Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  Martin smiled. “Now you’re getting into the right spirit. You’ve been so glum all night, but you’ll see—stick with me, Burke, and as I promised, you’ll come out of this looking fine.”

  Burke addressed Stillway. “Are there any hidden passages into that Cathedral that will give the police a clear tactical advantage?”

  Stillway sat motionless, contemplating the events that had begun with a sunny day and a parade, proceeded to his kidnapping and rescue, and ended with him in a subterranean room with two men who were obviously unbalanced. He said, “I have no idea what you mean by a clear tactical advantage.” His voice became irritable. “I’m an architect.”

  Martin looked at his watch again. “Well, I’ve done my bit….” He opened the door. “Hurry now. You promised Bellini you’d be at his side, and a promise is sacred and beautiful. And oh, yes, later—if you’re still alive—you’ll see at least one more mystery unfold in that Cathedral. A rather good one.” He walked out and slammed the door.

  Stillway regarded Burke warily. “Who was he? Who are you?”

  “Who are you? Are you Gordon Stillway—or are you just another of the Major’s little jokes?”

  Stillway didn’t answer.

  Burke extracted a rolled blueprint from the briefcase, unfurled it, and stared at it. He threw the blueprint on the table and looked at his watch. “Come with me, Mr. Stillway, and we’ll see if you were worth the wait.”

  Schroeder walked into the press conference room and hurried toward a phone. “This is Schroeder. Get me Kline.”

  The Mayor’s voice was neutral. “Yes, Captain, any luck?”

  Schroeder looked around the nearly empty room. Rifles and flak jackets had disappeared, and empty boxes of ammunition and concussion grenades lay in the corner. Someone had scrawled on the chalkboard:

  FINAL SCORE:

  CHRISTIANS AND JEWS———

  PAGANS AND ATHEISTS———

  Kline’s voice was impatient. “Well?”

  Schroeder leaned against the table and fought down a wave of nausea. “No … no extension … no compromise. Listen …”

  Kline sounded annoyed. “That’s what eveyone’s been telling you all night.”

  Schroeder drew a long breath and pressed his hand to his stomach. Kline was speaking, but Schroeder wasn’t listening. Slowly he began to take in more of his surroundings. Bellini stood across the table with his arms folded, Burke stood at the opposite end of the room, two ESD men with black ski masks stood very near him, and an old man, a civilian, sat at the conference table.

  The Mayor went on. “Captain, right now you are still very much a hero, and within the hour you will be the police department’s chief spokesman.” Schroeder examined Bellini’s blackened face and thought Bellini was glaring at him with unconcealed hatred, as though he knew, but he decided it must be the grotesque makeup.

  Kline was still speaking. “And you will not speak to a newsperson until the last shot is fired. And what’s this I hear about you volunteering to go in with Bellini?”

  Schroeder said, “I … I have to. That’s the least I can do….”

  “Have you lost your mind? What’s wrong with you, anyway? You sound—have you been drinking?”

  Schroeder found himself staring at the old man who, he now noticed, was studying a large unrolled length of paper. His eyes passed over the silent men in the room again and focused on Burke, who seemed … almost sad. Everyone looked as though someone had just died. Something was wrong here—

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No….”

  “Pull yourself together, Schroeder. You’ll be on television soon.”

  “What … ?”

  “Television! You remember, the red light, the big camera…. Now you get clear of that Cathedral—get over here as soon as possible.”

  Schroeder heard the phone go dead and looked at the receiver, then dropped it on the table. He extended his arm and pointed at Gordon Stillway. “Who is that?”

  The room remained silent. Then Burke said, “You know who that is, Bert. We’re going to redraw the attack plans.”

  Schroeder looked quickly at Bellini and blurted, “No! No! You—”

  Bellini glanced at Burke and nodded. He turned to Schroeder. “I can’t believe you did that.” He came toward Schroeder, who was edging toward the door. “Where’re you going, ace? You going to tip your pal, cocksucker?”

  Schroeder’s head was shaking spasmodically.

  Bellini drew closer. “I can’t hear you, you shit! Your golden voice sounds like a toilet flushing.”

  Burke called out. “Joe—no hard stuff—just take his gun.” Burke moved closer to the two men. The two ESD officers held their rifles at their hips, not understanding exactly what was going on but ready to fire if Schroeder made a move for his gun. Gordon Stillway looked up from his blueprints.

  Schroeder found his voice. “No … listen … I have to talk to Flynn … because… you see … I’ve got to try one more time—”

  Bellini held out his hand. “Give me your gun—left hand—pinky in the trigger guard—nice and easy, and no one’s going to get hurt.”

  Schroeder hesitated, then slowly reached into his jacket and carefully extracted the pistol with a hooked finger. “Bellini—listen—what’s going on? Why—”

  Bellini reached for the pistol with his left hand and swung with his right, hitting Schroeder a vicious blow to the jaw. Schroeder fell back against the door and slid down to the floor.

  Burke said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Bellini flexed his hand and turned to Burke. “You’re right—I should’ve yanked his nuts out and shoved them up his nose.” He looked back at Schroeder. “Tried to kill me, did you, scumbag?”

  Burke saw that Bellini was contemplating further violence. “It had nothing to do with you, Bellini. Just cool out.” He came up beside Bellini and put his hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You’ve got lots to do.”

  Bellini motioned to the ESD men. “Cuff this cocksucker and dump him in a closet somewhere.” He turned to Burke. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? You think I don’t know that you’re all going to cover for that motherfucker, and as soon as the shit storm is over at dawn he’s going to be the Mayor’s golden boy again.” He watched the ESD men carry Schroeder out and called after them, “Find some place with rats and cockroaches.” He sat down and tried to steady his hands as he lit a cigarette.

  Burke stood beside him. “Life is unfair, right? But someone handed us a break this time. Flynn thinks you’re doing one thing, and you’re going to do something else. So it didn’t turn out so bad, right?”

  Bellini nodded sulkily and looked at Stillway. “Yeah … maybe …” He rubbed his knuckles and flexed his fingers again. “That hurt … but it felt so good.” He laughed suddenly. “Burke, come here. Want to know a secret? I’ve been looking for an excuse to do that for five years.” He looked at the ceiling. “Thank you, God.” He laughed again.

  The room began filling with squad leaders hastily recalled from their jump-off points, and Bellini watched them file into the room. The absolutely worst feeling in the whole world, Bellini thought, was to get yourself psyched out of your mind for a fight and have it postponed. The squad leaders, he saw, were in a bad mood. Bellini looked at Burke. “You better call His fucking Honor and explain. You can cover Schroeder’s ass if you want, but even if you don’t, it won’t matter to Kline, because they’ll still promote him and make him a national hero.”

  Burke took off his flak jacket and pullover. “I have to see Flynn and come up with a good reason why Schroeder isn’t staying in touch with him.”

  Bellini moved to the head of the conference table and took a long breath. He looked at each of the twelve squad leaders and said, “Men, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Thing is, I don’t know which is which.”

  No one laughed, and Bellini went on. “Before I tell you why the attack is postponed, I want to say something…. The people in t
he Cathedral are desperate men and women … guerrillas…. This is combat … war … and the goal is not to apprehend these people at the risk of your own lives—”

  A squad leader called out, “You mean shoot first and ask questions later, right?”

  Bellini remembered the military euphemism for it. “Make a clean sweep.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Father Murphy stood on the crypt landing, a purple stole around his neck. Frank Gallagher knelt before him, making a hasty confession in a low, trembling voice. Flynn waited just inside the large crypt door, then called out to Gallagher, “That’s fine, Frank.”

  Gallagher nodded to the priest, rose, and moved into the crypt. Flynn handed him a sheet of paper and said, “Here’s the part of the attack plan which deals with the sacristy gate.” He briefed Gallagher, then added, “You can take cover here in the crypt while you keep the gates under fire.” As Flynn spoke, Gallagher focused on the brownish blood that had flowed so abundantly from Pedar Fitzgerald’s mouth. Father Murphy was standing in the center of the bloodstain, apparently without realizing it, and Gallagher wanted to tell the priest to move—but Flynn was clasping his hand. “Good luck to you, Frank. Remember, Dublin, seventeenth of March next.”

  Gallagher made an unintelligible noise, but he nodded with a desperate determination.

  Flynn came out of the crypt and took Murphy’s arm. He led the priest up the stairs, across the sanctuary, and down the side steps into the ambulatory. Father Murphy disengaged himself from Flynn and turned toward the chancel organ. John Hickey sat talking on the field phone, Pedar Fitzgerald’s covered body at his feet. The priest knelt and pulled the coat back from Pedar’s head. He anointed his forehead, stood, and looked at Hickey, who had hung up the receiver.

  Hickey said, “Sneaked that in, did you? Well, where now is Pedar Fitzgerald’s soul?”

  Father Murphy kept staring at Hickey.

  Hickey said, “Now, like a good priest, you’ll ask me to confess, and you assume I’ll refuse. But what if I do confess? Would my entire past life, including every sin, sacrilege, and blasphemy that you can imagine, be forgiven? Would I gain the kingdom of heaven?”

  Murphy said, “You know you must repent.”

  Hickey slapped the top of the organ. “I knew there was a catch!”

  Flynn took Murphy’s arm and pulled him away. They passed beside the confessional, and Flynn paused to look at the small white buzzer. “That was clever, Padre. I’ll give you that.” Flynn looked back across the ambulatory at Hickey. “I don’t know what messages you, Maureen, or Hickey sent, but you can be sure none of you accomplished anything beyond adding to the confusion out there.”

  Father Murphy replied, “I still feel better about it.”

  Flynn laughed and began walking. Murphy followed, and Flynn spoke as they walked. “You feel better, do you? My, what a big ego you have, Father.” Flynn stopped in the transept aisle between the two south triforia. He turned and looked up at the triforium they’d just passed beneath and called up to Eamon Farrell. “I know you’re devout, Eamon, but Father Murphy can’t fly, so you’ll have to miss this confession.”

  Farrell looked as though this were the one confession he didn’t want to miss.

  Father Murphy called up, “Are you sorry for all your sins?”

  Farrell nodded. “I am, Father.”

  Murphy said, “Make a good act of contrition—you’ll be in a state of grace, Mr. Farrell. Don’t do anything to alter that.”

  Flynn was annoyed. “If you try any of that again, you’ll not hear another confession.”

  Murphy walked away, and Flynn outlined the coming attack to Farrell. He added, “If we stop them, your son will be free at dawn. Good luck.”

  Flynn walked to the wide transept doors. The priest was staring at the two khaki-colored mines attached to the doors and four more can-shaped mines placed at intervals on the floor. Trip wires ran from them in all directions. “You see,” said Flynn conversationally, “when the doors are smashed in, these two mines explode instantly, followed at fifteen-second intervals by the other four, producing, so to speak, a curtain of shrapnel of a minute’s duration. Every doorway in here will be clogged with writhing bodies. The screams … wait until you hear the screams…. You wouldn’t believe that men can make such noises. My God, it makes the blood run cold, Father, and turns the bowels to ice water.”

  Murphy continued to stare at the mines.

  Flynn motioned overhead. “Look at these commanding views…. How in the world do they expect to succeed?” He led the priest to the small door in the corner of the transept and motioned Murphy to go first. They walked wordlessly up the spiral stairs and came out in the long triforium five stories above the main floor.

  Abby Boland stood by the door, an M-16 rifle cradled in her arms. She had found a pair of overalls in a maintenance closet, and she wore them over her cheerleader’s uniform. Flynn put his arm around her and walked her away from the priest as he explained the coming attack and went through her assignments. Flynn looked across the nave at George Sullivan, who was watching them. He took his arm from her shoulder and said, “If we don’t stop them … and if you determine in your own mind that killing more of them won’t help anything, then get into the bell tower…. Don’t try to cross the choir loft to get to George…. Stay away from Leary and Megan. Understand?”

  Her eyes darted to the choir loft, and she nodded.

  Flynn continued. “The attic will take a while to fall in, and the bombs won’t damage the towers—they’ll be the only things left standing. George will be all right in the south tower.”

  “George and I understood we’d not see each other again after this.” She looked at Sullivan, who was still watching them.

  “Good luck to you.” Flynn moved toward the tower passage and left her with Father Murphy.

  After a few minutes Murphy rejoined Flynn, and Flynn looked at his watch. “We don’t have a great deal of time, so keep these things short.”

  “How do you know how much time you’ve got? Am I to understand that you know the details of this attack?” He looked at the sheaf of rolled papers in Flynn’s hand.

  Flynn tapped Murphy on the shoulder with the paper tube. “Each man has a price, as you know, and it often seems pitifully low, but did anyone ever consider that Judas Iscariot may have needed that silver?” He laughed and indicated the spiral stairs. They climbed three stories up into the tower, until they reached the level that passed beside the attic. Flynn opened a large wooden door, and they stepped onto a catwalk. Murphy peered into the dimly lit expanse, then walked to a pile of chopped wood and votive candles. He turned back and stared at Flynn, who met his stare, and Murphy knew there was nothing to be said.

  Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty moved out of the shadows and approached along a catwalk, their arms around each other. The expressions on their faces showed that they found the sight of Flynn and the priest to be ominous. They stopped some distance from the two men and looked at them, long plumes of breath coming from their mouths. Father Murphy was reminded of two lost souls who were not allowed to cross a threshold unless invited.

  Flynn said, “The good Father wants to hear your sins.”

  Jean Kearney’s face flushed. Nulty looked both embarrassed and frightened.

  Flynn’s eyebrows rose, and he let out a short laugh. He turned to the priest. “Self-control is difficult in times like these.”

  Murphy’s face betrayed no anger or shock, but he let out a long, familiar sigh that Flynn thought must be part of the seminary training. Flynn motioned Murphy to stay where he was and strode across the catwalk. He handed Jean Kearney three sheets of paper and began briefing the two people. He concluded, “They’ll come with the helicopters anytime after 5:15.” He paused, then said, “Don’t be afraid.”

  Jean Kearney answered, “The only thing we’re afraid of is being separated.” Nulty nodded.

  Flynn put his arms around their shoulders and moved with them toward the priest. �
�Make Father Murphy a happy man and let him save your souls from the fires of hell at least.” Flynn moved toward the door, then called back to Murphy. “Don’t undermine the troops’ morale, and no lengthy penances.”

  Flynn reentered the tower and waited in the darkness of a large, opaque-windowed room. He looked at his watch. According to Schroeder there were twenty minutes left until the earliest time the attack might begin.

  He sat down on the cold, dusty floor, suddenly filled with a sense of awe at what he had done. One of the largest civil disturbances in American history was about to end in the most massive police action ever seen on this continent—and a landmark was going to be deleted from the guidebooks. The name of Brian Flynn would enter history. Yet, he felt, all that was trivial compared to the fact that these men and women were willingly following him into death.

  Abruptly he pivoted around, drew his pistol, and knocked out a pane of thick glass, then looked out at the night. A cold wind blew feathery clouds across a brilliant blue, moonlit sky. Up the Avenue dozens of flags hung from protruding staffs, swaying stiff and frozen in the wind. The sidewalks were covered with ice and broken glass, sparkling in the light. Spring, he thought. “Dear God, I’ll not see the spring.”

  Father Murphy cleared his throat, and Flynn spun around. Their eyes met, and Flynn rose quickly. “That was fast.”

  Flynn began the climb up the winding stairs that gave way to a series of ladders. Murphy followed cautiously. He’d never been this high in either tower, and despite the circumstances he was eager in a boyish sort of way to see the bells.

  They climbed into the lowest bell room, where Donald Mullins crouched behind the stonework that separated two louvers. He wore a flak jacket, and his face and hands were blackened with soot from a burned cork whose odor still hung in the cold room.