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
65
NELSON DE MILLE
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 MacCurnail."
"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 must 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."
66
CATHEDRAL
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.
67
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. "Wilt 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."
68
CATHEDRAL
She smiled back at his words. Translation: After today they'll surely murder you
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
65
NELSON DE MILLE
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 MacCurnail."
"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 must 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."
66
CATHEDRAL
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.
67
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. "Wilt 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."
68
CATHEDRAL
She smiled back at his words. Translation: After today they'll surely murder you
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