Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  Roberta Spiegel, a good-looking woman in her early forties, sat back in a rocking chair and crossed her legs, looking bored, sensual, and businesslike at the same time. “Spiegel. Mayor’s aide.”

  A small man with flaming red hair, dressed in tweeds, said, “Tomas Donahue, Consul General, Irish Republic.”

  “Major Bartholomew Martin, representing Her Majesty’s government in the … absence of Sir Harold Baxter.”

  “James Kruger, CIA.”

  A muscular man with a pockmarked face said, “Douglas Hogan, FBI.”

  A rotund young man with glasses said, “Bill Voight, Governor’s office.”

  “Deputy Commissioner Rourke … Acting Police Commissioner.”

  A well-dressed man with a nasal voice said, “Arnold Sheridan, agent-in-charge, State Department Security Office, representing State.”

  “Captain Bellini, NYPD, Emergency Services Division.”

  “Inspector Philip Langley, NYPD, Intelligence Division.”

  “Burke, Intelligence.”

  Schroeder looked at Monsignor Downes, who, he realized, had not left. Schroeder considered for a moment as he sat at the man’s desk with his gold-crossed stationery stacked neatly in a corner, then smiled. “And our host, you might say, Monsignor Downes, Rector of Saint Patrick’s. Good of you to … come … and to let us use … Will you be staying?”

  Monsignor Downes nodded hesitantly.

  “Good,” said Schroeder. “Good. Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Burke, why the hell did you open negotiations? You know better than that.”

  Burke loosened his tie and sat back.

  Schroeder thought the question may have sounded rhetorical, so he pressed on. “You didn’t make any promises, did you? You didn’t say anything that might compromise—”

  “I told you what I said,” interrupted Burke.

  Schroeder stiffened. He glared at Burke and said, “Please repeat the exchange, and also tell us how he seemed—his state of mind. That sort of thing.”

  Burke repeated what he had said earlier, and added, “He seemed very self-assured. And it wasn’t bravado. He seemed intelligent, too.”

  “He didn’t seem unbalanced?” asked Schroeder.

  “His whole manner seemed normal—except for what he was saying, of course.”

  “Drugs—alcohol?” asked Schroeder.

  “Probably had less to drink today than anyone here.”

  Someone laughed.

  Schroeder turned to Langley. “We can’t get an angle on this guy unless we know his real name. Right?”

  Langley glanced at Burke, then at the Acting Commissioner. “Actually, I know who he is.”

  The room became quiet.

  Burke stole a look at Major Martin, who seemed impassive.

  Langley continued. “His name is Brian Flynn. The British will certainly have a file on him—psy-profile, that sort of thing. Maybe the CIA has something, too. His lieutenant is a man named John Hickey, thought to have died some years ago. You may have heard of him. He’s a naturalized American citizen. We and the FBI have an extensive file on Hickey.”

  The FBI man, Hogan, said, “I’ll check.”

  Kruger said, “I’ll check on Flynn.”

  Major Martin added, “Both names seem familiar. I’ll wire London.”

  Schroeder looked a bit happier. “Good. Good work. That makes my job—our jobs—a lot easier. Right?” He turned to Burke. “One more thing—did you get the impression that the woman who fired at you was shooting to kill?”

  Burke said, “I had the impression she was aiming for the horse. They probably have some discipline of firepower, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  The policemen in the room nodded. Commissioner Rourke said, “Does anybody know anything about this group—the Fenians?” He looked at Kruger and Hogan.

  Kruger glanced at Major Martin, then replied, “We have almost no funds to maintain a liaison section on Northern Irish affairs. It has been determined, you see, that the IRA poses no immediate threat to the United States, and preventive measures were not thought to be justified. Unfortunately, we are paying for that frugality now.”

  Douglas Hogan added, “The FBI thought it was the Provisional IRA until Major Martin suggested otherwise. My section, which specializes in Irish organizations in America, is understaffed and partly dependent on British Intelligence for information.”

  Burke nodded to himself. He was beginning to catch the drift. Kruger and Hogan were being petulant, taking an I-told-you-so line. They were also covering themselves, rehearsing for later testimony, and laying the groundwork for the future. Nicely done, too.

  Commissioner Rourke looked at Major Martin. “Then you are … I mean … you are not …”

  Major Martin smiled and stood. “Yes, I’m not actually with the consulate. I’m with British Military Intelligence. No use letting that get about, though.” He looked around the room, then turned to Langley. “I told Inspector Langley that something was—what is the term?—coming down. But unfortunately—”

  Langley said dryly, “Yes, the Major has been very helpful, as have the CIA and FBI. My own division did admirably too; and actually missed averting this act by only minutes. Lieutenant Burke should be commended for his resourcefulness and bravery.”

  There was a silence during which, Burke noticed, no one yelled “Hooray for Burke.” It occurred to him that each of them was identifying his own objectives, his own exposure, looking for allies, scapegoats, enemies, and trying to figure how to use this crisis to his advantage. “I told Flynn we wouldn’t keep him waiting.”

  Schroeder said, “I won’t begin a dialogue until I clarify our position.” He looked at Bill Voight, the Governor’s aide. “Has the Governor indicated that he is willing to grant immunity from prosecution?”

  Voight shook his head. “Not at this time.”

  Schroeder looked at Roberta Spiegel. “What is the Mayor’s position regarding the use of police?”

  Roberta Spiegel lit a cigarette. “No matter what kind of deal is concluded with London or Washington or anyone, the Mayor will enforce the law and order the arrest of anyone coming out of that Cathedral. If they don’t come out, the Mayor reserves the right to send the police in to get them.”

  Schroeder nodded thoughtfully, then looked at Arnold Sheridan.

  The State Department man said, “I can’t speak for the administration or State at this time, and I don’t know what the Attorney General’s position will be regarding immunity from federal prosecution. But you can assume nobody in Washington is going along with any of those demands.”

  Schroeder looked at Tomas Donahue.

  The Irish Consul General glanced at Major Martin, then said, “The Irish Republican Army is outlawed in the Irish Republic, and my government will not accept members of the IRA or offer them sanctuary in the unlikely event the British government decides to release these people.”

  Major Martin added, “Although I do not represent Her Majesty’s government, I can assure you the government’s position is as always regarding the IRA or whatever they’re calling themselves today: Never negotiate, and if you do negotiate, never concede a single point, and if you do concede a point, never tell them you’ve conceded it.”

  Roberta Spiegel said, “Now that we know what uncompromising bastards we are, let’s negotiate.”

  Commissioner Rourke said to Schroeder, “Yes, now all you have to do is talk them out, Bert. They’ve involved the Red Cross and Amnesty, so we can’t easily lie to them. You’ve got to be very … very …” He couldn’t come up with the word he wanted and turned to Captain Bellini, who had said nothing so far. “Captain, in the unlikely event Bert can’t do it, is the Emergency Services Division ready to mount an … assault?”

  Bellini shifted his massive frame in his small chair. The blue-black stubble on his face gave him a hard appearance, but the area under his eyes had gone very pale. “Yeah … yes, sir. When the time comes, we’ll be ready.”

  Sc
hroeder reached for the telephone. “Okay. I know where everyone’s coming from. Right?”

  Monsignor Downes spoke. “May I say something?”

  Everyone looked at him. Schroeder took his hand off the receiver, smiled, and nodded.

  Downes said softly, “No one has said anything about the hostages yet. Or about the Cathedral.” There was a silence in the room and Monsignor Downes went on. “If, as I assume, your first responsibility is to the hostages, and if you make this clear to your superiors and to the people inside the Cathedral, then I don’t see why a compromise can’t be worked out.” He looked around the room.

  No one took it upon himself to explain the realities of international diplomacy to the Monsignor.

  Schroeder said, “I haven’t lost a hostage—or for that matter a building—yet, Monsignor. It’s often possible to get what you want without giving anything in return.”

  “Oh … I didn’t know that,” said Monsignor Downes quietly.

  “In fact,” continued Schroeder assuringly, “the tack I am going to take is pretty much as you suggested. Stick around, you’ll see how it’s done.” He picked up the telephone and waited for the police operator at the switchboard. He looked around the room and said, “Don’t be disturbed if he seems to be winning a few rounds. You have to give them the impression they’re scoring. By sunrise he’ll tire—you ever go shark fishing? You let them run out the line until you’re ready to reel them in.” He said to the police operator, “Yes, get me the extension at the chancel organ.” He put his elbows on the desk and waited. No one in the room moved.

  CHAPTER 25

  Governor Doyle put down the telephone and looked around the crowded outer office. People were jockeying for the newly installed phones, and a cloud of blue smoke hung over the elegant furnishings, reminding him of a hotel suite on election night, and that reminded him of the next election. He spotted Mayor Kline talking to a group of city and police officials and came up behind the Mayor, taking his arm in a firm grip. “Murray, I have to speak to you.”

  The Mayor let himself be propelled by the bigger man into the hallway and up to a landing on the staircase that led to the priests’ rooms. The Mayor escaped the Governor’s grasp and said, “What is it, Bob? I have things to do.”

  “I just spoke to Albany. The main concern up there is civil disobedience.”

  “I didn’t think enough people lived in Albany to have a riot.”

  “No, here. In Manhattan. That mob outside could explode again … with all the drinking….”

  The Mayor smiled. “What makes this Saint Patrick’s night different from all other Saint Patrick’s nights?”

  “Look, Murray, this is not the time for your wisecracking. The seizure of this Cathedral may be just a prelude to a larger civil insurrection. I think you should call a curfew.”

  “Curfew? Are you crazy? Rush hour traffic is still trying to get out of Manhattan.”

  “Call it later, then.” The Governor lowered his voice. “My analysts in Albany say that the only thing keeping this situation cooled down is the sleet. When the sleet stops, the bars will empty and there could be trouble—”

  The Mayor looked incredulous. “I don’t care what your analysts in Albany say. This is Saint Patrick’s Day in New York, for God’s sake. The biggest parade in the world, outside of the May Day Parade in Moscow, has just ended. The largest single party in New York—maybe in America—is just beginning. People plan this day all year. There are over a million people in midtown alone, jammed into bars, restaurants, and house parties. More liquor and food is consumed tonight than any other night of the year. If I called a curfew … the Restaurant Owners’ Association would have me assassinated. They’d pour all the unconsumed beer into the Rockefeller Center skating rink and drown me in it. Shit, you try to enforce a curfew tonight.”

  “But—”

  “And it’s religious. What kind of an Irishman are you? That’s all we need—a Jewish Mayor calling off Saint Patrick’s Day. It’d be easier to call off Christmas. What kind of yo-yos are giving you advice in Albany? Fucking farmers?”

  The Governor began pacing around the small landing. “Okay, Murray. Take it easy.” He stopped pacing and thought a moment. “Okay, forget the curfew. But I do think you need the State Police and the National Guard to help keep order.”

  “No. No soldiers, no State Police. I have twenty thousand police—more than a full army division. Little by little we’ll get them out on the street.”

  “The Sixty-ninth Regiment is mustered and in a position to lend a hand.”

  “Mustered?” Kline laughed. “Plastered is more like it. Christ, the enlisted men got off duty from the armory at two o’clock. They’re so shitfaced by now they wouldn’t know a rifle from their bootlaces.”

  “I happen to know that the officers and most of the noncoms are at a cocktail party in the armory right now, and—”

  “What are you trying to pull?”

  “Pull?”

  “Pull.”

  The Governor coughed into his hand, then smiled good-naturedly. “All right, it’s like this—you know damned well that this is the biggest disturbance to hit New York since the blackout of ’77, and I have to show that I’m doing something.”

  “Fly to Albany. Let me run my city.”

  “Your city. It’s my state! I’m responsible to all the people.”

  “Right. Where were you when we needed money?”

  “Look … look, I don’t need your permission to call out the National Guard or the State Police.”

  “Call your Attorney General and check on that.” Mayor Kline turned and took a step toward the stairs.

  “Hold on, Murray. Listen … suppose Albany foots the bill for this operation? I mean, God, this will cost the city millions. I’ll take care of it, and I’ll get Washington to kick in a little extra. I’ll say it was an international thing, which it is—like the consulate protection money. Okay?”

  The Mayor arrested his descent down the stairs and turned back toward the Governor. He smiled encouragingly.

  The Governor went on. “I’ll pay for it all if you let me send in my people—I need to show a state presence here—you understand. Okay? Whaddaya say, Murray?”

  The Mayor said, “The money to be paid to the city within thirty days of billing.”

  “You got it.”

  “Including all overtime and regular time of all the city departments involved, including police, fire, sanitation, and other municipal departments for as long as the siege lasts, and all expenses incurred in the aftermath.”

  “All right….”

  “Including costs of repair to municipal property, and aid to private individuals and businesses who sustain a loss.”

  The Governor swallowed. “Sure.”

  “But only the Sixty-ninth Regiment. No other guard units and no State Police— my boys don’t get along with them.”

  “Let me send the State Police into the boroughs to fill the vacuum left by the reassignment to Manhattan.”

  The Mayor considered, then nodded and smiled. He stuck out his hand, and they shook on it. Mayor Kline said loudly, so that the people in the hallway below could hear, “Governor, I’d like you to call out the Sixty-ninth Regiment and the State Police.”

  Colonel Dennis Logan sat at the head table in the 69th Regiment Armory hall on Lexington Avenue. Over a hundred officers, noncommissioned officers, and civilian guests sat or stood around the big hall. The degree of intoxication ranged from almost to very. Logan himself felt a bit unsteady. The mood this year was not boisterous, Logan noticed, and there was a subdued atmosphere in the hall, a result of reports of the disturbance in midtown.

  A sergeant came toward Logan with a telephone and plugged the phone into a jack. “Colonel, the Governor is on the line.”

  Logan nodded and sat up straight. He took the receiver, glanced at Major Cole, then said, “Colonel Logan speaking, sir. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to you, Governor.”

  “I’
m afraid not, Colonel. A group of Irish revolutionaries has seized Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  The Colonel felt a heaviness in his chest, and every part of his body went damp, except his throat. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m calling the Sixty-ninth Regiment to duty.”

  Colonel Logan looked around the hall at the scene spread out before him. Most of the officers and NCOs were wobbling, a few were slumped over tables. The enlisted men were home by now or scattered throughout every bar in the metropolitan area.

  “Colonel?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Full gear, riot-control equipment, weapons with live ammunition.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Assemble outside the Cardinal’s residence on Madison for further orders. Don’t delay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is the Sixty-ninth ready, Colonel?”

  Logan started to say something rational, then cleared his throat and said, “The Fighting Irish are always ready, Governor.”

  “This is Captain Bert Schroeder of the New York Police Department.” Schroeder reached out and turned on the switches that activated the speakers in both residences.

  A voice with an Irish accent came into the room and echoed from the outer office, which quickly became still. “What took you so long?”

  Burke nodded. “That’s him.”

  Schroeder spoke softly, pleasantly, a tone designed to be soothing. “Things were a bit confused, sir. Is this—?”

  “Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenians. I told Sergeant Tezik and Lieutenant Burke I wanted to speak with a high ranking man. I’m only up to a captain now.”

  Schroeder gave his standard reply. “Everyone that you would want to speak to is present. They are listening to us from speakers. Can you hear the echo? We’ve all agreed that to avoid confusion I will do the speaking for everyone. They’ll relay messages through me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I have some experience in this.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. Are there representatives of the Irish, British, and American governments present?”