Burke stood a few yards off, listening as the assembly continued the rite of reconciliation for the profaned church, oblivious to the people swarming around them. He watched the Cardinal sprinkle holy water against the walls as the others prayed, and he wondered how so obscure a ritual could be carried out so soon and with such Roman precision. Then he realized that the Cardinal and the others must have been thinking about it all night, just as the city officials had rehearsed their parts in their minds during the long black hours. He, Burke, had never let his thoughts get much beyond 6:03, which was one reason why he would never be either the Mayor or the Archbishop of New York.
The procession moved through the portal two by two and past the smashed ceremonial doors into the Cathedral. Burke took off his flak jacket and dropped it at his feet, then walked slowly to the corner of the steps near Fiftieth Street and sat down in a patch of pale sunlight. He folded his arms over his knees and rested his head, falling into a half-sleep.
The Cardinal moved at the head of the line of priests who made up the Cathedral staff. A cross-bearer held a tall gold cross above the sea of moving heads, and the Litany of the Saints was chanted ss the line went forward through the gate of the communion rail.
The group assembled in the center of the sanctuary where Monsignor Downes awaited them. The altar was entirely bare of religious objects in preparation for the conclusion of the cleansing rite, and police photographers and crime lab personnel were hurrying through their work. The assembly fell silent, and people began looking around at the blood-splattered sanctuary and altar. Then heads began to turn out toward the ravaged Cathedral, and several people wept openly.
The Cardinal’s voice cut off the display of emotion. “There will be time enough for that later.” He spoke to two of the priests. “Go into the side vestibules where the casualties have been taken and assist the police and army chaplains.” He added, “Have Father Murphy’s body taken to the rectory.”
The two priests moved off. The Cardinal looked at the sacristans and motioned around the sanctuary. “As soon as the police have finished here, make it presentable for the Mass that will be offered at the conclusion of the purification.” He added, “Leave the carnations.”
He turned to Monsignor Downes and spoke to him for the first time. “Thank you for your prayers, and for your efforts during this ordeal.”
Monsignor Downes lowered his head and said softly, “I … they asked me to sanction your rescue … this attack …”
“I know all of that.” He smiled. “More than once during the night I thanked God it wasn’t I who had to deal with those … questions.” The Cardinal turned and faced the long, wide expanse of empty pews. “God arises, His enemies are scattered, and those who hate Him flee before Him.”
Captain Bert Schroeder walked unsteadily up the steps of St. Patrick’s, a bandage covering the left side of his chalk-white jaw. A police medic and several Tactical Police officers escorted him.
Mayor Kline raced up to Schroeder, hand extended. “Bert! Over here! Bring him here, men.”
A number of reporters had been let through the cordon, and they converged on Schroeder. Cameras clicked and newsreel microphones were thrust in his face. Mayor Kline pumped Schroeder’s hand and embraced him, taking the opportunity to say through clenched teeth, “Smile, damn it, and look like a hero.”
Schroeder looked distraught and disoriented. His eyes moved over the throng around him to the Cathedral, and he stared at it, then looked around at the people talking excitedly and realized that he was being interviewed.
A reporter called out, “Captain, is it true you recommended an assault on the Cathedral?”
Schroeder didn’t answer, and Kline spoke up. “Yes, a rescue operation. The recommendation was approved by an emergency committee consisting of myself, the Governor, Monsignor Downes, Inspector Langley of Intelligence, and the late Captain Bellini. Intelligence indicated the terrorists were going to massacre the hostages and then destroy the Cathedral. Many of them were mentally unbalanced, as our police files show.” He looked at each of the reporters. “There were no options.”
Another reporter asked, “Who exactly was Major Martin? How did he die?” Kline’s smile dropped. “That’s under investigation.”
There was a barrage of questions that Kline ignored. He put his arm around Schroeder and said, “Captain Schroeder played a vital role in keeping the terrorists psychologically unprepared while Captain Bellini formulated a rescue operation with the help of Gordon Stillway, resident architect of Saint Patrick’s.” He nodded toward Stillway, who stood by himself examining the front doors and making notes in a small book.
Kline added in a somber tone, “The tragedy here could have been much greater— ” A loud Te Deum began ringing out from the bell tower, and Kline motioned toward the Cathedral. “The Cathedral stands! The Cardinal, Sir Harold Baxter, and Maureen Malone are alive. For this we should thank God.” He bowed his head and after an appropriate interval looked up and spoke emphatically. “This rescue will be favorably compared to similar humanitarian operations against terrorists throughout the world.”
A reporter addressed Schroeder directly. “Captain, did you find this man, Flynn— and the other one, Hickey—very tough people to negotiate with?”
Schroeder looked up. “Tough … ?”
Mayor Kline hooked his arm through Schroeder’s and shook him. “Bert?”
Schroeder’s eyes darted around. “Oh … yes, yes I did—no, no, not … not any tougher than—Excuse me, I’m not feeling well…. I’m sorry … excuse me.” He pulled loose from the Mayor’s grip and hurried across the length of the steps, avoiding reporters. The newspeople watched him go, then turned back to Kline and began asking him about the large number of casualties on both sides, but Kline evaded the questions. Instead, he smiled and pointed over the heads of the people around him.
“There’s the Governor crossing the street.” He waved. “Governor Doyle! Up here!”
Dan Morgan stood near the window, his eyes focused on the television screen that showed the Cathedral steps, the milling reporters, police and city officials. Terri O’Neal sat on the bed, fully dressed, her legs tucked under her body. Neither person spoke nor moved.
The camera focused on Mayor Kline and Captain Schroeder, and a reporter was speaking from off camera commenting on Schroeder’s bandaged jaw.
Morgan finally spoke. “It appears he didn’t do what he was asked.”
Terri O’Neal said, “Good.”
Morgan let out a deep sigh and walked to the side of the bed. “My friends are all dead, and there’s nothing good about that.”
She kept looking at the television as she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Are you going to kill … ?”
Morgan drew his pistol from his belt. “No. You’re free.” He placed his hand on her shoulder as he pointed the silencer at the center of her head.
She put her face in her hands and began weeping.
He squeezed back on the trigger. “I’ll get your coat….”
She suddenly took her face out of her hands and turned. She realized she was looking into the barrel of the pistol “Oh … no …”
Morgan’s hand was shaking. He looked at her and their eyes met. The end of the silencer brushed her cheek, and he jerked the pistol away and shoved it in his belt. “There’s been enough death today,” he said. He turned and walked out of the bedroom. Terri O’Neal heard the front door open, then slam shut.