Page 100 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Formation documents. The documents used to set up the firm. Information that’s buried in the old files. Where the money came from that set Galkin up in business. Who the original investors were.”

“But how could you not have information on AGF’s investors? You’re the FBI, man! You know everything.”

“Very funny,” Addison said, not amused. “There’s plenty we don’t know. That’s why we need you. Galkin is running a private limited partnership, an LLC. So the underlying documents are not on file with state or federal authorities. To us, it’s a black box.”

Paul slipped the KeyGrabber and the RFID card into the small black canvas bag and then put the bag into his briefcase. The next day, he brought it into work. The FBI project, he figured, would take no more than three days. He would be careful and methodical. He didn’t like having to count on luck.

He waited until things at work were slow, when people were unlikely to drop into his office and Margo was on break. Then he disconnected his keyboard from the USB port at the back and plugged the little black device, the KeyGrabber, into the port and reconnected the keyboard’s black cable into it. The KeyGrabber would copy every single keystroke made on his computer. “Keyloggers have been around for years,” Addison had told him, “and most IT professionals recognize them easily. This one, though, is nearly invisible. Undetectable. No one’s going to notice it.”

The IT department in Galkin’s firm consisted of one employee, Volodymyr, who was Ukrainian. Volodymyr was in his twenties and said to be a whiz. He was small and scrawny and somehow always had a few days of stubble on his jaw. On Slack, Paul messaged Volodymyr—he went by the nickname “Vova”—and told him he was having trouble with his computer.

Not more than four minutes later, Vova knocked on Paul’s open door. Clearly he was having a slow day. “How can I help you, sir?” he said. His American English accent was nearly perfect. His “sir” seemed to be ironic.

“This is weird,” Paul said, “but I’m having speed issues with my web browser. It sort of randomly won’t load our website. Or it’s really slow to load. Like that.”

“Can you show me?”

“Will you excuse me, Vova? I’ve got to use the restroom. Why don’t you reboot it and try it yourself?”

“Sure,” Vova said as Paul left his office. He wanted Vova to reboot his computer and then enter his own password.

Paul returned some five minutes later.

“Sorry to tell you, I wasn’t able to reproduce the issue,” said Vova. “You said the company website won’t load?”

“Right.”

“Loaded just fine, sir.”

“Hmm, weird. I’ll try and get a video of it happening next time. Thanks for trying. And sorry to bother you.”

“No worries,” said Vova.

The next step was a little complicated, because Paul didn’t really have any privacy at home, in Tatyana’s small apartment, and their new place was still being renovated. She would ask what he was doing. More accurately, she would want him to stop work for the day, have a drink. So after work, he stopped at a Blue Bottle, ordered a decaf latte, and grabbed a table. He inserted the KeyGrabber, which he’d unplugged from his computer, into a USB drive on his personal laptop.

The KeyGrabber had recorded every keystroke Vova had made, including his login credentials and password. As the firm’s IT specialist, Vova probably had permission to go anywhere in the company’s system.

Now Paul had it, too.

He had everything he needed to penetrate the firm’s network.

Everything except the courage.

Addison had outlined for him how he should do it. Because there were problems. Challenges to meet. Addison suggested that Paul do it at night, after hours, after everyone had gone home. He should badge in using the RFID key card the FBI had supplied, using the janitor’s credentials. Of course, some employees worked late, till ten or eleven at night. Which meant he might have to stay as late as midnight or later—and concoct some story for Tatyana as to why he would be coming home so late. She might suspect him of seeing someone, having an affair. And if she suspected that, she might tell her father, in casual conversation—they talked a lot. So his alibi would have to be convincing.

But that was the least of his problems.

There was also the issue of the firm’s security cameras. There were CCTV cameras at the entrance and the fire exits. If anyone bothered to look, Paul would be seen leaving the office at, whatever, one or two in the morning. That would raise questions.

From his burner phone, he texted Addison and asked for another meeting.

*

Three days later, he told Tatyana he had to work late that night. “I’ve been putting it off for weeks,” he said, “but I have to make a presentation at the morning meeting tomorrow.”

That was almost true. He did have a presentation to make, but he’d already finished work on it.

“How late will you be?”

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