Stretcher-bearers began bringing the bodies out of the Cathedral, a long, silent procession, through the doors of the south vestibule, down the steps. The litters carrying the police and Guardsmen passed through a hastily assembled honor guard; the stretchers of the Fenians passed behind the guard. Everyone on the steps fell silent, police and army chaplains walked beside the stretchers, and a uniformed police inspector in gold braid directed the bearers to designated ambulances. The litters holding the Fenians were placed on the sidewalk.
Burke moved among the stretchers and found the tag marked Bellini, He drew the cover back and looked into the face, wiped of greasepaint—a very white face with that hard jaw and black stubble. He dropped the cover back and quickly walked a few steps off, his hands on his hips, staring down at his feet.
The bells had ended the Te Deum and began to play a slow dirge. Governor Doyle stood with his retinue, his hat in his hand. Major Cole stood beside him holding a salute. The Governor leaned toward Cole and spoke as he lowered his head in respect. “How many did the Sixty-ninth lose, Major?”
Cole looked at him out of the corner of his eye, certain that he had detected an expectant tone in the Governor’s voice. “Five killed, sir, including Colonel Logan, of course. Three wounded.”
“Out of how many?”
Cole lowered his salute and stared at the Governor. “Out of a total of eighteen men who directly participated in the attack.”
“The rescue … yes …” The Governor nodded thoughtfully. “Terrible. Fifty percent casualties.”
“Well, not quite fif—”
“But you rescued two hostages.”
“Actually, they saved themselves—”
“The Sixty-ninth Regiment will be needing a new commander, Cole.”
“Yes … that’s true.”
The last of the police and Guardsmen were placed in ambulances, and the line of vehicles began moving away, escorted by motorcycle police. A black police van pulled up to the curb, and a group of stretcher-bearers on the sidewalk picked up the litters holding the dead Fenians and headed toward the van.
An Intelligence officer standing beside the van saluted Langley as he approached and handed him a small stack of folded papers. The man said, “Almost every one of them had an identifying personal note on him, Inspector. And here’s a preliminary report on each one.” The man added, “We also found pages of the ESD attack plan in there. How the hell—?”
Langley took the loose pages and shoved them in his pocket. “That doesn’t go in your report.”
“Yes, sir.”
Langley came up beside Burke sitting under the portal again, with Spiegel standing in front of him.
Burke said, “Where are Malone and Baxter?”
Spiegel answered, “Malone and Baxter are still in the Cathedral for their own protection—there may still be snipers out there. Baxter’s in the Archbishop’s sacristy until we release him to his people. Malone’s in the bride’s room. The FBI will take charge of her.”
Burke said, “Where’s Flynn’s body?”
No one answered, then Spiegel knelt on the step beside Burke. “He’s not dead yet. He’s in the bookstore.”
Burke said, “Is that the Bellevue annex?”
Spiegel hesitated, then spoke. “The doctor said be was within minutes of death… so we didn’t … have him moved.”
Burke said, “You’re murdering him—so don’t give me this shit about not being able to move him.”
Spiegel looked him in the eye. “Everybody on both sides of the Atlantic wants him dead, Burke. Just like everyone wanted Martin dead. Don’t start moralizing to me….”
Burke said, “Get him to Bellevue.”
Langley looked at him sharply. “You know we can’t do that now … and he knows too much, Pat…. Schroeder … other things…. And he’s dangerous. Let’s make things easy on ourselves for once. Okay?”
Burke said, “Let’s have a look.”
Spiegel hesitated, then stood. “Come on.”
They entered the Cathedral and passed through the south vestibule littered with the remains of the field morgue that smelled faintly of something disagreeable—a mixture of odors, which each finally identified as death.
The Mass was beginning, and the organ overhead was playing an entrance song. Burke looked at the shafts of sunlight coming through the broken windows. He had thought that the light would somehow diminish the mystery, but it hadn’t, and in fact the effect was more haunting even than the candlelight.
They turned right toward the bookstore. Two ESD men blocked the entrance but moved quickly aside. Spiegel entered the small store, followed by Burke and Langley. She leaned over the counter and looked down at the floor.
Brian Flynn lay in the narrow space, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling very slowly. She said, “He’s not letting go so easily.” She watched him for a few seconds, then added, “He’s a good-looking man … must have had a great deal of charisma, too. Very few are born into this sorry world like that…. In another time and place, perhaps, he would have been … something else…. Incredible waste …”
Burke came around the counter and knelt beside Flynn. He pushed back his eyelids, then listened to his chest and felt for his pulse. Burke looked up. “Fluid in the chest … heart is going … but it may take a while.”
No one spoke. Then Spiegel said, “I can’t do this … I’ll get the stretcher-bearers….”
Flynn’s lips began to move, and Burke put his ear close to Flynn’s face. Burke said, “Yes, all right.” He turned to Spiegel. “Forget the stretcher … he wants to speak to her.”
Maureen Malone sat quietly in the bride’s room while four policewomen tried to make conversation with her.
Roberta Spiegel opened the door and regarded her for a second, then said abruptly, “Come with me.”
She seemed not to have heard and sat motionless.
Spiegel said, “He wants to see you.”
Maureen looked up and met the eyes of the other woman. She rose and followed Spiegel. They hurried down the side aisle and crossed in front of the vestibules. As they entered the bookstore Langley looked at Maureen appraisingly, and Burke nodded to her. Both men walked out of the room. Spiegel said, “There.” She pointed. “Take your time.” She turned and left.
Maureen moved around the counter and knelt beside Brian Flynn. She took his hands in hers but said nothing. She looked through the glass counter and realized there was no one else there, and she understood. She pressed Flynn’s hands, an overwhelming feeling of pity and sorrow coming over her such as she had never felt for him before. “Oh, Brian … so alone … always alone …”
Flynn opened his eyes.
She leaned forward so that their faces were close and said, “I’m here.”
His eyes showed recognition.
“Do you want a priest?”
He shook his head.
She felt a small pressure on her hands and returned it. “You’re dying, Brian. You know that, don’t you? And they’ve left you here to die. Why won’t you see a priest?”
He tried to speak, but no sound came out. Yet she thought she knew what he wanted to say and to ask her. She told him of the deaths of the Fenians, including Hickey and Megan, and with no hesitancy she told him of the death of Father Murphy, of the survival of the Cardinal, Harold Baxter, Rory Devane, and of the Cathedral itself, and about the bomb that didn’t explode. His face registered emotion as she spoke. She added, “Martin is dead, also. Lieutenant Burke, they say, pushed him from the choir loft, and they also say that Leary was Martin’s man…. Can you hear me?”
Flynn nodded.
She went on. “I know you don’t mind dying … but I mind … mind terribly…. I love you, still…. Won’t you, for me, let a priest see you? Brian?”