Danny turned to Finch. “So find ’em and deport ’em. That’s your plan, right?”

“Bet your ass. But until I find 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.”

“When?”

“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:

Go-Head!

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?”