Cathedral (17 page)

and you'll damn well like it. Go on, now, and leave me alone."

Megan looked at him, turned abruptly, and entered the small door that led down to the spiral stairs.

Sullivan finished inflating the bagpipe, bounced a few notes off the wall behind him, made the necessary tuning, then turned, bellied up to the stone parapet, and began to play. The haunting melody carried into every corner of the Cathedral and echoed off the stone. Acoustically bad for an organ or choir, Sullivan thought, but for a bagpipe it was lovely, sounding like the old Celtic warpipes echoing through the rocky glens of Antrim. The pipes were designed to echo from stone, he thought, and now that he heard his pipes in here, he would recommend their use in place of organs in Ireland.

He had never sounded better.

He saw Abby Boland leaning across the parapet, looking at him, and he played to her, then turned east and played to his wife in Armagh prison, then turned to the wall behind him and played softly for himself.

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Brian Flynn listened to Sullivan for a few seconds. "The lad's not bad."

Hickey found his briar pipe and began filling it. "Reminds me of those Scottish and Irish regiments in the First War. Used to go into battle with pipes skirling. Jerry's machine guns ripped them up. Never missed a note, thoughgood morale-builder." He looked down at the blueprints.

"I'm beginning to think whoever designed this place designed Tut's tomb."

"Same mentality. Tricks with stone. Fellow named Renwick in this case.

There's a likeness of him on one of those stained-glass windows. Over there. Looks shifty."

"Even God looks shifty in stained glass, Brian."

Flynn consulted the blueprints. "Look, there are six large supporting picrs-they're towers, actually. They all have doors either on the inside or outside of the Cathedral, and they all have spiral staircases that go into the triforia. . . . All except this one, which passes through Farrell's triforium. It has no doors, either on the blueprints or in actuality."

"How did he get up there?"

"From the next tower which has an outsidedoor." Flynn looked up at Eamon Farrell. "I told him to look for the way into this tower, but he hasn't found it."

"Aye, and probably never will. Maybe that's where they burn heretics. Or hide the gold."

"Well, you may joke about it, but it bothers me. Not 149

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even a church architect wastes time and money building a tower from basement to roof without putting it to some use. I'm certain there's a staircase in there, and entrances as well. We'll have to find out where."

"We may find out quite unexpectedly," said Hickey.

"That we may."

"Later," said Hickey, "perhaps I'll call on Renwick's ghost for help."

"I'd settle for the present architect, Stillway." Flynn tapped his finger on the blueprints. "I think there are more hollow spaces here than even Renwick knew. Passages made by masons and workmen-not unusual in a cathedral of this size and style."

"Anyway, you've done a superb job, Brian. It will take the police some time to formulate an attack."

"Unless they get hold of Stillway and his set of blueprints before our people on the outside find him." He turned and looked at the telephone mounted on the organ. "What's taking the police so long to call?"

Hickey picked up the telephone. "It's working." He came back to the rail.

"They're still confused. You've disrupted their chain of command. They'll be more angry with you for that than for this."

"Aye. It's like a huge machine that has malfunctioned. But when they get it going again, they'll start to grind away at us. And there's no way to shut it down again once it starts."

Eamon Farrell, a middle-aged man and the oldest of the Fenians, except for Hickey, looked down from the sixstory-high northeast triforium, watching Flynn and Hickey as they came out of the beIl-tower lobby. Flynn wore the black suit of a priest, Hickey an old tweed jacket. They looked for all the world like a priest and an architect talking over renovations. Farrell shifted his gaze to the four hostages sitting in the sanctuary, waiting for some indication as to their fate. He felt sorry for them. But he also felt sorry for his only son, Eamon, Jr., in Long Kesh. The boy

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was in the second week of a hunger strike and wouldn't last much longer.

Farrell slipped his police tunic off and hung it over the parapet, then turned and walked back to the wooden kneewall behind him. In the wall was a small door, and he opened it, knelt, and shone his flashlight at the plaster lathing of the ceiling of the bride's room below him. He walked carefully in a crouch onto a rafter, and played the light around the dark recess, moving farther out onto the wooden beam. There was a fairly large space around him, a sort of lower attic below the main attic, formed by the downward pitch of the triforium roof before it met the outside wall of stone buttresses.

He stepped to the beam on his right and raised his light to the corner where the two walls came together. In the corner was part of a rounded tower made of brick and mortar. He made his way toward it and knelt precariously on a beam over the plaster. He reached out and ran his hand over a very small black iron door, almost the color of the dusty brick.

Eamon Farrell unhooked the rusty latch and pulled the door open. A familiar smell came out of the dark opening, and he reached his hand in and touched the inside of the brick, then brought his hand away and looked at it. Soot.

Farrell directed the light through the door and saw that the round hollow space was at least six feet across. He angled the light down but could see nothing. Carefully he eased his head and shoulders through the door and looked up. He sensed rather than saw the lights of the towering city above him. A cold downdraft confirmed that the hollow tower was a chimney.

Something caught his eye, and he pointed the light at it. A rung set into the brick, He played the light up and down the chimney and saw a series of iron rungs that ran up the chimney to the top. He withdrew from the opening and closed the thick steel door, then latched it firn-dy shut.

He remained crouched on the beam for a long time, then came out of the small attic and moved to the parapet, calling down to Flynn.

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Flynn quickly moved under the triforium. "Did you find something, Eamon?"

Farrell hesitated, then made a decision. "I see the tower as it comes through behind the triforium. There's no doorway.,, Flynn looked impatient. "Throw me the rope ladder, and I'll have a look."

"No. No, don't bother. I'll keep looking."

Flynn considered, then said, "That tower has a function-find out what it is."

Farrell nodded. "I will." But he had already found it, and found an escape route for himself, a way to get out of this mess alive if the coming negotiations failed.

Frank Gallagher looked out from the southeast triforium. Everyone seemed to be in place, Directly across from him was Farrell. Sullivan, he noticed, was making eyes at Boland across the nave. Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty were in the attic building bonfires and discussing, no doubt, the possibility of getting in a quick one before they died.

Megan's brother, Pedar, was on the crypt landing watching the sacristy gates. He was young, not eighteen, but steady as a rock. For thou art Peter, and upon this Rock, thought Gallagher, who was devoutly Catholic, upon this Rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. The Thompson submachine gun helped, too.

Devane and Mullins had the nicest views, Gallagher thought, but it was probably cold up there. Megan, Hickey, and Flynn floated around like nervous hosts and hostess before a party, checking on the seating and ambience.

Frank Gallagher removed the silk parade marshal's sash and dropped it on the floor. He sighted his rifle at the choir loft, and Leary came into focus. He quickly put the rifle down. You didn't point a rifle at Leary.

You didn't do anything to, with, or for Leary. You just avoided Leary like you avoided dark alleys and contagion wards.

Gallagher looked down at the hostages. His orders were simple. If they leave the sanctuary, unescorted, shoot them.

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He stared at the Cardinal. Somehow Frank Gallagher had to square this thing he was doing, square it with the Cardinal or his own priest later-later, when it was over, and people saw what a fine thing they had done.

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Maureen watched Flynn as he moved about the Cathedral. He moved with a sense of purpose and animation that she recognized, and she knew he was feeling very alive and very good about himself. She watched the Cardinal sitting directly across from her. She envied him for what she knew was his absolute confidence in his position, his unerring belief that he was a blameless victim, a potential martyr. But for herself, and perhaps for Baxter, there was some guilt, and some misgivings, about their roles. And those feelings could work to undermine their ability to resist the pressures that the coming hours or days would bring.

She glanced quickly around at the triforia and choir loft. Well done, Brian, but you're short of troops. She tried to remember the faces of the people she had seen close in, and was fairly certain that she didn't know any of them except Gallagher and Devane. Megan and Pedar Fitzgerald she knew of through their brother, Tommy. What had become of all the people she once called sisters and brothers? The camps or the grave. These were their relatives, recruited in that endless cycle of blood vengeance that characterized the Irish war. With that kind of perpetual vendetta she couldn't see how it would end until they were all dead.

She spoke to Baxter. "If we run quickly to the south transept doors, we could be in the vestibule, hidden from the snipers, before they reacted. I can disarm almost any mine in a few seconds. We'd be through the outer door and into the street before anyone reached the vestibule."

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Baxter looked at her. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about getting out of here alive."

"Look up there, Five snipers. And how can we run off and leave the Cardinal and Father Murphy?"

"They can come with us."

"Are you mad? I won't hear of it."

"I'll do what I damned well please."

He saw her body tense and reached out and held her arm. "No. you don't.

Listen here, we have a chance to be released if-"

"No chance at all. From what I picked up of their conversation, they are going to demand the release of prisoners in internment. Do you think your government will agree to that?"

"I'm . . . I'm sure something will be worked out

"Bloody stupid diplomat. I know these people better than you do, and I know your government's position on Irish terrorists. No negotiation. End of discussion."

". . . but we have to wait for the right moment. We need a plan."

She tried to pull her arm away, but he held it tightly. She said, "I wish I had a shilling for every prisoner who stood in front of a firing squad because he waited for the right moment to make a break. The right moment, according to your own soldier's manual, is as soon after capture as possible. Before the enemy settles down, before they get their bearings.

We've already waited too long. Let go of me.,,

"No. Let me think of something-something less suicidal."

"Listen to me, Baxter-we're not physically bound in any way yet. We must act now. You and I are as good as dead. The Cardinal and the priest may be spared. We won't be."

Baxter took a long breath, then said, "Well . . . it may be that I'm as good as dead . . . but don't you know this fellow, Flynn? Weren't you in the IRA together . . . ?"

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"We were lovers. That's another reason I won't stay here at his mercy for one more second."

"I see. Well, if you want to commit suicide, that's one thing. But don't tell me you're trying to escape. And don't expect me to get myself killed with you."

"You'll wish later you'd taken a quick bullet."

He spoke evenly. "If an opportunity presents itself, I will try to escape."

He paused. "If not, then when the time comes I'll die with some dignity, I hope."

"I hope so, too. You can let go of my arm now. IT wait. But if we're bound or thrown into the crypt or something like that-then, as you're thrashing about with two shattered kneecaps, you can think about how we could have run. That's how they do it, you know. They -kneecap you hours before they shoot you in the heart."

Baxter drew a deep breath. "I suppose I lack a sufficiently vivid imagination to be frightened enough to try anything. . . . But you're supplying me with the necessary picture." He took his hand away from hers and sat watching her out of the corner of his eyes, but she seemed content to sit there. "Steady."

"Oh, take your bloody British steady and shove it."

Baxter remembered her bravery on the steps and realized that part of that, consciously or unconsciously, was for him, or more accurately, what he represented. He realized also that her survival was to some extent in his hands. As for himself, he felt indignant over his present position but felt no loss of dignity. The distinction was not a small one and would determine how each of them would react to their captivity, and if they were to die, how they would die. He said, "Whenever you're ready . . . I'm with you."

Pedar Fitzgerald looked up the right-hand stairs as his sister came down toward him. He stood and cradled the Thompson submachine gun under his arm.

"How's it going, Megan?"

"Everything's set but the bombs." She looked down the stairs through the gate into the empty sacristy. "Any movement?"

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"No. Things are quiet." He forced a smile. "Maybe they don't know we're here."

She smiled back. "Oh, they know. They know, Pedar." She drew her pistol and descended the stairs, then examined the lock and chain on the gates. She listened. trying to hear a sound from the four side corridors that led into the sacristy. Something moved, someone coughed quietly. She turned and said to her brother in a loud voice, "When you shoot, boys, shoot between the bars. Don't damage the lock and chain. Those Thompsons can get away from you."