Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  “No. I’ll think we didn’t place the explosives properly.” Hickey opened the suitcase and pulled out twenty white bricks wrapped in cellophane. He tore the cellophane from the white, putty-like substance and molded a brick into the place where the bedrock met the hewn and mortared stone of the column footing. Megan joined him, and they sculpted the bricks around the footing. He handed her the flashlight. “Hold this steady.”

  Hickey implanted four detonators, connected by wires to a battery pack, into the plastic. He picked up an alarm clock and looked at his watch. “It’s four minutes after six now. The clock doesn’t know A.M. from P.M., so the most time I can give it is eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes.” He began turning the clock’s alarm dial slowly counter-clockwise, talking as he did. “So I’ll set the alarm for five minutes after six— no, I mean three minutes after six.” He laughed as he kept turning the dial. “I remember once, a lad in Galway who didn’t understand that. At midnight he set the timer to go off at one minute after twelve, in what he thought would be the afternoon. British officer’s club, I think it was. Yes, lunchtime, he thought. Anyway, at one minute past midnight … he was standing before his Maker, who must have wondered how he became so unmade.” He laughed again as he joined the clock wire to the batteries.

  “At least don’t get us killed until we’ve set the one on the other side.”

  “Good point. Did I do that right? Well, I hope so.” He pulled the clock switch, and the loud ticking filled the damp space. He looked at her. “And don’t forget, my sharp little lass, only you and I know exactly where these are planted, which gives us some advantages and a bit of power with your friend, Mr. Flynn. Only you and I can decide if we want to give an extension of the deadline to meet our demands.” He laughed as he pushed the clock into the explosives and molded the plastic around it. “But if the police have killed us before then, well, at three minutes after six—which incidentally happens to be the exact time of sunrise—they’ll get a message from us, directly from hell.” He took some earth from the floor and pressed it into the white plastic. “There. That looks innocent, doesn’t it? Give me a hand here.” He spoke as he continued to camouflage the plastic explosives. “You’re young. You don’t want it to end so soon, I know, but you must have some sort of death wish to get mixed up in this. Nobody dropped you in through the roof. You people planned this for over a year. Wish I’d had a year to think about it. I’d be home now where I belong.”

  He picked up the flashlight and turned it onto her face. Her bright green eyes glowed back at him. “I hope you had a good look at this morning’s sunrise, lass, because the chances are you’ll not see another one.”

  Patrick Burke moved carefully from under the portal of the bronze ceremonial doors and looked up at the north tower. The Cathedral’s floodlights cast a blue-white brilliance over the recently cleaned stonework and onto the fluttering harp flag of green and gold, reminding Burke irreverently of a Disney World castle. Burke looked over the south tower. The louvers were torn open, and a man was looking down at him through a rifle scope. Burke turned his back on the sniper and saw a tall uniformed patrolman of the Tactical Patrol Unit hurrying toward him through the sleet.

  The young patrolman hesitated, then said, “Are you a sergeant or better?”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “I …”

  “Lieutenant, Intelligence.”

  The patrolman began speaking rapidly. “Christ, Lieutenant, my sergeant, Tezik, is in the rectory. He’s got a platoon of TPU ready to move. He wants to hit the doors with trucks—I don’t think we should do anything until we get orders—”

  Burke moved quickly across the steps and followed the north wall of the Cathedral through the gardens and terraces until he came to the rear of the rectory. He entered a door that led to a large vestibule. Scattered throughout the halls and offices and sitting on the stairs were about thirty men of the Tactical Patrol Unit, an elite reaction force, looking fresh, young, big, and eager. Burke turned to the patrolman who had followed him. “Where’s Tezik?”

  “In the Rector’s office.” He leaned toward Burke and said quietly, “He’s a little … high-strung. You know?”

  Burke left the patrolman in the vestibule and moved quickly up the stairs between the sitting TPU men. On the next landing he opened a door marked RECTOR.

  Monsignor Downes sat at his desk in the center of the large, old-fashioned office, still wearing his topcoat and smoking a cigarette. Burke stood in the doorway. “Monsignor, where’s the police sergeant?”

  Monsignor Downes looked up blankly. “Who are you?”

  “Burke. Police. Where is—?”

  Monsignor Downes spoke distractedly. “Oh, yes. I know you. Friend of Father Murphy … saw you last night at the Waldorf … Maureen Malone … you were—”

  “Yes, sir. Where is Sergeant Tezik?”

  A deep voice called out from behind a set of double doors to Burke’s right. “I’m in here!”

  Burke moved through the doors into a larger inner office with a fireplace and bookshelves. Sergeant Tezik sat at an oversized desk in the rear room. “Burke. ID. Get your men out of the rectory and on the street where they belong. Help with crowd control.”

  Sergeant Tezik stood slowly, revealing a frame six-and-a-half feet tall, weighing, Burke guessed, about two seventy-five. Tezik said, “Who died and left you in charge?”

  Burke closed the door behind him. “Actually, Commissioner Dwyer is dead. Heart attack.”

  “I heard. That don’t make you the PC.”

  “No, but I’ll do for now.” Burke moved farther into the room. “Don’t try to take advantage of this mess, Tezik. Don’t play macho man with other people’s lives. You know the saying, Tezik: When a citizen is in trouble he calls a cop; when a cop is in trouble he calls Emergency Service.”

  “I’m using what they call personal initiative, Lieutenant. I figure that before those bastards get themselves dug in—”

  “Who have you called? Where are your orders coming from?”

  “They’re coming from my brains.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Tezik continued, unperturbed, “I can’t get an open line no place.”

  “Did you try Police Plaza?”

  “I told you, I can’t get through. This is a revolution, for Christ’s sake. You know?” He hesitated, then added, “Only the interphone in the Cathedral complex is working…. I spoke to somebody …”

  Burke moved to the desk. “Who did you speak to?”

  “Some guy—Finn?—something. Name’s on the Cathedral doors.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.” He thought a moment. “Said he had four hostages.”

  “Who?”

  “The Cardinal—”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah. And they got a priest, too—Murphy. And some broad whose name I don’t remember—that peace woman, I think. Name was in the papers. And some English royalty guy, Baker.”

  “Jesus Christ. What else did he say, Tezik? Think.”

  Tezik seemed to be thinking. “Let me see…. He said he’d kill them—they always say that. Right? And burn the Cathedral—how do you burn a Cathedral—?”

  “With matches.”

  “Not possible. Stone don’t burn. Anyway, the doors are supposed to be rigged with explosives, but, shit, I have thirty-five TPU in the rectory, ready to go. I got a dozen more standing in the halls that lead to the sacristy. I got four-wheel-drive equipment from the Sanitation Department, with my men driving, ready to hit the doors, and—”

  “Forget it.”

  “Like hell. Look, the longer you wait, the deeper the other guy digs in. That’s a fact.”

  “Where did you learn that fact?”

  “In the Marines. ’Nam.”

  “Sure. Listen, Tezik, this is midtown Manhattan, not Fuck Luck Province. A great cathedral full of art treasures has been seized, Tezik. And hostages, Tezik. The dinks never held hostages, did they? Police
policy is containment, not cavalry charges. Right?”

  “This is different. The command structure’s broken down. One time, near Quangtri, I was on patrol—”

  “Who cares?”

  Tezik stiffened. “Let me see your shield.”

  Burke held out his badge case, then put it away. “Look, Tezik, these people who’ve taken the Cathedral do not present a clear or immediate danger to anyone outside the Cathedral—”

  “They shot out a spotlight. They hung a flag from the steeple. They could be Reds, Burke—revolutionaries…. Fenians … what the hell are Fenians?”

  “Listen to me—leave this to Emergency Services and the Hostage Negotiator. Okay?”

  “I’m going in now, Burke. Now, before they start shooting into the city—before they start shooting the hostages … or burning the Cathedral—”

  “It’s stone.”

  “Back off, Lieutenant. I’m the man on the spot, and I have to do what I have to do.”

  Burke unbuttoned his topcoat and hooked his thumbs into his belt. “No way.”

  Neither man spoke for several seconds, then Tezik said, “I’m walking to that door.”

  Burke said, “Try it.”

  The office was very still except for the ticking of a mantel clock.

  They both sidestepped clear of the desk, then faced off, each man knowing that he had unwittingly backed the other against a wall, and neither knowing what to do about it.

  CHAPTER 21

  Father Murphy addressed Maureen and Baxter sitting beside him on the pew. “I’m going to speak to His Eminence. Will you come with me?”

  Maureen shook her head.

  Baxter said, “I’ll be along shortly.”

  Father Murphy crossed the marble floor, knelt at the throne and kissed the episcopal ring, then rose and began speaking to the Cardinal in a low voice. Maureen watched them, then said to Baxter, “I can’t stay here another moment.”

  He studied her closely. Her eyes were darting around wildly, and he saw that her body was shaking again.

  He put his hand on her arm. “You really must get a grip on yourself.”

  “Oh, go to hell! How could you understand? For me this is like sitting in a room full of nightmares come to life.”

  “Let me see if I can get you a drink. Perhaps they have tranquilizers—”

  “No! Listen, I’m not afraid of …”

  “Talk about it if it will help.”

  Maureen tried to steady her shaking legs. “It’s lots of things…. It’s him. Flynn. He can … he has a power … no, not a power … a way of making you do things, and afterward you wished you hadn’t done them, and you feel awful. Do you understand?”

  “I think—”

  “And … these people … They’re my people, you see, yet they’re not. Not anymore. I don’t know how to react to them…. It’s like a family meeting, and I’ve been called in because I’ve done something terrible. They’re not saying anything, just watching me….” She shook her head. Once in, never out. She was beginning to understand what that really meant, and it had nothing to do with them but with oneself. She looked at Baxter. “Even if they don’t kill us … There are worse things….”

  Baxter pressed her arm. “Yes … I think I understand—”

  “I’m not explaining myself very well.”

  She knew of that total suppression of ego that made hostages zombies, willing participants in the drama. And afterward the mixed feelings, confusion, guilt. She remembered what one psychologist had said, Once you’re a hostage, you’re a hostage for the rest of your life. She shook her head. No. She wouldn’t let that happen to her. No. “No!”

  Baxter squeezed her hand. “Look here, we may have to die, but I promise you, I won’t let them abuse you … us. There’ll be no mock trial, no public recanting, no …” He found it difficult to say what he knew her fears were. “No sadistic games, no psychological torture …”

  She studied his face closely. He had more insight into these things than she would have thought of a prim career diplomat.

  He cleared his throat and said, “You’re a very proud woman…. It’s easier for me, actually. I hate them, and anything they do to me just diminishes them—not me. It would help if you established the proper relationship between yourself and them.”

  She shook her head. “Yes. I feel like a traitor, and I’m a patriot. I feel guilty, and I’m the victim. How can that be?”

  “When we know the answers to that, we’ll know how to deal with people like Brian Flynn.”

  She forced a smile. “I’m sorry I bothered you with all of this.” Baxter started to interrupt, but she went on. “I thought you had a right to know, before I—”

  Baxter grabbed at her arm, but she vaulted into the pew behind her, then jumped into the last row and grabbed at the two wooden columns of the carved screen, swinging her legs up to the balustrade before jumping down to the ambulatory six feet below.

  Frank Gallagher leaned over the edge of the triforium. He pointed his rifle straight down at the top of her head, but the rifle was shaking so badly he didn’t fire.

  Eamon Farrell sighted across the sanctuary at her back but shifted his aim to her left and squeezed off a single round, which exploded into the stillness of the Cathedral.

  George Sullivan and Abby Boland in the long triforium at the front of the Cathedral looked quickly at the source of the shot, then down at the aim of Farrell’s rifle, but neither moved.

  Leary had read the signs before Maureen even made her first move. As she came out of the pew he leaned farther over the parapet of the choir loft and followed her through his rifle scope. As she swung up to the balustrade he fired.

  Maureen heard the sharp crack of Farrell’s fire ring out behind her, then almost simultaneously heard the report roll down from the choir loft. Farrell’s shot passed to her left. Leary’s shot passed so close over her head she felt it touch her hair, and the wooden column near her left ear splintered in her face. Suddenly a pair of strong hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her backward into the pew behind her. She looked up into the face of Harold Baxter. “Let go of me! Let go!”

  Baxter was agitated and kept repeating, “Don’t move! For God’s sake, don’t move!”

  A sound of running footsteps came to the sanctuary, and Maureen saw Megan leaning into the pew, pointing a pistol at her face. Megan spoke softly. “Thank you.” She cocked the pistol.

  Baxter found himself sprawled over Maureen’s body. “No! For God’s sake, don’t.”

  Megan screamed. “Move, you stupid bastard! Move!” She struck Baxter on the back of the head with her pistol, then pushed the muzzle into Maureen’s throat.

  The Cardinal was halfway across the sanctuary, shouting, “Stop that! Let them alone!” Father Murphy moved quickly behind Megan and grabbed her forearms. He picked her high into the air, spun around, and dropped her on the floor. Megan slid on the polished marble, then shot up quickly into a kneeling position, and pointed the gun at the priest.

  Brian Flynn’s voice came clearly from the communion rail. “No!”

  Megan pivoted around and stared at him, her pistol still leveled in front of her.

  Flynn jumped over the gate and mounted the steps. “Go into the choir loft and stay there!”

  Megan knelt on the floor, the pistol shaking in her hand. Everyone stood around her, motionless.

  John Hickey quickly mounted the sanctuary steps. “Come with me, Megan.” He walked to her, bent over at the waist, and took her arms in his hands. “Come on, then. That’s it.” He pulled her to her feet, and pushed her gunhand down to her side. He led her down the steps into the center aisle.

  Flynn walked to the side of the pews and looked down. “Baxter, that was very gallant—very knightly. Stupid, too.”

  Harold Baxter picked himself up, then pulled Maureen up beside him.

  Flynn looked at Maureen. “You won’t get off that easy. And you almost got Sir Harry killed, too.”

  She d
idn’t answer.

  Baxter pressed a handkerchief to Maureen’s cheek, where she had been hit by the wooden splinters.

  Flynn’s arm shot out and knocked Baxter’s hand away. He went on calmly, “And don’t think Mr. Leary is a bad shot. Had you gotten to the door he would have blown both your ankles away.” Flynn turned. “And that goes as well for His Eminence and the good Father. And if by some miracle someone does get out of here, someone else dies for it.” He looked at each of them. “Or should I just bind you all together? I’d rather not have to do that.” He fixed each of the silent hostages with a cold stare. “Do not leave this sanctuary. Do we all understand the rules? Good. Everyone sit down.” Flynn walked behind the altar and descended the steps to the crypt door landing. He spoke quietly to Pedar Fitzgerald. “Any movement down there?”

  Fitzgerald answered softly. “Lot of commotion in the corridors, but it’s quiet now. Is anyone hurt? Is my sister all right?”

  “No one is hurt. Don’t leave this post, no matter what you hear up there.”

  “I know. Look out for Megan, will you?”

  “We’re all watching out for Megan, Pedar.”

  A TPU man burst into the Monsignor’s suite and ran to the inner office, out of breath. “Sergeant!”

  Tezik and Burke both looked up.

  The patrolman said excitedly, “The men in the corridors heard two shots fired—”

  Tezik looked at Burke. “That’s it. We’re going in.” Tezik moved quickly past Burke toward the door. Burke grabbed his shoulders and threw him back against the fireplace.

  Tezik recovered his balance and shouted to the patrolman, “Arrest this man!”

  The patrolman hesitated, then drew his service revolver.

  The telephone rang.

  Burke reached for it, but Tezik snatched the phone away and picked up the receiver. “Sergeant Tezik, NYPD.”

  Flynn sat at the chancel organ bench and said, “This is Finn MacCumail.”

  Tezik’s voice was excited. “What happened in there? What’s all that shooting?”

  Flynn lit a cigarette. “Two shots hardly constitute ‘all that shooting,’ Sergeant. You ought to spend your next holiday in Belfast. Mothers fire two shots into the nursery just to wake the children.”