Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  Hickey was serenely unaware of them or of the cameras and lights. From time to time he would mention the Cathedral to keep everyone’s interest piqued, then would swing into a long polemic against the British and American governments or the governments of the divided Ireland, always careful to exclude the people of these lands from his wrath.

  He spoke of his sufferings, his wounds, his martyred father, his dead friends, a lost love, recalling each person by name. He beamed as he spoke of his revolutionary triumphs and frowned as he spoke darkly of the future of an Ireland divided. Finally he yawned and asked for a glass of water.

  Roth took the opportunity to ask, “Can you tell us exactly how you seized the Cathedral? What are your demands? Would you kill the hostages and destroy the Cathedral if—”

  Hickey held up his hand. “I’m not up to that part yet, lad. Where was I? Oh, yes. Nineteen hundred and fifty-six. In that year the IRA, operating from the south, began a campaign against the British-occupied six counties of the North. I was leading a platoon of men and women near the Doon Forest, and we were ambushed by a whole regiment of British paratroopers backed by the murderous Royal Ulster Constabulary.” Hickey went on.

  Langley watched him from the corner, then looked around at the news people. They seemed unhappy, but he suspected that John Hickey was doing better with the public than with the media. Hickey had a hard-driving narrative style … a simplicity and almost crudeness—sweating, smoking, and scratching—not seen on television in a long time.

  John Hickey—sitting now in fifty million American living rooms—was becoming a folk hero. Langley would not have been surprised if someone told him that outside on Madison Avenue vendors were hawking John Hickey T-shirts.

  CHAPTER 44

  Brian Flynn stood near the altar and watched the television that had been placed on the altar.

  Maureen, Father Murphy, and Baxter sat in the clergy pews, watching and listening silently. The Cardinal sat nearly immobile, staring down at the television from his throne, his fingertips pressed together.

  Flynn stood in silence for a long while, then spoke to no one in particular. “Long-winded old man, isn’t he?”

  Maureen looked at him, then asked, “Why didn’t you go yourself, Brian?”

  Flynn stared at her but said nothing.

  She leaned toward Father Murphy and said, “Actually, Hickey seems an effective speaker.” She paused thoughtfully. “I wish there were a way to get this kind of public platform without doing what they’ve done.”

  Murphy added as he watched the screen, “He’s at least venting the frustrations of so many Irishmen, isn’t he?”

  Baxter glanced at them sharply. “He’s not venting anyone’s frustrations—he’s inflaming some long-cooled passions. And I think he’s embellishing and distorting it a bit, don’t you?” No one answered, and he went on. “For instance—if he’d been ambushed by a regiment of British paras, he wouldn’t be here to talk about it—”

  Maureen said, “That’s not the point—”

  Flynn overheard the exchange and looked at Baxter. “Harry, your chauvinism is showing. Hail Britannia! Britannia rules the Irish. Ireland—first outpost of Empire and destined to be the last.”

  Baxter said to Flynn, “The man’s a bloody demagogue and charlatan.”

  Flynn laughed. “No, he’s Irish. Among ourselves we sometimes tolerate a poetic rearrangement of facts mutually understood. But listen to the man, Harry—you might learn a thing or two.”

  Baxter looked at the people around him—Maureen, Murphy, Flynn, the Fenians … even the Cardinal. For the first time he understood how little he understood.

  Megan Fitzgerald walked up to the sanctuary and stared at the television screen.

  Hickey, in the tradition of the ancient seanachies, interrupted his narrative to break into song:

  “Then, here’s to the brave men of Ireland.

  At home or in exile away;

  And, here’s to the hopes of our sire land,

  That never will rust or decay.

  To every brave down-trodden nation,

  Here’s liberty, glorious and bright. But,

  Oh! Let our country’s salvation,

  Be toasted the warmest, to-niiight!”

  Megan said, “Bloody old fool. He’s making a laughing-stock of us ranting like that.” She turned to Flynn. “Why the hell did you send him?”

  Flynn looked at her and said softly, “Let the old man have his day, Megan. He deserves this after nearly seventy years of war. He may be the world’s oldest continuously fighting soldier.” He smiled in a conciliatory manner. “He’s got a lot to tell.”

  Megan’s voice was impatient. “He’s supposed to tell them that the British are the only obstacle to a negotiated settlement here. I’ve a brother rotting in Long Kesh, and I want him free in Dublin come morning.”

  Maureen looked up at her. “And I thought you were here only because of Brian.”

  Megan wheeled around. “Shut your damned mouth!”

  Maureen stood, but Father Murphy pulled her quickly into the pew.

  Flynn said nothing, and Megan turned and strode off.

  Hickey’s voice blared from the television. The Cardinal sat motionless staring at some point in space. Baxter looked away from everyone and tried to filter out Hickey’s voice, concentrating on the escape plan. Father Murphy and Maureen watched the screen intently. Flynn watched also, but his thoughts, like Baxter’s, were elsewhere.

  John Hickey took out a flask and poured a dark liquid into his water glass, then looked up at the camera. “Excuse me. Heart medicine.” He drained off the glass and let out a sigh. “That’s better. Now, where was I? Right—1973—” He waved his arms. “Oh, enough of this. Listen to me, all of you! We don’t want to hurt anyone in this Cathedral. We don’t want to harm a Prince of the Roman Church—a holy man—a good man—or his priest, Father Murphy … a lovely man….” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “We don’t want to harm one single altar or statue in this beautiful house of God that New Yorkers—Americans—love so dearly. We’re not barbarians or pagans, you know.”

  He held his hands out in an imploring gesture. “Now listen to me….” His voice became choked, and tears formed in his eyes. “All we want is another chance for the young lives being wasted in British concentration camps. We’re not asking for the impossible—we’re not making any irresponsible demands. No, we’re only asking— begging—begging in the name of God and humanity for the release of Ireland’s sons and daughters from the darkness and degradation of these unspeakable dungeons.”

  He took a drink of water and stared into the camera. “And who is it who have hardened their hearts against us?” He thumped the table. “Who is it who’ll not let our people go?” Thump! “Who is it that by their unyielding policy endangers the lives of the people in this great Cathedral?” He pounded the table with both fists. “The bloody fucking British—that’s who!”

  * * *

  Burke leaned against the wall in the Monsignor’s office and watched the screen. Schroeder sat at his desk, and Spiegel had returned to her rocker. Bellini paced in front of the screen, blocking everyone’s view, but no one objected.

  Burke moved to the twin doors, opened them, and looked into the outer office. The State Department security man, Arnold Sheridan, stood by the window in deep thought. Occasionally he would eye the British and Irish representatives. Burke had the impression that Sheridan was going to give them the unpleasant news from Washington that Hickey was scoring heavily and it was time to talk. An awkward, almost embarrassed silence lay over the office as Hickey’s monologue rolled on. Burke was reminded of a living room he had sat in once where the adolescents and adults had somehow gotten themselves involved in watching an explicit documentary on teenage sex. Burke turned back to the inner office and stared at the screen.

  Hickey’s voice was choked with emotion. “Many of you may question the propriety of our occupation of a house of God, and it was
, I assure you, the hardest decision any of us has ever made in our lives. But we didn’t so much seize the Cathedral as we took refuge in it—claimed the ancient privilege of sanctuary. And what better place to stand and ask for God’s help?”

  He paused as though wrestling with a decision, then said softly, “This afternoon, many Americans for the first time saw the obscene face of religious bigotry as practiced by the Orangemen of Ulster. Right here in the streets of the most ecumenical city in the world, the ugliness of religious intolerance and persecution was made unmistakably clear. The songs you heard those bigots sing were the songs the little children are taught in homes, schools, and churches….” He straightened his posture; on his face was a distasteful look that melted into an old man’s sadness. He shook his head slowly.

  Schroeder turned away from the screen and said to Burke, “What’s the latest with those Orangemen?”

  Burke kept staring at the screen as he spoke. “They still say they’re Protestant loyalists from Ulster, and they’ll probably keep saying that until at least dawn. But according to our interrogators they all sound like Boston Irish. Probably IRA Provos recruited for the occasion.” Given all the externals of this affair, Burke thought, psychological timing, media coverage, tactical preparations, political maneuverings, and last-ditch intelligence gathering—it was clear that Flynn would not extend the deadline and risk the tide turning against him.

  Spiegel said, “It was a tactical blunder to let Hickey on television.”

  Schroeder said defensively, “What else could I do?”

  Bellini interjected, “Why don’t I grab him—then we’ll use him to negotiate for the hostages.”

  Schroeder said, “Good idea. Why don’t you go cold-cock him right now before they break for a commercial?”

  Burke looked at his watch. 10:25P.M. The night was slipping away so fast that it would be dawn before anyone realized it was too late.

  Hickey looked around the press room. He noticed that Langley had disappeared. Hickey leaned forward and spoke to the cameraman. “Zoom in, Jerry.” He watched the monitor. “Closer. That’s it. Hold it.” He stared at the camera and spoke in low tones that had the suggestion of finality and doom. “Ladies and gentlemen of America—and all the unborn generations who will one day hear my words—we are outnumbered two thousand to one by police and soldiers, besieged and isolated by our enemies, betrayed by politicians and diplomats, compromised and undermined by secret agents, and censured by the world press….” He placed his hand over his chest. “But we are not afraid, because we know that out there are friends who wish us success and Godspeed in our mission. And there are the men and women, old and young, in Long Kesh, Armagh, Crumlin Road—all the hellholes of England and Northern Ireland—who are on their knees tonight, praying for their freedom. Tomorrow, God willing, the gates of Long Kesh will be thrown open, and wives will embrace husbands, children will weep with parents, brothers and sisters will meet once more….”

  The tears were running freely again, and he took out a big bandanna and blew his nose, then continued, “If we accomplish nothing else this night, we’ll have made the world aware of their existence. And if we die, and others die with us, and if this great Cathedral where I sit right now is a smoldering ruin by morning, then it will only be because men and women of goodwill could not prevail against the repressive forces of darkness and inhumanity.” He took a long breath and cleared his throat. “Till we meet again in a happier place … God bless you all. God bless America and Ireland and, yes, God bless our enemies, and may He show them the light. Erin go bragh.”

  David Roth cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Hickey, we’d like you to answer a few specific questions….”

  Hickey stood abruptly, blew his nose into the bandanna, and walked off camera.

  Inspector Langley had returned; he opened the door, and Hickey moved quickly into the hall, followed by Langley and the three ID men. Langley came up beside Hickey and said, “I see you know when to quit.”

  Hickey put away his bandanna. “Oh, I couldn’t go on any longer, lad.”

  “Yeah. Listen, you got your message across. You’re way ahead. Now why don’t you come out of there and give everyone a break?”

  Hickey stopped in front of the elevator. His manner and voice suddenly became less teary. “Why the hell should we?”

  Langley dismissed the three ID men. He took a notebook from his pocket and glanced at it. “Okay, Mr. Hickey, listen closely. I’ve just been authorized by representatives of the British and American governments to tell you that if you come out of the Cathedral now, the British will begin procedures to release—quietly and at intervals—most of the people on your list, subject to conditions of parole— ”

  “Most? What kind of intervals? What kind of parole?”

  Langley looked up from the notebook. “I don’t know anything more than I’m telling you. I just got this over the phone. I’m only a cop, okay? And we’re the only ones allowed to speak to you people. Right? So this is a little difficult but just listen and—”

  “Pimp.”

  Langley looked up quickly. “What?”

  “Pimp. You’re pimping for the diplomats who don’t want to make a direct proposition to us whores.”

  Langley flushed. “Look … look you—”

  “Get hold of yourself, man. Steady.”

  Langley took a breath and continued in a controlled voice. “The British can’t release all of them at once—not when you’ve got a gun to their heads—to everyone’s heads. But it will be done. And also the State and U.S. Attorney General have agreed to allow all of you in there to post a low bond and go free awaiting trial—you understand what that means?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Langley looked annoyed. “It means you can skip out on the fucking bail and get the hell out of the country.”

  “Oh … sounds dishonest.”

  Langley ignored the remark and said, “No one has been killed yet—that’s the main thing. That gives us a lot of leeway in dealing with you—”

  “It makes that much difference, does it? We’ve committed a dozen felonies already, terrified half the city, made fools of you, caused a riot, cost you millions of dollars, ruined your parade, and the Commissioner of Police has dropped dead of a heart attack. But you’re willing to let bygones be bygones—give us a wink and run us off like Officer Muldoon stumbling onto a crap game in an alley—as long as no one’s been killed. Interesting. That says a great deal about this society.”

  Langley drew another breath and said, “I won’t make this offer again—for obvious reasons, no one will ever mention it over the telephone. So that’s it.” He slapped the notebook shut. “It’s a fair compromise. Take it or leave it.”

  Hickey pressed the elevator button, and the doors opened. He said to Langley, “We wouldn’t look very good if we compromised, would we? You’d look good, though. Schroeder would be booked solid on TV for a year. But we’d not have access to the airwaves so easily. All anyone would see or remember is us coming out the front doors of Saint Patrick’s with our hands up. We’d do that gladly if the camps were emptied first. Then there’s no way anyone could hide or steal our victory with diplomatic or journalistic babble.”

  “You’d be alive, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Did you get my grave dug up yet?”

  “Don’t pull that spooky shit on me.”

  Hickey laughed.

  Langley spoke mechanically, determined to deliver the last lines he had been instructed to say. “Use your power of persuasion with the people in there and your influence as a great Irish Republican leader. Don’t tarnish with senseless death and destruction what you’ve already accomplished.” He added his own thoughts. “You snowed about half of America tonight. Quit while you’re ahead.”

  “I had a horse at Aqueduct this afternoon that quit while he was ahead…. But I’ll pass your kind offer on to Mr. Flynn and the Fenians, and we’ll let you know. If we never mention it, then you can assum
e we are holding fast to all our demands.”

  Hickey stepped into the elevator. “See you later, God willing.” He pushed the button, and as the doors slid closed he called out, “Hold my fan mail for me, Inspector.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Brian Flynn stood opposite the elevator’s oak door, an M-16 rifle leveled at it. George Sullivan stood to the side of the door, listening. The elevator stopped, and Sullivan heard a soft rapping, three long and two short. He signaled in return, then defused the mine and opened the door.

  John Hickey stepped out. Flynn lowered the rifle a half second too slowly, but no one seemed to notice.

  Sullivan extended his hand. “Damned fine, John. You had me laughing and weeping at the same time.”

  Hickey smiled as he took Sullivan’s hand. “Ah, my boy, it was a dream come true.” He turned to Flynn. “You would have done even better, lad.”

  Flynn turned and walked into the ambulatory. Hickey followed. Flynn said as he walked, “Did anyone approach you?”

  Hickey walked ahead to the chancel organ. “One fellow, that Inspector Langley. Gave us a chance to surrender. Promised us a low bail—that sort of thing.”

  “Did the British relay any information—any indication they would compromise?”

  “The British? Compromise? They’re not even negotiating.” He sat at the keyboard and turned on the organ.

  “They didn’t get word to you through anyone?”

  “You’ll not hear from them.” He looked at Flynn. “You’ve got to play the bells now, Brian, while we still have everyone’s attention. We’ll begin with—let’s see— ‘Danny Boy’ and then do a few Irish-American favorites for our constituency. I’ll lead, and you follow my tempo. Go on now.”

  Flynn hesitated, then moved toward the center aisle. Hickey began playing “Danny Boy” in a slow, measured meter that would set the tempo for the bells.

  The four hostages watched Flynn and Hickey, then turned back to the television. The reporters in the Cathedral press room were discussing Hickey’s speech. Baxter said, “I don’t see that we’re any closer to being let out of here.”