John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

The truth was: Ray Kovalenko was a hypochondriac. Everybody knew it. Nobody talked about it. In his absence, Gomez had taken the opportunity to avail himself of Kovalenko’s office, where he’d checked out some of the websites the Legat had visited. And what he found was terrifying. Kovalenko surfed for diseases the way some guys surfed for porn.

The Centers for Disease Control, the World Organization for Animal Health, the User’s Guide to Rare Diseases websites – each was just a click away at the top of the Legat’s list of Favorites. The man needed help. But like a lot of people who need help, he did not want to hear about it. He was a medical paranoid who ran his life along need-to-know principles. And not just his private life. His professional life was equally opaque, perhaps because he understood that secrets were the hundred-dollar-bills of the Information Age.

So he didn’t delegate well. Which meant that when Kovalenko was unavailable, certain cases did not move forward. And woe unto anyone foolish enough to step in where he wasn’t wanted. In the end, Gomez thought, covering for Kovalenko was simple. You took messages and kept your head down. Anyone could do it.

Meanwhile, the guy on the other end of the line, the guy in Belgrade – Burke – was shouting: “What does that mean? He’s ‘unavailable for a few days.’ Do you even know what this is all about?” Burke asked.

“Of course,” Gomez lied.

A skeptical silence ensued. Finally, Burke asked, “Did you tell him I can identify d’Anconia?”

“He knows that,” Gomez replied. “His secretary gave him the message. That’s why I’m calling.”

“But he couldn’t call me himself?” Burke asked.

“If you’ll just give me the information,” Gomez insisted, “I’ll pass it along.” He sounded almost bored.

Burke made a sound, somewhere between a gargle and a growl. If he told this guy that d’Anconia was an ex-con named Jack Wilson who’d done time in a federal prison called Allenwood, that would be the end of it. The FBI would get on with the case, and Burke would be left with nothing, twisting in the wind.

Maybe Kovalenko would do the right thing. Maybe he’d reinstate Burke’s passport, and remove the sanctions against Aherne & Associates. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. When you came right down to it, the Legat did not seem like a stand-up guy.

“Y’know,” Burke said, “I’m just gonna wait until I see him. It’s kinda complicated, and… Tell Mr. Kovalenko I’ll be in touch.” And with that, he hung up.

Falling back on the bed, he watched the lights fluttering across the ceiling. He thought about going back to Dublin. That would be the easiest thing. He could give the information to Doherty. But what was the point of that? This was Kovalenko’s show.

And Kovalenko had left the house.

The best thing he could do, Burke decided, was find a way to improve his hand. Pick up as much as he could so that when it came time to sit down with Kovalenko, he’d have more to trade than a name.

He could fly back to Dublin that same night. But there was nothing for him to do there. If he returned to Ireland, he’d just sit around, missing Kate, and drinking with the old man.

But if he went to Lake Bled, he might actually learn something. D’Anconia – Wilson – was no doubt long gone. But this notebook guy, Ceplak, might know where he is. If Burke could find that out, Kovalenko would have to be more accommodating.

He reached for the three-by-five card that Milic had given him, and dialed the 386 country code for Slovenia. The phone rang and rang, and then a man’s well-lubricated voice answered: “Zdravo?”

Uh-oh, Burke thought. And took a flyer. “Mr. Ceplak?”

“Jeste?”

“I’m looking for Yuri Ceplak’s son…?”

“Yes! That’s me!”

Lake Bled was only sixty miles or so from Ljubljana, but once Burke passed the city of Kranj, about halfway, sleet began to tick at the windshield of his rental car. Traffic slowed and the road grew slick as it twisted into the foothills of the mountains. Fog bleached and thickened the air. Two hours later, he skated into Bled, white-knuckled behind the taillights of a black Mercedes.

The setting was spectacular. A small town at the edge of an emerald-green lake, Bled rested in the shadow of an eleventh-century castle perched at the edge of a steep cliff. The Julian Alps loomed in the background.

The town was crowded with skiers so it was more than an hour before Burke found a room at the Grand Hotel Toplice, a faded white elephant that looked as if Agatha Christie had spent her summers there.

The room was more expensive than he would have liked, which reminded him that he was going to have to do something about money. He was running through his savings fast. Though he’d been the beneficiary of Kate’s life insurance policy, he’d given it all to Doctors Without Borders.

In his room, he pulled aside the drapes that covered the French doors, and gazed through the falling snow at a gauzy sprawl of lights across the lake. He knew from an in-flight magazine that a seventeenth-century church was out there in the snow, standing on Slovenia’s only island. In the campanile was a legendary bell. Ring it, and your wishes came true.

Burke took two miniature bottles of Dewar’s from the minibar and emptied them into a tumbler. Going out to the balcony, he brushed the snow from a wicker chair, sat down and gazed across the lake.

Wishes were funny things, he thought, pulling his coat closer. To begin with, they were always in limited supply. No one ever had a thousand wishes. From the fairy tales that he’d read, you only got one – unless you were lucky, and then you got three. Either way, you didn’t want to waste them. You didn’t want to wish for something you could get on your own – like Lakers’ tickets – or something you could do on your own.

Like bitch-slap Kovalenko.

Neither were wishes prayers. Prayers were for possibilities, however unlikely (Dear God, let her get well).

Wishes were for lost causes, or outright miracles.

He sipped the Dewar’s and squinted into the wind, which was blowing toward him off the lake. In the distance, he could just make out the rough shape of the church, with its campanile. Kate would have loved it here, he thought. Then, looking toward the church, Wish you were here.

The morning was sky-blue, cold, and clear, sunlight knifing off the snow. To Burke’s surprise, the road to Luka Ceplak’s house was plowed, so it took only a few minutes to get there. Lugging two bottles of vodka in a Duty Free bag, he bounded up the neatly shoveled steps and rapped on the door. The air was fresh and redolent of woodsmoke. Beside the house, in an open-air shed, was a wall of wood so neatly stacked that it formed a flower at its center.

The man who answered the door looked like Geppetto. He was short, with a wiry physique and a pixie’s face that went nova when he saw the Duty Free bag.

“Ahhhh,” he said. “Mr. Burke? I see you come bearing gifts.” He rubbed his hands together. “Always welcome. Please to come in.”

A woodfire crackled in a limestone fireplace as the old man removed the bottles from the bag. Discarding the tissue paper that enclosed them, he revealed, first, a blue bottle of Skyy (“Ahhhh”), and a bottle of Grey Goose, which he kissed. Grinning, he lifted one bottle, then the other, several times, as if doing biceps curls, then finally held the Grey Goose forward. “Just a taste,” he said, “to warm up our conversation – yes?”

Burke didn’t drink in the morning. He was about to say no, when he thought better of it. “Great.”