thoughts. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that there was more than one game in town today.
Where there was an Irish conspiracy, there was sure to be an English conspiracy. After eight hundred years of almost continuous strife, it was as though the two adversaries were inseparably bonded in a bizarre embrace destined to last eternally. If the Irish war was coming to America, then the English would be here to fight it. It was Major Bartholomew Martin's presence in New York, more than anything Ferguson said, that signaled an approaching battle. And Major Martin knew more than he was telling. Burke spoke into the mouthpiece. "Do you have anything else?"
"No . . . I'm going to have to do some legwork now. I'll leave messages with Langley at Police Plaza if anything turns up. I'll meet you at the zoo at four-thirty if nothing has happened by then."
"Time is short, Jack," Burke said.
"I'll do what I can to avoid violence. But you must try to go easy on the lads if you find them. They're brothers."
"Yeah . . . brothers. . . ." Burke hung up and turned to Byrd. "That was one of my informers. A funny little guy who's caught, between his own basic decency and his wild politics."
Burke left the van and stood in the crowd at the corner of Sixty-fourth Street. He looked at the reviewing stands across Fifth Avenue, thick with people. If there was going to be trouble, it would probably happen at the reviewing stands. The other possible objectives that Major Martin suggested-the banks, the consulates, the airline offices, symbols of the London, Dublin, or Belfast governmentswere small potatoes compared to the reviewing stands crowded with American, British, Irish, and other foreign VIPs.
The Cathedral, Burke understood, was also a big potato. But no Irish group would attack the Cathedral. Even Ferguson's Official IRA-mostly nonviolent Marxists and
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atheists-wouldn't consider it. The Provisionals were violent but mostly Catholic. Who but the Irish could have peaceful Reds and bomb-throwing Catholics?
Burke rubbed his tired eyes. Yes, if there was an action today, it had to be the reviewing stands.
Terri O'Neal was lying on the bed. The television set was tuned to the parade. Dan Morgan sat on the window seat and looked down Sixty-fourth Street. He noticed a tall man in civilian clothes step down from the police van, and he watched him as he lit a cigarette and stared into the street, scanning the buildings. Eventually the police, the FBI, maybe even the CIA and British Intelligence, would start to get onto them. That was expected.
The Irish had a tradition called Inform and Betray. Without that weakness in the national character they would have been rid of the English centuries ago. But this time was going to be different. MacCumail was a man you didn't want to betray. The Fenians were a group more closely knit than an ancient clan, bound by one great sorrow and one great hate.
The telephone rang. Morgan walked into the living room, closed the door behind him, then picked up the receiver. "Yes?" He listened to the voice of Finn MacCumail, then hung up and pushed open the door. He stared at Terri O'Neal. It wasn't easy to kill a woman, yet MacCumail wasn't asking him to do something he himself wouldn't do. Maureen Malone and Terri O'Neal. They had nothing in common except their ancestry and the fact that both of them had only a fifty-fifty chance of seeing another dawn.
98
CHAPTER 12
Patrick Burke walked down Third Avenue, stopping at Irish pubs along the way. The sidewalks were crowded with revelers engaged in the traditional barhopping. Paper shamrocks and harps were plastered against the windows of most shops and restaurants. There was an old saying that St. Patrick's Day was the day the Irish marched up Fifth Avenue and staggered down Third, and Burke noticed that ladies and gentlemen were beginning to wobble a bit.
There was a great deal of handshaking, a tradition of sorts, as though
Where there was an Irish conspiracy, there was sure to be an English conspiracy. After eight hundred years of almost continuous strife, it was as though the two adversaries were inseparably bonded in a bizarre embrace destined to last eternally. If the Irish war was coming to America, then the English would be here to fight it. It was Major Bartholomew Martin's presence in New York, more than anything Ferguson said, that signaled an approaching battle. And Major Martin knew more than he was telling. Burke spoke into the mouthpiece. "Do you have anything else?"
"No . . . I'm going to have to do some legwork now. I'll leave messages with Langley at Police Plaza if anything turns up. I'll meet you at the zoo at four-thirty if nothing has happened by then."
"Time is short, Jack," Burke said.
"I'll do what I can to avoid violence. But you must try to go easy on the lads if you find them. They're brothers."
"Yeah . . . brothers. . . ." Burke hung up and turned to Byrd. "That was one of my informers. A funny little guy who's caught, between his own basic decency and his wild politics."
Burke left the van and stood in the crowd at the corner of Sixty-fourth Street. He looked at the reviewing stands across Fifth Avenue, thick with people. If there was going to be trouble, it would probably happen at the reviewing stands. The other possible objectives that Major Martin suggested-the banks, the consulates, the airline offices, symbols of the London, Dublin, or Belfast governmentswere small potatoes compared to the reviewing stands crowded with American, British, Irish, and other foreign VIPs.
The Cathedral, Burke understood, was also a big potato. But no Irish group would attack the Cathedral. Even Ferguson's Official IRA-mostly nonviolent Marxists and
97
NELSON DE MILLE
atheists-wouldn't consider it. The Provisionals were violent but mostly Catholic. Who but the Irish could have peaceful Reds and bomb-throwing Catholics?
Burke rubbed his tired eyes. Yes, if there was an action today, it had to be the reviewing stands.
Terri O'Neal was lying on the bed. The television set was tuned to the parade. Dan Morgan sat on the window seat and looked down Sixty-fourth Street. He noticed a tall man in civilian clothes step down from the police van, and he watched him as he lit a cigarette and stared into the street, scanning the buildings. Eventually the police, the FBI, maybe even the CIA and British Intelligence, would start to get onto them. That was expected.
The Irish had a tradition called Inform and Betray. Without that weakness in the national character they would have been rid of the English centuries ago. But this time was going to be different. MacCumail was a man you didn't want to betray. The Fenians were a group more closely knit than an ancient clan, bound by one great sorrow and one great hate.
The telephone rang. Morgan walked into the living room, closed the door behind him, then picked up the receiver. "Yes?" He listened to the voice of Finn MacCumail, then hung up and pushed open the door. He stared at Terri O'Neal. It wasn't easy to kill a woman, yet MacCumail wasn't asking him to do something he himself wouldn't do. Maureen Malone and Terri O'Neal. They had nothing in common except their ancestry and the fact that both of them had only a fifty-fifty chance of seeing another dawn.
98
CHAPTER 12
Patrick Burke walked down Third Avenue, stopping at Irish pubs along the way. The sidewalks were crowded with revelers engaged in the traditional barhopping. Paper shamrocks and harps were plastered against the windows of most shops and restaurants. There was an old saying that St. Patrick's Day was the day the Irish marched up Fifth Avenue and staggered down Third, and Burke noticed that ladies and gentlemen were beginning to wobble a bit.
There was a great deal of handshaking, a tradition of sorts, as though
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