Cathedral

disappeared.

After a full minute Schroeder holstered the pistol, faced around, and walked back to the side corridor. He passed grim-faced men standing against the walls with slung rifles. He found a lavatory, entered it, and vomited.

CHAPTER 53

Burke stood alone in the small counting room close by the press room. He adjusted his flak jacket over his pullover and, after putting a green carnation in a cartridge loop, started for the door.

The door suddenly swung open, and Major Martin stood before him. “Hello, Burke. Is that what everyone in New York is wearing now?” He called back into the corridor, and two patrolmen appeared with a civilian between them. Martin smiled. “May I present Gordon Stillway, American Institute of Architects? Mr. Stillway, this is Patrick Burke, world-famous secret policeman.”

A tall, erect, elderly man stepped into the room, looking confused but otherwise dignified. In his left hand he held a briefcase from which protruded four tubes of rolled paper.

Burke dismissed the two officers and turned to Martin. “It’s late.”

“Is it?” Martin looked at his watch. “You have fifteen full minutes to head off Bellini. Time, as you know, is relative. If you’re eating Galway Bay oysters, fifteen minutes pass rather quickly, but if you’re hanging by your left testicle, it drags a bit.” He laughed at his own joke. “Bellini is hanging by his testicle. You’ll cut him down—then hang him up there again after he’s spoken to Mr. Stillway.”

Martin moved farther into the small room and drew closer to Burke. “Mr. Stillway was kidnapped from his apartment by persons unknown and held in an empty loft not far from here. Acting on anonymous information, I went to the detectives in the Seventh Precinct and, voila, Gordon Stillway. Mr. Stillway, won’t you have a seat?”

Gordon Stillway remained standing and looked from one man to the other, then said, “This is a terrible tragedy … but I’m not quite certain what I’m supposed to— ”

Martin said, “You, sir, will give the police the information they must have to infiltrate the Cathedral and catch the villains unawares.”

Stillway looked at him. “What are you talking about? Do you mean they’re going to attack? I won’t have that.”

Martin put his hand on Stillway’s shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ve arrived a bit late, sir. That’s not negotiable any longer. Either you help the police, or they go in there through the doors and windows and cause a great deal of death and destruction, after which the terrorists will burn it down and blow it up—or vice versa.”

Stillway’s eyes widened, and he let Martin maneuver him into a chair. Martin said to Burke, “You’d better hurry.”

Burke came toward Martin. “Why did you cut it this close?”

Martin took a step back and replied, “I’m sorry. I had to wait for Captain Schroeder to deliver the attack plans to Flynn, which is what he’s doing right now.”

Burke nodded. Bellini’s attack had to be canceled no matter what else happened. A new plan based on Stillway’s information, if he had any, would jump off so close to 6:03 that it would probably end in disaster anyway. But Martin had delivered Stillway and therefore would be owed a great favor by Washington. He looked at Martin. “Major, I’d like to be the first to thank you for your help in this affair.”

Martin smiled. “Now you’re getting into the right spirit. You’ve been so glum all night, but you’ll see—stick with me, Burke, and as I promised, you’ll come out of this looking fine.”

Burke addressed Stillway. “Are there any hidden passages into that Cathedral that will give the police a clear tactical advantage?”

Stillway sat motionless, contemplating the events that had begun with a sunny day and a parade, proceeded to his kidnapping and rescue, and ended with him in a subterranean room with two men who were obviously unbalanced. He said, “I have no idea what you mean by a clear tactical advantage.” His voice became irritable. “I’m an architect.”

Martin looked at his watch again. “Well, I’ve done my bit….” He opened the door. “Hurry now. You promised Bellini you’d be at his side, and a promise is sacred and beautiful. And oh, yes, later—if you’re still alive—you’ll see at least one more mystery unfold in that Cathedral. A rather good one.” He walked out and slammed the door.

Stillway regarded Burke warily. “Who was he? Who are you?”

“Who are you? Are you Gordon Stillway—or are you just another of the Major’s little jokes?”

Stillway didn’t answer.

Burke extracted a rolled blueprint from the briefcase, unfurled it, and stared at it. He threw the blueprint on the table and looked at his watch. “Come with me, Mr. Stillway, and we’ll see if you were worth the wait.”

Schroeder walked into the press conference room and hurried toward a phone. “This is Schroeder. Get me Kline.”

The Mayor’s voice was neutral. “Yes, Captain, any luck?”

Schroeder looked around the nearly empty room. Rifles and flak jackets had disappeared, and empty boxes of ammunition and concussion grenades lay in the corner. Someone had scrawled on the chalkboard: FINAL SCORE:CHRISTIANS AND JEWS———PAGANS AND ATHEISTS———

Kline’s voice was impatient. “Well?”

Schroeder leaned against the table and fought down a wave of nausea. “No … no extension … no compromise. Listen …”

Kline sounded annoyed. “That’s what eveyone’s been telling you all night.”

Schroeder drew a long breath and pressed his hand to his stomach. Kline was speaking, but Schroeder wasn’t listening. Slowly he began to take in more of his surroundings. Bellini stood across the table with his arms folded, Burke stood at the opposite end of the room, two ESD men with black ski masks stood very near him, and an old man, a civilian, sat at the conference table.

The Mayor went on. “Captain, right now you are still very much a hero, and within the hour you will be the police department’s chief spokesman.” Schroeder examined Bellini’s blackened face and thought Bellini was glaring at him with unconcealed hatred, as though he knew, but he decided it must be the grotesque makeup.

Kline was still speaking. “And you will not speak to a newsperson until the last shot is fired. And what’s this I hear about you volunteering to go in with Bellini?”

Schroeder said, “I … I have to. That’s the least I can do….”

“Have you lost your mind? What’s wrong with you, anyway? You sound—have you been drinking?”

Schroeder found himself staring at the old man who, he now noticed, was studying a large unrolled length of paper. His eyes passed over the silent men in the room again and focused on Burke, who seemed … almost sad. Everyone looked as though someone had just died. Something was wrong here—

“Are you drunk?”

“No….”

“Pull yourself together, Schroeder. You’ll be on television soon.”

“What … ?”

“Television! You remember, the red light, the big camera…. Now you get clear of that Cathedral—get over here as soon as possible.”

Schroeder heard the phone go dead and looked at the receiver, then dropped it on the table. He extended his arm and pointed at Gordon Stillway. “Who is that?”

The room remained silent. Then Burke said, “You know who that is, Bert. We’re going to redraw the attack plans.”

Schroeder looked quickly at Bellini and blurted, “No! No! You—”

Bellini glanced at Burke and nodded. He turned to Schroeder. “I can’t believe you did that.” He came toward Schroeder, who was edging toward the door. “Where’re you going, ace? You going to tip your pal,