“To what end? It’s not like they can storm Washington.”

“That’s what Nicholas said about St. Petersburg,” Finch said.

Danny removed his greatcoat and the blue coat underneath, stood there in his T-shirt as he unbuckled his gun belt and hung it on the closet door. He poured himself a glass of rye and didn’t offer anyone else the bottle. “So this Bishop fella, he’s connected to the Letts?”

A nod from Finch. “Sometimes. The Letts have no ostensible connection to the Galleanists, but they’re all radicals, so Bishop has connections to both of them.”

“Bolsheviks on one hand,” Danny said, “anarchists on the other.”

“And Nathan Bishop linking them together.”

“So I infiltrate the Letts and see if they’re making bombs for May Day or—what—if they’re connected to Galleani in some way?”

“If not him, then his followers,” Hoover said.

“And if they’re not?” Danny said.

“Get their mailing list,” Finch said.

Danny poured himself another drink. “What?”

“Their mailing list. It’s the key to breaking any group of subversives. When I raided the offices of Cronaca last year? They’d just finished printing their latest issue. I got the names of every single person they were sending it to. Based on that list, the Justice Department managed to deport sixty of them.”

“Uh-huh. I heard Justice once deported a guy for calling Wilson a cocksucker.”

“We tried,” Hoover said. “Unfortunately the judge decided jail was more fitting.”

Even Danny’s father was incredulous. “For calling a man a cocksucker?”

“For calling the president of the United States a cocksucker,” Finch said.

“And if I see Tessa or Federico?” Danny caught a whiff of her scent suddenly.

“Shoot ’em in the face,” Finch said. “Then say, ‘Halt.’”

“I’m missing a link here,” Danny said.

His father said, “No, you’re fine.”

“The Bolsheviks are talkers. The Galleanists are terrorists. One doesn’t necessarily equal the other.”

“Nor do they necessarily cancel one another out,” Hoover said.

“Be that as it may, they—”

“Hey.” Finch’s tone was sharp, his eyes too clear. “You say ‘Bolsheviks’ or ‘Communists’ like there are nuances here the rest of us are too thick to grasp. They’re not different—they’re fucking terrorists. Every last one. This country’s heading for one hell of a showdown, Officer. We think that showdown will happen on May Day. That you won’t be able to swing a cat without hitting some revolutionary with a bomb or a rifle. And if that occurs, this country will tear itself apart. Picture it—the bodies of innocent Americans strewn all over our streets. Thousands of kids, mothers, workingmen. And for what? Because these cocksuckers hate the life we have. Because it’s better than theirs. Because we’re better than them. We’re richer, we’re freer, we’ve got a lot of the best real estate in a world that’s mostly desert or undrinkable ocean. But we don’t hoard that, we share. Do they thank us for sharing? For welcoming them to our shores? No. They try to kill us. They try to tear down our government like we’re the fucking Romanovs. Well, we’re not the fucking Romanovs. We’re the only successful democracy in the world. And we’re done apologizing for it.”