Slowly Devane looked to his front. Across the Avenue, Rockefeller Center soared above him, half the windows lit and open, people waving at him. He turned to his left and saw the Empire State Building towering over the Avenue. He shifted his body around and looked behind him. Between two tall buildings he saw the flatland of Long Island stretching back to the horizon. A soft golden glow illuminated the place where the earth met the dark, starlit sky. “Dawn.”
Burke knelt on the blood-covered floor of the triforium. The wounded had been lowered down the elevator shaft, and the dead, including Bellini, were laid out in the attic. Four ESD men of the First Assault Squad remained, huddled against the parapet. The sniper in the choir loft was skimming bullets across the top of the balustrades, but from what Burke could hear, few of the ESD men in the three other triforia were picking their heads up to return the fire. Burke took the field phone and called the opposite triforium. “Situation.”
The voice answered, “Squad leader got it. Wounded evacuated down the chimney, and replacements moving up but—listen, what’s the word from Rockefeller Center? It’s late.”
Burke had a vivid image of Commissioner Rourke throwing up in a men’s room, Murray Kline telling everyone to be calm, and Martin, looking very cool, giving advice that was designed to finish off the Cathedral and everyone in it. Burke glanced at his watch. It would be slow going down that chimney. He spoke into the phone. “Clear out.”
“I hear you.”
Burke signaled the switchboard. “Did you get through to the towers or attic yet?”
The operator answered, “Attic under control. Upper parts of both towers are secure, except for some clown climbing the south tower. But down at the loft level everything’s a fucking mess. Some weird bitch dressed like a witch or something is blasting away at the tower doors. Some ESD guys got wasted in the choir room. Army guys got creamed coming into the loft from the other tower. Very unclear. You want to speak to them? Tell them to try again?”
“No. Tell them to stand by. Put me through to the crawl space.”
The operator’s voice was hesitant. “We can’t raise them. They were reporting fine until a few minutes ago—then I lost them.” The man paused, then added, “Check the time.”
“I know the fucking time. Everybody knows the fucking time. Keep trying the crawl space. Connect me with Fifth Squad.”
An ESD man on the sacristy stairs answered, and Burke said, “Situation.”
The man reported, “Sacristy behind me is filled with fresh Assault Squads, but only two guys at a time can shoot from behind the altar. We definitely cannot reach that bronze plate. We cannot reach the hostages, and they can’t reach us. Christ, those two bastards up there can shoot.” He drew a deep breath. “What the hell is happening?”
“What’s happening,” Burke answered, “is that this end of the Cathedral will probably collapse in ten minutes, so send everyone back to the rectory basement except two or three men to keep contact with the hostages.”
“Right.”
Langley’s voice came on the line. “Burke—get the hell out of there. Now.” Burke answered, “Have the ESD and Bomb Squad send more people into the crawl space—Hickey must’ve nailed the others. There’s at least one bomb left, and he’s probably guarding it like a dog with a meaty bone. Get on it.”
Langley said, “The bomb could blow any time. We can’t send any more—”
Mayor Kline cut in, and his voice had the tone of a man speaking for the tape recorders. “Lieutenant, on your advice, I’ll put one more Assault Squad and bomb team in there, but you understand that their chances—”
Burke ripped the wire out of the phone and turned to the man beside him. “Get everyone down the elevator shaft, and don’t stop until you reach the basement of the Cardinal’s residence.”
The man slung his rifle. “You coming?”
Burke turned and moved around the bend in the triforium that overlooked the south transept. He stood and looked over the balustrade. The line of sight of the choir loft was blocked by the angle of the crossed-shaped building, and the ESD men had shot a line across the transept to the long triforium. Burke slipped into a rope harness and began pulling himself, hand over hand, across the hundred-foot-wide transept arm.
An ESD man on the far side reached out and pulled him over the balustrade. The two men walked quickly to the corner where Sullivan lay sprawled across his bagpipes, his kilts and bare legs splattered with blood. Both men crouched before they turned the corner, and Burke moved down the length of the triforium, passing six kneeling ESD snipers and two dead ones. He took a periscope and looked over the balustrade.
The choir loft was about three stories below, and from here he could see how huge and obscure it was, while the police perches were more defined by the candlelight playing off the window-like openings. Still, he thought, it was incredible that anyone in the loft had survived the volleys of fire, and he wondered why those two were so blessed.
He lowered the scope and moved farther to his right, then stood higher and focused the periscope on the floor below. The shattered front of the armored vehicle stuck out from under the loft, and he saw part of a body sprawled over it—Logan. Two blackened arms stuck straight out of what had been the driver’s compartment. Major Cole and a few men knelt to the side of the carrier, looking grim but, he thought, also relieved that the day’s National Guard exercises were nearly over.
A shot whistled out of the loft, and the periscope slapped Burke in the eye and flew out of his hands. Burke toppled and fell to the floor.
The ESD man beside him said, “You held it up too long, Lieutenant. And that was our last scope.”
Burke rubbed his eye and brought his hand away covered with watery blood. He rose to one knee and looked at the man, who appeared blurry. “Any word from the towers?”
Before the man answered, a short staccato burst of fire rolled out of the loft, followed by another, and the man said, “That’s the word from the towers—the witch wants nobody near her doors.” He looked at his watch and said, “What a fucking mess…. We almost had it. Right?”
Burke looked at the ESD man across from him, who was a sergeant. “Any ideas?”
“The thing hinges on knocking out the loft so that Malone and Baxter can make it to the stairs and so the ESD people there can drop concussion grenades through the plate and turn that guy Hickey’s brains to mashed potatoes. Then the bomb guys can get the bombs. Right?”
Burke nodded. This seemed to be the inescapable solution to the problem. The choir loft dominated the entire Cathedral, as it was meant to do for a different purpose. And Flynn had placed two very weird people up there. “What are our options for knocking out the loft?”
The ESD sergeant rubbed his jaw. “Well, we could bring new spotlights into the triforia, have helicopters machinegun through the rose window, break through the plaster lathing in the attic over the loft…. Lots of options … but all that ordnance isn’t handy … and it takes time….”
Burke nodded again. “Yeah …”
“But the best way,” said the sergeant, “is for somebody to sneak into that loft from one of the towers. Once you’re past the door, you’ve got space to maneuver, just like them, and you’re as invisible as they are.”
Burke nodded. The alternate answer was to get to the explosives through the crawl space and worry about the sniper and the hostages later. Then 6:03 wouldn’t matter anymore. Burke picked up the field phone and spoke to the switchboard. “What’s the situation in the crawl space?”
The operator answered, “The new ESD squad is in—found some survivors dragging wounded back. Dogs and handlers dead. Bomb Squad people all out of it except Peterson, who’s wounded but still functioning. There’s a crazy guy down there with an automatic weapon. The survivors say there’s no way to get to any remaining bombs except through the bronze plate.” The operator hesitated, then said, “Listen … Peterson said this guy could probably set off the bombs anytime he wants … so I’m si
gning off because I’m a little close to where the bombs are supposed to be. Commo is going to be broken until I get this switchboard set up someplace else. Sorry, Lieutenant.” He added, “They’re searching both towers and the attic for the radio jammer, and if they find it, you’ll have radio commo. Okay? Sorry.”
The phone went dead. Burke turned on a radio lying near his feet, and a rush of static filled the air. He shut it off.
The ESD commo man beside him said, “That’s it. Nobody is talking to nobody now. We can’t coordinate an attack on that loft if we wanted to—or coordinate a withdrawal….”
Burke nodded. “Looks like getting in was the easy part.” He looked around the dark gallery. “Well, it’s a big place. Looks pretty solid to me. The architect seemed to think this end would stand if the main columns over there went….”
One of the men asked, “Anybody guaranteeing that? Is anybody sure there aren’t bombs under these columns?” He tapped one of the columns.
Burke responded, “Logically, they wouldn’t have bothered with fires in the attic if the whole place was rigged to explode. Right?” He looked at the men huddled around him, but no one seemed relieved by his deductions.
The sergeant said, “I don’t think logic has anything to do with how these cocksuckers operate.”
Burke looked at his watch. 5:54. He said, “I’m staying … you’re staying.” He entered the south tower and began to climb down to the loft level.
Maureen looked at her watch, then said to Flynn, “I’m going back.”
“Yes … no … don’t leave….” His voice was much weaker now.
She wiped his brow with her hand. “I’m sorry … I can’t stay here.”
He nodded. “Do you have much pain, Brian?”
He shook his head, but as he did his body stiffened.
She took another Syrette of morphine and removed the cap. With the blood he had lost, she knew this would probably kill him, but there would be no pain. She bent over and put her arm around his neck, kissing him on the lips as she brought the Syrette to his chest, near his heart.
Flynn’s lips moved against hers, and she turned her head to hear. “No … no … take it away….”
She drew the Syrette back and looked at him. He had not opened his eyes once in the last several minutes, and she did not understand how he knew … unless it was that he just knew her too well. She held his hand tightly and felt the large ring pressing into her palm. She said, “Brian … can I take this … ? If I leave here … I want to return it … to bring it home….”
He pulled his hand away and clenched his fingers. “No.”
“Keep it, then—the police will have it.”
“No…. Someone must come for it.”
She shook her head and then kissed him again. Without a word she slid back toward the winding stairs.
He called to her, “Maureen … listen … Leary … I told him … not to shoot at you…. He follows orders…. You can tell when Megan is covering the tower door … then you can run….”
She lay still on the stairs, then said, “Baxter … ?”
“Baxter is as good as dead…. You can go … go …”
She shook her head. “Brian … you shouldn’t have told me that….”
He opened his eyes and looked at her, then nodded. “No, I shouldn’t have … stupid…. Always doing the wrong thing….” He tried to sit up, and his face went white with pain. “Please … run … live …” His chest began to rise and fall slowly.
Maureen watched him, then slid slowly down the stairs and rolled quickly over the few feet of exposed floor and crawled between the pews, coming up beside Baxter.
Baxter said, “I wanted to follow you … but I thought perhaps …”
She took his hand and pressed it.
“He’s dead?”
“No.”
They lay side by side in silence. At 5:55 Baxter asked, “Do you think he could— or would—call off Leary and Megan?”
She said, “I didn’t ask.”
Baxter nodded. “I see…. Well, are you ready to run for it?”
“I’m not certain that’s what I want to do.”
“Then why did you come back here?”
She didn’t answer.
He drew a short breath and said, “I’m going….”
She held his arm tightly and peered under the pew at the long expanse of blood-streaked white marble that seemed to radiate an incandescence of its own in the candlelight. She heard the staccato bursts of Megan’s fire hitting the tower doors but no longer heard the sound of Leary’s bullets striking in the Cathedral. “Leary is waiting for us.”
“Then let’s not keep him waiting.” He began moving toward the end of the pew.
She kept a grip on his arm. “No!”
A policeman’s voice called out from the sacristy stairwell behind the altar. “Listen, you’re keeping two men here—I don’t like to put it this way, but we’d rather be gone—you know?—so are you coming or not?” He thought he spoke just loud enough for them to hear, but the acoustics carried the sound through the Cathedral.
Two shots whistled out of the loft and cracked into the marble midway between the pews and the altar. Maureen slid beside Baxter and turned her face to him. “Stay with me.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and called out to the stairwell. “Go on— there’s no point in waiting for us.”
There was no answer, and Maureen and Baxter edged closer to each other, waiting out the final minutes.
Wendy Peterson knelt behind the back wall of the crypt as a medic wound a bandage around her right forearm. She flexed her fingers and noticed that they were becoming stiff. “Damn.”
The medic said, “You better go back.” Another medic was tying a pressure bandage around her right heel.
She looked around the red-lit area. Most of the original group had been left behind, dead from head wounds as a result of the ground-skimming fire. The rest were being evacuated, suffering from wounds in the limbs or buttocks or from broken clavicles where the flak jackets had stopped the head-on bullets. In the red light, pale faces seemed rosy, red blood looked black, and, somehow, the wounds seemed especially ugly. She turned away and concentrated on moving her fingers. “Damn it.”
The new ESD squad leader assembled his men at the corner of the crypt and looked at his watch. “Eight minutes.” He knelt down beside Peterson. “Listen, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing down here except collecting bodies because, let me tell you, there’s no way to get that joker out of there, Lieutenant.”
She moved away from the medics and limped to the edge of the vault. “You sure?”
He nodded. “I can’t fire—right? He’s got a gas mask, and concussion grenades are out. But even if we got him, there’s not much time to defuse even one bomb, and we don’t know how many there are. The damned dogs are dead, and there aren’t any more dogs—”
“Okay … okay…. Damn it … we’re so close.”
“No,” said the squad leader, “we are not close at all.” Some of the men around him coughed nervously and pointedly. The squad leader addressed Peterson. “They said this was your decision … and Burke’s decision.” He picked up the field phone beside him, but it was still dead. “Your decision.”
A voice called out from the dark, an old man’s voice with a mocking tone. “Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”
A nervous young policeman shouted back, “Fuck you!”
The squad leader stuck his head around the crypt corner and shouted, “If you come out with your hands—”
“Oh, baloney!” Hickey laughed, then fired a burst of bullets at the red glow coming around the corner of the crypt. The gunfire caused a deafening roar in the closed space and echoed far into the quarteracre of crawl space. Hickey shouted, “Is there a bomb squad lad there? Answer me!”
Peterson edged toward the corner. “Right here, Pop.”
“Pop? Who are you carling Pop? Well, never mind—listen, these
bombs have more sensitive triggers to make them blow than … than Linda Lovelace.” He laughed, then said, “Terrible metaphor. Anyway, lass, to give you an example you’ll appreciate professionally—I mean demolitions, not blowing—where was I? Oh, yes, I’ve lots of triggers—photosensitive, audio—all kinds of triggers. Do you believe that, little girl?”
“I think you’re full of shit.”
Hickey laughed. “Well, then send everyone away, darlin’, and toss a concussion grenade at me. If that doesn’t blow the bombs, then a demo man can come back and defuse them. You won’t be able to with your brains scrambled, and I won’t be able to stop him with my brains scrambled. Go on, lassie. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Wendy Peterson turned to the squad leader. “Give me a concussion grenade and clear out.”
“Like hell. Anyway, you know we don’t carry those things in spaces like this.”
She unsheathed the long stiletto that she used to cut plastic and moved around the corner of the crypt.
The squad leader reached out and pulled her back. “Where the hell are you going? Listen, I thought of that—it’s over sixty feet to where that guy is. Nobody can cover that distance without making some noise, and he’ll nail you the second he hears you.”
“Then cover me with noise.”
“Forget it.”
Hickey called out, “What’s next, folks? One man belly-crawling? I can hear breathing at thirty-forty feet. I can smell a copper at sixty feet. Listen, gentlemen— and lady—the time has come for you to leave. You’re annoying me, and I have things to think about in the next few minutes. I feel like singing—” He began singing a bawdy version of the British army song:
“Fuck you aaa-lll, fuck you aaa-lll,
The long and the short and the taa-lll.
Fuck all the coppers, and fuck all their guns,
Fuck all the priests and their bastard sons.
S-o-oo, I’m saying good-bye to you all,
The ones that appeal and appall.
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