Cathedral

A deep silence came over the Cathedral. Martin rested his folded arms on the rail as he stared into the sanctuary. He tapped his fingers on the watch crystal. “What time do you have, Burke? Isn’t it late? What seems to be the problem?”

In the rectory and in the Cardinal’s residence people have moved back from the taped windows. On all the rooftops around the Cathedral police and newspeople stood motionless. In front of televisions in homes and in the bars that had never closed, people watched the countdown numbers superimposed on the silent screen showing an aerial view of the Cathedral brightening slowly in the dawn light. In churches and synagogues that had maintained allnight vigils, people looked at their watches. 6:04.

Wendy Peterson rose slowly from the hole and walked to the middle of the sanctuary, blinking in the brighter lighting. She held something in both hands and stared at it, then looked slowly up at the triforia and loft. Her face was very pale, and her voice was slightly hesitant, but her words rolled through the silent Cathedral. “The detonating device …” She held up a clock connected by four wires to a large battery pack, from which ran four more wires. She raised it higher, as though it were a chalice, and in her other hand she held four long cylindrical detonators that she had clipped from the wires. White plastic still clung to the mechanism, and in the stillness of the Cathedral the ticking clock sounded very loud. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and said, “All clear.”

No one applauded, no one cheered, but in the silence there was an audible collective sigh, then the sound of someone weeping.

The quiet was suddenly broken by the shrill noise of a long scream as a man fell headfirst from the choir loft. The body hit the floor in front of the armored carrier with a loud crack.

Maureen and Baxter turned and looked down at the awkwardly sprawled body, a splatter of blood radiating over the floor around the head. Baxter spoke in a whisper. “Martin.”

Burke walked haltingly across the floor beneath the choir loft. The tingling in his back had become a dull pain. A stretcher was carried past him, and he caught a glimpse of Brian Flynn’s face but couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. Burke kept walking until he came to Martin’s body. Martin’s neck was broken, his eyes were wide open, and his protruding tongue was half bitten off. Burke lit a cigarette and dropped the match on Martin’s face.

He turned and looked absently at the huge, charred carrier and the blackened bodies on it, then watched the people around him moving, speaking quickly, going about their duties; but it all seemed remote, as though he were watching through an unfocused telescope. He looked around for Baxter and Malone but saw they were gone. He realized he had nothing to do at the moment and felt good about it.

Burke moved aimlessly up the center aisle and saw Wendy Peterson standing alone in the aisle and looking, like himself, somewhat at loose ends. Weak sunlight came through the broken window above the east end of the ambulatory, and she seemed, he thought, to be deliberately standing in the dust-moted shaft. As he walked past her he said, “Very nice.”

She looked up at him. “Burke …”

He turned and saw she held the detonating mechanism. She spoke, but not really, he thought, to him. “The clock is working … see? And the batteries can’t all have failed…. The connections were tight…. There’re four separate detonators … but they never …” She looked almost appalled, he thought, as though all the physical laws of the universe that she had believed in had been revoked.

He said, “But you—you were—”

She shook her head. “No. That’s what I’m telling you.” She looked into his eyes. “I was about two seconds late…. It rang … I heard it ring, Burke…. I did. Then there was a strange sort of a feeling … like a presence. I figured, you know, I’m dead and it’s not so bad. They talk about—in this business they talk about having an Angel on your shoulder while you work—you know? God Almighty, I had a regiment of them.”

Book VI

Morning, March 18

And the Green Carnation withered, asin forest fires that pass. G. K. Chesterton

Patrick Burke blinked as he walked out through the ceremonial doors, down the center of the crushed steps between the flattened handrails, and into the thin winter sunlight.

The night’s accumulation of ice was running from rooftops and sidewalks and melting over the steps of St. Patrick’s into the littered streets. Burke saw on the bottom step the hand-lettered sign that the Fenians had stuck to the front doors, half torn, the words blurring over the soggy cardboard. The splatter of green paint from the thrown bottle bled out across the granite, and a long, barely visible trail of blood from the dead horse led into the Avenue. You wouldn’t know what it all was, thought Burke, if you hadn’t been there.

A soft south wind shook the ice from the bare trees along Fifth Avenue, and church bells tolled in the distance. Ambulances, police vehicles, and limousines splashed through the sunlit pools of water, and platoons of Tactical Police and National Guardsmen marched in the streets, while mounted police, half-asleep on their horses, moved in apparently random directions. Many of the police, Burke noticed, had black ribbons on their badges, most of the city officials wore black armbands, and many of the flags along the Avenue were at half-mast, as though this had all been thought out for some time, anticipated, foreseen.

Burke heard a sound on the north terrace and saw the procession of clergy and lay people who were completing their circle of the Cathedral walls, led by the Cardinal wearing a white stole. They drew abreast of the main doors and faced them, the Cardinal intoning, “Purify me with hyssop, Lord, and I shall be clean of sin. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Burke stood a few yards off, listening as the assembly continued the rite of reconciliation for the profaned church, oblivious to the people swarming around them. He watched the Cardinal sprinkle holy water against the walls as the others prayed, and he wondered how so obscure a ritual could be carried out so soon and with such Roman precision. Then he realized that the Cardinal and the others must have been thinking about it all night, just as the city officials had rehearsed their parts in their minds during the long black hours. He, Burke, had never let his thoughts get much beyond 6:03, which was one reason why he would never be either the Mayor or the Archbishop of New York.

The procession moved through the portal two by two and past the smashed ceremonial doors into the Cathedral. Burke took off his flak jacket and dropped it at his feet, then walked slowly to the corner of the steps near Fiftieth Street and sat down in a patch of pale sunlight. He folded his arms over his knees and rested his head, falling into a half-sleep.

The Cardinal moved at the head of the line of priests who made up the Cathedral staff. A cross-bearer held a tall gold cross above the sea of moving heads, and the Litany of the Saints was chanted ss the line went forward through the gate of the communion rail.

The group assembled in the center of the sanctuary where Monsignor Downes awaited them. The altar was entirely bare of religious objects in preparation for the conclusion of the cleansing rite, and police photographers and crime lab personnel were hurrying through their work. The assembly fell silent, and people began looking around at the blood-splattered sanctuary and altar. Then heads began to turn out toward the ravaged Cathedral, and several people wept openly.

The Cardinal’s voice cut off the display of emotion. “There will be time enough for that later.” He spoke to two of the priests. “Go into the side vestibules where the casualties have been taken and assist the police and army chaplains.” He added, “Have Father Murphy’s body taken to the rectory.”

The two priests moved off. The Cardinal looked at the sacristans and motioned around the sanctuary. “As soon as the police have finished here, make it presentable for the Mass that will be offered at the conclusion of the purification.” He added, “Leave the carnations.”

He turned to Monsignor Downes and spoke to him for the first time. “Thank you for your prayers, and for your efforts during this ordeal.”

Monsignor Downes lowered his head and said softly, “I … they asked me to sanction your rescue … this attack …”

“I know all of that.” He smiled. “More than once during the night I thanked God it wasn’t I who had to deal with those … questions.” The Cardinal turned and faced the long, wide expanse of empty pews. “God arises, His enemies are scattered, and those who hate Him flee before Him.”

Captain Bert Schroeder walked unsteadily up the steps of St. Patrick’s, a bandage covering the left side of his chalk-white jaw. A police medic and several Tactical Police officers escorted him.

Mayor Kline raced up to Schroeder, hand extended. “Bert! Over here! Bring him here, men.”

A number of reporters had been let through the cordon, and they converged on Schroeder. Cameras clicked and newsreel microphones were thrust in his face. Mayor Kline pumped Schroeder’s hand and embraced him, taking the opportunity to say through clenched teeth, “Smile, damn it, and look like a hero.”

Schroeder looked distraught and disoriented. His eyes moved over the throng around him to the Cathedral, and he stared at it, then looked around at the people talking excitedly and realized that he was being interviewed.

A reporter called out, “Captain, is it true you recommended an assault on the Cathedral?”

Schroeder didn’t answer, and Kline spoke up. “Yes, a rescue operation. The recommendation was approved by an emergency committee consisting of myself, the Governor, Monsignor Downes, Inspector Langley of Intelligence, and the late Captain Bellini. Intelligence indicated the terrorists were going to massacre the hostages and then destroy the Cathedral. Many of them were mentally unbalanced, as our police files show.” He looked at each of the reporters. “There were no options.”

Another reporter asked, “Who exactly was Major Martin? How did he die?” Kline’s smile dropped. “That’s under investigation.”

There was a barrage of questions that Kline ignored. He put his arm around Schroeder and said, “Captain Schroeder played a vital role in keeping the terrorists psychologically unprepared while Captain Bellini formulated a rescue operation with the help of Gordon Stillway, resident architect of Saint Patrick’s.” He nodded toward Stillway, who stood by himself examining the front doors and making notes in a small book.

Kline added in a somber tone, “The tragedy here could have been much greater— ” A loud Te Deum began ringing out from the bell tower, and Kline motioned toward the Cathedral. “The Cathedral stands! The Cardinal, Sir Harold Baxter, and Maureen Malone are alive. For this we should thank God.” He bowed his head and after an appropriate interval looked up and spoke emphatically. “This rescue will be favorably compared to similar humanitarian operations against terrorists throughout the world.”

A reporter addressed Schroeder directly. “Captain, did you find this man, Flynn— and the other one, Hickey—very tough people to negotiate with?”

Schroeder looked up. “Tough … ?”

Mayor Kline hooked his arm through Schroeder’s and shook him. “Bert?”

Schroeder’s eyes darted around. “Oh … yes, yes I did—no, no, not … not any tougher than—Excuse me, I’m not feeling well…. I’m sorry … excuse me.” He pulled loose from the Mayor’s grip and hurried across the length of the steps, avoiding reporters. The newspeople watched him go, then turned back to Kline and began asking him about the large number of casualties on both sides, but Kline evaded the questions. Instead, he smiled and pointed over the heads of the people around him.

“There’s the Governor crossing the street.” He waved. “Governor Doyle! Up here!”

Dan Morgan stood near the window, his eyes focused on the television screen that showed the Cathedral steps, the milling reporters, police and city officials. Terri O’Neal sat on the bed, fully dressed, her legs tucked under her body. Neither person spoke nor moved.

The camera focused on Mayor Kline and Captain Schroeder, and a reporter was speaking from off camera commenting on Schroeder’s bandaged jaw.

Morgan finally spoke. “It appears he didn’t do what he was asked.”

Terri O’Neal said, “Good.”

Morgan let out a deep sigh and walked to the side of the bed. “My friends are all dead, and there’s nothing good about that.”

She kept looking at the television as she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Are you going to kill … ?”

Morgan drew his pistol from his belt. “No. You’re free.” He placed his hand on her shoulder as he pointed the silencer at the center of her head.

She put her face in her hands and began weeping.

He squeezed back on the trigger. “I’ll get your coat….”

She suddenly took her face out of her hands and turned. She realized she was looking into the barrel of the pistol “Oh … no …”

Morgan’s hand was shaking. He looked at her and their eyes met. The end of the silencer brushed her cheek, and he jerked the pistol away and shoved it in his belt. “There’s been enough death today,” he said. He turned and walked out of the bedroom. Terri O’Neal heard the front door open, then slam shut.

She found the cigarettes Morgan left behind, lit one, and stared at the television. “Poor Daddy.”

Burke shifted restlessly, brought out of his short sleep by the noise around him and the pounding pain in his back. He rubbed his eyes and noticed that the injured eye was blurry again, and every inch of his body felt blurry; numb, he supposed, was a better word, numb except the parts that hurt. And his mind seemed numb and blurry, free-floating in the sunny light around him. He stood unsteadily, looked over the crowded steps, and blinked. Bert Schroeder and Murray Kline were holding court—and it was, he realized, just as he would have pictured it if he had allowed himself to think of the dawn. Schroeder surrounded by the press, Schroeder looking very self-possessed, handling questions like a pro—but as he watched he saw that the Hostage Negotiator was not doing well. He saw Schroeder suddenly break loose and make his way across the steps, through the knots of people like a broken-field runner, and Burke called out as he passed, “Schroeder!”

Schroeder seemed not to hear and continued toward the arched portal of the south vestibule. Burke came up behind him and grabbed his arm. “Hold on.” Schroeder tried to pull away, but Burke slammed him against the stone buttress. “Listen!” He lowered his voice. “I know—about Terri—”

Schroeder looked at him, his eyes widening. Burke went on. “Martin is dead, and the Fenians are all dead or dying. I had to tell Bellini … but he’s dead, too. Langley knows, but Langley doesn’t give away secrets—he just makes you buy them back someday. Okay? So just shut your mouth and be very cool.” He released Schroeder’s arm.

Tears formed in Schroeder’s eyes. “Burke … God Almighty … do you understand what I did … ?”

“Yeah … yeah, I understand, and I’d really like to see you in the fucking slammer for twenty, but that won’t help anything…. It won’t help the department, and it won’t help me or Langley. And it damn sure won’t help your wife or daughter.” He moved closer to Schroeder. “And don’t blow your brains out, either…. It’s a sin— you know? Hang around long enough in this job and someone will blow them out for you.”

Schroeder caught his breath and spoke. “No … I’m going to retire—resign— confess … make a public—”

“You’re going to keep your goddamned mouth shut. No one—not me or Kline or Rourke or the DA or anyone—wants to hear your fucking confession, Schroeder. You’ve caused enough problems—just cool out.”

Schroeder hung his head, then nodded. “Burke … Pat … thanks….”

“Fuck you.” He looked at the door beside him. “You know what’s in this vestibule?”

Schroeder shook his head.

“Bodies. Lots of bodies. The field morgue. You go in there and you talk to those bodies—and say something to Bellini—and you go into the Cathedral and you make a confession, or you pray or you do anything you have to do to help you get through the next twenty-four hours.” He reached out and opened the door, took Schroeder’s arm, and pushed him into the vestibule, then shut the door. He stared down at the pavement for a long time, then turned at the sound of his name and saw Langley hurrying up the steps toward him.

Langley started to extend his hand, then glanced around quickly and withdrew it. He said coolly, “You’re in a little trouble, Lieutenant.”

Burke lit a cigarette. “Why?”

“Why?” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “You pushed a British consulate official—a diplomat—out of the choir loft of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral to his death. That’s why.”

“He fell.”

“Of course he fell—you pushed him. What could he do but fall? He couldn’t fly.” Langley ran his hand over his mouth, and Burke thought he was hiding a smile. Langley regained his composure and said caustically, “That was very stupid— don’t you agree?”

Burke shrugged.

Roberta Spiegel walked unnoticed through the crowd on the steps and came under the portal, stopping beside Langley. She looked at the two men, then said to Burke, “Christ Almighty, right in front of about forty policemen and National Guardsmen. Are you crazy?”

Langley said, “I just asked him if he was stupid, but that’s a good question, too.” He turned to Burke. “Well, are you stupid or crazy?”

Burke sat down with his back to the stone wall and watched the smoke rise from his cigarette. He yawned twice.

Spiegel’s voice was ominous. “They’re going to arrest you for murder. I’m surprised they haven’t grabbed you yet.”

Burke raised his eyes toward Spiegel. “They haven’t grabbed me because you told them not to. Because you want to see if Pat Burke is going to go peacefully or if he’s going to kick and scream.”

Spiegel didn’t answer.

Burke glared at her, then at Langley. “Okay, let me see if I know how to play this game. A file on Bartholomew Martin—right? He suffered from vertigo and fear of heights. Or how about this?—twenty police witnesses in the loft sign sworn affidavits saying Martin took a swat at a fly and toppled—No, no, I’ve got it—”

Spiegel cut him off. “The man was a consulate official—”

“Bullshit.”

Spiegel shook her head. “No one can fix this one, Lieutenant.”

Burke leaned back and yawned again. “You’re Ms. Fixit in this town, lady, so you fix it. And fix me up with a commendation and captain’s pay while you’re about it. By tomorrow.”

Spiegel’s face reddened. “Are you threatening me?” Their eyes met, and neither turned away. She said, “And who’s going to believe your version of anything that was discussed tonight?”

Burke stubbed out his cigarette. “Schroeder, who is a hero, will corroborate anything I say.”

Spiegel laughed. “That’s absurd.”

Langley cleared his throat and said to Spiegel. “Actually, that’s true. It’s a long story…. I think Lieutenant Burke deserves … well, whatever he says he deserves.”

Spiegel looked at Langley closely, then turned back to Burke. “You’ve got something on Schroeder—right? Okay, I don’t have to know what it is. I’m not looking to hang you, Burke. I’ll do what I can—”

Burke interrupted. “Art Forgery Squad. It would be a really good idea if I was in Paris by this time tomorrow.”

Spiegel laughed. “Art Forgery? What the hell do you know about art?”

“I know what I like.”

“That true,” said Langley. “He does.” He stuck his hand out toward Burke, “You did an outstanding job tonight, Lieutenant. The Division is very proud of you.”

Burke took his hand and used it to pull himself up. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. I shall be clean of sin. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Langley said, “Well … we’ll just get you a commendation or something….”

Spiegel lit a cigarette. “How the hell did I ever get involved with cops and politicians? God, I’d rather be on the stroll in Times Square.”

Burke said, “I thought you looked familiar.”

She ignored him and surveyed the steps and the Avenue. “Where’s Schroeder, anyway? I see lots of news cameras, but smiling Bert isn’t in front of any of them. Or is he at a television studio already?”

Burke said, “He’s in the Cathedral. Praying.”

Spiegel seemed taken aback, then nodded. “That’s damned good press. Yes, yes. Everyone’s out here sucking up on the coverage, and he’s in there praying. They’ll eat it up. Wow … I could run that bastard for councilman in Bensonhurst …”

Stretcher-bearers began bringing the bodies out of the Cathedral, a long, silent procession, through the doors of the south vestibule, down the steps. The litters carrying the police and Guardsmen passed through a hastily assembled honor guard; the stretchers of the Fenians passed behind the guard. Everyone on the steps fell silent, police and army chaplains walked beside the stretchers, and a uniformed police inspector in gold braid directed the bearers to designated ambulances. The litters holding the Fenians were placed on the sidewalk.

Burke moved among the stretchers and found the tag marked Bellini, He drew the cover back and looked into the face, wiped of greasepaint—a very white face with that hard jaw and black stubble. He dropped the cover back and quickly walked a few steps off, his hands on his hips, staring down at his feet.

The bells had ended the Te Deum and began to play a slow dirge. Governor Doyle stood with his retinue, his hat in his hand. Major Cole stood beside him holding a salute. The Governor leaned toward Cole and spoke as he lowered his head in respect. “How many did the Sixty-ninth lose, Major?”

Cole looked at him out of the corner of his eye, certain that he had detected an expectant tone in the Governor’s voice. “Five killed, sir, including Colonel Logan, of course. Three wounded.”

“Out of how many?”

Cole lowered his salute and stared at the Governor. “Out of a total of eighteen men who directly participated in the attack.”

“The rescue … yes …” The Governor nodded thoughtfully. “Terrible. Fifty percent casualties.”

“Well, not quite fif—”

“But you rescued two hostages.”

“Actually, they saved themselves—”

“The Sixty-ninth Regiment will be needing a new commander, Cole.”

“Yes … that’s true.”

The last of the police and Guardsmen were placed in ambulances, and the line of vehicles began moving away, escorted by motorcycle police. A black police van pulled up to the curb, and a group of stretcher-bearers on the sidewalk picked up the litters holding the dead Fenians and headed toward the van.

An Intelligence officer standing beside the van saluted Langley as he approached and handed him a small stack of folded papers. The man said, “Almost every one of them had an identifying personal note on him, Inspector. And here’s a preliminary report on each one.” The man added, “We also found pages of the ESD attack plan in there. How the hell—?”

Langley took the loose pages and shoved them in his pocket. “That doesn’t go in your report.”

“Yes, sir.”

Langley came up beside Burke sitting under the portal again, with Spiegel standing in front of him.

Burke said, “Where are Malone and Baxter?”

Spiegel answered, “Malone and Baxter are still in the Cathedral for their own protection—there may still be snipers out there. Baxter’s in the Archbishop’s sacristy until we release him to his people. Malone’s in the bride’s room. The FBI will take charge of her.”

Burke said, “Where’s Flynn’s body?”

No one answered, then Spiegel knelt on the step beside Burke. “He’s not dead yet. He’s in the bookstore.”

Burke said, “Is that the Bellevue annex?”

Spiegel hesitated, then spoke. “The doctor said be was within minutes of death… so we didn’t … have him moved.”

Burke said, “You’re murdering him—so don’t give me this shit about not being able to move him.”

Spiegel looked him in the eye. “Everybody on both sides of the Atlantic wants him dead, Burke. Just like everyone wanted Martin dead. Don’t start moralizing to me….”

Burke said, “Get him to Bellevue.”

Langley looked at him sharply. “You know we can’t do that now … and he knows too much, Pat…. Schroeder … other things…. And he’s dangerous. Let’s make things easy on ourselves for once. Okay?”

Burke said, “Let’s have a look.”

Spiegel hesitated, then stood. “Come on.”

They entered the Cathedral and passed through the south vestibule littered with the remains of the field morgue that smelled faintly of something disagreeable—a mixture of odors, which each finally identified as death.

The Mass was beginning, and the organ overhead was playing an entrance song. Burke looked at the shafts of sunlight coming through the broken windows. He had thought that the light would somehow diminish the mystery, but it hadn’t, and in fact the effect was more haunting even than the candlelight.

They turned right toward the bookstore. Two ESD men blocked the entrance but moved quickly aside. Spiegel entered the small store, followed by Burke and Langley. She leaned over the counter and looked down at the floor.

Brian Flynn lay in the narrow space, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling very slowly. She said, “He’s not letting go so easily.” She watched him for a few seconds, then added, “He’s a good-looking man … must have had a great deal of charisma, too. Very few are born into this sorry world like that…. In another time and place, perhaps, he would have been … something else…. Incredible waste …”

Burke came around the counter and knelt beside Flynn. He pushed back his eyelids, then listened to his chest and felt for his pulse. Burke looked up. “Fluid in the chest … heart is going … but it may take a while.”

No one spoke. Then Spiegel said, “I can’t do this … I’ll get the stretcher-bearers….”

Flynn’s lips began to move, and Burke put his ear close to Flynn’s face. Burke said, “Yes, all right.” He turned to Spiegel. “Forget the stretcher … he wants to speak to her.”

Maureen Malone sat quietly in the bride’s room while four policewomen tried to make conversation with her.

Roberta Spiegel opened the door and regarded her for a second, then said abruptly, “Come with me.”

She seemed not to have heard and sat motionless.

Spiegel said, “He wants to see you.”

Maureen looked up and met the eyes of the other woman. She rose and followed Spiegel. They hurried down the side aisle and crossed in front of the vestibules. As they entered the bookstore Langley looked at Maureen appraisingly, and Burke nodded to her. Both men walked out of the room. Spiegel said, “There.” She pointed. “Take your time.” She turned and left.

Maureen moved around the counter and knelt beside Brian Flynn. She took his hands in hers but said nothing. She looked through the glass counter and realized there was no one else there, and she understood. She pressed Flynn’s hands, an overwhelming feeling of pity and sorrow coming over her such as she had never felt for him before. “Oh, Brian … so alone … always alone …”

Flynn opened his eyes.

She leaned forward so that their faces were close and said, “I’m here.”

His eyes showed recognition.

“Do you want a priest?”

He shook his head.

She felt a small pressure on her hands and returned it. “You’re dying, Brian. You know that, don’t you? And they’ve left you here to die. Why won’t you see a priest?”

He tried to speak, but no sound came out. Yet she thought she knew what he wanted to say and to ask her. She told him of the deaths of the Fenians, including Hickey and Megan, and with no hesitancy she told him of the death of Father Murphy, of the survival of the Cardinal, Harold Baxter, Rory Devane, and of the Cathedral itself, and about the bomb that didn’t explode. His face registered emotion as she spoke. She added, “Martin is dead, also. Lieutenant Burke, they say, pushed him from the choir loft, and they also say that Leary was Martin’s man…. Can you hear me?”

Flynn nodded.

She went on. “I know you don’t mind dying … but I mind … mind terribly…. I love you, still…. Won’t you, for me, let a priest see you? Brian?”

He opened his mouth, and she bent closer. He said, “… the priest …”

“Yes … I’ll call for one.”

He shook his head and clutched at her hands. She bent forward again. Flynn’s voice was almost inaudible. “The priest … Father Donnelly … here …”

“What … ?”

“Came here….” He held up his right hand. “Took back the ring….”

She stared at his hand and saw that the ring was gone. She looked at his face and noticed for the first time that it had a peaceful quality to it, with no trace of the things that had so marked him over the years.

He opened his eyes wide and looked intently at her. “You see … ?” He reached for her hands again and held them tightly.

She nodded. “Yes … no … no, I don’t see, but I never did, and you always seemed so sure, Brian—” She felt the pressure on her hand relax, and she looked at him and saw that he was dead. She closed his eyes and kissed him, then took a long breath and stood.

Burke, Langley, and Spiegel stood at the curb on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street. The Sanitation Department had mobilized its huge squadrons, and the men in gray mingled with the men in blue. Great heaps of trash, mostly Kelly-green in color, grew at the curbsides. The police cordon that had enclosed two dozen square blocks pulled in tighter, and the early rush hour began building up in the surrounding streets.

None of the three spoke for some time. Spiegel turned and faced the sun coming over the tall buildings to the east. She studied the façade of the Cathedral, then said, “In class I used to teach that every holiday will one day have two connotations. I think of Yom Kippur, Tet. And after the Easter Monday Rising in 1916, that day was never the same again in Ireland. It became a different sort of holiday, with different connotations—different associations—like Saint Valentine’s Day in Chicago. I have the feeling that Saint Patrick’s Day in New York may never be the same again.”

Burke looked at Langley. “I don’t even like art—what the hell do I care if someone forges it?”

Langley smiled, then said, “You never asked me about the note in Hickey’s coffin.” Langley handed him the note, and Burke read: If you’re reading this note, you’ve found me out. I wanted to spend my last days alone and in peace, to lay down the sword and give up the fight. Then again, if something good comes along— In any case, don’t put me here. Bury me beneath the sod of Clonakily beside my mother and father.

There was a silence, and they looked around for something to occupy their attention. Langley saw a PBA canteen truck that had parked beside the wrecked mobile headquarters. He cleared his throat and said to Roberta Spiegel, “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” She smiled and put her arm through his. “Give me a cigarette.”

Burke watched them walk off, then stood by himself. He thought he might make the end of the Mass, but then decided to report to the new mobile headquarters across the street. He began walking but turned at the sound of an odd noise behind him.

A horse was snorting, thick plumes of fog coming from its nostrils. Betty Foster said, “Hi! Thought you’d be okay.”

Burke moved away from the spirited horse. “Did you?”

“Sure.” She reined the horse beside him. “Mayor make you nervous?”

Burke said, “That idiot…. Oh, the horse. Where do you get these names?”

She laughed. “Give you a lift?”

“No … I have to hang around….”

She leaned down from the saddle. “Why? It’s over. Over, Lieutenant. You don’t have to hang around.”

He looked at her. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, but there was a determined sort of recklessness in them, brought on, he supposed, by the insanity of the long night, and he saw that she wasn’t going to be put off so easily. “Yeah, give me a lift.”

She took her foot from the stirrup, reached down, and helped him up behind her. “Where to?”

He put his arms around her waist. “Where do you usually go?”

She laughed again and reined the horse in a circle. “Come on, Lieutenant—give me an order.”

“Paris,” said Burke. “Let’s go to Paris.”

“You got it.” She kicked the horse’s flanks. “Gi-yap, Mayor!”

Maureen Malone rubbed her eyes in the sunlight as she came through the doors of the north vestibule flanked by FBI men, including Douglas Hogan. Hogan indicated a waiting Cadillac limousine on the corner.

Harold Baxter came out of the south vestibule surrounded by consulate security men. A silver-gray Bentley drew up to the curb.

Maureen moved down the steps toward the Cadillac and saw Baxter through the crowd. Reporters began converging first on Baxter and then around her, and her escort elbowed through the throng. She pulled away from Hogan and stood on her toes, looking for Baxter, but file Bentley drove off with a motorcycle escort.

She slid into the back of the limousine and sat quietly as men piled in around her and the doors slammed shut. Hogan said, “We’re taking you to a private hospital.”

She didn’t answer, and the car drew away from the curb. She looked down at her hands, still covered with Flynn’s blood where he had held them.

The limousine edged into the middle of the crowded Avenue, and Maureen looked out the window at the Cathedral, certain she would never see it again.

A man suddenly ran up beside the slow-moving vehicle and held an identification to the window, and Hogan lowered the glass a few inches. The man spoke with a British accent. “Miss Malone …” He held a single wilted green carnation through the window. “Compliments of Sir Harold, miss.” She took the carnation, and the man saluted as the car moved off.

The limousine turned east on Fiftieth Street and passed beside the Cathedral, then headed north on Madison Avenue and passed the Cardinal’s residence, Lady Chapel, and rectory, picking up speed as it moved over the wet pavement. Ahead she saw the gray Bentley, then lost it in the heavy traffic. She said, “Lower the window.”

Someone lowered the window closest to her, and she heard the bells of distant churches, recognizing the distinctive bells of St. Patrick’s playing “Danny Boy,” and she sat back and listened to them. She thought briefly of the journey home, of Sheila and Brian, and she recalled a time in her life, not so long ago, when everyone she knew was alive—parents, girl friends and boyfriends, relatives and neighbors— but now her life was filled with the dead, the missing, and the wounded, and she thought that most likely she would join those ranks. She tried to imagine a future for herself and her country but couldn’t. Yet she wasn’t afraid and looked forward to working, in her own way, to accomplish the Fenian goal of emptying the jails of Ulster.

The bells died in the distance, and she looked down at the carnation in her lap. She picked it up and twirled the stem in her fingers, then put it in the lapel of her tweed jacket.