The presence of the Malone woman in New York disturbed him. He had interviewed her briefly in the Empire Room of the Waldorf the previous evening. She seemed likable enough, pretty, too, and undaunted by his suggestion that someone might decide to murder her. She had probably become accustomed to threats on her life, he thought.
The Irish were Burke’s specialty, and the Irish, he believed, were potentially the most dangerous group of all. But if they struck, would they pick this day? This day belonged to the Irish. The parade was their trooping of the colors, their showing of the green, necessary in those days when they were regarded as America’s first unwanted foreigners. He remembered a joke his grandfather used to tell, popular at the turn of the century: What is St. Patrick’s Day? It’s the day the Protestants and Jews look out the windows of their town houses on Fifth Avenue to watch their employees march by.
What had begun as America’s first civil rights demonstration was now a reminder to the city—to the nation—that the Irish still existed as a force. This was the day that the Irish got to fuck up New York City, the day they turned Manhattan on its ear.
Burke stood, stretched his big frame, then bounded down the rows of benches and jumped onto the sidewalk. He walked behind the stands until he came to an opening in the low stone wall that bordered Central Park, where he descended a flight of stone steps. In front of him rose the huge, castlelike Arsenal—actually a park administration building—flying, along with the American flag, the green, white, and orange tricolor of the Republic of Ireland. He circled around it to his right and came to a closed set of towering wrought-iron gates. Without much enthusiasm he climbed to the top of the gates, then dropped down into the zoo.
The zoo was deserted and much darker than the Avenue. Ornate lamps cast a weak light over the paths and brick buildings. He proceeded slowly down the straight lane, staying in the shadows. As he walked he unholstered his service revolver and slipped it into his coat pocket, more as a precaution against muggers than professional assassins.
The shadows of bare sycamores lay over the lane, and the smell of damp straw and animals hung oppressively in the cold, misty air. To his left seals were barking in their pool, and birds, captive and free, chirped and squawked in a blend of familiar and exotic sounds.
Burke passed the brick arches that supported the Delacorte clock and peered into the shadows of the colonnade, but no one was there. He checked his watch against the clock. Ferguson was late or dead. He leaned against one of the clock arches and lit another cigarette. Around him he saw, to the east, south, and west, towering skyscrapers silhouetted against the dawn, crowded close to the black treelines like sheer cliffs around a rain forest basin.
He heard the sound of soft footsteps behind him and turned, peering around the arch into the path that led to the Children’s Zoo deeper into the park.
Jack Ferguson passed through a concrete tunnel and stepped into a pool of light, then stopped. “Burke?”
“Over here.” Burke watched Ferguson approach. The man walked with a slight limp, his oversized vintage trench coat flapping with every step he took.
Ferguson offered his hand and smiled, showing a set of yellowed teeth. “Good to see you, Patrick.”
Burke took his hand. “How’s your wife, Jack?”
“Poorly. Poorly, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry to hear that. You’re looking a bit pale yourself.”
Ferguson touched his face. “Am I? I should get out more.”
“Take a walk in the park—when the sun’s up. Why are we meeting here, Jack?”
“Oh God, the town’s full of Micks today, isn’t it? I mean we could be seen anywhere by anybody.”
“I suppose.” Old revolutionaries, thought Burke, would wither and die without their paranoia and conspiracies. Burke pulled a small thermal flask from his coat. “Tea and Irish?”
“Bless you.” Ferguson took it and drank, then handed it back as he looked around into the shadows. “Are you alone?”
“Me, you, and the monkeys.” Burke took a drink and regarded Ferguson over the rim of the flask. Jack Ferguson was a genuine 1930s City College Marxist whose life had been spent in periods of either fomenting or waiting for the revolution of the working classes. The historical tides that had swept the rest of the world since the war had left Jack Ferguson untouched and unimpressed. In addition he was a pacifist, a gentle man, though these seemingly disparate ideals never appeared to cause him any inner conflict. Burke held out the flask. “Another rip?”
“No, not just yet.”
Burke screwed the cap back on the Thermos as he studied Ferguson, who was nervously looking around him. Ferguson was a ranking officer in the Official Irish Republican Army, or whatever was left of it in New York, and he was as burnt out and moribund as the rest of that group of geriatrics. “What’s coming down today, Jack?”
Ferguson took Burke’s arm and looked up into his face. “The Fenians ride again, my boy.”
“Really? Where’d they get the horses?”
“No joke, Patrick. A renegade group made up mostly from the Provos in Ulster. They call themselves the Fenians.”
Burke nodded. He had heard of them. “They’re here? In New York?”
“Afraid so.”
“For what purpose?”
“I couldn’t say, exactly. But they’re up to mischief.”
“Are your sources reliable?”
“Very.”
“Are these people into violence?”
“In the vernacular of the day, yes, they’re into violence.
Into it up to their asses. They’re murderers, arsonists, and bombers. The cream of the Provisional IRA. Between them they’ve leveled most of downtown Belfast, and they’re responsible for hundreds of deaths. A bad lot.”
“Sounds like it, doesn’t it? What do they do on weekends?”
Ferguson lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. “Let’s sit awhile.”
Burke followed him toward a bench facing the ape house. As he walked he watched the man in front of him. If ever there was a man more anachronistic, more quixotic than Jack Ferguson, he had never met him. Yet Ferguson had somehow survived in that netherworld of leftist politics and had even survived a murder attempt—or an assassination attempt, as Ferguson would have corrected him. And he was unusually reliable in these matters. The Marxist-oriented Officials distrusted the breakaway Provisionals and vice versa. Each side still had people in the opposite camp, and they were the best sources of information about each other. The only common bond they shared was a deep hate for the English and a policy of hands-off-America. Burke sat next to Ferguson. “The IRA has not committed acts of violence in America since the Second World War,” Burke recited the conventional wisdom, “and I don’t think they’re ready to now.”
“That’s true of the Officials, certainly, and even the Provisionals, but not of these Fenians.”
Burke said nothing for a long time, then asked, “How many?”
Ferguson chain-lit a cigarette. “At least twenty, maybe more.”
“Armed?”
“Not when they left Belfast, of course, but there are people here who would help them.”
“Target?”
“Who knows? No end of targets today. Hundreds of politicians in the reviewing stands, in the parade. People on the steps of the Cathedral. Then, of course, there’s the British Consulate, British Airways, the Irish Tourist Board, the Ulster Trade Delegation, the—”
“All right. I’ve got a list too.” Burke watched a gorilla with red, burning eyes peering at them through the bars of the ape house. The animal seemed interested in them, turning its head whenever they spoke. “Who are the leaders of these Fenians?”
“A man who calls himself Finn MacCumail.”
“What’s his real name?”
“I may know this afternoon. MacCumail’s lieutenant is John Hickey, code name Dermot.”
“Hickey’s dead.”
“No, he’s living right here in New Jersey. He mus
t be close to eighty by now.”
Burke had never met Hickey, but Hickey’s career in the IRA was so long and so blood-splattered that he was mentioned in history books. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it for now.”
“Where can we meet later?”
“Call me at home every hour starting at noon. If you don’t reach me, meet me back here on the terrace of the restaurant at four-thirty … unless, of course, whatever is to happen has already happened. In that case I’ll be out of town for a while.”
Burke nodded. “What can I do for you?”
Ferguson acted both surprised and indifferent, the way he always did at this point. “Do? Oh, well … let’s see…. How’s the special fund these days?”
“I can get a few hundred.”
“Fine. Things are a bit tight with us.”
Burke didn’t know if he was referring to himself and his wife or his organization. Probably both. “I’ll try for more.”
“As you wish. The money isn’t so important. What is important is that you avoid bloodshed, and that the department knows we’re helping you. And that no one else knows it.”
“That’s the way we’ve always done it.”
Ferguson stood and put out his hand. “Good-bye, Patrick. Erin go bragh.”
Burke stood and took Ferguson’s hand. “Do what you can, Jack, but be careful.”
Burke watched Ferguson limp away down the path and disappear under the clock. He felt very chilled and took a drink from his flask. The Fenians ride again. He had an idea that this St. Patrick’s Day would be the most memorable of all.
CHAPTER 8
Maureen Malone put down her teacup and let her eyes wander around the hotel breakfast room.
“Would you like anything else?” Margaret Singer, Secretary of Amnesty International, smiled at her from across the table.
“No, thank you—” She almost added ma’am but caught herself. Three years as a revolutionary didn’t transform a lifetime of inbred deference.
Next to Margaret Singer sat Malcolm Hull, also of Amnesty. And across the round table sat a man introduced only as Peter who had his back to the wall and faced the main entrance to the dining room. He neither ate nor smiled but drank black coffee. Maureen knew the type.
The fifth person at the table was recently arrived and quite unexpected: Sir Harold Baxter, British Consul General. He had come, he said frankly, to break the ice so there would be no awkwardness when they met on the steps of the Cathedral. The British, reflected Maureen, were so civilized, polite, and practical. It made one sick, really.
Sir Harold poured a cup of coffee and smiled at her. “Will you be staying on awhile?”
She forced herself to look into his clear gray eyes. He looked no more than forty, but his hair was graying at the temples. He was undeniably good-looking. “I think I’ll go on to Belfast tonight.”
His smile never faded. “Not a good idea, actually. London or even Dublin would be better.”
She smiled back at his words. Translation: After today they’ll surely murder you in Belfast. She didn’t think he cared personally if the IRA murdered her, but his government must have decided she was useful. Her voice was cool. “When the Famine killed a million and a half Irish, it also scattered as many throughout the English-speaking world, and among these Irish are always a few IRA types. If I’m to die by their bullets, I’d rather it be in Belfast than anywhere else.”
No one said anything for a few seconds, then Sir Harold spoke. “Certainly you overestimate the strength of these people outside of Ulster. Even in the south, the Dublin government has outlawed them—”
“The Dublin government, Sir Harold, are a bunch of British lackeys.” There. She had really broken the ice now. “The only hope for the Catholics of the six counties— or Ulster, as you call it—has become the Irish Republican Army—not London or Dublin or Washington. Northern Ireland needs an alternative to the IRA, so Northern Ireland is where I must be.”
Harold Baxter’s eyes grew weary. He was sick to death of this problem but felt it his duty to respond. “And you are the alternative?”
“I’m searching for an alternative to the killing of innocent civilians.”
Harold Baxter put on his best icy stare. “But not British soldiers? Tell me, why would Ulster Catholics wish to unite with a nation governed by British lackeys?”
Her response was quick, as his had been. They both knew their catechism. “I think a people would rather be governed by their own incompetent politicians than by foreign incompetents.”
Baxter sat back and pressed his palms together. “Please don’t forget the two-thirds of the Ulster population who are Protestant and who consider Dublin, not London, to be a foreign capital.”
Maureen Malone’s face grew red. “That bunch of Bible-toting bigots does not recognize any allegiance except money. They’d throw you over in a second if they thought they could handle the Catholics themselves. Every time they sing ‘God Save the Queen’ in their silly Orange Lodges, they wink at each other. They think the English are decadent and the Irish Catholics are lazy drunks. They are certain they are the chosen people. And they’ve guiled you into thinking they’re your loyal subjects.” She realized that she had raised her voice and took a deep breath, then fixed Baxter with a cold stare to match his own. “English blood and the Crown’s money keep Belfast’s industry humming—don’t you feel like fools, Sir Harold?”
Harold Baxter placed his napkin on the table. “Her Majesty’s government would no more abandon one million subjects—loyal or disloyal—in Ulster than they would abandon Cornwall or Surrey, madam.” He stood. “If this makes us fools, so be it. Excuse me.” He turned and headed toward the door.
Maureen stared after him, then turned toward her host and hostess. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have picked an argument with him.”
Margaret Singer smiled. “That’s all right. But I’d advise you not to argue politics with the other side. If we tell the Russians what bullies they are and then try to get a Soviet Jew released from the camps, we don’t have much luck, you know.”
Hull nodded in assent. “You won’t agree, but I can assure you that the British are among the fairest people in this troubled world. If you want to get them to end internment, you’ll have to appeal to that sense of fairness. You broke with the IRA to travel this path.”
Margaret Singer added, “We all must deal with our devils—and we do.” She paused. “They hold the keys to the camps.”
Maureen took the gentle rebuke without answering. The good people of the world were infinitely more difficult to deal with than the bad. “Thank you for breakfast. Excuse me.” She stood.
A bellhop came toward the table. “Miss Malone?”
She nodded slowly.
“For you, miss.” He held up a small bouquet of green carnations. “I’ll put them in a nice vase in your room, ma’am. There’s a card I can give you now, if you wish.”
She stared at the small buff envelope, then took it. It was blank. She looked questioningly at Singer and Hull. They shook their heads. She broke the seal on the envelope.
Maureen’s mind went back to London five years earlier. She and Sheila had been hiding in a safe house in an Irish neighborhood in the East End. Their mission had been secret, and only the Provisional IRA War Council knew of their whereabouts.
A florist had come to the door one morning and delivered a bouquet of English lavender and foxglove, and the Irishwoman who owned the house had gone up to their room and thrown the flowers on their bed. “Secret mission,” she had said, and had spit on the floor. “What a bloody bunch of fools you all are.”
She and Sheila had read the accompanying card: Welcome to London. Her Majesty’s government hope you enjoy your visit and trust you will avail yourself of the pleasures of our island and the hospitality of the English people. Right out of a government travel brochure. Except that it wasn’t signed by the Tourist Board but by Military Intelligence.
She
had never been so humiliated and frightened in her life. She and Sheila had run out of the house with only the clothes on their backs, and spent days in the parks and the London Underground. They hadn’t dared to go to any other contacts for fear they were being followed for that purpose. Eventually, after the worst fortnight she had ever passed in her life, they had made it to Dublin.
She pulled the card half out of its envelope to read the words. Welcome to New York. We hope your stay will be pleasant and that you will take advantage of the pleasures of the island and the hospitality of the people.
She didn’t have to pull the rest of the card out to see the signature, but she did anyway, and read the name of Finn MacCumail.
* * *
Maureen closed the door of her room and bolted it. The flowers were already on the dresser. She pulled them from the vase and took them into the bathroom. She tore and ripped them and flushed them down the toilet. In the mirror she could see the reflection of the bedroom and the partly opened door to the adjoining sitting room. She spun around. The closet door was also ajar, and she hadn’t left either of those doors open. She took several deep breaths to make sure her voice was steady. “Brian?”
She heard a movement in the sitting room. Her knees were beginning to feel shaky, and she pressed them together. “Damn you, Flynn!”
The connecting door to the sitting room swung open. “Ma’am?” The maid looked across the room at her.
Maureen took another long breath. “Is anyone else here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Has anyone been here?”
“Only the boy with the flowers, ma’am.”
“Please leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid pushed her cart into the hall. Maureen followed her and bolted the door, then sat in the armchair and stared at the Paisley wallpaper.
She was surprised by her calmness. She almost wished he would roll out from under the bed and smile at her with that strange smile that was not a smile at all. She conjured up an image of him standing in front of her. He would say, “It’s been a damned long time, Maureen.” He always said that after they had been separated. Or “Where are my flowers, lass? Did you put them in a special place?”
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