Cathedral

Schroeder looked at the other two men, and they nodded. He said, “Yes, Your Eminence.”

The Cardinal spoke in a tone that suggested he was being coached and closely watched. “I’m all right. Mr. Baxter has received what they tell me is a grazing wound across his back and a ricochet wound in his chest. He’s resting and seems all right. Father Murphy was also hit by a ricocheting bullet—in the face—the jaw. He’s stunned but otherwise appears all right…. It was a miracle no one was killed.”

The three men in the room seemed to relax. There were murmurs from the adjoining office. Schroeder said, “Miss Malone?”

The Cardinal answered hesitantly, “She is alive. Not wounded. She is—”

Schroeder heard the phone being covered at the other end. He heard muffled voices, an angry exchange. He spoke into the receiver, “Hello? Hello?”

The Cardinal’s voice came back, “That’s all I can say.”

Schroeder spoke quickly, “Your Eminence, please don’t provoke these people. You must not endanger your own lives, because you’re also endangering other lives—”

The Cardinal replied in a neutral tone, “I’ll pass that on to the others.” He added, “Miss Malone is—”

Flynn’s voice suddenly came on the line. “Good advice from Captain Courageous. All right, you see no one is dead. Everyone calm down.”

“Let me speak to Miss Malone.”

“She stepped out for a moment. Later.” Flynn said abruptly, “Is everything set for my press conference?”

Schroeder’s voice turned calm. “We may need more time. The networks—”

“I have a message for America and the world, and I mean to deliver it.”

“Yes, you will. Be patient.”

“That’s not one of the Irish virtues, Schroeder.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s true.” He felt it was time for a more personal approach. “I’m half Irish myself, and—”

“Really?”

“Yes, my mother’s people were from County Tyrone. Listen, I understand your frustrations and your anger—I had a great-uncle in the IRA. Family hero. Jailed by the English.”

“For what? Being a bore like his nephew?”

Schroeder ignored the remark. “I grew up with many of the same hates and prejudices that you—”

“You weren’t there, Schroeder. You weren’t there. You were here.”

“This won’t accomplish anything,” said Schroeder firmly. “You might make more enemies than friends by —”

“The people in here don’t need any more friends. Our friends are dead or in prison. Tell them to let our people go, Captain.”

“We’re trying very hard. The negotiations between London and Washington are progressing. I see a light at the end of the tunnel—”

“Are you sure that light isn’t a speeding train coming at you?”

Someone in the next room laughed.

Schroeder sat down and bit the tip off a cigar. “Listen, why don’t you show us some good faith and release one of the wounded hostages?”

“Which one?”

Schroeder sat up quickly. “Well … well …”

“Come on, then. Play God. Don’t ask anyone there. You tell me which one.” “

The one that’s the most badly wounded.”

Flynn laughed. “Very good. Here’s a counterproposal. Would you like the Cardinal instead? Think now. A wounded priest, a wounded Englishman, or a healthy Cardinal?”

Schroeder felt an anger rising in him and was disturbed that Flynn could produce that response. “Who’s the more seriously hurt?”

“Baxter.”

Schroeder hesitated. He looked around the room. His words faltered.

Flynn said, “Quickly!”

“Baxter.”

Flynn put a sad tone in his voice. “Sorry. The correct response was to ask for a Prince of the Church, of course. But you knew that, Bert. Had you said the Cardinal, I would have released him.”

Schroeder stared down at the unlit cigar. His voice was shaky. “I doubt that.”

“Don’t doubt me on things like that. I’d rather lose a hostage and make a point.”

Schroeder took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck. “We’re not trying to make this a contest to see who’s got more nerve, who’s got more … more …”

“Balls.”

“Yes. We’re not trying to do that. That’s the old police image. We’re rolling over for you.” He glanced at Bellini, who looked very annoyed. He continued, “No one here is going to risk the lives of innocent people—”

“Innocent? There are no innocent civilians in war any more. We’re all soldiers— soldiers by choice, by conscription, by implication, and by birth.” Flynn drew a breath, then said, “The good thing about a long guerrilla war is that everyone gets a chance for revenge at least once.” He paused. “Let’s drop this topic. I want that television now. Send Burke.”

Schroeder finally lit his cigar. “I’m sorry, he’s temporarily out of the building.”

“I told you I wanted him around. You see, Schroeder, you’re not so accommodating after all.”

“It was unavoidable. He’ll call you soon.” He paused, then changed the tone of his voice. “Listen, along the same lines—I mean, we’re building a rapport, as you said—can I ask you again to try to keep Mr. Hickey off the phone?”

Flynn didn’t answer.

Schroeder went on, “I’m not trying to start any trouble there, but he’s saying one thing and you’re saying another. I mean, he’s very negative and very … pessimistic. I just wanted to make you aware of that in case you didn’t—”

The phone went dead.

Schroeder rocked back in his chair and drew on his cigar. He thought of how much easier it was dealing with Flynn and how difficult Hickey was. Then it hit him, and he dropped his cigar into an ashtray. Good guy—bad guy. The oldest con trick in the game. Now Flynn and Hickey were pulling that on him. “Sons of bitches.”

Langley looked at Schroeder, then glanced at the note pad he’d been keeping. After each dialogue Langley felt a sense of frustration and futility. This negotiating business was not his game, and he didn’t understand how Schroeder did it. Langley’s instincts screamed at him to grab the phone and tell Flynn he was a dead motherfucker. Langley lit a cigarette and was surprised to see his hands shaking. “Bastards.”

Roberta Spiegel took her place in the rocker and stared up at the ceiling. “Is anybody keeping score?”

Bellini stared out the window. “Can they fight as good as they bullshit?”

Schroeder answered, “The Irish are one of the few people who can.”

Bellini turned back to the window, Spiegel rocked in her chair, Langley watched the smoke curl up from his cigarette, and Schroeder stared at the papers scattered on the desk. Phones rang in the other room; a bullhorn cut into the night air, and its echo drifted through the window. The mantel clock ticked loudly, and Schroeder focused on it. 9:17 P.M. At 4:30 he’d been marching in the parade, enjoying himself, enjoying life. Now he had a knot in his stomach, and life didn’t look so good anymore. Why was someone always spoiling the parade?

CHAPTER 38

Maureen slid behind the thick column and watched Hickey as he stood squinting in the half-light. Megan came up behind him, swinging her big pistol easily by her side, the way other women swung a handbag—the way she