.

One by one the nineteen huge bells began tolling in their carillon, beginning at the first bell room where Mullins had been and running upward to a point near the top of the spire twenty-one stories above the street.

In the attic a coffee cup fell off a catwalk rail. Arthur Nulty and Jean Kearney covered their ears and moved to the Madison Avenue end of the Cathedral. In the choir loft and triforia the bells resonated through the stonework and reverberated in the floors. In the south tower Rory Devane listened to the steady chiming coming from the opposite tower. He watched as the activity on the rooftops slowed and the movement in the streets came to a halt. In the cold winter air the slow rhythmical sounds of “Danny Boy” pealed through the dark canyons of Manhattan.

The crowds around the police barricades began cheering, raising bottles and glasses, then singing. More people began moving outdoors into the avenues and side streets.

Television coverage shifted abruptly from the press room of the Cathedral to the roofs of Rockefeller Center.

In bars and homes all over New York, and all over the country, pictures of the Cathedral as seen from Rockefeller Center flashed across the screens, bathed in stark blue lighting. A camera zoomed in on the green and gold harp flag that Mullins had draped from the torn louvers.

The sound of the bells was magnified by television audio equipment and transmitted with the picture from one end of the continent to the other. Satellite relays picked up the signal and beamed it over the world.

Rory Devane slipped a flare into a Very pistol, pointed it up through the louvers, and fired. The projectile arched upward, burst into green light, then floated on a parachute, swinging like a pendulum in the breeze, casting an unearthly green radiance across the buildings and through the streets. Devane went to the eastward-facing louvers and fired again.

Remote cameras located in the streets, bars, and restaurants began sending pictures of men and women singing, cheering, crying. A kaleidoscope of images flashed across video screens—bars, street crowds, the green-lit sky, close-ups of tight-lipped police, the bell tower, long shots of the Cathedral.

The flares suddenly changed from the illumination type to signal flares, star bursts, red, white, blue, then the green, orange, and white of the Irish tricolor. The crowd reacted appropriately. All the while the rich, lilting melody of “Danny Boy” filled the air from the bell tower and filled the airwaves from televisions and portable radios. “O Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are callingFrom glen to glen, and down the mountain side,The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling,’Tis you, ’tis you, must go and I must bide….”

Finally, on each station, reporters after an uncommonly long period of silence began adding commentary to the scenes, which needed none.

In the sanctuary the hostages watched the television in fascinated silence. Hickey played the organ with intense concentration, leading Flynn on the bells. Both men glanced at each other from time to time across the hundred yards that separated them.

Hickey swung into “Danny Boy” for the third time, not wanting to break the spell that the bittersweet song had laid over the collective psyche of the Cathedral and the city. He laughed as tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks.

In the Cardinal’s residence and in the rectory the only sound was the pealing of the bells rolling across the courtyard and resonating from a dozen television sets into rooms filled with people.

Burke stood in the Monsignor’s inner office, where the original Desperate Dozen had reassembled along with some additional members whom Burke had labeled the Anguished Auxiliaries.

Schroeder stood to the side with Langley and Roberta Spiegel, who, Burke noticed, was becoming Langley’s constant companion.

Langley stared at the screen and said, “If they’d had television on V-J day, this is what it would have looked like.”

Burke smiled in spite of himself. “Good timing. Good theater … fireworks … really hokey, but Christ, it gets them every time.”

Spiegel added, “And talk about your psychological disadvantages.”

Major Martin stood in the rear of the room between Kruger and Hogan. He kept his head and eyes straight ahead and said in an undertone, “We’ve always underestimated the willingness of the Irish to make public spectacles of themselves. Why don’t they suffer in silence like civilized people?”

The two agents looked at each other behind Martin’s back but said nothing.

Martin glanced to either side. He knew he was in trouble. He spoke with a light tone in his voice. “Well, I suppose I’ve got to undo this—or perhaps in their typical Irish

fashion they’ll undo themselves if—Oh, sorry, Hogan….”

Douglas Hogan moved away from Martin.

Monsignor Downes found his diary buried under Schroeder’s paperwork and drew it toward him, opening it to March 17.

He wrote, 10:35 P.M. The bells tolled tonight, as they’ve tolled in the past to mark the celebration of the holy days, the ends of wars, and the deaths of presidents. He paused, then added, They tolled for perhaps the last time. And people, I think, sensed this, and they listened and they sang. In the morning, God willing, the carillon will ring out a glorious Te Deum—or if it is God’s will, they will ring no more. Monsignor Downes put aside his pen and closed the diary.

Donald Mullins swung his rifle butt and smashed a hole in the thick, opaque glass of the lower section of the tower. He knocked out a dozen observation holes, the noise of the breaking glass inaudible through his shooters’ baffles and the chiming of the bells. Mullins slung his rifle and took a deep breath, then approached a broken window in the east side of the tower room and stared out into the cold night.

He saw that Devane was alternating star bursts with parachute flares, and the clearing night sky was lit with colors under a bright blue moon. The anxiety and despair he had felt all evening suddenly vanished in the clarity of the night, and he felt confident about meeting his death here.

CHAPTER 46

Harold Baxter didn’t consult his watch. He knew it was time. In fact, he thought, they should have gone sooner, before the bells and the fireworks, before Hickey’s speech, before the Fenians had transformed themselves from terrorists to freedom fighters.

He took a long last look around the Cathedral, then glanced at the television screen. A view from the tallest building of Rockefeller Center showed the cross-shape of the blue-lit Cathedral. In the upper left corner sat the rectory; in the right corner, the Cardinal’s residence. Within five minutes he would be sitting in either place, taking tea and telling his story. He hoped Maureen, the priest, and the Cardinal would be with him. But even if one or all of them were killed, it would be a victory because that would be the end of the Fenians.

Baxter rose from the pew and stretched nonchalantly. His legs were shaking and his heart was pounding.

Father Murphy rose and walked across the sanctuary. He exchanged quiet words with the Cardinal, then moved casually behind the altar and looked down the staircase.

Pedar Fitzgerald sat with his back to the crypt door, the Thompson pointed down the stairs toward the sacristy gate. He was singing to himself.

Father Murphy raised his voice over the organ. “Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Fitzgerald looked up quickly. “What is it, Father?”

Murphy felt a dryness in his throat. He looked across the stairwell for Baxter but didn’t see him. He said, “I’m … I’m hearing confessions now. Someone will relieve you if you want to—”

“I’ve nothing to confess. Please leave.”

Baxter steadied his legs, took a deep breath and moved. He covered the distance to the right side of the altar in three long strides and bounded down the steps in two leaps, unheard over the noise of the organ. Maureen was directly behind him.

Father Murphy saw them suddenly appear on the opposite stairs and made the sign of the cross over Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald sensed the danger and spun around. He stared at Baxter flying toward him and raised his submachine gun.

Father Murphy heard a shot ring out from the choir loft and dived down the stairs; he looked over his shoulder for the Cardinal but knew he wasn’t coming.

Leary got off a single shot, but his targets were gone in less time than it took him to steady his aim from the recoil. Only the Cardinal was left, sitting immobile on his throne, a splash of scarlet against the white marble and green carnations. Leary saw Hickey climb across the organ and drop to the sanctuary beside the Cardinal’s throne. The Cardinal stood, placing himself in Hickey’s path. Hickey’s arm shot out and knocked the Cardinal to the floor. Leary placed the cross hairs over the Cardinal’s supine body.

Flynn continued the song on the bells, not wanting to alert the people outside that something was wrong. He watched the sanctuary in the mirror. He called out, “That will be all, Mr. Leary.”

Leary lowered his rifle.

Baxter flew down the stairs, and his foot shot out, hitting Fitzgerald full in the face. Fitzgerald staggered back, and Father Murphy grabbed his arm from behind. Baxter seized the submachine gun and pulled violently. Fitzgerald wrenched the gun back.

The sound of the chancel organ had died away, but the bells played on, and for a second they were the only sound in the Cathedral until the air was split by a burst of fire from the submachine gun. The muzzle flashed in Baxter’s face, and he was momentarily blinded. Pieces of plaster fell from the vaulted ceiling above, crashing over the sacristy stairs.

Father Murphy yanked back on Fitzgerald’s arm but couldn’t break Fitzgerald’s grip on the gun. Maureen ducked around Baxter and jabbed her fingers into Fitzgerald’s eyes. Fitzgerald screamed, and Baxter found himself holding the heavy submachine gun. He brought the butt up in a vertical stroke but missed Fitzgerald’s groin and solar plexus, hitting him a glancing blow across the chest.

Baxter swore, raised the butt again, and drove it horizontally into the young man’s throat. Father Murphy released Fitzgerald, and he fell to the floor. Baxter stood over the fallen man and raised the gun butt over Fitzgerald’s face.

Maureen shouted, “No!” She grabbed Baxter’s arm.

Fitzgerald looked up at them, tears and blood running from his unfocused eyes. Blood gushed from his open mouth.

Brian Flynn watched Hickey and Megan moving across the sanctuary. Leary stood beside him, fingering his rifle and murmuring to himself. Flynn turned his attention back to the bells.

The four people in the triforia had barely taken in what had happened in the last fifteen seconds. They stared down into the altar sanctuary and saw the Cardinal lying sprawled on the floor and Hickey and Megan approaching the two stairwells cautiously.

Maureen held the Thompson, steadied herself, and pulled back on the trigger. A deafening burst of automatic fire flamed out of the muzzle and slammed into the padlock and chain.

Murphy and Baxter crouched as bullets ricocheted back, cracking into the marble stairs and walls. Baxter heard footsteps on the sanctuary floor. “They’re coming.”

Maureen fired a long second burst at the gate, then swung the gun up at the right-hand staircase, placed Hickey in her sight, and fired.

Hickey’s body seemed to twitch, then he dropped back out of view.

Maureen swung the gun around to the left and pointed it at Megan, who had stopped short on the first step, a pistol in her hand. Maureen hesitated, and Megan dived to the side and disappeared.

Baxter and Murphy ran down the stairs and tore at the shattered chain and padlock. Hot, jagged metal cut into their hands, but the chain began dropping away in pieces, and the padlock fell to the floor.

Maureen backed down the stairs, keeping the muzzle of the gun pointed up at the crypt door.

Police officers in the side corridors were shouting into the empty sacristy.

Baxter yelled to them. “Hold your fire! We’re coming out! Hold it!” He tore the last section of chain away and kicked violently at the gates. “Open! Open!”

Father Murphy was pulling frantically on the left-hand gate, shouting, “No! They roll—!”

Baxter lunged at the right gate and tried to slide it along its track into the wall, but both gates held fast.

Flak-jacketed police began edging out into the sacristy.

Maureen knelt on the bottom stair, keeping the gun trained on the landing above. She shouted, “What’s wrong?”

Baxter answered, “Stuck! Stuck!”

Murphy suddenly released the gate and straightened up. He grabbed at a black metal box with a large keyhole located where the gates joined and shook it. “They’ve locked it! The keys—they have the keys—”

Maureen looked back at them over her shoulder. She saw that the gate had its own lock, and she hadn’t hit it even once. Baxter shouted a warning, and she spun around. She saw Hickey standing in front of the crypt door, his legs straddling Pedar Fitzgerald’s body. Maureen raised the gun.

Hickey called down. “You can shoot me if you’d like, but that won’t get you out of here.”

Maureen screamed at him, “Don’t move! Hands up!”

Hickey raised his hands slowly. “There’s really no way out, you know.”

She shouted, “Throw me the gate key!”

He made an exaggerated shrug. “I think Brian has it.” He added, “Try shooting the lock out. Or would you rather use the last few rounds on me?”

She swore at him, spun around, and faced the gates. She shouted to Baxter and Murphy. “Move back!” She saw the police in the sacristy. “Get away!”

The police scattered back into the corridors. She pointed the muzzle at the boxlike lock that joined the gates and fired a short burst at point-blank range. The bullets ripped into the lock, scattering sparks and pieces of hot metal.

Baxter and Murphy yelled out in pain as they were hit. A piece of metal grazed Maureen’s leg, and she cried out. She fired again, one round, and the rotating drum of.45-caliber bullets clicked empty. Murphy and Baxter seized the bars of the gates and pulled. The gates held fast.

Maureen swung back to find Hickey halfway down the steps, a pistol in his hand. Hickey said, “You don’t see that kind of craftsmanship today. Hands up, please.”

Megan Fitzgerald knelt at the landing beside her brother. She looked down at Maureen, and their eyes met for a brief second.

Hickey’s voice was impatient. “Hands on your heads! Now!”

Father Murphy, Baxter, and Maureen stood motionless.

Hickey called out to the police. “Stay in the corridors, or I’ll shoot them all!” He shouted to the three people, “Let’s go!”

They remained motionless.

Hickey pointed the pistol and fired.

The bullet whistled past Murphy’s head, and he fell to the floor.

Maureen reversed the Thompson, grabbing its hot barrel in her hands, and brought it down savagely on the marble steps. The gunstock splintered and the drum flew off. She threw the mangled gun to the side, then stood erect and raised her arms.

Baxter did the same. Murphy stood and put his hands on his head.

Hickey looked at Maureen appreciatively. “Come on, then. Calm down. That’s right. Best-laid plans and all that.” He moved aside to let them pass.

Maureen stepped up to the landing and looked down at Pedar Fitzgerald. His throat was already beginning to swell, and she knew he would die unless he reached a hospital soon. She found herself cursing Baxter for botching it and injuring Fitzgerald so seriously, cursing Father Murphy for not remembering the gate’s lock, cursing herself for not killing Hickey and Megan. She looked down at Megan, who was wiping the blood from her brother’s mouth, but it kept flowing up from his crushed throat. Maureen said, “Sit him up or he’ll drown.”

Megan turned slowly and looked up at her. Her lips drew back across her teeth, and she sprang up and dug her nails into Maureen’s neck, shrieking, snarling.

Baxter and Murphy rushed up the remaining stairs and pulled the two women apart. Hickey watched quietly as the struggle and the shouting subsided, then said, “All right. Everyone feel better? Megan, sit the lad up. He’ll be all right.” He poked the pistol at the three hostages. “Let’s go.”

They continued up to the sanctuary. Hickey chatted amiably as he followed. “Don’t feel too badly. Damned bad luck, that’s all. Maureen, you’re a terrible shot. You didn’t come within a yard of me.”

She turned suddenly. “I hit you! I hit you!”

He laughed, put his finger to his chest, and drew it away with a small drop of pale, watery blood. “So you did.”

The hostages moved toward the pews. The Cardinal was slumped in his throne, his face in his hands, and Maureen thought he was weeping, then saw the blood running through his fingers. Father Murphy made a move toward the Cardinal, but Hickey shoved him away.

Baxter looked up into the triforia and choir loft and saw the five rifles trained on them. He was vaguely aware that the bells were still pealing, and the phone beside the chancel organ was ringing steadily.

Hickey called up to Gallagher. “Frank, get down here quickly and take Pedar’s place.” He pushed Baxter into a pew and said, as though complaining to a close friend, “Damned dicey operation I’ve gotten myself in, Harry. Lose one man and there’s no one to replace him.”

Baxter looked him in the eyes. “In school I learned that IRA stood for I Ran Away. It’s a wonder anyone’s stayed here.”

Hickey laughed. “Oh, Harry, Harry. After this place explodes and they find your pieces, I hope the morticians put your stiff upper lip where your asshole was and vice versa.” Hickey shoved Maureen into the pew. “And you—breaking up that gun—Like an old Celt yourself you were, Maureen, smashing your sword against a rock before dying in battle. Magnificent. But you’re becoming a bit of a nuisance.” He looked at Murphy. “And you, running out on your boss like that. Shame—”

Murphy said, “Go to hell.”

Hickey feigned a look of shock. “Well, will you listen to this … ?”

Murphy’s hands shook, and he turned his back on Hickey.

Baxter stared at the television on the table. The scene had shifted back to the press room below. Reporters were speaking excitedly to their newsrooms. The gunfire, he knew, had undone the effects of Hickey’s speech and the tolling bells. Baxter smiled and looked up at Hickey. He started to say something but suddenly felt an intense pain in his head and slumped forward out of the pew.

Hickey flexed his blackjack, turned, and grabbed Father Murphy by the lapel. He raised the black leather sap and stared into the priest’s eyes.

Gallagher had come out of the triforium door and ran toward the sanctuary. “No!”

Hickey looked at him, then lowered the sap. “Cuff them.” He moved to the television and ripped the plug from the outlet.

Maureen knelt over Baxter’s crumpled body and examined the wound on his forehead. “Bloody bastards—” She looked at the choir loft where Flynn played the bells. Gallagher took her wrist and locked on a handcuff, then locked the other end to Baxter’s wrist. Gallagher cuffed Murphy’s wrist and led him to the Cardinal. Gallagher knelt, then passed the cuff through the arm in the throne and gently placed the cuff over the Cardinal’s blood-streaked wrist. Gallagher whispered, “I’ll protect you.” He bowed his head and walked away.

Father Murphy slumped down on the top step of the raised platform. The Cardinal came down from the throne and sat beside him. Neither man spoke.

Megan came out of the stairwell carrying her brother in her arms. She stood in the center of the sanctuary looking around blankly. A blood trail led from the stairwell to where she stood, and the trail became a small pool at her feet. Hickey took Pedar from his sister’s arms and carried the limp body down to the chancel organ. He propped Pedar Fitzgerald against the organ console and covered him with his old overcoat.

Gallagher unslung his rifle and went down to the crypt landing. He shouted to the police who were cautiously examining the gate. “Get back! Go on!” They disappeared to the sides of the sacristy.

Megan remained standing in the pool of blood, staring at it. The only sounds in the Cathedral were the pealing bells and the persistently ringing telephone.

Brian Flynn watched from the choir loft as he tolled the bell. Leary glanced at Flynn curiously. Flynn turned away and concentrated on the keyboard, completing the last bar of “Danny Boy,” then began “The Dying Rebel.” He spoke into the microphone. “Mr. Sullivan, the pipes, please. Ladies and gentlemen, a song.” He began singing. Hesitantly, other voices joined him, and Sullivan’s pipes began skirling. “The night was dark and the battle ended.The moon shone down O’Connell Street.I stood alone where brave men parted,Never more again to speak.”

John Hickey picked up the ringing telephone.

Schroeder’s voice came over the line, very nearly out of control. “What happened? What happened?”

Hickey growled, “Shut up, Schroeder! The hostages are not dead. Your men saw it all. The hostages are cuffed now, and there’ll be no more escape attempts. End of conversation.”

“Wait! Listen, are they injured? Can I send a doctor?”

“They’re in reasonably good shape. If you’re interested, though, one of my lads has been hurt. Sir Harold Baxter, knight of the realm, bashed his throat in with a rifle. Not at all sporting.”

“God … listen, I’ll send a doctor—”

“We’ll let you know if we want one.” He looked down at Fitzgerald. His throat was grotesquely bloated now. “I need ice. Send it through the gates. And a tracheal tube.”

“Please … let me send—”

“No!” Hickey rubbed his eyes and slumped forward. He felt very tired and wished it would all end sooner than he had hoped.

“Mr. Hickey …”

“Oh, shut up, Schroeder. Just shut up.”

“May I speak to the hostages? Mr. Flynn said I could speak to them after the press—”

“They’ve lost the right to speak with anyone, including each other.”

“How badly are they hurt?”

Hickey looked at the four battered people on the sanctuary. “They’re damned lucky to be alive.”

Schroeder said, “Don’t lose what you’ve gained. Mr. Hickey, let me tell you, there are a lot of people on your side now. Your speech was … magnificent, grand. What you said about your suffering, the suffering of the Irish—”

Hickey laughed wearily. “Yes, a traditional Irish view of history, which is at times in conflict with the facts but never inhibited by them.” He smiled and yawned. “But everyone bought it, did they? TV is marvelous.”

“Yes, sir, and the bells—did you see the television?”

“What happened to those song requests?”

“Oh, I’ve got some here—”

“Shove them.”

After a short silence Schroeder said, “Well, anyway, it was really incredible, you know—I’ve never seen anything like that in this city. Don’t lose that, don’t—”

“It’s already lost. Good-bye, Schroeder.”

“Wait! Hold it! One last thing. Mr. Flynn said you’d turn off the radio jammer— ”

“Don’t blame your radio problems on us. Buy better equipment.”

“I’m just afraid that without radio control the police might overreact to some perceived danger—”

“So what?”

“That almost happened. So, I was wondering when you were going to shut it off—”

“It will probably shut off when the Cathedral explodes.” He laughed.

“Come on now, Mr. Hickey … you sound tired. Why don’t you all try to get some sleep? I’ll guarantee you an hour—two hours’ truce—and send some food, and— ”

“Or more likely it’ll be consumed by the flames from the attic. Forty long years in the building—Poof—it’ll be gone in less than two hours.”

“Sir… I’m offering you a truce—” Schroeder took another breath, then spoke in a cryptic tone. “A police inspector gave you a … a status report, I believe….”

“Who? Oh, the tall fellow with the expensive suit. Watch that man, he’s taking graft.”

“Are you considering what he said to you?”

“As the Ulster Protestants are fond of saying, ‘Not an inch!’ Or would they now say centimeter? Inch. Yes, inch—”

“It’s a fair solution to—”

“Unacceptable, Schroeder! Don’t bother me with it again.”

Schroeder said abruptly, “May I speak with Mr. Flynn?”

Hickey looked up at the loft. There was a telephone extension on the organ, but Flynn had not used it. Hickey said, “He’s come to a difficult passage in the bells. Can’t you hear it? Have a little consideration.”

“We haven’t heard from him in a long time. We expected him at the press conference. Is he … all right?”

Hickey found his pipe and lit it. “He’s as well as any young man can be who is contemplating his imminent death, the sorrow of a lost love, the tragedy of a lost country, and a lost cause.”

“Nothing is lost—”

“Schroeder, you understand Irish fatalism, don’t you? When they start playing melancholy songs and weeping in their beers, it means they’re on the verge of something reckless. And listening to your whimpering voice will not improve Brian Flynn’s mood.”

“No, listen, you’re close—it’s not lost—”

“Lost! Listen to the bells, Schroeder, and between their peals you’ll hear the wail of the banshee in the hills, warning us all of approaching death.” He hung up.

Megan was staring down at him from the sanctuary.

Hickey glanced at Pedar Fitzgerald. “He’s dying, Megan.”

She nodded hesitantly, and he looked at her. She seemed frightened suddenly, almost childlike. He said, “I can give him over to the police and he may live, but …”

She understood clearly that there would be no victory, no amnesty for them, or for the people in Northern Ireland, and that soon she and everyone in the Cathedral would be dead. She looked at her brother’s blue-white face. “I want him here with me.”

Hickey nodded. “Yes, that’s the right thing, Megan.”

Father Murphy shifted around on the throne platform. “He should be taken to a hospital.”

Neither Megan nor Hickey answered.

Father Murphy went on, “Let me administer the sacrament—”

Hickey cut him off. “You’ve got a damned ritual for everything, don’t you?”

“To save his soul from damnation—”

“People like you give eternal damnation a bad name.” Hickey laughed. “I’ll wager you carry some of that holy oil with you all the time. Never know when a good Catholic might drop dead at your feet.”

“I carry holy oil, yes.”

Hickey sneered. “Good. Later we’ll fry an egg with it.”

Father Murphy turned away. Megan walked toward Maureen and Baxter. Maureen watched her approach, keeping her eyes fixed steadily on Megan’s.

Megan stood over the two cuffed people, then knelt beside Baxter’s sprawled body and ripped the belt from his pants. She stood with her feet spread and brought the belt down with a whistling sound across Baxter’s face.

Father Murphy and the Cardinal shouted at her.

Megan raised the belt again and brought it down on Maureen’s upraised arms. She aimed the next blow at Baxter, but Maureen threw herself over his defenseless body and the belt lashed her across the neck.

Megan struck at Maureen’s back, then struck again at her legs, then her buttocks.

The Cardinal looked away. Murphy was shouting at the top of his lungs.

Hickey began playing the chancel organ, joining with the bells. Frank Gallagher sat on the blood-smeared landing where Fitzgerald had lain and listened to the sounds of blows falling; then the sharp sounds were lost as the organ played “The Dying Rebel.”

George Sullivan looked away from the sanctuary and played his bagpipe. Abby Boland and Eamon Farrell had stopped singing, but Flynn’s voice called to them over the microphone, and they sang. Hickey sang, too, into the organ microphone. “The first I saw was a dying rebel.Kneeling low I heard him cry,God bless my home in Tipperary,God bless the cause for which I die.”

In the attic Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty lay on their sides, huddled together on the vibrating floor boards. They kissed, then moved closer. Jean Kearney rolled on her back, and Nulty covered her body with his.

Rory Devane stared out of the north tower, then fired the last flare. The crowds below were still singing, and he sang, too, because it made him feel less alone.

Donald Mullins stood in the tower below the first bell room, oblivious to everything but the pounding in his head and the cold wind passing through the smashed windows. From his pocket he took a notebook filled with scrawled poems and stared at it. He remembered what Padraic Pearse had said, referring to himself, Joseph Plunkett, and Thomas MacDonagh at the beginning of the 1916 uprising: “If we do nothing else, we shall rid Ireland of three bad poets.” Mullins laughed, then wiped his eyes. He threw the notebook over his shoulder, and it sailed out into the night.

In the choir loft Leary watched Megan through his sniper scope. It came to him in a startling way that he had never once, even as a child, struck anyone. He watched Megan’s face, watched her body move, and he suddenly wanted her.

Brian Flynn stared into the organ’s large concave mirror, watching the scene on the altar sanctuary. He listened for the sound of Maureen’s cries and the sound of the steady slap of the belt against her body, but heard only the vibrant tones of the chimes, the high, reedy wail of the bagpipes, the singing, and the full, rich organ below. “The next I saw was a gray-haired father,Searching for his only son.I said Old Man there’s no use in searchingYour only son to Heaven has gone.”

He lowered his eyes from the mirror and shut them, listening only to the faraway chimes. He remembered that sacrifices took place on altars, and the allusion was not lost on him, and possibly some of the others understood as well. Maureen understood. He remembered the double meaning of sacrifice: an implied sanctification, an offering to the Deity, thanksgiving, purification…. But the other meaning was darker, more terrible—pain, loss, death. But in either case the understanding was that sacrifice was rewarded. The time, place, and nature of the reward was never clear, however. “Your only son was shot in DublinFighting for his Country bold.He died for Ireland and Ireland onlyThe Irish flag green, white and gold.”

A sense of overpowering melancholy filled him—visions of Ireland, Maureen, Whitehorn Abbey, his childhood, flashed through his mind. He suddenly felt his own mortality, felt it as a palpable thing, a wrenching in his stomach, a constriction in his throat, a numbness that spread across his chest and arms.

A confused vision of death filled the blackness behind his eyelids, and he saw himself lying naked, white as the cathedral marble, in the arms of a woman with long honey-colored hair shrouding her face; and blood streamed from his mouth, over his cold dead whiteness—blood so red and so plentiful that the people who had gathered around remarked on it curiously. A young man took his hand and knelt to kiss his ring; but the ring was gone, and the man rose and walked away in disgust. And the woman who held him said, Brian, we all forgive you. But that gave him more pain than comfort, because he realized he had done nothing to earn forgiveness, done nothing to try to alter the course of events that had been set in motion so long before.

CHAPTER 47

Brian Flynn looked at the clock in the rear of the choir loft. He let the last notes of “An Irish Lullaby” die away, then pressed the key for the bell named Patrick. The single bell tolled, a deep low tone, then tolled again and again, twelve times, marking the midnight hour. St. Patrick’s Day was over.

The shortest day of the year, he reflected, was not the winter solstice but the day you died, and March 18 would be only six hours and three minutes long, if that.

A deep silence lay over the acre of stone, and the outside cold seeped into the church, slowly numbing the people inside. The four hostages slept fitfully on the cool marble of the altar sanctuary, cuffed together in pairs.

John Hickey rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked at the television he had moved to the organ console. The volume was turned down, and a barely audible voice was remarking on the new day and speculating on what the sunrise would bring. Hickey wondered how many people were still watching. He pictured all-night vigils around television sets. Whatever happened would happen live, in color, and few would be willing to go to sleep and see it on the replays. Hickey looked down at Pedar Fitzgerald. There were ice packs around his throat and a tube coming from his mouth that emitted a hissing sound. Slightly annoying, Hickey thought.

Flynn began playing the bells again, an Irish-American song this time, “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?”

Hickey watched the television. The street crowds approved of the selection. People were swaying arm in arm, beery tears rolling down red faces. But eventually, he knew, the magic would pass, the concern over the hostages and the Cathedral would become the key news story again. A lot of emotional strings were being pulled this night, and he was fascinated by the game of manipulation. Hickey glanced up at the empty triforium where Gallagher had stood, then turned and called back toward the sacristy stairs, “Frank?”

Gallagher called from the stairwell, “All quiet!”

Hickey looked up at Sullivan and Abby Boland, and they signaled in return. Eamon Farrell called down from the triforium overhead. “All quiet.” Hickey cranked the field phone.

Arthur Nulty rolled over and reached out for the receiver. “Roger.”

“Status.”

Nulty cleared his throat. “Haven’t we had enough bells, for God’s sake? I can’t hear so well with that clanging in my ears.”

“Do the best you can.” He cranked the phone again. “Bell tower?”

Mullins was staring through a shattered window, and the phone rang several times before he was aware of it. He grabbed it quickly. “Bell tower.”

Hickey said, “Sleeping?”

Mullins moved one earpiece of the shooters’ baffles and said irritably, “Sleeping? How the hell could anyone sleep with that?” He paused, then said, “Has he gone mad?”

Hickey said, “How are they behaving outside?”

Mullins trailed the phone wire and walked around the tower. “They keep coming and going. Mostly coming. Soldiers bivouacked in the Channel Gardens. Damned reporters on the roofs have been drinking all night. Could use a rip myself.”

“Aye, time enough for that. At this hour tomorrow you’ll be—where?”

“Mexico City … I’m to fly to Mexico City….” He tried to laugh. “Long way from Tipperary.”

“Warm there. Keep alert.” Hickey cranked again. “South tower.”

Rory Devane answered. “Situation unchanged.”

“Watch for the strobe lights.”

“I know.”

“Are the snipers still making you nervous, lad?”

Devane laughed. “No. They’re keeping me company. I’ll miss them, I think.”

“Where are you headed tomorrow?”

“South of France. It’s spring there, they tell me.”

“So it is. Remember, a year from today at Kavanagh’s in fair Dublin.”

“I’ll be there.”

Hickey smiled at the dim memory of Kavanagh’s Pub, whose front wall was part of the surrounding wall of Glasnevin Cemetery. There was a pass-through in the back wall where gravediggers could obtain refreshments, and as a result, it was said, many a deceased was put into the wrong hole. Hickey laughed. “Aye, Rory, you’ll be there.” He hung up and turned the crank again.

Leary picked up the phone in the choir loft. Hickey said, “Tell Brian to give the bells a rest, then.” He watched Leary turn and speak to Flynn. Leary came back on the line. “He says he feels like playing.”

Hickey swore under his breath. “Hold on.” He looked at the television set again. The scenes of New York had been replaced by an equally dramatic view of the White House, yellow light coming from the Oval Office windows. A reporter was telling the world that the President was in conference with top advisers. The scene shifted to 10 Downing Street, where it was 5:00A.M. A bleary-eyed female reporter was assuring America that the Prime Minister was still awake. A quick scene-change showed the Apostolic Palace in the Vatican. Hickey leaned forward and listened carefully as the reporter speculated about the closed-door gathering of Vatican officials. He mumbled to himself, “Saint Peter’s next.”

Hickey spoke into the phone. “Tell Mr. Flynn that since we can expect an attack at any time now, I suggest he stop providing them with the noise cover they need.” He hung up and listened to the bells, which still rang. Brian Flynn, he thought, was not the same man who strode so cockily through this Cathedral little more than six hours before. Flynn was a man who had learned a great deal in those six hours, but had learned it too late and would learn nothing further of any consequence in the final six hours.

Captain Bert Schroeder was startled out of a half-sleep by the ringing telephone. He picked it up quickly.

Hickey’s voice cut into the stillness of the office and boomed out over the speakers in the surrounding rooms, also startling some of the people there. “Schroeder! Schroeder!”

Schroeder sat up, his chest pounding, “Yes! What’s wrong?”

Hickey’s voice was urgent. “Someone’s seized the Cathedral!” He paused and said softly, “Or was I having a nightmare?” He laughed.

Schroeder waited until he knew his voice would be steady. He looked around the office. Only Burke was there at the moment, sleeping soundly on the couch. Schroeder said, “What can I do for you?”

Hickey said, “Status report, Schroeder.”

Schroeder cleared his throat. “Status—”

“How are things in Glocca Morra, London, Washington, Vatican City, Dublin? Anybody still working on this?”

“Of course. You can see it on TV.”

“I’m not the public, Schroeder. You tell me what’s happening.”

“Well …” He looked at some recent memos. “Well … the Red Cross and Amnesty are positioned at all of the camps … waiting …”

“That was on TV.”

“Was it? Well … Dublin … Dublin has not yet agreed to accept released internees—”

“Tell them for me that they’re sniveling cowards. Tell them I said the IRA will take Dublin within the year and shoot them all.”

Schroeder said emphatically, “Anyway, we all haven’t agreed on terms yet, have we? So finding a place of sanctuary is of secondary importance—”

“I want to speak with all the governments directly. Set up a conference call.”

Schroeder’s voice was firm. “You know they won’t speak to you directly.”

“Those pompous bastards will be on their knees begging for an audience by six o’clock.”

Schroeder put a note of optimism in his voice. “Your speech is still having favorable repercussions. The Vatican is—”

“Speaking of repercussions and concussions and all that, do you think—now this is a technical question that you should consider—do you think that the glass façade of the Olympic Tower will fall into the street when—”

Schroeder said abruptly, “Is Mr. Flynn there?”

“You have a bad habit of interrupting, Schroeder.”

“Is Mr. Flynn there?”

“Of course he’s here, you ass. Where else would he be?”

“May I speak to him, please?”

“He’s playing the bells, for God’s sake!”

“Can you tell him to pick up the extension beside the organ?”

“I told you, you don’t interrupt a man when he’s playing the bells. Haven’t you learned anything tonight? I’ll bet you were a vice cop once, busting into hotel rooms, interrupting people. You’re the type.”

Schroeder felt his face redden. He heard Hickey’s voice echoing through the rectory and heard a few people laughing. Schroeder snapped a pencil between his fingers. “We want to speak with Mr. Flynn—privately, at the sacristy gate.” He looked at Burke sleeping on the couch. “Lieutenant Burke wants to speak—”

“As you said before, it’s less confusing to speak to one person. If I can’t speak to the Queen, you can’t speak to Finn MacCumail. What’s wrong with me? By the way, what have you given up for Lent? Your brains or your balls? I gave up talking to fools on the telephone, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”

Schroeder suddenly felt something inside him come loose. He made a strong effort to control his voice and spoke in measured tones. “Mr. Hickey … Brian Flynn has a great deal of faith in me—the efforts I’m making, the honesty I’ve shown—”

The sound of Hickey’s laughter filled the office. “He sounds like a good lad to you, does he? Well, he’s got a surprise in store for you, Schroeder, and you won’t like it.”

Schroeder said, “We’d rather not have any surprises—”

“Stop using that imperial we. I’m talking about you. You have a surprise coming.” Schroeder sat up quickly, and his eyes became more alert. “What do you mean by that? What does that mean? Listen, everything should be aboveboard if we’re going to bargain in good faith—”

“Is Bellini acting in good faith?”

Schroeder hesitated. This use of names by these people was unsettling. These references to him personally were not in the script.

Hickey continued, “Where is Bellini now? Huddled around a chalk board with his Gestapo? Finding sneaky little ways to kill us all? Well, fuck Bellini and fuck you.”

Schroeder shook his head in silent frustration, then said, “How are the hostages?” Hickey said, “Did you find Stillway yet?”

“Do you need a doctor in there?”

“Did you dig up my grave yet?”

“Can I send food, medicine—?”

“Where’s Major Martin?”

Burke lay on the couch with his eyes closed and listened to the dialogue deteriorate into two monologues. As unproductive as the dialogue had been, it hadn’t been as bizarre as what he was listening to now. He knew now, beyond any doubt, that it was finished.

Schroeder said, “What surprises does Flynn have planned for me?”

Hickey laughed again. “If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise. I’ll bet when you were a child you were an insufferable brat, Schroeder. Always trying to find out what people bought you for Christmas, sneaking around closets and all that.”

Schroeder didn’t respond and again heard the laughter from the next room.

Hickey said, “Don’t initiate any calls to us unless it’s to say we’ve won. I’ll call you back every hour on the hour until 6:00A.M. At 6:03 it’s over.”

Schroeder heard the phone go dead. He looked at Burke’s still form on the couch, then shut off all the speakers and dialed again. “Hickey?”

“What?”

Schroeder took a deep breath and said through his clenched jaw, “You’re a dead motherfucker.” He put the phone down and steadied his hands against the desk. There was a taste of blood in his mouth, and he realized that he was biting into his lower lip.

Burke turned his head and looked at Schroeder. Their eyes met, and Schroeder turned away.

Burke said, “It’s okay.”

Schroeder didn’t answer, and Burke could see his shoulders shaking.

CHAPTER 48

Colonel Dennis Logan rode in the rear of a staff car up the deserted section of Fifth Avenue, toward the Cathedral. He turned to his adjutant, Major Cole. “Didn’t think I’d be passing this way again today.”

“Yes, sir. It’s actually March eighteenth.”

Colonel Logan overlooked the correction and listened to the bells play “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” then said, “Do you believe in miracles?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, see that green line?”

“Yes, sir, the long one in the middle of the Avenue that we followed.” He yawned.

“Right. Well, some years ago, Mayor Beame was marching in the parade with the Sixty-ninth. Police Commissioner Codd and the Commissioner for Public Events, Neil Walsh, were with him. Before your time.”

Major Cole wished that this parade had been before his time. “Yes, sir.”

“Anyway, it rained that morning after the line machine went by, and the fresh green paint washed away—all the way from Forty-fourth to Eighty-sixth Street. But later that morning Walsh bought some paint and had his men hand-paint the line right in front of the Cathedral.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, when we marched past with the city delegation, Walsh turns to Codd and says, ‘Look! It’s a miracle, Commissioner! The line’s still here in front of the Cathedral!’”

Colonel Logan laughed at the happier memory and went on. “So Codd says, ‘You’re right, Walsh!’ and he winks at him, then looks at Beame. ‘Oh my gosh!’ said the little Mayor. ‘I always wanted to see a miracle. I never saw a miracle before!’” Logan laughed but refrained from slapping his or Cole’s knee. The driver laughed, too.

Major Cole smiled. He said, “Sir, I think we’ve mustered most of the officers and at least half the men.”

Logan lit a cigar. “Right…. Do they look sober to you?”

“It’s hard to say, sir.”

Logan nodded, then said, “We’re not really needed here, are we?”

“That’s difficult to determine, Colonel.”

“I think the Governor is looking for high marks in leadership and courage, don’t you?”

Major Cole replied, “The regiment is well trained in crowd and riot control, sir.”

“So are twenty-five thousand New York police.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope to God he doesn’t get us involved in an assault on the Cathedral.”

The major replied, “Sir,” which conveyed no meaning.

Colonel Logan looked through the window as the car passed between a set of police barriers and moved slowly past the singing crowds. “Incredible.”

Cole nodded. “Yes, it is.”

The staff car drew up to the rectory and stopped.

Captain Joe Bellini advised the newspeople that the press conference room might cave in if the Cathedral was blown up, and they moved with their equipment to less vulnerable places outside the Cathedral complex as Bellini moved in. He stood in the room beside a chalkboard. Around the tables and along the walls, were sixty Emergency Service Division men, armed with shotguns, M-16 rifles, and silenced pistols. In the rear of the room sat Colonel Logan, Major Cole, and a dozen staff personnel from the 69th Regiment. A cloud of gray tobacco smoke veiled the bright lights. Bellini pointed to a crude outline of the Cathedral on the chalkboard. “So, Fifth Squad will attack through the sacristy gates. You’ll be issued steel-cut chainsaws and bolt cutters. Okay?”

Colonel Logan stood. “If I may make a suggestion … Before, you said your men had to control their fire…. This is your operation, and my part is secondary, but the basic rules of warfare … Well, anyway, when you encounter concealed enemy positions that have a superior field of fire—like those triforia and choir loft—and you know you can’t engage them with effective fire … then you have to lay down suppressing fire.” Logan saw some signs of recognition. “In other words you flip the switches on your M-16s from semiautomatic to full automatic—rock and roll, as the men say—and put out such an intense volume of fire that the enemy has got to put his head down. Then you can safely lead the hostages back down the sacristy stairs.”

No one spoke, but a few men were nodding.

Logan’s voice became more intense. He was suddenly giving a prebattle pep talk. “Keep blasting those triforia, blast that choir loft, slap magazine after magazine into those rifles, raking, raking, raking those sniper perches, blasting away so long, so loud, so fast, and so hard that it sounds like Armageddon and the Apocalypse all at once, and no one—no one—in those perches is going to pick his head up if the air around him is filled with bullets and pulverized stone.” He looked around the silent room and listened to his heart beating.

There was a spontaneous burst of applause from the ESD men and the military people. Captain Bellini waited until the noise died away, then said, “Yes, well, Colonel, that’s sound advice, but we’re all under the strictest orders not to blow the place apart—as you know. It’s full of art treasures…. It’s … well … you know…”

Logan said, “Yes, I understand.” He wiped his face. “I’m not advocating air strikes. I mean, I’m only suggesting you increase your use of small-arms fire, and—”

“Such an intense degree of even small-arms fire, Colonel, would do”—Bellini remembered the Governor’s words—“irreparable … irreparable damage to the Cathedral … the ceiling … the stonework … statues …”

One of the squad leaders stood. “Look, Captain, since when are art treasures more important than people? My mother thinks I’m an art treasure—”

Several people laughed nervously.

Bellini felt the sweat collecting under his collar. He looked at Logan. “Colonel, your mission …” Bellini paused and watched Logan stiffen.

Logan said, “My mission is to provide a tight cordon around the Cathedral during the assault. I know what I have to do.”

Bellini almost smirked. “No, that’s been changed. The Governor wants you to take a more active part in the assault.” He savored each word as he said it. “The police will supply you with their armored personnel carrier. It’s army surplus, and you’ll be familiar with it.” Bellini noticed that Major Cole had gone pale.

Bellini stepped closer to Logan. “You’ll take the vehicle up the front steps with fifteen men inside—”

Logan’s voice was barely under control. “This is insane. You can’t use an armored vehicle in such a confined space. They might have armor-piercing ordnance in there. Good Lord, we couldn’t maneuver, couldn’t conceal the vehicle … These Fenians are guerrilla veterans, Captain. They know how to deal with tanks—they’ve seen more British armored cars than you’ve seen—”

“Taxis,” said Burke as he walked into the press room. “That’s what Flynn said to Schroeder. Taxis. Mind if Inspector Langley and I join you?”

Bellini looked tired and annoyed. He said to Logan, “Take it up with the Governor.” Glancing at the wall clock, he said, “Everyone take ten. Clear out!” He sat down and lit a cigarette. The men filed out of the conference room and huddled in groups throughout the corridors.

Burke and Langley sat across from Bellini. Bellini said softly, “That fucking war hero is spooking my men.”

Burke thought, They should be spooked. They’re going to get creamed. “He means well.”

Bellini drew on his cigarette. “Why are those parade soldiers in on this?”

Langley looked around, then said quietly, “The Governor needs a boost.”

Bellini sipped on a cup of cold coffee. “You know … I discussed a lot of options for this attack with the Mayor and Governor. Ever notice how people who don’t know shit about warfare all of a sudden become generals?” Bellini chain-lit another cigarette and went on in a voice that was becoming overwrought. “So Kline takes my hand and squeezes it—Christ, I should’ve squeezed his and broken his fucking fingers. Anyway, he says, ‘Joe, you know what’s expected of you.’ Christ Almighty, by this time I don’t even know if I’m allowed to take my gun in there. But my adrenaline is really pumping by now, and I say to him, ‘Your Honor, we have to attack now, while the bells are ringing.’ Right? And he says—check this—he says, ‘Captain, we have an obligation’—a moral something or other—‘to explore every possible avenue of negotiation’—blah, blah, blah—‘political considerations’— blah, blah—‘the Vatican’—blah, blah. So I say … no, I didn’t say it, but I should have … I should have said, ‘Kline, you schmuck, do you want to rescue the hostages and save the fucking Cathedral, or do you want to make time with the White House and the Vatican?’”

He paused and breathed hard. “But maybe then I would have sounded like an asshole, too, because I don’t really care about a pile of stone or four people I don’t even know. My responsibility is to a hundred of my men who I do know and to their families and to myself and my wife and kids. Right?”

No one spoke for some time, then the telephone rang. Bellini grabbed it, listened, then handed it to Burke. “Some guy called the Leper. You hang out with classy people.”

Burke took the receiver and heard Ferguson’s voice. “Burke, Leper here.”

Burke said, “How are you?”

“Cold, scared shitless, tired, hungry, and broke. But otherwise, well. Is this line secure?”

“No.”

“Okay, I have to speak to you face to face.”

Burke thought a moment. “Do you want to come here?”

Ferguson hesitated. “No … I saw people hanging around the checkpoints who shouldn’t see me. I’m very close to our rendezvous point. See you there.”

Burke put down the receiver and said to Langley, “Ferguson’s on to something.”

Bellini looked up quickly. “Anything that can help me?”

Burke wanted to say, “Frankly, nothing can help you,” but said instead, “I think so.”

Bellini seemed to sense the lie and slumped lower in his chair. “Christ, we’ve never gone up against trained guerrillas….” He looked up suddenly. “Do I sound scared? Do I look scared?”

Burke replied, “You look and sound like a man who fully appreciates the problems.”

Bellini laughed. “Yeah. I appreciate the hell out of the problems.”

Langley seemed suddenly annoyed. “Look, you must have known a day like this would come. You’ve trained for this—”

“Trained?” Bellini turned on him. “Big fucking deal trained. In the army I was trained on how to take cover in a nuclear attack. The only instructor who made any sense was the one who told us to hold our helmets, put our heads between our legs, and kiss our asses good-bye.” He laughed again. “Fuck trained.” Bellini stubbed out his cigarette and breathed deeply. “Oh, well. Maybe Schroeder will pull it off.” He smiled thinly. “He’s got more incentive now.” He pointed to a black bulletproof vest and a dark pullover sweater at the end of the table. “That’s his.”

Langley said, “Why don’t you let him off the hook?”

Bellini shook his head, then looked at Burke. “How about you? What are you doing later?”

Burke said, “I’ll be with you.”

Bellini’s eyes widened.

Langley looked at Burke quickly. “Like hell.”

Burke said nothing.

Bellini said, “Let the man do what he wants.”

Langley changed the subject and said to Bellini, “I have more psy-profiles for you.”

Bellini lit a cigarette. “Put a light coat of oil on them and shove them up your ass.”

Langley stiffened.

Bellini went on, enjoying the fact that no one could pull rank on him any longer. “Where’s the architect, Langley? Where are the blueprints?”

Langley said, “Working on it.”

“Terrific. Everybody is working on something—you, Schroeder, the Mayor, the President. Everybody’s working. You know, when this started nobody paid much attention to Joe Bellini. Now the Mayor calls about every fifteen minutes asking how I’m making out. Calls me Joe. Terrific little guy.”

Men started drifting back into the room.

Bellini leaned over the table. “They’ve got me cornered. When they start calling you by your first name, they’ve got you by the balls, and they’re not going to let go until I charge up those fucking steps—holding not much more than my cock in one hand and a cross in the other—and get myself killed.” He stood. “Believe me, Burke, it’s all a fucking show. Everybody’s got to play his part. You, me, the politicians, the Church, the bastards in the Cathedral. We know we’re full of shit, but that’s the way we learned how to play.”

Burke stood and looked around at the ESD men, then looked closely at Bellini. “Remember, you’re the good guys.”

Bellini rubbed his temples and shook his head. “Then how come we’re wearing black?”

CHAPTER 49

Patrick Burke stepped out of the rectory into the cold, gusty air. He looked at his watch. Nearly 1:00 A.M., March 18. They would still call it the St. Patrick’s Day massacre or something catchy like that. He turned up his collar and walked east on Fifty-first Street.

At Park Avenue a city bus was drawn up to form a barricade. Burke walked around the bus, passed through a thin crowd, and crossed the avenue. A small group had congregated on the steps and terraces of St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church, passing bottles and singing the songs that were being played on St. Patrick’s bells. People were entering the church, and Burke recalled that many churches and synagogues had announced all-night prayer vigils. A news van was setting up cameras and lights.

Burke listened to the bells. Flynn—if it was Flynn playing—had a good touch. Burke remembered Langley’s speculation about the John Hickey T-shirts. He envisioned a record jacket: St. Patrick’s Cathedral—green star clusters—Brian Flynn Plays the Bells.

Burke passed by the church and continued east on Fifty-first Street. Between two buildings lay a small park. A fence and gate ran between the flanking structures, and Burke peered through the bars. Café tables and upturned chairs stood on the terraces beneath bare sycamores. Nothing moved in the unlit park. Burke grasped the cold steel bars, pulled himself up to the top, and dropped into the park. As he hit the frozen stone walk below, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his numb legs and swore silently. He drew his pistol and remained crouched. A wind shook the trees, and ice-covered twigs snapped and fell to the ground with the sound of breaking crystal.

Burke straightened up slowly and moved through the scattered tables, pistol held at his side. As he moved, the ice crackled under his shoes, and he knew that if Ferguson were there he would have heard him by now.

An overturned table caught his attention, and he moved toward it. A chair lay on its back some distance away. The ice on the ground was broken and scattered, and Burke knelt to get a closer look at a large dark blotch that on closer inspection looked like a strawberry Italian ice but wasn’t.

Burke rose and found that his legs had become unsteady. He walked up the shallow steps to the next level of the terrace and saw more overturned furniture. In the rear of the park was a stone wall several stories high where a waterfall usually flowed. At the base of the wall was a long, narrow trough. Burke walked to the trough and stared down at Jack Ferguson lying in the icy water, his face blue-white, very much, Burke thought, like the color of the façade of the Cathedral. The eyes were open, and his mouth yawned as if he were trying to catch his breath from the shock of the cold water.

Burke knelt on the low stone abutment of the trough, reached out, and grabbed Ferguson’s old trench coat. He pulled the body closer and saw, as the folds of the trench coat drifted apart, the two bullet-shattered knees poking out of the worn trousers—bone, cartilage, and ligaments, very white against the deeper color of bluish flesh.

He slipped his pistol into his pocket and pulled the small man easily onto the coping stone of the abutment. A small bullet hole showed like black palm ash in the center of Ferguson’s forehead. His pockets had been rifled, but Burke searched the body again, finding only a clean, neatly pressed handkerchief which reminded him that he would have to call Ferguson’s wife.

Burke closed Ferguson’s eyes and stood, wiped his hands on his overcoat and blew into them, and then walked away. He righted an ice-covered chair, drew it up to a metal table, and sat. Burke took a long, deep breath and steadied his hands enough to light a cigarette. He drew on the cigarette, then took out his flask and opened it, but set it on the table without drinking. He heard a noise at the fence and looked out across the park. He drew his pistol and rested it in his lap.

“Burke! It’s Martin.”

Burke didn’t answer. “Can I come up?”

Burke cocked his revolver. “Sure!”

Martin walked toward Burke, stopped, and looked past him at the low stone wall at the base of the waterfall. “Who’s that?”

Burke didn’t reply.

Martin walked up to the body and looked down into the frozen face. “I know this man … Jack Ferguson.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. I’ve dealt with him—only yesterday, as a matter of fact. Official IRA. Marxist. Nice chap, though.”

Burke said with no intonation in his voice, “The only good Red is a dead Red. Kill a Commie for Christ. Move here where I can see you.”

“Eh?” Martin moved behind Burke’s chair. “What did you say … ? See here, you didn’t … did you?”

Burke repeated. “Here in front where I can see you.”

Martin moved around the table.

Burke said, “Why are you here?”

Martin lit a cigarette. “Followed you from the rectory.”

Burke was certain no one had followed him. “Why?”

“Wanted to see where you were going. You’ve been most unhelpful. I’ve been sacked from my consulate job, by the way. Is that your doing? People are starting to say the most incredible things about me. Anyway, I’m at loose ends now. Don’t know what to do with myself. So I thought perhaps I could … well … lend you a hand … clear my name in the process…. Is that a gun? You can put that away.”

Burke held the gun. “Who do you think killed him, Major?”

“Well, assuming it wasn’t you …” He shrugged. “Probably his own people. Or the Provos or the Fenians. Did you see his knees? God, that’s a nasty business.”

“Why would the IRA want to kill him?”

Martin answered quickly and distinctly. “He talked too much.”

Burke uncocked his revolver and held it in his pocket. “Where’s Gordon Stillway?”

“Gordon … Oh, the architect.” Martin drew on his cigarette. “I wish I were half as devious as you think I am.”

Burke took a drink from his flask and said, “Look, the Cathedral is going to be stormed in the next few hours.”

“Sorry it had to come to that.”

“Anyway, I’m concerned now about saving as many lives as possible.”

“I am, too. Our Consul General is in there.”

“So far, Major, you’ve had it all your way. You got your Irish terrorism in America. We’ve had it pushed in our face. The point is made and well taken. So we don’t need a burned-out Cathedral and a stack of corpses.”

“I’m not quite sure I’m following you.”

“It would help Bellini if he had the blueprints and the architect.”

“Undoubtedly. I’m working on that also.”

Burke looked at Martin closely. “Settle for what you’ve already got. Don’t push it further.”

“I’m sorry, I’m losing you again.”

Burke stared at Martin, who put his foot on a chair and puffed on his cigarette. A gust of cold wind moved through the enclosed park and swirled around. Ice fell from the glistening trees, landing on Martin and Burke, but neither man seemed to notice. Martin seemed to reach a decision and looked at Burke. “It’s not just Flynn, you see. My whole operation wasn’t conceived just to kill Brian Flynn.” Martin rubbed his chin with his gloved hand. “You see, I need more than Flynn’s death, though I look forward to it. I also need a lasting symbol of Irish terrorism. I’m afraid I need the Cathedral to go down.”

Burke waited a long time before he spoke. His voice was low, controlled. “It may become a symbol of Britain’s unwillingness to negotiate.”

“One gambles. But you see, London did offer a compromise, much to my surprise, and the Fenians, lunatics that they are, have not responded to it. And with the old man’s speech and the bells and all that, it’s the Fenians who are ahead, not me. Really, Burke, the only way I can influence public opinion, here and abroad, is if … well, if there’s a tragedy. Sorry.”

“It’s going to backfire.”

“When the dust clears, the blame will be squarely on the Irish. Her Majesty’s government is very adept at expressing sorrow and pity for the loss of lives and property. Actually, the ruins of Saint Patrick’s may have more value as a tourist attraction than the Cathedral did…. Not many good ruins in America….”

Burke’s fingers scratched at the cold, blue steel of the revolver in his pocket.

Martin went on, his eyes narrowing and long plumes of vapor exhaling from his nose and mouth. “And, of course, the funerals. Did you see Mountbatten’s? Thousands of people weeping. We’ll do something nice for Baxter, too. The Roman Church will do a splendid job for the Cardinal and the priest. Malone … well, who knows?”

Burke said, “You’re not tightly wrapped, you know that?”

Martin lit another cigarette, and Burke saw the match quivering in the dark. Martin spoke in a more controlled voice. “You don’t seem to understand. One has to spread the suffering, make it more universal before you get a sense of outrage.” Martin looked at his glowing cigarette. “One needs a magnificent disaster—Dunkirk, Pearl Harbor, Coventry, Saint Patrick’s …” He knocked the ash from his cigarette and stared down at the gray smudge on the ice-covered table. “… And from those ashes rises a new dedication.” He looked up. “You may have noticed the phoenix on the bronze ceremonial door of Saint Patrick’s. It inspired me to name this Operation Phoenix.”

Burke said, “Flynn may accept the compromise. He hinted as much to me. He may also make a public statement about how British treachery almost got everyone killed.”

“He wouldn’t admit that the greatest IRA operation since Mountbatten’s murder was planned by an Englishman.”

“He doesn’t want to die quite as badly as you want him to die. He’ll take what he’s already gotten and come out of there a hero.” Burke took another drink to fire his imagination. “On the other hand … there’s still the possibility that he may destroy the place at dawn. So the Mayor and Governor want to carry out a preemptive strike. Soon. But they need encouragement. They won’t move unless Bellini says he can bring it off. But Bellini won’t say that unless he gets the blueprints and the architect….”

Martin smiled. “Very good. It’s hereditary, I see—I mean the ability to manufacture heaps of malarkey at the drop of a hat.”

“If we don’t have the architect, we won’t attack. At 6:03 Flynn will call a time out, wait until the city is full of people and the morning TV shows are rolling, then magnanimously spare the Cathedral and hostages. No funerals, no bangs, not even a broken stained-glass window.”

“At 6:03 something more dreadful will happen.”

“One gambles.”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t know…. Now you’ve got me worried, Lieutenant. It would be just like that bastard to double-cross me….” He smiled. “Well, double-cross may not be the word…. These people are so erratic … you never know, do you? I mean, historically they always opt for the most reckless—”

Burke said, “You’ve got these Micks pretty well figured out, don’t you, Major?”

“Well … no racial generalities intended, to be sure, but … I don’t know …” He seemed to be weighing the possibilities. “The question is—do I gamble on an explosion at 6:03 or settle for a good battle before then … ?”

Burke came closer to Martin. “Let me put it this way….” He breathed a long stream of cold fog in Martin’s face. “If the Cathedral goes down”—he pulled his pistol, cocked it, and pressed it to Martin’s temple—“then you’re what we call a dead motherfucker.”

Martin faced Burke. “If anything happened to me, you’d be killed.”

“I know the rules.” He tapped Martin on the forehead with the muzzle of the revolver, then holstered it.

Martin flipped his cigarette away and spoke in a businesslike tone. “In exchange for Stillway I want your word that you’ll do everything you can to see that the assault is carried out before Flynn makes any overtures toward a compromise. You have his confidence, I know, so use that in any way you can—with him or with your superiors. And no matter what happens, you’ll make certain that Flynn is not captured alive. Understood?”

Burke nodded.

Martin added, “You’ll have Stillway and the blueprints in ample time, and to show you what a good sport I am, I’ll give all this to you personally. As I said yesterday morning, you can look good with your superiors. God knows, Lieutenant, you need the boost.”

Martin moved away from Burke and looked down at Ferguson’s frozen body. He lit another cigarette and dropped the match carelessly on Ferguson’s face. He looked at Burke. “You’re thinking, of course, that like our late friend here, you know too much. But it’s all right. I’m willing—obligated—to make an exception in your case. You’re one of us—a professional, not an amateur busybody like Mr. Ferguson or a dangerous insurgent like Mr. Flynn. So act like a professional, Lieutenant, and you’ll be treated like one.”

Burke said, “Thank you for setting me straight. I’ll do my best.”

Martin laughed. “You can do your worst, if you like. I’m not counting only on you to see that things go my way. Lieutenant, there are more surprises inside and outside that Cathedral than even you suspect. And at first light, it will all unfold.” He nodded his head. “Good evening.” He turned and walked away at a leisurely pace.

Burke looked down at Ferguson. He bent over and picked the match from his face. “Sorry, Jack.”

CHAPTER 50

The clock in the rear of the choir loft struck 3:00A.M. Brian Flynn tolled the hour, then stood and looked at Leary sitting on the parapet, his legs swinging out into space three stories above the main floor. Flynn said, “If you nod off, you’ll fall.”

Leary answered without turning. “That’s right.”

Flynn looked around for Megan but didn’t see her. He moved around the organ, picked up a rifle, and walked toward Leary.

Leary suddenly spun around and swung his legs into the choir loft. He said, “That’s an old trick.”

Flynn felt his body tense.

Leary continued. “Learned it in the army. You perch in a position that will get you hurt or killed if you fall asleep. Keeps you awake … usually.”

“Interesting.” He moved past Leary and entered the bell tower, then took the elevator down to the vestibule. He walked up the center aisle, his footsteps echoing in the quiet Cathedral. Sullivan, Boland, and Farrell were leaning out over the triforia. Hickey was asleep at the chancel organ. Flynn passed through the open gate of the communion rail and mounted the steps. The four hostages slept in pairs on opposite sides of the sanctuary. He glanced over at Baxter beside Maureen and watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, then looked up at where the Cardinal and Father Murphy lay cuffed to the throne, sleeping. Flynn knelt beside Maureen and stared down at her bruised face. He sensed that eyes were watching him from the high places, that Megan was watching from the dark, and that Leary’s scope was centered on his lips. Flynn leaned over, his back to Leary, and positioned himself to block Leary’s view of Maureen. He stroked her cheek.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

She said, “You’ve let it become late.”

He said quietly, “I’m sorry … I couldn’t help you …”

She turned her face away. Neither one spoke, then Maureen said, “This standoff with the police is like one of those games of nerve with autos racing toward each other, each driver hypnotized by the other’s approach—and at one minute to dawn… is anyone going to veer off?”

“Bloody nonsense. This is war. Bloody stupid women, you think men play games of ego—”

“War?” She grabbed his shirt and her voice rose. “Let me tell you about war. It’s not fought in churches with handcuffed hostages. And as long as you’re talking about war, I’m still enough of a soldier to know they may not wait for dawn—they may be burrowing in here right now, and within the time it takes to draw your next breath this place could be filled with gunfire and you could be filled with bullets.” She released his shirt. “War, indeed. You know no more about war than you do about love.”

Flynn stood and looked at Baxter. “Do you like this man?”

She nodded. “He’s a good man.”

Flynn stared off at some point in the distance. “A good man,” he repeated. “Someone meeting me for the first time might say that—as long as my history wasn’t known.” He stared down at her. “You don’t like me much right now, but it’s all right. I hope you survive, I even hope Baxter survives, and I hope you get on well together.”

She lay on her back looking up at him. “Again, neither you nor I believe a word of that.”

Flynn stepped away from her. “I have to go….” He looked over the sanctuary rail at Hickey and said suddenly, “Tell me about him. What’s the old man been saying? What about the confessional buzzer?”

Maureen cleared her throat and spoke in a businesslike voice, relating what she had discovered about John Hickey. She added her conclusions. “Even if you win, he’ll somehow make certain everyone dies.” She added, “All four of us believe that, or we wouldn’t have risked so much to escape.”

Flynn’s eyes drifted back to Hickey, then he looked around the sanctuary at the hostages, the bouquets of nowwilting green carnations, and the bloodstains on the marble below the high altar. He had the feeling he had seen this all before, experienced something similar in a dream or vision, and he remembered that he had, in Whitehorn Abbey. He shook off the impression and looked at Maureen.

Flynn knelt suddenly and unlocked the handcuff. “Come with me.” He helped her up and supported her as he walked toward the sacristy stairs.

He was aware that Hickey was watching from the chancel organ, and that Leary and Megan were watching also, from the shadows of the choir loft. He knew that they were thinking he was going to let Maureen go. And this, he understood, as everyone who was watching understood, was a critical juncture, a test of his position as leader. Would those three in any way try to restrict his movements? A few hours before they wouldn’t have dared.

He reached the sacristy stairs and paused, not hesitantly but defiantly, and looked up into the loft, then back at the chancel organ. No one made a sound or a movement, and he waited purposely, staring into the Cathedral, then descended the steps. He stopped on the landing beside Gallagher. “Take a break, Frank.”

Gallagher looked at him and at Maureen, and Flynn could see in Gallagher’s expression a look of understanding and approval. Gallagher’s eyes met Maureen’s; he started to speak but then turned and hurried up the stairs.

Flynn looked down the remaining steps at the chained gate, then faced Maureen.

She realized that Brian Flynn had reasserted himself, imposed his will on the others. And she knew also that he was going to go a step further. He was going to free her, but she didn’t know if he was doing it for her or for himself, or to demonstrate that he could do anything he damned well pleased—to show that he was Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenians. She walked down the staircase and stopped at the gate. Flynn followed and gestured toward the sacristy. “Two worlds meet here, the worlds of the sacred and the profaned, the living and the dead. Have ever such divergent worlds been separated by so little?”

She stared into the quiet sacristy and saw a votive candle flickering on the altar of the priests’ chapel, the vestment tables lining the walls, covered with neatly folded white and purple vestments of the Lenten season. Easter, she thought. The spring. The Resurrection and the life. She looked at Flynn.

He said, “Will you choose life? Will you go without the others?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’ll go.”

He hesitated, then drew the keys from his pocket. With a hand that was unsteady he unlocked the gate’s lock and the chain’s padlock, and began unwinding the chain. He rolled back the left gate and scanned the corridor openings but saw no sign of the police. “Hurry.”

She took his arm. “I’ll go, but not without you.”

He looked at her, then said, “You’d leave the others to go with me?”

“Yes.”

“Could you do that and live with yourself?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the open gate. “I’d be imprisoned for a long time. Could you wait?”

“Yes.”

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

He reached out for her, but she moved quickly up the stairs and stopped halfway to the landing. “You’ll not push me out. We leave together.”

He stood looking up at her silhouetted against the light of the crypt doors. “I can’t go.”

“Not even for me? I’d go with you—for you. Won’t you do the same?”

“I can’t … for God’s sake, Maureen … I can’t. Please, if you love me, go. Go!”

“Together. One way or the other, together.”

He looked down and shook his head and, after what seemed like a long time, heard her footsteps retreating up the stairs.

He relocked the gate and followed, and when he walked up to the altar sanctuary, he found her lying beside Baxter again, the cuff locked on her wrist and her eyes closed.

Flynn came down from the sanctuary and walked to a pew in the center of the Cathedral and sat, staring at the high altar. It struck him that the things most men found trying—leadership, courage, the ability to seize their own destiny—came easily to him, a gift, he thought, of the gods. But love—so basic an emotion that even unexceptional men were blessed with loving women, children, friends—that had always eluded him. And the one time it had not eluded him it had been so difficult as to be painful, and to make the pain stop he made the love stop through the sheer force of his will. Yet it came back, again and again. Amor vincit omnia, as Father Michael used to preach. He shook his head. No, I’ve conquered love.

He felt very empty inside. But at the same time, to his horror and disgust, he felt very good about being in command of himself and his world again.

He sat in the pew for a long time.

Flynn looked down at Pedar Fitzgerald, lying in a curled position at the side of the organ console, a blanket drawn up to his blood-encrusted chin. Flynn moved beside John Hickey, who lay slumped over the organ keyboard, and stared down at Hickey’s pale, almost waxen face. The field phone rang, and Hickey stirred. It rang again, and Flynn grabbed it.

Mullins’s voice came over the line. “I’m back in the bell room. Is that it for the bells, then?”

“Yes…. How does it look outside?”

Mullins said, “Very quiet below. But out farther … there’re still people in the streets.”

Flynn heard a note of wonder in the young man’s voice. “They celebrate late, don’t they? We’ve given them a Saint Patrick’s Day to remember.”

Mullins said, “There wasn’t even a curfew.”

Flynn smiled. America reminded him of the Titanic, a three-hundred-foot gash in her side, listing badly, but they were still serving drinks in the lounge. “It’s not like Belfast, is it?”

“No.”

“Can you sense any anxiety down there … movement … ?”

Mullins considered, then said, “No, they look relaxed yet. Cold and tired for sure, but at ease. No passing of orders, none of that stiffness you see before an attack.”

“How are you holding up against the cold?”

“I’m past that.”

“Well, you and Rory will be the first to see the dawn break.”

Mullins had given up on the dawn hours ago. “Aye, the dawn from the bell tower of Saint Patrick’s in New York. That needs a poem.”

“You’ll tell me it later.” He hung up and picked up the extension phone. “Get me Captain Schroeder, please.” He looked at Hickey’s face as the operator routed the call. Awake, the face was expressive, alive, but asleep it looked like a death mask.

Schroeder’s voice came through sounding slurred. “Yes …”

“Flynn here. Did I wake you?”

“No, sir. We’ve been waiting for Mr. Hickey’s hourly call. He said … but I’m glad you called. I’ve been wanting to speak to you.”

“Thought I was dead, did you?”

“Well, no…. You were on the bells, right?”

“How did I sound out there?”

Schroeder cleared his throat. “You show promise.”

Flynn laughed. “Well, can it be you’re developing a sense of humor, Captain?” Schroeder laughed self-consciously.

“Or is it that you’re so relieved to be talking to me instead of Hickey that you’re giddy?”

Schroeder didn’t answer.

Flynn said, “How are they faring in the capitals?”

Schroeder’s tone was reserved. “They’re wondering why you haven’t responded to what Inspector Langley related to you.”

“I’m afraid we aren’t very clear on that.”

“I can’t elaborate over the phone.”

“I see…. Well, why don’t you come to the sacristy gate, then, and we’ll talk.” There was a long pause. “I’m not at liberty to do that…. It’s against regulations.”

“So is burning down a cathedral, which is what will happen if we don’t speak, Captain.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Flynn. There are carefully worked out rules … as I think you know…. And the negotiator cannot expose himself to … to …”

“I won’t kill you.”

“Well … I know you won’t … but … Listen, you and Lieutenant Burke have … Would you like to speak with him at the gate?”

“No, I would like to speak with you at the gate.”

“I …”

“Aren’t you even curious to see me?”

“Curiosity plays no part—”

“Doesn’t it? It seems to me, Captain, that you of all people would recognize the value of eyeball-to-eyeball contact.”

“There’s no special value in—”

“How many wars would have been avoided if the chiefs could have just seen the other man’s face, touched each other, got a whiff of the other fellow’s sweaty fear?”

Schroeder said, “Hold on.”

Flynn heard the phone click, then a minute later Schroeder’s voice came through. “Okay.”

“Five minutes.” Flynn hung up and poked Hickey roughly. “Were you listening?”

Flynn took Hickey’s arm in a tight grip. “Someday, you old bastard, you’ll tell me about the confessional, and the things you’ve been saying to Schroeder and the things you’ve been saying to my people and to the hostages. And you’ll tell me about the compromise that was offered us.”

Hickey flinched and straightened up. “Let go! These old bones snap easily.”

“I may snap the ones in your neck.”

Hickey looked up at Flynn, no trace of pain in his face. “Careful. Be careful.”

Flynn released his arm and pushed it away. “You don’t frighten me.”

Hickey didn’t answer but stared at Flynn with undisguised malice in his eyes. Flynn met his stare, then looked down at Pedar Fitzgerald. “Are you looking after him?”

Hickey didn’t answer.

Flynn stared closely at Fitzgerald’s face and saw it was white—waxy, like Hickey’s. “He’s dead.” He turned to Hickey.

Hickey said without emotion, “Died about an hour ago.”

“Megan …”

“When Megan calls, I tell her he’s all right, and she believes that because she wants to. But eventually …”

Flynn looked up at Megan in the loft. “My God, she’ll …” He turned back to Hickey. “We should have gotten a doctor….”

Hickey replied, “If you weren’t so wrapped up in your fucking bells, you could have done just that.”

Flynn looked at him. “You could have—”

“Me? What the hell do I care if he lives or dies?”

Flynn stepped back from him, and his mind began to reel.

Hickey said, “What do you see, Brian? Is it very frightening?” He laughed and lit his pipe.

Flynn moved farther away from Hickey into the ambulatory and tried to get his thoughts under control. He reevaluated each person in the Cathedral until he was certain he knew each one’s motives … potential for treachery … loyalties and weaknesses. His mind focused finally on Leary, and he asked the questions he should have asked months ago: Why was Leary here? Why would a professional killer trap himself in a perch with no way out? Leary had to be holding a card no one even knew existed. Flynn wiped the sweat from his brow and walked up to the sanctuary.

Hickey called out, “Are you going to tell Schroeder about his darling daughter? Tell him for me—use these exact words—tell him his daughter is a dead bitch!”

Flynn descended the stairs behind the altar. Gallagher stood on the crypt landing, an M-16 slung across his chest. Flynn said, “There’s coffee in the bookshop.” Gallagher climbed the stairs, and Flynn went down the remaining steps to the gate. Parts of the chain had been pieced together, and a new padlock was clamped to it. He examined the gate’s mangled lock; another bullet or two and it would have sprung. But there were only fifty rounds in the drum of a Thompson. Not fifty-one, but fifty…. And an M-72 rocket could take a Saracen, and the Red Bus to Clady on the Shankill Road went past Whitehorn Abbey … and it was all supposed to be haphazard, random, with no meaning …

Flynn stared into the sacristy. He heard men speaking in the side corridors, and footsteps approached from the center opening in the left wall. Schroeder stepped into the sacristy, looked around, turned toward Flynn, and walked deliberately up the stairs. He stood on the steps below the gates, his eyes fixed on Flynn’s. A long time passed before Flynn spoke. “Am I as you pictured me?”

Schroeder replied stiffly, “I’ve seen a photo of you.”

“And I of you. But am I as you pictured me?”

Schroeder shook his head. Another long silence developed, then Flynn spoke abruptly. “I’m going to reach into my pocket.” Flynn took the microphone sensor and passed it over Schroeder. “This is a very private conversation.”

“I will report everything said here.”

“I would bet my life you don’t.”

Schroeder seemed perplexed and wary.

Flynn said, “Are they any closer to meeting our demands?”

Schroeder didn’t like face-to-face negotiating. He knew, because people had told him, that his face revealed too much. He cleared his throat. “You’re asking the impossible. Accept the compromise.”

Flynn noticed the extra firmness in Schroeder’s voice, the lack of sir or mister, and the discomfort. “What is the compromise?”

Schroeder’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Didn’t Hickey—”

“Just tell it to me again.”

Schroeder related the offer and added, “Take it before the British change their minds about parole. And for yourselves, low bail is as good as immunity. For God’s sake, man, no one has ever been offered more in a hostage situation.”

Flynn nodded. “Yes…. Yes, it’s a good offer—tempting—”

“Take it! Take it before someone is killed—”

“It’s a little late for that, I’m afraid.”

“What?”

“Sir Harold murdered a lad named Pedar. Luckily no one knows he’s dead except Hickey and myself … and I suppose Pedar knows he’s dead…. Well, when my people discover he’s dead, they’ll want to kill Baxter. Pedar’s sister, Megan, will want to do much worse. This complicates things somewhat.”

Schroeder passed his hand over his face. “God … listen, I’m sure it was unintentional.”

“Harry bashed his throat in with a rifle butt. Could have been an accident, I suppose. It doesn’t make the lad any less dead.”

Schroeder’s mind was racing. He swore to himself, Baxter, you stupid bastard.“Look … it’s a case of a POW trying to escape…. It’s Baxter’s duty to try…. You’re a soldier …”

Flynn said nothing.

“Here’s a chance for you to show professionalism … to show you’re not a common crim—” He checked himself. “To show mercy, and—”

Flynn interrupted. “Schroeder, you are most certainly part Irish. I’ve rarely met a man more possessed of so much ready bullshit for every occasion.”

“I’m serious—”

“Well, Baxter’s fate depends mostly on what you do now.”

“No. It depends on what you do. The next move is yours.”

“And I’m about to make it.” Be lit a cigarette and asked, “How far are they along in their attack plans?”

Schroeder said, “That’s not an option for us.”

Flynn stared at him. “Caught you in a lie—your left eye is twitching. God, Schroeder, your nose is getting longer.” He laughed. “I should have had you down here hours ago. Burke was too cool.”

“Look—you asked me here for a private meeting, so you must have something to say—”

“I want you to help us get what we want.”

Schroeder looked exasperated. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“No, I mean everything we want. Your heart isn’t in it. If the negotiations fail, you don’t lose nearly as much as everyone in here does. Or as much as Bellini’s ESD. They stand to lose fifty to a hundred men in an attack.”

Schroeder thought of his imprudent offer to Bellini. “There will be no attack.”

“Did you know Burke told me he’d go with Bellini? There’s a man with a great deal to lose if you fail. Would you go with Bellini?”

“Burke couldn’t have said that because Bellini’s not going anywhere.” Schroeder had the uneasy impression he was being drawn into something, but he had no intention of making a mistake this late. “I’ll try to get more for you only if you give me another two hours after dawn.”

Flynn ignored him and went on. “I thought I’d better give you a very personal motive to push those people into capitulation.”

Schroeder looked at Flynn cautiously.

“You see, there’s one situation you never covered in your otherwise detailed book, Captain.” Flynn came closer to the gate. “Your daughter would very much like you to try harder.”

“What … ?”

“Terri Schroeder O’Neal. She wants you to try harder.”

Schroeder stared for a few seconds, then said loudly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Lower your voice. You’ll excite the police.”

Schroeder spoke through clenched teeth. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“Please, you’re in church.” Flynn passed a scrap of paper through the bars.

Schroeder snatched it and read his daughter’s handwriting: Dad—I’m being held hostage by members of the Fenian Army. I’m all right. They won’t harm me if everything goes okay at the Cathedral. Do your very best. I love you, Terri.

Schroeder read the note again, then again. He felt his knees buckle, and he grabbed at the gate. He looked up at Flynn and tried to speak, but no sound came out.

Flynn spoke impassively. “Welcome to the Fenian Army, Captain Schroeder.”

Schroeder swallowed several times and stared at the note.

“Sorry,” said Flynn. “Really I am. You don’t have to speak—just listen.” Flynn lit another cigarette and spoke briskly. “What you have to do is make the strongest possible case for our demands. First, tell them I’ve paraded two score of well-armed men and women past you. Machine guns, rockets, grenades, flamethrowers. Tell them we are ready, willing, and able to take the entire six-hundred-man ESD down with us, to destroy the Cathedral and kill the hostages. In other words, scare the shit out of Joe Bellini and his heroes. Understand?” He paused, then said, “They’ll never suspect that Captain Schroeder’s report of seeing a great number of well-armed soldiers is false. Use your imagination—better yet, look up at the landing, Schroeder. Picture forty, fifty men and women parading past that crypt door— picture those machine guns and rockets and flamethrowers…. Go on, look up there.”

Schroeder looked, and Flynn saw in his eyes exactly what he wanted to see.

After a minute Schroeder lowered his head. His face was pale, and his hands pulled at his shirt and tie.

Flynn said, “Please calm down. You can save your daughter’s life only if you pull yourself together. That’s it. Now … if this doesn’t work, if they are still committed to an assault, then threaten to go public—radio, TV, newspapers. Tell Kline, Doyle, and all the rest of them you’re going to announce that in all your years of hostage negotiating, that you, as the court of last resort for the lives of hostages, strongly and in no uncertain terms believe that neither an attack nor further negotiations can save this situation. You will declare, publicly, that therefore for the first time in your career you urge capitulation—for humanitarian as well as tactical reasons.”

Flynn watched Schroeder’s face but could see nothing revealed there except anguish. He went on, “You have a good deal of influence—moral and professional— with the media, the police force, and the politicians. Use every bit of that influence. You must create the kind of pressure and climate that will force the British and American governments to surrender.”

Schroeder’s voice was barely audible. “Time … I need time…. Why didn’t you give me more time … ?”

“If I’d told you sooner, you wouldn’t have made it through the night, or you may have told someone. The only time left is that which remains until the dawn—less if you can’t stop the attack. But if you can get them to throw open the prison gates … Work on it.”

Schroeder pushed his face to the bars. “Flynn … please … listen to me…. ”

Flynn went on. “Yes, I know that if you succeed and we walk out of here free, they’ll certainly count us, and they’ll wonder where all the flamethrowers are…. Well, you’ll be embarrassed, but all’s fair in love and war, and c’est la guerre, and all that rot. Don’t even think that far ahead and don’t be selfish.”

Schroeder’s head shook, and his words were incoherent. All that Flynn could make out was “Jail.” Flynn said, “Your daughter can visit you on weekends.” He added, “I’ll even visit you.”

Schroeder stared at him, and a choked-off sound rose in his throat.

Flynn said, “Sorry, that was low.” He paused. “Look, if it means anything to you, I feel bad that I had to resort to this. But it wasn’t going well, and I knew you’d want to help us, help Terri, if you understood the trouble she was in.” Flynn’s voice became stern. “She really ought to be more selective about her bunkmates. Children can be such an embarrassment to parents, especially parents in public life—sex, drugs, wild politics …”

Schroeder was shaking his head. “No … you don’t have her. You’re bluffing….”

Flynn continued. “But she’s safe enough for the moment. Dan—that’s her friend’s name—is kind, considerate, probably a passable lover. It’s the lot of some soldiers to draw easy duty—others to fight and die. Throw of the dice and all that. Then again, I wouldn’t want to be in Dan’s place if he gets the order to put a bullet in the back of Terri’s head. No kneecapping or any of that. She’s innocent, and she’ll get a quick bullet without knowing it’s about to come. So, are we clear about what you have to do?”

Schroeder said, “I won’t do it.”

“As you wish.” He turned and began walking up the stairs. He called back. “In about a minute a light will flash from the bell tower, and my men on the outside will telephone Dan, and … and that, I’m afraid, will be the end of Terri Schroeder.” He continued up the stairs.

“Wait! Listen, maybe we can work this out. Hold on! Stop walking away!”

Flynn turned slowly. “I’m afraid this is not negotiable, Captain.” He paused and said, “It’s awkward when you’re involved personally, isn’t it? Did you ever consider that every man and woman you’ve negotiated with or for was involved personally? Well, I’m not going to take you to task for your past successes. You were dealing with criminals, and they probably deserved the shoddy deals you got for them. You and I deserve a better deal. Our fates are intertwined, our goals are the same—aren’t they? Yes or no, Captain? Quickly!”

Schroeder nodded.

Flynn moved down the stairs. “Good decision.” He came close to the gate and put his hand out. Schroeder looked at it but shook his head. “Never.”

Flynn withdrew his hand. “All right, then … all right….”

Schroeder said, “Can I go now?”

“Yes…. Oh, one more thing. It’s quite possible you’ll fail even if you dwell on the flamethrowers and threaten public statements and all that … so we should plan for failure.”

Schroeder’s face showed that he understood what was coming.

Flynn’s voice was firm and businesslike. “If Bellini is to attack, in spite of everything you can do to stop it, then I’ll give you another way to save Terri’s life.”

“No.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to get down here and tell me when, where, how, that sort of thing—”

“No! No, I would never—never get police officers killed—”

“They’ll get killed anyway. And so will the hostages and the Fenians and Terri. So if you want to at least save her, you’ll give me the operational plans.”

“They won’t tell me—”

“Make it your business to know. The easier solution is to scare Bellini out of his fucking mind and get him to refuse. You’ve a great many options. I wish I had as many.”

Schroeder wiped his brow. His breathing was erratic, and his voice was shaky. “Flynn … please … I’ll move heaven and earth to get them to surrender—I swear to God I will—but if they don’t listen—” He drew up his body. “Then I won’t betray them. Never. Even if it means Terri—”

Flynn reached out and grabbed Schroeder by the arm. “Use your head, man. If they’re repulsed once, they aren’t likely to try again. They’re not marines or royal commandos. If I beat them back, then Washington, the Vatican, and other concerned countries will pressure London. I can almost guarantee there’ll be fewer police killed if I stop them in their tracks … stop them before the battle gets too far along…. You must tell me if they’ve got the architect and the blueprints … tell me if they will use gas, if they’re going to cut off the lights…. You know what I need. And I’ll put the hostages in the crypt for protection. I’ll send a signal, and Terri will be freed within five minutes. I won’t ask any more of you.”

Schroeder’s head shook.

Flynn reached out his other hand and laid it on Schroeder’s shoulder. He spoke almost gently. “Long after we’re dead, after what’s happened here is only a dim memory to an uncaring world, Theresa will be alive, perhaps remarried—children, grandchildren. Step outside of what you feel now, Captain, and look into the future. Think of her and think also of your wife—Mary lives for that girl, Bert. She—”

Schroeder suddenly pulled away. “Shut up! For God’s sake, shut up….” He slumped forward, and his head rested against the bars.

Flynn patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a decent man, Captain. An honest man. And you’re a good father…. I hope you’re still a father at dawn. Well … will you be?”

Schroeder nodded.

“Good. Go on, then, go back, have a drink. Get yourself together. It’ll be all right. No, don’t go thinking about your gun. Killing me or killing yourself won’t solve anyone’s problem but your own. Think about Terri and Mary. They need you and love you. See you later, Captain, God willing.”

CHAPTER 51

Governor Doyle stood in a back room of the Cardinal’s residence, a telephone in his hand. He listened to a succession of state officials: policemen, public relations people, legislators, the Attorney General, the commander of the state’s National Guard. They spoke to him from Albany, from the state offices in Rockefeller Center, from their homes, and from their vacation hotels in warmer climates. All of these people, who normally couldn’t decide on chicken or roast beef at a banquet, had decided that the time had come to storm the Cathedral. The Lieutenant Governor told him, frankly, if not tactfully, that his ratings in the polls were so low he had nothing to lose and could only gain by backing an assault on the Cathedral regardless of its success or failure. Doyle put the receiver into its cradle and regarded the people who were entering the room.

Kline, he noticed, had brought Spiegel, which meant a decision could be reached. Monsignor Downes took a seat beside Arnold Sheridan of the State Department. On the couch sat the Irish Consul General, Donahue, and the British Foreign Office representative, Eric Palmer. Police Commissioner Rourke stood by the door until Kline pointed to a chair.

Doyle looked at Bartholomew Martin, who had no official status any longer but whom he had asked to be present. Martin, no matter what people were saying about him, could be counted on to supply the right information.

The Governor cleared his throat and said, “Gentlemen, Miss—Ms.—Spiegel, I’ve asked you here because I feel that we are the ones most immediately affected by this situation.” He looked around the room. “And before we leave here, we’re going to cut this Gordian knot.” He made a slicing movement with his hand. “Cut through every tactical and strategic problem, political consideration, and moral dilemma that has paralyzed our will and our ability to act!” He paused, then turned to Monsignor Downes. “Father, would you repeat for everyone the latest news from Rome?”

Monsignor Downes said, “Yes. His Holiness is going to make a personal appeal to the Fenians, as Christians, to spare the Cathedral and the lives of the hostages. He will also appeal to the governments involved to show restraint and will place at their disposal the facilities of the Vatican where they and the Fenians can continue their negotiations.”

Major Martin broke the silence. “The heads of state of the three governments involved are making a point of not speaking directly to these terrorists—”

The Monsignor waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “His Holiness would not be speaking as head of the Vatican State but as a world spiritual leader.”

The British representative, Palmer, said, “Such an appeal would place the American President and the Prime Ministers of Ireland and Britain in a difficult—”

Monsignor Downes was becoming agitated by the negative response. “His Holiness feels the Church must do what it can for these outcasts because that has been our mission for two thousand years—these are the people who need us.” He handed a sheet of paper to the Governor. “This is the text of His Holiness’s appeal.”

Governor Doyle read the short message and passed it to Mayor Kline.

Monsignor Downes said, “We would like that delivered to the people inside the Cathedral at the same time it’s read on radio and television. Within the next hour— before dawn.”

After everyone in the room had seen the text of the Pope’s appeal, Eric Palmer said, “Some years ago, we actually did meet secretly with the IRA, and they made it public. The repercussions rocked the government. I don’t think we’re going to speak with them again—certainly not at the Vatican.”

Donahue spoke with a tone of sadness in his voice. “Monsignor, the Dublin government outlawed the IRA in the 1920s, and I don’t think Dublin will back the Vatican on this….”

Martin said, “As you know we’ve actually passed on a compromise to them, and they’ve not responded. The Pope can save himself and all of us a great deal of embarrassment if he withholds this plea.”

Mayor Kline added, “The only way the Fenians can go to the Vatican is if I let them go. And I can’t do that. I have to enforce the law.”

Arnold Sheridan spoke for the first time, and the tone of his voice suggested a final policy position. “The government of the United States has reason to believe that federal firearm and passport laws have been violated, but otherwise it’s purely a local affair. We’re not going anywhere to discuss the release of Irish prisoners in the United Kingdom or immunity from prosecution for the people in the Cathedral.”

Spiegel looked at Downes. “The only place negotiations can be held is right here—on the phone or at the sacristy gate. It is the policy of the police in this city to contain a hostage situation—not let it become mobile. And it is the law to arrest criminals at the first possible opportunity. In other words, the trenches are dug, and no one is leaving them under a truce flag.”

The Monsignor pursed his lips and nodded. “I understand your positions, but the Church, which many of you consider so ironbound, is willing to try anything. I think you should know that personal appeals to all parties involved will be forthcoming from the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Primate of Ireland, and from hundreds of other religious leaders of every faith and denomination. And in almost every church and synagogue in this city and in other cities, all-night prayer vigils have been called. And at 5:00 A.M., if it’s not over by then, every church bell in this city, and probably in the country, will begin ringing—ringing for sanity, for mercy, and for all of us.”

Roberta Spiegel stood and lit a cigarette. “The mood of the people, notwithstanding bells and singing in the streets, is very hard line. If we take a soft approach and it explodes in our faces at 6:03, all of us will be out on our asses, and there’ll be no all-night prayer vigils for us.” She paused, then said, “So let’s cut through the bullshit—or the Gordian knot—and decide how and when we’re going to attack, and get our stories straight for afterward.”

Cigarettes were being lit, and Major Martin was helping himself to the Cardinal’s sherry.

The Governor nodded appreciatively. “I admire your honesty and perception, Ms. Spiegel, and—”

She looked at him. “This is why you asked us here, so let’s get on with it, Governor.”

Governor Doyle flushed but controlled his anger and said, “Good idea.” He looked around. “Then we all agree that a compromise is not an option, that the Fenians won’t surrender, and that they’ll carry out their threats at dawn?”

There were some tentative nods.

The Governor looked at Arnold Sheridan and said, “I’m on my own?” Sheridan nodded.

Doyle said, “But—off the record—the administration would like to see a hard-line approach?”

Sheridan said, “The message the government wants to convey is that this sort of thing will always be met by force—local force.” Sheridan walked to the door. “Thank you, Governor, for the opportunity to contribute to the discussion. I’m sure you’ll reach the right decision.” He left.

Mayor Kline watched the door close and said, “We’ve been cut adrift.” He turned to Donahue and Palmer. “You see, the federal system works marvelously— they collect taxes and pass laws, Mayor Kline fights terrorists.”

Kline stood and began pacing. He stopped in front of Donahue and Palmer. “Do you understand that it is in my power, as the duly elected Mayor of this city, to order an assault on that Cathedral?”

Neither man responded.

Kline’s voice rose. “It is my duty. And I don’t have to answer to anyone.”

Eric Palmer stood and moved toward the door. “We’ve offered all the compromises we can…. And if this is, as you indicate, a local matter, then there’s no reason for Her Majesty’s government to involve itself any further.” He looked at Martin, who made no move to follow, then nodded to the others. “Good morning.” He walked out.

Tomas Donahue stood. “I feel bad about all of this…. I’ve lived in this city for five years…. Saint Patrick’s is my parish church…. I know the Cardinal and Father Murphy….” He looked at Monsignor Downes. “But there’s nothing I can do.” He walked to the door and turned back. “If you need me, I’ll be in the consulate. God bless….” He left quickly.

Spiegel said, “Nice clean exits.”

Governor Doyle hooked his thumbs on his vest pockets. “Well … there it is.” He turned to Martin. “Major … won’t you give us your thoughts…. As a man who is familiar with the IRA … what would be your course of action?”

Martin said without preamble, “It’s time you discussed a rescue operation.”

The Governor nodded slowly, aware that the phrase “rescue operation,” as opposed to attack or assault, was a subtle turning point. The phraseology for the coming action was being introduced and refined. He turned abruptly to Monsignor Downes. “Are you willing to give your blessing to a rescue operation?”

The Monsignor looked up quickly. “Am I … ? Well …”

Governor Doyle moved close to Downes. “Monsignor, in times of crisis it’s often people like ourselves, at the middle levels, who get stuck holding the bag. And we have to act. Not to act is more immoral than to act with force.” He added. “Rescue, we have to rescue—”

Monsignor Downes said, “But … the Papal plea …”

Mayor Kline spoke from across the room. “I don’t want to see the Pope or the other religious leaders make fools of themselves. If God himself pleaded with these Fenians, it would make no difference.”

The Monsignor ran his hands across his cheeks. “But why me … ? What difference does it make what I say?”

Kline cleared his throat. “To be perfectly honest with you, Monsignor, I won’t do a damned thing to rescue those people or save that Cathedral unless I have the blessing of a ranking member of the Catholic clergy. A Monsignor will do, preferably Irish like yourself. I’m no fool, and neither are you.”

Monsignor Downes slumped into his chair. “Oh God …”

Rourke rose from his chair and walked to Downes. He knelt beside the Monsignor’s chair and spoke with anguish in his voice. “My boys are mostly Catholic, Father. If they have to go in here … they’ll want to see you first … to make their confessions… to know that someone from the Church is blessing their mission. Otherwise, they’ll … I don’t know….”

Monsignor Downes put his face in his hands. After a full minute he looked up and nodded slowly. “God help me, but if you think it’s the only way to save them …” He stood suddenly and almost ran from the room.

For a few seconds no one spoke, then Spiegel said, “Let’s move before things start coming apart.”

Mayor Kline was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He looked up. “Schroeder will have to state that he’s failed absolutely.”

Governor Doyle said, “That should be no problem. He has.” He added, “It would help also if we put out a news release—concurrent with the rescue—that the Fenians have made new demands in addition to the ones we were willing to discuss—” He stopped abruptly. “Damn it, there are tapes of every phone conversation…. Maybe Burke can—”

Kline interrupted. “Forget Burke. Schroeder is speaking in person to Flynn right now. That will give Schroeder the opportunity to state that Flynn has made a set of new demands.”

The Governor nodded. “Yes, very good.”

Kline said, “I’ll have Bellini report in writing that he believes that there’s a good chance of carrying out a rescue with a minimum loss of life and property.”

Doyle said, “But Bellini’s like a yo-yo. He keeps changing his mind—” He looked sharply at Rourke. “Will he write such a statement?”

Rourke’s tone was anxious. “He’ll carry out any orders to attack … but as for signing any statement … he’s a difficult man. I know his position is that he needs more solid intelligence before he says he approves—”

Major Martin said, “Lieutenant Burke tells me he’s very close to an intelligence breakthrough.”

Everyone looked at Martin.

Martin continued. “He’ll have at least the blueprints, perhaps the architect himself, within the next hour. I can almost guarantee it.” Martin’s tone suggested that he didn’t want to be pressed further.

Kline said, “What we need from Inspector Langley are psy-profiles showing that half the terrorists in there are psychotic.”

Governor Doyle said, “Will these police officers cooperate?”

Spiegel answered. “I’ll take care of Langley. As for Schroeder, he’s very savvy and politically attuned. No problem there. Regarding Bellini, we’ll offer a promotion and transfer to wherever he wants.” Spiegel walked toward the telephone. “I’ll get the media right now and tell them that the negotiations are reaching a critical stage and it’s absolutely essential they delay on those Church appeals.”

Doyle said almost smugly, “At least I know my man, Logan, will do what he is told.” He turned to Kline. “Don’t forget, I want a piece of this, Murray. At least one squad has to be from the Sixty-ninth.”

Mayor Kline looked out the window. “Are we doing the right thing? Or have we all gone crazy?”

Martin said, “You’d be crazy to wait for dawn.” He added, “It’s odd, isn’t it, that the others didn’t want to share this with us?”

Roberta Spiegel looked up as she dialed. “Some rats have perceived a sinking ship and jumped off. Other rats have perceived a bandwagon and jumped on. Before the sun rises, we’ll know which rats saw things more clearly.”

Bert Schroeder sat at his desk in the Monsignor’s office. Langley, Bellini, and Colonel Logan stood, listening to Mayor Kline and Governor Doyle tell them what was expected of them. Schroeder’s eyes darted from Kline to Doyle as his thoughts raced wildly.

Roberta Spiegel sat in her rocker staring into the disused fireplace, absently twirling a brandy snifter in her hands. The room had grown cold, and she had Langley’s jacket draped over her shoulders.

Major Martin stood at the fireplace, occupied with the curios on the mantel.

Police Commissioner Rourke stood beside the Mayor, nodding agreement at everything Kline and Doyle said, trying to elicit similar nodding from his three officers.

The Governor stopped speaking and looked at Schroeder a moment. Something about the man suggested a dormant volcano. He tried to gauge his reaction. “Bert?”

Schroeder’s eyes focused on the Governor.

Doyle said, “Bert, this is no reflection on you, but if dawn comes and there’s no compromise, no extension of the deadline—and there won’t be—and the hostages are executed and the Cathedral demolished … well, it will be you, Bert, who’ll get most of the public abuse. Won’t it?”

Schroeder said nothing.

Mayor Kline turned to Langley. “And it will be you, Inspector, who will get a great deal of the official censure.”

“Be that as it may—”

Bellini said heatedly, “We can handle criminals, Your Honor, but these are guerrillas armed with military ordnance—intrusion alarms, submachine guns, rockets, and … and God knows what else. What if they have flame-throwers? Huh? And they’re holed up in a national shrine. Christ, I still don’t understand why the army can’t—” The Mayor put a restraining hand on Bellini with a look of disappointment. “Joe… Joe, this is not like you.”

Bellini said, “It sure as hell is.”

Governor Doyle looked at Logan, who appeared uncomfortable. “Colonel? What’s your feel?”

Colonel Logan came to a modified position of attention. “Oh … well … I am convinced that we should act without delay to mount an att—a rescue operation.”

The Governor beamed.

“However,” continued Logan, “the tactical plan is not sound. What you’re asking us to do is like … like shooting rats in a china cabinet without breaking the china … or the cabinet….”

The Governor stared at Logan, his bushy eyebrows rising in an arc like squirrel tails. “Soldiers are often asked to do the impossible—and to do it well. National Guard duty is not all parades and happy hours.”

“No, sir … yes, sir.”

“Can the Fighting Irish hold up their end of the operation?”

“Of course!”

The Governor slapped Logan’s shoulder soundly. “Good man.”

The Mayor turned to Langley. “Inspector, you will have to come up with the dossiers we need on the Fenians.”

Langley hesitated.

Roberta Spiegel fixed her eyes on him. “By no later than noon, Inspector.” Langley looked at her. “Sure. Why not? I’ll do some creative writing with the help of a discreet police psychologist—Dr. Korman—and come up with psy-profiles of the Fenians that would scare the hell out of John Hickey himself.”

Major Martin said, “May I suggest, Inspector, that you also show a link between the death of that informer—Ferguson, I think his name was—and the Fenians? That will tidy up that business as well.”

Langley looked at Martin and understood. He nodded.

Kline looked at Bellini. “Well, Joe … are you on our team?”

Bellini looked troubled. “I am … but …”

“Joe, can you honestly say that you’re absolutely convinced these terrorists will not shoot the Cardinal and the others at dawn and then blow up Saint Patrick’s Cathedral?”

“No … but—”

“Are you convinced your men cannot conduct a successful rescue operation?”

“I never said anything like that, Your Honor. I just won’t sign anything…. Since when are people required to sign something like that?”

The Mayor patted his shoulder gently. “Should I get someone else to lead your men against the terrorists in a rescue operation, Joe? Or should I just let Colonel Logan handle the whole operation?”

Bellini’s mind was filled with conflicting thoughts, all of them unhappy.

Spiegel snapped, “Yes or no, Captain? It’s getting late, and the fucking sun is due at 6:03.”

Bellini looked at her and straightened his posture. “I’ll lead the attack. If I get the blueprints, then I’ll decide if I’m going to sign anything.”

Mayor Kline let out a deep breath. “Well, that’s about it.” He looked at Langley. “You’ll of course reconsider your resignation.”

Langley said, “Actually, I was thinking about chief inspector.”

Kline nodded quickly. “Certainly. There’ll be promotions for everyone after this.”

Langley lit a cigarette and noticed his hands were unsteady. Kline and Doyle, he was convinced, were doing the right thing in attacking the Cathedral. But with the sure instincts of the politician, they were doing it for the wrong reasons, in the wrong way, and going about it in a slimy manner. But so what? That was how half the right things got done.

Mayor Kline was smiling now. He turned to Schroeder. “Bert, all we need from you is some more time. Keep talking to them. You’re doing a hell of a job, Bert, and we appreciate it…. Captain?” He smiled at Schroeder the way he always smiled at someone he had caught not paying attention. “Bert?”

Schroeder’s eyes focused on Kline, but he said nothing.

Mayor Kline regarded him with growing apprehension. “Now … now, Bert, I need a signed statement from you saying that it is your professional opinion, based on years of hostage negotiating, that you recommend a cessation of negotiations. Right?”

Schroeder looked around the room and made an unintelligible noise.

The Mayor seemed anxious but went on. “You should indicate that when you saw Flynn he made more demands … crazy demands. Okay? Write that up as soon as possible.” He turned to the others. “All of you—”

“I won’t do that.”

Everyone in the room looked at Schroeder. Kline said incredulously, “What— what did you say?”

Roberta Spiegel stood quickly, sending the rocker sliding into Governor Doyle.

Doyle moved the rocker aside and approached Schroeder. “Those are true statements! And you haven’t accomplished shit so far!”

Schroeder stood and steadied himself against the desk. “I’ve listened to all of you, and you’re all crazy.”

Spiegel said to Langley, “Get the backup negotiator.”

Schroeder shouted, “No! No one can speak with Flynn but me…. He won’t speak to anyone else…. You’ll see he won’t speak…. I’ll call him now….” He reached for the telehpone, but Langley pulled it away. Schroeder fell back in his chair.

Mayor Kline looked stunned. He tried to speak but couldn’t get a word out.

Spiegel moved around the desk and looked down at Schroeder. Her voice was soft and dispassionate. “Captain, sometime between now and the time Bellini is ready to move, you will prepare a statement justifying our decision. If you don’t, I’ll see to it that you are brought up on departmental charges, dismissed from the force, and lose your pension. You’ll end up as a bank guard in Dubuque—if you’re lucky enough ever to get a gun permit. Now, let’s discuss this intelligently.”

Schroeder stood and took a deep breath. His voice had the control and tone of the professional negotiator again. “Yes, let’s do that. I’m sorry, I became overwrought for a moment. Let’s discuss what Brian Flynn really said to me, not what you’d have liked him to say.” Schroeder looked at Bellini and Logan. “It seems those forty-five corned beef dinners were not a ruse—there were people to eat those dinners. I saw them. And flamethrowers … let me tell you about the flamethrowers….” He lit a cigar with shaking hands, then continued.

Schroeder went on in cool, measured tones, but everyone could hear an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. He concluded, “Flynn has assembled what amounts to the largest, best-equipped armed force of trained insurgents this country has seen since the Civil War. It’s too late to do anything except call Washington and tell them we’ve surrendered what is in our power to surrender….”

CHAPTER 52

Langley found Burke lying on a bed in a priest’s room. “They’ve decided to hit the Cathedral!”

Burke sat up quickly.

Langley’s voice was agitated. “Soon. Before the Pope’s appeal—before the church bells ring and Monsignor Downes comes to his senses—”

“Slow down.”

“Schroeder spoke to Flynn at the gate—said he saw forty or fifty armed Fenians— ”

“Fifty?”

“But he didn’t. I know he didn’t.”

“Hold on. Back up.”

Langley paced around the small room. “Washington perceived a sinking ship. Kline and Doyle perceived a bandwagon. See? Tomorrow they’ll both be heroes, or they’ll be in Mexico wearing dark glasses and phony noses—”

Burke found some loose aspirin in the night table and chewed three of them.

Langley sat down on a chair. “Listen, Spiegel wants to see you.” He briefed Burke quickly, then added, “You’re the negotiator until they decide about Schroeder.”

Burke looked up. “Negotiator?” He laughed. “Poor Bert. This was going to be his perfect game…. He really wanted this one.” He lit a cigarette stub. “So”—he exhaled a stream of acrid smoke—“we attack—”

“No! We rescue! You have to call it a rescue operation now. You have to choose your words very carefully, because it’s getting very grim and none of them is saying what they mean anymore—they never did anyway—and they lie better than we do. Go on, they’re waiting for you.”

Burke made no move to leave. “And Martin told them I would produce Stillway!”

“Yes, complete with blueprints. That was news to me—how about you?”

“And he never mentioned Terri O’Neal?”

“No—should he?” Langley looked at his watch. “Does it matter anymore?” Burke stared out the window into Madison Avenue. “Martin killed Jack Ferguson, you know.”

Langley came up behind him. “No. The Fenians killed Jack Ferguson.”

Burke turned. “Lots of phony deals going down tonight.”

Langley shook his head. “Damned right. And Kline is passing out promotions like they were campaign buttons. Go get one. But you have to pay.”

Langley began pacing again. “You have to sign a statement saying you think everything Kline and Doyle do is terrific. Okay? Make them give you a captain’s pay. I’m going to be a chief inspector. And get out of ID. Ask for the Art Forgery Squad—Paris, London, Rome. Promise me you’ll visit Schroeder in Dubuque—”

“Get hold of yourself.”

Langley waved his arms. “Remember, Martin is in, Schroeder is out. Logan is in with Kline and Doyle but out with Bellini—are you following me? Watch out for Spiegel. She’s in rare form—what a magnificent bitch. The Fenians are lunatics, we’re sane…. Monsignor Downes blesses us all…. What else?” He looked around with wild darting eyes. “Is there a shower in this place? I feel slimy. You still here? Beat it!” Langley fell back on the bed. “Go away.”

Burke had never seen Langley become unglued, and it was frightening. He started to say something, then thought better of it and left.

Burke walked beside Roberta Spiegel up the stairs. He listened to her brisk voice as they moved. Martin was climbing silently behind him.

Burke opened the stairshed door and walked onto the flat rooftop of the rectory. A wind blew from the north, and frozen pools of water reflected the lights of the tall buildings around them. Spiegel dismissed a team of ESD snipers, turned up her coat collar, and moved to the west side of the roof. She put her hands on the low wrought-iron fence that ran around the roof’s perimeter and stared at the towering Cathedral rising across the narrow courtyard.

The streets below were deserted, but in the distance, beyond the barricades, horns blared, people sang and shouted, bagpipes and other instruments played intermittently. Burke realized it was after 4:00 A.M., and the bars had closed. The party was on the streets now, probably still a hundred thousand strong, maybe more, tenaciously clinging to the night that had turned magic for them.

Spiegel was speaking, and Burke tried to concentrate on her words; but he had no topcoat, and he was cold, and her words were blowing away in the strong wind. She concluded, “We’ve gotten our act together, Lieutenant, but before it comes apart, we’re going to move. And we don’t want any more surprises. Understand?”

Burke said, “Art Forgery Squad.”

Spiegel looked at him, momentarily puzzled, then said, “Oh … all right. Either that or shower orderly at the academy gym.” She turned her back to the wind and lit a cigarette.

Burke said, “Where’s Schroeder?”

Spiegel replied, “He understands we don’t want him out of our sight and talking to the press, so rather than suffer the indignity of a guard, he volunteered to stick with Bellini.”

Burke felt a vague uneasiness pass through him. He said, “And I’m the negotiator?”

Spiegel said, “In fact, yes. But for the sake of appearances, Schroeder is still on the job. He’s not without his political connections. He’ll continue his duties, with some modifications, of course, and later … he’ll go on camera.”

Martin spoke for the first time. “Captain Schroeder should actually go back to the sacristy and speak with Flynn again. We have to keep up appearances at this critical moment. Neither Flynn nor the press should sense any problem.”

Burke cupped his hands and lit a cigarette, looking at Martin as he did. Martin’s strategy was becoming clear. He thought about Schroeder hanging around Bellini, about Schroeder meeting Flynn again at the gate. He thought, also, that Flynn did not have fifty well-armed people, and therefore Schroeder was mistaken, stupid, or gullible, which seemed to be the consensus. But he knew Schroeder was none of these things When you have excluded the impossible, said Sherlock Holmes, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Schroeder was lying, and Burke was beginning to understand why. He pictured the face of a young woman, heard her voice again, and placed her at a promotion party five or six years before. Almost hesitantly he made the final connection he should have made hours ago. Burke said to Spiegel, “And Bellini’s working on a new plan of attack?”

Spiegel looked at him in the diffused light and said, “Right now Bellini and Logan are formulating plan B—escalating the response, as they say—based on the outside possibility that there is a powerful force in that Cathedral. They won’t go in any other way. But we’re counting on you to give us the intelligence we need to formulate a plan C, an infiltration of the Cathedral and surprise attack, using the hidden passages that many of us seem to believe exist. That may enable us to actually save some lives and save Saint Patrick’s.”

She looked out at the looming structure. Even from the outside it looked labyrinthine with its towers, spires, buttresses, and intricate stonework. She turned to Burke. “So, do you feel, Lieutenant Burke, that you’ve put your neck on a chopping block?”

“There’s no reason why my neck shouldn’t be where yours is.”

“True,” she said. “True. And yours is actually a little more exposed, since I understand you’re going in with Bellini.”

“That’s right. How about you?”

She smiled unpleasantly, then said, “You don’t have to go…. But it wouldn’t be a bad idea … if you don’t produce Stillway.”

Burke glanced at Martin, who nodded slightly, and said, “I’ll have him within … half an hour.”

No one spoke, then Martin said, “If I may make another suggestion … let’s not make too much of this architect business in front of Captain Schroeder. He’s overwrought and may inadvertently let something slip the next time he speaks with Flynn.”

There was a long silence on the rooftop, broken by the sounds of shoes shuffling against the frozen gravel and the wind rushing through the streets. Burke looked at Spiegel and guessed that she sensed Bert Schroeder had a real problem, was a real problem.

Spiegel put her hands in the pockets of her long coat and walked a few paces from Burke and Martin. For a few brief seconds she wondered why she was so committed to this, and it came to her that in those seven miserable years of teaching history what she had really wanted to do was make history; and she would.

Captain Joe Bellini rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock in the press conference room. 4:26A.M.The fucking sun is due at 6:03. In his half-sleep he had pictured a wall of brilliant sunlight moving toward him, coming to rescue him as it had done so many times in Korea. God, he thought, how I hate the sound of rifles in the night.

He looked around the room. Men slept on cots or on the floor, using flak jackets for pillows. Others were awake, smoking, talking in low tones. Occasionally someone laughed at something that, Bellini guessed, was not funny. Fear had a special stink of its own, and he smelled it strongly now, a mixture of sweat, tobacco, gun oil, and the breath from labored lungs and sticky mouths.

The blackboard was covered with colored chalk marks superimposed on a white outline of St. Patrick’s. On the long conference table lay copies of the revised attack plan. Bert Schroeder sat at the far end of the table, flipping casually through a copy.

The phone rang, and Bellini grabbed it. “ESD operations, Bellini.”

The Mayor’s distinctive nasal voice came over the line. “How are you holding up, Joe? Anxious to get rolling?”

“Can’t wait.”

“Good…. Listen, I’ve just seen your new attack plan…. It’s a little excessive, isn’t it?”

“It was mostly Colonel Logan’s, sir,” Bellini said.

“Oh … well, see that you tone it down.”

Bellini picked up a full soft-drink can in his big hand and squeezed it, watching the top pop off and the brown liquid run over his fingers. “Approved or disapproved?”

The Mayor let a long time go by, and Bellini knew he was conferring, looking at his watch. Kline came back on the line. “The Governor and I approve … in principle.”

“I thank you in principle.”

Kline switched to another subject. “Is he still there?”

Bellini glanced at Schroeder. “Like dog turd on a jogger’s sneakers.”

Kline forced a weak laugh. “Okay, I’m in the state offices in Rockefeller Center with the Governor and our staffs—”

“Good view.”

“Now, don’t be sarcastic. Listen, I’ve just spoken to the President of the United States.”

Bellini detected a note of self-importance in Kline’s tone.

“The President says he’s making definite progress with the British Prime Minister. He’s also making noises like he might federalize the guard and send in marshals… .” Kline lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone. “Between you and me, Joe, I think he’s putting out a smokescreen … covering himself for later.”

Bellini lit a cigarette. “Who isn’t?”

Kline’s voice was urgent. “He’s under pressure. The church bells in Washington are already ringing, and there are thousands of people marching with candles in front of the White House. The British Embassy is being picketed—”

Bellini watched Schroeder stand and then walk toward the door. He said into the phone, “Hold on.” Bellini called to Schroeder, “Where you headed, Chief?”

Schroeder looked back at him. “Sacristy.” He walked out the door.

Bellini watched him go, then said into the phone, “Schroeder just went to make a final pitch to Flynn. Okay?”

Kline let out a long breath. “All right … can’t hurt. By the time he gets back you’ll be ready to move—unless he has something very solid, which he won’t.”

Bellini remembered that Schroeder had never had a failure. “You never know.”

There was a long silence on the line, then the Mayor said, “Do you believe in miracles?”

“Never actually saw one.” He thought, Except the time you got reelected. “Nope, never saw one.”

“Me neither.”

Bellini heard a click on the line, followed by a dial tone. He looked across the quiet room. “Get up! Off your asses! Battle stations. Move out!”

Bert Schroeder stood opposite Brian Flynn at the sacristy gate. Schroeder’s voice was low and halting as he spoke, and he kept looking back nervously into the sacristy. “The plan is a fairly simple and classical attack…. Colonel Logan drew it up…. Logan himself will hit the front doors with an armored carrier, and the ESD will hit all the other doors simultaneously with rams…. They’ll use scaling ladders and break through the windows…. It’s all done under cover of gas and darkness … everyone has masks and night scopes. The electricity will be cut off at the moment the doors are hit….”

Flynn felt the blood race through his veins as he listened. “Gas …”

Schroeder nodded. “The same stuff you used at the reviewing stands. It will be pumped in through the air ducts.” He detailed the coordination of helicopters, snipers on the roofs, firemen, and bomb disposal men. He added, “The sacristy steps”—he looked down as though realizing he was standing in the very spot— “they’ll be hit with steel-cut chain saws. Bellini and I will be with that squad…. We’ll go for the hostages … if they’re on the sanctuary …” He shook his head, trying to comprehend the fact that he was saying this.

“The hostages,” said Flynn, “will be dead.” He paused and said, “Where will Burke be?”

Schroeder shook his head, tried to go on, but heard his voice faltering. After some hesitation he slipped a sheaf of papers from his jacket and through the bars.

Flynn slid them under his shirt, his eyes darting between the corridor openings. “So there’s nothing that the famous Captain Schroeder can do to stop this?”

Schroeder looked down. “There never was…. Why didn’t you see that … ?”

Flynn’s voice was hostile. “Because I listened to you all night, Schroeder, and I think I half believed your damned lies!”

Schroeder was determined to salvage something of himself from the defeat and humiliation he had felt at the last confrontation. “Don’t put this on me. You knew I was lying. You knew it!”

Flynn glared at him, then nodded slightly. “Yes, I knew it.” He thought a moment, then said, “And I know you’re finally speaking the truth. It must be a great strain. Well, I can stop them at the doors … if, as you say, they haven’t discovered any hidden passages and they don’t have the architect—” He looked suddenly at Schroeder. “They don’t have him, do they?”

Schroeder shook his head. He drew himself up and spoke rapidly. “Give it up. I’ll get you a police escort to the airport. I know I can do that. That’s all they really want—they want you out of here!”

Flynn seemed to consider for a brief moment, then shook his head.

Schroeder pressed on. “Flynn—listen, they’re going to hit you hard. You’re going to die. Can’t you grasp that? You can’t delude yourself any longer. But all you have to do is say you’re willing to take less—”

“If I wanted less, I would have asked for less. No more hostage negotiating, please. God, how you go on. Talk about self-delusion.”

Schroeder drew close to the gate. “All right, I’ve done all I could. Now you release—”

Flynn cut him off. “If the details you’ve given me are accurate, I’ll send a signal to release your daughter.”

Schroeder grabbed at the bars. “What kind of signal? When? The phones will be cut off…. The towers will be under sniper fire—What if you’re … dead? Damn it, I’ve given you the plans—”

Flynn went on. “But if you’ve lied to me about any part of this, or if there should be a change in plans and you don’t tell me—”

Schroeder was shaking his head spasmodically. “No. No. That’s not acceptable. You’re not living up to your end.”

Flynn turned and walked up the stairs.

Schroeder drew his pistol and held it close against his chest. It wavered in his hand, the muzzle pointing toward Flynn’s back, but his hand shook so badly he almost dropped the gun. Flynn turned the corner and disappeared.

After a full minute Schroeder holstered the pistol, faced around, and walked back to the side corridor. He passed grim-faced men standing against the walls with slung rifles. He found a lavatory, entered it, and vomited.

CHAPTER 53

Burke stood alone in the small counting room close by the press room. He adjusted his flak jacket over his pullover and, after putting a green carnation in a cartridge loop, started for the door.

The door suddenly swung open, and Major Martin stood before him. “Hello, Burke. Is that what everyone in New York is wearing now?” He called back into the corridor, and two patrolmen appeared with a civilian between them. Martin smiled. “May I present Gordon Stillway, American Institute of Architects? Mr. Stillway, this is Patrick Burke, world-famous secret policeman.”

A tall, erect, elderly man stepped into the room, looking confused but otherwise dignified. In his left hand he held a briefcase from which protruded four tubes of rolled paper.

Burke dismissed the two officers and turned to Martin. “It’s late.”

“Is it?” Martin looked at his watch. “You have fifteen full minutes to head off Bellini. Time, as you know, is relative. If you’re eating Galway Bay oysters, fifteen minutes pass rather quickly, but if you’re hanging by your left testicle, it drags a bit.” He laughed at his own joke. “Bellini is hanging by his testicle. You’ll cut him down—then hang him up there again after he’s spoken to Mr. Stillway.”

Martin moved farther into the small room and drew closer to Burke. “Mr. Stillway was kidnapped from his apartment by persons unknown and held in an empty loft not far from here. Acting on anonymous information, I went to the detectives in the Seventh Precinct and, voilà, Gordon Stillway. Mr. Stillway, won’t you have a seat?”

Gordon Stillway remained standing and looked from one man to the other, then said, “This is a terrible tragedy … but I’m not quite certain what I’m supposed to— ”

Martin said, “You, sir, will give the police the information they must have to infiltrate the Cathedral and catch the villains unawares.”

Stillway looked at him. “What are you talking about? Do you mean they’re going to attack? I won’t have that.”

Martin put his hand on Stillway’s shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ve arrived a bit late, sir. That’s not negotiable any longer. Either you help the police, or they go in there through the doors and windows and cause a great deal of death and destruction, after which the terrorists will burn it down and blow it up—or vice versa.”

Stillway’s eyes widened, and he let Martin maneuver him into a chair. Martin said to Burke, “You’d better hurry.”

Burke came toward Martin. “Why did you cut it this close?”

Martin took a step back and replied, “I’m sorry. I had to wait for Captain Schroeder to deliver the attack plans to Flynn, which is what he’s doing right now.”

Burke nodded. Bellini’s attack had to be canceled no matter what else happened. A new plan based on Stillway’s information, if he had any, would jump off so close to 6:03 that it would probably end in disaster anyway. But Martin had delivered Stillway and therefore would be owed a great favor by Washington. He looked at Martin. “Major, I’d like to be the first to thank you for your help in this affair.”

Martin smiled. “Now you’re getting into the right spirit. You’ve been so glum all night, but you’ll see—stick with me, Burke, and as I promised, you’ll come out of this looking fine.”

Burke addressed Stillway. “Are there any hidden passages into that Cathedral that will give the police a clear tactical advantage?”

Stillway sat motionless, contemplating the events that had begun with a sunny day and a parade, proceeded to his kidnapping and rescue, and ended with him in a subterranean room with two men who were obviously unbalanced. He said, “I have no idea what you mean by a clear tactical advantage.” His voice became irritable. “I’m an architect.”

Martin looked at his watch again. “Well, I’ve done my bit….” He opened the door. “Hurry now. You promised Bellini you’d be at his side, and a promise is sacred and beautiful. And oh, yes, later—if you’re still alive—you’ll see at least one more mystery unfold in that Cathedral. A rather good one.” He walked out and slammed the door.

Stillway regarded Burke warily. “Who was he? Who are you?”

“Who are you? Are you Gordon Stillway—or are you just another of the Major’s little jokes?”

Stillway didn’t answer.

Burke extracted a rolled blueprint from the briefcase, unfurled it, and stared at it. He threw the blueprint on the table and looked at his watch. “Come with me, Mr. Stillway, and we’ll see if you were worth the wait.”

Schroeder walked into the press conference room and hurried toward a phone. “This is Schroeder. Get me Kline.”

The Mayor’s voice was neutral. “Yes, Captain, any luck?”

Schroeder looked around the nearly empty room. Rifles and flak jackets had disappeared, and empty boxes of ammunition and concussion grenades lay in the corner. Someone had scrawled on the chalkboard: FINAL SCORE:CHRISTIANS AND JEWS———PAGANS AND ATHEISTS———

Kline’s voice was impatient. “Well?”

Schroeder leaned against the table and fought down a wave of nausea. “No … no extension … no compromise. Listen …”

Kline sounded annoyed. “That’s what eveyone’s been telling you all night.”

Schroeder drew a long breath and pressed his hand to his stomach. Kline was speaking, but Schroeder wasn’t listening. Slowly he began to take in more of his surroundings. Bellini stood across the table with his arms folded, Burke stood at the opposite end of the room, two ESD men with black ski masks stood very near him, and an old man, a civilian, sat at the conference table.

The Mayor went on. “Captain, right now you are still very much a hero, and within the hour you will be the police department’s chief spokesman.” Schroeder examined Bellini’s blackened face and thought Bellini was glaring at him with unconcealed hatred, as though he knew, but he decided it must be the grotesque makeup.

Kline was still speaking. “And you will not speak to a newsperson until the last shot is fired. And what’s this I hear about you volunteering to go in with Bellini?”

Schroeder said, “I … I have to. That’s the least I can do….”

“Have you lost your mind? What’s wrong with you, anyway? You sound—have you been drinking?”

Schroeder found himself staring at the old man who, he now noticed, was studying a large unrolled length of paper. His eyes passed over the silent men in the room again and focused on Burke, who seemed … almost sad. Everyone looked as though someone had just died. Something was wrong here—

“Are you drunk?”

“No….”

“Pull yourself together, Schroeder. You’ll be on television soon.”

“What … ?”

“Television! You remember, the red light, the big camera…. Now you get clear of that Cathedral—get over here as soon as possible.”

Schroeder heard the phone go dead and looked at the receiver, then dropped it on the table. He extended his arm and pointed at Gordon Stillway. “Who is that?”

The room remained silent. Then Burke said, “You know who that is, Bert. We’re going to redraw the attack plans.”

Schroeder looked quickly at Bellini and blurted, “No! No! You—”

Bellini glanced at Burke and nodded. He turned to Schroeder. “I can’t believe you did that.” He came toward Schroeder, who was edging toward the door. “Where’re you going, ace? You going to tip your pal, cocksucker?”

Schroeder’s head was shaking spasmodically.

Bellini drew closer. “I can’t hear you, you shit! Your golden voice sounds like a toilet flushing.”

Burke called out. “Joe—no hard stuff—just take his gun.” Burke moved closer to the two men. The two ESD officers held their rifles at their hips, not understanding exactly what was going on but ready to fire if Schroeder made a move for his gun. Gordon Stillway looked up from his blueprints.

Schroeder found his voice. “No … listen … I have to talk to Flynn … because… you see … I’ve got to try one more time—”

Bellini held out his hand. “Give me your gun—left hand—pinky in the trigger guard—nice and easy, and no one’s going to get hurt.”

Schroeder hesitated, then slowly reached into his jacket and carefully extracted the pistol with a hooked finger. “Bellini—listen—what’s going on? Why—”

Bellini reached for the pistol with his left hand and swung with his right, hitting Schroeder a vicious blow to the jaw. Schroeder fell back against the door and slid down to the floor.

Burke said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Bellini flexed his hand and turned to Burke. “You’re right—I should’ve yanked his nuts out and shoved them up his nose.” He looked back at Schroeder. “Tried to kill me, did you, scumbag?”

Burke saw that Bellini was contemplating further violence. “It had nothing to do with you, Bellini. Just cool out.” He came up beside Bellini and put his hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You’ve got lots to do.”

Bellini motioned to the ESD men. “Cuff this cocksucker and dump him in a closet somewhere.” He turned to Burke. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? You think I don’t know that you’re all going to cover for that motherfucker, and as soon as the shit storm is over at dawn he’s going to be the Mayor’s golden boy again.” He watched the ESD men carry Schroeder out and called after them, “Find some place with rats and cockroaches.” He sat down and tried to steady his hands as he lit a cigarette.

Burke stood beside him. “Life is unfair, right? But someone handed us a break this time. Flynn thinks you’re doing one thing, and you’re going to do something else. So it didn’t turn out so bad, right?”

Bellini nodded sulkily and looked at Stillway. “Yeah … maybe …” He rubbed his knuckles and flexed his fingers again. “That hurt … but it felt so good.” He laughed suddenly. “Burke, come here. Want to know a secret? I’ve been looking for an excuse to do that for five years.” He looked at the ceiling. “Thank you, God.” He laughed again.

The room began filling with squad leaders hastily recalled from their jump-off points, and Bellini watched them file into the room. The absolutely worst feeling in the whole world, Bellini thought, was to get yourself psyched out of your mind for a fight and have it postponed. The squad leaders, he saw, were in a bad mood. Bellini looked at Burke. “You better call His fucking Honor and explain. You can cover Schroeder’s ass if you want, but even if you don’t, it won’t matter to Kline, because they’ll still promote him and make him a national hero.”

Burke took off his flak jacket and pullover. “I have to see Flynn and come up with a good reason why Schroeder isn’t staying in touch with him.”

Bellini moved to the head of the conference table and took a long breath. He looked at each of the twelve squad leaders and said, “Men, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Thing is, I don’t know which is which.”

No one laughed, and Bellini went on. “Before I tell you why the attack is postponed, I want to say something…. The people in the Cathedral are desperate men and women … guerrillas…. This is combat … war … and the goal is not to apprehend these people at the risk of your own lives—”

A squad leader called out, “You mean shoot first and ask questions later, right?”

Bellini remembered the military euphemism for it. “Make a clean sweep.”

CHAPTER 54

Father Murphy stood on the crypt landing, a purple stole around his neck. Frank Gallagher knelt before him, making a hasty confession in a low, trembling voice. Flynn waited just inside the large crypt door, then called out to Gallagher, “That’s fine, Frank.”

Gallagher nodded to the priest, rose, and moved into the crypt. Flynn handed him a sheet of paper and said, “Here’s the part of the attack plan which deals with the sacristy gate.” He briefed Gallagher, then added, “You can take cover here in the crypt while you keep the gates under fire.” As Flynn spoke, Gallagher focused on the brownish blood that had flowed so abundantly from Pedar Fitzgerald’s mouth. Father Murphy was standing in the center of the bloodstain, apparently without realizing it, and Gallagher wanted to tell the priest to move—but Flynn was clasping his hand. “Good luck to you, Frank. Remember, Dublin, seventeenth of March next.”

Gallagher made an unintelligible noise, but he nodded with a desperate determination.

Flynn came out of the crypt and took Murphy’s arm. He led the priest up the stairs, across the sanctuary, and down the side steps into the ambulatory. Father Murphy disengaged himself from Flynn and turned toward the chancel organ. John Hickey sat talking on the field phone, Pedar Fitzgerald’s covered body at his feet. The priest knelt and pulled the coat back from Pedar’s head. He anointed his forehead, stood, and looked at Hickey, who had hung up the receiver.

Hickey said, “Sneaked that in, did you? Well, where now is Pedar Fitzgerald’s soul?”

Father Murphy kept staring at Hickey.

Hickey said, “Now, like a good priest, you’ll ask me to confess, and you assume I’ll refuse. But what if I do confess? Would my entire past life, including every sin, sacrilege, and blasphemy that you can imagine, be forgiven? Would I gain the kingdom of heaven?”

Murphy said, “You know you must repent.”

Hickey slapped the top of the organ. “I knew there was a catch!”

Flynn took Murphy’s arm and pulled him away. They passed beside the confessional, and Flynn paused to look at the small white buzzer. “That was clever, Padre. I’ll give you that.” Flynn looked back across the ambulatory at Hickey. “I don’t know what messages you, Maureen, or Hickey sent, but you can be sure none of you accomplished anything beyond adding to the confusion out there.”

Father Murphy replied, “I still feel better about it.”

Flynn laughed and began walking. Murphy followed, and Flynn spoke as they walked. “You feel better, do you? My, what a big ego you have, Father.” Flynn stopped in the transept aisle between the two south triforia. He turned and looked up at the triforium they’d just passed beneath and called up to Eamon Farrell. “I know you’re devout, Eamon, but Father Murphy can’t fly, so you’ll have to miss this confession.”

Farrell looked as though this were the one confession he didn’t want to miss.

Father Murphy called up, “Are you sorry for all your sins?”

Farrell nodded. “I am, Father.”

Murphy said, “Make a good act of contrition—you’ll be in a state of grace, Mr. Farrell. Don’t do anything to alter that.”

Flynn was annoyed. “If you try any of that again, you’ll not hear another confession.”

Murphy walked away, and Flynn outlined the coming attack to Farrell. He added, “If we stop them, your son will be free at dawn. Good luck.”

Flynn walked to the wide transept doors. The priest was staring at the two khaki-colored mines attached to the doors and four more can-shaped mines placed at intervals on the floor. Trip wires ran from them in all directions. “You see,” said Flynn conversationally, “when the doors are smashed in, these two mines explode instantly, followed at fifteen-second intervals by the other four, producing, so to speak, a curtain of shrapnel of a minute’s duration. Every doorway in here will be clogged with writhing bodies. The screams … wait until you hear the screams…. You wouldn’t believe that men can make such noises. My God, it makes the blood run cold, Father, and turns the bowels to ice water.”

Murphy continued to stare at the mines.

Flynn motioned overhead. “Look at these commanding views…. How in the world do they expect to succeed?” He led the priest to the small door in the corner of the transept and motioned Murphy to go first. They walked wordlessly up the spiral stairs and came out in the long triforium five stories above the main floor.

Abby Boland stood by the door, an M-16 rifle cradled in her arms. She had found a pair of overalls in a maintenance closet, and she wore them over her cheerleader’s uniform. Flynn put his arm around her and walked her away from the priest as he explained the coming attack and went through her assignments. Flynn looked across the nave at George Sullivan, who was watching them. He took his arm from her shoulder and said, “If we don’t stop them … and if you determine in your own mind that killing more of them won’t help anything, then get into the bell tower…. Don’t try to cross the choir loft to get to George…. Stay away from Leary and Megan. Understand?”

Her eyes darted to the choir loft, and she nodded.

Flynn continued. “The attic will take a while to fall in, and the bombs won’t damage the towers—they’ll be the only things left standing. George will be all right in the south tower.”

“George and I understood we’d not see each other again after this.” She looked at Sullivan, who was still watching them.

“Good luck to you.” Flynn moved toward the tower passage and left her with Father Murphy.

After a few minutes Murphy rejoined Flynn, and Flynn looked at his watch. “We don’t have a great deal of time, so keep these things short.”

“How do you know how much time you’ve got? Am I to understand that you know the details of this attack?” He looked at the sheaf of rolled papers in Flynn’s hand.

Flynn tapped Murphy on the shoulder with the paper tube. “Each man has a price, as you know, and it often seems pitifully low, but did anyone ever consider that Judas Iscariot may have needed that silver?” He laughed and indicated the spiral stairs. They climbed three stories up into the tower, until they reached the level that passed beside the attic. Flynn opened a large wooden door, and they stepped onto a catwalk. Murphy peered into the dimly lit expanse, then walked to a pile of chopped wood and votive candles. He turned back and stared at Flynn, who met his stare, and Murphy knew there was nothing to be said.

Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty moved out of the shadows and approached along a catwalk, their arms around each other. The expressions on their faces showed that they found the sight of Flynn and the priest to be ominous. They stopped some distance from the two men and looked at them, long plumes of breath coming from their mouths. Father Murphy was reminded of two lost souls who were not allowed to cross a threshold unless invited.

Flynn said, “The good Father wants to hear your sins.”

Jean Kearney’s face flushed. Nulty looked both embarrassed and frightened.

Flynn’s eyebrows rose, and he let out a short laugh. He turned to the priest. “Self-control is difficult in times like these.”

Murphy’s face betrayed no anger or shock, but he let out a long, familiar sigh that Flynn thought must be part of the seminary training. Flynn motioned Murphy to stay where he was and strode across the catwalk. He handed Jean Kearney three sheets of paper and began briefing the two people. He concluded, “They’ll come with the helicopters anytime after 5:15.” He paused, then said, “Don’t be afraid.”

Jean Kearney answered, “The only thing we’re afraid of is being separated.” Nulty nodded.

Flynn put his arms around their shoulders and moved with them toward the priest. “Make Father Murphy a happy man and let him save your souls from the fires of hell at least.” Flynn moved toward the door, then called back to Murphy. “Don’t undermine the troops’ morale, and no lengthy penances.”

Flynn reentered the tower and waited in the darkness of a large, opaque-windowed room. He looked at his watch. According to Schroeder there were twenty minutes left until the earliest time the attack might begin.

He sat down on the cold, dusty floor, suddenly filled with a sense of awe at what he had done. One of the largest civil disturbances in American history was about to end in the most massive police action ever seen on this continent—and a landmark was going to be deleted from the guidebooks. The name of Brian Flynn would enter history. Yet, he felt, all that was trivial compared to the fact that these men and women were willingly following him into death.

Abruptly he pivoted around, drew his pistol, and knocked out a pane of thick glass, then looked out at the night. A cold wind blew feathery clouds across a brilliant blue, moonlit sky. Up the Avenue dozens of flags hung from protruding staffs, swaying stiff and frozen in the wind. The sidewalks were covered with ice and broken glass, sparkling in the light. Spring, he thought. “Dear God, I’ll not see the spring.”

Father Murphy cleared his throat, and Flynn spun around. Their eyes met, and Flynn rose quickly. “That was fast.”

Flynn began the climb up the winding stairs that gave way to a series of ladders. Murphy followed cautiously. He’d never been this high in either tower, and despite the circumstances he was eager in a boyish sort of way to see the bells.

They climbed into the lowest bell room, where Donald Mullins crouched behind the stonework that separated two louvers. He wore a flak jacket, and his face and hands were blackened with soot from a burned cork whose odor still hung in the cold room.

Father Murphy looked at the ripped louvers with obvious displeasure and then stared up at the bells hanging from their cross-beams. Flynn said nothing but looked out into the Avenue. Everything appeared as before, but in some vague, undefined way it was not. He said to Mullins, “Can you tell?”

Mullins nodded. “When?”

“Soon.” Flynn gave him two sheets of paper. “They’ve got to blind the eyes that watch them before the rest of the attack can proceed. It’s all there in the order of battle.”

Mullins ran a flashlight over the neatly typed pages, only vaguely interested in how Flynn came to have them. “My name here is Towerman North. Sounds like a bloody English lord or something.” He laughed, then read, “If Towerman North cannot be put out with sniper fire, then high explosive and/or gas grenades will be fired into bell room with launchers. Helicopter machine gunners will be called in if Towerman North is still not neutralized….” He looked up. “Neutralized … God, how they’ve butchered the language here….”

Flynn saw that Mullins’s smile was strained. Flynn said, “Try to keep us informed on the field phone…. Keep the receiver off the cradle so we can hear what’s happening….”

Mullins pictured himself thrashing around on the floor, small animal noises coming from his mouth into the open receiver.

Flynn went on, “If you survive the snipers, you’ll survive the explosion and the fire.”

“That barely compensates me for freezing half to death.”

Flynn moved to the west opening and stared down at the green and gold harp flag, glazed with ice, and ran his hand over it. He looked out at Rockefeller Center. Hundreds of windows were still lit with bright fluorescent light, and figures passed back and forth. He took Mullins’s field glasses and watched. A man was eating a sandwich. A young woman laughed on the telephone. Two uniformed policemen drank from cups. Someone with field glasses waved to him. He handed the glasses back. “I never hated them before …”

Mullins nodded. “It’s so maddeningly commonplace … but I’ve gotten used to it.” Mullins turned to Father Murphy. “So, it’s that time, is it?”

“Apparently it is.”

Mullins came close to Murphy. “Priests, doctors, and undertakers give me worse chills than ever a north wind did.”

Father Murphy said nothing.

Mullins’s eyes stared off at some indeterminate place and time. He spoke in a barely audible voice. “You’re from the north, and you’ve heard the caoine—the funeral cry of the peasants. It’s meant to imitate the wail of a chorus of banshees. The priests know this but never seem to object.” He glanced at Murphy. “Irish priests are very tolerant of these things. Well, I’ve heard the actual banshees’ wail, Father, whistling through the louvers all night … even when the wind was still.”

“You’ve heard nothing of the sort.”

Mullins laughed. “But I have. I have. And I’ve seen the coach-a-bower. Immense it was and black-polished, riding over these rooftops, a red coffin mounted atop it, and a headless Dullahan madly whipping a team of headless horses … and the coach drew past this window, Father, and the coachman threw in my face a basin of cold blood.”

Murphy shook his head.

Mullins smiled. “Well … I fancy myself a poet, you see … and I’ve license to hear things….”

Murphy looked at him with some interest. “A poet …”

“Aye.” A faint smile played over his blue lips, but his voice was melancholy. “And some time ago I fell in love with Leanhaun Shee, the Gaelic muse who gives us inspiration. She lives on mortal life, as you may know, in return for her favor. That’s why Gaelic poets die young, Father. Do you believe that?”

Murphy said, “They die young because they eat badly, drink too much, and don’t dress well in winter. They die young because unlike most civilized poets they run off to fight in ill-conceived wars. Do you want to make your confession?”

Mullins knelt and took the priest’s hands.

Flynn climbed down to the room below. A strong gust of wind came through the shattered windows and picked up clouds of ancient dust that had been undisturbed for a century.

Father Murphy came down the ladder. “This”—he motioned toward the broken windows—“this was the only thing that bothered him…. I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that….”

Flynn almost laughed. “Well, one man’s prank may be another’s most tormenting sin, and vice versa.” He jumped onto the ladder and descended to the spiral stairs, Father Murphy following. They came out of the tower into the subdued lighting and warmer air of the choir loft.

As Father Murphy moved along the rail he felt that someone was watching him. He looked into the choir pews that rose upward from the keyboard, and let out a startled gasp.

A figure stood above them, motionless in the shadows, dressed in a hooded monk’s robe. A hideous, inhuman face peered out from the recesses of the cowl, and it was several seconds before Father Murphy recognized it as the face of a leopard. Leary’s voice came out of the immobile face. “Scare you, priest?”

Murphy regained his composure.

Flynn said, “A bit of greasepaint would have done, Mr. Leary.”

Leary laughed, an odd shrill laugh for a man with so deep a voice.

Megan rose from between the pews, dressed in a black cassock, her face covered with swirls of dull-colored camouflage paint, expertly applied, thought Flynn, by another hand.

She moved into the center aisle, and Flynn saw that it was an altar boy’s robe and that it revealed her bare forearms. He saw also that her legs and feet were bare. He studied Megan’s face and found that the paint did not make her features so impenetrable that he could not see the same signs he had seen in Jean Kearney. He said, “With death so near, Megan, I can hardly blame you.”

She thrust her chin out in a defiant gesture.

“Well, if nothing else good comes of this, you’ve at least found your perfect mate.”

Father Murphy listened without understanding at first, then drew in a sharp breath.

Megan said to Flynn, “Is my brother dead?”