Baxter drew a deep breath. “I suppose I lack a sufficiently vivid imagination to be frightened enough to try anything…. But you’re supplying me with the necessary picture.” He took his hand away from hers and sat watching her out of the corner of his eyes, but she seemed content to sit there. “Steady.”
“Oh, take your bloody British steady and shove it.”
Baxter remembered her bravery on the steps and realized that part of that, consciously or unconsciously, was for him, or more accurately, what he represented. He realized also that her survival was to some extent in his hands. As for himself, he felt indignant over his present position but felt no loss of dignity. The distinction was not a small one and would determine how each of them would react to their captivity, and if they were to die, how they would die. He said, “Whenever you’re ready … I’m with you.”
Pedar Fitzgerald looked up the right-hand stairs as his sister came down toward him. He stood and cradled the Thompson submachine gun under his arm. “How’s it going, Megan?”
“Everything’s set but the bombs.” She looked down the stairs through the gate into the empty sacristy. “Any movement?”
“No. Things are quiet.” He forced a smile. “Maybe they don’t know we’re here.”
She smiled back. “Oh, they know. They know, Pedar.” She drew her pistol and descended the stairs, then examined the lock and chain on the gates. She listened, trying to hear a sound from the four side corridors that led into the sacristy. Something moved, someone coughed quietly. She turned and said to her brother in a loud voice, “When you shoot, boys, shoot between the bars. Don’t damage the lock and chain. Those Thompsons can get away from you.”
Pedar smiled. “We’ve handled them enough times.”
She winked at him and climbed back up the stairs, sticking the pistol in the waistband of her jeans. She moved close to him and touched his cheek lightly. “We’re putting all we’ve got on this, Pedar. Tommy is in for life. We could be dead or in an American prison for life. Mum is near dead for worry. None of us will see each other again if this goes badly.”
Pedar Fitzgerald felt tears forming in his eyes but fought them back. He found his voice and said, “We’ve all put everything on Brian, Megan. Do you … do you trust him … ? Can he do it, then?”
Megan Fitzgerald looked into her brother’s eyes. “If he can’t and we see he can’t, then … you and I, Pedar … we’ll take over. The family comes first.” She turned and climbed up to the sanctuary, came around the altar, and looked at Maureen sitting in the pew. Their eyes met and neither looked away.
Flynn watched from the ambulatory, then called out, “Megan. Come take a walk with us.”
Megan Fitzgerald turned away from Maureen and joined Flynn and Hickey as they began walking up the center aisle. “There are people in the sacristy corridors,” she said.
Flynn nodded as he walked. “They won’t do anything until they’ve established who we are and what we want. We’ve a little time yet.”
When they reached the front door, Flynn ran his hands over the cold bronze ceremonial doors. “Magnificent. I’d like to take one with me.” He examined the mines, then turned back and motioned around the Cathedral. “We’ve set up a perfect and very deadly cross fire from five long, concealed perches protected by stone parapets. As long as we hold the high spots we can dominate the Cathedral. But if we lose the high ground and the fight takes place on the floor, it will be very difficult.”
Hickey relit his pipe. “As long as there’s no fighting in the bookstore.”
Megan looked at him. “I hope you keep your sense of humor when the bullets start ripping through the smoke around your face.”
He blew smoke toward her. “Lass, I’ve been shot at more times than you’ve had your period.”
Flynn interrupted. “If you were a police commander, John, what would you do?”
Hickey thought a moment, then said, “I’d do what the British Army did in downtown Dublin in 1916. I’d call in the artillery and level the fucking place. Then I’d offer surrender terms.”
“But this is not Dublin, 1916,” said Flynn. “I think the people out there have to act with great restraint.”
“You may call it restraint, I’d call it cunning. They’ll eventually have to attack when they see we won’t be talked out. But they’ll do it without the big guns. More tactics, less gunpowder—gas, helicopters, concussion grenades that don’t damage property. There’s a lot available to them today.” He looked around. “But we may be able to hold on.”
Megan said, “We will hold on.”
Flynn added, “We have gas masks, incidentally.”
“Do you, now? You’re a very thorough man, Brian. The old IRA was always going off half-cocked to try to grab the British lion’s balls. And the lion loved it— loved feasting on IRA.” He looked up at the triforia, then down at the deserted main floor. “Too bad, though, you couldn’t find more men—”
Flynn interrupted. “They’re a good lot. Each of them is worth twenty of the old-type ruffians.”
“Are they, then? Even the women?”
Megan stiffened and started to speak.
Flynn interjected, “Nothing wrong with women, you old bastard. I’ve learned that over the years. They’re steady. Loyal.”
Hickey glanced at the sanctuary where Maureen sat, then made an exaggerated pretense of looking away quickly. “I suppose many of them are.” He sat at the edge of a pew and yawned. “Tiring business. Megan, lass, I hope you didn’t think I included you when I spoke about women.”
“Oh, go to hell.” She turned and walked away.
Flynn let out a long breath of annoyance. “Why are you provoking her?”
Hickey watched her walk toward the altar. “Cold, cold. Must be like fucking a wooden icebox.”
“Look, John—”
The telephone on the chancel organ beside the altar rang loudly, and everyone turned toward it.
CHAPTER 20
Brian Flynn put his hand on the ringing phone and looked at Hickey. “I was beginning to believe no one cared—one hears such stories about New York indifference.”
Hickey laughed. “I can’t think of a worse nightmare for an Irish revolutionary than to be ignored. Answer it, and if it’s someone wanting to sell aluminum siding for the rectory, I suggest we just go home.”
Flynn drew a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “MacCumail here.”
There was a short silence, then a man’s voice said, “Who?”
“This is Finn MacCumail, Chief of the Fenians. Who is this?”
The voice hesitated for a moment, then the man said, “This is Police Sergeant Tezik. Tactical Patrol Unit. I’m calling from the rectory. What the hell is going on in there?”
“Not much of anything at the moment.”
“Why are the doors locked?”
“Because there are mines attached to each one. It’s for your own protection, actually.”
“Why … ?”
“Listen, Sergeant Tezik, and listen very closely. We have four hostages in here— Father Timothy Murphy, Maureen Malone, Sir Harold Baxter, and the Cardinal himself. If the police try to force their way in, the mines will explode, and if they keep coming, the hostages will be shot and the Cathedral will be set afire. Do you understand?”
“Jesus Christ …”
“Get this message to your superiors quickly, and get a ranking man on the phone. Be quick about it, Sergeant Tezik.”
“Yeah … all right…. Listen, everything’s pretty screwed up here, so just take it easy. As soon as we get things sorted out, we’ll have a police official on the phone with you. Okay?”
“Make it quick. And no nonsense or there will be a great number of dead people you’ll have to answer for. No helicopters in the area. No armored vehicles on the streets. I have men in the towers with rockets and rifles. I’ve got a gun pointed at the Cardinal’s head right now.”