Cathedral

Langley nodded. “Good work. The British can help us on Flynn.”

“Right … Major Martin.”

“Have you seen him?”

Burke inclined his head toward the double doors.

Langley said, “Who else is in there?”

“Schroeder and some police commanders, federal types, and people from the British and Irish consulates.” As he spoke, Mayor Kline, Governor Doyle, and their aides went into the inner office.

Langley watched them, then said, “Has Schroeder begun his dialogue yet?”

“I don’t think so. I passed on MacCumail’s—Flynn’s—demands to him. He smiled and told me to wait outside. Here I am.”

Deputy Police Commissioner Rourke hurried across the room and into the inner office, motioning to Langley to follow.

Langley turned to Burke. “Listen for the sounds of heads rolling across the floor. You may be the next Chief of Intelligence—I have this vision of Patrick Burke captured for eternity in a bronze statue, on the steps of Saint Patrick’s, astride a horse with flaring nostrils, charging up—”

“Fuck off.”

Langley smiled and hurried off.

Burke looked at the people milling about the room. The Speaker of the House of Representatives, past and present governors, senators, mayors, congressmen. It was a veritable Who’s Who in the East, but they looked, he thought, rather common and frightened at the moment. He noticed that all the decanters on the coffee table were empty, then fixed his attention on Monsignor Downes, still sitting behind his desk. Burke approached him. “Monsignor—”

The Rector of St. Patrick’s Cathedral looked up.

“Feeling better?”

“Why didn’t the police know this was going to happen?”

Burke resisted several replies, then said, “We should have known. It was all there if we had only.. ”

Langley appeared at the double doors and motioned to Burke.

Burke looked at the Rector. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

“It’s your church, and you have a right to know what’s going to happen to it. Your Cardinal and your priest are in there—”

“Priests make people uncomfortable sometimes. They get in the way … unintentionally.”

“Good. That may be what this group needs.”

Monsignor Downes rose reluctantly and followed Burke into the inner office.

In the big room about forty men and women stood or sat, their attention focused around the desk where Captain Bert Schroeder sat. Heads turned as Burke and Monsignor Downes came into the room.

Mayor Kline rose from his chair and offered it to Downes, who flushed and sat quickly. The Mayor smiled at his own beneficence and good manners, then held his hands up for silence. He began speaking in his adenoidal voice that made everyone wince. “Are we all here? Okay, let’s begin.” He cleared his throat. “All right, now, we have all agreed that the City of New York is, under law, primarily responsible for any action taken in this matter.” He looked at his aide, Roberta Spiegel. She nodded, and he went on. “So, to avoid confusion, we will all speak to the perpetrators with one voice, through one man….” He paused and raised his voice as though introducing a speaker. “The NYPD Hostage Negotiator … Captain Bert Schroeder.”

The effect of the Mayor’s delivery elicited some applause, which died away as it became apparent that it wasn’t appropriate. Roberta Spiegel shot the Mayor a look of disapproval, and he turned red. Captain Schroeder rose and half acknowledged the applause.

Burke said softly to Langley, “I feel like a proctologist trapped in a room full of assholes.”

Schroeder looked at the faces turned toward him and drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Your Honor.” His eyes darted around the room. “I am about to open negotiations with the man who calls himself Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenian Army. As you may know, my unit, since it was started by Captain Frank Bolz, has concluded successfully every hostage situation that has gone down in this city, without the loss of a single hostage.” He saw people nodding, and the terror of what he was about to undertake suddenly evaporated as he pictured himself concluding another successful case. He put an aggressive tone in his voice. “And since there’s no reason to change tactics that have been so successful in criminal as well as political hostage situations, I will treat this as any other hostage situation. It will not be influenced by outside political considerations … but I do solicit your help and suggestions.” He looked into the crowd and read expressions ranging from open hostility to agreement.

Burke said to Langley, “Not bad.”

Langley replied, “He’s full of shit. That man is the most political animal I know.”

Schroeder went on. “In order to facilitate my job I’d like this room cleared of everyone except the following.” He picked up a list written on Monsignor Downes’s stationary and read from it, then looked up. “It’s also been agreed that commanders of the field operations will headquarter themselves in the lower offices of the rectory. People connected with the negotiations who are not in this office with me will be in the Monsignor’s outer office. I’ve spoken to the Vicar General by phone, and he’s agreed that everyone else may use the Cardinal’s residence.”

Schroeder glanced at Monsignor Downes, then went on. “Telephones are being installed in the residence and … refreshments will be served in His Eminence’s dining room. Voice speakers will be installed throughout both residences for paging and so that you may monitor my phone conversations with the perpetrators.”

The room filled with noise as Schroeder sat down. The Mayor raised his hands for silence the way he had done so many times in the classroom. “All right. Let’s leave the Captain to do his job. Everyone, Governor, ladies and gentlemen— please clear the room. That’s right. Very good.” The Mayor went to the door and opened it.

Schroeder mopped his brow and waited as the remaining people seated themselves. “All right. You know who I am. Everyone introduce themselves in turn.” He pointed to the sole woman present.

Roberta Spiegel, a good-looking woman in her early forties, sat back in a rocking chair and crossed her legs, looking bored, sensual, and businesslike at the same time. “Spiegel. Mayor’s aide.”

A small man with flaming red hair, dressed in tweeds, said, “Tomas Donahue, Consul General, Irish Republic.”

“Major Bartholomew Martin, representing Her Majesty’s government in the … absence of Sir Harold Baxter.”

“James Kruger, CIA.”

A muscular man with a pockmarked face said, “Douglas Hogan, FBI.”

A rotund young man with glasses said, “Bill Voight, Governor’s office.”

“Deputy Commissioner Rourke … Acting Police Commissioner.”

A well-dressed man with a nasal voice said, “Arnold Sheridan, agent-in-charge, State Department Security Office, representing State.”

“Captain Bellini, NYPD, Emergency Services Division.”

“Inspector Philip Langley, NYPD, Intelligence Division.”

“Burke, Intelligence.”

Schroeder looked at Monsignor Downes, who, he realized, had not left. Schroeder considered for a moment as he sat at the man’s desk with his gold-crossed stationery stacked neatly in a corner, then smiled. “And our host, you might say, Monsignor Downes, Rector of Saint Patrick’s. Good of you to … come … and to let us use … Will you be staying?”

Monsignor Downes nodded hesitantly.

“Good,” said Schroeder. “Good. Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Burke, why the hell did you open negotiations? You know better than that.”

Burke loosened his tie and sat back.

Schroeder thought the question may have sounded rhetorical, so he pressed on. “You didn’t make any promises, did you? You didn’t say anything that might compromise—”

“I told you what I said,” interrupted Burke.