Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  Devane and Mullins had the nicest views, Gallagher thought, but it was probably cold up there. Megan, Hickey, and Flynn floated around like nervous hosts and hostess before a party, checking on the seating and ambience.

  Frank Gallagher removed the silk parade marshal’s sash and dropped it on the floor. He sighted his rifle at the choir loft, and Leary came into focus. He quickly put the rifle down. You didn’t point a rifle at Leary. You didn’t do anything to, with, or for Leary. You just avoided Leary like you avoided dark alleys and contagion wards.

  Gallagher looked down at the hostages. His orders were simple. If they leave the sanctuary, unescorted, shoot them. He stared at the Cardinal. Somehow Frank Gallagher had to square this thing he was doing, square it with the Cardinal or his own priest later—later, when it was over, and people saw what a fine thing they had done.

  CHAPTER 19

  Maureen watched Flynn as he moved about the Cathedral. He moved with a sense of purpose and animation that she recognized, and she knew he was feeling very alive and very good about himself. She watched the Cardinal sitting directly across from her. She envied him for what she knew was his absolute confidence in his position, his unerring belief that he was a blameless victim, a potential martyr. But for herself, and perhaps for Baxter, there was some guilt, and some misgivings, about their roles. And those feelings could work to undermine their ability to resist the pressures that the coming hours or days would bring.

  She glanced quickly around at the triforia and choir loft. Well done, Brian, but you’re short of troops. She tried to remember the faces of the people she had seen close in, and was fairly certain that she didn’t know any of them except Gallagher and Devane. Megan and Pedar Fitzgerald she knew of through their brother, Tommy. What had become of all the people she once called sisters and brothers? The camps or the grave. These were their relatives, recruited in that endless cycle of blood vengeance that characterized the Irish war. With that kind of perpetual vendetta she couldn’t see how it would end until they were all dead.

  She spoke to Baxter. “If we run quickly to the south transept doors, we could be in the vestibule, hidden from the snipers, before they reacted. I can disarm almost any mine in a few seconds. We’d be through the outer door and into the street before anyone reached the vestibule.”

  Baxter looked at her. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about getting out of here alive.”

  “Look up there. Five snipers. And how can we run off and leave the Cardinal and Father Murphy?”

  “They can come with us.”

  “Are you mad? I won’t hear of it.”

  “I’ll do what I damned well please.”

  He saw her body tense and reached out and held her arm. “No, you don’t. Listen here, we have a chance to be released if—”

  “No chance at all. From what I picked up of their conversation, they are going to demand the release of prisoners in internment. Do you think your government will agree to that?”

  “I’m … I’m sure something will be worked out …”

  “Bloody stupid diplomat. I know these people better than you do, and I know your government’s position on Irish terrorists. No negotiation. End of discussion.”

  “… but we have to wait for the right moment. We need a plan.”

  She tried to pull her arm away, but he held it tightly. She said, “I wish I had a shilling for every prisoner who stood in front of a firing squad because he waited for the right moment to make a break. The right moment, according to your own soldier’s manual, is as soon after capture as possible. Before the enemy settles down, before they get their bearings. We’ve already waited too long. Let go of me.”

  “No. Let me think of something—something less suicidal.”

  “Listen to me, Baxter—we’re not physically bound in any way yet. We must act now. You and I are as good as dead. The Cardinal and the priest may be spared. We won’t be.”

  Baxter took a long breath, then said, “Well … it may be that I’m as good as dead … but don’t you know this fellow, Flynn? Weren’t you in the IRA together … ?”

  “We were lovers. That’s another reason I won’t stay here at his mercy for one more second.”

  “I see. Well, if you want to commit suicide, that’s one thing. But don’t tell me you’re trying to escape. And don’t expect me to get myself killed with you.”

  “You’ll wish later you’d taken a quick bullet.”

  He spoke evenly. “If an opportunity presents itself, I will try to escape.” He paused. “If not, then when the time comes I’ll die with some dignity, I hope.”

  “I hope so, too. You can let go of my arm now. I’ll wait. But if we’re bound or thrown into the crypt or something like that—then, as you’re thrashing about with two shattered kneecaps, you can think about how we could have run. That’s how they do it, you know. They kneecap you hours before they shoot you in the heart.”

  Baxter drew a deep breath. “I suppose I lack a sufficiently vivid imagination to be frightened enough to try anything…. But you’re supplying me with the necessary picture.” He took his hand away from hers and sat watching her out of the corner of his eyes, but she seemed content to sit there. “Steady.”

  “Oh, take your bloody British steady and shove it.”

  Baxter remembered her bravery on the steps and realized that part of that, consciously or unconsciously, was for him, or more accurately, what he represented. He realized also that her survival was to some extent in his hands. As for himself, he felt indignant over his present position but felt no loss of dignity. The distinction was not a small one and would determine how each of them would react to their captivity, and if they were to die, how they would die. He said, “Whenever you’re ready … I’m with you.”

  Pedar Fitzgerald looked up the right-hand stairs as his sister came down toward him. He stood and cradled the Thompson submachine gun under his arm. “How’s it going, Megan?”

  “Everything’s set but the bombs.” She looked down the stairs through the gate into the empty sacristy. “Any movement?”

  “No. Things are quiet.” He forced a smile. “Maybe they don’t know we’re here.”

  She smiled back. “Oh, they know. They know, Pedar.” She drew her pistol and descended the stairs, then examined the lock and chain on the gates. She listened, trying to hear a sound from the four side corridors that led into the sacristy. Something moved, someone coughed quietly. She turned and said to her brother in a loud voice, “When you shoot, boys, shoot between the bars. Don’t damage the lock and chain. Those Thompsons can get away from you.”

  Pedar smiled. “We’ve handled them enough times.”

  She winked at him and climbed back up the stairs, sticking the pistol in the waistband of her jeans. She moved close to him and touched his cheek lightly. “We’re putting all we’ve got on this, Pedar. Tommy is in for life. We could be dead or in an American prison for life. Mum is near dead for worry. None of us will see each other again if this goes badly.”

  Pedar Fitzgerald felt tears forming in his eyes but fought them back. He found his voice and said, “We’ve all put everything on Brian, Megan. Do you … do you trust him … ? Can he do it, then?”

  Megan Fitzgerald looked into her brother’s eyes. “If he can’t and we see he can’t, then … you and I, Pedar … we’ll take over. The family comes first.” She turned and climbed up to the sanctuary, came around the altar, and looked at Maureen sitting in the pew. Their eyes met and neither looked away.

  Flynn watched from the ambulatory, then called out, “Megan. Come take a walk with us.”

  Megan Fitzgerald turned away from Maureen and joined Flynn and Hickey as they began walking up the center aisle. “There are people in the sacristy corridors,” she said.

  Flynn nodded as he walked. “They won’t do anything until they’ve established who we are and what we want. We’ve a little time yet.”

  When they reached the fron
t door, Flynn ran his hands over the cold bronze ceremonial doors. “Magnificent. I’d like to take one with me.” He examined the mines, then turned back and motioned around the Cathedral. “We’ve set up a perfect and very deadly cross fire from five long, concealed perches protected by stone parapets. As long as we hold the high spots we can dominate the Cathedral. But if we lose the high ground and the fight takes place on the floor, it will be very difficult.”

  Hickey relit his pipe. “As long as there’s no fighting in the bookstore.”

  Megan looked at him. “I hope you keep your sense of humor when the bullets start ripping through the smoke around your face.”

  He blew smoke toward her. “Lass, I’ve been shot at more times than you’ve had your period.”

  Flynn interrupted. “If you were a police commander, John, what would you do?”

  Hickey thought a moment, then said, “I’d do what the British Army did in downtown Dublin in 1916. I’d call in the artillery and level the fucking place. Then I’d offer surrender terms.”

  “But this is not Dublin, 1916,” said Flynn. “I think the people out there have to act with great restraint.”

  “You may call it restraint, I’d call it cunning. They’ll eventually have to attack when they see we won’t be talked out. But they’ll do it without the big guns. More tactics, less gunpowder—gas, helicopters, concussion grenades that don’t damage property. There’s a lot available to them today.” He looked around. “But we may be able to hold on.”

  Megan said, “We will hold on.”

  Flynn added, “We have gas masks, incidentally.”

  “Do you, now? You’re a very thorough man, Brian. The old IRA was always going off half-cocked to try to grab the British lion’s balls. And the lion loved it— loved feasting on IRA.” He looked up at the triforia, then down at the deserted main floor. “Too bad, though, you couldn’t find more men—”

  Flynn interrupted. “They’re a good lot. Each of them is worth twenty of the old-type ruffians.”

  “Are they, then? Even the women?”

  Megan stiffened and started to speak.

  Flynn interjected, “Nothing wrong with women, you old bastard. I’ve learned that over the years. They’re steady. Loyal.”

  Hickey glanced at the sanctuary where Maureen sat, then made an exaggerated pretense of looking away quickly. “I suppose many of them are.” He sat at the edge of a pew and yawned. “Tiring business. Megan, lass, I hope you didn’t think I included you when I spoke about women.”

  “Oh, go to hell.” She turned and walked away.

  Flynn let out a long breath of annoyance. “Why are you provoking her?”

  Hickey watched her walk toward the altar. “Cold, cold. Must be like fucking a wooden icebox.”

  “Look, John—”

  The telephone on the chancel organ beside the altar rang loudly, and everyone turned toward it.

  CHAPTER 20

  Brian Flynn put his hand on the ringing phone and looked at Hickey. “I was beginning to believe no one cared—one hears such stories about New York indifference.”

  Hickey laughed. “I can’t think of a worse nightmare for an Irish revolutionary than to be ignored. Answer it, and if it’s someone wanting to sell aluminum siding for the rectory, I suggest we just go home.”

  Flynn drew a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “MacCumail here.”

  There was a short silence, then a man’s voice said, “Who?”

  “This is Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenians. Who is this?”

  The voice hesitated for a moment, then the man said, “This is Police Sergeant Tezik. Tactical Patrol Unit. I’m calling from the rectory. What the hell is going on in there?”

  “Not much of anything at the moment.”

  “Why are the doors locked?”

  “Because there are mines attached to each one. It’s for your own protection, actually.”

  “Why … ?”

  “Listen, Sergeant Tezik, and listen very closely. We have four hostages in here— Father Timothy Murphy, Maureen Malone, Sir Harold Baxter, and the Cardinal himself. If the police try to force their way in, the mines will explode, and if they keep coming, the hostages will be shot and the Cathedral will be set afire. Do you understand?”

  “Jesus Christ …”

  “Get this message to your superiors quickly, and get a ranking man on the phone. Be quick about it, Sergeant Tezik.”

  “Yeah … all right…. Listen, everything’s pretty screwed up here, so just take it easy. As soon as we get things sorted out, we’ll have a police official on the phone with you. Okay?”

  “Make it quick. And no nonsense or there will be a great number of dead people you’ll have to answer for. No helicopters in the area. No armored vehicles on the streets. I have men in the towers with rockets and rifles. I’ve got a gun pointed at the Cardinal’s head right now.”

  “Okay—take it easy. Don’t—”

  Flynn hung up and turned to Hickey and Megan, who had joined them. “A TPU sergeant—spiritual kin to the RUCs and the Gestapo. I didn’t like the tone of his voice.”

  Hickey nodded. “It’s their height. Gives them a sense of superiority.” He smiled. “Easier targets, though.”

  Flynn looked at the doors. “We caused a bit too much confusion. I hope they reestablish some chain of command before the hotheaded types start acting. The next few minutes are going to be critical.”

  Megan turned to Hickey and spoke quickly. “Do you want Sullivan to help you place the bombs?”

  “Megan, love, I want you to help me. Run along and get what we need.” He waited until Megan left, then turned to Flynn. “We have to make a decision now about the hostages—a decision about who kills which one.”

  Flynn looked at the Cardinal sitting straight on his throne, looking every inch a Prince of the Church. He knew it wasn’t vanity or affectation he was observing but a product of two thousand years of history, ceremony, and training. The Cardinal would be not only a difficult hostage but a difficult man to make a corpse of. He said to Hickey, “It would be a hard man who could put a bullet into him.”

  Hickey’s eyes, which normally twinkled with an old man’s mischief, turned narrow and malevolent. “Well, I’ll do him, if”—Hickey inclined his head toward Maureen— “if you’ll do her.”

  Flynn glanced at Maureen sitting in the clergy pews between Baxter and Father Murphy. He hesitated, then said, “Yes, all right. Go on and plant the bombs.”

  Hickey ignored him. “As for Baxter, anyone will kill him. You tell Megan to do the priest. The little bitch should draw her first blood the hard way—not with Maureen.”

  Flynn looked at Hickey closely. It was becoming apparent that Hickey was obsessed with taking as many people with him as possible. “Yes,” he said, “that seems the way to handle it.” He looked out over the vast expanse around him and said, more to himself than to Hickey, “God, how did we get in this place, and how can we get out?”

  Hickey took Flynn’s arm and pressed it tightly. “Funny, that’s almost exactly what Padraic Pearse said when his men seized the General Post Office in Dublin, Easter Monday. I remember it very clearly. The answer then, as it is now, is that you got in with luck and blarney, but you’ll not get out alive….” He released Flynn’s arm and slapped him on the back. “Cheer up, lad, we’ll take a good number of them with us, like we did in 1916. Burn this place down while we’re about it. Blow it up, too, if we get those bombs in place.”

  Flynn stared at Hickey. He might have to kill Hickey before Hickey got them all killed.

  Megan Fitzgerald mounted the sanctuary, carrying two suitcases. She walked rapidly to the right side of the high altar, and placed them beside a bronze plate set into the marble floor, then lifted the plate. John Hickey came up beside her and picked up the suitcases. “Go on.”

  Megan descended a shaky metal ladder, found a light chain, and pulled it. Hickey climbed down and handed the suitcases to Megan, who placed them gently
on the floor. They examined the unevenly excavated crawl space. Building rubble, pipes, and ducts nearly filled the space around them, and it was difficult to move or to see clearly. Megan called out, “Here’s the outer wall of the crypt.”

  Hickey called back, “Yes, and here’s the wall of the staircase that continues down into the sacristy. Come along.” Hickey turned on a flashlight and probed the area to his front as he moved, dragging one of the suitcases behind him.

  They followed a parallel course to the descending staircase wall, hunching lower as they progressed. The dirt floor turned to Manhattan bedrock, and Hickey called out, “I see it up ahead.” He crawled to a protruding mound from which rose the footing of a massive column. “Here it is. Come closer.” He played the light around the dark spaces. “See? Here’s where they cut through the old foundation and footing to let the sacristy stairs pass through. If we dug down farther, we’d find the sacristy’s subbasement. It’s somewhat like the layout of a modern split-level home.”

  Megan was skeptical. “Damned confusing sort of place. The fire in the attic is much surer.”

  “Don’t be getting cold feet, now, Megan. I’ll not blow you up.”

  “I’m only concerned with placing them properly.”

  “Of course.” Hickey ran his hand over the column. “Now the story is that when they blasted the new stairs through the foundation in 1904 they weakened these flanking columns. In architectural terms, they’re under stress. The old boy whose father worked on the blasting told me that the Irish laborers believed only God Almighty kept the whole place from collapsing when they set the dynamite. But God Almighty doesn’t live here anymore, so when we plant this plastic and it blows, nothing will hold up the roof.”

  “And if it does hold up, will you be a believer then?”