Flynn looked closely at Leary in the subdued light. Leary looked comical in his colonial marching uniform and with his green-painted rifle. But there was nothing funny about his eyes or his expressionless voice.
Flynn looked back over the Cathedral and glanced at the blueprints. This building was shaped like a cross. The long stem of the cross was the nave, holding the main pews and five aisles; the cross-arms were the transepts, containing more pews and an exit from the end of each arm. Two arcaded triforia, long, dark galleries supported by columns, overhung the nave, running as far as the transepts. Two shorter triforia began at the far side of the transepts and overlooked the altar. This was the basic layout of the structure to be defended.
Flynn looked at the top of the blueprints. They showed the five-story rectory nestled in the northeast quadrant of the cross outside the Cathedral. The rectory was connected to the Cathedral by basement areas under the terraces, which did not appear on the blueprints. In the southeast quadrant was the Cardinal’s residence, also separated by terraces and gardens and connected underground. These uncharted connections, Flynn understood, were a weak point in the defense. “I wish we could have held the two outside buildings.”
Hickey smiled. “Next time.”
Flynn smiled in return. The old man had remained an enigma, swinging precipitantly between clownishness and decisiveness. Flynn looked back at the blueprints. The top of the cross was the rounded area called the apse. In the apse was the Lady Chapel, a quiet, serene area of long, narrow stained-glass windows. Flynn pointed to the blueprint. “The Lady Chapel has no outside connections, and I’ve decided not to post a man there—can’t spare anyone.”
Hickey leaned over the blueprints. “I’ll examine it for hidden passages. Church architecture wouldn’t be church architecture, Brian, without hollow walls and secret doors. Places for the Holy Ghost to run about—places where priests can pop up on you unawares and scare the hell out of you by whispering your name.”
“Have you heard of Whitehorn Abbey outside of Belfast?”
“I spent a night there once. Did you get a scare there, lad?” Hickey laughed.
Flynn looked out over the Cathedral again, concentrating on the raised area of black and white marble called the altar sanctuary. In the middle of the sanctuary sat the altar, raised still higher on a broad marble plinth. The cold marble and bronze of the area was softened by fields of fresh green carnations, symbolizing, Flynn imagined, the green sod of Ireland, which would not have looked or smelled as nice on the altar.
On both sides of the sanctuary were rows of wooden pews reserved for clergy. In the pews to the right sat Maureen, Baxter, and Father Murphy, all looking very still from this distance. Flynn placed his field glasses to his eyes and focused on Maureen again. She didn’t appear at all frightened, and he liked that. He noticed that her lips were moving as she stared straight ahead. Praying? No, not Maureen. Baxter’s lips were moving also. And Father Murphy’s. “They’re plotting dark things against us, John.”
“Good,” said Hickey. “Maybe they’ll keep us entertained.”
Flynn swung the field glasses to the left. Facing the hostages across the checkered marble floor sat the Cardinal on his elevated throne of red velvet, absolutely motionless. “No sanctuary in the sanctuary,” commented Flynn under his breath.
Leary heard him and called out, “A sanctuary of sorts. If they leave that area, I’ll kill them.”
Flynn leaned farther over the rail. Directly behind the altar were the sacristy stairs, not visible from the loft, where Pedar Fitzgerald, Megan’s brother, sat on the landing holding a submachine gun. Fitzgerald was a good man, a man who knew that those chained gates had to be protected at any cost. He had his sister’s courage without her savagery. “We still don’t know if there’s a way they can enter the crypt from an underground route and come up behind Pedar.”
Hickey glanced again at the blueprints. “We’ll get the crypt keys and the keys to this whole place later and have a proper look around the real estate. We need time, Brian. Time to tighten our defense. Damn these blueprints, they’re not very detailed. And damn this church. It’s like a marble sieve with more holes in it than the story of the Resurrection.”
“I hope the police don’t get hold of the architect.”
“You should have kidnapped him last night along with Terri O’Neal,” Hickey said.
“Too obvious. That would have put Intelligence onto something.”
“Then you should have killed him and made it look like an accident.”
Flynn shook his head. “One has to draw a line somewhere. Don’t you think so?”
“You’re a lousy revolutionary. It’s a wonder you’ve come as far as you have.”
“I’ve come farther than most. I’m here.”
CHAPTER 16
Major Bartholomew Martin put down his field glasses and let out a long breath. “Well, they’ve done it. No apparent casualties … except that fine horse.” He closed the window against the cold wind and sleet. “Burke almost got himself killed, however.”
Kruger shrugged. It never paid to examine these things too closely.
Major Martin put on his topcoat. “Sir Harold was a good sort. Played a good game of bridge. Anyway, you see, Flynn went back on his word. Now they’ll want to kill poor Harry as soon as things don’t go their way.”
Kruger glanced out the window. “I think you planned on Baxter getting kidnapped.”
Major Martin moved toward the door. “I planned
Megan Fitzgerald motioned to the three men and two women with her and moved quickly toward the front of the Cathedral. The five of them followed her, burdened with suitcases, slung rifles, and rocket tubes. They entered the vestibule of the north tower, rode up the small elevator, and stepped off into the choir practice room in the tower. Megan moved into the choir loft.
Jack Leary was standing at the end of the loft, some distance from Flynn and Hickey, establishing his fields of fire. Megan said curtly, “Leary, you understand your orders?”
The sniper turned and stared at her.
Megan stared back into his pale, watery eyes. Soft eyes, she thought, but she knew how they hardened as the rifle traveled up to his shoulder. Eyes that saw things not in fluid motion but in a series of still pictures, like a camera lens. She had watched him in practice many times. Perfect eye-hand coordination—“muscle memory” he had called it on the one occasion he had spoken to her. Muscle memory— a step below instinct, as though the brain wasn’t even involved in the process— optic nerves and motor nerves, bypassing the brain, controlled by some primitive bundle of fibers found only in the lower forms of life. The others stayed away from Leary, but Megan was fascinated by him. “Answer me, Leary. Do you know your orders, man?”
He nodded almost imperceptibly as his eyes took in the young woman standing in front of him.
Megan walked along the rail and came up beside Flynn and Hickey. She placed the field phone on the railing and looked at the outside telephone on the organ. “Call the police.”
Flynn didn’t look up from the blueprints. “They’ll call us.”
Hickey said to her, “I’d advise you not to upset Mr. Leary. He seems incapable of witty bantering, and he’d probably shoot you if he couldn’t think of anything to say.”
Megan looked back at Leary, then said to Hickey, “We understand each other.”
Hickey smiled. “Yes, I’ve noticed a silent communication between you—but what other type could there be with a man who has a vocabulary of fourteen words, eight of which have to do with rifles?”
Megan turned and walked back to the entrance of the choir practice room where the others were waiting, and she led them up a spiral iron staircase. At a level above the choir practice room she found a door and kicked it open, motioning to Abby Boland. “Come with me,” she said.
The long triforium stretched out along the north side of the Cathedral, an unlit gallery of dusty stone and airconditioning ducts. A flagpole of about twenty feet in length jutted out from the parapet over the nave, flying the
