Page 131 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Oh . . .” she faltered. She fluttered her hands. “Everything. It’s so boring. Do we have to talk about this?”

“I think I’m going to finish my tour of the yacht. Want to come with me?”

“I’m starving,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower and order my breakfast.”

The suite phone rang, startling him. He picked it up.

“Is this Mr. Brightman?” An Englishwoman’s voice, crisp and efficient.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Galkin would like to see you, please,” she said.

“Sure. When?”

“Right now, if you could. Do you know where the owner’s suite is?”

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Why did Galkin want to see him now? His late night in the office? Polina running her hand along his thigh? His rooting through the firm’s old files stored in that defunct limestone mine, discovering a flash drive labeled “Phantom”—and taking it?

Or Moscow?

Or had he been seen photographing the ship’s manifest?

There were any number of possibilities, none of them good.

In the elevator, he pressed 03, but the button didn’t light up. Then, realizing that Galkin’s floor was probably protected, he held his palm up to the black circle, the sensor of the palm-vein scanner device mounted above the number panel. It beeped, a light turned green, and the elevator started to move.

When it stopped, the doors slid open on a narrow corridor and an unmarked set of double doors. Security precautions, maybe. He rang the doorbell.

He waited a full minute—he smelled cigar smoke—and then the door came open. Galkin was resplendent in his blue blazer and open white shirt, no ascot.

“Ah, Paul,” Galkin said, escorting him in.

The décor here was similar to their suite’s, only the place was even larger. A leather couch, several groups of chairs, a massive slab of stone for a coffee table, and a lot of gold leaf everywhere.

Sitting in one of the club chairs was Andrei Berzin.

Paul’s throat tightened.

Galkin pointed to the couch as if Paul were a well-trained dog. Paul sat at one end of it. The leather was buttery soft.

Galkin sat in a high-backed chair across from him, Berzin off to the side. A half-smoked cigar sat in an ashtray on a small, round side table next to Galkin. Berzin didn’t appear to have one.

“You know Andrei Dmitrovich, I assume,” Galkin said, turning toward Berzin.

“We haven’t properly met,” Paul said coldly, looking at Berzin.I know who you are, he thought. They’d exchanged words outside Paul’s suite. And a few words in Moscow. After an awkward pause, Paul stood up and shook hands with Galkin’s security director. Berzin’s hand was dry and rough.

“Andrei Dmitrovich takes care of my security,” Galkin said.

“Yes, I know,” Paul said.

Berzin nodded.

“You are having good time, I trust,” Galkin said.

“I am, thank you. You have a beautiful boat. But isn’t she a bad investment, in purely financial terms?”

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