Page 112 of The Oligarch's Daughter

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Paul looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Though he’d taken a shower the night before, his skin was still encrusted with mud. He took another long shower and then tried to scrape some of the filth off his clothes.

Wearing his old, foul-smelling jeans and shirt, he set out for downtown Lincoln, a few miles away. He went slowly. Both his feet were tender, his ankle throbbed, and the blisters on his toes were pretty bad. He spent a few minutes trying to hitch a ride but had no luck. No trail angels here.

He’d been to Lincoln a couple of times over the past five years. It was a small town with roughly the same population as Derryfield, but was much more spread out, considerably more touristy. It was the home to the Loon Mountain ski resort. Decades before, the town ran sawmills on the Pemigewasset River, a center for logging that featured a bustling paper mill, but all that was gone. Now it was largely a tourist attraction and a ski destination.

The first thing he needed, of course, was new clothes. His jeans, his shirt and jacket, his socks—all were encrusted with mud. In Lincoln, you could buy all the ski attire you wanted—which he didn’t need. On a previous visit, he and Sarah stopped at a thrift shop on Main Street, where Sarah had found a set of vintage Yellow Ware cups and saucers she was excited about. He remembered seeing racks of secondhand clothes there, too.

At the thrift shop, the woman behind the counter looked him over, head to toe. “Ooh, now, what happened to you, dear?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh, my. Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” She had light brown hair done up in a sort of bubble, oversize glasses with thick lenses, and a kindly face.

“I need some clothes that’ll fit me. Some jeans, a shirt, a jacket, some shoes or boots.”

She looked hesitant, probably wondering if he had any money to pay for them. “Well, I know we don’t have any jackets, unless you mean suit jackets, and those we have in abundance. No one seems to wear suits anymore. No shoes or boots, either—those just don’t sell. Except for ski boots; those we do have. Those move. I don’t think we have any jeans, but let me . . . Hmm . . . would a pair of khakis do you, dear?”

The chinos were a little big, but they fit him okay. He added an old Paul Stuart striped dress shirt with a frayed collar. He changed in the shop’s restroom and threw his old clothes in the trash.

“There now, you look much more presentable,” the woman declared when he emerged from the restroom.

At a ski shop down the street, he bought a warm Patagonia ski parka and a navy beanie, a new pair of work boots, a pair of binoculars, and a Peak backpack. He knew it was important to change his appearance frequently. He emptied the contents of his go-bag into the new backpack and tossed out the bag. On Main Street, he passed a Rite Aid pharmacy, where he bought some Motrin, elastic bandages for his ankle, gauze bandages and petroleum jelly for the blisters on his feet, another couple of disposable phones, and a candy bar.

At White Mountain Bagel Company, he had a delicious roast beef sandwich and a lot of black coffee. He pocketed the apple he didn’t have room for. Someone had left behind on a table a copy of theConway Daily Sun. On the front page was an article about the murder of a local police officer, Alec Wood, in Derryfield. No known suspects yet, it said. Even less information than Sarah had found in the Derryfield paper.

When he’d had enough coffee—maybe too much—he went in search of a bank. Not just any bank, but one he had visited five years earlier, where he’d opened a safe-deposit box. He remembered it was on Papermill Drive, right off Main Street. In his pocket was the small envelope he’d long ago stashed in his go-bag, which contained the key.

As he shuffled along, he looked around at the other pedestrians on the street. They could have been shoppers or town residents going out for lunch. He didn’t see anyone suspicious, and he wondered idly if it was possible that he’d actually lost his pursuers. He walked past a Life Is Good store and chuckled dryly at the irony. Life was decidedly not good these days.

It was a good thing, though, that there were people on the streets, so he could better blend in. But because of his ankle, he was unable to change his gait, which was a problem. He limped, and there was nothing he could do about that. If the Russians knew he’d injured his ankle, they’d be able to spot him right away.

At the bank, a pleasant man in his thirties with black-framed glasses showed Paul to the rank of safe-deposit boxes at the back of the lobby.

Paul unlocked his box. Exactly one item was in it: a silver USB drive.

*

Lou Westing’s office was on Main Street, a few doors down from the Life Is Good store, its entrance marked with a painted wooden plaque, in green and gold, that read,WESTINGLAW. In the same wooden building, on the first floor, was a restaurant called Pies-n-Thighs. Standing in the entrance to a closed “adventure golf” shop, Paul regarded Westing’s building through his binoculars. It was across the street and down about a hundred feet. It was still lunchtime, and a steady stream of customers entered and exited the restaurant.

He called Lou on one of his new disposable phones. While waiting for the call to be answered, he held the binoculars to his eyes with his right hand. Lou answered.

“Lou, it’s Grant Anderson.”

“Grant. Where are you, bud?”

“I just got into town. Staying at the Days Inn on Route Three. You hungry?”

“Sure.”

“Want to meet at that place right downstairs from you, the Pies-n-Thighs? I passed by it this morning, and something smells awfully good in there.”

“That would be great. Good choice. Give me, oh, ten, fifteen minutes. I gotta finish up a memo. Then I’ll meet you there.”

“Perfect.”

Paul tried to look into the second-floor windows of Westing’s law firm, but the sun was reflecting off the glass, and he couldn’t see much.

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