Cathedral (39 page)

Burke looked at Flynn closely. He appeared tired, perhaps even sad.

Flynn took out the microphone detector and passed it over the television.

"We're both suspicious men by temperament and by profession. God, it's lonely though, isn't it?"

"Why the sudden melancholy?"

Flynn shook his head slowly. "I keep thinking this won't end well."

"I can almost guarantee you it won't."

Flynn smiled. "You're a welcome relief from that ass Schroeder. You don't bother me with sweet talk or with talk of giving up."

"Well, now, I hate to say this after that compliment, but you should give it up."

"I can't, even if I wanted to. This machine I've put together has no real head, no real brain. But it has many killing appendages . . . inside and outside the Cathedral, each spring-loaded to act or react under certain conditions. I'm no more than the creator of this thing-standing outside the organism. . . . I suppose I speak for it, but not from it. You understand?"

"Yes." Burke couldn't tell if this pessimism was con-330

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trived. Flynn was a good actor whose every line was designed to create an illusion, to produce a desired response.

Flynn nodded and leaned heavily against the bars.

Burke had the impression that Flynn was fighting some inner struggle that was taking a great deal out of him.

After a time Flynn said, "Well, anyway, here's what I wanted to speak to you about. Hickey and I have concluded that Martin's abducted the resident architect of Saint Patrick's. Why, you ask? So that you can't plan or mount a successful attack against us."

Burke considered the statement. There'd certainly be more optimism in the rectory and Cardinal's residence if Gordon Stillway was poring over the blueprints with Bellini right now. Burke tried to put it together in his mind. The Fenians had missed Stillway; that was obvious by now. Maureen Malone wouldn't have found an unsecured passage if Stillway was in there, because Stillway, no matter how brave a man he might be, would have been spilling it all out after fifteen minutes with this bunch.

And it wasn't too difficult to believe that Major Martin had anticipated Stillway's importance and snatched him before the Fenians could get to him. But to believe all that, you had to believe some very nasty and cold-blooded things about Major Martin.

Flynn broke the silence. "Are you seeing it now? Martin doesn't want the police to move too fast. He wants to drag this out-he wants the dawn deadline to approach. He's probably already suggested that you'll get an extension of the deadline, hasn't he?"

Burke said nothing.

Flynn leaned closer. "And without a firm plan of attack you're ready to believe him. But let me tell you, at 6:03 A.M. this Cathedral is no more.

If you attack, your people will be ripped up very badly. The only way this can end without bloodshed is on my terms. You believe that we've beaten you. So swallow all that goddamned Normandy Beach-Iwo Jima pride and tell the stupid bastards out there that it's finished and let's all go home."

"They won't listen to that."

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"Make them listen!"

Burke said, "To the people out there the Fenians are no more the peers of the police and government than the New York street gang that calls itself the Pagans. They can't deal with you, Flynn. They're bound by law to arrest you and throw you in the slarnmer with the muggers and rapists, because that's all terrorists are-muggers, murderers, and rapists on a somewhat larger scale-"

"Shut up!"

Neither man spoke, then Burke said in a gentler tone, "I'm telling you what their position is. I'm telling you what Schroeder won't tell you.

It's true we've lost, but it's also true we won't-can't-surrender. You could surrender . . . honorably . . . negotiate the best terms possible, lay down your guns-"

"No. Not one person in here can accept anything less than we've asked for."

Burke nodded. "All right. I'll pass it on. . . . Maybe we can still work something out that will save you and your people and the hostages and the Cathedral. . . . But the people in internment He shook his head. "London would never . . ."

Flynn also shook his head. "All or nothing."

Both men lapsed into a silence, each aware that he had said more than he'd intended. Each was aware, too, that he had lost something that had been building between them.

Pedar Fitzgerald's voice came down the stairs. "Father Murphy."

Flynn turned and called back. "Send him down."

The priest walked unsteadily down the marble staircase, supporting his large frame on the brass rail. He smiled through the face bandages and spoke in a muffled voice. "Patrick, good to see you." He put his hand through the bars.

Burke took the priest's hand. "Are you all right?"

Murphy nodded. "Close call. But the Lord doesn't want me yet."

Burke released the priest's hand and withdrew his own.

Flynn put his hand to the bars. "Let me have it."

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Burke opened his hand, and Flynn snatched a scrap of paper from him.

Flynn unfolded the paper and read the words written in pencil. Hickey sent last message on confessional buzzer. There followed a fairly accurate appraisal of the Cathedral's defenses. Flynn frowned at the first sentence: Hickey sent last message . . . What did that mean?

Flynn pocketed the paper and looked up. There was no anger in his voice.

"I'm proud of these people, Burke. They've shown some spirit. Even the two holy men have kept us on our toes, I'll tell you."

I Burke turned to Murphy. "Do any of you need a doctor?"

Murphy shook his head. "No. We're a bit lame, but there's nothing a doctor can do. We'll be all right."

Flynn said, "That's all, Father. Go back with the others."

Murphy hesitated and looked around. He glanced at the chain and padlock, then looked at Flynn, who stood as tall as he but was not as heavy.

Flynn sensed the danger and moved back. His right hand stayed at his side, but the position of his fingers suggested he was ready to go for his pistol. "I've been knocked about by priests before, and I owe you all a few knocks in return. Don't give me cause. Leave."

Murphy nodded, turned, and mounted the steps. He called back over his shoulder, "Pat, tell them out there we're not afraid."

Burke said, "They know that, Father."

Murphy stood at the crypt door for a few seconds, then turned and disappeared around the turn in the staircase.

Flynn put his hands in his pockets. He looked down at the floor, then lifted his head slowly until he met Burke's eyes. He spoke without a trace of ruthlessness. "Promise me something, Lieutenant-promise me one thing tonight . . . ...

Burke waited.

"Promise me this-that if they attack, you'll be with them."

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"What-?"

Flynn went on. "Because, you see, if you know you're not involved on that level, then subconsciously you'll not see things you should see, you'll not say things you should say out there. And you'll not live so easily with yourself afterward. You know what I mean."

Burke felt his mouth becoming dry. He thought of Schroeder's foolishness.

It was a bad night for rear-echelon people. The front line was moving closer. He looked up at Flynn and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Flynn acknowledged the agreement without speaking. He looked away from Burke and said, "Don't leave the rectory again."

Burke didn't reply.

"Stay close. Stay close especially as the dawn approaches."

"I will."

Flynn looked past Burke into the sacristy and focused on the priests'

altar in the small chapel at the rear that was directly below the Lady Chapel altar. There were arched Gothic windows behind this altar also, but these subterranean windows with soft artificial lighting behind them, eastward-facing windows, were suffused with a perpetual false dawn. He kept staring at them and spoke softly, "I've spent a good deal of my life working in the hours of darkncss, but I've never been so frightened of seeing the sunrise."

"I know how you feel."

"Good. . . . Are they frightened out there?"

"I think they are."

Flynn nodded slowly. "I'm glad. It's not good to be frightened alone."

'No.

Flynn said, "Someday-if there's a day after this oneI'll tell you a story about Whitehorn Abbey-and this ring." He tapped it against the bars.

Burke looked at the ring; he suspected it was some sort of talisman.

There always seemed to be magic involved

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when he dealt with people who lived so close to death, especially the Irish. Flynn looked down at the floor. "I may see you later." Burke nodded and walked down the steps.

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Brian Flynn stood beside the curtain entrance to the confessional and looked at the small white button on the jamb. Hickey sent last message .

. . Flynn turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

Hickey stopped and looked at his watch. "Time to meet the press, Brian."

He looked at Hickey. "Tell me about this buzzer."

Hickey glanced at the confessional. "Oh, that. There's nothing to tell.

I caught Murphy trying to send a signal on it while he was confessing-can you imagine such a thing from a priest, Brian? Anyway, I think this is a call buzzer to the rectory. So I sent a few choice words,.the likes of which they've never beard in the good fathers' dormitory." He laughed.

Flynn forced a smile in return, but Hickey's explanation raised more questions than it answered. Hickey sent last message . . . Who sent the previous message or messages? He said, "You should have kept me informed."

"Ah, Brian, the burdens of command are so heavy that you can't be bothered with every small detail."

"Just the same-" He looked at Hickey's chalk-white face and saw the genial twinkle in his eyes turn to a steady burning stare of unmistakable meaning. He imagined he even heard a voice: Don't go any further. He turned away.

Hickey smiled and tapped his watch. "Time to go give them hell, lad."

Flynn made no move toward the elevator. He knew he had reached a turning point in his relationship with John

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Hickey. A tremor passed down his, spine, and a sense of fear came over him unlike any normal fear he had ever felt. What have I unleashed?

Hickey turned into the archway beside the confessional, passing into the hallway of the bride's room. He stopped in front of the oak elevator door and turned off the alarm. Slowly he began to deactivate the mine.

Flynn came up behind him.

Hickey neutralized the mine. "There we are. . . . set it again after you've gone down." He opened the oak door, revealing the sliding doors of the elevator.

Flynn moved closer.

Hickey said, "When you come back, knock on the oak door. Three long, two short. I'll know it's you, and I'll defuse the mine again." He looked up at Flynn. "Good luck."

Flynn stepped closer and stared at the gray elevator doors, then at the mine hanging from the half-opened oak door. I'll know it's you, and I'll defuse the mine. . . . He looked into Hickey's eyes and said, "I've got a better idea."

Inspector Langley and Roberta Spiegel waited in the brightly lit hallway of the subbasement. With them were Emergency Service police and three intelligence officers. Langley checked his watch. Past ten. He put his ear to the elevator doors. He heard nothing and straightened up.

Roberta Spiegel said, "This bastard has all three networks and every local station waiting for him. Mussolini complex-keep them waiting until they're delirious with anticipation."

Langley nodded, realizing that was exactly how he felt waiting for Brian Flynn to step out of the gray doors.

Suddenly the noise of the elevator motor broke into the stillness of the corridor. The elevator grew louder as it descended from the hallway of the bride's room into the subbasement. The doors began to slide open.

Langley, the three ID men, and the police unconsciously straightened their postures. Roberta Spiegel put her hand to her hair. She felt her heart in her chest.

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The door opened, revealing not Brian Flynn but John Hickey. He stepped into the hall and smiled. "Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenians, sends his respects and regrets." Hickey looked around, then continued. "My chief is a suspicious man-which is why he's stayed alive so long. He had, I believe, a premonition about exposing himself to the dangers inherent in such a situation." He looked at Langley. "He is a thoughtful man who didn't want to place such temptation in front of you-or your British allies. So he sent me, his loyal lieutenant."

Langley found it hard to believe that Flynn was afraid of a trap-not with four hostages to guarantee his safety. Langley said, "You're John Hickey, of course."

Hickey bowed formally. "No objections, I trust."

Langley shrugged. "It's your show."

Hickey smiled. "So it is. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Inspector Langley."

"Ah, yes. . . . And the lady?" He looked at Spiegel.

Spiegel said, "My name is Roberta Spiegel. I'm with the Mayor's office."

Hickey bowed again and took her hand. "Yes. I heard you on the radio once. You're much more beautiful than I pictured you from your voice."

He made a gesture of apology. "Please don't take that the wrong way."

Spiegel withdrew her hand and stood silent. She had the unfamiliar experience of being at a loss for a reply.

Langley said, "Let's go.,'

Hickey ignored him and called down the corridor, "And these gentlemen?"

He walked up to a tall ESD man and read his name tag. "Gilhooly." He took the man's hand and pumped it. "I love the melody of the Gaelic names with the softer sounds. I knew Gilhoolys in Tullamore."

The patrolman looked uncomfortable. Hickey walked up and down the hallway shaking each man's hand and calling him by name.

Langley exchanged looks with Spiegel. Langley whispered, "He makes Mussolini look like a tongue-tied schoolboy."