“As for your girlfriend,” Finch said, “her real name is Tessa, but that’s probably the only true thing you know about her.” Finch came over to the window beside Danny and his father. He produced a folded handkerchief and opened it. “See this?”

Danny looked into the handkerchief and saw white powder.

“That’s fulminate of mercury. Looks just like table salt, doesn’t it? Put it on a rock and hit the rock with a hammer, though, and both the rock and the hammer will explode. Probably your arm, too. Your girlfriend was born Tessa Valparo in Naples. She grew up in a slum, lost her parents to cholera, and started working in a bordello at twelve. She killed a client when she was thirteen. With a razor and an impressive imagination. Fell in with Federico shortly after that and they came here.”

“Where,” Hoover said, “they quickly made the acquaintance of Luigi Galleani just north of here in Lynn. They helped him plan attacks in New York and Chicago and play sob sister to all those poor helpless workers from Cape Cod to Seattle. They worked on that disgraceful propaganda rag Cronaca Sovversiva as well. You’re familiar with it?”

Danny said, “You can’t work in the North End and not see it. People wrap their fish in it, for Christ’s sake.”

“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 offices. 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?”