Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  “Shut up!”

  Neither man spoke, then Burke said in a gentler tone, “I’m telling you what their position is. I’m telling you what Schroeder won’t tell you. It’s true we’ve lost, but it’s also true we won’t—can’t—surrender. You could surrender … honorably … negotiate the best terms possible, lay down your guns—”

  “No. Not one person in here can accept anything less than we’ve asked for.”

  Burke nodded. “All right. I’ll pass it on…. Maybe we can still work something out that will save you and your people and the hostages and the Cathedral…. But the people in internment …” He shook his head. “London would never …”

  Flynn also shook his head. “All or nothing.”

  Both men lapsed into a silence, each aware that he had said more than he’d intended. Each was aware, too, that he had lost something that had been building between them.

  Pedar Fitzgerald’s voice came down the stairs. “Father Murphy.”

  Flynn turned and called back. “Send him down.”

  The priest walked unsteadily down the marble staircase, supporting his large frame on the brass rail. He smiled through the face bandages and spoke in a muffled voice. “Patrick, good to see you.” He put his hand through the bars.

  Burke took the priest’s hand. “Are you all right?”

  Murphy nodded. “Close call. But the Lord doesn’t want me yet.”

  Burke released the priest’s hand and withdrew his own.

  Flynn put his hand to the bars. “Let me have it.”

  Burke opened his hand, and Flynn snatched a scrap of paper from him.

  Flynn unfolded the paper and read the words written in pencil. Hickey sent last message on confessional buzzer. There followed a fairly accurate appraisal of the Cathedral’s defenses. Flynn frowned at the first sentence: Hickey sent last message… What did that mean?

  Flynn pocketed the paper and looked up. There was no anger in his voice. “I’m proud of these people, Burke. They’ve shown some spirit. Even the two holy men have kept us on our toes, I’ll tell you.”

  Burke turned to Murphy. “Do any of you need a doctor?”

  Murphy shook his head. “No. We’re a bit lame, but there’s nothing a doctor can do. We’ll be all right.”

  Flynn said, “That’s all, Father. Go back with the others.”

  Murphy hesitated and looked around. He glanced at the chain and padlock, then looked at Flynn, who stood as tall as he but was not as heavy.

  Flynn sensed the danger and moved back. His right hand stayed at his side, but the position of his fingers suggested he was ready to go-for his pistol. “I’ve been knocked about by priests before, and I owe you all a few knocks in return. Don’t give me cause. Leave.”

  Murphy nodded, turned, and mounted the steps. He called back over his shoulder, “Pat, tell them out there we’re not afraid.”

  Burke said, “They know that, Father.”

  Murphy stood at the crypt door for a few seconds, then turned and disappeared around the turn in the staircase.

  Flynn put his hands in his pockets. He looked down at the floor, then lifted his head slowly until he met Burke’s eyes. He spoke without a trace of ruthlessness. “Promise me something, Lieutenant—promise me one thing tonight…. ”

  Burke waited.

  “Promise me this—that if they attack, you’ll be with them.”

  “What—?”

  Flynn went on. “Because, you see, if you know you’re not involved on that level, then subconsciously you’ll not see things you should see, you’ll not say things you should say out there. And you’ll not live so easily with yourself afterward. You know what I mean.”

  Burke felt his mouth becoming dry. He thought of Schroeder’s foolishness. It was a bad night for rearechelon people. The front line was moving closer. He looked up at Flynn and nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Flynn acknowledged the agreement without speaking. He looked away from Burke and said, “Don’t leave the rectory again.”

  Burke didn’t reply.

  “Stay close. Stay close especially as the dawn approaches.”

  “I will.”

  Flynn looked past Burke into the sacristy and focused on the priests’ altar in the small chapel at the rear that was directly below the Lady Chapel altar. There were arched Gothic windows behind this altar also, but these subterranean windows with soft artificial lighting behind them, eastward-facing windows, were suffused with a perpetual false dawn. He kept staring at them and spoke softly, “I’ve spent a good deal of my life working in the hours of darkness, but I’ve never been so frightened of seeing the sunrise.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “Good…. Are they frightened out there?”

  “I think they are.”

  Flynn nodded slowly. “I’m glad. It’s not good to be frightened alone.”

  “No.”

  Flynn said, “Someday—if there’s a day after this one—I’ll tell you a story about Whitehorn Abbey—and this ring.” He tapped it against the bars.

  Burke looked at the ring; he suspected it was some sort of talisman. There always seemed to be magic involved when he dealt with people who lived so close to death, especially the Irish.

  Flynn looked down at the floor. “I may see you later.”

  Burke nodded and walked down the steps.

  CHAPTER 43

  Brian Flynn stood beside the curtain entrance to the confessional and looked at the small white button on the jamb. Hickey sent last message … Flynn turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Hickey stopped and looked at his watch. “Time to meet the press, Brian.”

  He looked at Hickey. “Tell me about this buzzer.”

  Hickey glanced at the confessional. “Oh, that. There’s nothing to tell. I caught Murphy trying to send a signal on it while he was confessing—can you imagine such a thing from a priest, Brian? Anyway, I think this is a call buzzer to the rectory. So I sent a few choice words, the likes of which they’ve never heard in the good fathers’ dormitory.” He laughed.

  Flynn forced a smile in return, but Hickey’s explanation raised more questions than it answered. Hickey sent last message … Who sent the previous message or messages? He said, “You should have kept me informed.”

  “Ah, Brian, the burdens of command are so heavy that you can’t be bothered with every small detail.”

  “Just the same—” He looked at Hickey’s chalk-white face and saw the genial twinkle in his eyes turn to a steady burning stare of unmistakable meaning. He imagined he even heard a voice: Don’t go any further. He turned away.

  Hickey smiled and tapped his watch. “Time to go give them hell, lad.”

  Flynn made no move toward the elevator. He knew he had reached a turning point in his relationship with John Hickey. A tremor passed down his spine, and a sense of fear came over him unlike any normal fear he had ever felt. What have I unleashed?

  Hickey turned into the archway beside the confessional, passing into the hallway of the bride’s room. He stopped in front of the oak elevator door and turned off the alarm. Slowly he began to deactivate the mine.

  Flynn came up behind him.

  Hickey neutralized the mine. “There we are…. I’ll set it again after you’ve gone down.” He opened the oak door, revealing the sliding doors of the elevator.

  Flynn moved closer.

  Hickey said, “When you come back, knock on the oak door. Three long, two short. I’ll know it’s you, and I’ll defuse the mine again.” He looked up at Flynn. “Good luck.”

  Flynn stepped closer and stared at the gray elevator doors, then at the mine hanging from the half-opened oak door. I’ll know it’s you, and I’ll defuse the mine.… He looked into Hickey’s eyes and said, “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Inspector Langley and Roberta Spiegel waited in the brightly lit hallway of the subbasement. With them were Emergency Service police and three intelligence officers. Langley checked his watch. Past ten. H
e put his ear to the elevator doors. He heard nothing and straightened up.

  Roberta Spiegel said, “This bastard has all three networks and every local station waiting for him. Mussolini complex—keep them waiting until they’re delirious with anticipation.”

  Langley nodded, realizing that was exactly how he felt waiting for Brian Flynn to step out of the gray doors.

  Suddenly the noise of the elevator motor broke into the stillness of the corridor. The elevator grew louder as it descended from the hallway of the bride’s room into the subbasement. The doors began to slide open.

  Langley, the three ID men, and the police unconsciously straightened their postures. Roberta Spiegel put her hand to her hair. She felt her heart in her chest.

  The door opened, revealing not Brian Flynn but John Hickey. He stepped into the hall and smiled. “Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenians, sends his respects and regrets.” Hickey looked around, then continued. “My chief is a suspicious man— which is why he’s stayed alive so long. He had, I believe, a premonition about exposing himself to the dangers inherent in such a situation.” He looked at Langley. “He is a thoughtful man who didn’t want to place such temptation in front of you— or your British allies. So he sent me, his loyal lieutenant.”

  Langley found it hard to believe that Flynn was afraid of a trap—not with four hostages to guarantee his safety. Langley said, “You’re John Hickey, of course.”

  Hickey bowed formally. “No objections, I trust.”

  Langley shrugged. “It’s your show.”

  Hickey smiled. “So it is. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Inspector Langley.”

  “Ah, yes…. And the lady?” He looked at Spiegel.

  Spiegel said, “My name is Roberta Spiegel. I’m with the Mayor’s office.”

  Hickey bowed again and took her hand. “Yes. I heard you on the radio once. You’re much more beautiful than I pictured you from your voice.” He made a gesture of apology. “Please don’t take that the wrong way.”

  Spiegel withdrew her hand and stood silent. She had the unfamiliar experience of being at a loss for a reply.

  Langley said, “Let’s go.”

  Hickey ignored him and called down the corridor, “And these gentlemen?” He walked up to a tall ESD man and read his name tag. “Gilhooly.” He took the man’s hand and pumped it. “I love the melody of the Gaelic names with the softer sounds. I knew Gilhoolys in Tullamore.”

  The patrolman looked uncomfortable. Hickey walked up and down the hallway shaking each man’s hand and calling him by name.

  Langley exchanged looks with Spiegel. Langley whispered, “He makes Mussolini look like a tongue-tied schoolboy.”

  Hickey shook the hand of the last man, a big flak-jacketed ESD man with a shotgun. “God be with you tonight, lad. I hope our next meeting is under happier circumstances.”

  Langley said impatiently, “Can we go now?”

  Hickey said, “Lead on, Inspector.” He fell into step with Langley and Spiegel. The three ID men followed. Hickey said, “You should have introduced those men to me. You ignored them—ignored their humanity. How can you get people to follow you if you treat them like jackstraws?”

  Langley wasn’t quite sure what a jackstraw was, and in any case chose not to answer.

  Hickey went on. “In ancient days combatants would salute each other before battle. And a man about to be executed would shake his executioner’s hand or even bless him to show mutual respect and compassion. It’s time we put war and death on a personal basis again.”

  Langley stopped at a modern wooden door. “Right.” He looked at Hickey. “This is the press room.”

  Hickey said, “Never been on television before. Do I need makeup?”

  Langley motioned to the three ID men, then said to Hickey, “Before I take you in there, I have to ask you if you’re armed.”

  “No. Are you?”

  Langley nodded to one of the men who produced a metal detector and waved the wand over Hickey’s body.

  Hickey said, “You may find that British bullet I’ve been carrying in my hip since ’21.”

  The metal detector didn’t sound, and Langley reached out and pushed open the door. Hickey entered the room, and the sounds of conversation died abruptly. The press conference area below the sacristy was a long, light-paneled room with an acoustical tile ceiling. Several card tables were grouped around a long central conference table. Camera and light connections hung from trapdoors in the ceiling. Hickey looked slowly around the room and examined the faces of the people looking at him.

  A reporter, David Roth, who had been elected the spokesman, rose and introduced himself. He indicated a chair at the head of the long table.

  Hickey sat.

  Roth said, “Are you Brian Flynn, the man who calls himself Finn MacCumail?”

  Hickey leaned back and made himself comfortable. “No, I’m John Hickey, the man who calls himself John Hickey. You’ve heard of me, of course, and before I’m through you’ll know me well enough.” He looked around the table. “Please introduce yourselves in turn.”

  Roth looked a bit surprised, then introduced himself again and pointed to a reporter. Each man and woman in the press room, including, at Hickey’s request, the technicians, gave his name.

  Hickey nodded pleasantly to each one. He said, “I’m sorry I kept you all waiting. I hope my delay didn’t cause the representatives of the governments involved to leave.”

  Roth said, “They won’t be present.”

  Hickey feigned an expression of hurt and disappointment. “Oh, I see…. Well, I suppose they don’t want to be seen in public with a man like me.” He smiled brightly. “Actually, I don’t want to be associated with them either.” He laughed, then produced his pipe and lit it. “Well, let’s get on with it, then.”

  Roth motioned to a technician, and the lights went on. Another technician took a light reading near Hickey’s face while a woman approached him with makeup. Hickey pushed her away gently, and she moved off quickly.

  Roth said, “Is there any particular format you’d like us to follow?”

  “Yes. I talk and you listen. If you listen without nodding off or picking your noses, I’ll answer questions afterward.”

  A few reporters laughed.

  The technicians finished the adjustments in their equipment, and one of them yelled, “Mr. Hickey, can you say something so we can get a voice reading?”

  “Voice reading? All right, I’ll sing you a verse from ‘Men Behind the Wire,’ and when I’m through, I want the cameras on. I’m a busy man tonight.” He began to sing in a low, croaky voice.

  “Through the little streets of Belfast

  In the dark of early morn,

  British soldiers came marauding

  Wrecking little homes with scorn.

  Heedless of the crying children,

  Dragging fathers from their beds,

  Beating sons while helpless mothers

  Watch the blood flow from their heads—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hickey—”

  Hickey sang the chorus—

  “Armored cars, and tanks and guns

  Came to take away our sons

  But every man will stand behind

  The men behind the wii-re!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The camera light came on. Someone yelled, “On the air!”

  Roth looked into the camera and spoke. “Good evening. This is David—” Hickey’s singing came from off camera:

  “Not for them a judge or jury,

  Or indeed a crime at all.

  Being Irish means they’re guilty,

  So we’re guilty one and a-lll—”

  Roth looked to his right. “Thank you—”

  “Round the world the truth will echo,

  Cromwell’s men are here again.

  England’s name again is sullied

  In the eyes of honest me-nnn—”

  Roth glanced sideways at Hic
key, who seemed to have finished. Roth looked back at the camera. “Good evening, I’m David Roth, and we’re broadcasting live.. . as you can see … from the press room of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Not too far from where we now sit, an undisclosed number of IRA gunmen—”

  “Fenians!” yelled Hickey.

  “Yes … Fenians … have seized the Cathedral and hold four hostages: Cardinal— ”

  “They know all that!” shouted Hickey.

  Roth looked upset. “Yes … and with us tonight is Mr. John Hickey, one of the … Fenians….”

  “Put the camera on me, Jerry,” said Hickey. “Over here—that’s right.”

  Hickey smiled into the camera and began, “Good evening and Happy Saint Patrick’s Day. I am John Hickey, poet, scholar, soldier, and patriot.” He settled back into his chair. “I was born in 1905 or thereabouts to Thomas and Mary Hickey in a small stone cottage outside of Clonakily in County Cork. In 1916, when I was a wee lad, I served my country as a messenger in the Irish Republican Army. Easter Monday, 1916, found me in the beseiged General Post Office in Dublin with the poet Padraic Pearse, the labor leader James Connolly, and their men, including my sainted father, Thomas. Surrounding us were the Irish Fusiliers and the Irish Rifles, lackeys of the British Army.”

  Hickey relit his pipe, taking his time, then went on. “Padraic Pearse read a proclamation from the steps of the Post Office, and his words ring in my ears to this day.” He cleared his throat and adopted a stentorian tone as he quoted: “‘Irishmen and Irishwomen—in the name of God and the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for freedom.’”

  Hickey went on, weaving a narrative blend of history and fancy, facts and personal prejudices, interjecting himself into some of the more famous events of the decades following the Easter Monday rebellion.

  Most of the reporters leaned forward in interest; some looked impatient or puzzled.