"And yet it's illegal," Hoover said.
"Well, it's illegal to distribute through the mail," Rayme Finch said. "I'm the reason it's so actually. I raided their offi ces. I've arrested Galleani twice. I guarantee you, I'll deport him before the year's out."
"Why haven't you deported him already?"
"The law thus far favors subversives," Hoover said. "Thus far." Danny chuckled. "Eugene Debs is in jail for giving a fucking speech."
"One that advocated violence," Hoover said, and his voice was loud and strained, "against this country."
Danny rolled his eyes at the chunky little peacock. "My point is, if you can jail a former presidential candidate for giving a speech, why can't you deport the most dangerous anarchist in the country?"
Finch sighed. "American kids and an American wife. That's what got him his sympathy votes last time. He's going, though. Trust me. He's fucking going next time."
"They're all going," Hoover said. "Every last unwashed one of them." Danny turned to his father. "Say something."
"Say what?" his father said mildly.
"Say what you're doing here."
"I told you," his father said, "these gentlemen informed me that my own son was shacking up with a subversive. A bomb maker, Aiden." "Danny."
His father pulled a pack of Black Jack from his pocket and offered it to the room. John Hoover took a piece, but Danny and Finch declined. His father and Hoover unwrapped their sticks of gum and popped them in their mouths.
His father sighed. "If it hit the papers, Danny, that my son was taking the favors, shall we say, of a violent radical while her husband built bombs right under his nose--what would that say about my beloved department?"
Danny turned to Finch. "So find 'em and deport 'em. That's your plan, right?"
"Bet your ass. But until I fi nd them and until they go," Finch said, "they're planning on making some noise. Now we know they've got some things planned for May. I understand your father already briefed you on that. We don't know where or who they're going to hit. We have some ideas, but still, radicals aren't predictable. They'll go after the usual list of judges and politicians, but it's the industrial targets we have trouble protecting. Which industry will they choose? Coal, iron, lead, sugar, steel, rubber, textiles? Will they hit a factory? Or a distillery? Or an oil derrick? We don't know. But what we do know is that they're going to hit something big right here in your town."
"Could be tomorrow. Could be three months from now." Finch shrugged. "Or they might wait until May. Can't tell."
"But we assure you," Hoover said, "their insurrectionary act will be loud."
Finch reached into his jacket, unfolded a piece of paper, and handed it to Danny. "We found this in her closet. I think it's a first draft."
Danny unfolded the page. The note was composed of letters cut from the newspaper and glued to the page:
Deport us! We will dynamite you.
Danny handed the note back.
"It's a press release," Finch said. "I'd bank on it. They just haven't sent it out yet. But when it does hit the streets, you can be sure a boom is going to follow."
Danny said, "And you're telling me all this, why?"
"To see if you have an interest in stopping them."
"My son is a proud man," Thomas Coughlin said. "He wouldn't stand for word to get out on something like this and sully his reputation."
Danny ignored him. "Anyone in their right mind would want to stop them."
"But you're not just anyone," Hoover said. "Galleani tried to blow you up once."
Danny said, "What?"
"Who do you think ordered the bombing of Salutation Street?" Finch said. "You think that was random? It was revenge for the arrest of three of theirs in an antiwar protest the month before. Who do you think was behind those ten cops got blown up in Chicago last year? Galleani, that's who. And his minions. They've tried to kill Rockefeller. They've tried to kill judges. They've blown up parades. Hell, they exploded a bomb in St. Patrick's Cathedral. Galleani and his Galleanists. At the turn of the century people of this exact same philosophy killed President McKinley, the president of France, the prime minister of Spain, the empress of Austria, and the king of Italy. All in a six-year span. They may blow themselves up occasionally, but they're not comical. They're murderers. And they were making bombs right here under your nose while you were fucking one of them. Oh, no, let me amend that--while she was fucking you. So how personal does it have to get, Officer Coughlin, before you wake up?"
Danny thought of Tessa in his bed, of the guttural sounds they'd made, of her eyes widening as he'd pushed into her, of her nails tearing his skin, her mouth spreading into a smile, and outside, the clank of the fire escape as people moved up and down it.
"You've seen them up close," Finch said. "If you saw them again, you'd have a second or two's advantage over anyone who was going off a faded photograph."
"I can't find them here," Danny said. "Not here. I'm an American." "This is America," Hoover said.
Danny pointed at the floorboards and shook his head. "This is Italy."
"But what if we can get you close?"
Finch handed Danny a photograph. The quality was poor, as if it had been reproduced several times. The man in it looked to be about thirty with a thin, patrician nose and eyes narrowed to slits. He was clean-shaven. His hair was fair, and his skin appeared pale, though that was more of a guess on Danny's part.
"Doesn't look like a card-carrying Bolshie."
"And yet he is," Finch said.
Danny handed the photograph back. "Who is he?"
"Name's Nathan Bishop. He's a real beaut'. A British doctor and radical. These terrorists accidentally blow off a hand or slip away from a riot with wounds? They can't just stroll into an emergency room. They go to see our friend here. Nathan Bishop's the company quack for the Massachusetts radical movement. Radicals don't tend to fraternize outside their individual cells, but Nathan's the connective tissue. He knows all the players."
"And he drinks," Hoover said. "Quite copiously."
"So get one of your own men to cozy up to him."
Finch shook his head. "Won't work."
"Honestly? We don't have the budget." Finch looked embarrassed. "So we came to your father, and he told us you've already begun the prep work to go after a radical cell. We want you to circle the entire movement. Get us license plate numbers, membership counts. All the while, you keep your eyes peeled for Bishop. Your paths will cross sooner or later. You get close to him, you get close to the rest of these sons-a-bitches. You heard of the Roxbury Lettish Workingman's Society?"