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."
63
NELSON DE MILLE
"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 bad 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.11
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.19
"Are these people into violence?"
"In the vernacular of the day, yes, they're into violence.
64
CATHEDRAL
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 ts
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 Marxistoriented 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 nextto 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
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."
63
NELSON DE MILLE
"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 bad 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.11
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.19
"Are these people into violence?"
"In the vernacular of the day, yes, they're into violence.
64
CATHEDRAL
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 ts
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 Marxistoriented 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 nextto 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
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