Cathedral (34 page)

The Cardinal replied in a neutral tone, "I'll pass that on to the others." He added, "Miss Malone is-"

Flynn's voice suddenly came on the line. "Good advice from Captain Courageous. All right, you see no one is dead. Everyone calm down."

"Let me speak to Miss Malone."

"She stepped out for a moment. Later." Flynn said abruptly, "Is everything set for my press conference?"

Schroeder's voice turned calm. "We may need more time. The networks-"

"I have a message for America and the world, and I mean to deliver it."

"Yes, you will. Be patient."

"That's not one of the Irish virtues, Schroeder."

"Oh, I don't know if that's true." He felt it was time for a more personal approach. "I'm half Irish myself, and-"

"Really?"

"Yes, my mother's people were from County Tyrone. Listen, I understand your frustrations and your anger-I had a great-uncle in the IRA. Family hero. Jailed by the English."

"For what? Being a bore like his nephew?"

Schroeder ignored the remark. "I grew up with many of the same hates and prejudices that you-"

"You weren't there, Schroeder. You weren't there. You were here."

"This won't accomplish anything," said Schroeder firmly. "You might make more enemies than friends by-"

"The people in here don't need any more friends. Our friends are dead or in prison. Tell them to let our people go, Captain."

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"We're trying very hard. The negotiations between London and Washington are progressing. I see a light at the end of the tunnel-"

"Are you sure that light isn't a speeding train coming at you?"

Someone in the next room laughed.

Schroeder sat down and bit the tip off a cigar. "Listen, why don't you show us some good faith and release one of the wounded hostages?"

"Which one?"

Schroeder sat up quickly. "Well . . . well

"Come on, then. Play God. Don't ask anyone there. You tell me which one."

"The one that's the most badly wounded."

Flynn laughed. "Very good. Here's a counterproposal. Would you like the Cardinal instead? Think now. A wounded priest, a wounded Englishman, or a healthy Cardinal?"

Schroeder felt an anger rising in him and was disturbed that Flynn could produce that response. "Who's the more seriously hurt?"

"Baxter."

Schroeder hesitated. He looked around the room. His words faltered *

Flynn said, "Quicklyl"

"Baxter."

Flynn put a sad tone in his voice. "Sorry. The correct response was to ask for a Prince of the Church, of course. But you knew that, Bert. Had you said the Cardinal, I would have released him."

Schroeder stared down at the unlit cigar. His voice was shaky. "I doubt that."

"Don't doubt me on things like that. I'd rather lose a hostage and make a point."

Schroeder took out a handkerchief and wiped his neck. "We're not trying to make this a contest to see who's got more nerve, who's got more . .

. more

"Balls."

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"Yes. We're not trying to do that. That's the old police image. We're rolling over for you." He glanced at Bellini, who looked very annoyed.

He continued, "No one here is going to risk the lives of innocent people-"

"Innocent? There are no innocent civilians in war any more. We're all soldiers-soldiers by choice, by conscription, by implication, and by birth." Flynn drew a breath, then said, "Tbe good thing about a long guerrilla war is that everyone gets a chance for revenge at least once."

He paused. "Let's drop this topic. I want that television now. Send Burke."

Schroeder finally lit his cigar. "I'm sorry, he's temporarily out of the building."

"I told you I wanted him around. You see, Schroeder, you're not so accommodating after all."

"It was unavoidable. He'll call you soon." He paused, then changed the tone of his voice. "Listen, along the same lines-I mean, we're building a rapport, as you said-can I ask you again to try to keep Mr. Hickey off the phone?"

Flynn didn't answer.

Schroeder went on, "I'm not trying to start any trouble there, but he's saying one thing and you're saying another. I mean, he's very negative and very . . . pessimistic. I just wanted to make you aware of that in case you didn't-"

The phone went dead.

Schroeder rocked back in his chair and drew on his cigar. He thought of how much easier it was dealing with Flynn and how difficult Hickey was.

Then it hit him, and he dropped his cigar into an ashtray. Good guy-bad guy. The oldest con trick in the game. Now Flynn and Hickey were pulling that on him. "Sons of bitches."

Langley looked at Schroeder, then glanced at the note pad he'd been keeping. After each dialogue Langley felt a sense of frustration and futility. This negotiating business was not his game, and he didn't understand how Schroeder did it. Langley's instincts screamed at him to grab the phone and tell Flynn he was a dead motherfucker. Langley lit a cigarette and was surprised to see his hands shaking. "Bastards."

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Roberta Spiegel took her place in the rocker and stared up at the ceiling.

"Is anybody keeping score?"

Bellini stared out the window. "Can they fight as good as they bullshit?"

Schroeder answered, "The Irish are one of.the few people who can."

Bellini turned back to the window, Spiegel rocked in her chair, Langley watched the smoke curl up from his cigarette, and Schroeder stared at the papers scattered on the desk. Phones rang in the other room; a bullhom cut into the night air, and its echo drifted through the window. The mantel clock ticked loudly, and Schroeder focused on it. 9:17 P.m. At 4:30 he'd been marching in the parade, enjoying himself, enjoying life. Now he had a knot in his stomach, and life didn't look so good anymore. Why was someone always spoiling the parade?

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Maureen slid behind the thick column and watched Hickey as he stood squinting in the half-light. Megan came up behind him, swinging her big pistol easily by her side, the way other women swung a handbag-the way she herself had swung a pistol once.

Maureen watched them whispering to each other. She knew what they were saying without hearing a word: Which way has she gone? Should they split up? Fire a shot? Call out? Turn on the flashlights? She waited closeby, not fifteen feet away, because they'd never suspect she'd be-this close, watching. To them she was a civilian. but they ought to have known her better. She was angry at their low regard of her.

Suddenly the flashlights came on, and their beams poked into the dark, distant places. Maureen pressed closer to the column.

Hickey called out, "Last chance, Maureen. Give up and you won't be hurt.

But if we have to flush you out . . ." He let his voice trail off, the implied meaning more unnerving than if he had said it.

She watched them as they conferred again. She knew they expected her to go cast toward the sacristy foundation. Flynn may even have heard the four of them discussing it. And that was the way she wanted to go but knew now she couldn't.

She prayed they wouldn't split up-wouldn't cut her off in both directions.

She admitted, too, that she didn't want Megan to be away from Hickey . . .

though perhaps if she were away from Hickey . . . Maureen slipped off her 293

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shoes, reached under her skirt, and slid off her panty hose. She twisted the nylon into a rope, wrapped the ends around her arms, and pulled it taut. She draped the nylon garrote over her shoulders and knelt, taking handfuls of earth and rubbing them across her damp face, her legs and hands. She looked down at her tweed jacket and skirt-dark but not dark enough. Silently she took them off, reversed them so the darker lining showed, and put them back on again. She buttoned the jacket over her white blouse and turned up the collar. All the while her eyes were fixed on Hickey and Megan.

Suddenly another pair of legs dropped into the hole, and a figure descended the ladder. Maureen recognized Frank Gallagher by the striped pants of his parade marshal's morning dress.

Hickey pointed toward the front of the Cathedral, and Gallagherdrew a pistol and walked slowly west along the staircase wall toward the outer wall of the partially buried crypt. Hickey and Megan headed east toward the sacristy.

Maureen saw she had no way to go but south toward the crawl space beneath the ambulatory-the least likely place to find an exit, according to what Father Murphy knew of the layout. But as she watched Gallagher's flashlight moving slowly, she realized she could beat him to the end of the crypt, and from there she had more options. She moved laterally, to her left, parallel to Gallagher's course. Fifteen feet from the first column she came to another and stopped. She watched Gallagher's light almost directly opposite her. The shaft of light from the brass-plate opening was dimmer now, and the next column was somewhere in the darkness to her left.

She moved laterally again, running silently, barefoot, over the damp earth, hands feeling for pipes and ducts. The next column was irregularly spaced at about twentyfive feet, and she thought she'd missed it, then collided with it, feeling a sudden blow against her chest that knocked the wind out of her and made her give an involuntary gasp.

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Gallagher's light swung out at her, and she stood frozen behind the column. The beam swung away, and she proceeded in a parallel course. She dashed toward the next column, counting her paces as she ran. At eight strides she stopped and felt in front of her, touching the stone column, and pressed against it.

She saw she was far ahead of Gallagher now, but his beam reached out and probed the place opposite her. The sanctuary floor above her ended a few feet beyond where she stood, and the steps that led to the communion rail sloped down to the crawl space below the main floor. She also saw, by the beam of light, the corner of the crypt where the wall turned away from her. She was no more than fifteen feet from it. She stooped down and passed her hands over the earth, finding a small piece of building rubble. She threw it back toward the last column she'd come from.

Gallagher's light swung away from her intended path toward the sound. She dashed forward, trying to judge the distance. Her hand hit the brick outer wall of the crypt, and she moved left toward the corner.

Gallagher's light swung back. She ducked below the beam, then slid around the corner, bracing her back against the cold crypt. She sidestepped with her back against the wall, watching the beam of Gallagher's light as it passed off to her left. She felt for the nylon around her neck and swung it from her shoulders. She conjured up a picture of Frank Gallagher: pleasant looking, sort of vacuous expression. Big, too. She wrapped the nylon tightly around her hands and looped it.

The beam of light was growing in thickness and intensity, bobbing closer to the corner of the crypt. She could actually hear Gallagher's footsteps around the comer, could hear the tight-lipped nose-breathing she knew so well. God, she thought, God, I never wanted to kill so badly.

Discretion. When to run, when to fight. When in doubt, said Brian Flynn, run. Watch the wolves, he had said to her. They run from danger without self-recrimination. Even hunger wouldn't cloud their judgment. There'd be

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other kills. She steadied her hands and took a long breath, then swung the nylon around her shoulders and moved along the wall, to her right, away from Gallagher's approaching footsteps. Next time.

Something brushed across her face, and she stifled a yell as she swatted it away. Carefully she reached out and touched a hanging object. A pull chain. She reached up and found the light bulb, unscrewed it, and tossed it gently underhand into the crawl space in front of her. She pulled the chain, switching on the electricity. She thought, I hope h.e sticks his fucking finger into it and burns.

Gallagher came to the corner and knelt. He swung his light in a wide arc under the crawl space that began a few feet from the wall.

Maureen saw in the light in front of her the bottom of the steps that led down from the raised sanctuary above her. Farther back, in the crawl space, she saw the glowing red eyes of rats, She moved down the length of the crypt wall. It seemed to go on for a long way. Gallagher's light swung up from the crawl space and began probing the length of the wall.

She moved more quickly, stumbling over building rubble. After what she judged was about twenty-five feet her right hand felt the corner where the wall turned back toward the sacristy. The beam of light fell on her shoulder, and she froze. The light played off her jacket, then swung away. She slid around the corner just as the light came back to reexplore the suspicious thing it had picked out.

Maureen turned and kept her right shoulder to the wall as she moved toward the sacristy foundation. She found another light bulb and unscrewed it, then pulled the chain. Rats squealed around her, and something ran across her bare feet.

The crypt wall turned in to meet the outer wall of the sacristy staircase, and she judged that she was on the exact opposite side of the staircase from where she'd come down through the brass plate.

So far she had eluded them, gotten the better of them in a game that was the ultimate hide-and-seek. Every Belfast

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alley and factory park flashed through her mind. Every heart-thumping, dry-throated crawl through the rubble came back to her, and she felt alive, confident, almost exhilarated at the dangerous game.

The ground rose, and she had to stoop lower until finally she had to crawl on all fours. She felt to her front as she moved. A rat scurried across her hand, another across her legs. Sweat ran from her face and washed the dirt camouflage into her eyes and mouth. Her breathing was so loud she thought Gallagher must hear it clearly.

Behind her the beam of Gallagher's light probed in all directions. He could have no idea that he had actually been following her . . . unless he had heard her or had seen her footprints, or had found one of the empty light-sockets and guessed. . . . Stick your goddamned finger in one of them and fry. She hoped he was as frightened as she was.