Cathedral

  “Taxis,” said Burke as he walked into the press room. “That’s what Flynn said to Schroeder. Taxis. Mind if Inspector Langley and I join you?”

  Bellini looked tired and annoyed. He said to Logan, “Take it up with the Governor.” Glancing at the wall clock, he said, “Everyone take ten. Clear out!” He sat down and lit a cigarette. The men filed out of the conference room and huddled in groups throughout the corridors.

  Burke and Langley sat across from Bellini. Bellini said softly, “That fucking war hero is spooking my men.”

  Burke thought, They should be spooked. They’re going to get creamed. “He means well.”

  Bellini drew on his cigarette. “Why are those parade soldiers in on this?”

  Langley looked around, then said quietly, “The Governor needs a boost.”

  Bellini sipped on a cup of cold coffee. “You know … I discussed a lot of options for this attack with the Mayor and Governor. Ever notice how people who don’t know shit about warfare all of a sudden become generals?” Bellini chain-lit another cigarette and went on in a voice that was becoming overwrought. “So Kline takes my hand and squeezes it—Christ, I should’ve squeezed his and broken his fucking fingers. Anyway, he says, ‘Joe, you know what’s expected of you.’ Christ Almighty, by this time I don’t even know if I’m allowed to take my gun in there. But my adrenaline is really pumping by now, and I say to him, ‘Your Honor, we have to attack now, while the bells are ringing.’ Right? And he says—check this—he says, ‘Captain, we have an obligation’—a moral something or other—‘to explore every possible avenue of negotiation’—blah, blah, blah—‘political considerations’— blah, blah—‘the Vatican’—blah, blah. So I say … no, I didn’t say it, but I should have … I should have said, ‘Kline, you schmuck, do you want to rescue the hostages and save the fucking Cathedral, or do you want to make time with the White House and the Vatican?’”

  He paused and breathed hard. “But maybe then I would have sounded like an asshole, too, because I don’t really care about a pile of stone or four people I don’t even know. My responsibility is to a hundred of my men who I do know and to their families and to myself and my wife and kids. Right?”

  No one spoke for some time, then the telephone rang. Bellini grabbed it, listened, then handed it to Burke. “Some guy called the Leper. You hang out with classy people.”

  Burke took the receiver and heard Ferguson’s voice. “Burke, Leper here.”

  Burke said, “How are you?”

  “Cold, scared shitless, tired, hungry, and broke. But otherwise, well. Is this line secure?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I have to speak to you face to face.”

  Burke thought a moment. “Do you want to come here?”

  Ferguson hesitated. “No … I saw people hanging around the checkpoints who shouldn’t see me. I’m very close to our rendezvous point. See you there.”

  Burke put down the receiver and said to Langley, “Ferguson’s on to something.”

  Bellini looked up quickly. “Anything that can help me?”

  Burke wanted to say, “Frankly, nothing can help you,” but said instead, “I think so.”

  Bellini seemed to sense the lie and slumped lower in his chair. “Christ, we’ve never gone up against trained guerrillas….” He looked up suddenly. “Do I sound scared? Do I look scared?”

  Burke replied, “You look and sound like a man who fully appreciates the problems.”

  Bellini laughed. “Yeah. I appreciate the hell out of the problems.”

  Langley seemed suddenly annoyed. “Look, you must have known a day like this would come. You’ve trained for this—”

  “Trained?” Bellini turned on him. “Big fucking deal trained. In the army I was trained on how to take cover in a nuclear attack. The only instructor who made any sense was the one who told us to hold our helmets, put our heads between our legs, and kiss our asses good-bye.” He laughed again. “Fuck trained.” Bellini stubbed out his cigarette and breathed deeply. “Oh, well. Maybe Schroeder will pull it off.” He smiled thinly. “He’s got more incentive now.” He pointed to a black bulletproof vest and a dark pullover sweater at the end of the table. “That’s his.”

  Langley said, “Why don’t you let him off the hook?”

  Bellini shook his head, then looked at Burke. “How about you? What are you doing later?”

  Burke said, “I’ll be with you.”

  Bellini’s eyes widened.

  Langley looked at Burke quickly. “Like hell.”

  Burke said nothing.

  Bellini said, “Let the man do what he wants.”

  Langley changed the subject and said to Bellini, “I have more psy-profiles for you.”

  Bellini lit a cigarette. “Put a light coat of oil on them and shove them up your ass.”

  Langley stiffened.

  Bellini went on, enjoying the fact that no one could pull rank on him any longer. “Where’s the architect, Langley? Where are the blueprints?”

  Langley said, “Working on it.”

  “Terrific. Everybody is working on something—you, Schroeder, the Mayor, the President. Everybody’s working. You know, when this started nobody paid much attention to Joe Bellini. Now the Mayor calls about every fifteen minutes asking how I’m making out. Calls me Joe. Terrific little guy.”

  Men started drifting back into the room.

  Bellini leaned over the table. “They’ve got me cornered. When they start calling you by your first name, they’ve got you by the balls, and they’re not going to let go until I charge up those fucking steps—holding not much more than my cock in one hand and a cross in the other—and get myself killed.” He stood. “Believe me, Burke, it’s all a fucking show. Everybody’s got to play his part. You, me, the politicians, the Church, the bastards in the Cathedral. We know we’re full of shit, but that’s the way we learned how to play.”

  Burke stood and looked around at the ESD men, then looked closely at Bellini. “Remember, you’re the good guys.”

  Bellini rubbed his temples and shook his head. “Then how come we’re wearing black?”

  CHAPTER 49

  Patrick Burke stepped out of the rectory into the cold, gusty air. He looked at his watch. Nearly 1:00 A.M., March 18. They would still call it the St. Patrick’s Day massacre or something catchy like that. He turned up his collar and walked east on Fifty-first Street.

  At Park Avenue a city bus was drawn up to form a barricade. Burke walked around the bus, passed through a thin crowd, and crossed the avenue. A small group had congregated on the steps and terraces of St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church, passing bottles and singing the songs that were being played on St. Patrick’s bells. People were entering the church, and Burke recalled that many churches and synagogues had announced all-night prayer vigils. A news van was setting up cameras and lights.

  Burke listened to the bells. Flynn—if it was Flynn playing—had a good touch. Burke remembered Langley’s speculation about the John Hickey T-shirts. He envisioned a record jacket: St. Patrick’s Cathedral—green star clusters—Brian Flynn Plays the Bells.

  Burke passed by the church and continued east on Fifty-first Street. Between two buildings lay a small park. A fence and gate ran between the flanking structures, and Burke peered through the bars. Café tables and upturned chairs stood on the terraces beneath bare sycamores. Nothing moved in the unlit park. Burke grasped the cold steel bars, pulled himself up to the top, and dropped into the park. As he hit the frozen stone walk below, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his numb legs and swore silently. He drew his pistol and remained crouched. A wind shook the trees, and ice-covered twigs snapped and fell to the ground with the sound of breaking crystal.

  Burke straightened up slowly and moved through the scattered tables, pistol held at his side. As he moved, the ice crackled under his shoes, and he knew that if Ferguson were there he would have heard him by now.

  An overturned table caught his attention, and he moved toward i
t. A chair lay on its back some distance away. The ice on the ground was broken and scattered, and Burke knelt to get a closer look at a large dark blotch that on closer inspection looked like a strawberry Italian ice but wasn’t.

  Burke rose and found that his legs had become unsteady. He walked up the shallow steps to the next level of the terrace and saw more overturned furniture. In the rear of the park was a stone wall several stories high where a waterfall usually flowed. At the base of the wall was a long, narrow trough. Burke walked to the trough and stared down at Jack Ferguson lying in the icy water, his face blue-white, very much, Burke thought, like the color of the façade of the Cathedral. The eyes were open, and his mouth yawned as if he were trying to catch his breath from the shock of the cold water.

  Burke knelt on the low stone abutment of the trough, reached out, and grabbed Ferguson’s old trench coat. He pulled the body closer and saw, as the folds of the trench coat drifted apart, the two bullet-shattered knees poking out of the worn trousers—bone, cartilage, and ligaments, very white against the deeper color of bluish flesh.

  He slipped his pistol into his pocket and pulled the small man easily onto the coping stone of the abutment. A small bullet hole showed like black palm ash in the center of Ferguson’s forehead. His pockets had been rifled, but Burke searched the body again, finding only a clean, neatly pressed handkerchief which reminded him that he would have to call Ferguson’s wife.

  Burke closed Ferguson’s eyes and stood, wiped his hands on his overcoat and blew into them, and then walked away. He righted an ice-covered chair, drew it up to a metal table, and sat. Burke took a long, deep breath and steadied his hands enough to light a cigarette. He drew on the cigarette, then took out his flask and opened it, but set it on the table without drinking. He heard a noise at the fence and looked out across the park. He drew his pistol and rested it in his lap.

  “Burke! It’s Martin.”

  Burke didn’t answer. “Can I come up?”

  Burke cocked his revolver. “Sure!”

  Martin walked toward Burke, stopped, and looked past him at the low stone wall at the base of the waterfall. “Who’s that?”

  Burke didn’t reply.

  Martin walked up to the body and looked down into the frozen face. “I know this man … Jack Ferguson.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. I’ve dealt with him—only yesterday, as a matter of fact. Official IRA. Marxist. Nice chap, though.”

  Burke said with no intonation in his voice, “The only good Red is a dead Red. Kill a Commie for Christ. Move here where I can see you.”

  “Eh?” Martin moved behind Burke’s chair. “What did you say … ? See here, you didn’t … did you?”

  Burke repeated. “Here in front where I can see you.”

  Martin moved around the table.

  Burke said, “Why are you here?”

  Martin lit a cigarette. “Followed you from the rectory.”

  Burke was certain no one had followed him. “Why?”

  “Wanted to see where you were going. You’ve been most unhelpful. I’ve been sacked from my consulate job, by the way. Is that your doing? People are starting to say the most incredible things about me. Anyway, I’m at loose ends now. Don’t know what to do with myself. So I thought perhaps I could … well … lend you a hand … clear my name in the process…. Is that a gun? You can put that away.”

  Burke held the gun. “Who do you think killed him, Major?”

  “Well, assuming it wasn’t you …” He shrugged. “Probably his own people. Or the Provos or the Fenians. Did you see his knees? God, that’s a nasty business.”

  “Why would the IRA want to kill him?”

  Martin answered quickly and distinctly. “He talked too much.”

  Burke uncocked his revolver and held it in his pocket. “Where’s Gordon Stillway?”

  “Gordon … Oh, the architect.” Martin drew on his cigarette. “I wish I were half as devious as you think I am.”

  Burke took a drink from his flask and said, “Look, the Cathedral is going to be stormed in the next few hours.”

  “Sorry it had to come to that.”

  “Anyway, I’m concerned now about saving as many lives as possible.”

  “I am, too. Our Consul General is in there.”

  “So far, Major, you’ve had it all your way. You got your Irish terrorism in America. We’ve had it pushed in our face. The point is made and well taken. So we don’t need a burned-out Cathedral and a stack of corpses.”

  “I’m not quite sure I’m following you.”

  “It would help Bellini if he had the blueprints and the architect.”

  “Undoubtedly. I’m working on that also.”

  Burke looked at Martin closely. “Settle for what you’ve already got. Don’t push it further.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m losing you again.”

  Burke stared at Martin, who put his foot on a chair and puffed on his cigarette. A gust of cold wind moved through the enclosed park and swirled around. Ice fell from the glistening trees, landing on Martin and Burke, but neither man seemed to notice. Martin seemed to reach a decision and looked at Burke. “It’s not just Flynn, you see. My whole operation wasn’t conceived just to kill Brian Flynn.” Martin rubbed his chin with his gloved hand. “You see, I need more than Flynn’s death, though I look forward to it. I also need a lasting symbol of Irish terrorism. I’m afraid I need the Cathedral to go down.”

  Burke waited a long time before he spoke. His voice was low, controlled. “It may become a symbol of Britain’s unwillingness to negotiate.”

  “One gambles. But you see, London did offer a compromise, much to my surprise, and the Fenians, lunatics that they are, have not responded to it. And with the old man’s speech and the bells and all that, it’s the Fenians who are ahead, not me. Really, Burke, the only way I can influence public opinion, here and abroad, is if … well, if there’s a tragedy. Sorry.”

  “It’s going to backfire.”

  “When the dust clears, the blame will be squarely on the Irish. Her Majesty’s government is very adept at expressing sorrow and pity for the loss of lives and property. Actually, the ruins of Saint Patrick’s may have more value as a tourist attraction than the Cathedral did…. Not many good ruins in America….”

  Burke’s fingers scratched at the cold, blue steel of the revolver in his pocket.

  Martin went on, his eyes narrowing and long plumes of vapor exhaling from his nose and mouth. “And, of course, the funerals. Did you see Mountbatten’s? Thousands of people weeping. We’ll do something nice for Baxter, too. The Roman Church will do a splendid job for the Cardinal and the priest. Malone … well, who knows?”

  Burke said, “You’re not tightly wrapped, you know that?”

  Martin lit another cigarette, and Burke saw the match quivering in the dark. Martin spoke in a more controlled voice. “You don’t seem to understand. One has to spread the suffering, make it more universal before you get a sense of outrage.” Martin looked at his glowing cigarette. “One needs a magnificent disaster—Dunkirk, Pearl Harbor, Coventry, Saint Patrick’s …” He knocked the ash from his cigarette and stared down at the gray smudge on the ice-covered table. “… And from those ashes rises a new dedication.” He looked up. “You may have noticed the phoenix on the bronze ceremonial door of Saint Patrick’s. It inspired me to name this Operation Phoenix.”

  Burke said, “Flynn may accept the compromise. He hinted as much to me. He may also make a public statement about how British treachery almost got everyone killed.”

  “He wouldn’t admit that the greatest IRA operation since Mountbatten’s murder was planned by an Englishman.”

  “He doesn’t want to die quite as badly as you want him to die. He’ll take what he’s already gotten and come out of there a hero.” Burke took another drink to fire his imagination. “On the other hand … there’s still the possibility that he may destroy the place at dawn. So the Mayor and Governor want to carry out a preemptiv
e strike. Soon. But they need encouragement. They won’t move unless Bellini says he can bring it off. But Bellini won’t say that unless he gets the blueprints and the architect….”

  Martin smiled. “Very good. It’s hereditary, I see—I mean the ability to manufacture heaps of malarkey at the drop of a hat.”

  “If we don’t have the architect, we won’t attack. At 6:03 Flynn will call a time out, wait until the city is full of people and the morning TV shows are rolling, then magnanimously spare the Cathedral and hostages. No funerals, no bangs, not even a broken stained-glass window.”

  “At 6:03 something more dreadful will happen.”

  “One gambles.”

  Martin shook his head. “I don’t know…. Now you’ve got me worried, Lieutenant. It would be just like that bastard to double-cross me….” He smiled. “Well, double-cross may not be the word…. These people are so erratic … you never know, do you? I mean, historically they always opt for the most reckless—”

  Burke said, “You’ve got these Micks pretty well figured out, don’t you, Major?”

  “Well … no racial generalities intended, to be sure, but … I don’t know …” He seemed to be weighing the possibilities. “The question is—do I gamble on an explosion at 6:03 or settle for a good battle before then … ?”

  Burke came closer to Martin. “Let me put it this way….” He breathed a long stream of cold fog in Martin’s face. “If the Cathedral goes down”—he pulled his pistol, cocked it, and pressed it to Martin’s temple—“then you’re what we call a dead motherfucker.”

  Martin faced Burke. “If anything happened to me, you’d be killed.”

  “I know the rules.” He tapped Martin on the forehead with the muzzle of the revolver, then holstered it.

  Martin flipped his cigarette away and spoke in a businesslike tone. “In exchange for Stillway I want your word that you’ll do everything you can to see that the assault is carried out before Flynn makes any overtures toward a compromise. You have his confidence, I know, so use that in any way you can—with him or with your superiors. And no matter what happens, you’ll make certain that Flynn is not captured alive. Understood?”