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.”
“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 had 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.”
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.”
“Are these people into violence?”
“In the vernacular of the day, yes, they’re into violence.
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 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 Marxist-oriented 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 next to 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 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 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 MacCumail.”
“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.
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.
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
