“Then I won’t betray them. Never. Even if it means Terri—”
Flynn reached out and grabbed Schroeder by the arm. “Use your head, man. If they’re repulsed once, they aren’t likely to try again. They’re not marines or royal commandos. If I beat them back, then Washington, the Vatican, and other concerned countries will pressure London. I can almost guarantee there’ll be
Schroeder’s head shook.
Flynn reached out his other hand and laid it on Schroeder’s shoulder. He spoke almost gently. “Long after we’re dead, after what’s happened here is only a dim memory to an uncaring world, Theresa will be alive, perhaps remarried—children, grandchildren. Step outside of what you feel now, Captain, and look into the future. Think of her and think also of your wife—Mary lives for that girl, Bert. She—”
Schroeder suddenly pulled away. “Shut up! For God’s sake, shut up….” He slumped forward, and his head rested against the bars.
Flynn patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a decent man, Captain. An honest man. And you’re a good father…. I hope you’re still a father at dawn. Well … will you be?”
Schroeder nodded.
“Good. Go on, then, go back, have a drink. Get yourself together. It’ll be all right. No, don’t go thinking about your gun. Killing me or killing yourself won’t solve anyone’s problem but your own. Think about Terri and Mary. They need you and love you. See you later, Captain, God willing.”
CHAPTER 51
Governor Doyle stood in a back room of the Cardinal’s residence, a telephone in his hand. He listened to a succession of state officials: policemen, public relations people, legislators, the Attorney General, the commander of the state’s National Guard. They spoke to him from Albany, from the state offices in Rockefeller Center, from their homes, and from their vacation hotels in warmer climates. All of these people, who normally couldn’t decide on chicken or roast beef at a banquet, had decided that the time had come to storm the Cathedral. The Lieutenant Governor told him, frankly, if not tactfully, that his ratings in the polls were so low he had nothing to lose and could only gain by backing an assault on the Cathedral regardless of its success or failure. Doyle put the receiver into its cradle and regarded the people who were entering the room.
Kline, he noticed, had brought Spiegel, which meant a decision could be reached. Monsignor Downes took a seat beside Arnold Sheridan of the State Department. On the couch sat the Irish Consul General, Donahue, and the British Foreign Office representative, Eric Palmer. Police Commissioner Rourke stood by the door until Kline pointed to a chair.
Doyle looked at Bartholomew Martin, who had no official status any longer but whom he had asked to be present. Martin, no matter what people were saying about him, could be counted on to supply the right information.
The Governor cleared his throat and said, “Gentlemen, Miss—Ms.—Spiegel, I’ve asked you here because I feel that we are the ones most immediately affected by this situation.” He looked around the room. “And before we leave here, we’re going to cut this Gordian knot.” He made a slicing movement with his hand. “Cut through every tactical and strategic problem, political consideration, and moral dilemma that has paralyzed our will and our ability to
Monsignor Downes said, “Yes. His Holiness is going to make a personal appeal to the Fenians, as Christians, to spare the Cathedral and the lives of the hostages. He will also appeal to the governments involved to show restraint and will place at their disposal the facilities of the Vatican where they and the Fenians can continue their negotiations.”
Major Martin broke the silence. “The heads of state of the three governments involved are making a point of
The Monsignor waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “His Holiness would not be speaking as head of the Vatican State but as a world spiritual leader.”
The British representative, Palmer, said, “Such an appeal would place the American President and the Prime Ministers of Ireland and Britain in a difficult—”
Monsignor Downes was becoming agitated by the negative response. “His Holiness feels the Church must do what it can for these outcasts because that has been our mission for two thousand years—these are the people who need us.” He handed a sheet of paper to the Governor. “This is the text of His Holiness’s appeal.”
Governor Doyle read the short message and passed it to Mayor Kline.
Monsignor Downes said, “We would like that delivered to the people inside the Cathedral at the same time it’s read on radio and television. Within the next hour— before dawn.”
After everyone in the room had seen the text of the Pope’s appeal, Eric Palmer said, “Some years ago, we actually did meet secretly with the IRA, and they made it public. The repercussions rocked the government. I don’t think we’re going to speak with them again—certainly not at the Vatican.”
Donahue spoke with a tone of sadness in his voice. “Monsignor, the Dublin government outlawed the IRA in the 1920s, and I don’t think Dublin will back the Vatican on this….”
Martin said, “As you know we’ve actually passed on a compromise to them, and they’ve not responded. The Pope can save himself and all of us a great deal of embarrassment if he withholds this plea.”
Mayor Kline added, “The only way the Fenians can go to the Vatican is if I
Arnold Sheridan spoke for the first time, and the tone of his voice suggested a final policy position. “The government of the United States has reason to believe that federal firearm and passport laws have been violated, but otherwise it’s purely a local affair. We’re not going anywhere to discuss the release of Irish prisoners in the United Kingdom or immunity from prosecution for the people in the Cathedral.”
Spiegel looked at Downes. “The only place negotiations can be held is right here—on the phone or at the sacristy gate. It is the policy of the police in this city to contain a hostage situation—not let it become mobile. And it is the law to arrest criminals at the first possible opportunity. In other words, the trenches are dug, and no one is leaving them under a truce flag.”
The Monsignor pursed his lips and nodded. “I understand your positions, but the Church, which many of you consider so ironbound, is willing to try
Roberta Spiegel stood and lit a cigarette. “The mood of the people, notwithstanding bells and singing in the streets, is very hard line. If we take a soft approach and it explodes in our faces at 6:03, all of us will be out on our asses, and there’ll be no all-night prayer vigils for us.” She paused, then said, “So let’s cut through the bullshit—or the Gordian knot—and decide how and when we’re going to attack, and get our stories straight for afterward.”
Cigarettes were being lit, and Major Martin was helping himself to the Cardinal’s sherry.
The Governor nodded appreciatively. “I admire your honesty and perception, Ms. Spiegel, and—”
She looked at him. “This is why you asked us here, so let’s get on with it, Governor.”
Governor Doyle flushed but controlled his anger and said, “Good idea.” He looked around. “Then we all agree that a compromise is not an option, that the Fenians won’t surrender, and that they’ll carry out their threats at dawn?”
There were some tentative nods.
The Governor looked at Arnold Sheridan and said, “I’m on my own?” Sheridan nodded.
Doyle said, “But—off the record—the administration would like to see a hard-line approach?”
