Cathedral

The man went directly to the coffee table and poured a glass of wine. “Christ— excuse me, Father—damn it, we’ve accounted for every VIP on the steps except three.”

Burke watched him drink. “Let me guess—ID guys are good at guessing. You lost the Cardinal, Baxter, and the Malone woman.”

Lieutenant Young looked at him quickly. “Where are they? They’re not in the Cathedral, are they?”

“I’m afraid they are.”

“Oh, Christ—sorry—shit. That’s it. That’s my job. Forget it. Forget it.”

“Three out of about a hundred VIPs isn’t bad.”

“Don’t joke! This is bad. Very bad.”

“They’re unharmed as far as I know,” added Burke. “They also have a parish priest—Murphy. Not a VIP, so don’t worry about that.”

“Damn it. I lost three VIPs.” He rambled on as he poured himself another glass. “Damn it, they should have sent the Secret Service. When the Pope came, the President sent the Secret Service to help us.” He looked at Burke and the Monsignor and went on. “Most of the BSS was up by the reviewing stands. Byrd had all the good men. I got stuck with a handful of incompetents.”

“Right.” Burke moved to the door. “Get some competent men to stay with Monsignor Downes here. He’s a VIP. I’m going to try to speak with the gunmen. They’re VIPs, too.”

Young glanced at Burke and said fiercely, “Why didn’t you tell us something like this was going to happen, Burke?”

“You didn’t ask.” Burke left the office, descended the stairs, and found an elevator that took him into the basement. He came upon a worried-looking Hispanic custodian. “Sacristy,” said Burke without preamble.

The man led him to a passage and pointed. Burke saw six TPU men standing along the walls with guns drawn. He held up his badge case and motioned the men to draw back from the sacristy. He unholstered his revolver, put it in his topcoat pocket, then walked down the short staircase to the opening of the passage. Burke put his head slowly around the corner and looked into the marble vaulted sacristy.

A TPU man behind him whispered, “Guy’s got a Thompson at the top of those stairs.”

Burke moved carefully into the sacristy, down the length of a row of vestment tables that ran along the wall to the right. At the end of the tables was another arched opening, and through it he could see a dimly lit polygon- shaped room of stone and brick.

Burke moved slowly toward the gates, keeping out of sight of the staircase opening. He heard muffled voices echoing down the staircase. Burke knew he had to speak with Finn MacCumail, and he had to have it together when he did. He leaned back against the marble wall to the side of the stairs and listened to his heart beat. He filled his lungs several times but couldn’t find his voice. His hands clutched around the revolver in his pocket, and he pulled his hand free and steadied it against the wall. He looked at his watch. One minute. In one minute he would call for Finn MacCumail.

Maureen sat in the pew, her face in her hands, and Father Murphy and the Cardinal sat flanking her, keeping up a steady flow of soothing words. Baxter returned from the credence table, where a canteen of water had been placed. “Here.”

She shook her head, then rose abruptly. “Let me alone. All of you. What do you know? You don’t know the half of it. But you will.”

The Cardinal motioned to the other two, and they followed him across the sanctuary and stood beside the throne. The Cardinal said quietly, “She has to make peace with herself. She’s a troubled woman. If she wants us, she’ll come to us.” He looked up at the altar rising from the sanctuary. “God has brought us together in His house, and we are in His hands now—us, as well as them. His will be done, not ours. We must not provoke these people and give them cause to harm us or this church.”

Baxter cleared his throat. “We have an obligation to escape if a clear opportunity presents itself.”

The Cardinal gave him a look of slight annoyance. “We are operating from different sets of standards, I’m afraid. However, Mr. Baxter, I’m going to have to insist that in my church you do as I say.”

Baxter replied evenly, “There’s some question, I think, concerning whose church this is at the moment, Your Eminence.” He turned to Father Murphy. “What are your thoughts?”

Father Murphy seemed to vacillate, then said, “There’s no use arguing about it. His Eminence is correct.”

Baxter looked exasperated. “See here, I don’t like being pushed about. We must offer some resistance, even if it’s only psychological, and we must at least plan to escape if we’re going to keep our sanity and self-respect. This may go on for days—weeks—and if I leave here alive, I want to be able to live with myself.”

The Cardinal spoke. “Mr. Baxter, these people have treated us reasonably well, and your course of action would provoke retaliation and—”

“Treated us well? I don’t give a damn how they treat us. They have no right to keep us here.”

The Cardinal nodded. “You’re right, of course. But let me make my final point, which is that I understand that much of the brashness of young men is a result of the proximity of young women—”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

The Cardinal smiled thinly. “I seem to be annoying you. I’m sorry. Well, anyway, don’t think for a moment that I doubt these people will kill me and Father Murphy as surely as they would you and Miss Malone. That’s not important. What is important is that we not provoke them into the mortal sin of murder. And also important to me is my obligation as guardian of this church. This is the greatest Catholic Cathedral in America, Mr. Baxter, Domus Ecclesiae, the Mother Church, the spiritual center of Catholicism in North America. Try to think of it as Westminster Abbey.”

Baxter’s face reddened. He drew a breath. “I have a duty to resist, and I will.”

The Cardinal shook his head. “Well, we have no such duty to wage war,” He moved closer to Baxter. “Can’t you leave this in God’s hands? Or, if you’re not so inclined, in the hands of the authorities outside?”

Baxter looked the Cardinal in the eye. “I’ve made my position clear.”

The Cardinal seemed lost in thought, then said, “Perhaps I am overly concerned about this church. It’s in my trust, you see, and as with anyone else, material values figure into my calculations. But we are agreed that lives are not to be needlessly sacrificed?”

“Of course.”

“Neither our lives”—he motioned around the Cathedral—“nor theirs.”

“I’m not so certain about theirs,” said Harold Baxter.

“All God’s children, Mr. Baxter.”

“I wonder.”

“Come now.”

There was a long silence, broken by Maureen Malone’s voice as she crossed the sanctuary. “Let me assure you, Cardinal, that each one of these people was spawned in hell. I know. Some of them may seem like rational men and women to you—jolly good Irishmen, sweet talk, lilting brogues, and all that. Perhaps a song or poem later. But they’re quite capable of murdering us all and burning your church.”

The three men looked silently at her.

She pointed to the two clerics. “It may be that you don’t understand real evil, only abstract evil, but you’ve got Satan in the sanctuary right now.” She moved her outstretched hand and pointed to Brian Flynn, who was mounting the steps into the sanctuary.

Flynn looked at them and smiled. “Did someone mention my name?”

CHAPTER 23

Burke moved closer to the stairway opening, drew a deep breath, and called out, “This is the police! I want to speak with Finn MacCumail!” He heard his words echo up the marble stairway.

A voice with a heavy Irish accent called back, “Stand at the gate—hands on the bars! No tricks. I’ve got a Thompson.”