Cathedral

Monsignor Downes stood at the window of his inner office, chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes and staring out at the floodlit Cathedral through a haze of blue smoke. In his mind’s eye he saw not only smoke but fire licking at the gray stone, reaching from the stained-glass windows and twining around the twin spires. He blinked his eyes and turned toward the people in the room.

Present now besides himself was Captain Schroeder, who probably wouldn’t leave until the end, and sitting in his chairs were Lieutenant Burke, Major Martin, and Inspector Langley. Captain Bellini was standing. On the couch were the FBI man, Hogan, and the CIA man, Kruger—or was it the other way around? No, that was it. All six men were rereading a decoded message brought in by a detective.

Patrick Burke looked at his copy of the message.—DER SANCTUARY.MACCUMAIL IS BRIAN FLYNN. JOHN HICKEY, LIEUTENANT. MEGAN FITZGERALD THIRD IN COMMAND. OBSERVED MINES ON DOORS, SNIPER RIFLES, AUTOMATIC RIFLES, PISTOLS, M-72 ROCKETS, GAS MAS—

Burke looked up. “D-E-R Sanctuary. Murder? Ladder? Under?”

Langley shrugged. “I hope whoever that was can send again. I have two men in the upstairs hall waiting to copy.” He looked at the message again. “I don’t like the way it ended so abruptly.”

Bellini said, “I didn’t like that inventory of weapons.”

Burke said, “Malone or Baxter sent it. Either of them would know Morse code and know that this is the stuff we’re looking for. Right? And if, as the Monsignor says, the buzzer is in the confessional, then we might rule out Baxter if he’s, as I assume, of the Protestant persuasion.”

Major Martin said, “You can assume he is.”

The Monsignor interjected hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking … perhaps Mr. Baxter will make a confession … so they can send again. Father Murphy will hear His Eminence’s confession and vice versa—so we can expect, perhaps, three more messages….”

“Then,” said Martin, “we’re out of sinners. They can’t go twice, can they?”

Monsignor Downes regarded him coolly.

Bellini said, “Is that okay, Monsignor? I mean, to use the confessional to do that?”

Downes smiled for the first time. “It’s okay.”

Major Martin cleared his throat. “Look here, we haven’t considered that this message might be a ruse, sent by Flynn to make us believe he’s well armed…. A bit subtle and sophisticated for the Irish … but it’s possible.”

Langley replied, “If we had the complete message, we might have a better idea of its authenticity.”

Schroeder said to Langley, “I need information on the personalities in there. Megan Fitzgerald. Third in command.”

Langley shook his head. “I’ll check the files, but I’ve never heard of her.”

There was a period of silence in the room, while in the outer office men and women arrived and departed, telephones rang constantly, and people huddled in conversation. In the lower floors of the rectory police commanders coordinated crowd control and cordon operations. In the Cardinal’s residence Governor Doyle and Mayor Kline met with government representatives and discussed larger issues around a buffet set up in the dining room. Phones were kept open to Washington, London, Dublin, and Albany.

One of the half-dozen newly installed telephones rang, and Schroeder picked it up, then handed it to the CIA man. Kruger spoke for a minute, then hung up, “Nothing on Brian Flynn or Megan Fitzgerald. Nothing on the Fenians. Old file on John Hickey. Not as good as yours.” Two phones rang simultaneously, and Schroeder answered both, passing one to Hogan and one to Martin.

The FBI man spoke for a few seconds, then hung up and said, “Nothing on Flynn, Fitzgerald, or the Fenians. You have our file on Hickey. The FBI, incidentally, had an agent at his funeral checking out the mourners. That’s the last entry. Guess we’ll have to add a postscript.”

Major Martin was still on the telephone, writing as he listened. He put the receiver down. “A bit of good news. Our dossier on Flynn will be Telexed to the consulate shortly. There’s a capability paper on the Fenian Army as well. Your files on Hickey are more extensive than ours, and you can send a copy to London, if you will.” He lit a cigarette and said in a satisfied tone, “Also on the way is the file on Megan Fitzgerald. Here’s a few pertinent details: Born in Belfast, age twenty-one. Father deserted family—brother Thomas in Long Kesh for attacking a prison van. Brother Pedar is a member of the IRA. Mother hospitalized for a nervous breakdown.” He added caustically, “Your typical Belfast family of five.” Martin looked at Burke. “Her description—red hair, blue eyes, freckles, five feet seven inches, slender— quite good-looking according to the chap I just spoke to. Sound like the young lady who pegged a shot at you?”

Burke nodded.

Martin went on. “She’s Flynn’s present girl friend.” He smiled. “I wonder how she’s getting on with Miss Malone. I think I’m starting to feel sorry for old Flynn.”

A uniformed officer stuck his head in the door. “Chow’s here from John Barleycorn’s.”

Schroeder reached for the telephone. “All right. I’ll tell Flynn that Burke is ready with his fucking corned beef.” He dialed the operator. “Chancel organ.” He waited. “Hello, this is Captain Schroeder. Finn MacCumail? …” He pushed the switches to activate all the speakers, and the next room became quiet.

“This is Dermot. MacCumail is praying with the Cardinal.”

Schroeder hesitated. “Mr…. Dermot—”

“Just call me Hickey. John Hickey. Never liked these noms de guerre! Confuses everyone. Did you know I was in here? Have you got my file in front of you, Snider?”

“Schroeder.” He looked down at the thick police file. Each man had to be played differently. Each man had his own requirements. Schroeder rarely admitted to having anyone’s file in front of him as he negotiated, but it was equally important not to get caught lying to a direct question, and it was often convenient to play on a man’s ego.

“Schroeder? You awake?”

Schroeder sat up. “Yes, sir. Yes, we knew you were in there. I have your file, Mr. Hickey.”

Hickey cackled happily. “Did you read the part where I was caught trying to blow up Parliament in 1921?”

Schroeder found the dated entry. “Yes, sir. Quite”—he looked at Major Martin, who was staring tight-lipped —“quite daring. Daring escape too—”

“You bet your ass, sonny. Now look at 1941. I worked with the Germans then to blow up British shipping in New York harbor. Not proud of that, you understand; but a lot of us did that in the Second War. Shows how much we hated the Brits, doesn’t it, to throw in with the bloody Nazis.”

“Yes, it does. Listen—”

“The Dublin government and the British government both sentenced me to death in absentia on five different occasions. Well, as Brendan Behan once said, they can hang me five times in absentia, too.” He laughed.

There was some laughter from the adjoining office. No one in the inner office laughed. Schroeder bit his cigar. “Mr. Hickey—”

“What do you have for February 12, 1979? Read it to me, Schaeffer.”

Schroeder turned to the last page and read. “Died of natural causes, at home, Newark, New Jersey. Buried … buried in Jersey City Cemetery….”

Hickey laughed again, a high, piercing laugh. Neither man spoke for a few seconds, then Schroeder said, “Mr. Hickey, first I want to ask you if the hostages are all right.”

“That’s a stupid question. If they weren’t, would I tell you?”

“But they are all right?”

“There you go again. Same stupid question,” Hickey said impatiently. “They’re fine. What did you call for?”

Schroeder said, “Lieutenant Burke is ready to bring the food you ordered. Where—?”

“Through the sacristy.”

“He’ll be alone, unarmed—”

Hickey’s voice was suddenly ill-tempered. “You don’t have to reassure me. For my part I’d like you to try something, because quicker than you can make it up those stairs with a chaincutter or ram, the Cardinal’s brains would be running over the altar, followed by a great fucking explosion that they’d hear in the Vatican, and a fire so hot it’d melt the brass balls off Atlas. Do you understand, Schroeder?”