Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  CHAPTER 39

  Inspector Langley was reading Monsignor Downes’s appointment book. “I think the good Rector entertained the Fenians on more than one occasion…. Unwittingly, of course.”

  Schroeder looked at Langley. It would never have occurred to him to snoop through another man’s papers. That’s why he had been such a bad detective. Langley, on the other hand, would pick the Mayor’s pocket out of idle curiosity. Schroeder said acidly, “You mean you don’t suspect Monsignor Downes?”

  Langley smiled. “I didn’t say that.”

  Bellini turned from the window and looked at Schroeder. “You didn’t have to eat so much shit, did you? I mean that business about rolling over and all that other stuff.”

  Schroeder felt his fright turning to anger. “For Christ’s sake, it’s only a ploy. You’ve heard me use it a dozen times.”

  “Yeah, but this time you meant it.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Bellini seemed to be struggling with something. He leaned forward with his hands on Schroeder’s desk and spoke softly. “I’m scared, too. Do you think I want to send my men in there? Christ Almighty, Bert, I’m going in, too. I have a wife and kids. But Jesus, man, every hour that you bullshit with them is another hour for them to get their defenses tightened. Every hour shortens the time until dawn, when I have to attack. And I won’t hit them at dawn in a last desperate move to save the hostages and the Cathedral, because they know I have to move at dawn if they don’t have what they want.”

  Schroeder kept his eyes fixed on Bellini’s but didn’t reply.

  Bellini went on, his voice becoming more strident. “As long as you keep telling the big shots you can do it, they’re going to jerk me around. Admit you’re not going to pull it off and let me … let me know in my own mind … that I have to go in.” He said almost in a whisper, “I don’t like sweating it out like this, Bert…. My men don’t like this…. I have to know.”

  Schroeder spoke mechanically. “I’m taking it a step at a time. Standard procedures. Stabilize the situation, keep them talking, calm them down, get an extension of the deadline—”

  Bellini slammed his hand on the desk, and everyone sat up quickly. “Even if you could get an extension of the deadline, how long would it be for? An hour? Two hours? Then I have to move in the daylight—while you stand here at the window smoking a cigar, watching us get massacred!”

  Schroeder stood and his face twitched. He tried to stop himself from speaking, but the words came out. “If you have to go in, I’ll be right next to you, Bellini.”

  A twisted smile passed over Bellini’s face. He turned to Langley and Spiegel, then looked back at Schroeder. “You’re on, Captain.” He turned and walked out of the room.

  Langley watched the door close, then said, “That was stupid, Bert.”

  Schroeder found his hands and legs were shaking, and he sat down, then rose abruptly. He spoke in a husky voice. “Watch the phone. I have to go out for a minute—men’s room.” He walked quickly to the door.

  Spiegel said, “I took some cheap shots at him, too.”

  Langley looked away.

  She said, “Tell me what a bitch I am.”

  He walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of sherry.

  He had no intention of telling the Mayor’s aide she was a bitch.

  She walked toward him, reached out, and took the glass from his hand. She drank, then handed it back.

  Langley thought, She did it again! There was something uncomfortably intimate and at the same time unnervingly aggressive about the proprietary attitude she had taken with him.

  Roberta Spiegel walked toward the door. “Don’t do anything stupid like Schroeder did.”

  He looked up at her with some surprise.

  She said suddenly, “You married? Divorced … separated … single?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed. “Watch the store. See you later.” She left.

  Langley looked at the lipstick mark on his glass and put it down. “Bitch.” He walked to the window.

  Bellini had placed a set of field glasses on the sill. Langley picked them up and saw clearly the man standing in the belfry. If Bellini attacked, this young man would be one of the first to die. He wondered if the man knew that. Of course he did.

  The man saw him and raised a pair of field glasses. They stared at each other for a few seconds. The young man held up his hand, a sort of greeting. The faces of all the IRA men Langley had ever known suddenly coalesced in this face—the young romantics, the old-guard IRA like Hickey, the dying Officials like Ferguson, the cold-blooded young Provos like most of them, and now the Fenians—crazier than the Provos—the worst of the worst…. All of them had started life, he was sure, as polite young men and women, dressed in little suits and dresses for Sunday Mass. Somewhere something went wrong. But maybe they would get most of the worst crazies in one sweep tonight. Nip it in the bud here. He damn well didn’t want to deal with them later.

  Langley put down the glasses and turned from the window. He looked at his watch. Where the hell was Burke?

  He had a sour feeling in his stomach. Transference. Somehow he felt he was in there with them.

  Maureen watched the circle of light closing in on her and almost welcomed the light and Hickey’s cajoling voice after the sensory deprivation she had experienced.

  Hickey called out again. “I know you’re frightened, Maureen. Just take a deep breath and call to us.”

  She almost did, but something held her back. A series of confused thoughts ran through her mind—Brian, Harold Baxter, Whitehorn Abbey, Frank Gallagher’s ghostly face. She felt she was adrift in some foggy sea—with no anchor, misleading beacons, false harbors. She tried to shake off the lethargy and think clearly, tried to resolve her purpose, which was freedom. Freedom from Brian Flynn, freedom from all the people and things that had kept her feeling guilty and obligated all her life. Once you’re a hostage, you’re a hostage the rest of your life. She had been Brian’s hostage long before he put a gun to her head. She had been a hostage to her own insecurities and circumstances all her life. But now for the first time she felt less like a hostage and less like a traitor. She felt like a refugee from an insane world, a fugitive from a state of mind that was a prison far worse than Long Kesh. Once in, never out. Bullshit. She began crawling again, along the foundation wall.

  Hickey called out, “Maureen, we see you moving. Don’t make us shoot.”

  She called back, “I know you don’t have Gallagher’s gun, because I have it. Careful I don’t shoot you.” She heard them talking among themselves, then the flashlights went out. She smiled at how the simplest bluffs worked when people were frightened. She kept crawling.

  The foundation curved, and she knew she was under the ambulatory now. Somewhere on the other side of the foundation were the fully excavated basements beneath the terraces outside that led back to the rectory.

  Beneath the thin layer of soil the Manhattan bedrock rose and fell as she crawled. The ceiling was only about four feet high now, and she kept hitting her head on pipes and ducts. The ducts made a noise when she hit them and boomed like a drum in the cold, stagnant air.

  Suddenly the flashlights came on again, some distance off. Megan’s voice called, “We found the gun, Maureen. Come toward the light or we shoot. Last chance.”

  Maureen watched the beams of light searching for her. She didn’t know if they had Gallagher’s gun or not, but she knew she didn’t have it. She crawled on her stomach, commando style, pressing her face to the ground.

  The lights began tightening around her. Hickey said, “I’m counting to ten. Then the armistice is over.” He counted.

  Maureen stopped crawling and remained motionless, pressed against the wall. Blood and sweat ran over her face; her legs and arms were studded with pieces of embedded stone. She steadied her breathing and listened for a sound from the basement that was only feet away. She looked for a crack of light, felt for a draft that might be coming from
the other side, then ran her hands over the stone foundation. Nothing. She began moving again.

  Hickey’s voice called out, “Maureen, you’re a heartless girl, making an old man crawl in the damp like this. I’ll catch my death—let’s go back up and have some tea.”

  The light beams were actually passing over her intermittently, and she froze when they did. They didn’t seem to be able to pick out her blackened features in the darkness. She noticed that the stone wall turned again, then ended. Brick wall ran from the stone at right angles, and she suspected the brick wall was not a stress-bearing foundation but a partition behind which the foundation had disappeared. She rose to a kneeling position, reached for the top of the wall, and discovered a small space near the concrete ceiling. She pressed her face to the space but saw no light, heard no noise, and felt no air. Yet she was certain she was close to finding a way out.

  A voice called out. Gallagher’s. “Maureen, please don’t make us shoot you. I know you spared my life—come on, then, be a good woman and let’s all go back.”

  Again she knew they wouldn’t shoot, if not because of the explosives then for fear of a ricochet among all this stone. She was suddenly angry at their small lies. What kind of idiot did they think she was? Hickey might be an old soldier, but Maureen knew more about war than Megan or Gallagher would live to learn. She wanted to scream an obscenity at them for their patronizing attitude. She moved along the wall and felt it curve farther inward. She judged from the configuration of the horseshoe-shaped ambulatory that she was now below the bride’s room or confessional. Suddenly her hand came into contact with dry wood. Her heart gave a small leap. She faced the wall and knelt in front of it. Her hands explored the wood, set flush into the brick. She felt a rusty latch and pulled on it. A pair of hinges squeaked sharply in the still air. The flashlight beams came toward her.

  Hickey called to her. “You’re leading us a merry chase, young lady. I hope you don’t give your suitors as much trouble.”

  Maureen said under her breath, “Go to hell, you old bag of bones.” She pulled slowly on the door. Cracks of light appeared around the edges, showing it to be about three feet square. She closed the door quickly, found a broken shard of brick, and threw it farther along the wall.

  The light beams swung toward the noise. She pulled the door open a few inches and pushed her face to the small aperture. She blinked her eyes several times and focused on a fluorescent-lit hallway.

  The hallway floor was about four feet below her—a beautiful floor, she thought, of white polished vinyl. The walls of the corridor were painted plasterboard; the ceiling a few feet above her head was white acoustical tile. A beautiful hallway, really. Tears ran down her face.

  She swung the door fully open and rubbed her eyes, then pushed her hair away from her face. Something was wrong…. She put her hand out, and her fingers passed through a wire grill. A rat screen covered the opening.

  CHAPTER 40

  Burke walked into the Monsignor’s inner office and looked

  at Langley, the sole person present, staring out the window. Burke said, “Everybody quit?”

  Langley turned.

  Burke said, “Where’s Schroeder?”

  “Relieving himself … or throwing up, or something. Did you hear what happened—?”

  “I was briefed. Damned fools in there are going to blow it. Everyone’s all right?”

  “Cardinal said so. Also, you missed two good showdowns—Schroeder versus Spiegel and Schroeder versus Bellini. Poor Bert. He’s usually the fair-haired boy, too.” Langley paused. “I think he’s losing it.”

  Burke nodded. “Do you think it’s him, or is it us … or is it that Flynn is that good?”

  Langley shrugged. “All of the above.”

  Burke went to the sideboard and noticed there was very little left in the decanters. He said, “Why did God let the Irish invent whiskey, Langley?”

  Langley knew the drill. “To keep them from ruling the world.”

  Burke laughed. “Right.” His voice became contemplative. “I’ll bet no Fenian has had a drink in forty-eight hours. Do you know a woman named Terri O’Neal?”

  Langley concentrated on the name, then said, “No. I don’t make it at all.” He immediately regretted the common cop jargon and said, “I can’t identify the name. Call the office.”

  “I called from downstairs. Negative. But they’re rechecking. How about Dan Morgan?”

  “No. Irish?”

  “Probably Northern Irish. Louise is going to call back.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “That’s what I asked you.” He poured the remainder of the brandy and thought a moment. “Terri O’Neal … I think I have a face and a voice, but I just can’t remember… ?”

  Langley said, “Flynn’s asked for a television in there. In fact, you’re supposed to deliver it to him.” Langley looked at Burke out of the corner of his eye. “You two get along real well.”

  Burke considered the statement for a few seconds. In spite of the circumstances of their meeting, he admitted that Flynn was the type of man he could have liked— if Flynn were a cop, or if he, Burke, were IRA.

  Langley said, “Call Flynn now.”

  Burke went to the phone. “Flynn can wait.” He made certain the speakers in the other rooms were not on, then turned on the voice box on the desk so that Langley could monitor. He dialed the Midtown North Precinct. “Gonzalez? Lieutenant Burke here. Do you have my man?” There was a long silence during which Burke found he was holding his breath.

  “He’s a prick,” said Gonzalez. “Keeps screaming about police-state tactics and all that crap. Says he’s going to sue us for false arrest. I thought you said he needed protection.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “Yeah. He wants a ride to the Port Authority Terminal. I can’t hold him a minute longer. If I get hit with a false arrest rap, I’m dragging you in with me—”

  “Put him on.”

  “My pleasure. Wait.”

  Burke turned to Langley while he waited. “Ferguson. He’s onto something. Terri O’Neal—Dan Morgan. Now he wants to run.”

  Langley moved beside Burke. “Well, offer him some money to stick around.”

  “You haven’t paid him for today yet. Anyway, there’s not enough money around to keep him from running.”

  Burke spoke into the telephone. “Jack—”

  Ferguson’s voice came into the room, high-pitched and agitated. “What the hell are you doing to me, Pat? Is this the way you treat a friend? For God’s sake, man— ”

  “Cut it. Listen, put me on to the people you spoke to about O’Neal and Morgan.”

  “Not a chance. My sources are confidential. I don’t treat friends the way you do. The intelligence establishment in this country—”

  “Save it for your May Day speech. Listen, Martin has double-crossed all of us. He was the force behind the Fenians. This whole thing is a ploy to make the Irish look bad—to turn American public opinion against the Irish struggle.”

  Ferguson didn’t speak for a while, then said, “I figured that out.”

  Burke pressed on. “Look, I don’t know how much information Martin fed you, or how much information about the police and the Fenians you had to give him in return, but I’m telling you now he’s at the stage where he’s covering his tracks. Understand?”

  “I understand that I’m on three hitlists—the Fenians’, the Provos’, and Martin’s. That’s why I’m leaving town.”

  “You have to stick. Who is Terri O’Neal? Why was she kidnapped by a man named Morgan? Whose show was it? Where is she being held?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “We’re working on it, Jack, but you’re closer to it. And we don’t have much time. If you told us your sources—”

  “No.”

  Burke went on. “Also, while you’re at it, see if you can get a line on Gordon Stillway, the resident architect of Saint Pat’s. He’s missing, too.”

 
; “Lot of that going around. I’m missing, too. Good-bye.”

  “No! Stick with it.”

  “Why? Why should I risk my life any further?”

  “For the same reasons you risked it all along—peace.”

  Ferguson sighed but said nothing.

  Langley whispered, “Offer him a thousand dollars—no, make it fifteen hundred. We’ll hold a benefit dance.”

  Burke said into the phone, “We’d like to exonerate all the Irish who had nothing to do with this, including your Officials and even the Provos. We’ll work with you after this mess is over and see that the government and the press don’t crucify all of you.” Burke paused, then said, “You and I as Irishmen”—he remembered Flynn’s attempt to claim kinship—“you mad I want to be able to hold our heads up after this.” Burke glanced at Langley, who nodded appreciatively. Burke turned away.

  Ferguson said, “Hold on.” There was a long silence, then Ferguson spoke. “How can I reach you later?”

  Burke let out a breath. “Try to call the rectory. The lines should be clear later. Give the password … leprechaun…. They’ll put you through.”

  “Leper is more like it, Burke. Make it leper. All right. If I can’t get through on the phone, I won’t come to the rectory—the cordon is being watched by all sorts of people. If you don’t hear from me, let’s have a standing rendezvous. Let’s say the zoo at one.”

  Burke said, “Closer to the Cathedral.”

  “All right. But no bars or public places.” He thought. “Okay, that small park on Fifty-first—it’s not far from you.”

  “It’s closed after dark.”

  “Climb the gate!”

  Burke smiled. “Someday I’m going to get a key for every park in this town.”

  Ferguson said, “Join the Parks Department. They’ll issue one with your broom.”

  “Luck.” Burke spoke to Gonzalez. “Let him go.” He hung up and took a deep breath.

  Langley said, “Do you think this O’Neal thing is important enough to risk his life?”

  Burke drained off the glass of brandy and grimaced. “How do people drink this stuff?”