“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.