The day before, Burke had waited three hours to see Kovalenko, only to learn that the Legat was unable to “fit him in.” The soonest an appointment could be arranged, he was told, was in three weeks.

Three weeks! Meanwhile, Aherne & Associates would remain shuttered, the information about Wilson would go nowhere, and the old man would probably finish the job of drinking himself to death.

Burke had returned from his travels to Belgrade and Ljubljana to find Kate’s father wallowing in self-pity. “I’m like a clock that you wind with a spring,” he said with a chuckle, “and I can feel myself winding down…” Lest Burke didn’t get the point, he repeated the phrase with a raised eyebrow: “Winding down.” Burke hadn’t been gone for more than a week, but in that week Tommy had reached a point where sobriety was a foreign state. He’d taken to having an eye-opener with his morning coffee, which was a bit like kick-starting a Harley. Most afternoons, he had to be escorted home by one of his friends.

The way Burke saw it, a meeting with Kovalenko was urgent, regardless of any threat Wilson might pose.

From where he stood, Burke made repeated calls from his cell phone to the embassy, asking to speak with the Legat. Each time, he was told that Mr. Kovalenko was in conference, or “away from his desk,” or simply not taking calls. Each time, Burke left a message, assuring the assistant that his business was urgent.

But nothing happened.

If it had been up to Tommy, that would have been the end of it. The old man was of the firm opinion that they should leave the matter to the Irish courts. Their solicitor was confident that Aherne & Associates would prevail, since they’d done nothing wrong. But it might take a while for the case to be heard.

“How long?” Burke had asked.

“With luck,” the solicitor replied, “we should be on the docket by the end of June.”

“June!” Burke and Tommy shouted in unison.

The solicitor had winced. “Or July.”

Which was why Burke was standing in a flying drizzle outside the embassy. He’d waited and waited, and called and called. Now, he was stalking the sonofabitch.

He’d met Kovalenko only once – at the “interview” in the Garda’s office. But he’d recognize him in an instant. The doughy face, the purselike mouth, the piggy little eyes… Time after time, he thought he saw the G-man coming out. But it was always someone else.

Surveillance was an odd business. It was deeply boring, except when it wasn’t, and then it was pure adrenaline. It required the same kind of unfocused attention that long drives demanded. You had to be there and not be there at the same time. Like Schrodinger’s cat.

Burke was beginning to feel conspicuous. It was only a matter of time before a marine guard or a bobby would ask him what he was doing there.

To this worry was added the fear that he might have missed his quarry, that Kovalenko had exited through another door. There must be a parking lot somewhere, behind the building or underground. Maybe Kovalenko had a car, in which case Burke might never see him. He’d almost talked himself into giving up, when Kovalenko came around the corner.

Burke was pretty good at spotting cops. There was something about the way they held themselves, the way they walked. And Kovalenko might as well have been wearing a uniform. In a sense, he was wearing a uniform. His hair was actually combed, and combed in a way that the comb’s teethmarks were embalmed in gel. He wore the regulation Dick Tracy suit, blue shirt, and striped tie. In his right hand, just below the requisite Rolex, was a shining black attaché case. His stride was that of a man who was privileged to carry a gun in a country that despised them.

Burke followed him around the corner and into the Nightingale Arms, a small pub that was all mahogany and cut glass. The place was crowded and smoky, with a mix of young men talking equities and Bond Street shop girls being beautiful.

People were two deep at the bar, where Kovalenko stood. Burke watched him catch the bartender’s eye. Money changed hands and, a moment later, the Legat held a glass of red wine. It was obvious from the interchange that Kovalenko was a regular. He probably came here every night after work.

The FBI agent sat down on a banquette at a small table in the corner, next to a young couple staring into each other’s eyes over pints of lager. Burke touched a chair no one was using.

“Okay if I sit here?”

Kovalenko made a magnanimous gesture: Be my guest.

It annoyed Burke that the G-man did not recognize him, but sat where he was, studying his nails. Which, Burke saw, were neatly manicured.

The crowd was a roar around them, the noise rising and falling like a chorus of cicadas in late summer. Inexplicable crescendoes and fades.

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?”