The Cardinal’s voice cut off the display of emotion. “There will be time enough for that later.” He spoke to two of the priests. “Go into the side vestibules where the casualties have been taken and assist the police and army chaplains.” He added, “Have Father Murphy’s body taken to the rectory.”
The two priests moved off. The Cardinal looked at the sacristans and motioned around the sanctuary. “As soon as the police have finished here, make it presentable for the Mass that will be offered at the conclusion of the purification.” He added, “Leave the carnations.”
He turned to Monsignor Downes and spoke to him for the first time. “Thank you for your prayers, and for your efforts during this ordeal.”
Monsignor Downes lowered his head and said softly, “I … they asked me to sanction your rescue … this attack …”
“I know all of that.” He smiled. “More than once during the night I thanked God it wasn’t I who had to deal with those … questions.” The Cardinal turned and faced the long, wide expanse of empty pews. “God arises, His enemies are scattered, and those who hate Him flee before Him.”
Captain Bert Schroeder walked unsteadily up the steps of St. Patrick’s, a bandage covering the left side of his chalk-white jaw. A police medic and several Tactical Police officers escorted him.
Mayor Kline raced up to Schroeder, hand extended. “Bert! Over here! Bring him here, men.”
A number of reporters had been let through the cordon, and they converged on Schroeder. Cameras clicked and newsreel microphones were thrust in his face. Mayor Kline pumped Schroeder’s hand and embraced him, taking the opportunity to say through clenched teeth, “Smile, damn it, and look like a hero.”
Schroeder looked distraught and disoriented. His eyes moved over the throng around him to the Cathedral, and he stared at it, then looked around at the people talking excitedly and realized that he was being interviewed.
A reporter called out, “Captain, is it true you recommended an assault on the Cathedral?”
Schroeder didn’t answer, and Kline spoke up. “Yes, a rescue operation. The recommendation was approved by an emergency committee consisting of myself, the Governor, Monsignor Downes, Inspector Langley of Intelligence, and the late Captain Bellini. Intelligence indicated the terrorists were going to massacre the hostages and then destroy the Cathedral. Many of them were mentally unbalanced, as our police files show.” He looked at each of the reporters. “There were no options.”
Another reporter asked, “Who exactly was Major Martin? How did he die?” Kline’s smile dropped. “That’s under investigation.”
There was a barrage of questions that Kline ignored. He put his arm around Schroeder and said, “Captain Schroeder played a vital role in keeping the terrorists psychologically unprepared while Captain Bellini formulated a rescue operation with the help of Gordon Stillway, resident architect of Saint Patrick’s.” He nodded toward Stillway, who stood by himself examining the front doors and making notes in a small book.
Kline added in a somber tone, “The tragedy here could have been much greater— ” A loud Te Deum began ringing out from the bell tower, and Kline motioned toward the Cathedral. “The Cathedral stands! The Cardinal, Sir Harold Baxter, and Maureen Malone are alive. For this we should thank God.” He bowed his head and after an appropriate interval looked up and spoke emphatically. “This rescue will be favorably compared to similar humanitarian operations against terrorists throughout the world.”
A reporter addressed Schroeder directly. “Captain, did you find this man, Flynn— and the other one, Hickey—very tough people to negotiate with?”
Schroeder looked up. “Tough … ?”
Mayor Kline hooked his arm through Schroeder’s and shook him. “Bert?”
Schroeder’s eyes darted around. “Oh … yes, yes I did—no, no, not … not any tougher than—Excuse me, I’m not feeling well…. I’m sorry … excuse me.” He pulled loose from the Mayor’s grip and hurried across the length of the steps, avoiding reporters. The newspeople watched him go, then turned back to Kline and began asking him about the large number of casualties on both sides, but Kline evaded the questions. Instead, he smiled and pointed over the heads of the people around him.
“There’s the Governor crossing the street.” He waved. “Governor Doyle! Up here!”
Dan Morgan stood near the window, his eyes focused on the television screen that showed the Cathedral steps, the milling reporters, police and city officials. Terri O’Neal sat on the bed, fully dressed, her legs tucked under her body. Neither person spoke nor moved.
The camera focused on Mayor Kline and Captain Schroeder, and a reporter was speaking from off camera commenting on Schroeder’s bandaged jaw.
Morgan finally spoke. “It appears he didn’t do what he was asked.”
Terri O’Neal said, “Good.”
Morgan let out a deep sigh and walked to the side of the bed. “My friends are all dead, and there’s nothing good about that.”
She kept looking at the television as she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Are you going to kill … ?”
Morgan drew his pistol from his belt. “No. You’re free.” He placed his hand on her shoulder as he pointed the silencer at the center of her head.
She put her face in her hands and began weeping.
He squeezed back on the trigger. “I’ll get your coat….”
She suddenly took her face out of her hands and turned. She realized she was looking into the barrel of the pistol “Oh … no …”
Morgan’s hand was shaking. He looked at her and their eyes met. The end of the silencer brushed her cheek, and he jerked the pistol away and shoved it in his belt. “There’s been enough death today,” he said. He turned and walked out of the bedroom. Terri O’Neal heard the front door open, then slam shut.
She found the cigarettes Morgan left behind, lit one, and stared at the television. “Poor Daddy.”
Burke shifted restlessly, brought out of his short sleep by the noise around him and the pounding pain in his back. He rubbed his eyes and noticed that the injured eye was blurry again, and every inch of his body felt blurry; numb, he supposed, was a better word, numb except the parts that hurt. And his mind seemed numb and blurry, free-floating in the sunny light around him. He stood unsteadily, looked over the crowded steps, and blinked. Bert Schroeder and Murray Kline were holding court—and it was, he realized, just as he would have pictured it if he had allowed himself to think of the dawn. Schroeder surrounded by the press, Schroeder looking very self-possessed, handling questions like a pro—but as he watched he saw that the Hostage Negotiator was not doing well. He saw Schroeder suddenly break loose and make his way across the steps, through the knots of people like a broken-field runner, and Burke called out as he passed, “Schroeder!”
Schroeder seemed not to hear and continued toward the arched portal of the south vestibule. Burke came up behind him and grabbed his arm. “Hold on.” Schroeder tried to pull away, but Burke slammed him against the stone buttress. “Listen!” He lowered his voice. “I know—about Terri—”
Schroeder looked at him, his eyes widening. Burke went on. “Martin is dead, and the Fenians are all dead or dying. I had to tell Bellini … but he’s dead, too. Langley knows, but Langley doesn’t give away secrets—he just makes you buy them back someday. Okay? So just shut your mouth and be very cool.” He released Schroeder’s arm.
Tears formed in Schroeder’s eyes. “Burke … God Almighty … do you understand what I did … ?”
“Yeah … yeah, I understand, and I’d really like to see you in the fucking slammer for twenty, but that won’t help anything…. It won’t help the department, and it won’t help me or Langley. And it damn sure won’t help your wife or daughter.” He moved closer to Schroeder. “And don’t blow your brains out, either…. It’s a sin— you know? Hang around long enough in this job and someone will blow them out for you.”
Schroeder caught his breath and spoke. “No … I’m going to retire—res
ign— confess … make a public—”
“You’re going to keep your goddamned mouth shut. No one—not me or Kline or Rourke or the DA or anyone—wants to hear your fucking confession, Schroeder. You’ve caused enough problems—just cool out.”
Schroeder hung his head, then nodded. “Burke … Pat … thanks….”
“Fuck you.” He looked at the door beside him. “You know what’s in this vestibule?”
Schroeder shook his head.
“Bodies. Lots of bodies. The field morgue. You go in there and you talk to those bodies—and say something to Bellini—and you go into the Cathedral and you make a confession, or you pray or you do anything you have to do to help you get through the next twenty-four hours.” He reached out and opened the door, took Schroeder’s arm, and pushed him into the vestibule, then shut the door. He stared down at the pavement for a long time, then turned at the sound of his name and saw Langley hurrying up the steps toward him.
Langley started to extend his hand, then glanced around quickly and withdrew it. He said coolly, “You’re in a little trouble, Lieutenant.”
Burke lit a cigarette. “Why?”
“Why?” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “You pushed a British consulate official—a diplomat—out of the choir loft of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral to his death. That’s why.”
“He fell.”
“Of course he fell—you pushed him. What could he do but fall? He couldn’t fly.” Langley ran his hand over his mouth, and Burke thought he was hiding a smile. Langley regained his composure and said caustically, “That was very stupid— don’t you agree?”
Burke shrugged.
Roberta Spiegel walked unnoticed through the crowd on the steps and came under the portal, stopping beside Langley. She looked at the two men, then said to Burke, “Christ Almighty, right in front of about forty policemen and National Guardsmen. Are you crazy?”
Langley said, “I just asked him if he was stupid, but that’s a good question, too.” He turned to Burke. “Well, are you stupid or crazy?”
Burke sat down with his back to the stone wall and watched the smoke rise from his cigarette. He yawned twice.
Spiegel’s voice was ominous. “They’re going to arrest you for murder. I’m surprised they haven’t grabbed you yet.”
Burke raised his eyes toward Spiegel. “They haven’t grabbed me because you told them not to. Because you want to see if Pat Burke is going to go peacefully or if he’s going to kick and scream.”
Spiegel didn’t answer.
Burke glared at her, then at Langley. “Okay, let me see if I know how to play this game. A file on Bartholomew Martin—right? He suffered from vertigo and fear of heights. Or how about this?—twenty police witnesses in the loft sign sworn affidavits saying Martin took a swat at a fly and toppled—No, no, I’ve got it—”
Spiegel cut him off. “The man was a consulate official—”
“Bullshit.”
Spiegel shook her head. “No one can fix this one, Lieutenant.”
Burke leaned back and yawned again. “You’re Ms. Fixit in this town, lady, so you fix it. And fix me up with a commendation and captain’s pay while you’re about it. By tomorrow.”
Spiegel’s face reddened. “Are you threatening me?” Their eyes met, and neither turned away. She said, “And who’s going to believe your version of anything that was discussed tonight?”
Burke stubbed out his cigarette. “Schroeder, who is a hero, will corroborate anything I say.”
Spiegel laughed. “That’s absurd.”
Langley cleared his throat and said to Spiegel. “Actually, that’s true. It’s a long story…. I think Lieutenant Burke deserves … well, whatever he says he deserves.”
Spiegel looked at Langley closely, then turned back to Burke. “You’ve got something on Schroeder—right? Okay, I don’t have to know what it is. I’m not looking to hang you, Burke. I’ll do what I can—”
Burke interrupted. “Art Forgery Squad. It would be a really good idea if I was in Paris by this time tomorrow.”
Spiegel laughed. “Art Forgery? What the hell do you know about art?”
“I know what I like.”
“That true,” said Langley. “He does.” He stuck his hand out toward Burke, “You did an outstanding job tonight, Lieutenant. The Division is very proud of you.”
Burke took his hand and used it to pull himself up. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. I shall be clean of sin. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”
Langley said, “Well … we’ll just get you a commendation or something….”
Spiegel lit a cigarette. “How the hell did I ever get involved with cops and politicians? God, I’d rather be on the stroll in Times Square.”
Burke said, “I thought you looked familiar.”
She ignored him and surveyed the steps and the Avenue. “Where’s Schroeder, anyway? I see lots of news cameras, but smiling Bert isn’t in front of any of them. Or is he at a television studio already?”
Burke said, “He’s in the Cathedral. Praying.”
Spiegel seemed taken aback, then nodded. “That’s damned good press. Yes, yes. Everyone’s out here sucking up on the coverage, and he’s in there praying. They’ll eat it up. Wow … I could run that bastard for councilman in Bensonhurst …”
Stretcher-bearers began bringing the bodies out of the Cathedral, a long, silent procession, through the doors of the south vestibule, down the steps. The litters carrying the police and Guardsmen passed through a hastily assembled honor guard; the stretchers of the Fenians passed behind the guard. Everyone on the steps fell silent, police and army chaplains walked beside the stretchers, and a uniformed police inspector in gold braid directed the bearers to designated ambulances. The litters holding the Fenians were placed on the sidewalk.
Burke moved among the stretchers and found the tag marked Bellini, He drew the cover back and looked into the face, wiped of greasepaint—a very white face with that hard jaw and black stubble. He dropped the cover back and quickly walked a few steps off, his hands on his hips, staring down at his feet.
The bells had ended the Te Deum and began to play a slow dirge. Governor Doyle stood with his retinue, his hat in his hand. Major Cole stood beside him holding a salute. The Governor leaned toward Cole and spoke as he lowered his head in respect. “How many did the Sixty-ninth lose, Major?”
Cole looked at him out of the corner of his eye, certain that he had detected an expectant tone in the Governor’s voice. “Five killed, sir, including Colonel Logan, of course. Three wounded.”
“Out of how many?”
Cole lowered his salute and stared at the Governor. “Out of a total of eighteen men who directly participated in the attack.”
“The rescue … yes …” The Governor nodded thoughtfully. “Terrible. Fifty percent casualties.”
“Well, not quite fif—”
“But you rescued two hostages.”
“Actually, they saved themselves—”
“The Sixty-ninth Regiment will be needing a new commander, Cole.”
“Yes … that’s true.”
The last of the police and Guardsmen were placed in ambulances, and the line of vehicles began moving away, escorted by motorcycle police. A black police van pulled up to the curb, and a group of stretcher-bearers on the sidewalk picked up the litters holding the dead Fenians and headed toward the van.
An Intelligence officer standing beside the van saluted Langley as he approached and handed him a small stack of folded papers. The man said, “Almost every one of them had an identifying personal note on him, Inspector. And here’s a preliminary report on each one.” The man added, “We also found pages of the ESD attack plan in there. How the hell—?”
Langley took the loose pages and shoved them in his pocket. “That doesn’t go in your report.”
“Yes, sir.”
Langley came up beside Burke sitting under the portal again, with Spiegel standing in front of him.
Burke said, “Where are Malone and Baxter?”
Spiegel answered, “Malone and Baxter are still in the Cathedral for their own protection—there may still be snipers out there. Baxter’s in the Archbishop’s sacristy until we release him to his people. Malone’s in the bride’s room. The FBI will take charge of her.”
Burke said, “Where’s Flynn’s body?”
No one answered, then Spiegel knelt on the step beside Burke. “He’s not dead yet. He’s in the bookstore.”
Burke said, “Is that the Bellevue annex?”
Spiegel hesitated, then spoke. “The doctor said be was within minutes of death… so we didn’t … have him moved.”
Burke said, “You’re murdering him—so don’t give me this shit about not being able to move him.”
Spiegel looked him in the eye. “Everybody on both sides of the Atlantic wants him dead, Burke. Just like everyone wanted Martin dead. Don’t start moralizing to me….”
Burke said, “Get him to Bellevue.”
Langley looked at him sharply. “You know we can’t do that now … and he knows too much, Pat…. Schroeder … other things…. And he’s dangerous. Let’s make things easy on ourselves for once. Okay?”
Burke said, “Let’s have a look.”
Spiegel hesitated, then stood. “Come on.”
They entered the Cathedral and passed through the south vestibule littered with the remains of the field morgue that smelled faintly of something disagreeable—a mixture of odors, which each finally identified as death.
The Mass was beginning, and the organ overhead was playing an entrance song. Burke looked at the shafts of sunlight coming through the broken windows. He had thought that the light would somehow diminish the mystery, but it hadn’t, and in fact the effect was more haunting even than the candlelight.
They turned right toward the bookstore. Two ESD men blocked the entrance but moved quickly aside. Spiegel entered the small store, followed by Burke and Langley. She leaned over the counter and looked down at the floor.