"Now, as I was saying," Cosgrove huffed, "the IRA has continued its operations, even though it was declared illegal by the Dublin government in 1936. It has been able to do so in large part due to contributions from America. Were you aware of that?"

I shrugged.

"You lived and worked in Boston, Massachusetts," O'Brien said, her green eyes scanning the contents of a folder. "You, your father, and his brother all serve on the Boston police force. With a lot of other Irish-Americans."

"And no Englishmen," I said, answering what sounded like an accusation with another.

"Exactly, my dear boy," Cosgrove said. "Why, you have probably tossed some coins into a can at whatever pub you frequent in Boston. Irish relief, or something like that."

"Taverns," I said. "We call them taverns, or bars."

"I don't care what you call them, Boyle, all I want to do is be sure you understand the larger picture. You're no stranger to the IRA and Clan na Gael, surely!"

Clan na Gael. The Family of the Gaels, the fund-raising organization in the States for the cause of a free Ireland. It had been around since the last century, and when the Dublin government approved the treaty, some members agreed. Others didn't, and they kept up the flow of money and guns to the IRA. Dad and Uncle Dan were on the anti-treaty side. Nothing less than a free and united Ireland was how the cause was defined around our kitchen table.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, thinking about the Irish Hospitals' Sweepstake tickets my dad used to bring home from Clan na Gael meetings. He'd tell me it would be worth $150,000 if one of them won, and we'd treat them as if they were gold. I always believed each one he brought home was a winner; it meant a week of dreams.

"You must not have been much of a police officer," O'Brien said. "I suspect Clan na Gael was all over the Irish neighborhoods in Boston. I'd also guess that within the Boston Police Department, there would be an IRA group. A secret group, to the extent the IRA can keep a secret."