cocksucker?”
Schroeder’s head was shaking spasmodically.
Bellini drew closer. “I can’t hear you, you shit! Your golden voice sounds like a toilet flushing.”
Burke called out. “Joe—no hard stuff—just take his gun.” Burke moved closer to the two men. The two ESD officers held their rifles at their hips, not understanding exactly what was going on but ready to fire if Schroeder made a move for his gun. Gordon Stillway looked up from his blueprints.
Schroeder found his voice. “No … listen … I have to talk to Flynn … because… you see … I’ve got to try one more time—”
Bellini held out his hand. “Give me your gun—left hand—pinky in the trigger guard—nice and easy, and no one’s going to get hurt.”
Schroeder hesitated, then slowly reached into his jacket and carefully extracted the pistol with a hooked finger. “Bellini—listen—what’s going on? Why—”
Bellini reached for the pistol with his left hand and swung with his right, hitting Schroeder a vicious blow to the jaw. Schroeder fell back against the door and slid down to the floor.
Burke said, “You didn’t have to do that.”
Bellini flexed his hand and turned to Burke. “You’re right—I should’ve yanked his nuts out and shoved them up his nose.” He looked back at Schroeder. “Tried to kill me, did you, scumbag?”
Burke saw that Bellini was contemplating further violence. “It had nothing to do with you, Bellini. Just cool out.” He came up beside Bellini and put his hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You’ve got lots to do.”
Bellini motioned to the ESD men. “Cuff this cocksucker and dump him in a closet somewhere.” He turned to Burke. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? You think I don’t know that you’re all going to cover for that motherfucker, and as soon as the shit storm is over at dawn he’s going to be the Mayor’s golden boy again.” He watched the ESD men carry Schroeder out and called after them, “Find some place with rats and cockroaches.” He sat down and tried to steady his hands as he lit a cigarette.
Burke stood beside him. “Life is unfair, right? But someone handed us a break this time. Flynn thinks you’re doing one thing, and you’re going to do something else. So it didn’t turn out so bad, right?”
Bellini nodded sulkily and looked at Stillway. “Yeah … maybe …” He rubbed his knuckles and flexed his fingers again. “That hurt … but it felt so good.” He laughed suddenly. “Burke, come here. Want to know a secret? I’ve been looking for an excuse to do that for five years.” He looked at the ceiling. “Thank you, God.” He laughed again.
The room began filling with squad leaders hastily recalled from their jump-off points, and Bellini watched them file into the room. The absolutely worst feeling in the whole world, Bellini thought, was to get yourself psyched out of your mind for a fight and have it postponed. The squad leaders, he saw, were in a bad mood. Bellini looked at Burke. “You better call His fucking Honor and explain. You can cover Schroeder’s ass if you want, but even if you don’t, it won’t matter to Kline, because they’ll still promote him and make him a national hero.”
Burke took off his flak jacket and pullover. “I have to see Flynn and come up with a good reason why Schroeder isn’t staying in touch with him.”
Bellini moved to the head of the conference table and took a long breath. He looked at each of the twelve squad leaders and said, “Men, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Thing is, I don’t know which is which.”
No one laughed, and Bellini went on. “Before I tell you why the attack is postponed, I want to say something…. The people in the Cathedral are desperate men and women … guerrillas…. This is combat … war … and the goal is not to apprehend these people at the risk of your own lives—”
A squad leader called out, “You mean shoot first and ask questions later, right?”
Bellini remembered the military euphemism for it. “Make a clean sweep.”
CHAPTER 54
Father Murphy stood on the crypt landing, a purple stole around his neck. Frank Gallagher knelt before him, making a hasty confession in a low, trembling voice. Flynn waited just inside the large crypt door, then called out to Gallagher, “That’s fine, Frank.”
Gallagher nodded to the priest, rose, and moved into the crypt. Flynn handed him a sheet of paper and said, “Here’s the part of the attack plan which deals with the sacristy gate.” He briefed Gallagher, then added, “You can take cover here in the crypt while you keep the gates under fire.” As Flynn spoke, Gallagher focused on the brownish blood that had flowed so abundantly from Pedar Fitzgerald’s mouth. Father Murphy was standing in the center of the bloodstain, apparently without realizing it, and Gallagher wanted to tell the priest to move—but Flynn was clasping his hand. “Good luck to you, Frank. Remember, Dublin, seventeenth of March next.”
Gallagher made an unintelligible noise, but he nodded with a desperate determination.
Flynn came out of the crypt and took Murphy’s arm. He led the priest up the stairs, across the sanctuary, and down the side steps into the ambulatory. Father Murphy disengaged himself from Flynn and turned toward the chancel organ. John Hickey sat talking on the field phone, Pedar Fitzgerald’s covered body at his feet. The priest knelt and pulled the coat back from Pedar’s head. He anointed his forehead, stood, and looked at Hickey, who had hung up the receiver.
Hickey said, “Sneaked that in, did you? Well, where now is Pedar Fitzgerald’s soul?”
Father Murphy kept staring at Hickey.
Hickey said, “Now, like a good priest, you’ll ask me to confess, and you assume I’ll refuse. But what if I do confess? Would my entire past life, including every sin, sacrilege, and blasphemy that you can imagine, be forgiven? Would I gain the kingdom of heaven?”
Murphy said, “You know you must repent.”
Hickey slapped the top of the organ. “I
Flynn took Murphy’s arm and pulled him away. They passed beside the confessional, and Flynn paused to look at the small white buzzer. “That was clever, Padre. I’ll give you that.” Flynn looked back across the ambulatory at Hickey. “I don’t know what messages you, Maureen, or Hickey sent, but you can be sure none of you accomplished anything beyond adding to the confusion out there.”
Father Murphy replied, “I still
Flynn laughed and began walking. Murphy followed, and Flynn spoke as they walked. “You feel better, do you? My, what a big ego you have, Father.” Flynn stopped in the transept aisle between the two south triforia. He turned and looked up at the triforium they’d just passed beneath and called up to Eamon Farrell. “I know you’re devout, Eamon, but Father Murphy can’t fly, so you’ll have to miss this confession.”
Farrell looked as though this were the one confession he didn’t want to miss.
Father Murphy called up, “Are you sorry for all your sins?”
Farrell nodded. “I am, Father.”
Murphy said, “Make a good act of contrition—you’ll be in a state of grace, Mr. Farrell. Don’t do anything to alter that.”
Flynn was annoyed. “If you try any of that again, you’ll not hear another confession.”
Murphy walked away, and Flynn outlined the coming attack to Farrell. He added, “If we stop them, your son will be free at dawn. Good luck.”
Flynn walked to the wide transept doors. The priest was staring at the two khaki-colored mines attached to the doors and four more can-shaped mines placed at intervals on the floor. Trip wires ran from them in all directions. “You see,” said Flynn conversationally, “when the doors are smashed in, these two mines explode instantly, followed at fifteen-second intervals by the other four, producing, so to speak, a curtain of shrapnel of a minute’s duration. Every doorway in here will be clogged with writhing bodies. The screams … wait until you hear the screams…. You wouldn’t believe that men can make such noises. My God, it makes the blood run cold, Father, and turns the bowels to ice water.”
Murphy continued to stare at the mines.
Flynn motioned overhead. “Look at these commanding views…. How in the world do they expect to succeed?” He led the priest to the small door in the corner of the transept and motioned Murphy to go first. They walked wordlessly up the spiral stairs and came out in the long triforium five stories above the main floor.
Abby Boland stood by the door, an M-16 rifle cradled in her arms. She had found a pair of overalls in a
