Cathedral

Langley tapped the pocket that held Schroeder’s service revolver. “Well … it’s important that Flynn believes the plans he has are the plans Bellini will use….” He inclined his head toward the squad leaders. “Lots of lives depend on that….”

Burke changed the subject. “What are you doing about arresting Martin?”

Langley shook his head. “First of all, he’s disappeared again. He’s good at that. Secondly, I checked with the State Department joker, Sheridan, and Martin has diplomatic immunity, but they’ll consider expelling—”

“I don’t want him expelled.”

Langley glanced at him. “Well, it doesn’t matter because I also spoke with our FBI buddy, Hogan, and he says Martin has happily expelled himself—”

“He’s gone?”

“Not yet, of course. Not before the show ends. He’s booked on a Bermuda flight out of Kennedy—”

“What time?”

Langley gave him a sidelong glance. “Departs at 7:35. Breakfast at the Southampton Princess—forget it, Burke.”

“Okay.”

Langley watched the people at the conference table for a minute, then said, “Also, our CIA colleague, Kruger, says it’s their show. Nobody wants you poking around. Okay?”

“Fine with me. Art Forgery Squad, you say?”

Langley nodded. “Yeah, I know a guy in it. It’s the biggest fuck-off job anyone ever invented.”

Burke made appropriate signs of attentiveness as Langley painted an idyllic picture of life in the Art Forgery Squad, but his mind was on something else.

Gordon Stillway concluded his preliminary description and said, “Now, tell me again what precisely it is you want to know?”

Bellini glanced at the wall clock: 5:09. He drew a deep breath. “I want to know how to get into Saint Patrick’s Cathedral without using the front door.”

Gordon Stillway spoke and answered questions, and the mood of the ESD squad leaders went from pessimism to wary optimism.

Bellini glanced at the bomb disposal people. Their lieutenant, Wendy Peterson, the only woman present in the room, leaned closer to the blueprint of the basement and pulled her long blond hair away from her face. Bellini watched the woman’s cold blue eyes scanning the diagram. There were seventeen men, one woman, and two dogs, Brandy and Sally, in the Bomb Squad, and Bellini knew beyond a doubt that they were all certifiable lunatics, including the dogs.

Lieutenant Peterson turned to Stillway. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, which was a sort of trademark of this unit, thought Bellini. Peterson said, “If you wanted to plant bombs—let’s assume you didn’t have a great deal of explosives with you but you were looking for maximum effect—”

Stillway marked two X’s on the blueprints. “Here and here. The two big columns flanking the sacristy stairs.” He paused reflectively and said, “About the time I was six years old they blasted the stairs through the foundation here and weakened the bedrock on which these columns sit. This is recorded information for anyone who cares to look it up, including the IRA.”

Wendy Peterson nodded.

Stillway looked at her curiously. “Are you a bomb disposal person? What kind of job is that for a woman?”

She said, “I do a lot of needlepoint.”

Stillway considered the statement for a second, then continued, “These columns are big, but with the type of explosives they have today, as you know, a demolition expert could bring them down, and half the Cathedral goes down with them … and God help you all if you’re in there.” He stared at Lieutenant Peterson.

Wendy Peterson said, “I’m not interested in the explosion.”

Stillway again considered this obscure response and saw her meaning. He said, “But I am. There are not many like me around to rebuild the place….” He let his voice trail off.

Someone asked the question that had been on many people’s minds all night. “Can it be rebuilt?”

Stillway nodded. “Yes, but it would probably look like the First Supernatural Bank.”

A few men laughed, but the laughter died away quickly.

Stillway turned his attention back to the basement plans and detailed a few other idiosyncracies on the blueprints.

Bellini rubbed the stubble on his chin as he listened. He interrupted: “Mr. Stillway, if we were to bring an armored personnel carrier—weighing about ten tons … give or take a ton—up the front steps, through the main doors—”

Stillway sat up. “What? Those doors are invaluable—”

“Could the floor hold the weight?”

Stillway tried to calm himself and thought a moment, then said reluctantly, “If you have to do something so insane … destructive … Ten tons? Yes, according to the specs the floor will hold the weight … but there’s always some question, isn’t there?”

Bellini nodded. “Yeah…. One other thing … they said—these Fenians said— they were going to set fire to the Cathedral. We have reason to believe it may be the attic…. Is that possible … ?”

“Why not?”

“Well … it looks pretty solid to me—”

“Solid wood.” He shook his head. “What bastards …” Stillway suddenly stood. “Gentlemen—Miss—” He moved through the circle of people. “Excuse me if I don’t stay to listen to you work out the details—I’m not feeling so well—but I’ll be in the next room if you need me.” He turned and left.

The ESD squad leaders began talking among themselves. The Bomb Squad people moved to the far end of the room, and Bellini watched them huddled around Peterson. Their faces, he noted, were always expressionless, their eyes vacant. He looked at his watch. 5:15. He would need fifteen to twenty minutes to modify the attack plan. It was going to be close, but the plan that was forming in his mind was much cleaner, less likely to become a massacre. He stepped away from the squad leaders and walked up to Burke and Langley. He hesitated a second, then said, “Thanks for Stillway. Good work.”

Langley answered, “Anytime, Joe—excuse me—Inspector. You call, we deliver— architects, lawyers, hit men, pizza—”

Burke interrupted. “Do you feel better about this?”

Bellini nodded. “I’ll take fewer casualties, the Cathedral has a fifty-fifty chance, but the hostages are still dead.” He paused, then said, “Do you think there’s any way to call off Logan’s armored cavalry charge up Fifth Avenue?”

Langley shook his head. “Governor Doyle really has his heart set on that. Think of the armored car as one of those sound trucks they use in an election campaign.”

Bellini found a cigar stub in his pocket and lit it, then looked at his watch again. “Flynn expected to be hit soon after 5:15, and he’s probably sweating it out right now. Picture that scene—good, good. I hope the motherfucker is having the worst time of his fucking life.”

Langley said, “If he’s not now, I expect he will be shortly.”

“Yeah. Cocksucker.” Bellini’s mouth turned up in a vicious grin, and his eyes narrowed like little pig slits. “I hope he gets gut-shot and dies slow. I hope he pukes blood and acid and bile, until he—”

Langley held up his hand. “Please.”

Bellini spun around and looked at Burke. “I can’t believe Schroeder told him— ”

Burke cut him off. “I never said that. I said I found the architect, and you should revise your attack. Captain Schroeder suffered a physical collapse. Right?”

Bellini laughed. “Of course he collapsed. I hit him in the face. What did you expect him to do—dance?” Bellini’s expression became hard, and he made a contemptuous noise. “That cocksucker sold me out. He could have