he’ll smash the TV or place it where only he and Hickey can use it for intelligence gathering.”
Schroeder nodded. “I never know if this TV business is part of the problem or part of the solution. But if they ask, we have to give.” He dialed the switchboard. “Chancel organ.” He handed the receiver to Burke, turned on all the speaker switches, then sat back with his feet on the desk. “On the air, Lieutenant.”
A voice came over the speakers: “Flynn here.”
“Burke.”
“Listen, Lieutenant, do me a great favor, won’t you, and stay in the damned rectory—at least until dawn. If the Cathedral goes, you’ll want to see it. Tape all the windows, though, and don’t stand under any chandeliers.”
Burke was aware that more than two hundred people in the Cathedral complex were listening, and that every word was being taped and transmitted to Washington and London. Flynn knew this, too, and was playing it for effect. “What can I do for you?”
“Aren’t you supposed to ask first about the hostages?”
“You said they were all right.”
“But that was a while ago.”
“Well, how are they
“No change. Except that Miss Malone took a jaunt through the crawl space. But she’s back now. Looks a bit tired, from what I can see. Clever girl that she is she found a hatchway from the crawl space into the hallway that runs past the bride’s-room elevator.” He paused, then went on, “Don’t touch the hatch, however, as it’s being mined right now with enough plastic to give you a nasty bump.”
Burke looked at Schroeder, who was already on the other phone talking to one of Bellini’s lieutenants. “I understand.”
“Good. And you can assume that every other entrance you find will also be mined. And you can assume the entire crawl space is seeded with mines. You can also suspect that I’m lying or bluffing, but, really, it’s not smart to call my bluff. Tell that to your ESD people.”
“I’ll do that.”
Flynn said, “Anyway, I want the television. Bring it round to the usual place. Fifteen minutes.”
Burke looked at Schroeder and covered the mouthpiece.
Schroeder said, “There’s one waiting downstairs in the clerk’s office. But you have to get something from him in return. Ask to speak to a hostage.”
Burke uncovered the mouthpiece. “I want to talk to Father Murphy first.”
“Oh, your friend. You shouldn’t admit to having a friend in here.”
“He’s not my friend, he’s my confessor.”
Flynn laughed loudly. “Sorry, that struck me funny, somehow. That was no lady, that was my wife. You know?”
Schroeder suppressed a smirk.
Burke looked annoyed. “Put him on!”
Flynn’s voice lost its humor. “Don’t make any demands on me, Burke.”
“I won’t bring a television unless I speak to the priest.”
Schroeder was shaking his head excitedly. “Forget it,” he whispered. “Don’t push him.”
Burke continued, “We have some talking to do, don’t we, Flynn?”
Flynn didn’t answer for a long time, then said, “I’ll have Murphy at the gate. See you in no-man’s-land. Fifteen … no, fourteen minutes now, and don’t be late.” He hung up.
Schroeder looked at Burke. “What the hell kind of dialogue are you two carrying on down there?”
Burke ignored him and called through to the chancel organ again. “Flynn?”
Brian Flynn’s voice came back, a bit surprised. “What is it?”
Burke found his body shaking with anger. “New rule, Flynn. You don’t hang up until I’m through. Got it?” He slammed down the receiver.
Schroeder stood. “What the hell is wrong with you? Haven’t you learned
“Oh, go fuck yourself.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.
Schroeder pressed on. “Don’t like being at the receiving end, do you? Messes up your self-image. These bastards have called me every name under the sun tonight, but you don’t see me—”
“Okay. You’re right. Sorry.”
Schroeder said again, “What do you talk to him about down there?”
Burke shook his head. He was tired, and he was starting to lose his temper. He knew that if he was making mistakes because of fatigue, then everyone else was, too.
The phone rang. Schroeder answered it and handed it to Burke. “Your secret headquarters atop Police Plaza.”
Burke shut off all the speakers and carried the phone away from the desk. “Louise.”
The duty sergeant said, “Nothing on Terri O’Neal. Daniel Morgan—age thirty-four. A naturalized American citizen. Born in Londonderry. Father Welsh Protestant, mother Irish Catholic. Fiancee arrested in Belfast for IRA activities. May still be in Armagh Prison. We’ll check with British—”
“Don’t check
“Okay. One of those.” She went on. “Morgan made our files because he was arrested once in a demonstration outside the UN, 1979. Fined and released. Address YMCA on West Twenty-third. Doubt if he’s still there. Right?” She read the remainder of the arrest sheet, then said, “I’ve put it out to our people and to the detectives. I’ll send you a copy of the sheet. Also, nothing yet on Stillway.”
Burke hung up and turned to Langley. “Let’s get that television.”
Schroeder said, “What was that all about?”
Langley looked at Schroeder. “Trying to catch a break to make your job and Bellini’s a little easier.”
“Really? Well, that’s the least you can do after screwing up the initial investigation.”
Burke said, “If we hadn’t blown it, you wouldn’t have the opportunity to negotiate for the life of the Archbishop of New York or the safety of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”
“Thanks. I owe you.”
Burke looked at him closely and had the impression that he wasn’t being completely facetious.
Maureen came out of the lavatory of the bride’s room and walked to the vanity. Her outer garments lay draped over a chair, and a first-aid kit sat in front of the vanity mirror. She sat and opened the kit.
Jean Kearney stood to the side with a pistol in her hand and watched. Kearney cleared her throat and said tentatively, “You know … they still speak of you in the movement.”
Maureen dabbed indifferently at her legs with an iodine applicator. She didn’t look up but said listlessly, “Do they?”
“Yes. People still tell stories of your exploits with Brian before you turned traitor.”
Maureen glanced up at the young woman. It was an ingenuous statement, without hostility or malice, just a relating of a fact she had learned from the storytellers—like the story of Judas. The Gospel according to the Republican Army. Maureen looked at the young woman’s bluish lips and fingers. “Cold up there?”
She nodded. “Awfully cold. This is a bit of a break for me, so take your time.”
Maureen noticed the wood chips on Jean Kearney’s clothing. “Doing some carpentry in the attic?”
Kearney turned her eyes away.
Maureen stood and took her skirt from the chair. “Don’t do it, Jean. When the time comes, you and—Arthur, isn’t it?—you and Arthur must not do whatever it is they’ve told you to do.”
“Don’t say such things. We’re loyal—not like you.”
Maureen turned and looked at herself in the mirror and looked at the image of Jean Kearney behind her. She wanted to say something to this young woman, but really there was nothing to say to someone who had willingly committed sacrilege and would probably commit murder before too long. Jean Kearney would eventually find her own way out, or she’d die young.
There was a knock on the door, and it opened a crack. Flynn put his head in, and his eyes rested on Maureen;
