Burke burst through the door and grabbed the radiophone from Byrd’s hand. “Mobile at Fifty-first—do you read?”
The second mobile van beside the Cathedral answered. “Roger. All quiet here. Mounted and scooter units headed your way—”
“No! Listen—”
As the nineteen bronze bells in the north spire of St. Patrick’s Cathedral chimed five o’clock, the timer on the box resting on the crossbeam above the bells completed the electrical circuit. The box, a broad-band transmitter, began sending out static over the entire spectrum of the radio band. From its transmitting point, high above the street, the transmitter jammed all two-way radios in the midtown area.
A high, piercing sound filled Burke’s earphone. “Mobile at Fifty-first—do you read? Action will take place at Cathedral. …” The sound grew louder and settled into a pattern of continuous high-pitched static. “Mobile at Fifty-first …” He let the radiophone fall from his hand and turned to Byrd. “Jammed.”
“I hear it—shit!” Byrd grabbed at the radio and switched to alternate command channels, but they were all filled with static. “Bastards!”
Burke grabbed his arm. “Listen, get some men to the public telephones. Call Police Plaza and the rectory. Have them try to get a message to the police around the Cathedral. The mobile van there may still have telephone communication.”
“I doubt it.”
“Tell them—”
“I know, I know. I heard you.” Byrd sent four men out of the van. He looked out the side window at the crowd streaming by and watched his men pushing through it. He turned around to speak to Burke, but he was gone.
* * *
On the steps of the Cathedral, Maureen watched the plainclothesman standing in front of her trying to get his hand radio to work. Several policemen were running around, passing on messages and receiving orders, and she could tell by their manner that there was some confusion among them. Police were moving in and out of the van on the corner to her right. She noticed the spectators on the sidewalks; they seemed to have received some message that those on the steps had not. There was a murmur running through the crowd, and heads craned north, up the Avenue, as though the message had come from that direction as in a child’s game of Pass-ItOn. She looked north but could see nothing unusual except the unsettled crowd. Then she noticed that the pace of the marchers had slowed. She turned to Harold Baxter and said quietly, “Something is wrong.”
The bells struck the last of the five chimes, then began their traditional five o’clock hymns with “Autumn.”
Baxter nodded. “Keep alert.”
The County Cork unit passed slowly in front of the Cathedral, and behind them the County Mayo unit marked time as the parade became inexplicably stalled. Parade marshals and formation marshals spoke to policemen. Maureen noticed that the Cardinal looked annoyed but not visibly concerned about the rising swell of commotion around him.
Office workers and store clerks began streaming out of the lobbies of Rockefeller Center, the Olympic Tower, and the surrounding skyscrapers onto the already crowded sidewalks. They jostled to get away from the area, or to get a better view of the parade.
Suddenly there was a loud cry from the crowd. Maureen turned to her left. From the front doors of Saks Fifth Avenue burst a dozen men dressed in black suits and derbies. They wore white gloves and bright orange sashes across their chests, and most of them carried walking sticks. They pushed aside a police barricade and unfurled a long banner that read: GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. ULSTER WILL BE BRITISH FOREVER.
Maureen’s pulse quickened, and her mind flashed back to Ulster, to the long summer marching season when the Orangemen paraded through the cities and villages, proclaiming their loyalty to God and Queen and their hate of their Catholic neighbors.
The crowd began to howl and hiss. An old IRA veteran fortified with spirits crashed through the police barrier and ran into the street, racing at the Orangemen, screaming as he ran, “Fucking bloody murdering bastards! I’ll kill you!”
A half dozen of the Orangemen hoisted bullhorns and broke into song:
“A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope!
A pennyworth o’ cheese to choke him!
A pint o’ lamp oil to wrench it down,
And a big hot fire to roast him!”
Several of the enraged crowd broke from the sidewalks and ran into the street, spurred on by a few men who seemed to have materialized suddenly as their leaders. This vanguard was soon joined by streams of men, women, and teen-agers as the barriers began falling up and down the Avenue.
The few mounted police who had not headed to the reviewing stands formed a protective phalanx around the Orangemen, and a paddy wagon escorted by patrol cars began moving up Fiftieth Street to rescue the Orangemen from the crowd that had suddenly turned into a mob. The police swung clubs to keep the surging mob away from the still singing Orangemen. All the techniques of crowd control, learned in the Police Academy and learned on the streets, were employed in an effort to save the dozen Orangemen from being lynched, and the Orangemen themselves seemed finally to recognize their perilous position as hundreds of people ran out of control. They laid down their bullhorns and banner and joined the police in fighting their way to the safety of the approaching paddy wagon.
* * *
Patrick Burke ran south on Fifth Avenue, weaving in
and out of the spectators and marchers who filled the street. He drew up in front of a parked patrol car, out of breath, and held up his badge. “Can you call mobile at the Cathedral?”
The patrolman shook his head and pointed to the static-filled radio.
“Take me to the Cathedral. Quick!” He grabbed the rear-door handle.
The uniformed sergeant sitting beside the driver called out. “No way! We can’t move through this mob. If we hit someone, they’ll tear us apart.”
“Shit.” Burke slammed the door and recrossed the Avenue. He vaulted the wall into Central Park and ran south along a path paralleling the Avenue. He came out of the park at Grand Army Plaza and began moving south through the increasingly disorderly mob. He know it could take him half an hour to move the remaining nine blocks to the Cathedral, and he knew that the parallel avenues were probably not much better, even if he could get to them through a side street. He was not going to make it.
Suddenly a black horse appeared in front of him. A young policewoman, with blond hair tucked under her helmet, was sitting impassively atop the horse. He pushed alongside the woman and showed his badge. “Burke, Intelligence Division. I have to get to the Cathedral. Can you push this nag through this mob with me on the back?”
She regarded Burke, taking in his disheveled appearance. “This is not a nag, Lieutenant, but if you’re in so much of a hurry, jump on.” She reached down. Burke took her hand, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung heavily onto the rear of the horse.
The policewoman spurred the horse forward. “Giddyap! Come on, Commissioner!”
“I’m only a lieutenant.”
The policewoman glanced over her shoulder as the horse began to move forward. “That’s the horse’s name—Commissioner.”
“Oh. What’s your … ?”
“Police Officer Foster … Betty.”
“Nice. Good names. Let’s move it.”
The trained police horse and the rider were in their element, darting, weaving, cutting into every brief opening, and scattering knots of people in their path without seriously injuring anyone.
Burke held tightly to the woman’s waist. He looked up and saw that they were approaching the intersection at Fifty-seventh Street. He shouted into her ear, “You dance good, Betty. Come here often?”
The policewoman turned her head and looked at him. “This run had damned well better be important, Lieutenant.”
“It’s the most important horse ride since Paul Revere’s.”
Major Bartholomew Martin stood at the window of a small room on the tenth floor of the British Empire Building in Rockefeller Center. He wa
tched the riot that swirled around the Cathedral, then turned to the man standing beside him. “Well, Kruger, it appears that the Fenians have arrived.”
The other man, an American, said, “Yes, for better or for worse.” He paused, then asked, “Did you know this was going to happen?”
“Not exactly. Brian Flynn does not confide in me. I gave him some ideas, some options. His only prohibition was not to attack British property or personnel—like blowing up this building, for instance. But you never quite know with these people.” Major Martin stared off into space for a few seconds, then spoke in a faraway voice. “You know, Kruger, when I finally caught up with the bastard in Belfast last winter, he was a beaten man—physically as well as mentally. All he wanted was for me to kill him quickly. And I wanted very much to accommodate him, I assure you, but then I thought better of it. I turned him around, as we say, then pointed him at America and set him loose. A dangerous business, I know, like grabbing that tiger by the tail. But it’s paid off, I think.”
Kruger stared at him for a long time, then said, “I hope
we’ve calculated American public reaction correctly.”
Martin smiled as he took some brandy from a flask. “If the American public was ambivalent about the Irish problem yesterday, they are not so ambivalent today.” He looked at Kruger. “I’m sure this will help your service a bit.”
Kruger replied, “And if it doesn’t help, then you owe us a favor. In fact, I wanted to speak to you about something we have planned in Hong Kong.”
“Ah, intrigue. Yes, yes, I want to hear all about it. But later. Enjoy the parade.” He opened the window, and the sound of crashing windows, police sirens, and thousands of people filled the small room. “Erin go bragh, as they say.”
CHAPTER 14
Maureen Malone felt someone tap her on the shoulder. She turned to see a man holding a badge in front of her face. “Bureau of Special Services, Miss Malone. Some of the crowd is turning their attention up here. We have to get you into the Cathedral. Mr. Baxter, you too. Please follow us.”
Baxter looked down at the crowd in the street and at the police line, arms locked, at the curb. “I think we’re perfectly safe here for now.”
The man answered, “Sir, you have to get out of here for the safety of the other people on the steps—please—”
“Yes, yes, I see. All right. Miss Malone, he’s quite right.”
Maureen and Baxter turned and mounted the steps. Maureen saw the red vestments of the Cardinal as he moved through the crowded steps in front of them, flanked by two men.
Other BSS men on the steps had moved around the Monsignor and the other priests and church people, eyeing the crowd closely. Two BSS men noticed that the Cardinal, Malone, and Baxter were being led away by unknown men and began to follow, pushing their way toward the portals. Two priests on the top step fell in behind them, and the two BSS men felt the press of something hard on their backs. “Freeze,” said one of the priests softly, “or we’ll blow your spines open.”
The police in the mobile headquarters van beside the Cathedral had lost radio communication as static filled the frequencies, but they were still reporting by telephone. Without warning an ambulance coming down Fifty-first Street swerved and sideswiped the headquarters van. The van shot forward, and the lines connecting it to the streetlamp snapped. The ambulance drivers abandoned their vehicle and disappeared quickly into the crowded lobby of the Olympic Tower.
Maureen Malone, Harold Baxter, and the Cardinal walked abreast down the main aisle of the crowded Cathedral. Two men walked behind them, and two men set the pace in front. Maureen could see that the priest in the pulpit was Father Murphy, and another priest was kneeling at the communion rail. As she moved closer to the kneeling priest she was aware that there was something familiar about him.
The Cardinal turned and looked back up the aisle, then asked his escort, “Where is Monsignor Downes? Why aren’t the others with us?”
One of the men answered, “They’ll be along. Please keep moving, Your Eminence.”
Father Murphy tried to continue the Mass, but he was distracted again by the shouts and sirens outside. He looked out over the two thousand worshipers in the pews and in the aisles, and his eye caught a movement of brilliant red in the main aisle. He stared at the disturbing sight of the Cardinal walking toward the altar, flanked by Malone and Baxter and escorted by security men. The thought that something was happening outside to mar this great day upset him. He forgot where he was in the Mass and said abruptly, “The Mass is ended. Go in peace.” He added hurriedly, “No. Wait. Stay until we know what is happening. Stay in your seats, please.”
Father Murphy turned and saw the priest who had been kneeling at the communion rail now standing on the top step of the pulpit. He recognized the tall priest with the deep green eyes and was, oddly, not surprised to see him again. He cleared his throat. “Yes?”
Brian Flynn slipped a pistol from under his black coat and kept it near his side. “Stand back.”
Murphy took a deep breath. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the new archbishop.” Flynn pushed Murphy into the rear of the pulpit and took the microphone. He watched the Cardinal approaching the altar, then began to address the worshipers who were still standing in the pews. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in a carefully measured cadence, “may I have your attention….”
Maureen Malone stopped abruptly in the open area a few feet from the altar rail. She stared up at the pulpit, transfixed by the tall, dark figure standing there in the dim light. The man behind her nudged her forward. She turned slowly. “Who are you?”
The man revealed a pistol stuck in his waistband. “Not the police, I assure you.” The New York accent had disappeared, replaced by a light brogue. “Keep walking. You, too, Baxter, Your Eminence.”
One of the men in front opened the gate in the marble altar railing and turned. “Come in, won’t you?”
Patrick Burke, seated uneasily on the horse, looked over the heads of the crowd. Two blocks beyond he could see mass confusion, worse than that which swirled around him. The shop windows of Cartier and Gucci were broken, as were most of the other windows along the Avenue. Uniformed police stood in front of the displays of many of the shops, but there was no apparent looting, only that strange mixture of fighting and reveling that the Irish affectionately called a donnybrook. Burke could see the Cathedral now, and it was obvious that whatever had sparked this turmoil had begun there.
The crowd immediately around him was made up of marching units that were staying together, passing bottles, and singing. A brass band was playing “East Side, West Side,” backed by an enthusiastic chorus. The policewoman spurred the horse on.
Midway down the block before the Cathedral the crowd became tighter, and the horse was straining to sidestep through. Bodies crushed against the riders’ legs, then fell away as the horse made another lunge. “Keep pushing! Keep going!” called Burke.
The policewoman shouted, “God, they’re packed so tight….” She pulled back on the reins, and the horse reared up. The crowd scattered, and she drove into the opening, then repeated the maneuver.
Burke felt his stomach heave and caught his breath. “Nice! Nice! Good work!”
“How far do I have to get?”
“When Commissioner is kneeling at the communion rail, I’ll tell you!”
Brian Flynn waited until the Cardinal and the others were safely inside the railing of the high altar, then said into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a small fire in the basement. Please stay calm. Leave quickly through the doors, including the front doors.”
A cry went up from the congregation, and a few men interspersed throughout the Cathedral shouted, “Fire! Fire! Run!”
The pews emptied rapidly, and the aisles streamed with people pushing toward the exits. Racks of votive candles went down, spilling and cracking on the floor. The bookshop near the south spire emptied, and the first wave of people filled the v
estibules and surged through the three sets of front doors, pouring out onto the steps.
The spectators on the steps suddenly found themselves pushed by a sea of people coming through the portals, and were swept down across the sidewalk, into the police barricades, through the line of policemen, and into the riot on Fifth Avenue.
Monsignor Downes tried to fight against the tide and get into the Cathedral, but found himself in the street squeezed between a heavy woman and a burly police officer.
The two bogus priests who had been pressing guns into the backs of the Bureau of Special Services men blended into the moving throng and disappeared. The two BSS men turned and tried to remount the steps but were carried down into the Avenue by the crowd.
Police scooters toppled, and patrol cars were covered with people trying to escape the crush of the crowd. Marching units broke ranks and became engulfed in the mob. Police tried to set up perimeters to keep the area of the disturbance contained, but without radio communication their actions were uncoordinated and ineffective.
Television news crews filmed the scene until they were overwhelmed by the surging mob.
Inspector Philip Langley peered down from the New York Police Department command helicopter into the darkening canyons below. He turned to Deputy Police Commissioner Rourke and shouted above the beat of the rotor blades. “I think the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade is over.”
The Deputy Commissioner eyed him for a long second, then looked down at the incredible scene. Rush hour traffic was stalled for miles, and a sea of people completely covered the streets and sidewalks as far south as Thirty-fourth Street and as far north as Seventy-second Street. Close to a million people were in the small midtown area at this hour, and not one of them was going to get home in time for dinner. “Lot of unhappy citizens down there, Philip.”
Langley lit a cigarette. “I’ll hand in my resignation tonight.”
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