Page 103 of The Oligarch's Daughter

On and on it went. All of Natasha Obolensky’s personal information, a copy of her Irish passport, etc. Natasha’s signature. Whoever she was.

And then one curious line:

Beneficial Ownership: Phantom.

So here was one of the investors: an Irish citizen with a Russian name. Bizarre. The whole thing sounded fake. A woman named Natasha Obolensky who had wired in $460 million.

Then he looked at the next KYC document, for Kent Ridge Ventures Ltd., sent in from Hermes Bank of Singapore.

Full Name: Natasha Obolensky

Date of Birth: September 6, 1977

Nationality: Irish

Four hundred seventy-five million dollars.

Beneficial Owner: Phantom.

Seventeen years ago, Natasha Obolensky had deposited $2.3 billion in five separate tranches over the course of five days.

Who the hell was Natasha Obolensky and where did she get $2.3 billion? And who or what was Phantom?

*

Paul copied the five KYC documents to a thumb drive. He blinked a few times. His eyes were dry and irritated. He pocketed the thumb drive, then signed Vova out from Steve Gartner’s computer, slipped his laptop into its carrying case, and got up.

It was 2:26 in the morning.

The nearest security camera, he was fairly sure, was at the entrance/exit. He donned his face mask and his Yankees cap. When he got to the exit door, he badged out using the prox card the FBI had given him, while looking down at the floor.

As far as the office security system was concerned, Paul Brightman had left the building at 5:30 p.m. At a few minutes after 8 p.m., someone on the custodial staff had badged in, leaving at 2:30 a.m.

When he left the office, he pulled down his mask so he could breathe normally. On his way out of the building’s lobby, he saw someone entering from the street.

It was Volodymyr, his hair sticking up wildly, looking like he’d just gotten out of bed.

Paul pulled his mask up. Had Vova seen him or not?

He couldn’t be sure.

*

Paul got home at three in the morning.

Tatyana gave a sort of grunt-moan when he climbed into bed, then rolled over to give him room.

He had maybe four hours before he had to get ready for work, but he was unable to sleep. He flip-flopped in the bed, his mind playing and replaying the image of Vova entering the building.

Did he see me?

Vova had obviously been awakened by some kind of software alert. How much did that alert tell him?

*

His phone alarm got him up at seven. His eyelids felt like they were glued together. His head pounded. He rose from bed carefully, trying not to jar his thudding head.

He made coffee, which unfortunately involved grinding the beans—this was his own fault; he liked his coffee fresh—which woke Tatyana. She appeared beside him, kissed his cheek. “Did you get your presentation done?” she asked sweetly.

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