Cathedral

stubbed out his cigarette, then sipped on the bourbon. The telephone rang, and he picked it up. “Operator, get me Midtown North Precinct.”

After a short wait the phone rang, and a deep voice said, “Sergeant Gonzalez, Midtown North.”

“This is Lieutenant Burke, Intelligence.” He gave his badge number. “Do you have clear radio commo with your cars?”

The harried desk sergeant answered, “Yeah, the jamming isn’t affecting us here.”

Burke heard the recorder go on and heard the beep at four-second intervals. “You check me out after you hang up. Okay?”

“Right.”

“Can you get a car over to 560 West Fifty-fifth Street? Apartment 5D. Pick up and place in protective custody—name of Jack Ferguson.”

“What for?”

“His life is in danger.”

“So is every citizen’s life in this city. Comes with the territory. West Fifty-fifth? I’m surprised he’s not dead yet.”

“He’s an informant. Real important.”

“I don’t have many cars available. Things are a mess—”

“Yeah, I heard. Listen, he’ll want to go to the Port Authority building, but keep him in the station house.”

“Sounds fucked up.”

“He’s involved with this Cathedral thing. Just do it, okay? I’ll take care of you. Erin go bragh, Gonzalez.”

“Yeah, hasta la vista.”

Burke hung up and left the apartment. He went out into the street and walked back toward the park, where a crowd had gathered outside the fence. As he walked he thought about Ferguson. He knew he owed Ferguson a better shot at staying alive. He knew he should pick him up in the helicopter. But the priorities were shifting again. Gordon Stillway was important. Brian Flynn was important, and Major Martin was important. Jack Ferguson was not so important any longer. Unless … Terri O’Neal. What in the name of God was that all about? Why was that name so familiar?

CHAPTER 34

John Hickey sat alone at the chancel organ. He raised his field glasses to the southeast triforium. Frank Gallagher sat precariously on the parapet, reading a Bible; his back was to a supporting column, his sniper rifle was across his knees, and he looked very serene. Hickey marveled at a man who could hold two opposing philosophies in his head at the same time. He shouted to Gallagher, “Look lively.”

Hickey focused the glasses on George Sullivan in the long southwest triforium, who was also sitting on the parapet. He was playing a small mouth organ too softly to be heard, except by Abby Boland across the nave. Hickey focused on her as she leaned out across the parapet, looking at Sullivan like a moonstruck girl hanging from a balcony in some cheap melodrama.

Hickey shifted the glasses to the choir loft. Megan was talking to Leary again, and Leary appeared to be actually listening this time. Hickey sensed that they were discovering a common inhumanity. He thought of two vampires on a castle wall in the moonlight, bloodless and lifeless, not able to consummate their meeting in a normal way but agreeing to hunt together.

He raised the glasses and focused on Flynn, who was sitting alone in the choir benches that rose up toward the towering brass organ pipes. Beyond the pipes the great rose window sat above his head like an alien moon, suffused with the night-lights of the Avenue. The effect was dramatic, striking, thought Hickey, and unintentionally so, like most of the memorable tableaux he had seen in his life. Flynn seemed uninterested in Megan or Leary, or in the blueprints spread across his knees. He was staring out into space, and Hickey saw that he was toying with his ring.

Hickey put down the glasses. He had the impression that the troops were getting bored, even claustrophobic, if that were possible in this space. Cabin fever— Cathedral fever, whatever; it was taking its toll, and the night was yet young. Why was it, he thought, that the old, with so little time left, had the most patience? Well, he smiled, age was not so important in here. Everyone had almost the same lifespan left … give or take a few heartbeats.

Hickey looked at the hostages on the sanctuary. The four of them were speaking intently. No boredom there. Hickey cranked the field phone beside him. “Attic? Status report.”

Jean Kearney’s voice came back with a breathy stutter. “Cold as hell up here.”

Hickey smiled. “You and Arthur should do what we used to do when I was a lad to keep warm in winter.” He waited for a response, but there was none, so he said, “We used to chop wood.” He laughed, then cranked the phone again. “South tower. See anything interesting?”

Rory Devane answered, “Snipers with flak jackets on every roof. The area as far south as Forty-eighth Street is cleared. Across the way there are hundreds of people at the windows.” He added, “I feel as though I’m in a goldfish bowl.”

Hickey lit his pipe, and it bobbed in his mouth as he spoke. “Hold your head up, lad—they’re watching your face through their glasses.” He thought, And through their sniper scopes. “Stare back at them. You’re the reason they’re all there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hickey rang the bell tower. “Status report.”

Donald Mullins answered, “Status unchanged … except that more soldiers are arriving.”

Hickey drew on his pipe. “Did you get your corned beef, lad? Want more tea?”

“Yes, more tea, please. I’m cold. It’s very cold here.”

Hickey’s voice was low. “It was cold on Easter Monday, 1916, on the roof of the General Post Office. It was cold when the British soldiers marched us to Kilmainham Jail. It was cold in Stonebreaker’s Yard where they shot my father and Padraic Pearse and fifteen of our leaders. It’s cold in the grave.”

Hickey picked up the Cathedral telephone and spoke to the police switchboard operator in the rectory. “Get me Schroeder.” He waited through a series of clicks, then said, “Did you find Gordon Stillway yet?”

Schroeder’s voice sounded startled. “What?”

“We cleaned out his office after quitting time—couldn’t do it before, you understand. That might have tipped someone as dense as even Langley or Burke. But we had trouble getting to Stillway in the crowd. Then the riot broke.”

Schroeder’s voice faltered, then he said, “Why are you telling us this—?”

“We should have killed him, but we didn’t. He’s either in a hospital or drunk somewhere, or your good friend Martin has murdered him. Stillway is the key man for a successful assault, of course. The blueprints by themselves are not enough. Did you find a copy in the rectory? Well, don’t tell me, then. Are you still there, Schroeder?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you nodded off.” Hickey saw Flynn moving toward the organ keyboard in the choir loft. “Listen, Schroeder, we’re going to play some hymns on the bells later. I want a list of eight requests from the NYPD when I call again. All right?”

“All right.”

“Nothing tricky now. Just good solid Christian hymns that sound nice on the bells. Some Irish folk songs, too. Give the city a lift. Beannacht.” He hung up. After uncovering the keyboard and turning on the chancel organ, he put his thin hands over the keys and began playing a few random notes. He nodded with exaggerated graciousness toward the hostages who were watching and began singing as he played. “In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty …” His voice came out in a well-controlled bass, rich and full, very unlike his speaking voice. “ ’Twas where I first met my sweet Molly Malone …”

Brian Flynn sat at the choir organ and turned the key to start it. He placed his hands over the long curved keyboard and played a chord. On the organ was a large convex mirror set at an angle that allowed Flynn to see most of the Cathedral below—used, he knew, by the organist to time the triumphal entry of a procession or to set