in trees.
Colonel Logan 'knew that thousands of marchers had fallen in behind him now. He could feel the electricity that was passing through his regiment into the crowd around
94
CATHEDRAL
him and down the line of marchers, until the last unitsthe old IRA vets-had caught the tempo and the spirit. Cold and tired in the fading light, the old soldiers would hold their heads high as they passed the spectators, who by this time were jaded, weary, and drunk.
Logan watched the politicians as they left the march and headed toward the reviewing stands to take their seats. He gave the customary order of "eyes left" as they passed the stands and saluted, breathing more easily now that his escort mission had been accomplished.
Patrick Burke left the parade formation at Sixty-fourth Street, made his way through the crowd, and entered the rear door of the police mobile headquarters van. A television set was tuned to the WPIX news program that was covering the parade. Lights flashed on the consoles, and three radios, each tuned to a different command channel, crackled in the semidarkness. A few men occupied with paperwork or electronics sat on small stools.
Burke recognized Sergeant George Byrd from the Bureau of Special Services.
"Big Byrd."
Byrd looked up from a radio and smiled. "Patrick Burke, the scourge of Irish revolutionaries, defender of the faith."
"Eat it, George." He lit a cigarette.
"I read the report you filed this morning. Who are the Finnigans? What do they want?"
Burke sat on a small jump seat. "Fenians."
"Fenians. Finnigans. Micks. Who are they?"
"The Fenians were a group of Irish warriors and poets. About 200 A.D. There was also an Irish anti-British guerrilla army in the nineteenth century who called themselves Fenians-"
Byrd laughed. "That's kind of old intelligence, Burke. Must have been held up in Police Plaza."
"Filed with your promotion papers, no doubt."
Byrd grunted and leaned back against the wall. "And who's Finn Mac--something?"
95
NELSON DE MILLE
"Head of the original Fenians. Been dead seventeen hundred years now."
"A code name?"
"I hope so. Wouldn't want to meet the real one."
Byrd listened to the radios. The command posts up and down the Avenue were reporting: The post at the Presbyterian church at Fifty-fourth Street reported all quiet. The post on the twentieth floor of the General Motors Building reported all quiet. The mobile headquarters at the Cathedral reported all quiet. Byrd picked up the radiophone and hesitated, then spoke softly. "Mobile at Sixty-fourth. All quiet at the reviewing stands. Out."
He replaced the phone and looked at Burke. "Too quiet?"
"Don't start that shit." Burke picked up a telephone and dialed. "Jack?"
Jack Ferguson glanced at the closed bedroom door where his wife slept fitfully, then spoke in a low voice. "Patrick"--he looked at a wall clock in the kitchen-"it's twelve-thirty. You're supposed to call me on the hour."
"I was in the parade. What do you have?"
Ferguson looked at some notes scribbled on a pad near the telephone. "It's hard to find anyone today."
"I know, Jack. That's why today is the day."
"Exactly. But I did learn that the man called MacCumail has recruited some of the more wild-eyed members of the Boston Provisional IRA."
:'Interesting. Any line on weapons? Explosives?"
'No," answered Ferguson, "but you can buy anything you want in this country, from pistols to tanks."
:'Anything else?"
'A partial description of the man called MacCumailtall, lean, dark-"
"That could be my mother."
"He wears a distinctive ring. Always has it."
'Not very smart."
,:No. He may believe it's a charm of some sort. The Irish are a superstitious lot. The ring is oversized, probably an antique or a family heirloom. Also, I did find out something interesting about this MacCumail.
It's only hearsay
96
CATHEDRAL
but apparently he was captured once and possibly compromised by British Intelligence."
"Hold on." Burke tried to arrange his
Colonel Logan 'knew that thousands of marchers had fallen in behind him now. He could feel the electricity that was passing through his regiment into the crowd around
94
CATHEDRAL
him and down the line of marchers, until the last unitsthe old IRA vets-had caught the tempo and the spirit. Cold and tired in the fading light, the old soldiers would hold their heads high as they passed the spectators, who by this time were jaded, weary, and drunk.
Logan watched the politicians as they left the march and headed toward the reviewing stands to take their seats. He gave the customary order of "eyes left" as they passed the stands and saluted, breathing more easily now that his escort mission had been accomplished.
Patrick Burke left the parade formation at Sixty-fourth Street, made his way through the crowd, and entered the rear door of the police mobile headquarters van. A television set was tuned to the WPIX news program that was covering the parade. Lights flashed on the consoles, and three radios, each tuned to a different command channel, crackled in the semidarkness. A few men occupied with paperwork or electronics sat on small stools.
Burke recognized Sergeant George Byrd from the Bureau of Special Services.
"Big Byrd."
Byrd looked up from a radio and smiled. "Patrick Burke, the scourge of Irish revolutionaries, defender of the faith."
"Eat it, George." He lit a cigarette.
"I read the report you filed this morning. Who are the Finnigans? What do they want?"
Burke sat on a small jump seat. "Fenians."
"Fenians. Finnigans. Micks. Who are they?"
"The Fenians were a group of Irish warriors and poets. About 200 A.D. There was also an Irish anti-British guerrilla army in the nineteenth century who called themselves Fenians-"
Byrd laughed. "That's kind of old intelligence, Burke. Must have been held up in Police Plaza."
"Filed with your promotion papers, no doubt."
Byrd grunted and leaned back against the wall. "And who's Finn Mac--something?"
95
NELSON DE MILLE
"Head of the original Fenians. Been dead seventeen hundred years now."
"A code name?"
"I hope so. Wouldn't want to meet the real one."
Byrd listened to the radios. The command posts up and down the Avenue were reporting: The post at the Presbyterian church at Fifty-fourth Street reported all quiet. The post on the twentieth floor of the General Motors Building reported all quiet. The mobile headquarters at the Cathedral reported all quiet. Byrd picked up the radiophone and hesitated, then spoke softly. "Mobile at Sixty-fourth. All quiet at the reviewing stands. Out."
He replaced the phone and looked at Burke. "Too quiet?"
"Don't start that shit." Burke picked up a telephone and dialed. "Jack?"
Jack Ferguson glanced at the closed bedroom door where his wife slept fitfully, then spoke in a low voice. "Patrick"--he looked at a wall clock in the kitchen-"it's twelve-thirty. You're supposed to call me on the hour."
"I was in the parade. What do you have?"
Ferguson looked at some notes scribbled on a pad near the telephone. "It's hard to find anyone today."
"I know, Jack. That's why today is the day."
"Exactly. But I did learn that the man called MacCumail has recruited some of the more wild-eyed members of the Boston Provisional IRA."
:'Interesting. Any line on weapons? Explosives?"
'No," answered Ferguson, "but you can buy anything you want in this country, from pistols to tanks."
:'Anything else?"
'A partial description of the man called MacCumailtall, lean, dark-"
"That could be my mother."
"He wears a distinctive ring. Always has it."
'Not very smart."
,:No. He may believe it's a charm of some sort. The Irish are a superstitious lot. The ring is oversized, probably an antique or a family heirloom. Also, I did find out something interesting about this MacCumail.
It's only hearsay
96
CATHEDRAL
but apparently he was captured once and possibly compromised by British Intelligence."
"Hold on." Burke tried to arrange his
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