cheeks.
In the Cardinal’s residence and in the rectory the only sound was the pealing of the bells rolling across the courtyard and resonating from a dozen television sets into rooms filled with people.
Burke stood in the Monsignor’s inner office, where the original Desperate Dozen had reassembled along with some additional members whom Burke had labeled the Anguished Auxiliaries.
Schroeder stood to the side with Langley and Roberta Spiegel, who, Burke noticed, was becoming Langley’s constant companion.
Langley stared at the screen and said, “If they’d had television on V-J day, this is what it would have looked like.”
Burke smiled in spite of himself. “Good timing. Good theater … fireworks … really hokey, but Christ, it gets them every time.”
Spiegel added, “And talk about your psychological disadvantages.”
Major Martin stood in the rear of the room between Kruger and Hogan. He kept his head and eyes straight ahead and said in an undertone, “We’ve always underestimated the willingness of the Irish to make public spectacles of themselves. Why don’t they suffer in silence like civilized people?”
The two agents looked at each other behind Martin’s back but said nothing.
Martin glanced to either side. He knew he was in trouble. He spoke with a light tone in his voice. “Well, I suppose I’ve got to undo this—or perhaps in their typical Irish
fashion they’ll undo themselves if—Oh, sorry, Hogan….”
Douglas Hogan moved away from Martin.
Monsignor Downes found his diary buried under Schroeder’s paperwork and drew it toward him, opening it to March 17.
He wrote,
Donald Mullins swung his rifle butt and smashed a hole in the thick, opaque glass of the lower section of the tower. He knocked out a dozen observation holes, the noise of the breaking glass inaudible through his shooters’ baffles and the chiming of the bells. Mullins slung his rifle and took a deep breath, then approached a broken window in the east side of the tower room and stared out into the cold night.
He saw that Devane was alternating star bursts with parachute flares, and the clearing night sky was lit with colors under a bright blue moon. The anxiety and despair he had felt all evening suddenly vanished in the clarity of the night, and he felt confident about meeting his death here.
CHAPTER 46
Harold Baxter didn’t consult his watch. He knew it was time. In fact, he thought, they should have gone sooner, before the bells and the fireworks, before Hickey’s speech, before the Fenians had transformed themselves from terrorists to freedom fighters.
He took a long last look around the Cathedral, then glanced at the television screen. A view from the tallest building of Rockefeller Center showed the cross-shape of the blue-lit Cathedral. In the upper left corner sat the rectory; in the right corner, the Cardinal’s residence. Within five minutes he would be sitting in either place, taking tea and telling his story. He hoped Maureen, the priest, and the Cardinal would be with him. But even if one or all of them were killed, it would be a victory because that would be the end of the Fenians.
Baxter rose from the pew and stretched nonchalantly. His legs were shaking and his heart was pounding.
Father Murphy rose and walked across the sanctuary. He exchanged quiet words with the Cardinal, then moved casually behind the altar and looked down the staircase.
Pedar Fitzgerald sat with his back to the crypt door, the Thompson pointed down the stairs toward the sacristy gate. He was singing to himself.
Father Murphy raised his voice over the organ. “Mr. Fitzgerald.”
Fitzgerald looked up quickly. “What is it, Father?”
Murphy felt a dryness in his throat. He looked across the stairwell for Baxter but didn’t see him. He said, “I’m … I’m hearing confessions now. Someone will relieve you if you want to—”
“I’ve nothing to confess. Please leave.”
Baxter steadied his legs, took a deep breath and moved. He covered the distance to the right side of the altar in three long strides and bounded down the steps in two leaps, unheard over the noise of the organ. Maureen was directly behind him.
Father Murphy saw them suddenly appear on the opposite stairs and made the sign of the cross over Fitzgerald.
Fitzgerald sensed the danger and spun around. He stared at Baxter flying toward him and raised his submachine gun.
Father Murphy heard a shot ring out from the choir loft and dived down the stairs; he looked over his shoulder for the Cardinal but knew he wasn’t coming.
Leary got off a single shot, but his targets were gone in less time than it took him to steady his aim from the recoil. Only the Cardinal was left, sitting immobile on his throne, a splash of scarlet against the white marble and green carnations. Leary saw Hickey climb across the organ and drop to the sanctuary beside the Cardinal’s throne. The Cardinal stood, placing himself in Hickey’s path. Hickey’s arm shot out and knocked the Cardinal to the floor. Leary placed the cross hairs over the Cardinal’s supine body.
Flynn continued the song on the bells, not wanting to alert the people outside that something was wrong. He watched the sanctuary in the mirror. He called out, “That will be all, Mr. Leary.”
Leary lowered his rifle.
Baxter flew down the stairs, and his foot shot out, hitting Fitzgerald full in the face. Fitzgerald staggered back, and Father Murphy grabbed his arm from behind. Baxter seized the submachine gun and pulled violently. Fitzgerald wrenched the gun back.
The sound of the chancel organ had died away, but the bells played on, and for a second they were the only sound in the Cathedral until the air was split by a burst of fire from the submachine gun. The muzzle flashed in Baxter’s face, and he was momentarily blinded. Pieces of plaster fell from the vaulted ceiling above, crashing over the sacristy stairs.
Father Murphy yanked back on Fitzgerald’s arm but couldn’t break Fitzgerald’s grip on the gun. Maureen ducked around Baxter and jabbed her fingers into Fitzgerald’s eyes. Fitzgerald screamed, and Baxter found himself holding the heavy submachine gun. He brought the butt up in a vertical stroke but missed Fitzgerald’s groin and solar plexus, hitting him a glancing blow across the chest.
Baxter swore, raised the butt again, and drove it horizontally into the young man’s throat. Father Murphy released Fitzgerald, and he fell to the floor. Baxter stood over the fallen man and raised the gun butt over Fitzgerald’s face.
Maureen shouted, “No!” She grabbed Baxter’s arm.
Fitzgerald looked up at them, tears and blood running from his unfocused eyes. Blood gushed from his open mouth.
Brian Flynn watched Hickey and Megan moving across the sanctuary. Leary stood beside him, fingering his rifle and murmuring to himself. Flynn turned his attention back to the bells.
The four people in the triforia had barely taken in what had happened in the last fifteen seconds. They stared down into the altar sanctuary and saw the Cardinal lying sprawled on the floor and Hickey and Megan approaching the two stairwells cautiously.
Maureen held the Thompson, steadied herself, and pulled back on the trigger. A deafening burst of automatic
