Burke sat up straight. Harrigan was the firm’s soliciter. “Oh?”

Tommy nodded. “He says ‘Hello.’”

“Did you happen to mention the business with Kovalenko and the Garda?”

“I did, indeed.”

“And what did he say?” Burke asked.

Tommy pursed his lips, then smacked them. “He said… it’s certain to cost a penny, but they don’t have a case. Not a’tall. We’ll win in the end.”

Burke nodded thoughtfully, and sipped his drink. “Meanwhile…”

“We might have a bit of a rough patch… in the short term.”

Burke took a deep breath, and slammed his glass down on the table. “You know what? I’m going to Belgrade!” He said it so loud, there was a dip in the room’s noise level as people turned to look.

“And what do you want to go there for?”

“It’s where d’Anconia went. I’ll find the bastard and I’ll bring him back.”

The old man’s face screwed up into a caricature of skepticism. “There’s no point! That goony bird of your’s… he already done that.”

“What goony bird? You mean, Kovalenko?”

“The very man! He’s already checked it out. You’ll just be wasting your time.”

Burke shrugged. “Maybe not…” After 9/11, Burke did not hold the FBI or the CIA in awe. As everyone knew by now, two of the hijackers had roomed with an FBI informant. Others had been trained in knife fighting by a retired Delta commando in Florida. The FBI had declined to examine one of the hijackers’ computers, even after he’d been reported seeking to limit his flying lessons to steering jumbo jets in midflight (no takeoff or landing lessons required). Still other hijackers had been given visas to enter the United States even after the CIA had tracked them to a meeting in Kuala Lumpur, where plans had been discussed to put bombs aboard a dozen commercial airliners. This much Burke had read in the newspapers. Who knew what else was out there? “I’m guessing they missed something,” he said.

The old man shrugged. Then had a second thought. “And I suppose you’ll be traveling on your driver’s license, will ya?”

Burke shook his head, and finished his pint. Then he reached into the pocket of his battered waxed jacket, and produced an Irish passport. “Dual citizen,” he said.

The old man cackled.

CHAPTER 23

Burke felt like a terrorist as he handed his virginal Irish passport to the man behind the glass. The Immigrations officer leafed through its pages with unconcealed boredom, then pushed it back without bothering to stamp it. With an airy gesture, he waved Burke on his way and nodded to the next person in line.

Burke felt the thrill that little boys feel when they’ve gotten away with something, especially when the getting away defeats the machinations of a martinet like Kovalenko. Through the wonders of dual citizenship, Burke was able to travel with impunity, a citizen of Ireland and the European Union.

Erin go bragh, he thought as he went outside to the taxi queue in front of the terminal. Soon, he was bouncing along in the back of a Zastava cab. The outskirts of the Serbian capital were like those of any other European city, an uneasy conglomeration of warehouses and farms, office buildings and apartment blocks. Heading downtown, Burke was impressed by an efflorescence of graffiti, the unfamiliar Cyrillic tags bristling with swastikas and crosshairs.

The city itself was a surprise. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find – surly Serbs moving amid the ruins of NATO bombings, perhaps.

Instead, he found a graceful city at the juncture of two rivers, the Sava and the Danube. There was snow on the ground, but the fresh green of spring adorned the trees. The cabdriver apologized for the weather.

“Freak weather, this spring. Very cold. Now I am asking, where is global warming when you need it?”

The riverfront was lined with floating bars and restaurants, the populace seemed well dressed and prosperous, the streets were clean. The taxi chuffed past graceful and beautiful buildings from another era.

And then there was the Esplanade.

Boxy and utilitarian, the hotel was a concrete cube entirely devoid of architectural flourish or embellishment. As without, so within: Burke’s room was a clean cell, redolent of some Serbian PineSol.

Why did d’Anconia decide to stay at this place? According to Kovalenko he had three or four million dollars coming in. You’d think he’d be ready to splurge.

Or maybe not. He hadn’t seemed like someone who was used to having money. He dressed well, but the clothes looked new, and Burke got the impression that he was playing a role. He was definitely rough around the edges, staring at Burke’s ruined ear and commenting on it. So maybe he was used to places like this.

The front desk was manned by Vuk Milic, a man of about Burke’s own age. With his suit, tie, oiled hair, and earnest expression, Milic was someone Burke might have encountered at the desk of a Comfort Inn outside D.C. His English was good, if accented.

When he was talking about room rates and checkout times, Milic was fluent and almost chatty. When the conversation turned to one of the hotel’s previous guests, a man named d’Anconia, Milic frowned. “The particulars of guests cannot be discussed,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “This is not a possibility.”

Burke folded a twenty-euro note and slid it across the desk so that it came to rest in front of the desk clerk. Milic regarded the bill with a cold eye. “You would like me to change this?”

Burke shook his head. “No,” he said, “I don’t need any change.”

The bill vanished.

Milic began to type. After a moment, he flashed a smile, and said, “Gaspodin d’Anconia has been here from twenty-four January to second February.”

“‘Gaspodin’?” Burke asked.

“‘Mister.’” Milic returned his eyes to the monitor. “He rents two films for TV: La Genou de Claire, and Sorority Whores.”

“Hunh…”

The desk clerk was unstoppable. “Three times, he eats in restaurant, each time fish. Makes two telephone calls, long distance. One-two-three, five times he has drinks in bar. Always beer.

Burke stared, dumbfounded. What if he’d given the guy a hundred? Admittedly, none of the information was useful, but… “Who’d he call?”

Milic peered closely at the monitor. After a moment, he scribbled some numbers onto a three-by-five card, and handed the card to Burke.

“That’s it,” Milic said. “There’s nothing else.”

Burke believed him. He turned to go, then turned back again. “You know why he was in Belgrade? I mean, was he on business or-”

“He is here for Tesla,” Milic told him.

Burke frowned. “What’s Tesla?” He seemed to recall, there was a rock band, but…

The desk clerk was looking almost hurt. “Nikola Tesla,” he said. “The inventor. He is Serb.”

Jackpot, Burke thought. “So he was meeting this inventor?”

Milic snorted in derision, and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Tesla is dead, maybe fifty years.”

“Oh,” Burke said, the enthusiasm draining from his voice.

“Your friend-”

Burke started to correct him, but thought better of it.

“-he’s here for meetings. I don’t know the word in English. But many people come…”

“So, it’s like a symposium,” Burke suggested.

The desk clerk shrugged. Then he cocked his head and peered at Burke. “You don’t know Tesla?”

Burke looked apologetic. “I forgot,” he offered.

Milic couldn’t believe it. “But this is the most famous Serb of all time! He is more famous than-” he looked up, as if searching the ceiling for the names of celebrated Serbs. Finally, he grinned. “More famous than Vlade Divac!”

“Really!”

“Yes! Is true. He’s inventing electricity!”