“Can’t you move it up?”
Bellini’s voice had an insolent tone. “No!”
“I told you there are people trying to stop this rescue—”
“I don’t get involved in politics.”
Roberta Spiegel’s voice came on the line. “Okay, forget the fucking politicians. The bombs, Bellini—”
“Call me Joe.”
“You’re leaving the Bomb Squad damned little time to find and defuse the goddamned bombs, Captain.”
“Inspector!”
“Listen, you—” “You listen, Spiegel—why don’t you crawl around with the fucking dogs and help them sniff out the bombs? Brandy, Sally, and Robbie.” He turned to Burke and Langley and smiled, a look of triumph on his face.
Langley winced.
Bellini continued before she could recover, knowing there was no reason to stop now. “They’re short on dogs since your last fucking budget cuts, and they could use the help. You have your big nose into everything else.”
There was a long silence on the line, then Spiegel laughed. “All right, you bastard, you can say what you want now, but later—”
“Yeah, later. I’d give my left arm for a guaranteed later. We move at 5:35. That’s not negotiable—”
“Is Inspector Langley there?”
“Hold on.” He covered the mouthpiece. “You want to talk to the Dragon Lady?” Langley’s face flushed, and he hesitated before taking the phone from Bellini, who moved back to the conference table. “Langley here.”
Spiegel said, “Do you know where Schroeder is? His backup negotiator can’t locate him.”
Langley said, “He’s collapsed.”
“Collapsed?”
“Yeah, you know, like fell down, passed out.”
“Oh … well, get him inflated again and get him here to the state offices in Rockefeller Center. He has to do his hero act later.”
“I thought he was supposed to be the fall guy.”
She said, “No, you’re a little behind on this…. We’ve rethought that. He’s the hero now no matter what happens. He’s got lots of good press contacts.”
“Who’s the fall guy?”
She went on, “You see, there are no such things as victory or defeat anymore— there are only public relations problems—”
“Who’s the fall guy?”
Spiegel said, “That’s you. You won’t be alone, though … and you’ll come out of it all right. I’ll see to that.”
Langley didn’t answer.
She said, “Listen, Philip, I think you should be here during the assault.”
Langley’s eyebrows went up at the use of his first name. He noted that her voice was pleasant, almost demure. “Rescue, You have to call it a rescue, Roberta.” He winked at Burke.
Spiegel’s voice was a little sharper. “Whatever. We—I want you up here.”
“I think I’ll stay down here.”
“You get your ass up here in five minutes.”
He glanced at Burke. “All right.” He hung up and stared down at the phone. “This has been a screwy night.”
“Full moon,” said Burke. There was a lengthy silence, then Langley said, “Are you going in with Bellini?”
Burke lit a cigarette. “I think I should … to tidy up those loose ends … get hold of any notes the Fenians might have kept. There are secrets in that place … mysteries, as the Major said. And before Bellini starts blowing heads off … or the place goes up in smoke …”
Langley said, “Do what you have to do….” He forced a smile. “Do you want to change places with me and go hold Spiegel’s hand?”
“No thanks.”
Langley glanced nervously at his watch. “Okay … listen, tell Bellini to keep Schroeder locked in that room. At dawn we’ll come for Schroeder and parade him past the cameras like an Olympic hero. Schroeder’s in, Langley’s out.”
Burke nodded, then said, “That mounted cop … Betty Foster … God, it seems so long ago…. Anyway, make sure she gets something out of this … and if I don’t get a chance to thank her later … you can …”
“I’ll take care of it.” He shook his head. “Screwy night.” He moved toward the door, then turned back. “Here’s another one for you to work out when you get in there. We lifted the fingerprints off the glass that Hickey used.” He nodded toward the chair Hickey had sat in. “The prints were smudged, but Albany and the FBI say it’s ninety percent certain it was Hickey, and we’ve got a few visual identifications from people who saw him on TV—”
Burke nodded. “That clears that up—”
“Not quite. The Jersey City medical examiner did a dental check on the remains they exhumed and …” He looked at Burke. “Spooky … really spooky …”
Burke said quickly, “Come off it, Langley.”
Langley laughed. “Just kidding. The coffin was filled with dirt, and there was a note in there in Hickey’s handwriting. I’ll tell you what it said later.” He smiled and opened the door. “Betty Foster, right? See you later, Patrick.” He closed the door behind him.
Burke looked across the room. More than a dozen ESD leaders, completely clad in black, grouped in a semicircle around the table. Above them a wall clock ticked off the minutes. As he watched they all straightened up, almost in unison, like a football team out of a huddle, and began filing out the door. Bellini stayed behind, occupied with some detail. Burke stared at his black, hulking figure in the brightly lit room and was reminded of a dark rain cloud in a sunny sky.
Burke walked over to the conference table and pulled on a black turtleneck sweater, then slipped back into his flak jacket. He adjusted the green carnation he’d gotten from an ESD man who had passed out a basketful of them. Burke looked down at the blueprints and read the notations of squad assignments hastily scrawled across them. He said to Bellini, “Where’s the safest place I can be during the attack?”
Bellini thought a moment, then said, “Los Angeles.”
CHAPTER 57
Brian Flynn stood in the high pulpit, a full story above the main floor. He looked out at the Cathedral spread before him, then spoke into the microphone. “Lights.”
The lights began to go out in sections: the sanctuary, ambulatory, and Lady Chapel lights first, the switches pulled by Hickey; then the lights in the four triforia controlled by Sullivan, followed by the choir-loft lights, and finally the huge hanging chandeliers over the nave, extinguished from the electrical panels in the loft. The vestibules, side altars, and bookstore darkened last as Hickey moved through the Cathedral pulling the remaining switches.
A few small lights still burned, Flynn noticed. Lights whose switches were probably located outside the Cathedral. Hickey and the others smashed the ones that were accessible, the sound of breaking glass filling the quiet spaces.
Flynn nodded. The beginning of the attack would be signaled when the last lights suddenly went out, a result of the police pulling the main switch in the rectory basement. The police would expect a dark Cathedral where their infrared scopes would give them an overwhelming advantage. But Flynn had no intention of letting them have such an advantage, so every votive candle, hundreds and hundreds of them, had been lit, and they shimmered in the surrounding blackness, an offering of sorts, he reflected, an ancient comfort against the terrors of the dark and a source of light the police could not extinguish. Also, at intervals throughout the Cathedral, large phosphorus flares were placed to provide additional illumination and to cause the police infrared scopes to white out. Captain Joe Bellini, Flynn thought, had a surprise in store for him.
Flynn placed his hands on the cool Carrara marble of the pulpit balustrade and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim light as he examined the vast interior. Flickering shadows played off the walls and columns, but the ceiling was obscure. It was easy to imagine there was no roof, that the towering columns had been relieved of their burden and that overhead was only the night sky—an illusion that would be reality on the following evening.