“What—”
“No one is hurt,” interrupted Flynn. “An automatic rifle discharged by accident.” He said abruptly, “We’re getting impatient, Sergeant.”
“Just stay calm.”
“The deadline for the demands I’m going to make is sunrise, and sunrise won’t come any later because you’re fucking around to find your chiefs.” He hung up and drew on his cigarette. He thought about Maureen. He ought to tie her up for her own good, and for the good of them all, but perhaps he owed it to her to leave her options open and let her arrive at her own destiny without his interference, Sometime before sunrise they would be free of each other. or if not free, then together again, one way or the other.
CHAPTER 22
Sergeant Tezik replaced the receiver and glanced at Burke. “An automatic rifle went off by accident—that’s what he said…. I don’t know.” Tezik seemed to have calmed down somewhat. “What do you think?”
Burke let out a long breath, then moved to the window overlooking the Cathedral and pulled back the drapes. “Take a look out there.”
Sergeant Tezik looked at the floodlit Cathedral.
“Have you ever seen the inside of that place, Tezik?”
He nodded. “Holy Name Society communions. Couple of … funerals.”
“Yeah. Well, remember the triforia—the balconies? The choir loft? The acre or so of pews? It’s a deathtrap in there, Sergeant, a fucking shooting gallery, and the TPU will be ducks.” Burke let the drape fall and faced Tezik. “My intelligence sources say that those people have automatic weapons and sniper rifles. Maybe rockets. What do you have, Tezik? Six-shooters? Go back to your post. Tell your men to stand fast.”
Tezik walked to a sideboard, poured a glass of brandy, drank it, then stared off at a point in space for a full minute. He looked at Burke and said, “Okay, I’m no hero.” He forced a smile. “Thought it might be a piece of cake. Couple of medals. Mayor’s commendation … media stuff. You know?”
“Yeah, I’ve been to a lot of funerals like that.”
The other TPU man holstered his revolver and left as Tezik moved sullenly toward the door.
“And no funny stuff, Sergeant.”
Tezik walked into the outer office, then called back. “They want to speak to a high-ranking police official. Hope you can find one.”
Burke moved to the desk and dialed a special number to his office in Police Plaza. After a long delay the phone rang and a woman answered. “Jackson.”
“Louise, Burke here.”
Duty Sergeant Louise Jackson, a middle-aged black woman, sounded tired. “Lieutenant! Where are you?”
“In the rectory of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Put Langley on.”
“The Inspector’s in a helicopter with Deputy PC Rourke. They’re trying to establish a command structure, but we lost radio contact with them when they got close to the Cathedral. Jamming device there. Every telephone line in the city is overloaded except these special ones, and they’re not so good either. Everything’s pretty crazy here.”
“It’s a little messy here, too. Listen, you call the Hostage Negotiator’s office upstairs. Have them get hold of Bert Schroeder, quick. We have a hostage situation here.”
“Damn it. That’s what we thought. The BSS guarding the VIPs on the steps just called in. They lost some people in the shuffle, but they were a little vague about who and how.”
“I’ll tell you who and how in a second. Okay, call the Emergency Service office— Captain Bellini, if he’s available. Explain that the Cathedral is held by gunmen and tell them to assemble siege equipment, snipers, and whatever other personnel and equipment is necessary, in the Cardinal’s residence. Got that?”
“This one’s going to be a bitch.”
“For sure. Okay, I have a situation report and a message from the gunmen, Louise. I’ll give it to you, and you call the Commissioner’s office. They’ll call everyone on the Situation A list. Ready to copy?”
“Shoot.”
“At approximately 5:20 P.M. Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was seized by an unknown number of gunmen—” Burke finished his report. “I’m designating the rectory as the command post. Get Ma Bell on the horn and have them put extra phone lines into the rectory according to existing emergency procedures. Got that?”
“Yes…. Pat, are you authorized—?”
Burke felt the sweat collecting around his collar and loosened it. “Louise, don’t ask those kinds of questions. We’ve got to wing this one. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do your best to contact those people. Stay cool.”
“I’m cool. But you ought to see the people here. Everybody thinks it’s some kind of insurrection or something. Albany and Washington called the PC’s office— couldn’t get a straight answer from City Hall or Gracie Mansion—PC’s office called here. Want to know if it’s an insurrection—or a race riot. Can you tell if it’s an insurrection? Just for the record.”
“Tell Albany and Washington that nobody in New York cares enough to start an insurrection. As far as I can make out, the Fenians provoked a disturbance to cover their seizing of the Cathedral. It got out of hand—a lot of happy citizens cutting loose. Do you have any reports from our people in the field?”
“Not a one. You’re the first.”
“One more thing. Get John Hickey’s file sent here as soon as possible. And see what we have on a Northern Irishman named Brian Flynn.” He hung up.
Burke walked into the outer office. “Monsignor?”
Monsignor Downes put down his telephone. “I can’t get through to anyone. I have to speak to the Vicar General. I have to call the Apostolic Delegate in Washington. What’s happening? What is going on here?”
Burke looked into Downes’s ashen face, moved to the coffee table, and picked up a bottle of wine and a glass.
“Have some of this. The phones will be clear later. Couple of million people are trying to call home at the same time, that’s all. We’re going to have to use this rectory as a command post.”
Monsignor Downes ignored the wine. “Command post?”
“Please clear the rectory and evacuate all the office personnel and priests. Leave a switchboard operator on until I can get a police operator here.” Burke looked at his watch and considered a moment, then said, “How do I get into the corridor that connects with the sacristy?”
Monsignor Downes gave him a set of involved and disjointed instructions.
The door swung open and a tall man in a black topcoat burst in. He held up his badge case. “Lieutenant Young. Bureau of Special Services.” He looked at the Monsignor, then at Burke, and said, “Who are you?”
“Burke. ID.”
The man went directly to the coffee table and poured a glass of wine. “Christ— excuse me, Father—damn it, we’ve accounted for every VIP on the steps except three.”
Burke watched him drink. “Let me guess—ID guys are good at guessing. You lost the Cardinal, Baxter, and the Malone woman.”
Lieutenant Young looked at him quickly. “Where are they? They’re not in the Cathedral, are they?”
“I’m afraid they are.”
“Oh, Christ—sorry—shit. That’s it. That’s my job. Forget it. Forget it.”
“Three out of about a hundred VIPs isn’t bad.”
“Don’t joke! This is bad. Very bad.”
“They’re unharmed as far as I know,” added Burke. “They also have a parish priest—Murphy. Not a VIP, so don’t worry about that.”
“Damn it. I lost three VIPs.” He rambled on as he poured himself another glass. “Damn it, they should have sent the Secret Service. When the Pope came, the President sent the Secret Service to help us.” He looked at Burke and the Monsignor and went on. “Most of the BSS was up by the reviewing stands. Byrd had all the good men. I got stuck with a handful of incompetents.”
“Right.” Burke moved to the door. “Get some competent men to stay with Monsignor Downes here. He’s a VIP. I’m going to try to spea
k with the gunmen. They’re VIPs, too.”
Young glanced at Burke and said fiercely, “Why didn’t you tell us something like this was going to happen, Burke?”
“You didn’t ask.” Burke left the office, descended the stairs, and found an elevator that took him into the basement. He came upon a worried-looking Hispanic custodian. “Sacristy,” said Burke without preamble.
The man led him to a passage and pointed. Burke saw six TPU men standing along the walls with guns drawn. He held up his badge case and motioned the men to draw back from the sacristy. He unholstered his revolver, put it in his topcoat pocket, then walked down the short staircase to the opening of the passage. Burke put his head slowly around the corner and looked into the marble vaulted sacristy.
A TPU man behind him whispered, “Guy’s got a Thompson at the top of those stairs.”
Burke moved carefully into the sacristy, down the length of a row of vestment tables that ran along the wall to the right. At the end of the tables was another arched opening, and through it he could see a dimly lit polygon-shaped room of stone and brick.
Burke moved slowly toward the gates, keeping out of sight of the staircase opening. He heard muffled voices echoing down the staircase. Burke knew he had to speak with Finn MacCumail, and he had to have it together when he did. He leaned back against the marble wall to the side of the stairs and listened to his heart beat. He filled his lungs several times but couldn’t find his voice. His hands clutched around the revolver in his pocket, and he pulled his hand free and steadied it against the wall. He looked at his watch. One minute. In one minute he would call for Finn MacCumail.
Maureen sat in the pew, her face in her hands, and Father Murphy and the Cardinal sat flanking her, keeping up a steady flow of soothing words. Baxter returned from the credence table, where a canteen of water had been placed. “Here.”
She shook her head, then rose abruptly. “Let me alone. All of you. What do you know? You don’t know the half of it. But you will.”
The Cardinal motioned to the other two, and they followed him across the sanctuary and stood beside the throne. The Cardinal said quietly, “She has to make peace with herself. She’s a troubled woman. If she wants us, she’ll come to us.” He looked up at the altar rising from the sanctuary. “God has brought us together in His house, and we are in His hands now—us, as well as them. His will be done, not ours. We must not provoke these people and give them cause to harm us or this church.”
Baxter cleared his throat. “We have an obligation to escape if a clear opportunity presents itself.”
The Cardinal gave him a look of slight annoyance. “We are operating from different sets of standards, I’m afraid. However, Mr. Baxter, I’m going to have to insist that in my church you do as I say.”
Baxter replied evenly, “There’s some question, I think, concerning whose church this is at the moment, Your Eminence.” He turned to Father Murphy. “What are your thoughts?”
Father Murphy seemed to vacillate, then said, “There’s no use arguing about it. His Eminence is correct.”
Baxter looked exasperated. “See here, I don’t like being pushed about. We must offer some resistance, even if it’s only psychological, and we must at least plan to escape if we’re going to keep our sanity and self-respect. This may go on for days—weeks—and if I leave here alive, I want to be able to live with myself.”
The Cardinal spoke. “Mr. Baxter, these people have treated us reasonably well, and your course of action would provoke retaliation and—”
“Treated us well? I don’t give a damn how they treat us. They have no right to keep us here.”
The Cardinal nodded. “You’re right, of course. But let me make my final point, which is that I understand that much of the brashness of young men is a result of the proximity of young women—”
“I don’t have to listen to this.”
The Cardinal smiled thinly. “I seem to be annoying you. I’m sorry. Well, anyway, don’t think for a moment that I doubt these people will kill me and Father Murphy as surely as they would you and Miss Malone. That’s not important. What is important is that we not provoke them into the mortal sin of murder. And also important to me is my obligation as guardian of this church. This is the greatest Catholic Cathedral in America, Mr. Baxter, Domus Ecclesiae, the Mother Church, the spiritual center of Catholicism in North America. Try to think of it as Westminster Abbey.”
Baxter’s face reddened. He drew a breath. “I have a duty to resist, and I will.”
The Cardinal shook his head. “Well, we have no such duty to wage war,” He moved closer to Baxter. “Can’t you leave this in God’s hands? Or, if you’re not so inclined, in the hands of the authorities outside?”
Baxter looked the Cardinal in the eye. “I’ve made my position clear.”
The Cardinal seemed lost in thought, then said, “Perhaps I am overly concerned about this church. It’s in my trust, you see, and as with anyone else, material values figure into my calculations. But we are agreed that lives are not to be needlessly sacrificed?”
“Of course.”
“Neither our lives”—he motioned around the Cathedral—“nor theirs.”
“I’m not so certain about theirs,” said Harold Baxter.
“All God’s children, Mr. Baxter.”
“I wonder.”
“Come now.”
There was a long silence, broken by Maureen Malone’s voice as she crossed the sanctuary. “Let me assure you, Cardinal, that each one of these people was spawned in hell. I know. Some of them may seem like rational men and women to you—jolly good Irishmen, sweet talk, lilting brogues, and all that. Perhaps a song or poem later. But they’re quite capable of murdering us all and burning your church.”
The three men looked silently at her.
She pointed to the two clerics. “It may be that you don’t understand real evil, only abstract evil, but you’ve got Satan in the sanctuary right now.” She moved her outstretched hand and pointed to Brian Flynn, who was mounting the steps into the sanctuary.
Flynn looked at them and smiled. “Did someone mention my name?”
CHAPTER 23
Burke moved closer to the stairway opening, drew a deep breath, and called out, “This is the police! I want to speak with Finn MacCumail!” He heard his words echo up the marble stairway.
A voice with a heavy Irish accent called back, “Stand at the gate—hands on the bars! No tricks. I’ve got a Thompson.”
Burke moved into view of the stairway and saw a young man, a boy really, kneeling on the landing in front of the crypt door. Burke mounted the steps slowly and put his hands on the brass gate.
Pedar Fitzgerald pointed the submachine gun down the stairs. “Stand fast!” he called back up the stairs. “Get Finn! There’s a fellow here wants a word with him!”
Burke studied the young man for a moment, then shifted his attention to the layout. The stairs split to the left and right at the crypt door landing. Above the crypt door was the rear of the altar, from which rose a huge cross of gold silhouetted against the towering ceiling of the Cathedral. It didn’t look to him as if anyone could get through the gates and up those stairs without being cut to pieces by overhead fire.
He heard footsteps on the left-hand stairs, and a tall figure emerged and stood outlined against the eerie yellow light coming from the glass-paneled crypt doors. The figure passed beside the kneeling man and moved deliberately down the dimly lit marble stairs. Burke could not clearly see his features, but saw now that the man was wearing a white collarless shirt and black pants, the remains of a priest’s suit. Burke said evenly, “Finn MacCumail?” To an Irishman familiar with Gaelic history, as he was, it sounded as preposterous as calling someone Robin Hood.
“That’s right.” The tall man kept coming. “Chief of the Fenians.”
Burke almost smiled at this pomposity, but something in the man’s eyes held him riveted.
Flynn stopped close to the gates and stared at Burke.
“And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“Chief Inspector Burke, NYPD, Commissioner’s office.” He met the stare of the man’s deep, dark eyes, then looked down at his right hand and saw the large bronze ring.
Brian Flynn said, “I know who you are … Lieutenant. I have an Intelligence section too. That’s a bit galling, isn’t it? Well,” he smiled, “if I can be Chief of the Fenians, you can be a Chief Inspector, I suppose.”
Burke remembered with some chagrin the first rule of hostage negotiating— never get caught in a lie. He spoke in a slow, measured cadence. “I said that only to expedite matters.”
“Admirable reason to lie.”
The two men were only inches apart, but the gates had the effect of lessening the intrusion into their zones of protected territory. Still, Burke felt uncomfortable but kept his hands on the brass bars. “Are the hostages all right?”
“For the time being.”
“Let me speak with them.”
Flynn shook his head.
“There were shots fired. Who’s dead?”
“No one.”
“What is it you want?” Burke asked, though it didn’t matter what the Fenians wanted, he thought, since they were not going to get it.
Flynn ignored the question. “Are you armed?”
“Of course. But I won’t go against that Thompson.”
“Some people would. Like Sergeant Tezik.”
“He’s been taken care of.” Burke wondered how Flynn knew Tezik was crazy. He imagined that kindred spirits could recognize each other by the tone of their voices.
Flynn looked over Burke’s shoulder at the sacristy corridors.
Burke said, “I’ve pulled them back.”
Flynn nodded.
Burke said, “If you’ll tell me what you want, I will see that your demands are passed directly to the top.” He knew he was operating off his beat, but he knew also that he had to stabilize the situation until the Hostage Negotiator, Bert Schroeder, took over.