Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  Flynn said. “Yes, I see. I see that you’re a creature who draws strength from other men’s weaknesses. It’s my fault you’re here. and it’s my responsibility to see that you do no further harm.”

  “The harm is done. Had you stood up to me instead of wallowing in self-pity, you could have fulfilled your responsibility to your people, not to mention your own destiny.”

  Flynn stared at Hickey. “No matter what happens, I’ll see you don’t leave here alive.” Flynn turned and walked to the sanctuary. He stood before the high throne. “Cardinal, the police will attack anytime after 5:15. Father Murphy is in a relatively safe place—we are not, and we will most probably die.”

  Flynn watched the Cardinal’s face for a show of emotion. but there was none. He went on, “I want you to know that the people out there share in the responsibility for this. Like me they are vain, egotistical, and flawed. A rather sorry lot for products of so many thousands of years of Judeo-Christian love and charity, wouldn’t you say?”

  The Cardinal leaned forward in the throne. “That’s a question for people who are looking for a path to take them through life. Your life is over, and you’ll have all your answers very soon. Use the minutes left to you to speak to her.” He nodded toward Maureen.

  Flynn was momentarily taken aback. It was perhaps the last reply he expected from a priest. He stepped away from the throne, turned, and crossed the sanctuary.

  Maureen and Baxter remained seated, cuffed together in the first pew. Without a word Flynn unlocked the handcuffs, then spoke in a distant voice. “I’d like to put you both in a less exposed place, but that isn’t acceptable to some of the others. However, when the shooting starts, you won’t be executed, because we may repel them and we’ll need you again.” He looked at his watch and continued in a dispassionate voice. “Sometime after 5:15 you’ll see all the doors explode, followed by police rushing in. I know you are both capable of keeping a cool head. Dive between the pews behind you. As 6:03 approaches … if you’re still alive … get out of this area no matter what’s happening around you. That’s all I can do for you.”

  Maureen stood and looked at him closely. “No one asked you to do anything for us. If you want to do something for everyone, get down those stairs right now and open the gates to them. Then go into the pulpit and tell your people it’s finished. No one will stop you, Brian. I think they’re waiting to hear from you.”

  “When they open the gates of Long Kesh, I’ll open the gates here.”

  Her voice became angry. “The keys to the jails of Ulster are not in America, or in London or Dublin. They are in Ulster. Give me a year in Belfast and Londonderry, and I’ll get more people out of jail than you’ve ever had released with your kidnappings, raids, assassinations—”

  Flynn laughed. “A year? You wouldn’t last a year. If the Catholics didn’t get you, Maureen, the Prods would.”

  She drew a shallow breath and brought her voice under control. “Very well … it’s not worth going into that again. But you’ve no right to con these people into dying. Your voice can break the spell of death that hangs over this place. Go on! Do it! Now!” She swung and slapped him on the face.

  Baxter moved off to one side and looked away.

  Flynn pulled Maureen to him and said, “All night everyone’s been very good about giving me advice. It’s odd, isn’t it, how people don’t pay much attention to you until you’ve set a time bomb ticking under them?” He released her arms. “You, for instance, walked out on me four years ago without much advice for my future. All the things you’ve said to me tonight could have been said then.”

  She glanced at Baxter and felt curiously uncomfortable that he was hearing all of this. She spoke in a low voice. “I said all I had to say then. You weren’t listening.”

  “You weren’t speaking so loudly, either.”

  Flynn turned to Baxter. “And you, Harry.” He moved closer to Baxter. “Major Bartholomew Martin needed a dead Englishman in here, and you’re it.”

  Baxter considered this and accepted it in a very short time. “Yes … he’s a sick man … an obsessed man. I suppose I always suspected …”

  Flynn looked at his watch. “Excuse me, I have to speak to my people.” He turned and walked toward the pulpit.

  Maureen came up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder, turning him toward her. “Damn it, aren’t you at least going to say good-bye?”

  Flynn’s face reddened, and he seemed to lose his composure, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry … I didn’t think you … Well—good-bye, then…. We won’t speak again, will we? Good luck …” He hesitated, then leaned toward her but suddenly straightened up again.

  She started to say something, but Gallagher’s deep voice called out from the sacristy stairs, “Brian! Burke’s here to see you!”

  Flynn looked at his watch with some surprise.

  Hickey called out from the organ, “It’s a trap!”

  Flynn hesitated, then looked at Maureen. She nodded slightly. He held her eyes for a moment and said, “Still trusting.” He smiled and walked quickly around the altar and descended the stairs.

  Burke stood at the gate in his shirt-sleeves, his shoulder holster empty and his hands in his pants pockets.

  Flynn approached without caution and stood close to the gate. “Well?” Burke didn’t answer, and Flynn spoke curtly. “You’re not going to ask me to give up or— ”

  “No.”

  Flynn called up to Gallagher, “Take a break.” He turned to Burke. “Are you here to kill me?”

  Burke took his hands out of his pockets and rested them on the bars. “There’s an implied white flag here, isn’t there? Do you think I’d kill you like that?”

  “You should. You should always kill the other side’s commander when you have a chance. If you were Bellini, I’d kill you.”

  “There’re still rules.”

  “Yes, I just gave you one.”

  A few seconds passed in silence, then Flynn said, “What do you want?”

  “I just wanted to say I have no personal animosity toward you.”

  Flynn smiled. “Well, I knew that. I could see that. And I’ve none toward you, Burke. That’s the hell of it, isn’t it? I’ve no personal hatred of your people, and most of them have none toward me.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “We’re here because in 1154 Adrian the Fourth gave Henry the Second of England permission to bring his army to Ireland. We’re here because the Red Bus to Clady passes Whitehorn Abbey. That’s why I’m here. Why are you here?”

  “I was on duty at five o’clock.”

  Flynn smiled, then said, “Well, that’s damned little reason to die. I’m releasing you from your promise to join the attack. Perhaps in exchange you’ll decide to kill Martin. Martin set up poor Harry to be here—did you figure that out?”

  Burke’s face was impassive.

  Flynn glanced at his watch. 5:04. Something was wrong. “Hadn’t you better go?”

  “If you like. Also, if you’d like, I’ll stay on the phone with you until 6:03.”

  Flynn looked at Burke closely. “I want to speak to Schroeder. Send him down here.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “I want to speak to him! Now!”

  Burke answered, “No one is intimidated by your threats anymore. Least of all Bert Schroeder.” He exhaled a deep sigh. “Captain Schroeder put the muzzle of his gun in his mouth …”

  Flynn grabbed Burke’s arm. “You’re lying! I want to see his body.”

  Burke pulled away and walked down into the sacristy, then looked back toward Flynn. “I don’t know what pushed him off the edge, but I know that somehow you’re to blame.” Burke stood at the corridor opening. Barely three feet away stood a masked ESD man with a Browning automatic shotgun. Burke edged toward the opening and looked back at Flynn. He seemed to vacillate, then said, “Goodbye.”

  Flynn nodded. “I’m glad we met.”

  CHAPTER 56


  Bellini stood close to the conference table in the press room, his eyes focused on four long, unrolled sheets of blueprints, their corners weighted with coffee cups, ashtrays, and grenade canisters. Huddled around him were his squad leaders. The first three blueprints showed the basement, the main floor, and the upper levels. The fourth was a cutaway drawing of a side view of the Cathedral. Now that they were all in front of him, Bellini was unimpressed.

  Gordon Stillway was seated in front of the blueprints, rapidly explaining the preliminary details. Bellini’s brow was creased. He looked around to see if anyone was showing signs of enlightenment. All he could read in the blackened, sweaty faces was impatience, fatigue, and annoyance at the postponement.

  Burke opened the door and came into the room. Bellini glanced up and gave him a look that didn’t convey much gratitude or optimism. Burke saw Langley standing by the rear wall and joined him. They stood side by side and watched the scene at the table for a few seconds, then Burke spoke without looking away from the conference table. “Feeling better?”

  Langley’s tone was cool. “I’ve never felt better in my life.”

  “Me too.” He looked at the spot on the floor where Schroeder had fallen. “How’s Bert?”

  Langley said, “A police doctor is treating him for physical exhaustion.” Burke nodded.

  Langley let a few seconds go by. “Did Flynn buy it?”

  Burke said, “His next move may be to threaten to kill a hostage if we don’t show him Schroeder’s body … with the back of his head blown away.”

  Langley tapped the pocket that held Schroeder’s service revolver. “Well … it’s important that Flynn believes the plans he has are the plans Bellini will use….” He inclined his head toward the squad leaders. “Lots of lives depend on that….”

  Burke changed the subject. “What are you doing about arresting Martin?”

  Langley shook his head. “First of all, he’s disappeared again. He’s good at that. Secondly, I checked with the State Department joker, Sheridan, and Martin has diplomatic immunity, but they’ll consider expelling—”

  “I don’t want him expelled.”

  Langley glanced at him. “Well, it doesn’t matter because I also spoke with our FBI buddy, Hogan, and he says Martin has happily expelled himself—”

  “He’s gone?”

  “Not yet, of course. Not before the show ends. He’s booked on a Bermuda flight out of Kennedy—”

  “What time?”

  Langley gave him a sidelong glance. “Departs at 7:35. Breakfast at the Southampton Princess—forget it, Burke.”

  “Okay.”

  Langley watched the people at the conference table for a minute, then said, “Also, our CIA colleague, Kruger, says it’s their show. Nobody wants you poking around. Okay?”

  “Fine with me. Art Forgery Squad, you say?”

  Langley nodded. “Yeah, I know a guy in it. It’s the biggest fuck-off job anyone ever invented.”

  Burke made appropriate signs of attentiveness as Langley painted an idyllic picture of life in the Art Forgery Squad, but his mind was on something else.

  Gordon Stillway concluded his preliminary description and said, “Now, tell me again what precisely it is you want to know?”

  Bellini glanced at the wall clock: 5:09. He drew a deep breath. “I want to know how to get into Saint Patrick’s Cathedral without using the front door.”

  Gordon Stillway spoke and answered questions, and the mood of the ESD squad leaders went from pessimism to wary optimism.

  Bellini glanced at the bomb disposal people. Their lieutenant, Wendy Peterson, the only woman present in the room, leaned closer to the blueprint of the basement and pulled her long blond hair away from her face. Bellini watched the woman’s cold blue eyes scanning the diagram. There were seventeen men, one woman, and two dogs, Brandy and Sally, in the Bomb Squad, and Bellini knew beyond a doubt that they were all certifiable lunatics, including the dogs.

  Lieutenant Peterson turned to Stillway. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, which was a sort of trademark of this unit, thought Bellini. Peterson said, “If you wanted to plant bombs—let’s assume you didn’t have a great deal of explosives with you but you were looking for maximum effect—”

  Stillway marked two X’s on the blueprints. “Here and here. The two big columns flanking the sacristy stairs.” He paused reflectively and said, “About the time I was six years old they blasted the stairs through the foundation here and weakened the bedrock on which these columns sit. This is recorded information for anyone who cares to look it up, including the IRA.”

  Wendy Peterson nodded.

  Stillway looked at her curiously. “Are you a bomb disposal person? What kind of job is that for a woman?”

  She said, “I do a lot of needlepoint.”

  Stillway considered the statement for a second, then continued, “These columns are big, but with the type of explosives they have today, as you know, a demolition expert could bring them down, and half the Cathedral goes down with them … and God help you all if you’re in there.” He stared at Lieutenant Peterson.

  Wendy Peterson said, “I’m not interested in the explosion.”

  Stillway again considered this obscure response and saw her meaning. He said, “But I am. There are not many like me around to rebuild the place….” He let his voice trail off.

  Someone asked the question that had been on many people’s minds all night. “Can it be rebuilt?”

  Stillway nodded. “Yes, but it would probably look like the First Supernatural Bank.”

  A few men laughed, but the laughter died away quickly.

  Stillway turned his attention back to the basement plans and detailed a few other idiosyncracies on the blueprints.

  Bellini rubbed the stubble on his chin as he listened. He interrupted: “Mr. Stillway, if we were to bring an armored personnel carrier—weighing about ten tons … give or take a ton—up the front steps, through the main doors—”

  Stillway sat up. “What? Those doors are invaluable—”

  “Could the floor hold the weight?”

  Stillway tried to calm himself and thought a moment, then said reluctantly, “If you have to do something so insane … destructive … Ten tons? Yes, according to the specs the floor will hold the weight … but there’s always some question, isn’t there?”

  Bellini nodded. “Yeah…. One other thing … they said—these Fenians said— they were going to set fire to the Cathedral. We have reason to believe it may be the attic…. Is that possible … ?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well … it looks pretty solid to me—”

  “Solid wood.” He shook his head. “What bastards …” Stillway suddenly stood. “Gentlemen—Miss—” He moved through the circle of people. “Excuse me if I don’t stay to listen to you work out the details—I’m not feeling so well—but I’ll be in the next room if you need me.” He turned and left.

  The ESD squad leaders began talking among themselves. The Bomb Squad people moved to the far end of the room, and Bellini watched them huddled around Peterson. Their faces, he noted, were always expressionless, their eyes vacant. He looked at his watch. 5:15. He would need fifteen to twenty minutes to modify the attack plan. It was going to be close, but the plan that was forming in his mind was much cleaner, less likely to become a massacre. He stepped away from the squad leaders and walked up to Burke and Langley. He hesitated a second, then said, “Thanks for Stillway. Good work.”

  Langley answered, “Anytime, Joe—excuse me—Inspector. You call, we deliver— architects, lawyers, hit men, pizza—”

  Burke interrupted. “Do you feel better about this?”

  Bellini nodded. “I’ll take fewer casualties, the Cathedral has a fifty-fifty chance, but the hostages are still dead.” He paused, then said, “Do you think there’s any way to call off Logan’s armored cavalry charge up Fifth Avenue?”

  Langley shook his head. “Governor Doyle really has his heart set on that. Think of
the armored car as one of those sound trucks they use in an election campaign.”

  Bellini found a cigar stub in his pocket and lit it, then looked at his watch again. “Flynn expected to be hit soon after 5:15, and he’s probably sweating it out right now. Picture that scene—good, good. I hope the motherfucker is having the worst time of his fucking life.”

  Langley said, “If he’s not now, I expect he will be shortly.”

  “Yeah. Cocksucker.” Bellini’s mouth turned up in a vicious grin, and his eyes narrowed like little pig slits. “I hope he gets gut-shot and dies slow. I hope he pukes blood and acid and bile, until he—”

  Langley held up his hand. “Please.”

  Bellini spun around and looked at Burke. “I can’t believe Schroeder told him— ”

  Burke cut him off. “I never said that. I said I found the architect, and you should revise your attack. Captain Schroeder suffered a physical collapse. Right?”

  Bellini laughed. “Of course he collapsed. I hit him in the face. What did you expect him to do—dance?” Bellini’s expression became hard, and he made a contemptuous noise. “That cocksucker sold me out. He could have gotten a hundred men killed.”

  Burke said, “You forget about Schroeder, and I’ll forget I heard you plant the idea in your squad leaders’ heads about making a clean sweep in the Cathedral.”

  Bellini stayed quiet a minute, then said, “The attack is not going to be the way Schroeder told Flynn…. What’s going to happen to his daughter?”

  Langley took a file photo of Dan Morgan out of his pocket and laid it on a bridge table beside a snapshot of Terri O’Neal that he’d taken from Schroeder’s wallet. “This man will murder her.” He pointed to Terri O’Neal’s smiling face.

  The telephone rang, and Bellini looked at it. He said to the two men, “That’s my buddy, Murray Kline. His Honor to you.” He picked up the extension on the bridge table. “Gestapo Headquarters, Joe speaking.”

  There was a stammer on the other end, then the Mayor’s voice came on, agitated. “Joe, what time are you moving out?”

  Bellini felt a familiar heart-flutter at the sound of the military expression. Never again after today did he want to hear those words.