Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  Bellini answered, “Okay, very good.” He related Maureen’s information. “Move cautiously to the other side of the crypt. Hickey—”

  “Yeah, but we can’t engage him. We can move back to the hatchway, though, so you can have somebody drop concussion grenades through that bronze plate in the sanctuary. Then we’ll move in and—”

  Bellini cut him off. “Fifth Squad is still on the sacristy stairs. Took some casualties…. They’re going to have trouble crossing the sanctuary floor—sniper up in the loft—”

  “Well, blow him the fuck away and let’s get it moving.”

  “Yeah … I’ll let you know when we do that.”

  The squad leader hesitated, then said, “Well … we’ll stay put….”

  Bellini let a few seconds pass, then said, “This sniper is going to take awhile…. I’m not positive Hickey or anyone is down there…. You’ve got to get to the other column.”

  The squad leader hung up and turned to the dog handlers. “Okay, drag those stupid mutts along, and don’t stop until we get to the other side.” He called to his men. “Let’s go.”

  The three teams—ESD Assault Squad, Bomb Squad, and the dog handlers, twenty people in all—began moving. They passed the rear wall of the crypt and turned left, following the line of columns that would lead them to the main column flanking the sacristy stairs and what they hoped would be the last bomb.

  They dropped from their hands and knees to a low-crawl position, rifles held out in front of them, the squad leader scanning with the infrared scope.

  Peterson looked at her wristwatch as they moved. 5:47. If the mechanism on this side wasn’t tricky, if there were no mines, if there were no other bombs, and if no one fired at them, then she had a very good chance of keeping St. Patrick’s Cathedral from blowing up.

  As she moved, though, she thought about triggers—all the ways a bomb could be detonated besides an electric clock. She thought about a concussion grenade that would set off an audio trigger, a flashlight that would set off a photo trigger, movement that would set off an inertial trigger, trip wires, false clocks, double or triple mechanisms, spring-loaded percussion mechanisms, remote mechanisms— so many nasty ways to make a bomb go off that you didn’t want to go off. Yet, nothing so elaborate was needed to safeguard a time bomb until its time had come if it had a watchdog guarding it.

  John Hickey knelt beside the main column, wedged between the footing and the sacristy stairwell, contemplating the mass of explosives packed around the footing and bedrock. His impulse was to dig out the clock and advance it to eternity. But to probe into the plastic in the dark might disconnect a detonator or battery connection. He looked at his watch. 5:47. Sixteen minutes to go. He could keep them away that long—long enough for the dawn to give the cameras good light. He grinned.

  Hickey pushed himself farther back into the small space and peered up through the darkness toward the spot where the bronze plate sat in the ceiling. No one had tried to come through there yet, and as he listened to the shooting overhead, he suspected that Leary and Megan were still alive and would see to it that no one did. A bullet struck the bronze plate, and a deep resonant sound echoed through the dark. Four more bullets struck the plate in quick succession, and Hickey smiled. “Ah, Leary, you’re showing off now, lad.”

  Just then his ears picked up the sound of whimpering. He cupped his ear and listened. Dogs. Then men breathing. He flipped the selector switch on his rifle to full automatic and leaned forward as the sound of crawling came nearer. The dogs had the scent of the massed explosives and probably of him. Hickey pursed his lips and made a sound. “Pssst!”

  There was a sudden and complete silence.

  Hickey did it again. “Pssst!” He picked up a piece of rubble and threw it.

  The squad leader scanned the area to his front, but there was not even the faintest glimmer of light for the infrared scope to pick up and magnify.

  Hickey said, “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”

  No one answered for several seconds, then the squad leader called out in a voice that was fighting to maintain control. “Put your hands up and move closer.”

  Hickey placed his rifle a few inches from the ground and held it horizontally. “Don’t shoot, lads—please don’t shoot. If you shoot … you’ll blow us all to hell.” He laughed, then said, “I, however, can shoot.” He squeezed the trigger and emptied a twenty-round magazine across the ground in front of him. He slapped another magazine into the well as the reports died away, and he heard screaming and moaning. He emptied another full magazine in three long bursts of grazing fire. He heard a dog howling, or, he thought, perhaps a man. He mimicked the howling as he reloaded and fired again.

  The ESD snipers in both triforia were shooting down the length of the Cathedral into the choir loft, but the targets there—at least two of them—were moving quickly through the darkness as they fired. ESD men began to fall, dead and wounded, onto the triforium floors. An ESD man rose up beside Bellini and leaned out over the balustrade, putting a long stream of automatic fire into the loft. The red tracer rounds arched into the loft and disappeared as they embedded themselves into the woodwork. The organ keyboard was hit, and electrical sparks crackled in the darkness. The man fired again, and another stream of tracers struck the towering brass pipes, producing a sound like pealing bells. The tracer rounds ricocheted back, spinning and dancing like fiery pinwheels in the black space.

  Bellini shouted to the ESD man and pulled at his flak jacket. “Too long! Down!”

  All of a sudden the man released his rifle and slapped his hands to his face, then leaned farther out and rolled over the balustrade, crashing to the clergy pews below.

  An ESD man with a M-79 grenade launcher fired. The small grenade burst against a wooden locker with a flash, and robes began to burn. Bellini picked up his bullhorn and shouted, “No grenades.” The fire blazed for a few seconds, then began to burn itself out. Bellini crouched and held the bullhorn up. “Okay—First and Third squads—all together—two full magazines—automatic—on my command.” He grabbed the rifle beside him and shouted into the bullhorn as he rose, “Fire!”

  The remaining men in both triforia rose in unison and fired, producing a deafening roar as streams of red tracers poured into the black loft. They emptied their magazines, reloaded, fired again, then ducked.

  There was a silence from the choir loft, and Bellini rose carefully with the bullhorn, keeping himself behind a column. He called out to the loft. “Turn the lights on and put your hands up, or we’ll shoot again.” He looked down at Burke sitting crosslegged beside him. “That’s negotiating!” He raised the bullhorn again.

  Leary knelt at the front of the loft in the north corner and watched through his scope as the bullhorn came up behind the column, diagonally across the Cathedral. He lay flat on top of the rail and leaned out precariously like a pool player trying to make a hard shot, putting the cross hairs of his scope over a small visible piece of Bellini’s forehead. He fired and rolled back to the choir loft floor.

  The bullhorn emitted an oddly amplified moan as Bellini’s forehead erupted in a splatter of bone and blood. He dropped straight down, landing on Burke’s crossed legs. Burke stared at the heavy body sprawled across him. Bellini’s blackened temple gushed a small fountain of red … like a red rosebud, Burke thought abstractedly…. He pushed the body away and steadied himself against the parapet, drawing on his cigarette.

  There was very little noise in the Cathedral now, he noted, and no sound at all from the survivors of the First Squad around him. Medics had arrived and were treating the wounded where they lay; they carried them back into the attic for the descent down the elevator shaft. Burke looked at his watch. 5:48.

  Father Murphy listened to the sounds of footsteps approaching from below. His first thought was that the police had arrived; then he remembered Flynn’s words, and he realized it might be Leary or Megan coming for him. He picked up the pistol and held it in his shaking hand. “Who is it? Who’s t
here?”

  An ESD team leader from the Second Assault Squad two levels below motioned his fire team away from the open well. He raised his rifle and muffled his voice with his hand. “It’s me…. Come on down … attic burning.”

  Father Murphy put his hand to his face and whispered, “The attic … oh … God …” He called down. “Nulty! Is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  Murphy hesitated. “Is … is Leary with you? Where’s Megan?”

  The team leader looked around at his men, who appeared tense and impatient. He called up the ladder well, “They’re here. Come down!”

  The priest tried to collect his thoughts, but his mind was so dulled with fatigue he just stared down into the black hole.

  The team leader shouted, “Come down, or we’re coming up for you!”

  Father Murphy drew back from the opening as far as his cuffed wrist permitted. “I’ve got a gun!”

  The team leader motioned to one of his men to fire a gas canister into the opening. The projectile sailed upward through the intervening level and burst on the ladder near Father Murphy’s head. A piece of the canister struck him in the face, and his lungs filled with gas. He lurched back, then stumbled forward, falling through the opening. He hung suspended from his handcuffs, swinging against the ladder, his stomach and chest heaving as choked noises rose from his throat.

  An ESD man with a submachine gun saw the figure dropping out of the darkness and fired from the hip. The body jerked, then lay still against the ladder. The ESD team moved carefully up to the higher level.

  City lights filtered through the broken glass and cast a weak, shadowy illumination into the tower room. A cold wind blew away the smell of gas. An ESD man drew closer to the ladder, then shouted, “Hey! It’s a priest.”

  The team leader dimly recalled some telephone traffic regarding the missing hostage, the priest. He cleared his throat. “Some of them were dressed as priests … right?”

  The man with the submachine gun added, “He said he had a gun…. I heard it fall…. Something fell on the floor here….” He looked around and found the pistol. “See … and he called them by name….”

  The man with the grenade launcher said, “But he’s cuffed!”

  The team leader put his hands to his temples. “This is fucked up…. We might have fucked up….” He put his hand on the ladder rail and steadied himself. Blood ran down the rail and collected in a small pool around his fingers. “Oh … oh, no … no, no, no—”

  The other half of the Second Squad from the attic made its way carefully down through the dark bell tower, then rushed into the long triforium where Abby Boland had been. They hit the floor and low-crawled down the length of the dark gallery, passing over the blood-wet floor near the flagstaff and turning the corner overlooking the north transept. Two men searched the triforium attic as the team leader reported on the field phone, ‘Captain, northwest triforium secured. Anything you see moving up here is us.”

  A voice came over the wire. “This is Burke. Bellini is dead. Listen … send some men down to the choir loft level…. The rest of you stay there and bring fire down on that loft. There’re about two snipers there—at least one of them is very accurate.”

  The team leader acknowledged and hung up. He looked back at his four remaining men. “Captain got greased. Okay, you two stay here and fire down into the loft. You two come with me.” He reentered the tower and ran down the spiral stairs toward the loft level.

  One of the remaining two men in the triforium leaned out over the balustrade, steadying his rifle on the protruding flagstaff, which he noticed was splintered and covered with blood. He looked down and saw in the light of a flare a young woman’s body lying in a collapsed pew.

  “Jesus …” He looked into the dark loft and fired a short burst at random. “Flush those suckers out….”

  A single shot whistled up out of the loft, passed through the wooden staff and punched into his flak jacket. He rose up off his feet, and his rifle flew into the air. The man lay stretched out on the floor for a few seconds, then rolled over on his hands and knees and tried to catch his breath. “Good God … Jesus H. Christ …”

  The other man, who hadn’t moved from his kneeling position, said, “Lucky shot, Tony. Bet he couldn’t do it again.”

  The injured man put his hand under his flak jacket and felt a lump the size of an egg where his breast bones met. “Wow … fucking wow….” He looked at the other man. “Your turn.”

  The man pulled off his black stocking cap and pushed it above the balustrade on the tip of his rifle. A faint coughing sound rolled out of the choir loft, followed by a whistle and crack, then another, but the hat didn’t move. The ESD man lowered the hat. “He stinks.” He moved to a position several yards down the triforium and peered over the edge of the balustrade. The huge yellow and white Papal flag was no longer hanging from the staff but was stretched across the pews below, covering the body of the dead woman. The ESD man stared back at the staff and saw the two severed flag-ropes swaying. He ducked quickly and looked at the other man. “You’re not going to believe this …”

  Someone in the choir loft laughed.

  An ESD man beside Burke picked up Bellini’s bullhorn and began to raise it above the balustrade, then thought better of it. He pointed it upward from his kneeling position and called out, “Hey! You in the loft! Show’s over. Nobody left but you. Come to the choir rail with your hands up. You won’t be harmed.” He shut off the bullhorn and said, “You’ll be blasted into hamburger, motherfucker.”

  There was a long silence, then a man’s voice called out from the loft. “You’ll never take us.” There were two sharp pistol shots, followed by silence.

  The ESD man turned to Burke. “They blew their brains out.”

  Burke said, “Sure.”

  The man considered for a moment. “How do we know?” he finally asked. Burke nodded toward Bellini’s body.

  The ESD man hesitated, then wiped Bellini’s face and forehead with a handkerchief, and Burke helped him heft Bellini’s body over the parapet.

  Immediately there was a sound like a bee buzzing, followed by a loud slap, and Bellini’s body was pulled out of their hands and crashed to the triforium floor behind them. An odd shrillish voice screamed from the loft, “Live ones! I want live ones!”

  For the first time since the attack began Burke felt sweat forming on his brow.

  The ESD man looked pale. “My God….”

  The Second Squad leader led his remaining two men down the dark bell tower until they found the choir practice room. They searched it carefully in the dark and located the door that led out to the loft. The squad leader listened quietly at the door, then stood to the side and put his hand on the knob and turned it, but there was no alarm. The three men hugged the walls for a second before the squad leader pushed the door open, and they rushed the opening in a low crouch.

  A shotgun exploded five times in the dark in quick succession, and the three men were knocked back into the room, their faces, arms, and legs ripped with buckshot.

  Megan Fitzgerald stepped quickly into the room and shone a light on the three contorted bodies. One of the men looked up at the black-robed figure through the light and stared at her grotesquely made-up face, distorted with a repulsive snarl. Megan raised a pistol, deliberately shot each of the writhing figures in the head, then closed the door, reset the silent light alarm, and walked back into the loft. She called to Leary, who was moving and firing from positions all over the loft. “Don’t let Malone or Baxter get away. Keep them pinned there until the bombs explode!”

  Leary shouted as he fired, “Yeah, yeah. Just watch the fucking side doors.”

  A long stream of red tracers streaked out of the long northwest triforium and began ripping into the choir pews. Leary got off an answering shot before the last tracer left the muzzle of the ESD man’s rifle, and the firing abruptly stopped.

  Leary moved far back to the towering organ pipes and looked out at the blac
k horizon line formed by the loft rail across the candle- and flare-lit Cathedral. It was strictly a matter of probability, he knew. There were thirteen hundred square feet of completely unlit loft and less than twenty police in a position to bring fire into the loft. And because of their overhead angle they couldn’t bring grazing fire across the sloping expanse, but only direct fire at a specific point of impact, and that reduced the killing zone of their striking rounds. In addition, he and Megan had flak jackets under their robes, his rifle was silenced and the flash was suppressed, and they were both moving constantly. The ESD night scopes would be whited out as long as the phosphorus below kept burning, but he was firing into a lit area, and he could see their shapes when they came to the edge of the triforia. Probability. Odds. Skill. Vantage point. All in his favor. Always were. Luck did not exist. God did not exist. He called to Megan, “Time?”

  She looked at her watch and saw the luminous minute hand tick another minute. “Fourteen minutes until 6:03.”

  He nodded to himself. There were times when he felt immortal and times when immortality only meant staying alive for just long enough to get the next shot off. Fourteen minutes. No problem.

  Burke heard the field phone click and picked up the receiver from the floor. “Burke.”

  Mayor Kline’s voice came through the earpiece. “Lieutenant, I didn’t want to cut in on your command network—I’ve been monitoring all transmissions, of course, and not being there to see the situation, I felt it was better to let Captain Bellini handle it—but now that he’s—”

  “We appreciate that, sir.” Burke noticed Kline’s voice had that cool preciseness that was just a hair away from whining panic. “Actually, I have to get through to the crawl space, Mr. Mayor, so—”

  “Yes—just a second—I was wondering if you could fill us in—”

  “I just did.”

  “What? Oh, yes. Just one second. We need a situation report from you as the ranking man in there—you’re in charge, by the way.”