Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

CHAPTER 46

Seated at his desk, Ray Kovalenko shook his head and swore quietly to himself, then threw his hands in the air and half growled, half shouted, “Shit!”

He’d turned his office upside down, and checked the clothes he’d been wearing. To no avail. The index card was nowhere to be found.

As for Burke, he was MIA. It wasn’t just that he didn’t answer his phone. The Garda was looking for him, and no one had seen the man for days.

The father-in-law, Aherne, was about as much help as a dose of the clap. Feck off!

Kovalenko had gone to the trouble of locating and contacting Burke’s family in Virginia, but they seemed genuinely surprised to learn that their son wasn’t in Dublin. (And that the FBI was looking for him.)

So he had racked his brain, trying to remember what Burke had said about d’Anconia – and who he was. He’d been to Belgrade. He’d been in Allenwood. He’d gone to UCLA. Or USC. One of those places. None of it was any help without a name, a real name, and Kovalenko didn’t have a clue. Sounds like… It was on the tip of his tongue, and then it was gone. Williams…

Meanwhile, Andrea Cabot called twice a day, once in the morning and again in the afternoon. He was dodging her.

In the end, it took a trip to Dublin and a large serving of crow before Tommy Aherne would even agree to see him. And then it was only to negotiate. He wanted the indictment dropped, the sanctions lifted, and a new passport for Burke.

“Done!” Kovalenko agreed.

“And there’s the issue of compensation-”

“Compensation? Compensation for what?”

“Business lost,” Aherne told him.

“I can’t-”

“Then I’ll suppose you’ll be on your way,” Aherne told him, taking the FBI agent by the elbow, and turning him toward the door.

Kovalenko froze. After a moment, he said, “I can give you a letter.”

“And what would I do with a letter?” Aherne asked.

“As Legat, I’ll acknowledge that a mistake was made. And that it was our fault.”

“You mean, your fault,” Aherne told him.

“Exactly. It was my fault. You can do what you want with the letter. I’m sure your solicitors will think of something.”

Aherne grunted his grudging assent, and went for pen and paper.

When the letter was written, and the ink blown dry, Aherne said, “Michael’s in the States, isn’t he?”

“Where?”

“Nevada,” the old man told him.

“Where in Nevada? It’s a big state!”

Aherne shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “If he calls, I’ll tell ’im you want a word.”

At first, Kovalenko thought the old man had tricked him, and that he was lying. But, eventually, he accepted the depressing truth. The old fart didn’t know where his son-in-law was. And no, Burke hadn’t said anything to him about d’Anconia’s real identity.

“But didn’t he tell you all about it?” Aherne asked. “He said he went to London. Were you not in, man?”

It took only a day to confirm that Michael Burke had entered the United States from Ireland two days earlier, passing through immigration control at JFK. Credit card information revealed that Burke flew to Reno from New York, and rented a car from Alamo. A green Hyundai with California plates.

But that was it. Kovalenko contacted the FBI office in Las Vegas, and asked them to put out a BOL for Burke’s rental car.

Then, seventy-six hours and seven phone calls after Andrea Cabot’s initial call, Kovalenko persuaded his contacts in the Garda to visit Burke’s apartment. “We’re getting information from a confidential, but very reliable source that Mr. Burke is a victim of foul play. If you could visit the apartment discreetly, just to see if he’s dead on the floor, we’d be very grateful. Oh! and while you’re there, hopefully this morning, maybe you could make a copy of the hard drive on his computer and shoot it over to me…”

Eighteen hours later, he had the name of “the American” Andrea was screaming about.

Wilson. Jack Wilson.