Cathedral

Why?”

Schroeder again cleared his throat. “Well … it always seems that way in the beginning. They’re the aggressors, you understand, and they’ve had months to think everything out. In time the situation will begin to reverse—”

Spiegel slammed her hand on the desk. “They know that, damn it! That’s why they’ve given us no time. Blitzkrieg, Schroeder, blitzkrieg. Lightning war. You know the word. They’re not hanging around while we get our act together. Dawn or dead. That’s the truest thing anyone’s said all night.”

Schroeder tried to control his voice. “Miss Spiegel … you see, I’ve had many years … let me explain. We are at a psychological disadvantage because of the hostages…. But put yourself in the Cathedral. Think of the disadvantages they must overcome. They don’t want to die—no matter what they pretend to the contrary. That and that alone is the bottom line of their thinking. And the hostages are keeping them alive—therefore, they won’t kill the hostages. Therefore, at dawn nothing will happen. Nothing. It never does. Never.”

Spiegel let out a long breath. She turned toward Langley and reached out not for another cigarette but for his pistol. She pulled it from his shoulder holster and turned to Schroeder. “See this? Men used to settle their arguments with this.” She looked closely at the blue-black metal and continued. “We’re supposed to be beyond that now, but I’ll tell you something. There’s more of this in the world than there are hostage negotiators. I’ll tell you something else—I’d rather send Bellini in with his guns than wait around with my finger up my ass to see what happens at dawn.” She dropped the pistol to her side and leaned over the desk. “If you can’t get a firm extension of the dawn deadline, then we go in while we still have the cover of darkness—before that self-destruct response levels this block.”

Schroeder sat motionless. “There is no self-destruct response.”

Spiegel said, “God, I wish I had your nerves—it is nerves, isn’t it?” She tossed the revolver back to Langley.

Langley holstered the gun. He looked at Spiegel. She got away with a great deal—the cigarettes, then the gun. She relieved him of his possessions with a very cavalier attitude. But maybe, he thought, it was just as well she didn’t observe the cautious etiquette that men did in these situations.

Roberta Spiegel moved away and looked at the two police officers. “If you want to know what’s really happening around you, don’t listen to those politicians out there. Listen to Brian Flynn and John Hickey.” She looked at a large wooden crucifix over Schroeder’s head and then out through the window at the Cathedral. “If Flynn or Hickey say dawn or dead, they mean dawn or dead. Understand who you’re dealing with.”

Schroeder nodded, almost imperceptibly. For a split second he had seen the face of the enemy, but it disappeared again just as quickly.

There was a long silence in the room, then Spiegel continued softly, “They can sense our fear … smell it. They also sense that we’re not going to give them what they want.” She looked at Schroeder. “I wish the people out there could give you the kind of direction you should have. But they’ve confused your job with theirs. They expect miracles from you, and you’re starting to believe you can deliver them. You can’t. Only Joe Bellini can deliver them a miracle—a military miracle—none killed, no wounded, no damage. Bellini is looking better to the people out there. They’re losing faith in the long hard road that you represent. They’re fantasizing about a glorious successful military solution. So while you’re stalling the Fenians, don’t forget to stall the people in the other rooms, too.”

CHAPTER 36

Flynn and Hickey played the organs, and George Sullivan played the pipes. Eamon Farrell, Frank Gallagher, and Abby Boland sang “My Wild Irish Rose.” In the attic Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty lay huddled together on a catwalk above the choir loft. The pipes of the great organ reverberated through the board on which they lay. Pedar Fitzgerald sat with his back against the crypt door. He half closed his tired eyes and hummed.

Flynn felt the lessening of the tensions as people lost themselves in reveries. He could sense a dozen minds escaping the cold stone fortress. He glanced at Megan and Leary. Even they seemed subdued as they sat on the choir parapet, their backs to the Cathedral, drinking tea and sharing a cigarette. Flynn turned away from them and lost himself in the thunderous organ.

Father Murphy knelt motionless before the high altar. He glanced at his watch.

Harold Baxter paced across the sanctuary floor, trying to appear restless while his eyes darted around the Cathedral. He looked at his watch. No reason, he thought, to wait the remaining minutes. They might never get an opportunity as good as this. As he passed by Father Murphy, he said, “Thirty seconds.”

Maureen lay curled up on a pew, her face buried in her arms. One eye peered out, and she saw Baxter nod to her.

Baxter turned and walked back toward the throne. He passed close to the Cardinal and said, “Now.”

The Cardinal stood, came down from the throne, and walked to the communion rail. He opened the gate and strode swiftly down the center aisle.

Father Murphy heard Baxter say, “Go.” Murphy made the sign of the cross, rose quickly, and moved toward the side of the altar.

Flynn watched the movements on the sanctuary in the organ mirror as he played. He continued to play the lilting melody as he called out to Leary. “Turn around.”

Leary and Megan both jumped down from the parapet and spun around. Leary raised his rifle.

Hickey’s organ stopped, and Flynn’s organ died away on a long, lingering note. The singing stopped, and the Cathedral fell silent, all eyes on the Cardinal. Flynn spoke into the microphone as he looked in the mirror. “Stop where you are, Cardinal.”

Father Murphy opened the circuit-breaker box recessed into the side of the altar, pulled the switch, and the sanctuary area went dark. Baxter took three long strides, passed the sacristy staircase, and hit the floor, sliding across the marble toward the brass floorplate. Maureen rolled off the pew and crawled swiftly toward the rear of the sanctuary. Baxter’s fingers found the grip on the brass plate and lifted the heavy metal until its hinges locked in place. Maureen pivoted, and her legs found the opening in the floor.

The four people in the triforia were shouting wildly. A shot rang out from the choir loft, and the shouting stropped. Four shots exploded in quick succession from the triforia.

Maureen dropped through the hole and fell to the earth floor below.

Baxter felt something—a spent bullet, a piece of marble—slam into his chest, and he rocked backward on his haunches.

The Cardinal kept walking straight head, but no one looked at him any longer.

Father Murphy crawled to the sacristy staircase and collided with Pedar Fitzgerald running up the steps. Both men swung wildly at each other in the partial darkness.

Baxter caught his breath and lunged forward. His arms and shoulders hung into the opening, and his feet slid over the marble trying to find traction.

Maureen was shouting, “Jump! Jump!” She reached up and grabbed his dangling arm.

Five more shots rang out, splintering marble and ringing sharply from the brass plate. Baxter felt a sharp pain shoot across his back, and his body jerked convulsively. Five more shots whistled through the dark over his head. He was aware that Maureen was pulling on his right hand. He tried to drop headfirst into the hole, but someone was pulling on his legs. He heard a shout very close to his ear, and the firing stopped.

Maureen was hanging from his arm, yelling up to him, “Jump! For God’s sake, jump!”

Baxter heard his own voice, low and breathless. “Can’t. Got me. Run. Run.” Someone was pulling on his ankles, pulling him back from the hole. He felt Maureen’s grip on his arm loosen, then break away. A pair of strong hands rolled him over on his back, and he looked into the face of Pedar Fitzgerald, who was kneeling above him, holding the submachine gun to his throat. In the half-light Baxter saw that there was blood spreading over Fitzgerald’s neck and across his white shirt.

Fitzgerald looked down at him and spoke between labored breaths. “You stupid son of a bitch! I’ll kill you—