“Yes, sir. The Police Commissioner, the Mayor, and the Governor, too.”
“I picked a good day for this, didn’t I?”
Burke said to Schroeder, “I forgot to tell you, he has a sense of humor.”
Schroeder said into the telephone, “Yes, sir. So let’s get right down to business.”
“Let’s back up and establish the rules, Captain. Is everyone in contact with their capitals?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have Amnesty International and the Red Cross been contacted?”
“It’s being done, sir.”
“And you are the mouthpiece?”
“Yes, sir. It’s less confusing. I think you’ll find the arrangement acceptable.” Schroeder sat at the edge of his chair. This was the most difficult part, persuading wild-eyed lunatics that it was better to speak to him than to the President of the United States or the Queen of England. “So, if we can proceed …”
“All right. We’ll see.”
Schroeder exhaled softly. “We have your demands in front of us, and the list of people you want released from Northern Ireland. We want you to know that our primary concern is the safety of the hostages—”
“Don’t forget the Cathedral. It’s ready to be burned down.”
“Yes. But our primary concern is human life.”
“Sorry about the horse.”
“What? Oh, yes. We are too. But no one—no human—has been killed, so let’s all work to keep it that way.”
“Commissioner Dwyer is feeling better, then?”
Schroeder shot a look at Burke and covered the mouthpiece. “What the hell did you tell him about Dwyer?”
“Rule number one. The truth.”
“Shit!” Schroeder uncovered the mouthpiece. “The Commissioner’s death was from natural causes, sir. You have not killed anyone.” He stressed again, “Our goal is to protect lives—”
“Then I can burn down the Cathedral after I get what I want?”
Schroeder looked around the room again. Everyone was bent forward in their chairs, cigars and cigarettes discharging smoke into the quiet atmosphere. “No, sir. That would be arson, a felony. Let’s not compound the problem.”
“No problem here. Just do what you’re told.”
“Are the hostages safe?”
“I told Burke they were. If I say something, that’s what I mean.”
“I was just reassuring everyone here. There are a lot of people here … Mr. MacCumail, to hear what you have to say to them. The Rector of the Cathedral is here. He’s very concerned about the Cardinal and the others. They’re all counting on you to come through. Listen, is it possible to speak with the hostages? I’d like to—”
“Perhaps later.”
“All right. Fine. Okay. Listen, I’d like to speak to you about that spotlight. That was a potentially dangerous act—”
“Not if you have the County Antrim shooting champion in the bell tower. Keep the spotlights off.”
“Yes, sir. In the future, if you want something, just ask me. Try not to take things into your own hands. It’s easier, sometimes, to ask.”
“I’ll try to remember that. Where exactly are you calling from?”
“I’m in the Rector’s office.”
“Good. Best not to get too far from the center of things.”
“We’re right here.”
“So are we. All right, I have other things to see to. Don’t be calling me every minute on some pretext. The next call I receive from you will inform me that the three governments and the two agencies involved are ready to begin working out the details of the transfer of prisoners.”
“That may be some time. I’d like to be able to call you and give you progress reports.”
“Don’t make a nuisance of yourself.”
“I’m here to help.”
“Good. You can start by sending the keys to me.”
“The keys?” He looked at Monsignor Downes, who nodded.
Flynn said, “All the keys to the Cathedral—not the city. Send them now, with Lieutenant Burke.”
Schroeder said, “I’m not sure I can locate any keys—”
“Don’t be starting that bullshit, Captain. I want them within ten minutes or I raze the Altar of the Blessed Sacrament. Tell that to Downes and he’ll produce all the keys he’s got, and about a hundred he hasn’t got.”
Monsignor Downes came toward the desk, looking very agitated.
Schroeder said quickly into the phone, “All right. There was a misunderstanding. The Monsignor informs me he has a complete set of keys.”
“I thought you’d find them. Also, send in corned beef and cabbage dinners for forty-five people. I want it catered by … hold on, let me check with my American friend here.” There was a short silence, then Flynn said, “John Barleycorn’s on East Forty-fifth Street. Soda bread, coffee and tea as well. And a sweet, if you don’t mind. I’ll pay the bill.”
“We’ll take care of that … and the bill, too.”
“Captain, before this night is through there won’t be enough money in the city treasury to buy you a glass of beer. I’ll pay for the food.”
“Yes, sir. One more thing. About the time limit … you’ve presented us with some complicated problems and we may need more time to—”
Flynn’s voice became belligerent. “No extensions! The prisoners named had better be free in Dublin when the first light breaks through the windows of the Lady Chapel. Dawn or dead, Schaeffer.”
“Schroeder. Look—”
“Whatever. Happy Saint Paddy’s Day to you. Erin go bragh.”
There was a click, and the sound of the phone hummed in the room. Captain Schroeder put down his telephone, shut off the speakers, and relit his cigar. He tapped his fingers on the desk. It had not gone well. Yet he felt he’d dealt with harder men than Finn MacCumail. Never as well spoken, perhaps, but crazier, certainly.
He kept reminding himself of two facts. One was that he’d never had a failure. The other was that he’d never failed to get an extension of a deadline. And much of his success in the first fact was a result of his success in the second. He looked up at the silent assembly. “This one is going to be rough. I like them rough.”
Captain Joe Bellini stood at the window with his tunic open, his thumbs hooked into his gun belt. His fingers ran over his cartridge loops. He had a mental picture of his Emergency Services Division assaulting the big gray lady out there. He didn’t like them rough; he didn’t like them easy. He didn’t like them at all.
Brian Flynn sat at the chancel organ beside the sanctuary and looked at the book resting on the keycover. “Schaeffer.” He laughed.
John Hickey picked up the book, titled My Years as a Hostage Negotiator, by Bert Schroeder. “Schaeffer. Very good, Brian. But he’ll be on to you eventually.”
Flynn nodded. “Probably.” He pushed back the rolltop cover of the keyboard and pressed on a key, but no sound came from the pipes across the ambulatory. “We need the key to turn this on,” he said absently. He looked up at Hickey. “We don’t want to hurt him too badly professionally. We want him in there. And toward the end, if we have to, we’ll play our trump card against him—Terri O’Neal.” He laughed. “Did ever a poor bastard have so many cards stacked against him without knowing it?”
CHAPTER 26
Flynn said, “Hello, Burke.”
Burke stopped at the bottom of the sacristy stairs.
Flynn said, “I asked for you so you’d gain stature with your superiors.”
“Thanks.” Burke held up a large key-ring. “You want these?”
“Hand them through.”
Burke climbed the steps and handed the keys through the bars.
Flynn produced the microphone sensor and passed it over Burke’s body. “They say that technology is dehumanizing, but this piece of technology makes it unnecessary to search you, which always causes strained feelings. This way it’s almost like trusting one another.” He put the device away.
; Burke said, “What difference would it make if I was wired? We’re not going to discuss anything that I won’t report.”
“That remains to be seen.” He turned and called out to Pedar Fitzgerald on the landing. “Take a break.” Fitzgerald cradled his submachine gun and left. Flynn and Burke stared at each other, then Flynn spoke. “How did you get on to us, Lieutenant?”
“That’s no concern of yours.”
“Of course it is. Major Martin?”
Burke realized that he felt much freer to talk without a transmitter sending his voice back to the rectory. He nodded and saw a strange expression pass briefly over Flynn’s face. “Friend of yours?”
“Professional acquaintance,” answered Flynn. “Did the good Major tell you my real name?”
Burke didn’t answer.
Flynn moved closer to the gate. “There is an old saying in intelligence work— ‘It’s not important to know who fired the bullet, but who paid for it.’” He looked at Burke closely. “Who paid for the bullets?”
“You tell me.”
“British Military Intelligence provided the logistics for the Fenian Army.”
“The British government would not take such a risk because of your petty war—”
“I’m talking about people who pursue their own goals, which may or may not coincide with those of their government. These people talk of historical considerations to justify themselves—”
“So do you.”
Flynn ignored the interruption. “These people are monumental egotists. Their lives are meaningful only as long as they can manipulate, deceive, intrigue, and eliminate their enemies, real or imagined, on the other side or on their own side. They find self-expression only in situations of crisis and turmoil, which they often manufacture themselves. That’s your basic intelligence man, or secret policeman, or whatever they call themselves. That’s Major Bartholomew Martin.”
“I thought you were describing yourself.”
Flynn smiled coldly. “I’m a revolutionary. Counterrevolutionaries are far more despicable.”
“Maybe I should get into auto theft.”
Flynn laughed. “Ah, Lieutenant, you’re an honest city cop. I trust you.” Burke didn’t answer, and Flynn said, “I’ll tell you something else—I think Martin had help in America. He had to. Be careful of the CIA and FBI.” Again Burke didn’t respond, and Flynn said, “Who gains the most from what’s happened today?”
Burke looked up. “Not you. You’ll be dead shortly, and if what you say is true, then what does that make you? A pawn. A lowly pawn who’s been played off by British Intelligence and maybe by the CIA and FBI, for their own game.”
Flynn smiled. “Aye, I know that. But the pawn has captured the archbishop, you see, and occupies his square as well. Pawns should never be underestimated; when they reach the end of the board, they turn and may become knights.”
Burke understood Brian Flynn. He said, “Assuming Major Martin is what you say he is, why are you telling me? Am I supposed to expose him?”
“No. That would badly compromise me, you understand. Just keep an eye on him. He wants me dead now that I’ve served his purpose. He wants the hostages dead and the Cathedral destroyed—to show the world what savages the Irish are. Be wary of his advice to your superiors. Do you understand?”
“I understand that you’ve gotten yourself in a no-win situation. You’ve been sucked into a bad deal thinking you could turn it around, but now you’re not so sure.”
“My goal is uncompromised. It’s up to the British government to release my people. It will be their fault if—”
“For God’s sake, man, give it up,” Burke said, his voice giving way to impatience and anger. “Take a few years for aggravated assault, false imprisonment, whatever the hell you can work out with the DA.”
Flynn gripped the bars in front of him. “Stop talking like a fucking cop! I’m a soldier, Burke, not a bloody criminal who makes deals with DAs.”
Burke let out a long breath and said softly, “I can’t save you.” “I didn’t ask you to—but the fact that you mentioned it tells me more about Patrick Burke, Irishman, than Patrick Burke, policeman, is willing to admit.”
“Bullshit.”
Flynn relaxed his grip on the bars. “Just take care of Major Martin and you’ll save the hostages and the Cathedral. I’ll save the Fenians. Now run along and bring the corned beef like a good fellow, won’t you? We may chat again.”
Burke put a businesslike tone in his voice. “They want to haul the horse away.”
“Of course. An armistice to pick up the dead.” He seemed to be trying to regain control of himself and smiled. “As long as they don’t make corned beef out of it. One man with a rope and an open vehicle. No tricks.”
“No tricks.”
“No, there have been enough tricks for one day.” Flynn turned and moved up the stairs, then stopped abruptly and said over his shoulder, “I’ll show you what a decent fellow I am, Burke—everyone knows that Jack Ferguson is a police informer. Tell him to get out of town if he values his life.” He turned again and ran up the stairs.
Burke watched him disappear around the corner on the landing. I’m a soldier, not a bloody criminal. It had been said without a trace of anguish in his voice, but the anguish was there.
Brian Flynn stood before the Cardinal seated on his throne. “Your Eminence, I’m going to ask you an important question.”
The Cardinal inclined his head.
Flynn asked, “Are there any hidden ways—any secret passages into this Cathedral?”
The Cardinal answered immediately. “If there were, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Flynn stepped back and pointed to the towering ceiling at a point above the crypt where the red hats of the deceased archbishops of New York hung suspended by wire. “Would you like to have your hat hung there?”
The Cardinal looked at him coldly. “I am a Christian who believes in life everlasting, and I’m not intimidated by threats of death.”
“Ah, Cardinal, you took it wrong. I meant I’d tell my people in the attic to take an ax to the plaster lathing until that beautiful ceiling is lying in the pews.”
The Cardinal drew a short breath, then said softly, “To the best of my knowledge, there are no secret passages. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”
“No, it doesn’t. Because I suspect that there are. Now, think of when you were first shown your new cathedral by the Vicar General. Surely there must be an escape route in the event of insurrection. A priest’s hole such as we have in Ireland and England.”
“I don’t believe the architect considered such a thing. This is America.”
“That has less meaning with each passing year. Think, Your Eminence. Lives will be saved if you can remember.”
The Cardinal sat back and looked over the vast church. Yes, there were hollow walls with staircases that went somewhere, passages that were never used, but he could not honestly say that he remembered them or knew if they led from or to an area not controlled by these people. He looked out over the marble floor in front of him. The crypt lay below and, around the crypt, a low-ceilinged basement. But they knew that. He’d seen Hickey and Megan Fitzgerald descend through the bronze plate beside the altar.
Two thirds of the basement was little more than crawl space, a darkness where rats could scurry beneath the marble floor above. And above that darkness six million people passed every year to worship God, to meditate, or just to look. But the darkness below their feet stayed the same, until now—now it was seeping into the Cathedral and into the consciousness and souls of the people in the Cathedral. The dark places became important, not the sanctified places of light.
The Cardinal looked up at the figures standing tensely in the triforia and the choir loft, like sentinels on dark, craggy cliffs, guards on city walls. The eternal watchman, frightened, isolated, whispering, “Watchman, what of the night?”
The Cardinal turned to Flynn. “I can think of no way in and, by the
same token, no way out for you.”
“The way out for me will be through the front doors.” He questioned the Cardinal closely about the suspected basement beneath the nave, passages between the basements outside the Cathedral, and the crawl space below.
The Cardinal kept shaking his head. “Nonsense. Typical nonsense about the church. This is a house of God, not a pyramid. There are no secrets here, only the mysteries of the faith.”
Flynn smiled. “And no hoards of gold, Cardinal?”
“Yes, there is a hoard of gold. The body and blood of Christ that rests in the Tabernacle, the joy and goodwill and the peace and love that resides with us here— that is our hoard of gold. You’re welcome to take some of that with you.”
“And perhaps a few odd chalices and the gold on the altars.”
“You’re welcome to all of that.”
Flynn shook his head. “No, I’ll take nothing out of here but ourselves. Keep your gold and your love.” He looked around the Cathedral and said, “I hope it survives.” He looked at the Cardinal. “Well, perhaps a tour will refresh your memory. Come with me, please.”
The Cardinal rose, and both men descended the steps of the sanctuary and walked toward the front of the Cathedral.
Father Murphy watched the Cardinal walk off with Flynn. Megan wasn’t in sight, Baxter was sitting at the end of the pew, and John Hickey was at the chancel organ, speaking on the field phone. Murphy turned to Maureen. “You want desperately to do something, don’t you?”
She looked at him. The catharsis of an escape from death made her feel strangely relaxed, almost serene, but the impulse for action still lay within her. She nodded slowly.
Father Murphy seemed to consider for a long time, then said, “Do you know any code—such as Morse code?”
“Yes. Morse code. Why?”
“You’re in mortal danger, and I think you should make a confession, in the event something happens … suddenly….”
Maureen looked at the priest but didn’t answer.
“Trust me.”
“All right.”
Murphy waited until Hickey put down the field phone and called out, “Mr. Hickey, could I have a word with you?”