Burke felt a vague uneasiness pass through him. He said, “And I’m the negotiator?”
Spiegel said, “In fact, yes. But for the sake of appearances, Schroeder is still on the job. He’s not without his political connections. He’ll continue his duties, with some modifications, of course, and later … he’ll go on camera.”
Martin spoke for the first time. “Captain Schroeder should actually go back to the sacristy and speak with Flynn again. We have to keep up appearances at this critical moment. Neither Flynn nor the press should sense any problem.”
Burke cupped his hands and lit a cigarette, looking at Martin as he did. Martin’s strategy was becoming clear. He thought about Schroeder hanging around Bellini, about Schroeder meeting Flynn again at the gate. He thought, also, that Flynn did not have fifty well-armed people, and therefore Schroeder was mistaken, stupid, or gullible, which seemed to be the consensus. But he knew Schroeder was none of these things When you have excluded the impossible, said Sherlock Holmes, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Schroeder was lying, and Burke was beginning to understand why. He pictured the face of a young woman, heard her voice again, and placed her at a promotion party five or six years before. Almost hesitantly he made the final connection he should have made hours ago. Burke said to Spiegel, “And Bellini’s working on a new plan of attack?”
Spiegel looked at him in the diffused light and said, “Right now Bellini and Logan are formulating plan B—escalating the response, as they say—based on the outside possibility that there is a powerful force in that Cathedral. They won’t go in any other way. But we’re counting on you to give us the intelligence we need to formulate a plan C, an infiltration of the Cathedral and surprise attack, using the hidden passages that many of us seem to believe exist. That may enable us to actually save some lives and save Saint Patrick’s.”
She looked out at the looming structure. Even from the outside it looked labyrinthine with its towers, spires, buttresses, and intricate stonework. She turned to Burke. “So, do you feel, Lieutenant Burke, that you’ve put your neck on a chopping block?”
“There’s no reason why my neck shouldn’t be where yours is.”
“True,” she said. “True. And yours is actually a little more exposed, since I understand you’re going in with Bellini.”
“That’s right. How about you?”
She smiled unpleasantly, then said, “You don’t have to go…. But it wouldn’t be a bad idea … if you don’t produce Stillway.”
Burke glanced at Martin, who nodded slightly, and said, “I’ll have him within … half an hour.”
No one spoke, then Martin said, “If I may make another suggestion … let’s not make too much of this architect business in front of Captain Schroeder. He’s overwrought and may inadvertently let something slip the next time he speaks with Flynn.”
There was a long silence on the rooftop, broken by the sounds of shoes shuffling against the frozen gravel and the wind rushing through the streets. Burke looked at Spiegel and guessed that she sensed Bert Schroeder had a real problem, was a real problem.
Spiegel put her hands in the pockets of her long coat and walked a few paces from Burke and Martin. For a few brief seconds she wondered why she was so committed to this, and it came to her that in those seven miserable years of teaching history what she had really wanted to do was make history; and she would.
Captain Joe Bellini rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock in the press conference room. 4:26A.M.The fucking sun is due at 6:03. In his half-sleep he had pictured a wall of brilliant sunlight moving toward him, coming to rescue him as it had done so many times in Korea. God, he thought, how I hate the sound of rifles in the night.
He looked around the room. Men slept on cots or on the floor, using flak jackets for pillows. Others were awake, smoking, talking in low tones. Occasionally someone laughed at something that, Bellini guessed, was not funny. Fear had a special stink of its own, and he smelled it strongly now, a mixture of sweat, tobacco, gun oil, and the breath from labored lungs and sticky mouths.
The blackboard was covered with colored chalk marks superimposed on a white outline of St. Patrick’s. On the long conference table lay copies of the revised attack plan. Bert Schroeder sat at the far end of the table, flipping casually through a copy.
The phone rang, and Bellini grabbed it. “ESD operations, Bellini.”
The Mayor’s distinctive nasal voice came over the line. “How are you holding up, Joe? Anxious to get rolling?”
“Can’t wait.”
“Good…. Listen, I’ve just seen your new attack plan…. It’s a little excessive, isn’t it?”
“It was mostly Colonel Logan’s, sir,” Bellini said.
“Oh … well, see that you tone it down.”
Bellini picked up a full soft-drink can in his big hand and squeezed it, watching the top pop off and the brown liquid run over his fingers. “Approved or disapproved?”
The Mayor let a long time go by, and Bellini knew he was conferring, looking at his watch. Kline came back on the line. “The Governor and I approve … in principle.”
“I thank you in principle.”
Kline switched to another subject. “Is he still there?”
Bellini glanced at Schroeder. “Like dog turd on a jogger’s sneakers.”
Kline forced a weak laugh. “Okay, I’m in the state offices in Rockefeller Center with the Governor and our staffs—”
“Good view.”
“Now, don’t be sarcastic. Listen, I’ve just spoken to the President of the United States.”
Bellini detected a note of self-importance in Kline’s tone.
“The President says he’s making definite progress with the British Prime Minister. He’s also making noises like he might federalize the guard and send in marshals… .” Kline lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone. “Between you and me, Joe, I think he’s putting out a smokescreen … covering himself for later.”
Bellini lit a cigarette. “Who isn’t?”
Kline’s voice was urgent. “He’s under pressure. The church bells in Washington are already ringing, and there are thousands of people marching with candles in front of the White House. The British Embassy is being picketed—”
Bellini watched Schroeder stand and then walk toward the door. He said into the phone, “Hold on.” Bellini called to Schroeder, “Where you headed, Chief?”
Schroeder looked back at him. “Sacristy.” He walked out the door.
Bellini watched him go, then said into the phone, “Schroeder just went to make a final pitch to Flynn. Okay?”
Kline let out a long breath. “All right … can’t hurt. By the time he gets back you’ll be ready to move—unless he has something very solid, which he won’t.”
Bellini remembered that Schroeder had never had a failure. “You never know.”
There was a long silence on the line, then the Mayor said, “Do you believe in miracles?”
“Never actually saw one.” He thought, Except the time you got reelected. “Nope, never saw one.”
“Me neither.”
Bellini heard a click on the line, followed by a dial tone. He looked across the quiet room. “Get up! Off your asses! Battle stations. Move out!”
Bert Schroeder stood opposite Brian Flynn at the sacristy gate. Schroeder’s voice was low and halting as he spoke, and he kept looking back nervously into the sacristy. “The plan is a fairly simple and classical attack…. Colonel Logan drew it up…. Logan himself will hit the front doors with an armored carrier, and the ESD will hit all the other doors simultaneously with rams…. They’ll use scaling ladders and break through the windows…. It’s all done under cover of gas and darkness … everyone has masks and night scopes. The electricity will be cut off at the moment the doors are hit….”