Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  “Pat?”

  Burke walked to the window and looked out.

  Langley said, “I’m not making any moral judgments. I only want to know if it’s worth getting Jack Ferguson killed.”

  Burke spoke as if to himself. “A kidnapping is a subtle sort of thing, more complicated than a hit, more sinister in many ways—like hostage taking.” He considered. “Hostage taking—that’s a form of kidnapping. Terri O’Neal is a hostage.…”

  “Whose hostage?”

  Burke turned and faced Langley. “I don’t know.”

  “Who has to do what for whom to secure her release? No one has made any demands yet.”

  “Strange,” agreed Burke.

  “Really,” said Langley.

  Burke looked at Schroeder’s empty chair. Schroeder’s presence, in spite of everything, had been reassuring. He said half-jokingly, “Are you sure he’s coming back?”

  Langley shrugged. “His backup man is in another room with a phone, waiting like an understudy for the break of a lifetime…. ” Langley said, “Call Flynn.”

  “Later.” He sat in Schroeder’s chair, leaned back, and looked at the lofty ceiling. A long crack ran from wall to wall, replastered but not yet painted. He had a mental image of the Cathedral in ruins, then pictured the Statue of Liberty lying on its side half submerged in the harbor. He thought of the Roman Coliseum, the ruined Acropolis, the flooded temples of the Nile. He said, “You know, the Cathedral itself is not that important. Neither are the lives of any of us. What’s important is how we act, what people say and write about us afterward.”

  Langley looked at him appraisingly. Burke sometimes surprised him. “Yes, that’s true, but you won’t tell that to anybody today.”

  “Or tomorrow, if we’re pulling bodies out of the rubble.”

  * * *

  John Hickey’s voice came to Maureen from not very far off. “So, what have we here? What light through yonder window breaks, Maureen?” He laughed, then said sharply, “Move back from there or we’ll shoot you.”

  Maureen cocked her elbow and drove it into the rat screen. The wire bent, but the edges stayed fixed to the wall. She pressed her face to the grill. To her left the hallway ended about ten feet away. On the opposite wall toward the end of the passage were gray sliding doors—elevator doors—the elevator that opened near the bride’s room above. She drove her elbow into the grill again, and one side of the frame ripped loose from the plasterboard. “Yes, yes … please …”

  She could hear them behind her, scurrying over the rubble-strewn ground like the rats they were, faster, coming at the light source. Then John Hickey came out of the dark. “Hands on your head, darlin’.”

  She turned and stared at him, holding back the tears forming in her eyes.

  Hickey said, “Look at you. Your pretty knees are all scratched. And what’s that dirt all over your face, Maureen? Camouflage? You’ll be needing a good wash.”

  He ran his flashlight over her. “And your smart tweeds are turned inside out. Clever girl. Clever. And what is that around your neck?” He grabbed the nylon garrote and twisted it. “My, what a naughty girl you are.” He gave the garrote another twist and held it until she began to choke. “Once again, Maureen, you’ve shown me a small chink in our armor. What would we do without you?” He loosened the tension on the nylon and knocked her to the ground. His eyes narrowed into malignant slits. “I think I’ll shoot you through the head and throw you into the corridor. That’ll help the police make the decision they’re wrestling with.” He seemed to consider, then said, “But, on the other hand, I’d like you to be around for the finale.” He smiled a black, gaping smile. “I want you to see Flynn die or for him to see you die.”

  In a clear flash of understanding she knew the essence of this old man’s evil. “Kill me.”

  He shook his head. “No. I like you. I like what you’re becoming. You should have killed Gallagher, though. You would have been firmly planted in the ranks of the damned if you had. You’re only borderline now.” He cackled.

  Maureen lay on the damp earth. She felt a hand grab her long hair and pull her back across the floor into the darkness. Megan Fitzgerald knelt over her and put a pistol to her heart. “Your charmed life has come to an end, bitch.”

  Hickey called out, “None of that, Megan!”

  Megan Fitzgerald shouted back. “You’ll not stop me this time.” She cocked the pistol.

  Hickey shouted, “No! Brian will decide if she’s to die—and if she’s to die, he wants to be the one to kill her.”

  Maureen listened to this statement without any outward emotion. She felt numb, drained.

  Megan screamed back. “Fuck you! Fuck Flynn! She’ll die here and now.”

  Hickey spoke softly. “If you shoot, I’ll kill you.” Everyone heard the click of the safety disengaging from his automatic.

  Gallagher cleared his throat and said, “Let her alone, Megan.”

  No one moved or spoke. Finally Megan uncocked her pistol. She turned on her light and shone it into Maureen’s face. A twisted smile formed on Megan’s lips. “You’re old … and not very pretty.” She poked Maureen’s breast roughly with the muzzle of her pistol.

  Maureen looked up through the light at Megan’s contorted face. “You’re very young, and you ought to be pretty, but there’s an ugliness in you, Megan, that everyone can see in your eyes.”

  Megan spit at her, then disappeared into the dark.

  Hickey knelt over Maureen and wiped her face with a handkerchief. “Well, now, if you want my opinion, I think you’re very pretty.”

  She turned her face away. “Go to hell.”

  Hickey said, “You see, Uncle John saved your life again.”

  She didn’t respond, and he went on. “Because I really want you to see what’s going to happen later. Yes, it’s going to be quite spectacular. How often can you see a cathedral collapsing around your head—?”

  Gallagher made an odd gasping sound, and Hickey said to him, “Only joking, Frank.”

  She said to Gallagher, “He’s not joking, you know—”

  Hickey leaned close to her ear. “Shut up or I’ll—”

  “What?” She looked at him fiercely. “What can you do to me?” She turned toward Gallagher. “He means to see all of us dead. He means to see all your young friends follow him to the grave …”

  Hickey laughed in a shrill, piercing tone.

  The rats stopped their chirping.

  Hickey said, “The little creatures sense the danger. They smell death. They know.”

  Gallagher said nothing, but his breathing filled the still, cold air.

  Maureen sat up slowly. “Baxter? The others … ?”

  Hickey said in an offhand manner, “Baxter is dead. Father Murphy was hit in the face, and he’s dying. The Cardinal is all right, though.” He said in an aggrieved whisper, “Do you see what you’ve done?”

  She couldn’t speak, and tears ran down her face.

  Hickey turned from her and played his light over the open hatchway.

  Gallagher said, “We better put an alarm here.”

  Hickey answered, “The only alarm you’ll hear from down here is from about a kilo of plastic. I’ll have Sullivan come back and mine it.” He glanced at Maureen. “Well, shall we go home, then?”

  They began the long crawl back.

  Hickey spoke as they made their way. “If I was a younger man, Maureen, I’d be in love with you. You’re so like the women I knew in the Movement in my youth. So many of the revolutionary women in other movements are ugly misfits, neurotics and psychotics. But we’ve always been able to attract clearheaded, pretty lasses like yourself. Why is that, do you suppose?” He said between labored breaths, “Well, don’t answer me, then. Tired? Yes, me too. Slow down, Gallagher, you big ox. We’ve got some way to go yet before we can rest. We’ll all rest together, Maureen. Soon this will be over … we’ll be free of all our worries, all our bonds … before dawn … a nice rest … it won’t be so bad
… it won’t, really…. We’re going home.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Schroeder came through the double doors of the Rector’s inner office. “Look who’s back. Did you call Flynn?”

  “Not without you here, Bert. Feeling better?”

  Schroeder came around the desk. “Please get out of my chair, Lieutenant.”

  Burke vacated the chair.

  Schroeder looked at Burke as he sat. “Can you carry a TV set?”

  “Why didn’t he ask for a television right away?”

  Schroeder thought. Flynn wasn’t a textbook case in many respects. Little things like not immediately asking for a television … little things that added up …

  Langley said, “He’s keeping the Fenians isolated. Their only reality is Brian Flynn. After the press conference he’ll smash the TV or place it where only he and Hickey can use it for intelligence gathering.”

  Schroeder nodded. “I never know if this TV business is part of the problem or part of the solution. But if they ask, we have to give.” He dialed the switchboard. “Chancel organ.” He handed the receiver to Burke, turned on all the speaker switches, then sat back with his feet on the desk. “On the air, Lieutenant.”

  A voice came over the speakers: “Flynn here.”

  “Burke.”

  “Listen, Lieutenant, do me a great favor, won’t you, and stay in the damned rectory—at least until dawn. If the Cathedral goes, you’ll want to see it. Tape all the windows, though, and don’t stand under any chandeliers.”

  Burke was aware that more than two hundred people in the Cathedral complex were listening, and that every word was being taped and transmitted to Washington and London. Flynn knew this, too, and was playing it for effect. “What can I do for you?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to ask first about the hostages?”

  “You said they were all right.”

  “But that was a while ago.”

  “Well, how are they now?”

  “No change. Except that Miss Malone took a jaunt through the crawl space. But she’s back now. Looks a bit tired, from what I can see. Clever girl that she is she found a hatchway from the crawl space into the hallway that runs past the bride’s-room elevator.” He paused, then went on, “Don’t touch the hatch, however, as it’s being mined right now with enough plastic to give you a nasty bump.”

  Burke looked at Schroeder, who was already on the other phone talking to one of Bellini’s lieutenants. “I understand.”

  “Good. And you can assume that every other entrance you find will also be mined. And you can assume the entire crawl space is seeded with mines. You can also suspect that I’m lying or bluffing, but, really, it’s not smart to call my bluff. Tell that to your ESD people.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Flynn said, “Anyway, I want the television. Bring it round to the usual place. Fifteen minutes.”

  Burke looked at Schroeder and covered the mouthpiece.

  Schroeder said, “There’s one waiting downstairs in the clerk’s office. But you have to get something from him in return. Ask to speak to a hostage.”

  Burke uncovered the mouthpiece. “I want to talk to Father Murphy first.”

  “Oh, your friend. You shouldn’t admit to having a friend in here.”

  “He’s not my friend, he’s my confessor.”

  Flynn laughed loudly. “Sorry, that struck me funny, somehow. That was no lady, that was my wife. You know?”

  Schroeder suppressed a smirk.

  Burke looked annoyed. “Put him on!”

  Flynn’s voice lost its humor. “Don’t make any demands on me, Burke.”

  “I won’t bring a television unless I speak to the priest.”

  Schroeder was shaking his head excitedly. “Forget it,” he whispered. “Don’t push him.”

  Burke continued, “We have some talking to do, don’t we, Flynn?”

  Flynn didn’t answer for a long time, then said, “I’ll have Murphy at the gate. See you in no-man’s-land. Fifteen … no, fourteen minutes now, and don’t be late.” He hung up.

  Schroeder looked at Burke. “What the hell kind of dialogue are you two carrying on down there?”

  Burke ignored him and called through to the chancel organ again. “Flynn?”

  Brian Flynn’s voice came back, a bit surprised. “What is it?”

  Burke found his body shaking with anger. “New rule, Flynn. You don’t hang up until I’m through. Got it?” He slammed down the receiver.

  Schroeder stood. “What the hell is wrong with you? Haven’t you learned anything?”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  Schroeder pressed on. “Don’t like being at the receiving end, do you? Messes up your self-image. These bastards have called me every name under the sun tonight, but you don’t see me—”

  “Okay. You’re right. Sorry.”

  Schroeder said again, “What do you talk to him about down there?”

  Burke shook his head. He was tired, and he was starting to lose his temper. He knew that if he was making mistakes because of fatigue, then everyone else was, too.

  The phone rang. Schroeder answered it and handed it to Burke. “Your secret headquarters atop Police Plaza.”

  Burke shut off all the speakers and carried the phone away from the desk. “Louise.”

  The duty sergeant said, “Nothing on Terri O’Neal. Daniel Morgan—age thirty-four. A naturalized American citizen. Born in Londonderry. Father Welsh Protestant, mother Irish Catholic. Fiancée arrested in Belfast for IRA activities. May still be in Armagh Prison. We’ll check with British—”

  “Don’t check anything with their intelligence sections or with the CIA or FBI unless you get the go-ahead from me or Inspector Langley.”

  “Okay. One of those.” She went on. “Morgan made our files because he was arrested once in a demonstration outside the UN, 1979. Fined and released. Address YMCA on West Twenty-third. Doubt if he’s still there. Right?” She read the remainder of the arrest sheet, then said, “I’ve put it out to our people and to the detectives. I’ll send you a copy of the sheet. Also, nothing yet on Stillway.”

  Burke hung up and turned to Langley. “Let’s get that television.”

  Schroeder said, “What was that all about?”

  Langley looked at Schroeder. “Trying to catch a break to make your job and Bellini’s a little easier.”

  “Really? Well, that’s the least you can do after screwing up the initial investigation.”

  Burke said, “If we hadn’t blown it, you wouldn’t have the opportunity to negotiate for the life of the Archbishop of New York or the safety of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  Burke looked at him closely and had the impression that he wasn’t being completely facetious.

  Maureen came out of the lavatory of the bride’s room and walked to the vanity. Her outer garments lay draped over a chair, and a first-aid kit sat in front of the vanity mirror. She sat and opened the kit.

  Jean Kearney stood to the side with a pistol in her hand and watched. Kearney cleared her throat and said tentatively, “You know … they still speak of you in the movement.”

  Maureen dabbed indifferently at her legs with an iodine applicator. She didn’t look up but said listlessly, “Do they?”

  “Yes. People still tell stories of your exploits with Brian before you turned traitor.”

  Maureen glanced up at the young woman. It was an ingenuous statement, without hostility or malice, just a relating of a fact she had learned from the storytellers—like the story of Judas. The Gospel according to the Republican Army. Maureen looked at the young woman’s bluish lips and fingers. “Cold up there?”

  She nodded. “Awfully cold. This is a bit of a break for me, so take your time.”

  Maureen noticed the wood chips on Jean Kearney’s clothing. “Doing some carpentry in the attic?”

  Kearney turned her eyes away.

  Maureen s
tood and took her skirt from the chair. “Don’t do it, Jean. When the time comes, you and—Arthur, isn’t it?—you and Arthur must not do whatever it is they’ve told you to do.”

  “Don’t say such things. We’re loyal—not like you.”

  Maureen turned and looked at herself in the mirror and looked at the image of Jean Kearney behind her. She wanted to say something to this young woman, but really there was nothing to say to someone who had willingly committed sacrilege and would probably commit murder before too long. Jean Kearney would eventually find her own way out, or she’d die young.

  There was a knock on the door, and it opened a crack. Flynn put his head in, and his eyes rested on Maureen; then he looked away. “Sorry. Thought you’d be done.”

  Maureen pulled on her skirt, then picked up her blouse and slipped into it.

  Flynn came into the room and looked around. He fixed his attention on the bandages and iodine. “History does have a way of repeating itself, doesn’t it?”

  Maureen buttoned her blouse. “Well, if we all keep making the same mistakes, it’s bound to, isn’t it, Brian?”

  Flynn smiled. “One day we’ll get it right.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  Flynn motioned to Jean Kearney, and she left reluctantly, a disappointed look on her face.

  Maureen sat at the vanity and ran a comb through her hair.

  Flynn watched for a while, then said, “I’d like to speak to you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “In the chapel.”

  “We’re perfectly alone here.”

  “Well … yes. Too alone. People would talk. I can’t compromise myself—neither can you….”

  She laughed and stood. “What would people talk about? Really, Brian … here in the bride’s room of a cathedral…. What a lot of sex-obsessed Catholics you all still are.” She moved toward him. “All right. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  He took her arms and turned her toward him.

  She shook her head. “No, Brian. Much too late.” His face had a look, she thought, of desperation … fright almost.

  He said, “Why do women always say things like that? It’s never too late; there are no seasons or cycles to these things.”