Cathedral (41 page)

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Burke leaned against the wall in the Monsignor's office and watched the screen. Schroeder sat at his desk, and Spiegel had returned to her rocker.

Bellini paced in front of the screen, blocking everyone's view, but no one obj ected.

Burke moved to the twin doors, opened them, and looked into the outer office. The State Department security man, Arnold Sheridan, stood by the window in deep thought. Occasionally he would eye the British and Irish representatives. Burke had the impression that Sheridan was going to give them the unpleasant news from Washington that Hickey was scoring heavily and it was time to talk. An awkward, almost embarrassed silence lay over the office as Hickey's monologue rolled on. Burke was reminded of a living room he had sat in once where the adolescents and adults had somehow gotten themselves involved in watching an explicit documentary on teen-age sex.

Burke turned back to the inner office and stared at the screen.

Hickey's voice was choked with emotion. "Many of you may question the propriety of our occupation of a house of God, and it was, I assure you, the hardest decision any of us has ever made in our lives. But we didn't so much seize the Cathedral as we took refuge in it-claimed the ancient privilege of sanctuary. And what better place to stand and ask for God's help?"

He paused as though wrestling with a decision, then said softly, "This afternoon, many Americans for the first time saw the obscene face of religious bigotry as practiced by the Orangemen of Ulster. Right here in the streets of the most ecumenical city in the world, the ugliness of religious intolerance and persecution was made unmistakably clear. The songs you heard those bigots sing were the songs the little children are taught in homes, schools, and churches. . . ." He straightened his posture; on his face was a distasteful look that melted into an old man's sadness.

He shook his head slowly.

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Schroeder turned away from the screen and said to Burke, "What's the latest with those Orangemen?"

Burke kept staring at the screen as he spoke. "They still say they're Protestant loyalists from Ulster, and they'll probably keep saying that until at least dawn. But according to our interrogators they all sound like Boston Irish. Probably IRA Provos recruited for the occasion." Given all the externals of this affair, Burke thought, psychological timing, media coverage, tactical preparations, political maneuverings, and last-ditch intelligence gathering-it was clear that Flynn would not extend the deadline and risk the tide turning against him.

Spiegel said, "It was a tactical blunder to let Hickey on television."

Schroeder said defensively, "What else could I do?"

Bellini interjected, "Why don't I grab him-then we'll use him to negotiate for the hostages."

Schroeder said, "Good idea. Why don't you go cold-cock him right now before they break for a commercial?"

Burke looked at his watch. 10:25 P.m. The night was slipping away so fast that it would be dawn before anyone realized it was too late.

Hickey looked around the press room. He noticed that Langley had disappeared, Hickey leaned forward and spoke to the cameraman. "Zoom in, Jerry." He watched the monitor. "Closer. That's it. Hold it." He stared at the camera and spoke in low tones that had the suggestion of finality and doom. "Ladies and gentlemen of Americaand all the unborn generations who will one day hear my words-we are outnumbered two thousand to one by police and soldiers, besieged and isolated by our enemies, betrayed by politicians and diplomats, compromised and undermined by secret agents, and censured by the world press. . . ." He placed his hand over his chest. "But we are not afraid, because we know that out there are friends who wish us success and Godspeed in our mission. And there are the men and women, old and young, in Long

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Kesh, Armagh, Crumlin Road-all the hellholes of England and Northern Ireland-who are on their knees tonight, praying for their freedom.

Tomorrow, God willing, the gates of Long Kesh will be thrown open, and wives will embrace husbands, children will weep with parents, brothers and sisters will meet once more. . . ."

The tears were running freely again, and he took out a big bandanna and blew his nose, then continued, "If we accomplish nothing else this night, we'll have made the world aware of their existence. And if we die, and others die with us, and if this great Cathedral where I sit right now is a smoldering ruin by morning, then it will only be because men and women of goodwill could not prevail against the repressive forces of darkness and inhumanity." He took a long breath and cleared his throat. "Till we meet again in a happier place . . . God bless you all. God bless America and Ireland and, yes, God bless our enemies, and may He show them the light. Erin go bragh."

David Roth cleared his throat and said, "Mr. Hickey, we'd like you to answer a few specific questions. . . ."

Hickey stood abruptly, blew his nose into the bandanna, and walked off camera.

Inspector Langley had returned; he opened the door, and Hickey moved quickly into the hall, followed by Langley and the three ID men. Langley came up beside Hickey and said, "I see you know when to quit."

Hickey put away his bandanna. "Oh, I couldn't go on any longer, lad."

"Yeah. Listen, you got your message across. You're way ahead. Now why don't you come out of there and give everyone a break?"

Hickey stopped in front of the elevator. His manner and voice suddenly became less teary. "Why the hell should we?"

Langley dismissed the three ID men. He took a notebook from his pocket and glanced at it. "Okay, Mr. Hickey, listen closely. I've just been authorized by representatives of the British and American governments to tell you that if

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you come out of the Cathedral now, the British will begin procedures to release-quietly and at intervals-most of the people on your list, subject to conditions of parole-"

"Most? What kind of intervals? What kind of parole?"

Langley looked up from the notebook. "I don't know anything more than I'm telling you. I just got this over the phone. I'm only a cop, okay? And we're the only ones allowed to speak to you people. Right? So this is a little difficult but just listen and-"

"Pimp.,,

Langley looked up quickly. "What?"

"Pimp. You're pimping for the diplomats who don't want to make a direct proposition to us whores."

Langley flushed. "Look . . . look you-"

"Get hold of yourself, man. Steady."

Langley took a breath and continued in a controlled voice. "The British can't release all of them at once-not when you've got a gun to their heads-to everyone's heads. But it will be done. And also the State and U.S. Attorney General have agreed to allow all of you in there to post a low bond and go free awaiting trial-you understand what that means?"

"No, I don't."

Langley looked annoyed. "It means you can skip out on the fucking bail and get the hell out of the country."

"Oh . . . sounds dishonest."

Langley ignored the remark and said, "No one has been killed yet-that's the main thing. That gives us a lot of leeway in dealing with you-"

"It makes that much difference, does it? We've committed a dozen felonies already, terrified half the city, made fools of you, caused a riot, cost you millions of dollars, ruined your parade, and the Commissioner of Police has dropped dead of a heart attack. But you're willing to let bygones be bygones-give us a wink and run us off like Officer Muldoon stumbling onto a crap game in an alleyas long as no one's been killed.

Interesting. That says a great deal about this society."

Langley drew another breath and said, "I won't make 350

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this offer again-for obvious reasons, no one will ever mention it over the telephone. So that's it." He slapped the notebook shut. "It's a fair compromise. Take it or leave it."

Hickey pressed the elevator button, and the doors opened. He said to Langley, "We wouldn't look very good if we compromised, would we? You'd look good, though. Schroeder would be booked solid on TV for a year. But we'd not have access to the airwaves so easily. All anyone would see or remember is us coming out the front doors of Saint Patrick's with our hands up. We'd do that gladly if the camps were emptied first. Then there's no way anyone could hide or steal our victory with diplomatic or journalistic babble."

"You'd be alive, for Christ's sake."

"Did you get my grave dug up yet?"

"Don't pull that spooky shit on me."

Hickey laughed.

Langley spoke mechanically, determined to deliver the last lines he had been instructed to say. "Use your power of persuasion with the people in there and your influence as a great Irish Republican leader. Don't tarnish with senseless death and destruction what you've already accomplished." He added his own thoughts. "You snowed about half of America tonight. Quit while you're ahead."

"I had a horse at Aqueduct this afternoon that quit while he was ahead. .

. . But I'll pass your kind offer on to Mr. Flynn and the Fenians, and we'll let you know. If we never mention it, then you can assume we are holding fast to all our demands."

Hickey stepped into the elevator. "See you later, God willing." He pushed the button, and as the doors slid closed he called out, "Hold my fan mail for me, Inspector."

351

Brian Flynn stood opposite the elevator's oak door, an M16 rifle leveled at it. George Sullivan stood to the side of the door, listening. The elevator stopped, and Sullivan heard a soft rapping, three long and two short. He signaled in return, then defused the mine and opened the door.

John Hickey stepped out. Flynn lowered the rifle a half second too slowly, but no one seemed to notice.

Sullivan extended his hand. "Damned fine, John. You had me laughing and weeping at the same time."

Hickey smiled as he took Sullivan's hand. "Ah, my boy, it was a dream come true." He turned to Flynn. "You would have done even better, lad."

Flynn turned and walked into the ambulatory. Hickey followed. Flynn said as he walked, "Did anyone approach you?"

Hickey walked ahead to the chancel organ. "One fellow, that Inspector Langley. Gave us a chance to surrender. Promised us a low bail-that sort of thing."

"Did the British relay any information-any indication they would compromise?"

"The British? Compromise? They're not even negotiati1g." He sat at the keyboard and turned on the organ.

"They didn't get word to you through anyone?"

"You'll not hear from them." He looked at Flynn. "You've got to play the bells now, Brian, while we still have everyone's attention. We'll begin with-let's see'Danny Boy' and then do a few Irish-American favorites for our constituency. I'll lead, and you follow my tempo. Go on now."

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Flynn hesitated, then moved toward the center aisle. Hickey began playing

"Danny Boy" in a slow, measured meter that would set the tempo for the bells.

The four hostages watched Flynn and Hickey, then turned back to the television. The reporters in the Cathedral press room were discussing Hickey's speech. Baxter said, "I don't see that we're any closer to being let out of here."

Father Murphy replied, "I wonder . . . don't you think after this, the British . . . I mean . . ."

Baxter said sharply, "No, I don't." He looked at his watch. "Thirty minutes and we go."

Maureen looked at him, then at Father Murphy. She said, "What Mr. Baxter means is that he, too, thinks they were probably considering a compromise after Hickey's speech, but Mr. Baxter's decided that he doesn't want to be the cause of any compromise."

Baxter's face reddened.

Maureen continued. '~It's all right, you know. I feel the same way. I'm not going to be used by them like a slab of meat to be bartered for what they want." She said in a quieter voice, "I've been used by them long enough."

Murphy looked at them. "Well . . . that's fine for you two, but I can't go unless my life is in actual danger. Neither can His Eminence." He inclined his head toward the Cardinal, who sat looking at them from his throne.

Murphy added, "I think we all ought to wait. . . ."

Maureen looked back at the Cardinal and saw by his face that he was struggling with the same question. She turned to Father Murphy. "Even if Hickey's speech has moved the people out there toward a compromise, that doesn't move Hickey toward a comproniise-does it?" She leaned forward.

"He's a treacherous man. If you still believe he's evil and means to destroy us, destroy himself, the Fenians, and this church, then we must try to get out of here." She fixed her eyes on Murphy's. "Do you believe that?"

Murphy looked at the television screen. A segment of 353

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John Hickey's speech was being replayed. The volume was turned low, and Hickey's voice wasn't audible over the organ. Murphy watched the mouth moving, the tears rolling down his face. He looked into the narrow eyes.

Without the spellbinding voice the eyes gave him away.

Father Murphy looked out over the sanctuary rail at Hickey playing the organ. Hickey's head was turned toward them as he watched himself on television. He was smiling at his image, then turned and smiled, a grotesque smile, at Father Murphy. The priest turned quickly back to Maureen and nodded.

Baxter looked up at the Cardinal's throne; the Cardinal bowed his head in return. Baxter glanced at his watch. "We go in twenty-seven minutes."

Flynn rode the elevator to the choir practice room, then stepped out into the loft. He walked up behind Leary, who was leaning over the parapet watching the hostages through his scope. Flynn said, "Anything?"

Leary continued to observe the four people on the sanctuary. At some point years ago he had realized that not only could he anticipate people's movements and read their expression, but he could also read their lips. He said, "A few words. Not too clear. Hard to see their lips." The hostages had reached a point in their relationships to each other where they communicated with fewer words, but their body language was becoming clearer to him.