Cathedral

“Fifty?”

“But he didn’t. I know he didn’t.”

“Hold on. Back up.”

Langley paced around the small room. “Washington perceived a sinking ship. Kline and Doyle perceived a bandwagon. See? Tomorrow they’ll both be heroes, or they’ll be in Mexico wearing dark glasses and phony noses —”

Burke found some loose aspirin in the night table and chewed three of them.

Langley sat down on a chair. “Listen, Spiegel wants to see you.” He briefed Burke quickly, then added, “You’re the negotiator until they decide about Schroeder.”

Burke looked up. “Negotiator?” He laughed. “Poor Bert. This was going to be his perfect game…. He really wanted this one.” He lit a cigarette stub. “So”—he exhaled a stream of acrid smoke—“we attack—”

“No! We rescue! You have to call it a rescue operation now. You have to choose your words very carefully, because it’s getting very grim and none of them is saying what they mean anymore—they never did anyway—and they lie better than we do. Go on, they’re waiting for you.”

Burke made no move to leave. “And Martin told them I would produce Stillway!”

“Yes, complete with blueprints. That was news to me—how about you?”

“And he never mentioned Terri O’Neal?”

“No—should he?” Langley looked at his watch. “Does it matter anymore?” Burke stared out the window into Madison Avenue. “Martin killed Jack Ferguson, you know.”

Langley came up behind him. “No. The Fenians killed Jack Ferguson.”

Burke turned. “Lots of phony deals going down tonight.”

Langley shook his head. “Damned right. And Kline is passing out promotions like they were campaign buttons. Go get one. But you have to pay.”

Langley began pacing again. “You have to sign a statement saying you think everything Kline and Doyle do is terrific. Okay? Make them give you a captain’s pay. I’m going to be a chief inspector. And get out of ID. Ask for the Art Forgery Squad—Paris, London, Rome. Promise me you’ll visit Schroeder in Dubuque—”

“Get hold of yourself.”

Langley waved his arms. “Remember, Martin is in, Schroeder is out. Logan is in with Kline and Doyle but out with Bellini—are you following me? Watch out for Spiegel. She’s in rare form—what a magnificent bitch. The Fenians are lunatics, we’re sane…. Monsignor Downes blesses us all…. What else?” He looked around with wild darting eyes. “Is there a shower in this place? I feel slimy. You still here? Beat it!” Langley fell back on the bed. “Go away.”

Burke had never seen Langley become unglued, and it was frightening. He started to say something, then thought better of it and left.

* * *

Burke walked beside Roberta Spiegel up the stairs. He listened to her brisk voice as they moved. Martin was climbing silently behind him.

Burke opened the stairshed door and walked onto the flat rooftop of the rectory. A wind blew from the north, and frozen pools of water reflected the lights of the tall buildings around them. Spiegel dismissed a team of ESD snipers, turned up her coat collar, and moved to the west side of the roof. She put her hands on the low wrought- iron fence that ran around the roof’s perimeter and stared at the towering Cathedral rising across the narrow courtyard.

The streets below were deserted, but in the distance, beyond the barricades, horns blared, people sang and shouted, bagpipes and other instruments played intermittently. Burke realized it was after 4:00 A.M., and the bars had closed. The party was on the streets now, probably still a hundred thousand strong, maybe more, tenaciously clinging to the night that had turned magic for them.

Spiegel was speaking, and Burke tried to concentrate on her words; but he had no topcoat, and he was cold, and her words were blowing away in the strong wind. She concluded, “We’ve gotten our act together, Lieutenant, but before it comes apart, we’re going to move. And we don’t want any more surprises. Understand?”

Burke said, “Art Forgery Squad.”

Spiegel looked at him, momentarily puzzled, then said, “Oh … all right. Either that or shower orderly at the academy gym.” She turned her back to the wind and lit a cigarette.

Burke said, “Where’s Schroeder?”

Spiegel replied, “He understands we don’t want him out of our sight and talking to the press, so rather than suffer the indignity of a guard, he volunteered to stick with Bellini.”

Burke felt a vague uneasiness pass through him. He said, “And I’m the negotiator?”

Spiegel said, “In fact, yes. But for the sake of appearances, Schroeder is still on the job. He’s not without his political connections. He’ll continue his duties, with some modifications, of course, and later … he’ll go on camera.”

Martin spoke for the first time. “Captain Schroeder should actually go back to the sacristy and speak with Flynn again. We have to keep up appearances at this critical moment. Neither Flynn nor the press should sense any problem.”

Burke cupped his hands and lit a cigarette, looking at Martin as he did. Martin’s strategy was becoming clear. He thought about Schroeder hanging around Bellini, about Schroeder meeting Flynn again at the gate. He thought, also, that Flynn did not have fifty well-armed people, and therefore Schroeder was mistaken, stupid, or gullible, which seemed to be the consensus. But he knew Schroeder was none of these things When you have excluded the impossible, said Sherlock Holmes, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Schroeder was lying, and Burke was beginning to understand why. He pictured the face of a young woman, heard her voice again, and placed her at a promotion party five or six years before. Almost hesitantly he made the final connection he should have made hours ago. Burke said to Spiegel, “And Bellini’s working on a new plan of attack?”

Spiegel looked at him in the diffused light and said, “Right now Bellini and Logan are formulating plan B— escalating the response, as they say—based on the outside possibility that there is a powerful force in that Cathedral. They won’t go in any other way. But we’re counting on you to give us the intelligence we need to formulate a plan C, an infiltration of the Cathedral and surprise attack, using the hidden passages that many of us seem to believe exist. That may enable us to actually save some lives and save Saint Patrick’s.”

She looked out at the looming structure. Even from the outside it looked labyrinthine with its towers, spires, buttresses, and intricate stonework. She turned to Burke. “So, do you feel, Lieutenant Burke, that you’ve put your neck on a chopping block?”

“There’s no reason why my neck shouldn’t be where yours is.”

“True,” she said. “True. And yours is actually a little more exposed, since I understand you’re going in with Bellini.”

“That’s right. How about you?”

She smiled unpleasantly, then said, “You don’t have to go…. But it wouldn’t be a bad idea … if you don’t produce Stillway.”

Burke glanced at Martin, who nodded slightly, and said, “I’ll have him within … half an hour.”

No one spoke, then Martin said, “If I may make another suggestion … let’s not make too much of this architect business in front of Captain Schroeder. He’s overwrought and may inadvertently let something slip the next time he speaks with Flynn.”

There was a long silence on the rooftop, broken by the sounds of shoes shuffling against the frozen gravel and the wind rushing through the streets. Burke looked at Spiegel and guessed that she sensed Bert Schroeder had a real problem, was a real problem.

Spiegel put her hands in the pockets of her long coat and walked a few paces from Burke and Martin. For a few brief seconds she wondered why she was so committed to this, and it came to her that in those seven miserable years of teaching history what she had really wanted to do was make history; and she would.

Captain Joe Bellini rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock in the press conference room.