Cathedral (9 page)

"What's the price?"

Major Martin played with a lighter on the coffee table. "Yes, price.

Well, better information from you in future on the transatlantic IRA types in New York. Gunrunning. Fund raising. IRA people here on R and R.

That sort of thing."

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"Sounds fair."

"It is fair."

"So what do you want of me particularly?"

Major Martin looked at Burke. "Just wanted to tell you directly about all of this. To meet you." Martin stood. "Look here, if you want to get a bit of information to me directly, call here and ask for Mr. James. Someone will take the message and pass it on to me. And I'll leave messages for you here as well. Perhaps a little something you can give to Langley as your own. You'll make a few points that way. Makes everyone look good."

Burke moved toward the door, then turned. "They're probably going after the Malone woman. Maybe even after the consul general."

Major Martin shook his head. "I don't think so. Sir Harold has no involvement whatsoever in Irish affairs. And the Malone woman-I knew her sister, Sheila, in Belfast, incidentally. She's in jail. An IRA martyr.

They should only know-but that's another story. Where was I?Maureen Malone. She's quite the other thing to the IRA. A Provisional IRA tribunal has condemned her to death in absentia, you know. She's on borrowed time now. But they won't shoot her down in the street. T'hey'll grab her someday in Ireland, north or south, have a trial with her present this time, kneecap her, then a day or so later shoot her in the head and leave her on a street in Belfast. And the Fenians, whoever they are, won't do anything that would preempt the Provos' death sentence. And don't forget, Malone and Sir Harold will be on the steps of Saint Patrick7s most of the day, and the Irish respect the sanctuary of the church no matter what their religious or political beliefs. No, I wouldn't worry about those two. Look for a more obvious target. British property. The Ulster Trade Delegation. The Irish always perform in a predictable manner."

"Really? Maybe that's why my wife left me."

"Oh, you're Irish, of course . . . sorry. . . ."

Burke unbolted the door and walked out of the room.

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Major Martin threw back his head and laughed softly, then went to the sideboard and made himself a martini. He evaluated his conversation with Burke and decided that Burke was more clever than he had been led to believe. Not that it would do him any good this late in the game.

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Saint Patrick's Day in New York is the most fantastic aflair, and in past years on Fifth Avenue, from Fortyfourth Street to Ninety-sixth Street, the white traffic lines were repainted green for the occasion. All the would-be Irish, has-been Irish and never-been Irish, seem to appear true-blue Irish overnight. Everyone is in on the act, but it is a very jolly occasion and I have never experienced anything like it anywhere else in the world.

Brendan Behan,

Brendan Behan's New York

In the middle of Fifth Avenue, at Forty-fourth Street, Pat and Mike, the two Irish wolfhounds that were the mascots of the Fighting 69th Infantry Regiment, strained at their leashes. Colonel Dennis Logan, Commander of the 69th, tapped his Irish blackthorn swagger stick impatiently against his leg. He glanced at the sky and sniffed the air, then turned to Major Matthew Cole. "What's the weather for this afternoon, Major?"

Major Cole, like all good adjutants, had the answer to everything. "Cold front moving through later, sir. Snow or freezing rain by nightfall."

Logan nodded and thrust his prominent jaw out in a gesture of defiance, as though he were going to say, "Damn the weather-full speed ahead."

The young major struck a similar pose, although his jaw was not so grand.

"Parade'll be finished before then, I suspect, Colonel." He glanced at Logan to see if he was listening. The colonel's marvelously angular face had served him well at staff meetings, but the rocklike quahty of that visage was softened by misty green eyes like a woman's. Too bad.

Logan looked at his watch, then at the big iron stanchion clock in front of the Morgan Guaranty Trust Building on Fifth Avenue. The clock was three minutes fast, but they would go when that clock struck noon. Logan would never forget the newspaper picture that showed his unit at parade rest and the clock at three minutes after. The caption had read: THE

IRISH START LATE. Never again.

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The regiment's staff, back from their inspection of the unit, was assembled in front of the color guard. The national and regimental colors snapped in a five-mile-an-hour wind that came down the Avenue from the north, and the multicolored battle streamers, some going back to the Civil War and the Indian wars, fluttered nicely. Logan turned to Major Cole. "What's your feel?"

'fhe major searched his mind for a response, but the question threw him.

"Feel . . . sir?"

"Feel, man. Feel." He accentuated the words.

"Fine. Fine."

Logan looked at the battle ribbons on the major's cbest. A splash of purple stood out like the wound it represented. "In 'Nam, did you ever get a feeling that everything was not fine?"

The major nodded thoughtfully.

Logan waited for a response that would reinforce his own feelings of unease, but Cole was too young to have fully developed that other sense to the extent that he could identify what he felt in the jungle and recognize it in the canyons of Manhattan Island. "Keep a sharp eye out today. This is not a parade-it's an operation. Don't let your head slide up your ass."

"Yes, sir."

Logan looked at his regiment. They stood at parade rest, their polished helmets with the regimental crest reflecting the overhead sunlight. Slung across their shoulders were M-16 rifles.

The crowd at Forty-fourth Street, swelled by office workers on their lunch hour, was jostling for a better view. People had climbed atop the WALK-DON'T WALK signs, the mailboxes, and the cement pots that held the newly budded trees along the Avenue.

In the intersection around Colonel Logan newsmen mixed with politicians and parade officials. The parade chairman, old Judge Driscoll, was patting everyone on the back as he had done for over forty years. The formation marshals, resplendent in black morning coats, straightened 84

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their tricolor sashes and top hats. The Governor was shaking every hand that looked as if it could pull a voting lever, and Mayor Kline was wearing the silliest green derby that Logan had ever seen.

Logan looked up Fifth Avenue. The broad thoroughfare was clear of traffic and people, an odd sight reminiscent of a B-grade science-fiction movie.

The pavement stretched unobstructed to the horizon, and Colonel Logan was more impressed with this sight than anything else he had seen that day.

He couldn't see the Cathedral, recessed between Fiftieth and Fifty-first Streets, but he could see the police barriers around it and the guests on the lower steps.

A stillness began to descend on the &ossroads as the hands of the clock moved another notch toward the twelve. The army band accompanying the 69th ceased their tuning of instruments, and the bagpipes of the Emerald Society on the side street stopped practicing. The dignitaries, whom the 69th Regiment was charged with escorting to the reviewing stands, began to fall into their designated places as Judge Driscoll looked on approvingly.

Logan felt his heart beat faster as he waited out the final minutes. He was aware of, but did not see, the mass of humanity huddled around him, the hundreds of thousands of spectators along the parade route to his front, the police, the reviewing stands in the park, the cameras and the newspeople. It was to be a day of dedication and celebration, sentimentality and even sorrow. In New York this day had been crowned by the parade, which had gone on uninterrupted by war, depression, or civil strife since 1762. It was, in fact, a mainstay of Irish culture in the New World, and it was not about to change, even if every last man, woman, and child in old Ireland did away with themselves and the British to boot. Logan turned to Major Cole. "Are we ready, MajorT'

"The Fighting Irish are always ready, Colonel."

Logan nodded. The Irish were always ready for anything, he thought, and prepared for nothing.

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Father Murphy looked around him as a thousand guests crowded the steps of the Cathedral. He edged over and stood on the long green carpet that had been unrolled from the main portal between the brass handrail and down into the street. In front of him, between the handrails, stood the Cardinal and the Monsignor, shoulder to shoulder. Flanking them were the British consul, Baxter, next to the Cardinal, and the Malone woman next to the Monsignor. Murphy smiled. 'Me arrangement wasn't strictly protocol, but they couldn't get at each other's throats so easily now.

Standing in loose formation around the Cardinal's group were priests, nuns, and church benefactors. Murphy noticed at least two men who were probably undercover police. He looked up over the heads of the people in front of him toward the crowd across the Avenue. Boys and girls had climbed to the top of the pedestal of the Atlas and were passing bottles back and forth. His eyes were drawn to a familiar face: Standing in front of the pedestal, with his hands resting on a police barricade, was Patrick Burke. The man towered above the crowd around him and seemed strangely unaffected by the animated throng pressing against him on the sidewalk. Murphy realized that Burke's presence reassured him, though he didn't know why he felt he needed that assurance.

The Cardinal turned his head toward Harold Baxter and spoke in a voice that had that neutral tone of diplomacy so like his own. "Will you be staying with us for the entire day, Mr. Baxter?"

Baxter was no longer used to being called mister, but he didn't think the Cardinal meant anything by it. He turned his head to meet the Cardinal's eyes. "If I may, Your Eminence."

"We would be delighted."

"Thank you." He continued to look at the Cardinal, who had now turned away. The man was old, but his eyes were bright. Baxter cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Your Eminence, but I was thinking that perhaps I should stand away from the center of things a bit."

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The Cardinal waved to well-wishers in the crowd as he spoke. "Mr. Baxter, you are the center of things today. You and Miss Malone. This little display of ours has captured the imagination of political commentators. It is, as they say, newsworthy. Everyone loves these precedents, this breaking with the past." He turned and smiled at Baxter, a wide Irish smile. "If you move an inch, they will be pulling their hair in Belfast, Dublin, London, and Washington." He turned back to the crowds and continued moving his arm in a blending of cheery waving and holy blessing.

"Yes, of course. I wasn't taking into account the political aspect-only the security aspect. I wouldn't want to be the cause of anyone being injured or---

"God is watching over us, Mr. Baxter, and Commissioner Dwyer assures me that the Police Department is doing the same."

"That's reassuring on both counts. You've spoken to him recently? The Police Commissioner, I mean."

The Cardinal turned and fixed Baxter with a smile that showed he understood the little joke but did not find it amusing.

Baxter stared back for a moment, then turned away. It was going to be a long day.

Patrick Burke regarded the steps. He noticed his friend Father Murphy near the Cardinal. It must be a strange life for a man, he reflected. The celibacy. The paternal and maternal concern of monsignors and mother superiors. Like being an eternal boy. His mother had wanted that for him.

A priest in the family was the ultimate status for those old Irish, but he had become a cop instead, which was almost as good in the old neighborhoods, and no one was disappointed, least of all himself.

He saw that the Monsignor was smiling and talking with the ex-IRA woman.

Burke focused on her. She looked pretty, even from this distance. Angelic, almost. Her blond hair moved nicely in the breeze, and she kept brushing wisps of hair from her face.

Burke thought that if he were Harold Baxter or Mau-87

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reen Malone he would not be on those steps at all, and certainly not together. And if he were the Cardinal, he would have invited them for yesterday, when they could have shared the steps with indifferent pigeons, bag ladies, and winos. He didn't know whose idea it had been to wave this red flag in the face of the Irish rebels, but if it was supposed to bring peace, someone had badly miscalculated.

He looked up and down the Avenue. Workers and high school kids, all playing hooky to get in on the big bash, mingled with street vendors, who were making out very well. Some young girls had painted green shamrocks and harps on their faces and wore Kiss Me, I'm Irish buttons, and they were being taken up on it by young men, most of whom wore plastic leprechaun bowlers. The older crowd settled for green carnations and Erin Go Bragh buttons.

Maureen Malone had never seen so many people. All along the Avenue, American and Irish flags hung from staffs jutting out of the gray masonry buildings. A group in front of the British Empire Building was hoisting a huge green banner, and Maureen read the familiar words: ENGLAND GET OUT OF

IRELAND. Margaret Singer had told her that this was the only political slogan she would see, the only one sanctioned by the Grand Marshal, who had also specified that the banners be neatly made with white lettering on green background. The police had permission to seize any other banner. She hoped Baxter saw it; she didn't see how he could miss it. She turned to Monsignor Downes. "All these people are certainly not Irish."

Monsignor Downes smiled. "We have a saying in New York. 'On Saint Patrick's Day, everyone is Irish!"'

She looked around again, as though she still didn't believe what she was seeing. Little Ireland, poor and underpopulated, with its humble patron saint, almost unknown in the rest -of the Christian world, causing all this fuss. It gave her goose bumps, and she felt a choking in her throat. Ireland's best exports, it was said bitterly, were her sons and 88