Schroeder’s eyes focused on Kline, but he said nothing.
Mayor Kline regarded him with growing apprehension. “Now … now, Bert, I need a signed statement from you saying that it is your professional opinion, based on years of hostage negotiating, that you recommend a cessation of negotiations. Right?”
Schroeder looked around the room and made an unintelligible noise.
The Mayor seemed anxious but went on. “You should indicate that when you saw Flynn he made more demands … crazy demands. Okay? Write that up as soon as possible.” He turned to the others. “All of you—”
“I won’t do that.”
Everyone in the room looked at Schroeder. Kline said incredulously, “What— what did you say?”
Roberta Spiegel stood quickly, sending the rocker sliding into Governor Doyle.
Doyle moved the rocker aside and approached Schroeder. “Those are true statements! And you haven’t accomplished shit so far!”
Schroeder stood and steadied himself against the desk. “I’ve listened to all of you, and you’re all crazy.”
Spiegel said to Langley, “Get the backup negotiator.”
Schroeder shouted, “No! No one can speak with Flynn but me…. He won’t speak to anyone else…. You’ll see he won’t speak…. I’ll call him now….” He reached for the telehpone, but Langley pulled it away. Schroeder fell back in his chair.
Mayor Kline looked stunned. He tried to speak but couldn’t get a word out.
Spiegel moved around the desk and looked down at Schroeder. Her voice was soft and dispassionate. “Captain, sometime between now and the time Bellini is ready to move, you will prepare a statement justifying our decision. If you don’t, I’ll see to it that you are brought up on departmental charges, dismissed from the force, and lose your pension. You’ll end up as a bank guard in Dubuque—if you’re lucky enough ever to get a gun permit. Now, let’s discuss this intelligently.”
Schroeder stood and took a deep breath. His voice had the control and tone of the professional negotiator again. “Yes, let’s do that. I’m sorry, I became overwrought for a moment. Let’s discuss what Brian Flynn really said to me, not what you’d have liked him to say.” Schroeder looked at Bellini and Logan. “It seems those forty-five corned beef dinners were not a ruse—there were people to eat those dinners. I saw them. And flamethrowers … let me tell you about the flamethrowers….” He lit a cigar with shaking hands, then continued.
Schroeder went on in cool, measured tones, but everyone could hear an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. He concluded, “Flynn has assembled what amounts to the largest, best-equipped armed force of trained insurgents this country has seen since the Civil War. It’s too late to do anything except call Washington and tell them we’ve surrendered what is in our power to surrender….”
CHAPTER 52
Langley found Burke lying on a bed in a priest’s room. “They’ve decided to hit the Cathedral!”
Burke sat up quickly.
Langley’s voice was agitated. “Soon. Before the Pope’s appeal—before the church bells ring and Monsignor Downes comes to his senses—”
“Slow down.”
“Schroeder spoke to Flynn at the gate—said he saw forty or fifty armed Fenians— ”
“Fifty?”
“But he didn’t. I know he didn’t.”
“Hold on. Back up.”
Langley paced around the small room. “Washington perceived a sinking ship. Kline and Doyle perceived a bandwagon. See? Tomorrow they’ll both be heroes, or they’ll be in Mexico wearing dark glasses and phony noses—”
Burke found some loose aspirin in the night table and chewed three of them.
Langley sat down on a chair. “Listen, Spiegel wants to see you.” He briefed Burke quickly, then added, “You’re the negotiator until they decide about Schroeder.”
Burke looked up. “Negotiator?” He laughed. “Poor Bert. This was going to be his perfect game…. He really wanted this one.” He lit a cigarette stub. “So”—he exhaled a stream of acrid smoke—“we attack—”
“No! We rescue! You have to call it a rescue operation now. You have to choose your words very carefully, because it’s getting very grim and none of them is saying what they mean anymore—they never did anyway—and they lie better than we do. Go on, they’re waiting for you.”
Burke made no move to leave. “And Martin told them I would produce Stillway!”
“Yes, complete with blueprints. That was news to me—how about you?”
“And he never mentioned Terri O’Neal?”
“No—should he?” Langley looked at his watch. “Does it matter anymore?” Burke stared out the window into Madison Avenue. “Martin killed Jack Ferguson, you know.”
Langley came up behind him. “No. The Fenians killed Jack Ferguson.”
Burke turned. “Lots of phony deals going down tonight.”
Langley shook his head. “Damned right. And Kline is passing out promotions like they were campaign buttons. Go get one. But you have to pay.”
Langley began pacing again. “You have to sign a statement saying you think everything Kline and Doyle do is terrific. Okay? Make them give you a captain’s pay. I’m going to be a chief inspector. And get out of ID. Ask for the Art Forgery Squad—Paris, London, Rome. Promise me you’ll visit Schroeder in Dubuque—”
“Get hold of yourself.”
Langley waved his arms. “Remember, Martin is in, Schroeder is out. Logan is in with Kline and Doyle but out with Bellini—are you following me? Watch out for Spiegel. She’s in rare form—what a magnificent bitch. The Fenians are lunatics, we’re sane…. Monsignor Downes blesses us all…. What else?” He looked around with wild darting eyes. “Is there a shower in this place? I feel slimy. You still here? Beat it!” Langley fell back on the bed. “Go away.”
Burke had never seen Langley become unglued, and it was frightening. He started to say something, then thought better of it and left.
Burke walked beside Roberta Spiegel up the stairs. He listened to her brisk voice as they moved. Martin was climbing silently behind him.
Burke opened the stairshed door and walked onto the flat rooftop of the rectory. A wind blew from the north, and frozen pools of water reflected the lights of the tall buildings around them. Spiegel dismissed a team of ESD snipers, turned up her coat collar, and moved to the west side of the roof. She put her hands on the low wrought-iron fence that ran around the roof’s perimeter and stared at the towering Cathedral rising across the narrow courtyard.
The streets below were deserted, but in the distance, beyond the barricades, horns blared, people sang and shouted, bagpipes and other instruments played intermittently. Burke realized it was after 4:00 A.M., and the bars had closed. The party was on the streets now, probably still a hundred thousand strong, maybe more, tenaciously clinging to the night that had turned magic for them.
Spiegel was speaking, and Burke tried to concentrate on her words; but he had no topcoat, and he was cold, and her words were blowing away in the strong wind. She concluded, “We’ve gotten our act together, Lieutenant, but before it comes apart, we’re going to move. And we don’t want any more surprises. Understand?”
Burke said, “Art Forgery Squad.”
Spiegel looked at him, momentarily puzzled, then said, “Oh … all right. Either that or shower orderly at the academy gym.” She turned her back to the wind and lit a cigarette.
Burke said, “Where’s Schroeder?”
Spiegel replied, “He understands we don’t want him out of our sight and talking to the press, so rather than suffer the indignity of a guard, he volunteered to stick with Bellini.”