Cathedral

Brian Flynn sat at the chancel organ beside the sanctuary and looked at the book resting on the keycover. “Schaeffer.” He laughed.

John Hickey picked up the book, titled My Years as a Hostage Negotiator, by Bert Schroeder. “Schaeffer. Very good, Brian. But he’ll be on to you eventually.”

Flynn nodded. “Probably.” He pushed back the rolltop cover of the keyboard and pressed on a key, but no sound came from the pipes across the ambulatory. “We need the key to turn this on,” he said absently. He looked up at Hickey. “We don’t want to hurt him too badly professionally. We want him in there. And toward the end, if we have to, we’ll play our trump card against him—Terri O’Neal.” He laughed. “Did ever a poor bastard have so many cards stacked against him without knowing it?”

CHAPTER 26

Flynn said, “Hello, Burke.”

Burke stopped at the bottom of the sacristy stairs.

Flynn said, “I asked for you so you’d gain stature with your superiors.”

“Thanks.” Burke held up a large key-ring. “You want these?”

“Hand them through.”

Burke climbed the steps and handed the keys through the bars.

Flynn produced the microphone sensor and passed it over Burke’s body. “They say that technology is dehumanizing, but this piece of technology makes it unnecessary to search you, which always causes strained feelings. This way it’s almost like trusting one another.” He put the device away.

Burke said, “What difference would it make if I was wired? We’re not going to discuss anything that I won’t report.”

“That remains to be seen.” He turned and called out to Pedar Fitzgerald on the landing. “Take a break.” Fitzgerald cradled his submachine gun and left. Flynn and Burke stared at each other, then Flynn spoke. “How did you get on to us, Lieutenant?”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

“Of course it is. Major Martin?”

Burke realized that he felt much freer to talk without a transmitter sending his voice back to the rectory. He nodded and saw a strange expression pass briefly over Flynn’s face. “Friend of yours?”

“Professional acquaintance,” answered Flynn. “Did the good Major tell you my real name?”

Burke didn’t answer.

Flynn moved closer to the gate. “There is an old saying in intelligence work— ‘It’s not important to know who fired the bullet, but who paid for it.’” He looked at Burke closely. “Who paid for the bullets?”

“You tell me.”

“British Military Intelligence provided the logistics for the Fenian Army.”

“The British government would not take such a risk because of your petty war—”

“I’m talking about people who pursue their own goals, which may or may not coincide with those of their government. These people talk of historical considerations to justify themselves—”

“So do you.”

Flynn ignored the interruption. “These people are monumental egotists. Their lives are meaningful only as long as they can manipulate, deceive, intrigue, and eliminate their enemies, real or imagined, on the other side or on their own side. They find self-expression only in situations of crisis and turmoil, which they often manufacture themselves. That’s your basic intelligence man, or secret policeman, or whatever they call themselves. That’s Major Bartholomew Martin.”

“I thought you were describing yourself.”

Flynn smiled coldly. “I’m a revolutionary. Counterrevolutionaries are far more despicable.”

“Maybe I should get into auto theft.”

Flynn laughed. “Ah, Lieutenant, you’re an honest city cop. I trust you.” Burke didn’t answer, and Flynn said, “I’ll tell you something else—I think Martin had help in America. He had to. Be careful of the CIA and FBI.” Again Burke didn’t respond, and Flynn said, “Who gains the most from what’s happened today?”

Burke looked up. “Not you. You’ll be dead shortly, and if what you say is true, then what does that make you? A pawn. A lowly pawn who’s been played off by British Intelligence and maybe by the CIA and FBI, for their own game.”

Flynn smiled. “Aye, I know that. But the pawn has captured the archbishop, you see, and occupies his square as well. Pawns should never be underestimated; when they reach the end of the board, they turn and may become knights.”

Burke understood Brian Flynn. He said, “Assuming Major Martin is what you say he is, why are you telling me? Am I supposed to expose him?”

“No. That would badly compromise me, you understand. Just keep an eye on him. He wants me dead now that I’ve served his purpose. He wants the hostages dead and the Cathedral destroyed—to show the world what savages the Irish are. Be wary of his advice to your superiors. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you’ve gotten yourself in a no-win situation. You’ve been sucked into a bad deal thinking you could turn it around, but now you’re not so sure.”

“My goal is uncompromised. It’s up to the British government to release my people. It will be their fault if —”

“For God’s sake, man, give it up,” Burke said, his voice giving way to impatience and anger. “Take a few years for aggravated assault, false imprisonment, whatever the hell you can work out with the DA.”

Flynn gripped the bars in front of him. “Stop talking like a fucking cop! I’m a soldier, Burke, not a bloody criminal who makes deals with DAs.”

Burke let out a long breath and said softly, “I can’t save you.” “I didn’t ask you to—but the fact that you mentioned it tells me more about Patrick Burke, Irishman, than Patrick Burke, policeman, is willing to admit.”

“Bullshit.”

Flynn relaxed his grip on the bars. “Just take care of Major Martin and you’ll save the hostages and the Cathedral. I’ll save the Fenians. Now run along and bring the corned beef like a good fellow, won’t you? We may chat again.”

Burke put a businesslike tone in his voice. “They want to haul the horse away.”

“Of course. An armistice to pick up the dead.” He seemed to be trying to regain control of himself and smiled. “As long as they don’t make corned beef out of it. One man with a rope and an open vehicle. No tricks.”

“No tricks.”

“No, there have been enough tricks for one day.” Flynn turned and moved up the stairs, then stopped abruptly and said over his shoulder, “I’ll show you what a decent fellow I am, Burke—everyone knows that Jack Ferguson is a police informer. Tell him to get out of town if he values his life.” He turned again and ran up the stairs.

Burke watched him disappear around the corner on the landing. I’m a soldier, not a bloody criminal. It had been said without a trace of anguish in his voice, but the anguish was there.

Brian Flynn stood before the Cardinal seated on his throne. “Your Eminence, I’m going to ask you an important question.”

The Cardinal inclined his head.

Flynn asked, “Are there any hidden ways—any secret passages into this Cathedral?”

The Cardinal answered immediately. “If there were, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Flynn stepped back and pointed to the towering ceiling at a point above the crypt where the red hats of the deceased archbishops of New York hung suspended by wire. “Would you like to have your hat hung there?”

The Cardinal looked at him coldly. “I am a Christian who believes in life everlasting, and I’m not intimidated by threats of death.”

“Ah, Cardinal, you took it wrong. I meant I’d tell my people in the attic to take an ax to the plaster lathing until that beautiful ceiling is lying in the pews.”

The Cardinal drew a short breath, then said softly, “To the best of my knowledge, there are no secret