Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  Hickey looked over the sanctuary rail. “Use the one in the bride’s room—wipe the seat.”

  “Miss Malone would like to make a confession.”

  “Oh,” Hickey laughed. “That would take a week.”

  “This is not a joking matter. She feels her life is in mortal danger, and—”

  “That it is. All right. No one’s stopping you.”

  Father Murphy rose, followed by Maureen.

  Hickey watched them move toward the side in the rail. “Can’t you do it there?”

  Murphy answered. “Not in front of everyone. In the confessional.”

  Hickey looked annoyed. “Be quick about it.”

  They descended the side steps and walked across the ambulatory to the confessional booth beside the bride’s room. Hickey raised his hand to the snipers in the perches and called out to the two retreating figures. “No funny business. You’re in the cross hairs.”

  Father Murphy showed Maureen into a curtained booth, then entered the archway beside it. He went through the priest’s entrance to the confessional and sat in the small, dark enclosure, then pulled the cord to open the black screen.

  Maureen Malone knelt and stared through the curtain at the dim shadow of the priest’s profile. “It’s been so long, I don’t know how to begin.”

  Father Murphy said in the low, intimate whisper cultivated for the confessional, “You can begin by locating the button on the door frame.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a button there. If you press it, it buzzes in the upstairs hall of the rectory. It’s to call a priest when confessions are not normally held, in case you have a need for instant forgiveness.” He laughed softly at what Maureen thought must be an occupational joke in the rectory.

  She said excitedly, “Do you mean we can communicate—”

  “We can’t get any signal back, and in any case we wouldn’t want one. And I don’t know if anyone will hear us. Quickly, now, signal a message—something useful to the people outside.”

  Maureen drew the curtain farther to cover her hand, then ran her fingers over the oak frame and found the button. She pressed it several times to attract someone’s attention, then began in halting Morse code.

  THIS IS MALONE. WITH FR. MURPHY.

  What should she say? She thought back to her training—Who, what, where, when, how many?

  OBSERVED 13-15 GUNMEN IN CATHEDRAL. SNIPER IN EACH TRIFORIUM.

  ONE IN CHOIR LOFT. MAN AT SACRISTY STAIRS WITH THOMPSON SUB.

  ONE OR TWO MEN/WOMEN IN EACH TOWER. TWO OR MORE IN ATTIC.

  POSTS CONNECTED BY FIELD PHONES. HOSTAGES ON SANCTUARY.

  She stopped and thought of the snatches of conversation she’d overheard, then continued in a faster, more confident signal.

  VOTIVE CANDLES PILED IN ATTIC. BOMB? UNDER SANCTUARY.

  She stopped again and tried desperately to think—Who, what, where … ? She went on.

  MACCUMAIL IS BRIAN FLYNN. JOHN HICKEY, LIEUTENANT. MEGAN FITZGERALD THIRD IN COMMAND. OBSERVED MINES ON DOORS, SNIPER RIFLES, AUTOMATIC RIFLES, PISTOLS, M-72 ROCKETS, GAS MAS—

  “Stop!” Murphy’s voice came urgently through the screen.

  She pulled her hand away from the buzzer.

  Murphy said somewhat loudly, “Do you repent all your sins?”

  “I do.”

  The priest replied, “Say the rosary once.”

  Hickey’s voice cut into the confessional. “Once? By God, I’d have her on her knees until Easter if we had that long. Come on out.”

  Maureen came out of the confessional as Father Murphy came through the archway. Murphy nodded to Hickey. “Thank you. Later I’d like the Cardinal to hear my confession.”

  Hickey’s wrinkled face broke into a mocking smile. “Now, what have you done, Father?”

  He stepped very close to Hickey. “I’ll hear the confessions of your people, too, before this night is over.”

  Hickey made a contemptuous sound. “No atheists in cathedrals, eh, Padre?” He stepped back from the priest and nodded. “Someone once said, ‘By night an atheist half believes in God.’ Maybe you’re right. By dawn they’ll all turn to you as they see the face of death, with his obscene gaping grin, pressed against the pretty windows. But I’ll not make a confession to any mortal man, and neither will Flynn nor that she-devil he sleeps with.”

  Father Murphy’s face reddened. He went on, “I think Harold Baxter will want to make his peace as well.”

  “That heathen? In a Catholic church? Don’t bet the poor-box money on it.” Hickey turned and looked up at the solitary figure sitting in the pew on the sanctuary. “This whole operation may have been worth the while just to see that Protestant bastard on his knees in front of a Catholic priest. All right, let’s get back to the corral.”

  Maureen said to Hickey, “I hope I live long enough to see how you face death.” She turned and walked with the priest in silence to the communion rail. She said, “That man … There’s something … wicked …”

  The priest nodded. As they came up to the communion rail she said, “Do you think we got through?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know Morse code?”

  He reached out and opened the gate in the rail. “No, but you’ll write out those dots and dashes for me before I make my confession.” He waved her through the rail absently. As she passed him she reached out and squeezed his hand. He suddenly came alert. “Wait!”

  She turned on the steps. “What is it?”

  He looked at Hickey, who was standing near the confessional watching them. He reached into his vestment and handed her a set of rosary beads. “Get back here and kneel at the rail.”

  She took the beads and glanced at Hickey. “Stupid of me—”

  “My fault. Just pray he doesn’t suspect.” The priest walked into the sanctuary.

  Maureen knelt at the rail and let the string of beads hang loosely from her hands. She turned. Her eyes rose over the Cathedral, and she peered into the dimly appreciated places. Dark figures like ravens stared down at her from the murky balconies. Megan was moving near the front doors like a shadow, and an unearthly stillness hung over the cold, gray towering stonework. She focused on John Hickey. He was staring at the confessional and smiling.

  CHAPTER 27

  Brian Flynn helped the Cardinal up into the bell room. The Cardinal looked at the torn copper louvers. Flynn said to Donald Mullins, “Have you formally met the Archbishop of New York?”

  Mullins knelt and kissed the episcopal ring, then rose.

  Flynn said, “Take a break, Donald. There’s coffee in the bookstore.”

  Mullins went quickly down the ladder.

  Flynn moved to the opening in the tower and looked out into the city. There was a long silence in the cold, drafty room. “That’s incredible, you know … an armed revolutionary kneels in the dust and kisses your ring.”

  The Cardinal looked impatient. “Why are we up here? There can be no hidden passages up here.”

  Flynn said, “Have you had many dealings with Gordon Stillway?”

  The Cardinal answered, “We planned the latest renovations together.”

  “And he never pointed out any curiosities to your No secret—”

  “I’m not in the habit of entertaining the same question more than once.”

  Flynn made an exaggerated bow. “Pardon me. I was only trying to refresh your memory, Your Eminence.”

  “What exactly do you want with me, Mr. Flynn?”

  “I want you to speak with the negotiator, and I want you to talk to the world. I’m going to set up a conference in that press room so conveniently located in the subbasement below the sacristy. You will go on television and radio—”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “Damn it, you’ve done enough talking on television and radio to damage our cause. You’ve used your pulpit long enough to speak out against the IRA. Now you’ll undo that damage.”

  “I spoke out against murde
r and mayhem. If that equals speaking out against the IRA, then—”

  Flynn’s voice rose. “Have you seen a British internment camp? Do you know what they do to those poor bastards in there?”

  “I’ve seen and heard reports, and I’ve condemned the British methods in Ulster along with the IRA methods.”

  “No one remembers that.” He put his face close to the Cardinal’s. “You’ll announce to the world that as an Irish-American, and as a Catholic prelate, you are going to Northern Ireland to visit the camps.”

  “But if you clear them out, who is there left to visit, Mr. Flynn?”

  “There are hundreds in those camps.”

  “And the ones to be released are the relatives of the men and women with you. Plus, I’m sure, a good number of important leaders. The rest can stay so you can still claim some moral justification for your bloody methods. I’m not as naïve as you believe, and I won’t be used by you.”

  Flynn let out a deep breath. “Then I won’t guarantee the safety of this church. I’ll see that it’s destroyed no matter what the outcome of the negotiations!”

  The Cardinal moved near Flynn and said, “There is a price, Mr. Flynn, that each man must pay for each sin. This is not a perfect world, and the evildoers in it often escape punishment and die peacefully in their beds. But there is a higher court …”

  “Don’t try to frighten me with that. And don’t be so certain that court would damn me and issue you wings. My concept of heaven and heavenly justice is a bit more pagan than yours. I picture Tirna-n’Og, where warriors are given the respect they no longer receive on earth. Your heaven has always sounded very effeminate to me.”

  The Cardinal didn’t reply but shook his head.

  Flynn turned away from him and looked into the blue city lights. After a time he said, “Cardinal, I’m a chosen man. I know I am. Chosen to lead the people of Northern Ireland out of British bondage.”

  He turned back to the Cardinal and thrust his right hand toward him. “Do you see this ring? This is the ring of Finn MacCumail. It was given me by a priest who wasn’t a priest. A man who never was, in a place that never was what it seemed to be. A place sanctified by Druids a thousand years or more before the name Jesus Christ was ever heard in Erin. Oh, don’t look so skeptical—you’re supposed to believe in miracles, damn it.”

  The Cardinal looked at him sadly. “You’ve shut God’s love out of your heart and taken into your soul dark things that should never be spoken of by a Christian.” He held out his hand. “Give me the ring.”

  Flynn took an involuntary step back. “No.”

  “Give it to me, and we’ll see if the Christian God, your true God, is effeminate.”

  Flynn shook his head and held up his hand balled into a fist.

  The Cardinal dropped his outstretched arm and said, “I see my duty clearly now. I may not be able to save this church or save the lives of anyone in here. But before this night is over I’ll try to save your soul, Brian Flynn, and the souls of the people with you.”

  Flynn looked down at the bronze ring, then at the Cardinal, and focused on the large cross hanging from his neck. “I wish sometimes that I’d gotten a sign from that God you believe in. But I never did. By morning one of us will know who’s won this battle.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Monsignor Downes stood at the window of his inner office, chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes and staring out at the floodlit Cathedral through a haze of blue smoke. In his mind’s eye he saw not only smoke but fire licking at the gray stone, reaching from the stained-glass windows and twining around the twin spires. He blinked his eyes and turned toward the people in the room.

  Present now besides himself was Captain Schroeder, who probably wouldn’t leave until the end, and sitting in his chairs were Lieutenant Burke, Major Martin, and Inspector Langley. Captain Bellini was standing. On the couch were the FBI man, Hogan, and the CIA man, Kruger—or was it the other way around? No, that was it. All six men were rereading a decoded message brought in by a detective.

  Patrick Burke looked at his copy of the message.

  —DER SANCTUARY.

  MACCUMAIL IS BRIAN FLYNN. JOHN HICKEY, LIEUTENANT. MEGAN FITZGERALD THIRD IN COMMAND. OBSERVED MINES ON DOORS, SNIPER RIFLES, AUTOMATIC RIFLES, PISTOLS, M-72 ROCKETS, GAS MAS—

  Burke looked up. “D-E-R Sanctuary. Murder? Ladder? Under?”

  Langley shrugged. “I hope whoever that was can send again. I have two men in the upstairs hall waiting to copy.” He looked at the message again. “I don’t like the way it ended so abruptly.”

  Bellini said, “I didn’t like that inventory of weapons.”

  Burke said, “Malone or Baxter sent it. Either of them would know Morse code and know that this is the stuff we’re looking for. Right? And if, as the Monsignor says, the buzzer is in the confessional, then we might rule out Baxter if he’s, as I assume, of the Protestant persuasion.”

  Major Martin said, “You can assume he is.”

  The Monsignor interjected hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking … perhaps Mr. Baxter will make a confession … so they can send again. Father Murphy will hear His Eminence’s confession and vice versa—so we can expect, perhaps, three more messages….”

  “Then,” said Martin, “we’re out of sinners. They can’t go twice, can they?”

  Monsignor Downes regarded him coolly.

  Bellini said, “Is that okay, Monsignor? I mean, to use the confessional to do that?”

  Downes smiled for the first time. “It’s okay.”

  Major Martin cleared his throat. “Look here, we haven’t considered that this message might be a ruse, sent by Flynn to make us believe he’s well armed…. A bit subtle and sophisticated for the Irish … but it’s possible.”

  Langley replied, “If we had the complete message, we might have a better idea of its authenticity.”

  Schroeder said to Langley, “I need information on the personalities in there. Megan Fitzgerald. Third in command.”

  Langley shook his head. “I’ll check the files, but I’ve never heard of her.”

  There was a period of silence in the room, while in the outer office men and women arrived and departed, telephones rang constantly, and people huddled in conversation. In the lower floors of the rectory police commanders coordinated crowd control and cordon operations. In the Cardinal’s residence Governor Doyle and Mayor Kline met with government representatives and discussed larger issues around a buffet set up in the dining room. Phones were kept open to Washington, London, Dublin, and Albany.

  One of the half-dozen newly installed telephones rang, and Schroeder picked it up, then handed it to the CIA man. Kruger spoke for a minute, then hung up, “Nothing on Brian Flynn or Megan Fitzgerald. Nothing on the Fenians. Old file on John Hickey. Not as good as yours.” Two phones rang simultaneously, and Schroeder answered both, passing one to Hogan and one to Martin.

  The FBI man spoke for a few seconds, then hung up and said, “Nothing on Flynn, Fitzgerald, or the Fenians. You have our file on Hickey. The FBI, incidentally, had an agent at his funeral checking out the mourners. That’s the last entry. Guess we’ll have to add a postscript.”

  Major Martin was still on the telephone, writing as he listened. He put the receiver down. “A bit of good news. Our dossier on Flynn will be Telexed to the consulate shortly. There’s a capability paper on the Fenian Army as well. Your files on Hickey are more extensive than ours, and you can send a copy to London, if you will.” He lit a cigarette and said in a satisfied tone, “Also on the way is the file on Megan Fitzgerald. Here’s a few pertinent details: Born in Belfast, age twenty-one. Father deserted family—brother Thomas in Long Kesh for attacking a prison van. Brother Pedar is a member of the IRA. Mother hospitalized for a nervous breakdown.” He added caustically, “Your typical Belfast family of five.” Martin looked at Burke. “Her description—red hair, blue eyes, freckles, five feet seven inches, slender— quite good-looking according to the chap I just spoke to. Sound like the young
lady who pegged a shot at you?”

  Burke nodded.

  Martin went on. “She’s Flynn’s present girl friend.” He smiled. “I wonder how she’s getting on with Miss Malone. I think I’m starting to feel sorry for old Flynn.”

  A uniformed officer stuck his head in the door. “Chow’s here from John Barleycorn’s.”

  Schroeder reached for the telephone. “All right. I’ll tell Flynn that Burke is ready with his fucking corned beef.” He dialed the operator. “Chancel organ.” He waited. “Hello, this is Captain Schroeder. Finn MacCumail? …” He pushed the switches to activate all the speakers, and the next room became quiet.

  “This is Dermot. MacCumail is praying with the Cardinal.”

  Schroeder hesitated. “Mr…. Dermot—”

  “Just call me Hickey. John Hickey. Never liked these noms de guerre! Confuses everyone. Did you know I was in here? Have you got my file in front of you, Snider?”

  “Schroeder.” He looked down at the thick police file. Each man had to be played differently. Each man had his own requirements. Schroeder rarely admitted to having anyone’s file in front of him as he negotiated, but it was equally important not to get caught lying to a direct question, and it was often convenient to play on a man’s ego.

  “Schroeder? You awake?”

  Schroeder sat up. “Yes, sir. Yes, we knew you were in there. I have your file, Mr. Hickey.”

  Hickey cackled happily. “Did you read the part where I was caught trying to blow up Parliament in 1921?”

  Schroeder found the dated entry. “Yes, sir. Quite”—he looked at Major Martin, who was staring tight-lipped—“quite daring. Daring escape too—”

  “You bet your ass, sonny. Now look at 1941. I worked with the Germans then to blow up British shipping in New York harbor. Not proud of that, you understand; but a lot of us did that in the Second War. Shows how much we hated the Brits, doesn’t it, to throw in with the bloody Nazis.”

  “Yes, it does. Listen—”

  “The Dublin government and the British government both sentenced me to death in absentia on five different occasions. Well, as Brendan Behan once said, they can hang me five times in absentia, too.” He laughed.