get you into the Cathedral. Mr. Baxter, you too. Please follow us.”
Baxter looked down at the crowd in the street and at the police line, arms locked, at the curb. “I think we’re perfectly safe here for now.”
The man answered, “Sir, you have to get out of here for the safety of the other people on the steps—please —”
“Yes, yes, I see. All right. Miss Malone, he’s quite right.”
Maureen and Baxter turned and mounted the steps. Maureen saw the red vestments of the Cardinal as he moved through the crowded steps in front of them, flanked by two men.
Other BSS men on the steps had moved around the Monsignor and the other priests and church people, eyeing the crowd closely. Two BSS men noticed that the Cardinal, Malone, and Baxter were being led away by unknown men and began to follow, pushing their way toward the portals. Two priests on the top step fell in behind them, and the two BSS men felt the press of something hard on their backs. “Freeze,” said one of the priests softly, “or we’ll blow your spines open.”
The police in the mobile headquarters van beside the Cathedral had lost radio communication as static filled the frequencies, but they were still reporting by telephone. Without warning an ambulance coming down Fifty-first Street swerved and sideswiped the headquarters van. The van shot forward, and the lines connecting it to the streetlamp snapped. The ambulance drivers abandoned their vehicle and disappeared quickly into the crowded lobby of the Olympic Tower.
Maureen Malone, Harold Baxter, and the Cardinal walked abreast down the main aisle of the crowded Cathedral. Two men walked behind them, and two men set the pace in front. Maureen could see that the priest in the pulpit was Father Murphy, and another priest was kneeling at the communion rail. As she moved closer to the kneeling priest she was aware that there was something familiar about him.
The Cardinal turned and looked back up the aisle, then asked his escort, “Where is Monsignor Downes? Why aren’t the others with us?”
One of the men answered, “They’ll be along. Please keep moving, Your Eminence.”
Father Murphy tried to continue the Mass, but he was distracted again by the shouts and sirens outside. He looked out over the two thousand worshipers in the pews and in the aisles, and his eye caught a movement of brilliant red in the main aisle. He stared at the disturbing sight of the Cardinal walking toward the altar, flanked by Malone and Baxter and escorted by security men. The thought that something was happening outside to mar this great day upset him. He forgot where he was in the Mass and said abruptly, “The Mass is ended. Go in peace.” He added hurriedly, “No. Wait. Stay until we know what is happening. Stay in your seats, please.”
Father Murphy turned and saw the priest who had been kneeling at the communion rail now standing on the top step of the pulpit. He recognized the tall priest with the deep green eyes and was, oddly, not surprised to see him again. He cleared his throat. “Yes?”
Brian Flynn slipped a pistol from under his black coat and kept it near his side. “Stand back.”
Murphy took a deep breath. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the new archbishop.” Flynn pushed Murphy into the rear of the pulpit and took the microphone. He watched the Cardinal approaching the altar, then began to address the worshipers who were still standing in the pews. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in a carefully measured cadence, “may I have your attention….”
Maureen Malone stopped abruptly in the open area a few feet from the altar rail. She stared up at the pulpit, transfixed by the tall, dark figure standing there in the dim light. The man behind her nudged her forward. She turned slowly. “Who are you?”
The man revealed a pistol stuck in his waistband. “Not the police, I assure you.” The New York accent had disappeared, replaced by a light brogue. “Keep walking. You, too, Baxter, Your Eminence.”
One of the men in front opened the gate in the marble altar railing and turned. “Come in, won’t you?”
Patrick Burke, seated uneasily on the horse, looked over the heads of the crowd. Two blocks beyond he could see mass confusion, worse than that which swirled around him. The shop windows of Cartier and Gucci were broken, as were most of the other windows along the Avenue. Uniformed police stood in front of the displays of many of the shops, but there was no apparent looting, only that strange mixture of fighting and reveling that the Irish affectionately called a donnybrook. Burke could see the Cathedral now, and it was obvious that whatever had sparked this turmoil had begun there.
The crowd immediately around him was made up of marching units that were staying together, passing bottles, and singing. A brass band was playing “East Side, West Side,” backed by an enthusiastic chorus. The policewoman spurred the horse on.
Midway down the block before the Cathedral the crowd became tighter, and the horse was straining to sidestep through. Bodies crushed against the riders’ legs, then fell away as the horse made another lunge. “Keep pushing! Keep going!” called Burke.
The policewoman shouted, “God, they’re packed so tight….” She pulled back on the reins, and the horse reared up. The crowd scattered, and she drove into the opening, then repeated the maneuver.
Burke felt his stomach heave and caught his breath. “Nice! Nice! Good work!”
“How far do I have to get?”
“When Commissioner is kneeling at the communion rail, I’ll tell you!”
Brian Flynn waited until the Cardinal and the others were safely inside the railing of the high altar, then said into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a small fire in the basement. Please stay calm. Leave quickly through the doors, including the front doors.”
A cry went up from the congregation, and a few men interspersed throughout the Cathedral shouted, “Fire! Fire! Run!”
The pews emptied rapidly, and the aisles streamed with people pushing toward the exits. Racks of votive candles went down, spilling and cracking on the floor. The bookshop near the south spire emptied, and the first wave of people filled the vestibules and surged through the three sets of front doors, pouring out onto the steps.
The spectators on the steps suddenly found themselves pushed by a sea of people coming through the portals, and were swept down across the sidewalk, into the police barricades, through the line of policemen, and into the riot on Fifth Avenue.
Monsignor Downes tried to fight against the tide and get into the Cathedral, but found himself in the street squeezed between a heavy woman and a burly police officer.
The two bogus priests who had been pressing guns into the backs of the Bureau of Special Services men blended into the moving throng and disappeared. The two BSS men turned and tried to remount the steps but were carried down into the Avenue by the crowd.
Police scooters toppled, and patrol cars were covered with people trying to escape the crush of the crowd. Marching units broke ranks and became engulfed in the mob. Police tried to set up perimeters to keep the area of the disturbance contained, but without radio communication their actions were uncoordinated and ineffective.
Television news crews filmed the scene until they were overwhelmed by the surging mob.
Inspector Philip Langley peered down from the New York Police Department command helicopter into the darkening canyons below. He turned to Deputy Police Commissioner Rourke and shouted above the beat of the rotor blades. “I think the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade is over.”
The Deputy Commissioner eyed him for a long second, then looked down at the incredible scene. Rush hour traffic was stalled for miles, and a sea of people completely covered the streets and sidewalks as far south as Thirty-fourth Street and as far north as Seventy-second Street. Close to a million people were in the small midtown area at this hour, and not one of them was going to get home in time for dinner. “Lot of unhappy citizens down there, Philip.”
Langley lit a cigarette. “I’ll hand in my resignation tonight.”
The Deputy Commissioner looked up at him. “I hope there’s somebody around to accept it.” He looked back
