Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  Spiegel slammed her hand on the desk. “They know that, damn it! That’s why they’ve given us no time. Blitzkrieg, Schroeder, blitzkrieg. Lightning war. You know the word. They’re not hanging around while we get our act together. Dawn or dead. That’s the truest thing anyone’s said all night.”

  Schroeder tried to control his voice. “Miss Spiegel … you see, I’ve had many years … let me explain. We are at a psychological disadvantage because of the hostages…. But put yourself in the Cathedral. Think of the disadvantages they must overcome. They don’t want to die—no matter what they pretend to the contrary. That and that alone is the bottom line of their thinking. And the hostages are keeping them alive—therefore, they won’t kill the hostages. Therefore, at dawn nothing will happen. Nothing. It never does. Never.”

  Spiegel let out a long breath. She turned toward Langley and reached out not for another cigarette but for his pistol. She pulled it from his shoulder holster and turned to Schroeder. “See this? Men used to settle their arguments with this.” She looked closely at the blue-black metal and continued. “We’re supposed to be beyond that now, but I’ll tell you something. There’s more of this in the world than there are hostage negotiators. I’ll tell you something else—I’d rather send Bellini in with his guns than wait around with my finger up my ass to see what happens at dawn.” She dropped the pistol to her side and leaned over the desk. “If you can’t get a firm extension of the dawn deadline, then we go in while we still have the cover of darkness—before that self-destruct response levels this block.”

  Schroeder sat motionless. “There is no self-destruct response.”

  Spiegel said, “God, I wish I had your nerves—it is nerves, isn’t it?” She tossed the revolver back to Langley.

  Langley holstered the gun. He looked at Spiegel. She got away with a great deal—the cigarettes, then the gun. She relieved him of his possessions with a very cavalier attitude. But maybe, he thought, it was just as well she didn’t observe the cautious etiquette that men did in these situations.

  Roberta Spiegel moved away and looked at the two police officers. “If you want to know what’s really happening around you, don’t listen to those politicians out there. Listen to Brian Flynn and John Hickey.” She looked at a large wooden crucifix over Schroeder’s head and then out through the window at the Cathedral. “If Flynn or Hickey say dawn or dead, they mean dawn or dead. Understand who you’re dealing with.”

  Schroeder nodded, almost imperceptibly. For a split second he had seen the face of the enemy, but it disappeared again just as quickly.

  There was a long silence in the room, then Spiegel continued softly, “They can sense our fear … smell it. They also sense that we’re not going to give them what they want.” She looked at Schroeder. “I wish the people out there could give you the kind of direction you should have. But they’ve confused your job with theirs. They expect miracles from you, and you’re starting to believe you can deliver them. You can’t. Only Joe Bellini can deliver them a miracle—a military miracle—none killed, no wounded, no damage. Bellini is looking better to the people out there. They’re losing faith in the long hard road that you represent. They’re fantasizing about a glorious successful military solution. So while you’re stalling the Fenians, don’t forget to stall the people in the other rooms, too.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Flynn and Hickey played the organs, and George Sullivan played the pipes. Eamon Farrell, Frank Gallagher, and Abby Boland sang “My Wild Irish Rose.” In the attic Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty lay huddled together on a catwalk above the choir loft. The pipes of the great organ reverberated through the board on which they lay. Pedar Fitzgerald sat with his back against the crypt door. He half closed his tired eyes and hummed.

  Flynn felt the lessening of the tensions as people lost themselves in reveries. He could sense a dozen minds escaping the cold stone fortress. He glanced at Megan and Leary. Even they seemed subdued as they sat on the choir parapet, their backs to the Cathedral, drinking tea and sharing a cigarette. Flynn turned away from them and lost himself in the thunderous organ.

  Father Murphy knelt motionless before the high altar. He glanced at his watch.

  Harold Baxter paced across the sanctuary floor, trying to appear restless while his eyes darted around the Cathedral. He looked at his watch. No reason, he thought, to wait the remaining minutes. They might never get an opportunity as good as this. As he passed by Father Murphy, he said, “Thirty seconds.”

  Maureen lay curled up on a pew, her face buried in her arms. One eye peered out, and she saw Baxter nod to her.

  Baxter turned and walked back toward the throne. He passed close to the Cardinal and said, “Now.”

  The Cardinal stood, came down from the throne, and walked to the communion rail. He opened the gate and strode swiftly down the center aisle.

  Father Murphy heard Baxter say, “Go.” Murphy made the sign of the cross, rose quickly, and moved toward the side of the altar.

  Flynn watched the movements on the sanctuary in the organ mirror as he played. He continued to play the lilting melody as he called out to Leary. “Turn around.”

  Leary and Megan both jumped down from the parapet and spun around. Leary raised his rifle.

  Hickey’s organ stopped, and Flynn’s organ died away on a long, lingering note. The singing stopped, and the Cathedral fell silent, all eyes on the Cardinal. Flynn spoke into the microphone as he looked in the mirror. “Stop where you are, Cardinal.”

  Father Murphy opened the circuit-breaker box recessed into the side of the altar, pulled the switch, and the sanctuary area went dark. Baxter took three long strides, passed the sacristy staircase, and hit the floor, sliding across the marble toward the brass floorplate. Maureen rolled off the pew and crawled swiftly toward the rear of the sanctuary. Baxter’s fingers found the grip on the brass plate and lifted the heavy metal until its hinges locked in place. Maureen pivoted, and her legs found the opening in the floor.

  The four people in the triforia were shouting wildly. A shot rang out from the choir loft, and the shouting stropped. Four shots exploded in quick succession from the triforia.

  Maureen dropped through the hole and fell to the earth floor below.

  Baxter felt something—a spent bullet, a piece of marble—slam into his chest, and he rocked backward on his haunches.

  The Cardinal kept walking straight head, but no one looked at him any longer.

  Father Murphy crawled to the sacristy staircase and collided with Pedar Fitzgerald running up the steps. Both men swung wildly at each other in the partial darkness.

  Baxter caught his breath and lunged forward. His arms and shoulders hung into the opening, and his feet slid over the marble trying to find traction.

  Maureen was shouting, “Jump! Jump!” She reached up and grabbed his dangling arm.

  Five more shots rang out, splintering marble and ringing sharply from the brass plate. Baxter felt a sharp pain shoot across his back, and his body jerked convulsively. Five more shots whistled through the dark over his head. He was aware that Maureen was pulling on his right hand. He tried to drop headfirst into the hole, but someone was pulling on his legs. He heard a shout very close to his ear, and the firing stopped.

  Maureen was hanging from his arm, yelling up to him, “Jump! For God’s sake, jump!”

  Baxter heard his own voice, low and breathless. “Can’t. Got me. Run. Run.” Someone was pulling on his ankles, pulling him back from the hole. He felt Maureen’s grip on his arm loosen, then break away. A pair of strong hands rolled him over on his back, and he looked into the face of Pedar Fitzgerald, who was kneeling above him, holding the submachine gun to his throat. In the half-light Baxter saw that there was blood spreading over Fitzgerald’s neck and across his white shirt.

  Fitzgerald looked down at him and spoke between labored breaths. “You stupid son of a bitch! I’ll kill you—you goddamned bastard.” He pounded his fist into Baxter’s face, then crawled over him to the hole
and pointed the barrel of the gun down into the opening. He steadied himself and fired two long, deafening bursts into the darkness.

  Baxter was dimly aware of a warm wetness seeping over the cold floor beneath him. His eyes tried to focus on the vaulted ceiling ten stories above his face, but all he saw were the blurry red spots of the Cardinals’ hanging hats. He heard footsteps running toward the altar, coming up the stairs, then saw faces hovering over him— Hickey, then a few seconds later Flynn and Megan Fitzgerald.

  Baxter turned his head and saw Father Murphy lying near the stairs, his hands pressed to his face and blood running between his fingers. He heard Megan’s voice. “Pedar! Are you hit? Pedar?”

  Baxter tried to raise his head to look for the Cardinal. Suddenly he saw Megan’s shoe flying into his face, and a red flash passed in front of his eyes, followed by blackness.

  Flynn knelt beside Pedar Fitzgerald and pulled the barrel of the gun out of the hole. He touched Fitzgerald’s bloody neck wound. “Just grazed you, lad.” He called to Megan. “Take him back to his post. Quickly.”

  Flynn lay prone at the edge of the opening and called down. “Maureen! Are you all right? Are you hit?”

  Maureen knelt a few yards from the opening. Her body was trembling, and she took long breaths to steady herself. Her hands ran over her body, feeling for a wound.

  Flynn called down again. “Are you hit?” His voice became anxious. “For God’s sake, answer me.”

  She drew a deep breath and surprised herself by answering, “No.”

  Flynn’s voice sounded more controlled. “Come back.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Come back, Maureen, or we’ll shoot Baxter. We’ll shoot him and throw him down there where you can see him.”

  “They’re all dead anyway.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “Let Baxter speak to me.”

  There was a pause, then Flynn said, “He’s unconscious.”

  “Bloody murdering bastards. Let me speak to Father Murphy.”

  “He’s … hurt. Wait. I’ll get the Cardinal—”

  “Go to hell.” She knew she didn’t want to hear any of their voices; she just wanted to run. She called back, “Give it up, Brian. Before more people are killed, give it up.” Hesitantly she called, “Good-bye.”

  She drew away from the opening until her back came into contact with the base of a column. She stared at the ladder that descended from the opening. She heard someone speaking in half-whispered tones, and she had a feeling someone was ready to come down.

  Flynn’s voice called out again, “Maureen—you’re not the kind who would run out on your friends. Their lives depend on you.”

  She felt a cold sweat break out over her body. She thought to herself, Brian, you make everything so damned hard. She stepped toward the opening but then hesitated. A new thought came into her mind. What would Brian do? He’d run. He always ran. And not out of cowardice but because he and all of them had long ago agreed that escape was the morally correct response to tight situations. Yet … he’d stayed with her when she was wounded. She vacillated between the column and the opening.

  Flynn’s voice cut into the dark basement. “You’re a damned coward, Maureen. All right, then, Baxter’s gone.”

  A shot rang out on the sacristy.

  After the report died away he called out again. “Murphy is next.”

  Maureen instinctively moved back against the column. She put her face in her hands. “Bastards!”

  Flynn yelled, “The priest is next!”

  She picked up her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. She peered into the darkness. Her eyes adjusted to the half-light, and she forced herself to evaulate the situation calmly. To her right was the outer wall of the sacristy staircase. If she followed it she’d find the foundation wall, beyond which was freedom. That was the way she had to go.

  She looked quickly back and saw a pair of legs dropping from the opening. More of the body was revealed as it descended the ladder—Hickey. Above Hickey’s head another pair of legs appeared. Megan. Both of them held flashlights and pistols by their sides. Hickey turned his head and squinted into the blackness as he climbed down. Maureen crouched down beside the column.

  Hickey’s voice rolled through the black, damp air. He spoke as to a child. “Coming for you, darlin’. Coming to get you. Come to old John, now. Don’t let the wicked Megan find you. Run to Mr. Hickey. Come on, then.” He laughed and jumped down the last few steps, switched on the flashlight, and turned toward her.

  Megan was right behind him, her fiery red features looking sinister in the overhead light.

  Maureen drew a long breath and held it.

  CHAPTER 37

  Schroeder stood tensed with the phone to his ear. He looked up at Langley, the only person left in the office. “Goddamn it—they’re not answering.”

  Langley stood at the window, staring intently at the Cathedral. On the other side of the double doors phones were ringing and people were shouting.

  One of the doors burst open, and Bellini ran in looking more agitated than when he had last left. He shouted, “I have orders from fucking Kline to go in if you can’t raise them!”

  Schroeder looked up at him. “Get in here and close the door!” He yelled at the police operator, “Of course I want you to keep trying, you stupid ass!”

  Bellini closed the door, walked to a chair, and fell into it. Sweat streamed down his pale face. “I … I’m not ready to go in….”

  Schroeder said to Bellini impatiently, “How fucking long does it take to kill four hostages, Bellini? If they’re dead already, Kline can damned well wait until you have at least a half-assed idea of how to hit the place.”

  Suddenly Flynn’s voice came over the speaker. “Schroeder?”

  Schroeder answered quickly, “Yes—” He controlled his voice. “Yes, sir. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  Schroeder cleared his throat and spoke into the phone. “What is happening in there?”

  Flynn’s voice sounded composed. “An ill-advised attempt to escape.”

  Schroeder sounded incredulous. “Escape?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No one is hurt?”

  There was a long pause, then Flynn said, “Baxter and Murphy are wounded. Not badly.”

  Schroeder looked at Langley and Bellini. He steadied his voice. “We’re sending in a doctor.”

  “If they needed one, I’d tell you.”

  “I’m sending in a doctor.”

  “All right, but tell him before you send him that I’ll blow his brains out.”

  Schroeder’s voice became angry, but it was a controlled anger, contrived almost, designed to show that shooting was the one thing he wouldn’t tolerate. “Damn you, Flynn, you said there’d be no shooting. You said—”

  “It couldn’t be helped, really.”

  Schroeder made his tone ominous. “Flynn, if you kill anyone—so help me God, if you hurt anyone, then we’re beyond the let’s-make-a-deal stage.”

  “I understand the rules. Calm down, Schroeder.”

  “Let me speak to each of the hostages. Now.”

  “Hold on.” There was silence, then the Cardinal’s voice filled the room. “Captain, do you recognize my voice?”

  Schroeder looked at the other two men, and they nodded. He said, “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  The Cardinal spoke in a tone that suggested he was being coached and closely watched. “I’m all right. Mr. Baxter has received what they tell me is a grazing wound across his back and a ricochet wound in his chest. He’s resting and seems all right. Father Murphy was also hit by a ricocheting bullet—in the face—the jaw. He’s stunned but otherwise appears all right…. It was a miracle no one was killed.”

  The three men in the room seemed to relax. There were murmurs from the adjoining office. Schroeder said, “Miss Malone?”

  The Cardinal answered hesitantly, “She is alive. Not wounded. She is—�
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  Schroeder heard the phone being covered at the other end. He heard muffled voices, an angry exchange. He spoke into the receiver, “Hello? Hello?”

  The Cardinal’s voice came back, “That’s all I can say.”

  Schroeder spoke quickly, “Your Eminence, please don’t provoke these people. You must not endanger your own lives, because you’re also endangering other lives—”

  The Cardinal replied in a neutral tone, “I’ll pass that on to the others.” He added, “Miss Malone is—”

  Flynn’s voice suddenly came on the line. “Good advice from Captain Courageous. All right, you see no one is dead. Everyone calm down.”

  “Let me speak to Miss Malone.”

  “She stepped out for a moment. Later.” Flynn said abruptly, “Is everything set for my press conference?”

  Schroeder’s voice turned calm. “We may need more time. The networks—”

  “I have a message for America and the world, and I mean to deliver it.”

  “Yes, you will. Be patient.”

  “That’s not one of the Irish virtues, Schroeder.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that’s true.” He felt it was time for a more personal approach. “I’m half Irish myself, and—”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, my mother’s people were from County Tyrone. Listen, I understand your frustrations and your anger—I had a great-uncle in the IRA. Family hero. Jailed by the English.”

  “For what? Being a bore like his nephew?”

  Schroeder ignored the remark. “I grew up with many of the same hates and prejudices that you—”

  “You weren’t there, Schroeder. You weren’t there. You were here.”

  “This won’t accomplish anything,” said Schroeder firmly. “You might make more enemies than friends by—”

  “The people in here don’t need any more friends. Our friends are dead or in prison. Tell them to let our people go, Captain.”

  “We’re trying very hard. The negotiations between London and Washington are progressing. I see a light at the end of the tunnel—”