“So what do we do?” Burke wondered.

“They expressed the hope that you’d get on the blower and arrange for a heart-to-heart.”

Burke didn’t hesitate. He called Doherty’s number, straightaway. The inspector put him on hold for what seemed like a very long time, and then, when he came back on the line, suggested that Burke should come down to his office the following afternoon.

“If it’s all the same to you, I could come over right away,” Burke told him. The sooner he cleared things up, the sooner the firm would reopen – and the better it would be.

The receiver crackled with an emphatic Tsk! “I’m afraid that won’t work for us,” Doherty told him. “Tomorrow afternoon would be the earliest. Would three o’clock be convenient? Pearse Street?”

“I was hoping-”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you were but, entirely on the q.t., of course, your man Kovalenko’s awfully keen on this d’Anconia fellow. I’ve just this minute had a chat with him, while you were holding, and I can assure you he’s determined to meet you in person. So that’s something we can all look forward to!”

The next day, Burke went to the precinct house with his passport, which he’d been asked to bring. An identification tag was glued to his lapel, and he was escorted into Inspector Doherty’s small and messy office.

Two men waited inside. The smaller of the two was a sandy-haired fellow with the frail physique of a heavy smoker. This was Inspector Doherty “in the flesh” (or what there was of it). The second man was Ray Kovalenko. Six-two and solidly built, his even features were embedded in a pink complexion above a tiny, purselike mouth.

Kovalenko gestured to an empty chair, and everyone sat down. Burke assumed a helpful look, turning his face from one man to the other, but neither of his interlocutors seemed in any hurry to begin.

The FBI agent removed a small plastic bottle of Purell from his pocket, and squirted a dab of the disinfectant into the palm of his hand. Then he rubbed his palms together, and studied his nails. Finally, he said, “This client of yours – d’Anconia. What can you tell me about him?”

“Well,” Burke began, “he had a Chilean passport-”

“We know that,” Kovalenko snapped.

His rudeness took Burke by surprise. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. So he began again. “Well, anyway, as I said, he had a Chilean passport, but from his accent, I’d say he was from the States.”

“So you knew it was a bogus name.”

Burke shook his head. “No.”

Kovalenko fixed him with a glare. “You didn’t think it was strange when a guy named ‘Francisco d’Anconia’ comes walking into your office, and wants to incorporate the Twentieth-Century Motor Company?”

“Well, the name was a little anachronistic,” Burke said, “but-”

“Don’t fuck with me,” Kovalenko warned.

Burke turned the palms of his hands toward the ceiling, and glanced at Doherty, hoping for an explanation. Doherty looked away.

Kovalenko’s little mouth curled into a sneer. He leaned toward Burke. “What about a Mr. Tim? Hypothetically, if a Mr. Tiny Tim came walking into your office-”

“Or Father Christmas,” Doherty suggested.

“Exactly! If Father Christmas came walking into your office, would you have a problem with that?” Kovalenko asked. “Take your time,” he added, before Burke could reply. “Because I really want to know.”

Burke looked from the FBI agent to the Garda, and back again. This isn’t going well, he thought.

Kovalenko sighed. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “You a reader?”

Burke shrugged. “Yeah. I read a little.”

The FBI agent looked pleased. “How much do you know about Ayn Rand?”

The question took Burke by surprise. “Wasn’t she… she was some kinda nut, wasn’t she?”

Kovalenko froze, as if he’d been smacked.

Uh-oh, Burke thought. Wrong answer. “I mean, she was conservative,” he said. “I seem to remember, she was pretty conservative.”

Kovalenko’s jaws worked up and down, as if he was chewing on something. Spittle sparkled on his lips, but no words came. Finally, he leaned forward, eyes bright with venom. “She was the most important writer of the twentieth century.”

“Really?!” Burke tried to sound interested and encouraging, but even to his own ears, the exclamation sounded skeptical and smart-ass.

“Yes, really! She wrote a little book called Atlas Shrugged,” Kovalenko snarled. “Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

Burke said nothing.

“Francisco d’Anconia was the hero.” Kovalenko’s brow creased in a frown, and he corrected himself. “One of the heroes. There were several.”

Burke tried to look fascinated. But Kovalenko wasn’t buying it. “Well, I guess I’ll have to read it,” Burke said. He waited. A clock ticked on the wall behind him. From the street came the distant beep of a municipal truck, backing up. Burke cleared his throat. “So, uhhh… how can I help?”

The FBI agent glanced at the Garda, his mouth open, jaws working silently. Finally, he said, “Well, Mr. Burke, you can begin by telling me everything you know about your pal, d’Anconia.”

“Well, he’s not a pal, actually. I mean, I saw only him for half an hour,” Burke said. “Tops. You’ve seen the file. It’s all there.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

With a shrug, Burke recited the details as he remembered them. “The guy called. Came in. He didn’t seem to know exactly what he wanted, but then, people don’t.”

“They don’t,” Kovalenko repeated.

“No. A lot of times, they don’t. This guy wanted a corporation, a discreet bank account. I walked him through it.”

“Discreet,” Kovalenko sneered. “That’s one way to put it. The way I see it, you set up a shell corporation for this guy – who you knew was not Chilean…”

Burke interrupted. “The passport looked genuine. The picture matched. And he looked kind of Hispanic.”

“And what made him come to Aherne and Associates?”

“He said he saw an ad,” Burke replied. “The Aer Lingus magazine.”

“So. Not a planner. Kind of a last-minute decision.”

Burke made a gesture. It happens.

“And you never heard of the guy before?” Kovalenko said.

“No. I mean… I think he called from the airport.”

“We’ll find out if there are any prior contacts. We’re already looking into you, I can promise you that, Mr. Michael Anderson Burke.”

Burke shrugged. They knew his middle name. Wow.

Kovalenko sat back in his chair, and frowned, as if he’d been puzzled by a sudden thought. “Why are you here?” he asked. Before Burke could answer, he clarified the question. “I mean, what are you doing in Ireland?” The way he said it, the Emerald Isle could have been located in the Straits of Hormuz.

“My wife was Irish,” he explained.

Kovalenko’s forehead descended into chevrons. “Was?”

Burke nodded. “She died. About eight months ago.”

Kovalenko looked alarmed. “Of what?”

Burke blinked in amazement. Finally, he said, “Sepsis.”

Kovalenko drew in a sharp breath and let out a little tsk – though he didn’t bother with any pro forma words of condolence. “Eight months ago. And yet you’re still here. For those of us with suspicious minds – and I’m paid for that – it’s just a little convenient, isn’t it? You say d’Anconia had an American accent. Just like you. And here you both are, in Ireland. He just shows up out of the blue and you set up a phony corporation for him-”

“Look,” Burke said, trying not to lose patience. “It wasn’t a phony corporation. This is our business. We set up companies. It’s what we do.”

“Did!”

Burke took a deep breath, but kept his temper in check. “If laws are broken, if papers are not filed in a timely way, if there’s a criminal enterprise or fraud, various authorities – Irishauthorities – pursue those matters.” He turned toward Doherty. “Tell me something. Why is the FBI hassling an Irish firm that’s been in business for thirty years? What’s going on?”