Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  “Crawl! Crawl, you bastards!”

  She picked up her head and saw two lines of paratrooper boots. She crawled as quickly as she could between the gauntlet as blows fell on her back and buttocks. A few of the men made obscene remarks as she passed by on her hands and knees, but the blows were light and the obscenities were shouted by boyish, embarrassed voices, which somehow made it all the more obscene.

  At the end of the gauntlet two soldiers picked her up and pushed her into a long Nissen hut. An officer with a swagger stick pointed to an open door, and the soldiers pushed her onto the floor of a small room and shut the door as they left. She looked up from where she lay in the center of the tiny cubicle.

  A matron stood behind a camp table. “Strip. Come on, you little tramp. Stand up and take them off.”

  Within minutes she was stripped and searched and was wearing a gray prison dress and prison underwear. She could hear blows being struck outside the small cubicle and cries and shouts as the harvest of the sweep was processed— transformed from sleeping civilians into gray, terrified internees.

  Sheila Malone had no doubt that a good number of them were guilty of some kind of anti-British or antigovernment activity. A few were actually IRA. A smaller number might even be arsonists or bombers … or murderers like herself. There was a fifty-fifty chance of getting out of internment within ninety days if you didn’t crack and confess to something. But if they had something on you—something as serious as murder … Before she could gather her thoughts and begin to formulate what she was going to say, someone placed a hood over her head and she was pushed through a door that closed behind her.

  A voice shouted directly in her ear, and she jumped. “I said, spell your name, bitch!”

  She tried to spell it but found to her surprise that she could not. Someone laughed.

  Another voice shouted, “Stupid cunt!”

  A third voice screamed in her other ear. “So, you shot two of our boys, did you?”

  There it was. They knew. She felt her legs begin to shake.

  “Answer me, you little murdering cunt!”

  “N-n-no.”

  “What? Don’t lie to us, you cowardly, murdering bitch. Like to shoot men in the back, do you? Now it’s your turn!”

  She felt something poke her in the back of the head and heard the sound of a pistol cocking. The hammer fell home and made a loud, metallic thud. She jumped and someone laughed again. “Next time it won’t be empty, bitch.”

  She felt sweat gather on her brow and soak the black hood.

  “All right. Pull up your dress. That’s right. All the way!”

  She pulled her skirt up and stood motionless as someone pulled her pants down to her ankles.

  After an hour of pain, insults, humiliation, and leering laughter, the three interrogators seemed to get bored. She was certain now that they were just fishing, and she could almost picture being released at dawn.

  “Fix yourself up.”

  She let her aching arms fall and bent over to pull up her pants. Before she straightened up she heard the three men leave the room as two other people entered. The hood was pulled from her head, and the bright lights half-blinded her. The man who had taken the hood moved to the side and sat in a chair just out of range of her vision. She focused her eyes straight ahead.

  A young British army officer, a major, sat in a chair behind a small camp desk in the center of the windowless room. “Sit down, Miss Malone.”

  She walked stiffly toward a stool in front of the desk and sat slowly. Her buttocks hurt so much that she would almost rather have remained standing. She choked down a sob and steadied her breathing.

  “Yes, you can have a bed as soon as we finish this.” The major smiled. “My name is Martin. Bartholomew Martin.”

  “Yes … I’ve heard of you.”

  “Really? Good things, I trust.”

  She leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “Listen Major Martin, I was beaten and sexually abused.”

  He shuffled some papers. “We’ll discuss all of that as soon as we finish with this.” He picked out one sheet of paper. “Here it is. A search of your room has uncovered a pistol and a satchel of gelignite. Enough to blow up the whole block.” He looked at her. “That’s a dreadful thing to keep in your aunt’s home. I’m afraid she may be in trouble now as well.”

  “There was no gun or explosives in my room, and you know it.”

  He drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. “Whether they were there or not is hardly the point, Miss Malone. The point is that my report says a gun and explosives were found, and in Ulster there is not a great deal of difference between the charges and the realities. In fact, they are the same. Do you follow me?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “All right,” said the major. “That’s not important. What is important,” he continued as he stared into her eyes, “are the murders of Sergeant Thomas Shelby and Private Alan Harding.”

  She stared back at his eyes and displayed no emotion, but her stomach heaved. They had her, and she was fairly certain she knew how they had gotten her.

  “I believe you know a Liam Coogan, Miss Malone. An associate of yours. He’s turned Queen’s evidence.” An odd half smile passed over his face. “I’m afraid we’ve got you now.”

  “If you know so goddamned much, why did your men—”

  “Oh, they’re not my men. They’re paratroop lads. Served with Harding and Shelby. Brought them here for the occasion. I’m in Intelligence, of course.” Major Martin’s voice changed, became more intimate. “You’re damned lucky they didn’t kill you.”

  Sheila Malone considered her situation. Even under normal British law she would probably be convicted on Coogan’s testimony. Then why had she been arrested under the Special Powers Act? Why had they bothered to plant a gun and explosives in her room? Major Martin was after something else.

  Martin stared at her, then cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, there is no capital punishment for murder in our enlightened kingdom. However, we’re going to try something new. We’re going to try to get an indictment for treason—I think we can safely say that the Provisional Irish Republican Army, of which you are a member, has committed treason toward the Crown.”

  He looked down at an open book in front of him. “‘Acts that constitute treason. Paragraph 811—Levies war against the Sovereign in her realm….’ I think you fill that bill nicely.” He pulled the book closer and read, “‘Paragraph 812—The essence of the offense of treason lies in the violation of the allegiance owed to the Sovereign….’ And Paragraph 813 is my favorite. It says simply”—he looked at her without reading from the book—“‘The punishment for treason is death by hanging.’” He stressed the last words and looked for a reaction, but there was none. “It was Mr. Churchill, commenting on the Irish uprising of 1916, who said, ‘The grass grows green on the battlefield, but never on the scaffold.’ It’s time we started hanging Irish traitors again. You first. And beside you on the scaffold will be your sister, Maureen.”

  She sat up. “My sister? Why … ?”

  “Coogan says she was there as well. You, your sister, and her lover, Brian Flynn.”

  “That’s a bloody lie.”

  “Why would a man turn Queen’s evidence and then lie about who committed the murders?”

  “Because he shot those soldiers—”

  “There were two calibers of bullets. We can try two people for murder—any two. So why don’t you let me work out who did what to whom?”

  “You don’t care who killed those soldiers. It’s Flynn you want to hang.”

  “Someone must hang.” But Major Martin had no intention of hanging any of them and making more Irish martyrs. He wanted to get Flynn into Long Kesh, where he could wring out every piece of information that he possessed about the Provisional IRA. Then he would cut Brian Flynn’s throat with a piece of glass and call it suicide.

  He said, “Let’s assume that you escape the hangman’s noose. Assume also th
at we pick up your sister, which is not unlikely. Consider if you will, Miss Malone, sharing a cell with your sister for the rest of your natural lives. How old are you? Not twenty yet? The months, the years pass slowly. Slowly. Young girls wasting their lives … and for what? A philosophy? The rest of the world will go on living and loving, free to come and go. And you … well, the real hell of it is that Maureen, at least, is innocent of murder. You are the reason she’d be there—because you wouldn’t name her lover. And Flynn will have found another woman, of course. And Coogan, yes, Coogan will have gone to London or America to live and—”

  “Shut up! For God’s sake, shut up!” She buried her face in her hands and tried to think before he started again.

  “Now there is a way out.” He looked down at his papers, then looked up again. “There always is, isn’t there? What you must do is dictate a confession naming Brian Flynn as an officer in the Provisional IRA—which he is—and naming him as the murderer of Sergeant Shelby and Private Harding. You will be charged as an accessory after the fact and be free within … let’s say, seven years.”

  “And my sister?”

  “We’ll put out a warrant for her arrest only as an accessory. She should leave Ulster and never return. We will not look for her and will not press any country for extradition. But this arrangement is operative only if we find Brian Flynn.” He leaned forward. “Where is Brian Flynn?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Martin leaned back in his chair. “Well, we must charge you with something within ninety days of internment. That’s the law, you understand. If we don’t find Flynn by the ninetieth day, we will charge you with double homicide—perhaps treason as well. So, if you can remember anything that will lead us to him, please don’t hesitate to tell us.” He paused. “Will you think about where Flynn might be?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Actually, if you really don’t know, then you’re useless to me … unless … You see, your sister will try to free you, and with her will be Flynn … so perhaps—”

  “You won’t use me for bait, you bastard.”

  “No? Well, we’ll have to see about that, won’t we?”

  “May I have a bed?”

  “Certainly. You may stand now.”

  She stood. “No more Gestapo tactics?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” He rose from his chair. “The matron will escort you to a cell. Good night.”

  She turned and opened the door. A hood came down over her head, but before it did she saw not the matron but two young Royal Ulster Constabulary men and three grinning paratroopers.

  CHAPTER 2

  Brian Flynn looked up at Queen’s Bridge, shrouded in March mist and darkness. The Lagan River fog rolled down the partially lit street and hung between the red-brick buildings of Bank Road. The curfew was in effect, and there was no traffic.

  Maureen Malone looked at him. His handsome, dark features always seemed sinister at night. She pulled back the sleeve of her trench coat and looked at her watch. “It’s after four. Where the hell are—”

  “Quiet! Listen.”

  She heard the rhythmic footsteps coming out of Oxford Street. In the mist a squad of Royal Ulster Constabulary appeared and turned toward them, and they crouched behind a stack of oil drums.

  They waited in silence, their breathing coming irregularly in long plumes of fog. The patrol passed, and a few seconds later they heard the whining of a truck changing gears and saw the headlights in the mist. A Belfast Gas Works truck pulled up to the curbstone near them, and they jumped in the open side door. The driver, Rory Devane, moved the truck slowly north toward the bridge. The man in the passenger seat, Tommy Fitzgerald, turned. “Road block on Cromac Street.”

  Maureen Malone sat on the floor. “Is everything set?”

  Devane spoke as he steered slowly toward the bridge. “Yes. Sheila left Long Kesh in an RUC van a half hour ago. They took the A23 and were seen passing through Castlereagh not ten minutes ago. They’ll be coming over the Queen’s Bridge about now.”

  Flynn lit a cigarette. “Escort?”

  “No,” said Devane. “Just a driver and guard in the cab and two guards in the back, according to our sources.”

  “Other prisoners?”

  “Maybe as many as ten. All going to Crumlin Road Jail, except for two women going up to Armagh.” He paused. “Where do you want to hit them?”

  Flynn looked out the rear window of the truck. A pair of headlights appeared on the bridge. “Collins’s men are set up on Waring Street. That’s the way they’ll have to go to Crumlin Road.” He wiped the fog from the window and stared. “Here’s the RUC van.” Devane cut off the engine and shut the lights.

  The black, unmarked RUC van rolled off the bridge and headed into Ann Street. Devane waited, then restarted his truck and followed at a distance with his lights off. Flynn said to Devane, “Circle round to High Street.”

  No one spoke as the truck moved through the quiet streets. They approached Waring Street, and Tommy Fitzgerald reached under his seat and pulled out two weapons, an old American Thompson submachine gun and a modern Armalite automatic rifle. “The tommy gun is for you, Brian, and the light gun for my lady.” He passed a short cardboard tube to Flynn. “And this … if, God forbid, we run into a Saracen.” Flynn took the tube and stuck it under his trench coat.

  They swung off Royal Avenue into Waring Street from the west at the same time the RUC van entered from the east at Victoria Street. The two vehicles approached each other slowly. A black sedan fell in behind the RUC van, and Fitzgerald pointed. “That’ll be Collins and his boys.”

  Flynn saw that the RUC van was moving more slowly now, the driver realizing that he was being boxed in and looking for a way out.

  “Now!” shouted Flynn. Devane swung the truck so that it blocked the road, and the RUC van screeched to a stop. The black sedan following the van came to a halt, and Collins with three of his men jumped out and ran toward the rear of the van with submachine guns.

  Flynn and Maureen were out of the truck and moving toward the trapped van twenty-five yards up the road. The RUC guard and driver dropped below the windshield, and Flynn pointed his rifle. “Come out with your hands raised!” But the men didn’t come out, and Flynn knew he couldn’t shoot at the unarmored van filled with prisoners. He yelled to Collins, “I’ve got them covered! Go on!”

  Collins stepped up to the van and struck the rear doors with his rifle butt. “Guards! You’re surrounded! Open the doors and you won’t be harmed!”

  Maureen knelt in the road, her rifle across her knees. She felt her heart beating heavily in her chest. The idea of freeing her sister had become an obsession over the months and had, she realized, clouded her judgment. Suddenly all the things that were wrong with this operation crystallized in her mind—the van riding very low as though it were weighted, the lack of an escort, the predictable route. “Run! Collins—”

  She saw Collins’s surprised face under the glare of a streetlamp as the doors swung out from the RUC van.

  Collins stood paralyzed in front of the open doors and stared at the British paratrooper berets over the top of a sandbag wall. The two barrels of the machine guns blazed in his face.

  Flynn watched as his four men were cut down. One machine gun continued to pour bullets into the bodies while the other shifted its fire and riddled the sedan with incendiary rounds, hitting the gas tank and blowing it up. The street echoed with the explosion and the chattering sound of the machine guns, and the night was illuminated by the fire of the burning sedan.

  Maureen grabbed Flynn’s arm and pulled him toward their truck as pistol shots rang out from the doorway where the guard and driver had disappeared. She fired a full magazine into the doorway and the shooting stopped. The streets were alive with the sounds of whistles, shouting, and running men, and they could hear motor vehicles closing in.

  Flynn turned and saw that the truck’s windshield was shot out and the tires were flat. Fitz
gerald and Devane were running up the street. Fitzgerald’s body jerked, and he slid across the cobblestones. Devane kept running and disappeared into a bombed-out building.

  Behind him Flynn could hear soldiers jumping from the RUC van and racing toward them. He pulled Maureen’s arm, and they started to run as a light rain began to fall.

  Donegall Street entered Waring Street from the north, and they turned into it, bullets kicking up chips of cobble behind them. Maureen slipped on the wet stone and fell, her rifle clattering on the pavement and skidding away in the darkness. Flynn lifted her, and they ran into a long alleyway, coming out into Hill Street.

  A British Saracen armored car rolled into the street, its six huge rubber wheels skidding as it turned. The Saracen’s spotlight came on and found them. The armored car turned and came directly at them, its loudspeaker blaring into the rainy night. “HALT! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!”

  Behind him Flynn could hear the paratroopers coming into the long alley. He pulled the cardboard tube from his trench coat and knelt. He broke the seal and extended the telescoped tubes of the American-made M-72 antitank weapon, raised the plastic sights, and aimed at the approaching Saracen.

  The Saracen’s two machine guns blazed, pulverizing the brick walls around him, and he felt shards of brick bite into his chest. He put his finger on the percussion ignition switch and tried to steady his aim as he wondered if the thing would work. A disposable cardboard rocket launcher. Like a disposable diaper. Who but the Americans could make a throwaway bazooka? Steady, Brian. Steady.

  The Saracen fired again, and he heard Maureen give a short yell behind him and felt her roll against his legs. “Bastards!” He squeezed the switch, and the 66mm HEAT rocket roared out of the tube and streaked down the dark, foggy street.

  The turret of the Saracen erupted into orange flame, and the vehicle swerved wildly, smashing into a bombed-out travel agency. The surviving crew stumbled out holding their heads from the pain of the deafening rocket hit, and Flynn could see their clothes smoking. He turned and looked down at Maureen. She was moving, and he put his arm under her head. “Are you hit badly?”