Page 132 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Galkin scoffed. “Oh, Paul, my friend, you have imagination of accountant. I will tell you this: one deal signed onPechorinpays back many times over.”

Paul nodded. “A good point.”

“You like cigar?” Galkin said.

Paul shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Galkin leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs. “You take something from me,” he said, looking at Paul. He picked up his cigar and drew it back to life, expelling a cloud of bluish-gray smoke.

Paul’s insides froze. Galkin had to be talking about the Phantom drive.

“Excuse me?”

More slowly now, enunciating clearly, Galkin said, “You take something from me.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” Galkin said gravely. “My daughter.”

Paul smiled, but Galkin wasn’t smiling.

“Not really,” Paul said. “She’s still her daddy’s girl.”

“So I want you to accept my wedding gift, for Tatyana’s sake. Do not deprive my daughter.”

“Thank you so much for the apartment,” Paul said. “It was extremely generous of you. But I need you to understand something. I need to build my own thing. You weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth, either. I’m sure you understand.”

Galkin tipped his head to one side, eyes squinting in the wreathing smoke: maybe he didn’t know the expression.

“You came from nothing, got help from no one, and you built this empire,” Paul explained. He knew that wasn’t true. Galkin had been funded by the Kremlin. That’s why he got so rich. “So I’m sure you understand why I want to do my own thing.”

“Listen, Paul. I like you. You’re not like these coked-up party boys Tatyana used to waste her time with. You have ambition. Zhenya Frost says you are good worker. But I want you accept my wedding present.”

A long pause, and then Paul said, “Okay. We will, if Tatyana agrees. And thank you again.” He and Tatyana had already agreed they’d accept it. He looked around the suite, at Berzin and then at Arkady. Galkin nodded as if a deal had been struck. “How is Ilya Bondarenko, do you know?” he asked.

“Recovering. He has terrible walnut allergy. Had severe allergic reaction to walnut oil in salad. But this is not why I ask you here. Andrei Dmitrovich has couple questions for you.”

“Sure,” Paul said, feeling his stomach contort.

Berzin cleared his throat. “You know Volodymyr Shevchenko, our IT specialist.”

This wasn’t a question. Paul said, “Yes. Vova worked on my computer last week.”

“Someone using Vova’s credentials signed into the system late one evening last week, and it wasn’t Vova.”

“Yes? Is that a question?”

“Was it you?”

“How in theworldwould I—”

“Just answer the question.”

“Of course it wasn’t me,” Paul said hotly.

Berzin continued in his icily calm tone. “Vova thought he saw you leaving the building at two in the morning.”

Thought he saw you. They didn’t know. Paul had badged out using the credentials the FBI had provided, of course, not his own.

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