“Maureen? Is everything all right?” It was Margaret Singer, “Shall I come up and get you? We’re expected at the Irish Pavilion—”
“I’ll be right down.” She hung up and rose slowly from the chair. The Irish Pavilion for a reception, then the steps of St. Patrick’s, the parade, and the reviewing stands at the end of the day. Then the Irish Cultural Society Benefit Dinner for Ireland’s Children. Then Kennedy Airport. What a lot of merrymaking in the name of helping soothe the ravages of war. Only in America. The Americans would turn the Apocalypse into a dinner dance.
She walked across the sitting room and into the bedroom. On the floor she saw a single green carnation, and she knelt to pick it up.
CHAPTER 9
Patrick Burke looked out of the telephone booth into the dim interior of the Blarney Stone on Third Avenue. Cardboard shamrocks were pasted on the bar mirror, and a plastic leprechaun hat hung from the ceiling. Burke dialed a direct number in Police Plaza. “Langley?”
Inspector Philip Langley, head of the New York Police Department’s Intelligence Division, sipped his coffee. “I got your report on Ferguson.” Langley looked down from his thirteenth-story window toward the Brooklyn Bridge. The sea fog was burning off. “It’s like this, Pat. We’re getting some pieces to a puzzle here, and the picture that’s taking shape doesn’t look good. The FBI has received information from IRA informers that a renegade group from Ireland has been poking around the New York and Boston IRA—testing the waters to see if they can have a free hand in something that they’re planning in this country.”
Burke wiped his neck with a handkerchief. “In the words of the old cavalry scout, I see many hoofprints going in and none coming out.”
Langley said, “Of course, nothing points directly to New York on Saint Patrick’s Day—”
“There is a law that says that if you imagine the worst possible thing happening at the worst possible moment, it will usually happen, and Saint Patrick’s Day is a nightmare under the best of circumstances. It’s Mardi Gras, Bastille Day, Carnivale, all in one. So if I were the head of a renegade Irish group and I wanted to make a big splash in America, I would do it in New York City on March seventeenth.”
“I hear you. How do you want to approach this?”
“I’ll start by digging up my contacts. Barhop. Listen to the barroom patriots talk. Buy drinks. Buy people.”
“Be careful.”
Burke hung up, then walked over to the bar.
“What’ll you be having?”
“Cutty.” Burke placed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. He recognized the bartender, a giant of a man named Mike. Burke took his drink and left the change on the bar. “Buy you one?”
“It’s a little early yet.” The bartender waited. He knew a man who wanted something.
Burke slipped into a light brogue. “I’m looking for friends.”
“Go to church.”
“I won’t be finding them there. The brothers Flannnagan. Eddie and Bob. Also John Hickey.”
“You’re a friend?”
“Meet them every March seventeenth.”
“Then you should know that John Hickey is dead—may his soul rest in peace. The Flannagans are gone back to the old country. A year it’s been. Drink up now and move along. You’ll not be finding any friends here.”
“Is this the bar where they throw a drunk through the window every Saint Patrick’s Day?”
“It will be if you don’t move along.” He stared at Burke.
A medium-built man in an expensive topcoat suddenly emerged from a booth and stood beside Burke. The man spoke softly, in a British accent. “Could I have a word with you?”
Burke stared at the man, who inclined his head toward the door. Both men walked out of the bar. The man led Burke across the street, stopping on the far corner. “My name is Major Bartholomew Martin of British Military Intelligence.” Martin produced his diplomatic passport and military I.D. card.
Burke hardly glanced at them. “Means nothing.”
Martin motioned to a skyscraper in the center of the block. “Then perhaps we’d better go in there.”
Burke knew the building without looking at it. He saw two big Tactical Policemen standing a few yards from the entrance with their hands behind their backs. Martin walked past the policemen and held open the door. Burke entered the big marble lobby and picked out four Special Services men standing at strategic locations. Martin moved swiftly to the rear of the lobby, behind a stone facade that camouflaged the building’s elevators. The elevator doors opened, and both men moved inside. Burke reached out and pushed floor nine.
Martin smiled. “Thank you.”
Burke looked at the man standing in a classical elevator pose, feet separated, hands behind his back, head tilted upward, engrossed in the progression of illuminated numbers. Despite his rank there was nothing military about Bartholomew Martin, thought Burke. If anything he looked like an actor who was trying to get into character for a difficult role. He hadn’t mastered control of the mouth, however, which was hard and unyielding, despite the smile. A glimpse of the real man, perhaps.
The elevator stopped, and Burke followed the major into the corridor. Martin nodded to a man who stood to the left, dressed in a blue blazer with polished brass buttons.
On the wall of the corridor, opposite Burke, was the royal coat of arms and a highly polished bronze plaque that read: BRITISH INFORMATION SERVICES. There was no sign to indicate that this was where the spies usually hung out, but as far as Burke knew, nobody’s consulate or embassy information office made that too clear.
Burke followed Martin through a door into a large room. A blond receptionist, dressed in a blue tweed suit that matched the Concorde poster above her desk, stood as they approached and said in a crisp British accent, “Good morning, Major.”
Martin led Burke through a door just beyond the desk, through a microfilm reading room, and into a small sitting room furnished in a more traditional style than the rest of the place. The only detail that suggested a government office was a large travel poster that showed a black and white cow standing in a sunny meadow, captioned: “Find peace and tranquility in an English village.”
Martin drew the door shut, locked it, and hung his topcoat on a clothes tree. “Have a seat, Lieutenant.”
Burke left his coat on, walked to the sideboard and took the stopper out of a decanter, smelled it, then poured a drink. He looked around the well-furnished room. The last time he’d been in the consulate was a week before last St. Patrick’s Day. A Colonel Hayes that time. Burke leaned back against the sideboard. “Well, what can you do for me?”
Major Martin smiled. “A great deal, I think.”
“Good.”
“I’ve already given Inspector Langley a report on a group of Irish terrorists called the Fenians, led by a Finn MacCumail. You’ve seen the report?”
“I’ve been apprised of the details.”
“Fine. Then you know something may happen here today.” Major Martin leaned forward. “I’m working closely with the FBI and CIA, but I’d like to work more closely with your people—pool our information. The FBI and CIA tell us things they don’t tell you, but I’d keep you informed of their progress as well as ours. I’ve already helped your military intelligence branches set up files on the IRA, and I’ve briefed your State Department intelligence service on the problem.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yes. You see, I’m a sort of clearinghouse in this affair. British Intelligence knows more about the Irish revolutionaries than anyone, of course, and now you seem to need that information, and we have a chance to do you a good turn.”
“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.”
