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?”

“How?”

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.”

“Why?”

“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?”

Danny nodded. “’Round here they’re just called the Letts.”

Finch cocked his head, as if this were news to him. “For whatever bullshit sentimental reason, they seem to be Bishop’s favorite group. He’s friends with the guy who runs it, a Hebe name of Louis Fraina with documented ties to Mother Russia. We’re hearing rumors Fraina might be the lead plotter in all this.”

“All what?” Danny said. “I was kept in the dark on a need-to-know basis.”

Finch looked over at Thomas Coughlin. Danny’s father raised his hands, palms up, and shrugged.

“They may be planning something big in the spring.”

“What exactly?”

“A national May Day revolt.”

Danny laughed. No one else did.

“You’re serious.”

His father nodded. “A bomb campaign followed by armed revolt, coordinated among all the radical cells in all the major cities across the country.”