Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  A deep silence lay over the acre of stone, and the outside cold seeped into the church, slowly numbing the people inside. The four hostages slept fitfully on the cool marble of the altar sanctuary, cuffed together in pairs.

  John Hickey rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked at the television he had moved to the organ console. The volume was turned down, and a barely audible voice was remarking on the new day and speculating on what the sunrise would bring. Hickey wondered how many people were still watching. He pictured all-night vigils around television sets. Whatever happened would happen live, in color, and few would be willing to go to sleep and see it on the replays. Hickey looked down at Pedar Fitzgerald. There were ice packs around his throat and a tube coming from his mouth that emitted a hissing sound. Slightly annoying, Hickey thought.

  Flynn began playing the bells again, an Irish-American song this time, “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?”

  Hickey watched the television. The street crowds approved of the selection. People were swaying arm in arm, beery tears rolling down red faces. But eventually, he knew, the magic would pass, the concern over the hostages and the Cathedral would become the key news story again. A lot of emotional strings were being pulled this night, and he was fascinated by the game of manipulation. Hickey glanced up at the empty triforium where Gallagher had stood, then turned and called back toward the sacristy stairs, “Frank?”

  Gallagher called from the stairwell, “All quiet!”

  Hickey looked up at Sullivan and Abby Boland, and they signaled in return. Eamon Farrell called down from the triforium overhead. “All quiet.” Hickey cranked the field phone.

  Arthur Nulty rolled over and reached out for the receiver. “Roger.”

  “Status.”

  Nulty cleared his throat. “Haven’t we had enough bells, for God’s sake? I can’t hear so well with that clanging in my ears.”

  “Do the best you can.” He cranked the phone again. “Bell tower?”

  Mullins was staring through a shattered window, and the phone rang several times before he was aware of it. He grabbed it quickly. “Bell tower.”

  Hickey said, “Sleeping?”

  Mullins moved one earpiece of the shooters’ baffles and said irritably, “Sleeping? How the hell could anyone sleep with that?” He paused, then said, “Has he gone mad?”

  Hickey said, “How are they behaving outside?”

  Mullins trailed the phone wire and walked around the tower. “They keep coming and going. Mostly coming. Soldiers bivouacked in the Channel Gardens. Damned reporters on the roofs have been drinking all night. Could use a rip myself.”

  “Aye, time enough for that. At this hour tomorrow you’ll be—where?”

  “Mexico City … I’m to fly to Mexico City….” He tried to laugh. “Long way from Tipperary.”

  “Warm there. Keep alert.” Hickey cranked again. “South tower.”

  Rory Devane answered. “Situation unchanged.”

  “Watch for the strobe lights.”

  “I know.”

  “Are the snipers still making you nervous, lad?”

  Devane laughed. “No. They’re keeping me company. I’ll miss them, I think.”

  “Where are you headed tomorrow?”

  “South of France. It’s spring there, they tell me.”

  “So it is. Remember, a year from today at Kavanagh’s in fair Dublin.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Hickey smiled at the dim memory of Kavanagh’s Pub, whose front wall was part of the surrounding wall of Glasnevin Cemetery. There was a pass-through in the back wall where gravediggers could obtain refreshments, and as a result, it was said, many a deceased was put into the wrong hole. Hickey laughed. “Aye, Rory, you’ll be there.” He hung up and turned the crank again.

  Leary picked up the phone in the choir loft. Hickey said, “Tell Brian to give the bells a rest, then.” He watched Leary turn and speak to Flynn. Leary came back on the line. “He says he feels like playing.”

  Hickey swore under his breath. “Hold on.” He looked at the television set again. The scenes of New York had been replaced by an equally dramatic view of the White House, yellow light coming from the Oval Office windows. A reporter was telling the world that the President was in conference with top advisers. The scene shifted to 10 Downing Street, where it was 5:00A.M. A bleary-eyed female reporter was assuring America that the Prime Minister was still awake. A quick scene-change showed the Apostolic Palace in the Vatican. Hickey leaned forward and listened carefully as the reporter speculated about the closed-door gathering of Vatican officials. He mumbled to himself, “Saint Peter’s next.”

  Hickey spoke into the phone. “Tell Mr. Flynn that since we can expect an attack at any time now, I suggest he stop providing them with the noise cover they need.” He hung up and listened to the bells, which still rang. Brian Flynn, he thought, was not the same man who strode so cockily through this Cathedral little more than six hours before. Flynn was a man who had learned a great deal in those six hours, but had learned it too late and would learn nothing further of any consequence in the final six hours.

  Captain Bert Schroeder was startled out of a half-sleep by the ringing telephone. He picked it up quickly.

  Hickey’s voice cut into the stillness of the office and boomed out over the speakers in the surrounding rooms, also startling some of the people there. “Schroeder! Schroeder!”

  Schroeder sat up, his chest pounding, “Yes! What’s wrong?”

  Hickey’s voice was urgent. “Someone’s seized the Cathedral!” He paused and said softly, “Or was I having a nightmare?” He laughed.

  Schroeder waited until he knew his voice would be steady. He looked around the office. Only Burke was there at the moment, sleeping soundly on the couch. Schroeder said, “What can I do for you?”

  Hickey said, “Status report, Schroeder.”

  Schroeder cleared his throat. “Status—”

  “How are things in Glocca Morra, London, Washington, Vatican City, Dublin? Anybody still working on this?”

  “Of course. You can see it on TV.”

  “I’m not the public, Schroeder. You tell me what’s happening.”

  “Well …” He looked at some recent memos. “Well … the Red Cross and Amnesty are positioned at all of the camps … waiting …”

  “That was on TV.”

  “Was it? Well … Dublin … Dublin has not yet agreed to accept released internees—”

  “Tell them for me that they’re sniveling cowards. Tell them I said the IRA will take Dublin within the year and shoot them all.”

  Schroeder said emphatically, “Anyway, we all haven’t agreed on terms yet, have we? So finding a place of sanctuary is of secondary importance—”

  “I want to speak with all the governments directly. Set up a conference call.”

  Schroeder’s voice was firm. “You know they won’t speak to you directly.”

  “Those pompous bastards will be on their knees begging for an audience by six o’clock.”

  Schroeder put a note of optimism in his voice. “Your speech is still having favorable repercussions. The Vatican is—”

  “Speaking of repercussions and concussions and all that, do you think—now this is a technical question that you should consider—do you think that the glass façade of the Olympic Tower will fall into the street when—”

  Schroeder said abruptly, “Is Mr. Flynn there?”

  “You have a bad habit of interrupting, Schroeder.”

  “Is Mr. Flynn there?”

  “Of course he’s here, you ass. Where else would he be?”

  “May I speak to him, please?”

  “He’s playing the bells, for God’s sake!”

  “Can you tell him to pick up the extension beside the organ?”

  “I told you, you don’t interrupt a man when he’s playing the bells. Haven’t you learned anything tonight? I’ll bet you were a vice cop once, busting into hotel rooms, interrupting people. You’re the type.”


  Schroeder felt his face redden. He heard Hickey’s voice echoing through the rectory and heard a few people laughing. Schroeder snapped a pencil between his fingers. “We want to speak with Mr. Flynn—privately, at the sacristy gate.” He looked at Burke sleeping on the couch. “Lieutenant Burke wants to speak—”

  “As you said before, it’s less confusing to speak to one person. If I can’t speak to the Queen, you can’t speak to Finn MacCumail. What’s wrong with me? By the way, what have you given up for Lent? Your brains or your balls? I gave up talking to fools on the telephone, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”

  Schroeder suddenly felt something inside him come loose. He made a strong effort to control his voice and spoke in measured tones. “Mr. Hickey … Brian Flynn has a great deal of faith in me—the efforts I’m making, the honesty I’ve shown—”

  The sound of Hickey’s laughter filled the office. “He sounds like a good lad to you, does he? Well, he’s got a surprise in store for you, Schroeder, and you won’t like it.”

  Schroeder said, “We’d rather not have any surprises—”

  “Stop using that imperial we. I’m talking about you. You have a surprise coming.” Schroeder sat up quickly, and his eyes became more alert. “What do you mean by that? What does that mean? Listen, everything should be aboveboard if we’re going to bargain in good faith—”

  “Is Bellini acting in good faith?”

  Schroeder hesitated. This use of names by these people was unsettling. These references to him personally were not in the script.

  Hickey continued, “Where is Bellini now? Huddled around a chalk board with his Gestapo? Finding sneaky little ways to kill us all? Well, fuck Bellini and fuck you.”

  Schroeder shook his head in silent frustration, then said, “How are the hostages?” Hickey said, “Did you find Stillway yet?”

  “Do you need a doctor in there?”

  “Did you dig up my grave yet?”

  “Can I send food, medicine—?”

  “Where’s Major Martin?”

  Burke lay on the couch with his eyes closed and listened to the dialogue deteriorate into two monologues. As unproductive as the dialogue had been, it hadn’t been as bizarre as what he was listening to now. He knew now, beyond any doubt, that it was finished.

  Schroeder said, “What surprises does Flynn have planned for me?”

  Hickey laughed again. “If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise. I’ll bet when you were a child you were an insufferable brat, Schroeder. Always trying to find out what people bought you for Christmas, sneaking around closets and all that.”

  Schroeder didn’t respond and again heard the laughter from the next room.

  Hickey said, “Don’t initiate any calls to us unless it’s to say we’ve won. I’ll call you back every hour on the hour until 6:00A.M. At 6:03 it’s over.”

  Schroeder heard the phone go dead. He looked at Burke’s still form on the couch, then shut off all the speakers and dialed again. “Hickey?”

  “What?”

  Schroeder took a deep breath and said through his clenched jaw, “You’re a dead motherfucker.” He put the phone down and steadied his hands against the desk. There was a taste of blood in his mouth, and he realized that he was biting into his lower lip.

  Burke turned his head and looked at Schroeder. Their eyes met, and Schroeder turned away.

  Burke said, “It’s okay.”

  Schroeder didn’t answer, and Burke could see his shoulders shaking.

  CHAPTER 48

  Colonel Dennis Logan rode in the rear of a staff car up the deserted section of Fifth Avenue, toward the Cathedral. He turned to his adjutant, Major Cole. “Didn’t think I’d be passing this way again today.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s actually March eighteenth.”

  Colonel Logan overlooked the correction and listened to the bells play “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” then said, “Do you believe in miracles?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, see that green line?”

  “Yes, sir, the long one in the middle of the Avenue that we followed.” He yawned.

  “Right. Well, some years ago, Mayor Beame was marching in the parade with the Sixty-ninth. Police Commissioner Codd and the Commissioner for Public Events, Neil Walsh, were with him. Before your time.”

  Major Cole wished that this parade had been before his time. “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyway, it rained that morning after the line machine went by, and the fresh green paint washed away—all the way from Forty-fourth to Eighty-sixth Street. But later that morning Walsh bought some paint and had his men hand-paint the line right in front of the Cathedral.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, when we marched past with the city delegation, Walsh turns to Codd and says, ‘Look! It’s a miracle, Commissioner! The line’s still here in front of the Cathedral!’”

  Colonel Logan laughed at the happier memory and went on. “So Codd says, ‘You’re right, Walsh!’ and he winks at him, then looks at Beame. ‘Oh my gosh!’ said the little Mayor. ‘I always wanted to see a miracle. I never saw a miracle before!’” Logan laughed but refrained from slapping his or Cole’s knee. The driver laughed, too.

  Major Cole smiled. He said, “Sir, I think we’ve mustered most of the officers and at least half the men.”

  Logan lit a cigar. “Right…. Do they look sober to you?”

  “It’s hard to say, sir.”

  Logan nodded, then said, “We’re not really needed here, are we?”

  “That’s difficult to determine, Colonel.”

  “I think the Governor is looking for high marks in leadership and courage, don’t you?”

  Major Cole replied, “The regiment is well trained in crowd and riot control, sir.”

  “So are twenty-five thousand New York police.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hope to God he doesn’t get us involved in an assault on the Cathedral.”

  The major replied, “Sir,” which conveyed no meaning.

  Colonel Logan looked through the window as the car passed between a set of police barriers and moved slowly past the singing crowds. “Incredible.”

  Cole nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  The staff car drew up to the rectory and stopped.

  Captain Joe Bellini advised the newspeople that the press conference room might cave in if the Cathedral was blown up, and they moved with their equipment to less vulnerable places outside the Cathedral complex as Bellini moved in. He stood in the room beside a chalkboard. Around the tables and along the walls, were sixty Emergency Service Division men, armed with shotguns, M-16 rifles, and silenced pistols. In the rear of the room sat Colonel Logan, Major Cole, and a dozen staff personnel from the 69th Regiment. A cloud of gray tobacco smoke veiled the bright lights. Bellini pointed to a crude outline of the Cathedral on the chalkboard. “So, Fifth Squad will attack through the sacristy gates. You’ll be issued steel-cut chainsaws and bolt cutters. Okay?”

  Colonel Logan stood. “If I may make a suggestion … Before, you said your men had to control their fire…. This is your operation, and my part is secondary, but the basic rules of warfare … Well, anyway, when you encounter concealed enemy positions that have a superior field of fire—like those triforia and choir loft—and you know you can’t engage them with effective fire … then you have to lay down suppressing fire.” Logan saw some signs of recognition. “In other words you flip the switches on your M-16s from semiautomatic to full automatic—rock and roll, as the men say—and put out such an intense volume of fire that the enemy has got to put his head down. Then you can safely lead the hostages back down the sacristy stairs.”

  No one spoke, but a few men were nodding.

  Logan’s voice became more intense. He was suddenly giving a prebattle pep talk. “Keep blasting those triforia, blast that choir loft, slap magazine after magazine into those rifles, raking, raking, raking those sniper perches, blasting away so long, so loud, so fast, and
so hard that it sounds like Armageddon and the Apocalypse all at once, and no one—no one—in those perches is going to pick his head up if the air around him is filled with bullets and pulverized stone.” He looked around the silent room and listened to his heart beating.

  There was a spontaneous burst of applause from the ESD men and the military people. Captain Bellini waited until the noise died away, then said, “Yes, well, Colonel, that’s sound advice, but we’re all under the strictest orders not to blow the place apart—as you know. It’s full of art treasures…. It’s … well … you know…”

  Logan said, “Yes, I understand.” He wiped his face. “I’m not advocating air strikes. I mean, I’m only suggesting you increase your use of small-arms fire, and—”

  “Such an intense degree of even small-arms fire, Colonel, would do”—Bellini remembered the Governor’s words—“irreparable … irreparable damage to the Cathedral … the ceiling … the stonework … statues …”

  One of the squad leaders stood. “Look, Captain, since when are art treasures more important than people? My mother thinks I’m an art treasure—”

  Several people laughed nervously.

  Bellini felt the sweat collecting under his collar. He looked at Logan. “Colonel, your mission …” Bellini paused and watched Logan stiffen.

  Logan said, “My mission is to provide a tight cordon around the Cathedral during the assault. I know what I have to do.”

  Bellini almost smirked. “No, that’s been changed. The Governor wants you to take a more active part in the assault.” He savored each word as he said it. “The police will supply you with their armored personnel carrier. It’s army surplus, and you’ll be familiar with it.” Bellini noticed that Major Cole had gone pale.

  Bellini stepped closer to Logan. “You’ll take the vehicle up the front steps with fifteen men inside—”

  Logan’s voice was barely under control. “This is insane. You can’t use an armored vehicle in such a confined space. They might have armor-piercing ordnance in there. Good Lord, we couldn’t maneuver, couldn’t conceal the vehicle … These Fenians are guerrilla veterans, Captain. They know how to deal with tanks—they’ve seen more British armored cars than you’ve seen—”