When Kate died…
The old man just stopped coming in. After a while, the bookkeeper left to take a job with a software start-up in Rathmines. Then Fiona, the nineteen-year-old Goth receptionist, drifted off in the direction of Ibiza, leaving Burke by himself in a suite of offices that the old man no longer visited or cared about.
It can’t go on like this, Burke told himself. Not with the old man drinking the way he is, sitting alone in that haunted house with too many stairs and too many memories. Not with the firm making so little money. And not, Burke thought, not with me treading the days as if they were water.
The truth was: Kate was gone, and she wouldn’t be coming back. That was a fact.
But it wasn’t just a fact. It was a circumstance so massive as to constitute its own dimension. For Burke and the old man, Kate’s absence was their longitude and latitude, intangible as space, but just as real – and just as empty. And maybe, for the old man, it was something more. A black hole, pulling him in.
A puff of rain hit the window.
Burke blinked. His reverie dissolved. In the street below, a taxi pulled away from the curb, leaving a man on the corner, stranded in the drizzle. The man was looking around, as if to get his bearings. D’Anconia, Burke thought. Must be him.
Leaving the window, he sat down at the antique wooden desk that, technically, was the old man’s. The necessary forms were in an envelope on the blotter. At the edge of the desk was a silver-framed photograph of Kate. Dressed in her surgical scrubs, she stood in a puddle of mud, smoking a cigarette at the entrance to the clinic in Porkpa.
Burke listened for d’Anconia’s footsteps on the stairs, but he heard none. Then a soft knock trembled the doors.
“Come in.” Burke got to his feet, half expecting Peter Lorre.
But his visitor was nothing like that. Only a few years older than Burke himself, d’Anconia was handsome enough to be someone’s leading man. His hair was long and black, swept back in a way that seemed artfully disarranged. Square jaw, white teeth, strong nose, olive complexion, and just enough stubble on his cheeks to make it seem as if he didn’t care about appearances. But the Borsalino hat gave the lie to that, as did the cashmere coat and bright scarf.
“Francisco d’Anconia,” his visitor announced, and closed the door behind him.
They shook hands. “Mike Burke. Can I get you something?”
D’Anconia dropped into a wing chair beside the desk, brushed the rain from his hat, and laid it in his lap. “No, thanks,” he said. He glanced around, then nodded to a cluster of photographs on the wall. “Nice pictures.”
“Thanks.”
“You take them?”
Burke nodded.
D’Anconia cocked his head. “What about that one?” he asked, pointing to a photograph of a spectacular ravine whose mist-ridden slopes converged in a jumble of boulders to form a channel through which a wild river ran.
Burke answered without having to look. “Tsangpo Gorge.”
“Where’s that?”
“Tibet.”
D’Anconia removed a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his coat, and tapped it against his wrist. “One of the things I like about Europe,” he said. “A guy can smoke.” He paused. Lit up. Exhaled. And frowned. “I was expecting what’s-his-name. The guy on the plaque. Aherne.”
A wince of regret from Burke. “Tommy’s not well,” he said. “He’s not what you’d call ‘a young man.’”
D’Anconia’s brow sunk into a V. “So you’re… what?”
Burke pushed a business card across the desk. “An ‘associate.’”
“I don’t mean that,” d’Anconia said. “I mean, you sound American.”
“I am. Dual citizenship.”
“And how does that work?”
“My grandfather was a Connemara man.”
“And that makes you Irish?” d’Anconia asked.
Burke shrugged. “You have to apply, but it’s pretty much automatic. And my wife was Irish, so…” He changed the subject, “And what about you? Have you been here long?”
“No. Just got in.”
“Ah, but you’ll be here for a while! You’ve business in Dublin.”
D’Anconia shook his head. “Not really. It’s just a connecting flight. I’m out of here in the morning.”
“Then I guess we’d better get to work.” Reaching for the envelope and forms, Burke unwound a length of string that bound the flap of the envelope to a paper disk on the back. “Y’know, I never asked how you found us. The old man will want to know.”
“The old man?”
“Mr. Aherne.”
D’Anconia grunted. “I saw an ad. The Aer Lingus magazine. It was in one of the classifieds.”
“Oh, ri-iight! The classifieds! Well, I’m glad to know something’s come of that,” Burke confessed. “Because they’re damned expensive.” Removing the forms from the envelope on his desk, he laid them out between them.
“What happened to your ear?”
Coming out of nowhere, so unexpectedly, the question made Burke smile. It was like a child’s question. “I was in a crash,” he said.
“What kind of crash?”
“Helicopter. There was a lot of fuel flying around.” He made a gesture with his right hand, tossing it out as if he were sowing seeds. “I got burned.”
“You must have had a good surgeon,” d’Anconia said. “You have to look twice to notice anything.”
Burke again changed the subject. “When we spoke on the phone, I think you said confidentiality was key.”
D’Anconia nodded.
“In that case,” Burke said, “a limited liability corporation is what you want. With an Isle of Man venue.”
“Isle of Man?” d’Anconia asked.
“It’s in the Irish Sea. Oldest legislature in the world. Pretty place. Very historical.”
“But it’s English, right?”
Burke tilted his head from side to side. “It’s a sovereign state, but the U.K. handles its defense and foreign affairs.”
A ripple of suspicion flickered in d’Anconia’s eyes. “I thought the idea was to form an Irish corporation. When we talked on the phone, I assumed-”
“If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do,” Burke told him. “But if it’s confidentiality that you’re after, then it’s the Isle of Man you want. Not Ireland.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Burke explained, “unlike the Irish, the Manx don’t require disclosure of a corporation’s ‘beneficial owner.’ Which is about as discreet as it gets, because people can’t disclose what they don’t know.”
D’Anconia thought about it. “What about a Panamanian corporation?”
Burke smiled. “Well, there’s always Panama. And Vanuatu! In fact, there are a couple of dozen funky venues that will happily take your money, open a bank account, whatever. But they don’t inspire confidence – and they do attract attention. On the other hand, the Isle of Man is a part of Europe. And even though it isn’t actually British, it’s British-ish. If you see what I mean.”
D’Anconia chewed it over for a moment. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Burke picked up a pen, and leaned forward. “I’ll need a little information – and a check for thirteen hundred euros.”
“Cash all right?”
“Cash is fine.”
“And what do I get for that?”
“You get a limited liability corporation, registered on the Isle of Man, with all its firewalls intact. You get a registered agent in Dublin – that’s us – and a checking account with five hundred euros on deposit.”
D’Anconia looked pleased. “Which bank?”
“Cadogan.” He pronounced it the British way: Cuh-duggin.
“Which is… where?”
“Channel Islands,” Burke explained.
“And they’re what? British?”
Burke shrugged. “Emphasis on the ‘-ish.’ ”
D’Anconia grinned.
“There’s a bit of paperwork to get through,” Burke said. “Certificates of shares, articles of incorporation, the nominees’ declarations-”
“Nominees?”
“Names on paper,” Burke explained. “When the corporation is formed, they act as its directors.”
“I understand, but in real life – who are they?”
No one had ever asked him that question before. “You mean, what do they do when they’re not being ‘names’?”
D’Anconia nodded.
“Well, lots of things. Being a name is a kind of sideline. It’s like a perk that comes with being Manx.” He gestured at one of the papers on his desk. “Amanda Greene, for instance. She’s actually pretty interesting. Bright woman. Lost her husband-”
D’Anconia waved him off. “I’m sure it’s a very interesting story,” he said, “but the point is, she gets paid to let you use her name?”
For a moment, Burke didn’t say anything. D’Anconia’s bluntness was a surprise, like finding an occlusion in a gemstone. “That’s right,” he said. “She acts as a director, and the corporation pays her one hundred euros for her trouble.”
“Each year?”
“No,” Burke replied. “It’s a onetime fee.”
D’Anconia nodded thoughtfully. “And how much does she know about the corporation?”
“Just its name. Which reminds me, you’re going to need one. I may not be able to get what you want, but I can try.”
D’Anconia looked thoughtful. “I was thinking… what about the Twentieth-Century Motor Company? Could you get that?”
“I can try,” Burke promised, writing the name on a Post-it. Then he paused. “You said ‘the Twentieth-Century Motor Company’?”
“Right.”
“Kind of archaic, isn’t it?”
D’Anconia shrugged.
“Well,” Burke said, “it doesn’t matter, really. Half the companies we form are generics like the Two-One-Two Corporation or ABX.”
D’Anconia thought some more. “You said there was some kind of declaration?”
“Right. The declaration says that the company is brand-new, and that the directors don’t have any claim against its assets. Nor will they, if they’re dismissed. And they always are. The package you get includes their resignations – signed, but undated.”
“What about the bank account? Can the nominees-”
Burke shook his head. “No. You’re the only signatory. Which reminds me, I’ll need your passport.”
“My passport?”
“For the bank.”
“What’s the bank got to do with it?”
“They need to know who you are,” Burke explained. “Someone walks in off the street, says he’s you… the bank has to be sure. Trust me, you want the bank to be sure.”
D’Anconia extracted a passport from his overcoat, and pushed it across the desk.
The colors were a surprise. Blue and gold. He’s Chilean? “I’ll just be a minute.” Burke crossed the room to a copying machine in the corner. The machine came to life. After a moment, a light flared. He turned to the emergency contact page, where an address in Santiago had been penciled in. The copying machine flared a second time.
“Is that it, then?” d’Anconia asked. “We’re all set?”
“Almost,” Burke replied. Returning to the desk, he handed the passport back to his client, and sat down. “Diga me, es su primer viaje a Irlanda?”
For a moment, d’Anconia didn’t move. Then he cocked his head to the side, and held Burke’s gaze for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he said, “Si, vale. Primer tiempo.”
Burke smiled. The guy’s accent was about as Spanish as a California roll. “Well,” he said, “it’s a great country.”
“So let’s do it then,” d’Anconia said. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a leather wallet, fat with bills. Counting out thirteen one-hundred-euro notes, he laid them on the desk in a sort of fan.
Burke gathered the bills together, and put them in a lockbox in the bottom drawer. Then he wrote out a receipt, and handed it to d’Anconia. “So I can forward everything to the address in your passport? To Santiago?”
D’Anconia looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m not going to be there for a while. But I’m going to need the bank details – wire-transfer codes and all – as soon as possible. I think the best thing to do would be to send it all to my hotel.”
Burke winced, and shook his head. “A hotel-”
“-is all I can give you. I’ll be in Belgrade, at the Esplanade, for a couple of weeks.”
With a sigh, Burke made a note. “The thing is, there’s going to be correspondence.”
D’Anconia frowned.
“It’s unavoidable. But I can put you on the Hold Mail list,” Burke told him. This was a roster of clients who should never be contacted by the firm. Any communications should originate with the client himself. The concern of people on the Hold Mail list, almost universally, was the concealment of assets – from wives, creditors, and governments.
“Excellent,” d’Anconia said.
“But you’ll have to check in with us from time to time. There’s an annual tax. If it isn’t paid, the corporation will lose its standing.” Burke could see that d’Anconia wasn’t listening. Maybe he didn’t care what happened to the company. Maybe he’d use it for a single transaction, and walk away. If so, it was no skin off Burke’s nose. With a smile, he got to his feet, signaling an end to the meeting. The two men shook hands, and d’Anconia let himself out the way he’d come in.
Burke shook his head, and smiled ruefully. Moving to the window, he watched as his client left the building, shoulders hunched against the rain.
He’s either avoiding taxes, or evading them, Burke decided. Either way, it wasn’t any of his business. Let the IRS do its job, and he’d do his.
Even so, there was something about d’Anconia that bothered him, and it wasn’t his nationality. No, the thing that bothered Burke about d’Anconia was his name. It was somehow familiar, like the name of a second- or third-string celebrity.
Maybe that’s it, Burke thought. Maybe he’s an actor.
He could imagine him playing a doctor on TV – a brilliant young surgeon who, just for the fun of it, killed the occasional patient.