Joe Bellini said suddenly, “Fuck this psycho-crap. Where is Stillway?” He looked at Langley.
Langley shrugged.
Bellini said, “If Flynn has him in there, we’ve got a real problem.”
Langley blew a smoke ring. “We’re looking into it.”
Schroeder said, “Hickey is a liar. He knows where Stillway is.”
Spiegel shook her head. “I don’t think he does.”
Langley added, “Hickey was very indiscreet to mention Major Martin over the phone like that. Flynn wouldn’t have wanted Martin’s name involved publicly. He doesn’t want to make trouble between Washington and London at this stage.”
Schroeder nodded absently. He was certain the governments wouldn’t reach an accord anyway—or, if they did, it wouldn’t include releasing prisoners in Northern Ireland. He had nothing to offer the Fenians but their lives and a fair trial, and they didn’t seem much interested in either.
Captain Bellini paced in front of the fireplace. “I won’t expose my men to a fight unless I know every column, pew, balcony, and altar in that place.”
Langley looked down at the six large picture books on the coffee table. “Those should give you a fair idea of the layout. Some good interior shots. Passable floor plans. Have your men start studying them. Now.”
Bellini looked at him. “Is that the best intelligence you can come up with?” He picked up the books in one of his big hands and walked toward the door. “Damn it, if there’s a secret way into that place, I’ve got to know.” He began pacing in tight circles. “They’ve had it all their way up to now … but I’ll get them.” He looked at the silent people in the room. “Just keep them talking, Schroeder. When they call on me to move, I’ll be ready. I’ll get those potato-eating Mick sons of bitches—I’ll bring Flynn’s balls to you in a teacup.” He walked out and slammed the door behind him.
Roberta Spiegel looked at Schroeder. “Is he nuts?”
Schroeder shrugged. “He goes through this act every time a situation goes down. He’s getting himself psyched. He gets crazier as the thing drags on.”
Roberta Spiegel stood and reached into Langley’s shirt pocket and took a cigarette.
Langley watched her as she lit the cigarette. There was something masculine and at the same time sensuously feminine about all her movements. A woman who had an obvious power over the Mayor—although exactly what type of power no one knew for sure. And, thought Langley, she was much sharper than His Honor. When it came down to the final decision on which so many lives hung, she would be the one to make it. Roberta Spiegel, whose name was known to nobody outside of New York. Roberta Spiegel, who had no ambitions of elected office, no civil service career to worry about, no one to answer to.
Spiegel sat on the edge of Schroeder’s desk and leaned toward him, then glanced back at Langley. She said, “Let me be frank while we three are alone—” She bit her lip thoughtfully, then continued. “The British are not going to give in, as you know. Bellini doesn’t have much of a chance of saving those people or this Cathedral. Washington is playing games, and the Governor is—well, between us, an asshole. His Honor is—how shall I put it?—not up to the task. And the Church is going to become a problem if we give them enough time.” She leaned very close to Schroeder. “So … it’s up to you, Captain. More than any time in your distinguished career it’s all up to you—and, if you don’t mind my saying so, Captain, you don’t seem to be handling this with your usual aplomb.”
Schroeder’s face reddened. He cleared his throat. “If you … if the Mayor would like me to step aside—”
She came down from the desk. “There comes a time when every man knows he’s met his match. I think we’ve all met our match here at this Cathedral. We can’t even seem to win a point. Why?”
Schroeder again cleared his throat. “Well … it always seems that way in the beginning. They’re the aggressors, you understand, and they’ve had months to think everything out. In time the situation will begin to reverse—”
Spiegel slammed her hand on the desk. “They know that, damn it! That’s why they’ve given us no time. Blitzkrieg, Schroeder, blitzkrieg. Lightning war. You know the word. They’re not hanging around while we get our act together. Dawn or dead. That’s the truest thing anyone’s said all night.”
Schroeder tried to control his voice. “Miss Spiegel … you see, I’ve had many years … let me explain. We are at a psychological disadvantage because of the hostages…. But put yourself in the Cathedral. Think of the disadvantages they must overcome. They don’t want to die—no matter what they pretend to the contrary. That and that alone is the bottom line of their thinking. And the hostages are keeping them alive—therefore, they won’t kill the hostages. Therefore, at dawn nothing will happen. Nothing. It never does. Never.”
Spiegel let out a long breath. She turned toward Langley and reached out not for another cigarette but for his pistol. She pulled it from his shoulder holster and turned to Schroeder. “See this? Men used to settle their arguments with this.” She looked closely at the blue-black metal and continued. “We’re supposed to be beyond that now, but I’ll tell you something. There’s more of this in the world than there are hostage negotiators. I’ll tell you something else—I’d rather send Bellini in with his guns than wait around with my finger up my ass to see what happens at dawn.” She dropped the pistol to her side and leaned over the desk. “If you can’t get a firm extension of the dawn deadline, then we go in while we still have the cover of darkness—before that self-destruct response levels this block.”
Schroeder sat motionless. “There is no self-destruct response.”
Spiegel said, “God, I wish I had your nerves—it is nerves, isn’t it?” She tossed the revolver back to Langley.
Langley holstered the gun. He looked at Spiegel. She got away with a great deal—the cigarettes, then the gun. She relieved him of his possessions with a very cavalier attitude. But maybe, he thought, it was just as well she didn’t observe the cautious etiquette that men did in these situations.
Roberta Spiegel moved away and looked at the two police officers. “If you want to know what’s really happening around you, don’t listen to those politicians out there. Listen to Brian Flynn and John Hickey.” She looked at a large wooden crucifix over Schroeder’s head and then out through the window at the Cathedral. “If Flynn or Hickey say dawn or dead, they mean dawn or dead. Understand who you’re dealing with.”
Schroeder nodded, almost imperceptibly. For a split second he had seen the face of the enemy, but it disappeared again just as quickly.
There was a long silence in the room, then Spiegel continued softly, “They can sense our fear … smell it. They also sense that we’re not going to give them what they want.” She looked at Schroeder. “I wish the people out there could give you the kind of direction you should have. But they’ve confused your job with theirs. They expect miracles from you, and you’re starting to believe you can deliver them. You can’t. Only Joe Bellini can deliver them a miracle—a military miracle—none killed, no wounded, no damage. Bellini is looking better to the people out there. They’re losing faith in the long hard road that you represent. They’re fantasizing about a glorious successful military solution. So while you’re stalling the Fenians, don’t forget to stall the people in the other rooms, too.”
CHAPTER 36