Men were dropping into the attic from the open hatches, scrambling over the catwalks and firing blindly with silenced rifles into the half-lighted spaces. Bullets hit the rafters and floor around her with a thud.
Kearney fired back, and the noise of her rifle attracted a dozen muzzle flashes. She felt a sharp pain in her thigh and cried out, dropping her rifle. Blood gushed through her fingers as she held a hand under her skirt against the wound. With her other hand she felt on the floor for the ringing phone.
The woodpile was beginning to blaze now, and the light silhouetted the dark shapes moving toward her. They were throwing canisters of fire-extinguishing gas into the blazing wood, but the fire was growing larger.
She picked up her rifle again and shot into the blinding light of the fire. A man cried out, and then answering shots whistled past her head. She dragged herself toward the bell tower passage, leaving a trail of blood on the dusty floor. She reached another oil lamp and flung it into the pile of wood that lay between her and the tower, blocking her escape route.
She lay in a prone position, firing wildly into the flame-lit attic around her. Another man moaned in pain. Bullets ripped up the wood around her, and the windows in the peak behind her began shattering. The fires were reaching toward the roof now, curling around the rafters. The smell of burning wax candles mixed with the aroma of old, seasoned oak, and the heat from the fires began to warm her chilled body.
In the northeast triforium Eamon Farrell heard a distinct noise on the roof in the attic behind him. His already raw nerves had had enough. He held his breath as he looked down into the Cathedral at Flynn in the pulpit cranking the field phone. Sullivan and Abby Boland across from him were leaning anxiously out over the balustrades. Something was about to happen, and Eamon Farrell saw no reason to wait around to see what it was.
Farrell turned slowly from the balustrade, lay down his rifle, and opened the door in the knee wall behind him. He entered the dark attic and turned his flashlight on the steel door in the chimney. God, he was certain, had given him an escape route, and he had been right to keep it from Flynn and right to use it.
Carefully he approached the door, put the flashlight in his pocket, then lowered himself through the opening until his feet found an iron rung. He closed the door and stepped down to the next rung in the total darkness. His shoulder brushed something, and he gave a startled yelp, then reached out and touched a very taut rope.
He looked upward and saw a piece of the starlit sky at the mouth of the chimney, which was partly obscured by a moving shape. His stomach heaved as he became aware that he was not alone.
He heard someone breathe, smelled the presence of other bodies in the sooty space around him, pictured in his mind dangling shapes swinging on ropes in the darkness like bats, inches from him. He cleared his throat. “Wha—who … ?”
A voice said, “It ain’t Santa Claus, pal.”
Farrell felt cold steel pressed against his cheekbone, and he shouted, “I surrender!” But his shout panicked the ESD man, and darkness erupted in a silent flash of blinding light. Farrell fell feet-first and then somersaulted into the black shaft, blood splattering over his flailing arms.
The Third Squad leader said, “I wonder where he was going?” The squad moved silently through the chimney door and assembled in the dark attic over the bride’s room.
Flynn turned off the television. He spoke into the pulpit microphone. “It’s begun. Keep alert. Steady now. Watch the doors and windows. Rockets ready.”
Bellini squatted at the door in the knee wall and listened to Flynn’s voice through the public address system. “Yeah, motherfuckers, you watch the doors and windows.” The First Squad knelt to the sides with rifles raised. Bellini put his hand to the latch, raised it, and pushed. The ESD men behind him converged on the door, and Bellini threw it open, rolling onto the floor into the dark triforium. The men poured through after him, diving and rolling over the cold floor, weapons pointing up and down the long gallery.
The triforium was empty, but on the floor lay a black morning coat, top hat, and a tricolored sash with the words Parade Marshal.
Half the squad crawled along the parapet, spacing themselves at intervals. The other half ran in a crouch to where the triforium turned at a right angle overlooking the south transept.
Bellini made his way to the corner of the right angle and raised an infrared periscope. The entire Cathedral was lit with candles and phosphorus flares and, even as he watched, the burning phosphorus caused the image to white out and disappear. He swore and lowered the periscope. Someone handed him a daylight periscope, and he focused on the long triforium across the transept. In the flickering light from below he could see a tall man in a bagpiper’s tunic leaning over the balustrade and aiming a rifle at the transept doors across the nave. He shifted the periscope and looked down toward the dark choir loft but saw nothing, then scanned right to the long triforium across the nave and caught a glimpse of what looked like a woman in overalls. He focused on her and saw that her young face looked frightened. He smiled and traversed farther right to the short triforium across the sanctuary where the chimney was. It appeared empty, and he began to wonder just how many people Flynn had used to take the Cathedral and fuck up everyone’s day.
Burke came up behind him, and Bellini whispered in his ear, “This is not going so bad.” Bellini’s field phone clicked, and he put it to his ear. The Third Squad reported to all points. “In position. One Fenian in chimney—KIA.”
A voice cut in, and Bellini heard the excited shouts of the Second Squad leader. “Attic ablaze! Fighting fire! Three ESD casualties—one Fenian dead—one still shooting. Fire helicopters in position, but they won’t come in until attic is secure. May have to abandon attic!”
Bellini looked up to the vaulted ceiling. He cupped his hand around the mouthpiece and spoke quickly. “You stay there and fight that fucking fire, you kill the fucking Fenian, and you bring those fire choppers in. You piss on that fire, you spit on that fire, but you do not leave that fire. Acknowledge.”
The squad leader seemed calmer. “Roger, Roger, okay…. ”
Bellini put down the field phone and looked at Burke. “The attic is burning.”
Burke peered up into the darkness. Somewhere above the dimly outlined ceiling, about four stories up, there was light and heat, but here it was dark and cold. Somewhere below there were explosives that could level the entire east end of the Cathedral. He looked at his watch and said, “The bombs will put the fire out.”
Bellini looked at him. “Your sense of humor sucks, you know?”
Flynn stood in the pulpit, a feeling of impotence growing in him. It was ending too quietly, no bangs, not even whimpers, at least none that he could hear. He was becoming certain that the police had finally found Gordon Stillway, compliments of Bartholomew Martin, and they weren’t going to come in through the doors and windows—Schroeder had lied or had been used by them. They were burrowing in right now, like rot in the timbers of a house, and the whole thing would fall with hardly a shot fired. He looked at his watch. 5:37. He hoped Hickey was still alive down there, waiting for the Bomb Squad in the darkness. He thought a moment, and the overwhelming conviction came over him that Hickey at least would complete his mission.
Flynn spoke in the microphone. “They’ve taken out the towers. George, Eamon, Frank, Abby, Leary, Megan—keep alert. They may have found another way in. Gallagher, watch the crypt behind you. Everyone, remember the movable blocks on the floor; watch the bronze plate on the sanctuary: scan the bride’s room, the Archbishop’s sacristy, the bookstore and the altars; keep an ear to the walls of the triforium attics—” Something made him look up to his right at the northeast triforium. “Farrell!”
No one answered.
Flynn peered into the darkness above. “Farrell!” He slammed his fist on the marble balustrade. “Damn it!” He cranked the field phone and tried again to raise the attic.
Bellini listened to the echoes of Flynn’s
voice die away from the speakers. The squad leader beside him said, “We have to move—now!”
Bellini’s voice was cool. “No. Timing. It’s like trying to get laid—it’s all timing.” The phone clicked, and Bellini listened to the Third Squad leader in the attic of the opposite triforium. “Captain, do you see anyone else in this triforium?”
Bellini answered, “I guess the guy called Farrell was the only one. Move into the triforium.” He spoke to the operator. “Get me the Fourth Squad.”
The Fourth Squad leader answered, and his voice resohated from the duct he was crawling through. “We jumped off late, Captain—got lost in the duct work. I think we’re through the foundation—”
“Think! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Sorry—”
Bellini rubbed his throbbing temples and brought his voice under control. “Okay… okay, we make up the time you lost by moving your time of last possible withdrawal from 5:55 to 6:00. That’s fair, right?”
There was a pause before the squad leader replied, “Right.”
“Good. Now you just see if you can find the block-square crawl space. Okay? Then I’ll send the Bomb Squad in.” He hung up and looked at Burke. “Glad you came?”
“Absolutely.”
* * *
Flynn cranked the field phone. “Attic! Attic!”
Jean Kearney’s voice finally came on the line, and Flynn spoke hurriedly. “They’ve taken out the towers, and they’ll be coming through the roof hatches next—I can hear helicopters overhead. There’s no use waiting for it, Jean—light all the fires and get into the bell tower.”
Jean Kearney answered, “All right.” She stood propped against a catwalk rail, supported by two ESD men, one of whom had the big silencer of a pistol pressed to her head. She shouted into the phone, “Brian—!” One of the men pulled the phone out of her hand.
She steadied herself on the rail, feeling lightheaded and nauseous from the loss of blood. She bent over and vomited on the floor, then picked her head up and tried to stand erect, shaking off the two men beside her. Hoses hung from hovering helicopters and snaked their way through the roof hatches, discharging billows of white foam over the flickering flames. She felt defeated but relieved that it was over. She tried to think about Arthur Nulty, but her thigh was causing her such pain that all she could think about was that the pain should go away and the nausea should stop. She looked at the squad leader. “Give me a pressure bandage, damn it.”
The squad leader ignored her and watched the firemen coming through the hatches, taking over the hoses from his Assault Squad. He shouted to his men. “Move out! Into the bell tower!”
He turned back to Jean Kearney, noticing the tattered green Aer Lingus uniform; he looked at her freckled features in the subdued light and pointed at a smoldering pile of wood. “Are you crazy?”
She looked him in the eye. “We’re loyal.”
The squad leader listened to the sound of his men double-timing over the catwalks toward the tower passage. As he reached for the aid kit on his belt his eyes darted around at the firemen who were occupied with the large chemical hoses.
Jean Kearney’s hand flew out and expertly snatched his pistol, put it to her heart, and fired. She back-pedaled, her arms swinging in wide circular motions until she toppled over to the dusty catwalk.
The squad leader looked at her, stunned, and then bent over and retrieved his pistol. “Crazy … crazy.”
A thick mass of foam moved across the catwalk and slid over Jean Kearney’s body; the white billowing bubbles tinged with red.
Flynn used the field phone to call the choir loft. He spoke quickly to Megan. “I think they’ve taken the attic. They’ll be coming through the side doors into the choir loft. Keep the doors covered so Leary can shoot.”
Megan’s voice was angry, nearly hysterical. “How the hell did they take the attic? What the bloody hell is going on, Brian? What the fuck is going wrong here?”
He drew a long breath. “Megan, when you’ve been on fifty missions, you’ll know not to ask those questions. You just fight, and you die or you don’t die, but you never ask—Listen, tell Leary to scan Farrell’s post—I think they’re also up there—”
“Who the hell ever said you were a military genius?”
“The British—it made them feel more important.”
She hesitated, then said, “Why did you let Hickey do that to my brother?”
Flynn glanced at Pedar Fitzgerald’s body propped up on the organ bench. “Hickey—like Mr. Leary—is a friend of yours, not mine. Ask Hickey when next you meet. Also, tell Leary to scan Gallagher’s triforium—”
Megan cut in. “Brian … listen … listen …”
He recognized the tone of her voice, that childlike lilt she used when she became repentant about something. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say and hung up.
Bellini scanned with the periscope as he reported to all points on the field phone. “Yeah … they’re starting to look over their shoulders now. Man at the chancel organ … but he looks … dead … Still don’t see Hickey…. Might be in the crawl space. Two hostages … Malone and Baxter … Murphy still missing … shit … Cardinal still missing—”
The Fifth Squad leader in the octagon room to the side of the sacristy gates cut in. “Captain, I’m looking at the gates with a periscope … bad angle … but someone—looks like the Cardinal—is cuffed to them. Advise.”
Bellini swore softly. “Make sure it’s him, and stand by for orders.” He turned to Burke. “These Mick bastards still have some tricky shit up their shillelaghs— Cardinal’s cuffed to the gates.” He focused the periscope on Flynn in the pulpit directly below. “Smart guy…. Well, this potato-eating bastard is mine … but it’s a tough shot…. Canopy overhead and a marble wall around him. He knows it’s going down the tube, but he can’t do shit about it. Cocksucker.”
Burke said, “If the attic is secure and you get the bombs … you ought to try negotiating. Flynn will talk with twenty rifles pointing down at him. He’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”
“Nobody told me nothing about asking him to surrender.” Bellini put his face close to Burke’s. “Don’t get carried away with yourself and start giving orders, or I swear to God I’ll grease you. I’m doing okay, Burke—I’m doing fine—I’m golden tonight—fuck you and fuck Flynn—let him squirm—then let him die.”
The Fifth Assault Squad dropped one at a time from the duct opening and lay on the damp floor of the crawl space, forming a defensive perimeter. The squad leader cranked his field phone and reported, “Okay, Captain, we’re in the crawl space. No movement here—”
Bellini answered, “You sure you’re not in the fucking attic now? Okay, I’m sending the dogs and their handlers through the ducts with Peterson’s Bomb Squad. When you rendezvous, move out. Be advised that Hickey may be down there—maybe others. Keep your head out of your ass.”
Bellini signaled to Wendy Peterson. “Perimeter secure. Move through the ducts. Follow the commo wire and don’t get lost.”
She answered in a laconic voice that echoed in the ducts, “We’re already moving, Captain.”
Bellini looked at his watch. “Okay … it’s 5:45 now. At 6:00—at 5:55 my people are getting the hell out of there, whether or not you think you got all the bombs. I suggest you do the same.”
Peterson answered, “We’ll play it by ear.”
“Yeah, you do that.” He hung up and looked at Burke. “I think it’s time—before our luck turns.”
Burke said nothing.
Bellini rubbed his chin, hesitated, then reached for the phone and called the garage under Rockefeller Center. “Okay, Colonel, the word is Bull—fucking—Run. Ready?”
Logan answered, “Been ready a while. You’re cutting it close.”
Bellini’s voice was caustic. “It’s past close—it’s probably too damned late, but that doesn’t mean you can’t earn a medal.”
Colonel Logan threw the
field phone down from the commander’s hatch of the armored carrier and called to the driver, “Go!”
The twenty thousand pounds of armor began rumbling up the ramp of the underground garage. The big overhead door rose, and the carrier slid into Forty-ninth Street, turned right, and approached Fifth Avenue at twenty-five miles per hour, then veered north up the Avenue gathering speed.
Logan stood in the hatch with an M-16 rifle, the wind billowing his fatigue jacket. He stared at the Cathedral coming up on his right front, then glanced up at the towers and roof. Smoke billowed over the Cathedral, and helicopters hovered, beating the smoke downward, thick hoses dropping into the attic hatches. “Good Lord …”
Logan looked into the silent predawn streets, empty except for the police posted in recessed doorways. One of them gave him a thumbs up, another saluted. Logan stood taller in the hatch; his mind raced faster than the carrier’s engines, and his blood pounded through his veins.
The armored carrier raced up to the Cathedral. The driver locked the right-hand treads, and the carrier pivoted around, ripping up large slabs of the blacktop. The driver released the treads as the carrier pointed toward the front doors, and he gunned the engines. The vehicle fishtailed and raced across the wide sidewalk, bounced, and hit the granite steps, tearing away the stone as the treads climbed upward. The brass handrails disappeared beneath the treads, and the ten tons of armor headed straight for the ten tons of bronze ceremonial doors.
Logan made the sign of the cross, ducked into the hatch, and pulled the lid shut. The truck tires attached to the front of the carrier hit the doors, and the bolts snapped, sending the massive doors flying inward. The alarms sounded with a piercing ring. The carrier was nearly into the vestibule when the delayed mines on the doors began to explode, scattering shrapnel across the sides of the vehicle. The carrier kept moving through the vestibule and skidded across the marble floor to a stop beneath the choir loft overhang.