Cathedral

“Mexico City … I’m to fly to Mexico City….” He tried to laugh. “Long way from Tipperary.”

“Warm there. Keep alert.” Hickey cranked again. “South tower.”

Rory Devane answered. “Situation unchanged.”

“Watch for the strobe lights.”

“I know.”

“Are the snipers still making you nervous, lad?”

Devane laughed. “No. They’re keeping me company. I’ll miss them, I think.”

“Where are you headed tomorrow?”

“South of France. It’s spring there, they tell me.”

“So it is. Remember, a year from today at Kavanagh’s in fair Dublin.”

“I’ll be there.”

Hickey smiled at the dim memory of Kavanagh’s Pub, whose front wall was part of the surrounding wall of Glasnevin Cemetery. There was a pass-through in the back wall where gravediggers could obtain refreshments, and as a result, it was said, many a deceased was put into the wrong hole. Hickey laughed. “Aye, Rory, you’ll be there.” He hung up and turned the crank again.

Leary picked up the phone in the choir loft. Hickey said, “Tell Brian to give the bells a rest, then.” He watched Leary turn and speak to Flynn. Leary came back on the line. “He says he feels like playing.”

Hickey swore under his breath. “Hold on.” He looked at the television set again. The scenes of New York had been replaced by an equally dramatic view of the White House, yellow light coming from the Oval Office windows. A reporter was telling the world that the President was in conference with top advisers. The scene shifted to 10 Downing Street, where it was 5:00A.M. A bleary-eyed female reporter was assuring America that the Prime Minister was still awake. A quick scene-change showed the Apostolic Palace in the Vatican. Hickey leaned forward and listened carefully as the reporter speculated about the closed-door gathering of Vatican officials. He mumbled to himself, “Saint Peter’s next.”

Hickey spoke into the phone. “Tell Mr. Flynn that since we can expect an attack at any time now, I suggest he stop providing them with the noise cover they need.” He hung up and listened to the bells, which still rang. Brian Flynn, he thought, was not the same man who strode so cockily through this Cathedral little more than six hours before. Flynn was a man who had learned a great deal in those six hours, but had learned it too late and would learn nothing further of any consequence in the final six hours.

Captain Bert Schroeder was startled out of a half-sleep by the ringing telephone. He picked it up quickly.

Hickey’s voice cut into the stillness of the office and boomed out over the speakers in the surrounding rooms, also startling some of the people there. “Schroeder! Schroeder!”

Schroeder sat up, his chest pounding, “Yes! What’s wrong?”

Hickey’s voice was urgent. “Someone’s seized the Cathedral!” He paused and said softly, “Or was I having a nightmare?” He laughed.

Schroeder waited until he knew his voice would be steady. He looked around the office. Only Burke was there at the moment, sleeping soundly on the couch. Schroeder said, “What can I do for you?”

Hickey said, “Status report, Schroeder.”

Schroeder cleared his throat. “Status—”

“How are things in Glocca Morra, London, Washington, Vatican City, Dublin? Anybody still working on this?”

“Of course. You can see it on TV.”

“I’m not the public, Schroeder. You tell me what’s happening.”

“Well …” He looked at some recent memos. “Well … the Red Cross and Amnesty are positioned at all of the camps … waiting …”

“That was on TV.”

“Was it? Well … Dublin … Dublin has not yet agreed to accept released internees—”

“Tell them for me that they’re sniveling cowards. Tell them I said the IRA will take Dublin within the year and shoot them all.”

Schroeder said emphatically, “Anyway, we all haven’t agreed on terms yet, have we? So finding a place of sanctuary is of secondary importance—”

“I want to speak with all the governments directly. Set up a conference call.”

Schroeder’s voice was firm. “You know they won’t speak to you directly.”

“Those pompous bastards will be on their knees begging for an audience by six o’clock.”

Schroeder put a note of optimism in his voice. “Your speech is still having favorable repercussions. The Vatican is—”

“Speaking of repercussions and concussions and all that, do you think—now this is a technical question that you should consider—do you think that the glass facade of the Olympic Tower will fall into the street when—”

Schroeder said abruptly, “Is Mr. Flynn there?”

“You have a bad habit of interrupting, Schroeder.”

“Is Mr. Flynn there?”

“Of course he’s here, you ass. Where else would he be?”

“May I speak to him, please?”

“He’s playing the bells, for God’s sake!”

“Can you tell him to pick up the extension beside the organ?”

“I told you, you don’t interrupt a man when he’s playing the bells. Haven’t you learned anything tonight? I’ll bet you were a vice cop once, busting into hotel rooms, interrupting people. You’re the type.”

Schroeder felt his face redden. He heard Hickey’s voice echoing through the rectory and heard a few people laughing. Schroeder snapped a pencil between his fingers. “We want to speak with Mr. Flynn—privately, at the sacristy gate.” He looked at Burke sleeping on the couch. “Lieutenant Burke wants to speak—”

“As you said before, it’s less confusing to speak to one person. If I can’t speak to the Queen, you can’t speak to Finn MacCumail. What’s wrong with me? By the way, what have you given up for Lent? Your brains or your balls? I gave up talking to fools on the telephone, but I’ll make an exception in your case.”

Schroeder suddenly felt something inside him come loose. He made a strong effort to control his voice and spoke in measured tones. “Mr. Hickey … Brian Flynn has a great deal of faith in me—the efforts I’m making, the honesty I’ve shown—”

The sound of Hickey’s laughter filled the office. “He sounds like a good lad to you, does he? Well, he’s got a surprise in store for you, Schroeder, and you won’t like it.”

Schroeder said, “We’d rather not have any surprises—”

“Stop using that imperial we. I’m talking about you. You have a surprise coming.” Schroeder sat up quickly, and his eyes became more alert. “What do you mean by that? What does that mean? Listen, everything should be aboveboard if we’re going to bargain in good faith—”

“Is Bellini acting in good faith?”

Schroeder hesitated. This use of names by these people was unsettling. These references to him personally were not in the script.

Hickey continued, “Where is Bellini now? Huddled around a chalk board with his Gestapo? Finding sneaky little ways to kill us all? Well, fuck Bellini and fuck you.”

Schroeder shook his head in silent frustration, then said, “How are the hostages?” Hickey said, “Did you find Stillway yet?”

“Do you need a doctor in there?”

“Did you dig up my grave yet?”

“Can I send food, medicine—?”

“Where’s Major Martin?”

Burke lay on the couch with his eyes closed and listened to the dialogue deteriorate into two monologues. As unproductive as the dialogue had been, it hadn’t been as bizarre as what he was listening to now. He knew now, beyond any doubt, that it was finished.