The tears were running freely again, and he took out a big bandanna and blew his nose, then continued, “If we accomplish nothing else this night, we’ll have made the world aware of their existence. And if we die, and others die with us, and if this great Cathedral where I sit right now is a smoldering ruin by morning, then it will only be because men and women of goodwill could not prevail against the repressive forces of darkness and inhumanity.” He took a long breath and cleared his throat. “Till we meet again in a happier place … God bless you all. God bless America and Ireland and, yes, God bless our enemies, and may He show them the light. Erin go bragh.”
David Roth cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Hickey, we’d like you to answer a few specific questions….”
Hickey stood abruptly, blew his nose into the bandanna, and walked off camera.
Inspector Langley had returned; he opened the door, and Hickey moved quickly into the hall, followed by Langley and the three ID men. Langley came up beside Hickey and said, “I see you know when to quit.”
Hickey put away his bandanna. “Oh, I couldn’t go on any longer, lad.”
“Yeah. Listen, you got your message across. You’re way ahead. Now why don’t you come out of there and give everyone a break?”
Hickey stopped in front of the elevator. His manner and voice suddenly became less teary. “Why the hell should we?”
Langley dismissed the three ID men. He took a notebook from his pocket and glanced at it. “Okay, Mr. Hickey, listen closely. I’ve just been authorized by representatives of the British and American governments to tell you that if you come out of the Cathedral now, the British will begin procedures to release—quietly and at intervals—most of the people on your list, subject to conditions of parole— ”
“Most? What kind of intervals? What kind of parole?”
Langley looked up from the notebook. “I don’t know anything more than I’m telling you. I just got this over the phone. I’m only a cop, okay? And we’re the only ones allowed to speak to you people. Right? So this is a little difficult but just listen and—”
“Pimp.”
Langley looked up quickly. “What?”
“Pimp. You’re pimping for the diplomats who don’t want to make a direct proposition to us whores.”
Langley flushed. “Look … look you—”
“Get hold of yourself, man. Steady.”
Langley took a breath and continued in a controlled voice. “The British can’t release all of them at once—not when you’ve got a gun to their heads—to everyone’s heads. But it will be done. And also the State and U.S. Attorney General have agreed to allow all of you in there to post a low bond and go free awaiting trial—you understand what that means?”
“No, I don’t.”
Langley looked annoyed. “It means you can skip out on the fucking bail and get the hell out of the country.”
“Oh … sounds dishonest.”
Langley ignored the remark and said, “No one has been killed yet—that’s the main thing. That gives us a lot of leeway in dealing with you—”
“It makes that much difference, does it? We’ve committed a dozen felonies already, terrified half the city, made fools of you, caused a riot, cost you millions of dollars, ruined your parade, and the Commissioner of Police has dropped dead of a heart attack. But you’re willing to let bygones be bygones—give us a wink and run us off like Officer Muldoon stumbling onto a crap game in an alley—as long as no one’s been killed. Interesting. That says a great deal about this society.”
Langley drew another breath and said, “I won’t make this offer again—for obvious reasons, no one will ever mention it over the telephone. So that’s it.” He slapped the notebook shut. “It’s a fair compromise. Take it or leave it.”
Hickey pressed the elevator button, and the doors opened. He said to Langley, “We wouldn’t look very good if we compromised, would we? You’d look good, though. Schroeder would be booked solid on TV for a year. But we’d not have access to the airwaves so easily. All anyone would see or remember is us coming out the front doors of Saint Patrick’s with our hands up. We’d do that gladly if the camps were emptied first. Then there’s no way anyone could hide or steal our victory with diplomatic or journalistic babble.”
“You’d be alive, for Christ’s sake.”
“Did you get my grave dug up yet?”
“Don’t pull that spooky shit on me.”
Hickey laughed.
Langley spoke mechanically, determined to deliver the last lines he had been instructed to say. “Use your power of persuasion with the people in there and your influence as a great Irish Republican leader. Don’t tarnish with senseless death and destruction what you’ve already accomplished.” He added his own thoughts. “You snowed about half of America tonight. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“I had a horse at Aqueduct this afternoon that quit while he was ahead…. But I’ll pass your kind offer on to Mr. Flynn and the Fenians, and we’ll let you know. If we never mention it, then you can assume we are holding fast to all our demands.”
Hickey stepped into the elevator. “See you later, God willing.” He pushed the button, and as the doors slid closed he called out, “Hold my fan mail for me, Inspector.”
CHAPTER 45
Brian Flynn stood opposite the elevator’s oak door, an M-16 rifle leveled at it. George Sullivan stood to the side of the door, listening. The elevator stopped, and Sullivan heard a soft rapping, three long and two short. He signaled in return, then defused the mine and opened the door.
John Hickey stepped out. Flynn lowered the rifle a half second too slowly, but no one seemed to notice.
Sullivan extended his hand. “Damned fine, John. You had me laughing and weeping at the same time.”
Hickey smiled as he took Sullivan’s hand. “Ah, my boy, it was a dream come true.” He turned to Flynn. “You would have done even better, lad.”
Flynn turned and walked into the ambulatory. Hickey followed. Flynn said as he walked, “Did anyone approach you?”
Hickey walked ahead to the chancel organ. “One fellow, that Inspector Langley. Gave us a chance to surrender. Promised us a low bail—that sort of thing.”
“Did the British relay any information—any indication they would compromise?”
“The British? Compromise? They’re not even negotiating.” He sat at the keyboard and turned on the organ.
“They didn’t get word to you through anyone?”
“You’ll not hear from them.” He looked at Flynn. “You’ve got to play the bells now, Brian, while we still have everyone’s attention. We’ll begin with—let’s see— ‘Danny Boy’ and then do a few Irish-American favorites for our constituency. I’ll lead, and you follow my tempo. Go on now.”
Flynn hesitated, then moved toward the center aisle. Hickey began playing “Danny Boy” in a slow, measured meter that would set the tempo for the bells.