Cathedral (22 page)

Burke looked down into Madison Avenue. Streetlights illuminated the hundreds of police who, in the falling sleet, were clearing an area around the rectory. Police cars and limousines pulled up to the curb discharging police commanders and civilian officials. Lines were being brought in by the telephone company, and field phone wire was being strung by police to compensate for the lost radio communication. The machine was moving slowly, deliberately. Traffic was rolling; civilization, such as it was in New York, had survived another day.

"Hello, Pat."

Burke spun around. "Langley. Jesus, it's good to see someone who doesn't have much more rank than I do."

Langley smiled. "You making the coffee and emptying the ashtrays?"

"Have you been filled in?"

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"Briefly. What a fucking mess." He looked around the Monsignor's office.

"It looks like Who's Who in the East here. Has Commissioner Dwyer arrived yet?"

"That's not likely. He died of a heart attack."

"Christ. Nobody told me that. You mean that dipshit Rourke is in charge?"

"As soon as he gets-here."

"He's right behind me. We put the chopper down in the courtyard of the Palace Hotel. Christ, you should have seen what it looked like from the air."

"Yeah. I think I would rather have seen it from the air." Burke lit a cigarette. "Are we in trouble?"

"We won't be invited to the Medal Day ceremonies this June."

"For sure." Burke tapped his ash on the windowsill. "But we're still in the game."

"You, maybe. You got a horse shot out from under you. I didn't have a horse shot out from under me. Any horses around?"

"I have some information from Jack Ferguson we can use when we're on the carpet." He took Langley's arm and drew him closer. "Finn MacCumail's real name is Brian Flynn. He's Maureen Malone's ex-lover."

"Ah," said Langley, "ex-lover. This is getting interesting. , Burke went on. "Flynn's lieutenant is John Hickey."

"Hickey's dead," said Langley. "Died a few years ago. . . . There was a funeral . . . in Jersey."

"Some men find it more convenient to hold their funeral before their demise."

"Maybe Ferguson was wrong."

"He saw John Hickey in Saint Pat's today. He doesn't make mistakes."

"We'll have the grave dug up." Langley felt chilled and moved away from the window. "I'll get a court order."

Burke shrugged. "You find a sober judge in Jersey tonight, and I'll dig it up myself. Anyway, Hickey's file is on the way, and Louise is checking out Brian Flynn."

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Langley nodded. "Good work. The British can help us on Flynn."

"Right . . . Major Martin."

"Have you seen him?"

Burke inclined his head toward the double doors.

Langley said, "Who else is in there?"

"Schroeder and some police commanders, federal types, and people from the British and Irish consulates." As he spoke, Mayor Kline, Governor Doyle, and their aides went into the inner office.

Langley watched them, then said, "Has Schroeder begun his dialogue yet?"

"I don't think so. I passed on MacCumail's-Flynn'sdemands to him. He smiled and told me to wait outside. Here I am."

Deputy Police Commissioner Rourke hurried across the room and into the inner office, motioning to Langley to follow.

Langley turned to Burke. "Listen for the sounds of heads rolling across the floor. You may be the next Chief of Intelligence-I have this vision of Patrick Burke captured for eternity in a bronze statue, on the steps of Saint Patrick's, astride a horse with flaring nostrils, charging UP-"

"Fuck off."

Langley smiled and hurried off.

Burke looked at the people milling about the room. The Speaker of the House of Representatives, past and present governors, senators, mayors, congressmen. It was. a veritable Who's Who in the East, but they looked, he thought, rather common and frightened at the moment. He noticed that all the decanters on the coffee table were empty, then fixed his attention on Monsignor Downes, still sitting behind his desk. Burke approached him. "Monsignor-"

The Rector of St. Patrick's Cathedral looked up.

"Feeling better?"

"Why didn't the police know this was going to happen?"

Burke resisted several replies, then said, "We should have known. It was all there if we had only

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Langley appeared at the double doors and motioned to Burke.

Burke looked at the Rector. "Come with me."

"Why?"

"It's your church, and you have a right to know whaf s going to happen to it. Your Cardinal and your priest are in there-"

"Priests make people uncomfortable sometimes. They get in the way . . .

unintentionally."

"Good. That may be what this group needs."

Monsignor Downes rose reluctantly and followed Burke into the inner office.

In the big room about forty men and women stood or sat, their attention focused around the desk Where Captain Bert Schroeder sat. Heads turned as Burke and Monsignor Downes came into the room.

Mayor Kline rose from his chair and offered it to Downes, who flushed and sat quickly. The Mayor smiled at his own beneficence and good manners, then held his hands up for silence. He began speaking in his adenoidal voice that made everyone wince. "Are we all here? Okay, let's begin." He cleared his throat. "All right, now, we have all agreed that the City of New York is, under law, primarily responsible for any action taken in this matter." He looked at his aide, Roberta Spiegel. She nodded, and he went on. "So, to avoid confusion, we will all speak to the perpetrators with one voice, through one man. . . ." He paused and raised his voice as though introducing a speaker. "The NYPD Hostage Negotiator Captain Bert Schroeder."

The effect of the Mayor's -delivery elicited some applause, which died away as it became apparent that it wasn't appropriate. Roberta Spiegel shot the Mayor a look of disapproval, and he turned red. Captain Schroeder rose and half acknowledged the applause.

Burke said softly to Langley, "I feel like a proctologist trapped in a room full of assholes."

Schroeder looked at the faces turned toward him and drew a deep breath.

"Thank you, Your Honor." I-Es eyes 193

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darted around the room. "I am about to open negotiations with the man who calls himself Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenian Army. As you may know, my unit, since it was started by Captain Frank Bolz, has concluded successfully every hostage situation that has gone down in this city, without the loss of a single hostage." He saw people nodding, and the terror of what he was about to undertake suddenly evaporated as he pictured himself concluding another successful case. He put an aggressive tone in his voice. "And since there's no reason to change tactics that have been so successful in criminal as well as political hostage situations, I will treat this as any other hostage situation. It will not be influenced by outside political considerations . . . but I do solicit your help and suggestions." He looked into the crowd and read expressions ranging from open hostility to agreement.

Burke said to Langley, "Not bad."

Langley replied, "He's full of shit. That man is the most political animal I know."

Schroeder went on. "In order to facilitate my job I'd like this room cleared of everyone except the following." He picked up a list written on Monsignor Downes's stationary and read from it, then looked up. "It's also been agreed that commanders of the field operations will headquarter themselves in the lower offices of the rectory. People connected with the negotiations who are not in this office with me will be in the Monsignor's outer office. I've spoken to the Vicar General by phone, and he's agreed that everyone else may use the Cardinal's residence."

Schroeder glanced at Monsignor Downes, then went on. "Telephones are being installed in the residence and . . . refreshments will be served in His Eminence's dining room. Voice speakers will be installed throughout both residences for paging and so that you may monitor my phone conversations with the perpetrators."

The room filled with noise as Schroeder sat down. The Mayor raised his hands for silence the way he had done so many times in the classroom. "All right. Let's leave the

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Captain to do his job. Everyone, Governor, ladies and gentlemen-please clear the room. That's right. Very good." The Mayor went to the door and opened it.

Schroeder mopped his brow and waited as the remaining people seated themselves. "All right. You know who I am. Everyone introduce themselves in turn." He pointed to the sole woman present.

Roberta Spiegel, a good-looking woman in her early forties, sat back in a rocking chair and crossed her legs, looking bored, sensual, and businesslike at the same time. "Spiegel. Mayor's aide."

A small man with flaming red hair, dressed in tweeds, said, "Tomas Donahue, Consul General, Irish Republic."

"Major Bartholomew Martin, representing Her Majesty's government in the .

. . absence of Sir Harold Baxter."

"James Kruger, CIA."

A muscular man with a pockmarked face said, "Douglas Hogan, FBI."

A rotund young man with glasses said, "Bill Voight, Governor's office."

"Deputy Commissioner Rourke Acting Police Commissioner."

A well-dressed man with a nasal voice said, "Arnold Sheridan, agent-in-charge, State Department Security Office, representing State."

"Captain Bellini, NYPD, Emergency Services Division."

"Inspector Philip Langley, NYPD, Intelligence Division."

"Burke, Intelligence."

Schroeder looked at ' Monsignor Downes, who, be realized, had not left.

Schroeder considered for a moment as he sat at the man's desk with his gold-crossed stationery stacked neatly in a corner, then smiled. "And our host, you might say, Monsignor Downes, Rector of Saint Patrick's. Good of you to . . . come . . . and to let us use . . . Will you be staying?"

Monsignor Downes nodded hesitantly.

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"Good," said Schroeder. "Good. Okay, let's start at the beginning. Burke, why the hell did you open negotiations? You know better than that."

Burke loosened his tie and sat back.

Schroeder thought the question may have sounded rhetorical, so he pressed on. "You didn't make any promises, did you? You didn't say anything that might compromise-"

"I told you what I said," interrupted Burke.

Schroeder stiffened. He glared at Burke and said, "Please repeat the exchange, and also tell us how he seemed-his state of mind. That sort of thing."

Burke repeated what he had said earlier, and added, "He seemed very self-assured. And it wasn't bravado. He seemed intelligent, too."

"He didn't seem unbalanced?" asked Schroeder.

"His whole manner seemed normal-except for what he was saying, of course."

"Drugs-alcohol?" asked Schroeder. -

"Probably had less to drink today than anyone here."

Someone laughed.

Schroeder turned to Langley. "We can't get an angle on this guy unless we know his real name. Right?"

Langley glanced at Burke, then at the Acting Commissioner. "ActuaIlly, I know who he is."

The room became quiet.

Burke stole a look at Major Martin, who seemed impassive.

Langley continued. "His name is Brian Flynn. The British will certainly have a file on him-psy-profile, that sort of thing. Maybe the CIA has something, too. His lieutenant is a man named John Hickey, thought to have died some years ago. You may have heard of him. He's a naturalized American citizen. We and the FBI have an extensive file on Hickey."

The FBI man, Hogan, said, "I'll check."

Kruger said, "I'll check on Flynn."

Major Martin added, "Both names seem familiar. I'll wire London."

Schroeder looked a bit happier. "Good. Good work. That 196

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makes my job-our jobs-a lot easier. Right?" He turned to Burke. "One more thing-did you get the impression that the woman who fired at you was shooting to kill?"

Burke said, "I had the impression she was aiming for the horse. They probably have some discipline of firepower, if that's what you're getting at."

The policemen in the room nodded. Commissioner Rourke said, "Does anybody know anything about this group-the Fenians?" He looked at Kruger and Hogan.

Kruger glanced at Major Martin, then replied, "We have almost no funds to maintain a liaison section on Northern Irish affairs. It has been determined, you see, that the IRA poses no immediate threat to the United States, and preventive measures were not thought to be justified. Unfortunately, we are paying for that frugality now."

Douglas Hogan added, "The FBI thought it was the Provisional IRA until Major Martin suggested otherwise. My section, which specializes in Irish organizations in America, is understaffed and partly dependent on British Intelligence for information."

Burke nodded to himself. He was beginning to catch the drift. Kruger and Hogan were being petulant, taking an I-told-you-so line. They were also covering themselves, rehearsing for later testimony, and laying the groundwork for the future. Nicely done, too.

Commissioner Rourke looked at Major Martin. "Then you are . . . I mean . .

. you are not . . ."

Major Martin smiled and stood. "Yes, I'm not actually with the consulate.

I'm with British Military Intelligence. No use letting that get about, though." He looked around the room, then turned to Langley. "I told Inspector Langley that something was-what is the term?-coming down. But unfortunately--~'

Langley said dryly, "Yes, the Major has been very helpful, as have the CIA and FBI. My own division did admirably too, and actually missed averting this act by only minutes. Lieutenant Burke should be commended for his resourcefulness and bravery."

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yelled "Hooray for Burke." It occurred to him that each of them was identifying his own objectives, his own exposure, looking for allies, scapegoats, enemies, and trying to figure how to use this crisis to his advantage. "I told Flynn we wouldn't keep him waiting."