Page 127 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Hey, what happened to that guy who was sitting next to you? Ilya, I think his name was.”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t hungry; he said that much.”

“Well, Arkady always has a doctor on board. I’m sure he’s getting good medical care.” He turned, smiled. “I’m heading to the bar. Join me?”

“Another time. I’m off to explore.”

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He started with the bridge, the wheelhouse, where the ship was helmed. In order to enter the bridge, you had to put your palm up to a reader. He wondered if his palm would open the door, so he tried. The doors slid open. This surprised him. He must have been on a VIP list along with Tatyana and other family.

He passed down a narrow corridor and saw a large diagram on the wall, the general arrangement, which was sort of like the floor plan for each deck. He studied it closely. He saw “Massage Room,” “Sauna,” “Hammam,” and one room labeled “Chromo-Therapy.” He saw “Owner’s Deck,” with its private gym (probably used only by Polina, with her trainer), the “Owner’s Dressing Room,” “Owner’s Beauty Center,” and “Degustation Area.”

As he stood in front of the general arrangement, his eyes searched the corridor. He spotted a door marked,CAPTAIN.

But was the captain in there? He decided first to look into the control room, which was spacious and almost futuristic. The steel walls were painted hospital white. The captain and the first officer sat at what looked like a carbon-fiber countertop, behind a massive control panel with an array of screens, including the green concentric circles of a radar screen and closed-circuit video screens.

The first officer, a woman, turned around and gave Paul a wave. Paul introduced himself. The captain was a very fit, tanned Australian in his fifties, and the first officer was a good-looking Frenchwoman. He idly wondered what their relationship was all about. They chatted a bit, and then Paul excused himself.

Returning to the narrow corridor, he tried the lever on the captain’s office door. It came right open.

There was not much here, a steel desk and an office chair, a steel credenza. The desk was piled with papers, in neat stacks. The captain, probably like most seagoing officers, was organized and tidy.

It did not take Paul long to find what he was looking for.

On top of one of the neatly squared piles was a document stamped with the yacht’s name,Pechorin, the registry (Cayman Islands), and the seven-digit International Maritime Organization number. It was the ship’s manifest. It listed the crew by name, and then the passengers, alphabetically by name, passport number, and so on.

He didn’t hesitate. He took a picture of the form with his phone, and then, just to be thorough, he took a second picture.

He scanned his eyes over the document, his heart thumping wildly, registering the names of the passengers. When he was done, he replaced the document on the pile, squaring it neatly, and left the small office.

No one was in the corridor, and from this angle, he didn’t think he could be seen from the bridge.

Now he descended the winding staircase to the galley, which was also huge, as big as a decent-size hotel’s kitchen. It was also immaculate. It had stainless-steel counters, several dumbwaiters, and a giant tank swarming with lobsters.

It took several minutes for his heart rate to return to normal.

He continued his tour, knowing that if anyone asked what he was doing, he had a ready-made, acceptable alibi.

Outside, on the aft deck near a helipad, was a jacuzzi. It was switched on, and in it were two nude figures. He recognized Tatyana’s brother, Niko, and his latest girlfriend.

Paul turned around quickly and headed back to the ship’s interior.

The yacht was too big to explore in one evening. But in a half hour of climbing stairs and passing through corridors that got narrower as he descended, he managed to see a wine cellar, a cinema, a walk-in freezer, and a very well-equipped gym for the guests. The water makers, which produced fifty or sixty tons of fresh water every day, were, like the pump rooms and the engine room, made of stainless steel or chrome, gleaming and spotless. He saw concealed doors that led to hallways for the crew. Even the crew quarters weren’t too grim, from what he could see.

Finally, he circled around to the main saloon, where a big bar was located. He wanted a Scotch or bourbon. There were a few people seated near the bar. The guy from the plane, Leonid, was just leaving. They exchanged waves. Then only two people were left, the other couple from the plane.

Given a choice from among a vast array of single malts, he chose a Macallan 25, because he knew it would be reliably excellent, and of course it was. He also knew it cost thousands of dollars a bottle. He sat down by himself at a table far removed from anyone else, signaling unmistakably that he wanted to be alone. He wanted to enjoy his Scotch and think for a bit, be in his own head, think about what he was doing, try to calm himself. He thought about Phantom, about Galkin running money for the Kremlin. Paul wondered when Moscow would catch up with him.

He had barely taken three sips when he smelled Polina Galkina’s perfume. He turned and didn’t see anyone. Then he felt her hand touch his back.

“You’re all alone?” she said. “Where is Tatyana? Tatyana is asleep?”

Paul nodded.

“Poor dear. She looked very tired at dinner. She was yawning.”

“A long day.”

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