Cathedral

4:26A.M.The fucking sun is due at 6:03. In his half-sleep he had pictured a wall of brilliant sunlight moving toward him, coming to rescue him as it had done so many times in Korea. God, he thought, how I hate the sound of rifles in the night.

He looked around the room. Men slept on cots or on the floor, using flak jackets for pillows. Others were awake, smoking, talking in low tones. Occasionally someone laughed at something that, Bellini guessed, was not funny. Fear had a special stink of its own, and he smelled it strongly now, a mixture of sweat, tobacco, gun oil, and the breath from labored lungs and sticky mouths.

The blackboard was covered with colored chalk marks superimposed on a white outline of St. Patrick’s. On the long conference table lay copies of the revised attack plan. Bert Schroeder sat at the far end of the table, flipping casually through a copy.

The phone rang, and Bellini grabbed it. “ESD operations, Bellini.”

The Mayor’s distinctive nasal voice came over the line. “How are you holding up, Joe? Anxious to get rolling?”

“Can’t wait.”

“Good…. Listen, I’ve just seen your new attack plan…. It’s a little excessive, isn’t it?”

“It was mostly Colonel Logan’s, sir,” Bellini said.

“Oh … well, see that you tone it down.”

Bellini picked up a full soft-drink can in his big hand and squeezed it, watching the top pop off and the brown liquid run over his fingers. “Approved or disapproved?”

The Mayor let a long time go by, and Bellini knew he was conferring, looking at his watch. Kline came back on the line. “The Governor and I approve … in principle.”

“I thank you in principle.”

Kline switched to another subject. “Is he still there?”

Bellini glanced at Schroeder. “Like dog turd on a jogger’s sneakers.”

Kline forced a weak laugh. “Okay, I’m in the state offices in Rockefeller Center with the Governor and our staffs—”

“Good view.”

“Now, don’t be sarcastic. Listen, I’ve just spoken to the President of the United States.”

Bellini detected a note of self-importance in Kline’s tone.

“The President says he’s making definite progress with the British Prime Minister. He’s also making noises like he might federalize the guard and send in marshals… .” Kline lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone. “Between you and me, Joe, I think he’s putting out a smokescreen … covering himself for later.”

Bellini lit a cigarette. “Who isn’t?”

Kline’s voice was urgent. “He’s under pressure. The church bells in Washington are already ringing, and there are thousands of people marching with candles in front of the White House. The British Embassy is being picketed —”

Bellini watched Schroeder stand and then walk toward the door. He said into the phone, “Hold on.” Bellini called to Schroeder, “Where you headed, Chief?”

Schroeder looked back at him. “Sacristy.” He walked out the door.

Bellini watched him go, then said into the phone, “Schroeder just went to make a final pitch to Flynn. Okay?”

Kline let out a long breath. “All right … can’t hurt. By the time he gets back you’ll be ready to move—unless he has something very solid, which he won’t.”

Bellini remembered that Schroeder had never had a failure. “You never know.”

There was a long silence on the line, then the Mayor said, “Do you believe in miracles?”

“Never actually saw one.” He thought, Except the time you got reelected. “Nope, never saw one.”

“Me neither.”

Bellini heard a click on the line, followed by a dial tone. He looked across the quiet room. “Get up! Off your asses! Battle stations. Move out!”

Bert Schroeder stood opposite Brian Flynn at the sacristy gate. Schroeder’s voice was low and halting as he spoke, and he kept looking back nervously into the sacristy. “The plan is a fairly simple and classical attack…. Colonel Logan drew it up…. Logan himself will hit the front doors with an armored carrier, and the ESD will hit all the other doors simultaneously with rams…. They’ll use scaling ladders and break through the windows…. It’s all done under cover of gas and darkness … everyone has masks and night scopes. The electricity will be cut off at the moment the doors are hit….”

Flynn felt the blood race through his veins as he listened. “Gas …”

Schroeder nodded. “The same stuff you used at the reviewing stands. It will be pumped in through the air ducts.” He detailed the coordination of helicopters, snipers on the roofs, firemen, and bomb disposal men. He added, “The sacristy steps”—he looked down as though realizing he was standing in the very spot— “they’ll be hit with steel-cut chain saws. Bellini and I will be with that squad…. We’ll go for the hostages … if they’re on the sanctuary …” He shook his head, trying to comprehend the fact that he was saying this.

“The hostages,” said Flynn, “will be dead.” He paused and said, “Where will Burke be?”

Schroeder shook his head, tried to go on, but heard his voice faltering. After some hesitation he slipped a sheaf of papers from his jacket and through the bars.

Flynn slid them under his shirt, his eyes darting between the corridor openings. “So there’s nothing that the famous Captain Schroeder can do to stop this?”

Schroeder looked down. “There never was…. Why didn’t you see that … ?”

Flynn’s voice was hostile. “Because I listened to you all night, Schroeder, and I think I half believed your damned lies!”

Schroeder was determined to salvage something of himself from the defeat and humiliation he had felt at the last confrontation. “Don’t put this on me. You knew I was lying. You knew it!”

Flynn glared at him, then nodded slightly. “Yes, I knew it.” He thought a moment, then said, “And I know you’re finally speaking the truth. It must be a great strain. Well, I can stop them at the doors … if, as you say, they haven’t discovered any hidden passages and they don’t have the architect—” He looked suddenly at Schroeder. “They don’t have him, do they?”

Schroeder shook his head. He drew himself up and spoke rapidly. “Give it up. I’ll get you a police escort to the airport. I know I can do that. That’s all they really want—they want you out of here!”

Flynn seemed to consider for a brief moment, then shook his head.

Schroeder pressed on. “Flynn—listen, they’re going to hit you hard. You’re going to die. Can’t you grasp that? You can’t delude yourself any longer. But all you have to do is say you’re willing to take less—”

“If I wanted less, I would have asked for less. No more hostage negotiating, please. God, how you go on. Talk about self-delusion.”

Schroeder drew close to the gate. “All right, I’ve done all I could. Now you release—”

Flynn cut him off. “If the details you’ve given me are accurate, I’ll send a signal to release your daughter.”

Schroeder grabbed at the bars. “What kind of signal? When? The phones will be cut off…. The towers will be under sniper fire—What if you’re … dead? Damn it, I’ve given you the plans—”

Flynn went on. “But if you’ve lied to me about any part of this, or if there should be a change in plans and you don’t tell me—”

Schroeder was shaking his head spasmodically. “No. No. That’s not acceptable. You’re not living up to your end.”

Flynn turned and walked up the stairs.

Schroeder drew his pistol and held it close against his chest. It wavered in his hand, the muzzle pointing toward Flynn’s back, but his hand shook so badly he almost dropped the gun. Flynn turned the corner and