Cathedral (26 page)

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."

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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 Eminences 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.

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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 -as 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: Bom 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 wenvon. "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 Barleycom'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.

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"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. 1 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.

There was some laughter from the adjoining office. No one in the inner office laughed. Schroeder bit his cigar. "Mr. Hickey---2'

"What do you have for February 12, 1979? Read it to me, Schaeffer."

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Schroeder turned to the last page and read. "Died of natural causes, at home, Newark, New Jersey. Buried . . . buried in Jersey City Cemetery.

. . ."

Hickey laughed again, a high, piercing laugh. Neither man spoke for a few seconds, then Schroeder said, "Mr. Hickey, first I want to ask you if the hostages are all right.,,

"That's a stupid question. If they weren't, would I tell you?"

"But they are all right?"

"There you go again. Same stupid question," Hickey said impatiently.

"ney're fine, What did you call for?"

Schroeder said, "Lieutenant Burke is ready to bring the food you ordered.

Where-?"

"Through the sacristy."

"He'll be alone, unarmed-"

Hickey's voice was suddenly ill-tempered. "You don't have to reassure me.

For my part I'd like you to try something, because quicker than you can make it up those stairs with a chaincutter or ram, the Cardinal's brains would be running over the altar, followed by a great fucking explosion that they'd hear in the Vatican, and a fire so hot it'd melt the brass balls off Atlas. Do you understand, Schroeder?"

"Yes, sir."

"And stop calling me sir, you candy-assed flatfoot. When I was a lad, if you looked at a constable cross-eyed he'd knock you into next week. Now you're all going round calling murderers sir. No wonder they picked New York for this. Fucking cops would rather bat softballs with a bunch of slum brats than bat heads. Also, while I'm on the subject, I don't like your voice, Schroeder, You sound mealymouthed. How the hell did you get picked for this job? Your voice is all wrong."

"Yes, sir . . . Mr. Hickey. . . . What would you like me to call you .

. . T'

"Call me a son of a bitch, Schroeder, because that's what I am. Go on, you'll feel better."

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Schroeder cleared his throat. "Okay . . . you're a son of a bitch."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I'd rather be a son of a bitch than an asshole like you." He laughed and hung up.

Schroeder put down the receiver, took a long breath, and turned off the speakers. "Well . . . I think . . ." He looked down at Hickey's file.

"Very unstable. Maybe a little senile." He looked at Burke. "You don't have to go if you . . .

"Yeah. I have to go. I damn well have to go. Where's the fucking food?"

He stood.

Langley spoke. "I didn't like that part about the explosion."

Major Martin said, -rd have been surprised if they hadn't set it up with explosives. That's their specialty."

Burke moved toward the door. "The Irish specialty is bullshit." He looked at Martin. "Not subtle or sophisticated bullshit, of course, Major. Just bullshit. And if they had as much gelignite and plastic as they have bullshit, they could have blown up the solar system." He opened the door and looked back over his shoulder. "Forty-five meals. Shit, I wouldn't want to have to eat-every meal over the number of people they have in there."

Bellini called out at Burke's retreating figure. "I hope you're right, Burke. I hope to Christ you're right." He turned back to the people in the room. "He doesn't have to shoot his way in there."

Schroeder looked at Monsignor Downes, who appeared pale, then turned to Bellini and said irritably, "Damn it, Joe, stop that. No one is going to have to shoot his way into that Cathedral."

Major Martin was examining some curios on the mantelpiece. He said, as though to himself but loud enough for everyone to hear him, "I wonder."

228

Flynn stood with Maureen on the landing in front of the crypt entrance. He found a key on the ring and opened the green, glass-paneled door. Inside, a set of stairs descended into the white-marbled burial chamber. He turned to Pedar Fitzgerald. "Somewhere in there may be a hidden passage. I'll be along shortly."

Fitzgerald cradled his submachine gun under his arm and moved down the stairs. Flynn shut the door and looked at the inscription in the bronze.

Requiescant In Pace. "May they rest in peace," he said. Below the inscriptions were plaques bearing the names of the former archbishops of New York who were buried in the crypt. He turned to Maureen. "You remember how frightened we were to go down into Whitehorn Abbey's crypt?"

She nodded. "There have been too many graves in our lives, Brian, and too much running. God, look at you. You look ten years older than your age."

"Do I? Well . . . that's not just from the running. That's partly from not running fast enough." He paused, then added, "I was caught."

She turned her head toward him. "Oh . . . I didn't know."

"It was kept quiet. Major Martin. Remember the name?"

"Of course. He contacted me once, right after I'd gone to Dublin. He wanted to know where you were. He said it would go easier on Sheila . . . and he said they would cancel the warrant for my arrest . . . Pleasant sort of 229

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chap, actually, but you knew he'd pull your fingernails out if he had you in Belfast."

Flynn smiled. "And what did you tell this pleasant chap?"

"I would have told him to go to hell except I thought he might actually go and find you there. So I told him to fuck off.,, Flynn smiled again, but his eyes were appraising her thoughtfully.

She read the expression in his face. "I want you to understand that I never turned informer. Traitor, if you like, but never informer."

He nodded. "I believe you. If I didn't, I'd have killed you long ago."

"Would you?"

He changed the subject. "You're going to get people hurt if you try to escape again."

She didn't respond.

Flynn took a key from his pocket and held it out. "This is the key to the padlock on that chain. I'll open it now, and you can go."

"Not without the others."

"But you'd try to escape without the others."

"That's different."

He smiled and kept the key in front of her. "Ah, you're still a street fighter, Maureen. You understand that there's a price to pay-in advance-for a bit of freedom. Most men and women in this world would leave here quickly through the offered gate, and they wouldn't even entertain the thought of escaping with bullets whistling about their pars. You see, your values and requirements are reversed from ordinary people's. We changed you forever in those years we had you."

She remembered the way he had of interpreting for her all of her motives and actions, and how he had once had her so confused about who and what she was that she'd fallen into his power, willingly and gladly. She looked at him. "Shut UP.

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Flynn hesitated, then pocketed the key and shifted to another topic. "I chatted with the Cardinal. He believes in the ring, you know. You didn't believe because you thought that as a halfhearted Christian you shouldn't.

But His Eminence is about as good a Christian as they make, you'll agree, and for that reason he believes."

She looked at the crypt door. "I never said I didn't believe in such things. I told you in Whitehorn Abbey on the evening I left that I couldn't understand why any powergood or evil-would pick you as their mortal emissary."

He laughed. "That's a terrible thing to say. You're a master of the low blow, Maureen. You'd be a bitch except you've got a good heart." He moved closer to her. "How do you explain the fact of Father Donnelly's disappearance? I've searched for that man-if man he was--over these past years, and no one has even heard of him."

She stared through a glass pane into the white, luminescent crypt and shook her head.

Flynn watched her, then put a different tone in his voice and took her arm in a firm grip. "Before I forget, let me give you one good piece of advice-don't provoke Megan."