John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

Burke leaned forward. “I followed you here,” he said.

Kovalenko’s eyebrows knitted together. He must have misunderstood. Leaning toward Burke, he cocked his head to the side, the better to hear. “Sorry?”

Burke got up from his seat, and squeezed onto the banquette next to Kovalenko, who suddenly found himself boxed in. “I followed you here,” Burke repeated.

Kovalenko blinked. Frowned. His eyes jumped left and right, then came to rest on Burke’s hands. Seeing them on the table, the Legat seemed relieved. “Why did you do that?”

Burke shook his head, and chuckled bitterly. “You don’t even remember who I am, do you?”

Kovalenko lifted his glass. Took a sip. Set it back down. He looked Burke up and down. Then he chuckled. “Dublin,” he said.

“Right.”

“You’re the Ayn Rand guy. It’s Burke, right?”

“Right.”

Kovalenko gave Burke an appraising look. “Okay, so… what can I do you for, Mr. Burke?”

“Well, I was hoping… maybe you’ll recall. You shut us down. My father-in-law’s company. I was hoping we could fix that.”

Kovalenko relaxed. He leaned back against the wall, and all the tension went out of his body. He looked at Burke as if Burke were a pane of glass, and sighed.

Which made Burke even angrier. But he kept it in. Reaching into his pocket, Burke pulled out a three-by-five card on which he’d carefully printed the following information:

Jack Wilson

P.O. Box 2000

White Deer, PA 17887

(Allenwood Prison)

Stanford University

“Calculating Vector Drag in Scalar Pair-Coupling”

“You were right about the guy you’re looking for,” Burke told him, handing the card to Kovalenko. “He’s dangerous.”

Kovalenko glanced at the card. “This is Mr. d’Anconia?”

Burke nodded.

“But I’m guessing this isn’t his current address,” Kovalenko said. “If it was, he wouldn’t be a problem.”

“No, he got out-”

“What’s this?” the Legat asked, holding the card up for Burke to see, snapping it with his finger. “Vector drag – what’s a vector drag?”

“That’s the reason Wilson went to Belgrade,” Burke told him. “He was researching a man named Tesla.”

“The inventor?”

“Right.” Burke was surprised the FBI agent had heard of him.

“So what does Mr. Wilson want with a dead inventor?” the Legat demanded. “Some kind of science project?”

Burke ignored the sarcasm. “I think he’s trying to build a weapon.”

Kovalenko chuckled. “A weapon! Well, that’s just great. Maybe he’ll invent the catapult.”

Burke acknowledged the joke with a smile, and a nod. He wanted to tell the man in front of him why Wilson should be taken seriously, but when Burke began to explain, the Legat cut him off, holding his hand up like a traffic cop.

“So, if I wanted to talk to Mr. Wilson, where would I find him?”

Burke shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, how close can you get?” Kovalenko asked. “Is he in China? Brazil?”

“I don’t know where he is. What I gave you – his name – Allenwood – Stanford – that’s it. And it wasn’t easy to get.” He paused. “Look,” he said, “I think you should take this guy seriously. He’s-”

“Let me tell you something,” Kovalenko said in a bored voice. “I’ve got a lot on my plate. I got terrorist cells – real guys with bombs – up north. I’ve got problems with container ships and dirty bombs, snake-heads and Chechens. Not to mention the Nigerians, who are into everything. And guess what? I’m facing surgery. On my gallbladder! You realize how serious that is?”

Burke wanted to kill him. “How serious what is?” Burke asked. “The bombs or your gallbladder?”

Kovalenko smiled, as if Burke had just given him permission for something. “Let me explain it to you,” he said. “What this is all about – you and me, sitting here together, having a chat like we are – is cooperation. You want your business open? You want the indictment dropped? Help me find the guy.”

“I have, ” Burke told him.

Kovalenko shook his head, and sighed, feigning infinite patience. “Not really.” He took another sip of wine. “Truth is, yes! I’d love to have a chat with Mr.” – he glanced at the card – “ Wilson. But I got to be frank with you. He’s nowhere near the top of my To Do list. And anyway,” he said, waving the card as if to dry it, “what good does this do me? It’s yesterday’s news.”

“It’s his name. The prison must have records. Stanford… You could find him.”

Kovalenko shrugged. “Maybe. But how does that help you ? If I find him?”

Burke couldn’t believe it.

Kovalenko laughed. “You want to reopen, right?”

Burke nodded.

“Okay,” Kovalenko said, “what’s it called?” He frowned, pretending to think hard. “Asshole Associates, right? Something like that. You want to reopen Asshole Associates. No problem. Here’s what you do: You find your client! But find him before I do. Because if I find him first, it doesn’t do fuck-all for you. You understand what I’m saying? Don’t tell me where he was a couple of months ago. Because that doesn’t help me.”

Burke took a deep breath, and counted to five. “Let’s say I do find him-”

“Then we’ll have a deal,” Kovalenko told him, suddenly magnanimous. “I’ll tell the Garda to back off, and you can go back to doing what you do best: setting up fronts for people who cheat on their taxes.”

Burke took an even deeper breath. He wanted to hit the guy. Instead, he said, “How do I know you’ll do what you say?”

Kovalenko shrugged. “Because I always do what I say. Meantime, don’t call me. Don’t harass my assistant. She’s busy, and, as incredible as it may seem, I’ve got other priorities.”

Other priorities. It was all Burke could take. He sat where he was, watching the red mist descend in front of his eyes, trying to decide whether to bitch-slap the guy or head-butt him. It wouldn’t help things, he realized that, but it would give him a feeling of great satisfaction – if only for a little while.

Kovalenko had no way of knowing, but Burke had a temper. The kind that was hard to control. His parents had worked hard to exorcise it, taking him all the way into Charlottesville for karate lessons, where the civilizing effect of bowing to one’s opponent soothed his mother.

If I smack this guy in the face, Burke thought, there won’t be any real damage, not really. Unless he pulls a gun, and blows my head off. So maybe I should just put him out: grab him by his fucking tie, give it a jerk, and head-butt him. For a moment, this seemed like a plan. But only for a moment. Assaulting an FBI agent could only end with Burke behind bars and the old man totally banjaxed. Even so…

He was still thinking about it when he saw the young girl next to him, cringing toward her boyfriend, practically crawling into his lap. She looked terrified. And so, Burke saw, did Kovalenko, though he was better at hiding it.

He got to his feet. The adrenaline fade left him jangled and disoriented. Turning, he pushed his way through the crowded pub, and out to the sidewalk. For a moment, he stood there with his eyes closed, face turned to the sky, feeling the drizzle.

A rough day on the Irish Sea. The ferry pitched and plunged in the rain, plowing through a sea of whitecaps. Burke stood by the rail on the deck, shivering in the spray from the bow. His eyes were on the water, but his mind was in London. It would have been grand to inflict a bit of bodily harm on Kovalenko – a mistake, yes, but a delicious one. Now, he’d probably never see him again.