Avenue, as though the message had come from that direction as in a child’s game of Pass-ItOn. She looked north but could see nothing unusual except the unsettled crowd. Then she noticed that the pace of the marchers had slowed. She turned to Harold Baxter and said quietly, “Something is wrong.”
The bells struck the last of the five chimes, then began their traditional five o’clock hymns with “Autumn.”
Baxter nodded. “Keep alert.”
The County Cork unit passed slowly in front of the Cathedral, and behind them the County Mayo unit marked time as the parade became inexplicably stalled. Parade marshals and formation marshals spoke to policemen. Maureen noticed that the Cardinal looked annoyed but not visibly concerned about the rising swell of commotion around him.
Office workers and store clerks began streaming out of the lobbies of Rockefeller Center, the Olympic Tower, and the surrounding skyscrapers onto the already crowded sidewalks. They jostled to get away from the area, or to get a better view of the parade.
Suddenly there was a loud cry from the crowd. Maureen turned to her left. From the front doors of Saks Fifth Avenue burst a dozen men dressed in black suits and derbies. They wore white gloves and bright orange sashes across their chests, and most of them carried walking sticks. They pushed aside a police barricade and unfurled a long banner that read: GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. ULSTER WILL BE BRITISH FOREVER.
Maureen’s pulse quickened, and her mind flashed back to Ulster, to the long summer marching season when the Orangemen paraded through the cities and villages, proclaiming their loyalty to God and Queen and their hate of their Catholic neighbors.
The crowd began to howl and hiss. An old IRA veteran fortified with spirits crashed through the police barrier and ran into the street, racing at the Orangemen, screaming as he ran, “Fucking bloody murdering bastards! I’ll kill you!”
A half dozen of the Orangemen hoisted bullhorns and broke into song:“A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope!A pennyworth o’ cheese to choke him!A pint o’ lamp oil to wrench it down,And a big hot fire to roast him!”
Several of the enraged crowd broke from the sidewalks and ran into the street, spurred on by a few men who seemed to have materialized suddenly as their leaders. This vanguard was soon joined by streams of men, women, and teen-agers as the barriers began falling up and down the Avenue.
The few mounted police who had not headed to the reviewing stands formed a protective phalanx around the Orangemen, and a paddy wagon escorted by patrol cars began moving up Fiftieth Street to rescue the Orangemen from the crowd that had suddenly turned into a mob. The police swung clubs to keep the surging mob away from the still singing Orangemen. All the techniques of crowd control, learned in the Police Academy and learned on the streets, were employed in an effort to save the dozen Orangemen from being lynched, and the Orangemen themselves seemed finally to recognize their perilous position as hundreds of people ran out of control. They laid down their bullhorns and banner and joined the police in fighting their way to the safety of the approaching paddy wagon.
Patrick Burke ran south on Fifth Avenue, weaving in
and out of the spectators and marchers who filled the street. He drew up in front of a parked patrol car, out of breath, and held up his badge. “Can you call mobile at the Cathedral?”
The patrolman shook his head and pointed to the static-filled radio.
“Take me to the Cathedral. Quick!” He grabbed the rear-door handle.
The uniformed sergeant sitting beside the driver called out. “No way! We can’t move through this mob. If we hit someone, they’ll tear us apart.”
“Shit.” Burke slammed the door and recrossed the Avenue. He vaulted the wall into Central Park and ran south along a path paralleling the Avenue. He came out of the park at Grand Army Plaza and began moving south through the increasingly disorderly mob. He know it could take him half an hour to move the remaining nine blocks to the Cathedral, and he knew that the parallel avenues were probably not much better, even if he could get to them through a side street. He was not going to make it.
Suddenly a black horse appeared in front of him. A young policewoman, with blond hair tucked under her helmet, was sitting impassively atop the horse. He pushed alongside the woman and showed his badge. “Burke, Intelligence Division. I have to get to the Cathedral. Can you push this nag through this mob with me on the back?”
She regarded Burke, taking in his disheveled appearance. “This is not a nag, Lieutenant, but if you’re in so much of a hurry, jump on.” She reached down. Burke took her hand, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung heavily onto the rear of the horse.
The policewoman spurred the horse forward. “Giddyap! Come on, Commissioner!”
“I’m only a lieutenant.”
The policewoman glanced over her shoulder as the horse began to move forward. “That’s the horse’s name —Commissioner.”
“Oh. What’s your … ?”
“Police Officer Foster … Betty.”
“Nice. Good names. Let’s move it.”
The trained police horse and the rider were in their element, darting, weaving, cutting into every brief opening, and scattering knots of people in their path without seriously injuring anyone.
Burke held tightly to the woman’s waist. He looked up and saw that they were approaching the intersection at Fifty-seventh Street. He shouted into her ear, “You dance good, Betty. Come here often?”
The policewoman turned her head and looked at him. “This run had damned well better be important, Lieutenant.”
“It’s the most important horse ride since Paul Revere’s.”
Major Bartholomew Martin stood at the window of a small room on the tenth floor of the British Empire Building in Rockefeller Center. He watched the riot that swirled around the Cathedral, then turned to the man standing beside him. “Well, Kruger, it appears that the Fenians have arrived.”
The other man, an American, said, “Yes, for better or for worse.” He paused, then asked, “Did you know this was going to happen?”
“Not exactly. Brian Flynn does not confide in me. I gave him some ideas, some options. His only prohibition was not to attack British property or personnel—like blowing up this building, for instance. But you never quite know with these people.” Major Martin stared off into space for a few seconds, then spoke in a faraway voice. “You know, Kruger, when I finally caught up with the bastard in Belfast last winter, he was a beaten man—physically as well as mentally. All he wanted was for me to kill him quickly. And I wanted very much to accommodate him, I assure you, but then I thought better of it. I turned him around, as we say, then pointed him at America and set him loose. A dangerous business, I know, like grabbing that tiger by the tail. But it’s paid off, I think.”
Kruger stared at him for a long time, then said, “I hope
we’ve calculated American public reaction correctly.”
Martin smiled as he took some brandy from a flask. “If the American public was ambivalent about the Irish problem yesterday, they are not so ambivalent today.” He looked at Kruger. “I’m sure this will help your service a bit.”
Kruger replied, “And if it doesn’t help, then you owe us a favor. In fact, I wanted to speak to you about something we have planned in Hong Kong.”
“Ah, intrigue. Yes, yes, I want to hear all about it. But later. Enjoy the parade.” He opened the window, and the sound of crashing windows, police sirens, and thousands of people filled the small room. “
CHAPTER 14
Maureen Malone felt someone tap her on the shoulder. She turned to see a man holding a badge in front of her face. “Bureau of Special Services, Miss Malone. Some of the crowd is turning their attention up here. We have to
