Cathedral

with tanks—they’ve seen more British armored cars than you’ve seen—”

“Taxis,” said Burke as he walked into the press room. “That’s what Flynn said to Schroeder. Taxis. Mind if Inspector Langley and I join you?”

Bellini looked tired and annoyed. He said to Logan, “Take it up with the Governor.” Glancing at the wall clock, he said, “Everyone take ten. Clear out!” He sat down and lit a cigarette. The men filed out of the conference room and huddled in groups throughout the corridors.

Burke and Langley sat across from Bellini. Bellini said softly, “That fucking war hero is spooking my men.”

Burke thought, They should be spooked. They’re going to get creamed. “He means well.”

Bellini drew on his cigarette. “Why are those parade soldiers in on this?”

Langley looked around, then said quietly, “The Governor needs a boost.”

Bellini sipped on a cup of cold coffee. “You know … I discussed a lot of options for this attack with the Mayor and Governor. Ever notice how people who don’t know shit about warfare all of a sudden become generals?” Bellini chain-lit another cigarette and went on in a voice that was becoming overwrought. “So Kline takes my hand and squeezes it—Christ, I should’ve squeezed his and broken his fucking fingers. Anyway, he says, ‘Joe, you know what’s expected of you.’ Christ Almighty, by this time I don’t even know if I’m allowed to take my gun in there. But my adrenaline is really pumping by now, and I say to him, ‘Your Honor, we have to attack now, while the bells are ringing.’ Right? And he says—check this—he says, ‘Captain, we have an obligation’—a moral something or other—‘to explore every possible avenue of negotiation’—blah, blah, blah—‘political considerations’— blah, blah—‘the Vatican’—blah, blah. So I say … no, I didn’t say it, but I should have … I should have said, ‘Kline, you schmuck, do you want to rescue the hostages and save the fucking Cathedral, or do you want to make time with the White House and the Vatican?’”

He paused and breathed hard. “But maybe then I would have sounded like an asshole, too, because I don’t really care about a pile of stone or four people I don’t even know. My responsibility is to a hundred of my men who I do know and to their families and to myself and my wife and kids. Right?”

No one spoke for some time, then the telephone rang. Bellini grabbed it, listened, then handed it to Burke. “Some guy called the Leper. You hang out with classy people.”

Burke took the receiver and heard Ferguson’s voice. “Burke, Leper here.”

Burke said, “How are you?”

“Cold, scared shitless, tired, hungry, and broke. But otherwise, well. Is this line secure?”

“No.”

“Okay, I have to speak to you face to face.”

Burke thought a moment. “Do you want to come here?”

Ferguson hesitated. “No … I saw people hanging around the checkpoints who shouldn’t see me. I’m very close to our rendezvous point. See you there.”

Burke put down the receiver and said to Langley, “Ferguson’s on to something.”

Bellini looked up quickly. “Anything that can help me?”

Burke wanted to say, “Frankly, nothing can help you,” but said instead, “I think so.”

Bellini seemed to sense the lie and slumped lower in his chair. “Christ, we’ve never gone up against trained guerrillas….” He looked up suddenly. “Do I sound scared? Do I look scared?”

Burke replied, “You look and sound like a man who fully appreciates the problems.”

Bellini laughed. “Yeah. I appreciate the hell out of the problems.”

Langley seemed suddenly annoyed. “Look, you must have known a day like this would come. You’ve trained for this—”

“Trained?” Bellini turned on him. “Big fucking deal trained. In the army I was trained on how to take cover in a nuclear attack. The only instructor who made any sense was the one who told us to hold our helmets, put our heads between our legs, and kiss our asses good-bye.” He laughed again. “Fuck trained.” Bellini stubbed out his cigarette and breathed deeply. “Oh, well. Maybe Schroeder will pull it off.” He smiled thinly. “He’s got more incentive now.” He pointed to a black bulletproof vest and a dark pullover sweater at the end of the table. “That’s his.”

Langley said, “Why don’t you let him off the hook?”

Bellini shook his head, then looked at Burke. “How about you? What are you doing later?”

Burke said, “I’ll be with you.”

Bellini’s eyes widened.

Langley looked at Burke quickly. “Like hell.”

Burke said nothing.

Bellini said, “Let the man do what he wants.”

Langley changed the subject and said to Bellini, “I have more psy-profiles for you.”

Bellini lit a cigarette. “Put a light coat of oil on them and shove them up your ass.”

Langley stiffened.

Bellini went on, enjoying the fact that no one could pull rank on him any longer. “Where’s the architect, Langley? Where are the blueprints?”

Langley said, “Working on it.”

“Terrific. Everybody is working on something—you, Schroeder, the Mayor, the President. Everybody’s working. You know, when this started nobody paid much attention to Joe Bellini. Now the Mayor calls about every fifteen minutes asking how I’m making out. Calls me Joe. Terrific little guy.”

Men started drifting back into the room.

Bellini leaned over the table. “They’ve got me cornered. When they start calling you by your first name, they’ve got you by the balls, and they’re not going to let go until I charge up those fucking steps—holding not much more than my cock in one hand and a cross in the other—and get myself killed.” He stood. “Believe me, Burke, it’s all a fucking show. Everybody’s got to play his part. You, me, the politicians, the Church, the bastards in the Cathedral. We know we’re full of shit, but that’s the way we learned how to play.”

Burke stood and looked around at the ESD men, then looked closely at Bellini. “Remember, you’re the good guys.”

Bellini rubbed his temples and shook his head. “Then how come we’re wearing black?”

CHAPTER 49

Patrick Burke stepped out of the rectory into the cold, gusty air. He looked at his watch. Nearly 1:00 A.M., March 18. They would still call it the St. Patrick’s Day massacre or something catchy like that. He turned up his collar and walked east on Fifty-first Street.

At Park Avenue a city bus was drawn up to form a barricade. Burke walked around the bus, passed through a thin crowd, and crossed the avenue. A small group had congregated on the steps and terraces of St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church, passing bottles and singing the songs that were being played on St. Patrick’s bells. People were entering the church, and Burke recalled that many churches and synagogues had announced all-night prayer vigils. A news van was setting up cameras and lights.

Burke listened to the bells. Flynn—if it was Flynn playing—had a good touch. Burke remembered Langley’s speculation about the John Hickey T-shirts. He envisioned a record jacket: St. Patrick’s Cathedral—green star clusters—Brian Flynn Plays the Bells.

Burke passed by the church and continued east on Fifty-first Street. Between two buildings lay a small park. A fence and gate ran between the flanking structures, and Burke peered through the bars. Cafe tables and upturned chairs stood on the terraces beneath bare sycamores. Nothing moved in the unlit park. Burke grasped the cold steel bars, pulled himself up to the top, and dropped into the park. As he hit the frozen stone walk below, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his numb legs and swore silently. He drew his pistol and remained crouched. A wind shook the trees, and ice-covered twigs snapped and fell to the ground with the sound of breaking crystal.

Burke straightened up slowly and moved through the scattered tables, pistol held at his side. As he moved,