Cathedral (23 page)

Schroeder said, "I won't begin a dialogue until I clarify our position." He looked at Bill Voight, the Governor's aide. "Has the Governor indicated that he is willing to grant immunity from prosecution?"

Voight shook his head. "Not at this time."

Schroeder looked at Roberta Spiegel. "What is the Mayor's position regarding the use of police?"

Roberta Spiegel lit a cigarette. "No matter what kind of deal is concluded with London or Washington or anyone, the Mayor will enforce the law and order the arrest of anyone coming out of that Cathedral. If they don't come out, the Mayor reserves the right to send the police in to get them."

Schroeder nodded thoughtfully, then looked at Arnold Sheridan.

The State Department man said, "I can't speak for the administration or State at this time, and I don't know what the Attorney General's position will be regarding immunity from federal prosecution. But you can assume nobody in Washington is going along with any of those demands."

Schroeder looked at Tomas Donahue.

The Irish Consul General glanced at Major Martin, then said, "The Irish Republican Army is outlawed in the Irish Republic, and my government will not accept members of the IRA or offer them sanctuary in the unlikely event the British government decides to release these people."

Major Martin added, "Although I do not represent Her Majesty's government, I can assure you the government's position is as always regarding the IRA or whatever they're calling themselves today: Never negotiate, and if you do negotiate, never concede a single point, and if you do concede a point, never tell them you've conceded it."

Roberta Spiegel said, "Now that we know what uncompromising bastards we are, let's negotiate.

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Commissioner Rourke said to Schroeder, "Yes, now all you have to do is talk them out, Bert. They've involved the Red Cross and Amnesty, so we can't easily lie to them. You've got to be very . . . very . . ." He couldn't come up with the word he wanted and turned to Captain Bellini, who had said nothing so far. "Captain, in the unlikely event Bert can't do it, is the Emergency Services Division ready to mount an . . .

assault?"

Bellini shifted his massive frame in his small chair. The blue-black stubble on his face gave him a hard appearance, but the area under his eyes had gone very pale. "Yeah . . . yes, sir. When the time comes, we'll be ready." ,

Schroeder reached for the telephone. "Okay. I know where everyone's coming from. Right?"

Monsignor Downes spoke. "May I say something?"

Everyone looked at him. Schroeder took his hand off the receiver, smiled, and nodded.

Downes said softly, "No one has said anything about the hostages yet. Or about the Cathedral." There was a silence in the room and Monsignor Downes went on. "If, as I assume, your first responsibility is to the hostages, and if you make this clear to your superiors and to the people inside the Cathedral, then I don't see why a compromise can't be worked out." He looked around the room.

No one took it upon himself to explain the realities of international diplomacy to the Monsignor.

Schroeder said, "I haven't lost a hostage--or for that matter a building-yet, Monsignor. It's often possible to get what you want without giving anything in return."

"Oh . . . I didn1 know that," said Monsignor Downes quietly.

"In fact," continued Schroeder assuringly, "the tack I am going to take is pretty much as you suggested. Stick around, you'll see how it's done."

He picked up the telephone and waited for the police operator at the switchboard. He looked around the room and said, "Don't be disturbed if he seems to be winning a few rounds. You have to give them the impression they're scoring. By sunrise

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he'll tire-you ever go shark fishing? You let them run out the line until you're ready to reel them in." He said to the police operator, "Yes, get me the extension at the chancel organ." He put his elbows on the desk and waited. No one in the room moved.

200

Governor Doyle put down the telephone and looked around the crowded outer office. People were jockeying for the newly installed phones, and a cloud of blue smoke hung over the elegant furnishings, reminding him of a hotel suite on election night, and that reminded him of the next election. He spotted Mayor Kline talking to a group of city and police officials and came up behind the Mayor, taking his arm in a firm grip. "Murray, I have to speak to you."

The Mayor let himself be propelled by the bigger man into the hallway and up to a landing on the staircase that led to the priests' rooms. The Mayor escaped the Governor's grasp and said, "What is it, Bob? I have things to do."

"I just spoke to Albany. The main concern up there is civil disobedience."

"I didn't think enough people lived in Albany to have a riot."

"No, here. In Manhattan. That mob outside could explode again . . . with all the drinking . . . ...

The Mayor smiled. "What makes this Saint Patrick's night different from all other Saint PatricVs nights?"

"Look, Murray, this is not the time for your wisecracking. The seizure of this Cathedral may be just a prelude to a larger civil insurrection.

I think you should call a curfew."

"Curfew? Are you crazy? Rush hour traffic is still trying to get out of Manhattan."

"Call it later, then." The Governor lowered his voice. "My analysts in Albany say that the only thing keeping this

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situation cooled down is the sleet. When the sleet stops, the bars will empty and there could be trouble-~'

The Mayor looked incredulous. "I don't care what your analysts in Albany say. This is Saint Patrick's Day in New York, for God's sake. The biggest parade in the world, outside of the May Day Parade in Moscow, has just ended. The largest single party in New York-maybe in America-is just beginning. People plan this day all year. There are over a million people in midtown alone, jammed into bars, restaurants, and house parties. More liquor and food is consumed tonight than any other night of the year. If I called a curfew . . . the Restaurant Owners' Association would have me assassinated. They'd pour all the unconsurned beer into the Rockefeller Center skating rink and drown me in it. Shit, you try to enforce a curfew tonight."

"But-"

"And it's religious. What kind of an Irishman are you? That's all we need-a Jewish Mayor calling off Saint Patrick's Day. It'd be easier to call off Christmas. Vftat kind of yo-yos are giving you advice in Albany? Fucking farmers?"

The Governor began pacing around the small landing. "Okay, Murray. Take it easy." He stopped pacing and thought a moment. "Okay, forget the curfew.

But I do think you need the State Police and the National Guard to help keep order."

"No. No soldiers, no State Police. I have twenty thousand police-more than a full army division. Little by little we'll get them out on the street."

"The Sixty-ninth Regiment is mustered and in a position to lend a hand."

"Mustered?" Kline laughed. "Plastered is more like it. Christ, the enlisted men got off duty from the armory at two o'clock. They're so shitfaced by now they wouldn't know a rifle from their bootlaces."

"I happen to know that the officers and most of the noncoms are at a cocktail party in the armory right now, and-"

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"What are you trying to pull?"

"Pull?"

"Pull.,,

The Governor coughed into his hand, then smiled goodnaturedly. "All right, it's like this-you know damned well that this is the biggest disturbance to hit New York since the blackout of '77, and I have to show that I'm doing something."

"Fly to Albany. Let me run my city."

"Your city. It's my state! I'm responsible to all the people.,,

"Right. Where were you when we needed money?"

"Look . . . look, I don't need your permission to call out the National Guard or the State Police."

"Call your Attorney General and check on that." Mayor Kline turned and took a step toward the stairs.

"Hold on, Murray. Listen . . . suppose Albany foots the bill for this operation? I mean, God, this will cost the city millions. I'll take care of it, and I'll get Washington to kick in a little extra. I'll say it was an international thing, which it is-like the consulate protection money.

Okay?"

The Mayor arrested his descent down the stairs and turned back toward the Governor. He smiled encouragingly.

The Governor went on. "I'll pay for it all if you let me send in my pcople-I need to show a state presence hereyou understand. Okay? Whaddaya say, Murray?"

The Mayor said, "The money to be paid to the city within thirty days of billing."

"You got it."

"Including all overtime and regular time of all the city departments involved, including police, fire, sanitation, and other municipal departments for as long as the siege lasts, and all expenses incurred in the aftermath."

"All right. . . ."

"Including costs of repair to municipal property, and aid to private individuals and businesses who sustain a loss." The Governor swallowed.

"Sure."

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"But only the Sixty-ninth Regiment. No other guard units and no State Police-my boys don't get along with them."

"Let me send the State Police into the boroughs to fill the vacuum left by the reassignment to Manhattan."

The Mayor considered, then nodded and smiled. He stuck out his hand, and they shook on it. Mayor Kline said loudly, so that the people in the hallway below could hear, "Governor, I'd like you to call out the Sixty-ninth Regiment and the State Police."

Colonel Dennis Logan sat at the head table in the 69th Regiment Armory hall on Lexington Avenue. Over a hundred officers, noncommissioned officers, and civilian guests sat or stood around the big hall. The degree of intox-ication ranged from almost to very. Logan himself felt a bit unsteady. The mood this year was not boisterous, Logan noticed, and there was a subdued atmosphere in the hall, a result of reports of the disturbance in midtown.

A sergeant came toward Logan with a telephone and plugged the phone into a jack. "Colonel, the Governor is on the line."

Logan nodded and sat up straight. He took the receiver, glanced at Major Cole, then said, "Colonel Logan speaking, sir. Happy Saint Patrick's Day to you, Governor."

"I'm afraid not, Colonel. A group of Irish revolutionaries has seized Saint Patrick's Cathedral."

The Colonel felt a heaviness in his chest, and every part of his body went damp, except his throat. "Yes, sir."

"I'm calling the Sixty-ninth Regiment to duty."

Colonel Logan looked around the hall at the scene spread out before him.

Most of the officers and NCOs were wobbling, a few were slumped over tables. The enlisted men were home by now or scattered throughout every bar in the metropolitan area.

"Colonel?"

"Yes, sir."

"Full gear, riot-control equipment, weapons with live ammunition."

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"Yes, sir."

"Assemble outside the Cardinal's residence on Madison for further orders.

Don't delay."

"Yes, sir."

"Is the Sixty-ninth ready, Colonel?"

Logan started to say something rational, then cleared his throat and said,

"The Fighting Irish are always ready, Governor."

"This is Captain Bert Schroeder of the New York Police Department."

Schroeder reached out and turned on the switches that activated the speakers in both residences.

A voice with an Irish accent came into the room and echoed from the outer office, which quickly became still. "What took you so long?"

Burke nodded. "That's him."

Schroeder spoke softly, pleasantly, a tone designed to be soothing. "Things were a bit confused, sir. Is this-?"

"Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenians. I told Sergeant Tezik and Lieutenant Burke I wanted to speak with a high ranking man. I'm only up to a captain now."

Schroeder gave his standard reply. "Everyone that you would want to speak to is present. They are listening to us from speakers. Can you hear the echo? We've all agreed that to avoid confusion I will do the speaking for everyone. They'll relay messages through me."

"Albo are you?"

"I have some experience in this."

"Well, that's interesting. Are there representatives of the Irish, British, and American governments present?"

"Yes, sir. The Police Commissioner, the Mayor, and the Governor, too."

"I picked a good day for this, didn't IT'

Burke said to Schroeder, "I forgot to tell you, he has a sense of humor."

Schroeder said into the telephone, "Yes, sir. So let's get right down to business."

"Let's back up and establish the rules, Captain. Is everyone in contact with their capitals?"

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"Yes, sir."

"Have Amnesty International and the Red Cross been contacted?"

"It's being done, sir.11

"And you are the mouthpiece?"

"Yes, sir. It's less confusing. I think you'll find the arrangement acceptable." Schroeder sat at the edge of his chair. This was the most difficult part, persuading wildeyed lunatics that it was better to speak to him than to the President of the United States or the Queen of England.

"So, if we can proceed . . ."

"All right. We'll see."

Schroeder exhaled softly. "We have your demands in front of us, and the list of people you want released from Northern Ireland. We want you to know that our primary concern is the safety of the hostages--2'

"Don't forget the Cathedral. It's ready to be burned down."

"Yes. But our primary concern is human life."

"Sorry about the horse."

"What? Oh, yes. We are too. But no one-no humanhas been killed, so let's all work to keep it that way."

"Commissioner Dwyer is feeling better, then?"

Schroeder shot a look at Burke and covered the mouthpiece. "What the hell did you tell him about Dwyer?"