CHAPTER 54
Father Murphy stood on the crypt landing, a purple stole around his neck. Frank Gallagher knelt before him, making a hasty confession in a low, trembling voice. Flynn waited just inside the large crypt door, then called out to Gallagher, “That’s fine, Frank.”
Gallagher nodded to the priest, rose, and moved into the crypt. Flynn handed him a sheet of paper and said, “Here’s the part of the attack plan which deals with the sacristy gate.” He briefed Gallagher, then added, “You can take cover here in the crypt while you keep the gates under fire.” As Flynn spoke, Gallagher focused on the brownish blood that had flowed so abundantly from Pedar Fitzgerald’s mouth. Father Murphy was standing in the center of the bloodstain, apparently without realizing it, and Gallagher wanted to tell the priest to move—but Flynn was clasping his hand. “Good luck to you, Frank. Remember, Dublin, seventeenth of March next.”
Gallagher made an unintelligible noise, but he nodded with a desperate determination.
Flynn came out of the crypt and took Murphy’s arm. He led the priest up the stairs, across the sanctuary, and down the side steps into the ambulatory. Father Murphy disengaged himself from Flynn and turned toward the chancel organ. John Hickey sat talking on the field phone, Pedar Fitzgerald’s covered body at his feet. The priest knelt and pulled the coat back from Pedar’s head. He anointed his forehead, stood, and looked at Hickey, who had hung up the receiver.
Hickey said, “Sneaked that in, did you? Well, where now is Pedar Fitzgerald’s soul?”
Father Murphy kept staring at Hickey.
Hickey said, “Now, like a good priest, you’ll ask me to confess, and you assume I’ll refuse. But what if I do confess? Would my entire past life, including every sin, sacrilege, and blasphemy that you can imagine, be forgiven? Would I gain the kingdom of heaven?”
Murphy said, “You know you must repent.”
Hickey slapped the top of the organ. “I knew there was a catch!”
Flynn took Murphy’s arm and pulled him away. They passed beside the confessional, and Flynn paused to look at the small white buzzer. “That was clever, Padre. I’ll give you that.” Flynn looked back across the ambulatory at Hickey. “I don’t know what messages you, Maureen, or Hickey sent, but you can be sure none of you accomplished anything beyond adding to the confusion out there.”
Father Murphy replied, “I still feel better about it.”
Flynn laughed and began walking. Murphy followed, and Flynn spoke as they walked. “You feel better, do you? My, what a big ego you have, Father.” Flynn stopped in the transept aisle between the two south triforia. He turned and looked up at the triforium they’d just passed beneath and called up to Eamon Farrell. “I know you’re devout, Eamon, but Father Murphy can’t fly, so you’ll have to miss this confession.”
Farrell looked as though this were the one confession he didn’t want to miss.
Father Murphy called up, “Are you sorry for all your sins?”
Farrell nodded. “I am, Father.”
Murphy said, “Make a good act of contrition—you’ll be in a state of grace, Mr. Farrell. Don’t do anything to alter that.”
Flynn was annoyed. “If you try any of that again, you’ll not hear another confession.”
Murphy walked away, and Flynn outlined the coming attack to Farrell. He added, “If we stop them, your son will be free at dawn. Good luck.”
Flynn walked to the wide transept doors. The priest was staring at the two khaki-colored mines attached to the doors and four more can-shaped mines placed at intervals on the floor. Trip wires ran from them in all directions. “You see,” said Flynn conversationally, “when the doors are smashed in, these two mines explode instantly, followed at fifteen-second intervals by the other four, producing, so to speak, a curtain of shrapnel of a minute’s duration. Every doorway in here will be clogged with writhing bodies. The screams … wait until you hear the screams…. You wouldn’t believe that men can make such noises. My God, it makes the blood run cold, Father, and turns the bowels to ice water.”
Murphy continued to stare at the mines.
Flynn motioned overhead. “Look at these commanding views…. How in the world do they expect to succeed?” He led the priest to the small door in the corner of the transept and motioned Murphy to go first. They walked wordlessly up the spiral stairs and came out in the long triforium five stories above the main floor.
Abby Boland stood by the door, an M-16 rifle cradled in her arms. She had found a pair of overalls in a maintenance closet, and she wore them over her cheerleader’s uniform. Flynn put his arm around her and walked her away from the priest as he explained the coming attack and went through her assignments. Flynn looked across the nave at George Sullivan, who was watching them. He took his arm from her shoulder and said, “If we don’t stop them … and if you determine in your own mind that killing more of them won’t help anything, then get into the bell tower…. Don’t try to cross the choir loft to get to George…. Stay away from Leary and Megan. Understand?”
Her eyes darted to the choir loft, and she nodded.
Flynn continued. “The attic will take a while to fall in, and the bombs won’t damage the towers—they’ll be the only things left standing. George will be all right in the south tower.”
“George and I understood we’d not see each other again after this.” She looked at Sullivan, who was still watching them.
“Good luck to you.” Flynn moved toward the tower passage and left her with Father Murphy.
After a few minutes Murphy rejoined Flynn, and Flynn looked at his watch. “We don’t have a great deal of time, so keep these things short.”
“How do you know how much time you’ve got? Am I to understand that you know the details of this attack?” He looked at the sheaf of rolled papers in Flynn’s hand.
Flynn tapped Murphy on the shoulder with the paper tube. “Each man has a price, as you know, and it often seems pitifully low, but did anyone ever consider that Judas Iscariot may have needed that silver?” He laughed and indicated the spiral stairs. They climbed three stories up into the tower, until they reached the level that passed beside the attic. Flynn opened a large wooden door, and they stepped onto a catwalk. Murphy peered into the dimly lit expanse, then walked to a pile of chopped wood and votive candles. He turned back and stared at Flynn, who met his stare, and Murphy knew there was nothing to be said.
Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty moved out of the shadows and approached along a catwalk, their arms around each other. The expressions on their faces showed that they found the sight of Flynn and the priest to be ominous. They stopped some distance from the two men and looked at them, long plumes of breath coming from their mouths. Father Murphy was reminded of two lost souls who were not allowed to cross a threshold unless invited.
Flynn said, “The good Father wants to hear your sins.”
Jean Kearney’s face flushed. Nulty looked both embarrassed and frightened.
Flynn’s eyebrows rose, and he let out a short laugh. He turned to the priest. “Self-control is difficult in times like these.”
Murphy’s face betrayed no anger or shock, but he let out a long, familiar sigh that Flynn thought must be part of the seminary training. Flynn motioned Murphy to stay where he was and strode across the catwalk. He handed Jean Kearney three sheets of paper and began briefing the two people. He concluded, “They’ll come with the helicopters anytime after 5:15.” He paused, then said, “Don’t be afraid.”
Jean Kearney answered, “The only thing we’re afraid of is being separated.” Nulty nodded.