Page 142 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“It’s just me here, no one else.” Berzin said. “Tatyana and I were just catching up. But I came here primarily to speak with you. We need to have a talk, you and I.”

The Russian security man wore an expensive-looking dark-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a gold tie. His brown cordovan oxford shoes were polished to a glint. His hair, graying faded copper, was perfectly parted on his left side, neatly combed, gelled into place. Tatyana had said that Andrei Berzin had once worked for the KGB. Paul had never met any KGB agents, to his knowledge, but based on the thrillers he read and watched, he imagined them as silkily sinister, and Berzin fit the type. Who knew, maybe your average KGB agent was actually a thug and a brute; Berzin, in any case, was smooth.

Paul looked around the room, though what he was looking for, he didn’t know. He looked at Tatyana. She put down her vape pen and said, rising from the couch, her dog in her arms, “Let me get us some tea. You men can talk.” She left the room, with Pushkin over her left shoulder.

“All right,” Paul said reluctantly, sinking into a chair facing the couch.

The two men looked at each other for a long time. Was Berzin here to take him prisoner for Galkin? And if so, why was he here alone, without thugs to help apprehend the boss’s son-in-law?

“Tatyana and I have been talking about recent threats we’ve been receiving,” Berzin said. “It’s a strange time—there is so much antagonism in America against Russia and Russian people. All this American animosity we’ve been seeing recently.”

“You’re getting threats against Galkin?”

“There are crazy, unhinged people who call or email our company’s offices all the time, making threats. Sometimes they even mention Mr. Galkin’s children. We’ve increased security on his residences in the U.S., but that’s not enough. We need to monitor the threats, know when they’re being made.”

“Okay.”

“In a rational world, I would pass these threats on to the FBI, but we’ve had no luck there. They’re as anti-Russian as anyone.”

“Really?”

“I would call them Russophobes. So it falls to me to investigate and follow up.”

“I see,” Paul said, though he didn’t.

“Ah, thank you, Tatyana,” Berzin said.

She had arrived with a melamine tray on which were arranged a teapot with a chipped spout and teacups and pots of jam and sugar and milk. A plate of cookies. She handed each man a cup and saucer. The tea had already been poured. Pushkin skittered around her feet. Paul found it a bit odd that she had poured the tea beforehand, in the kitchen, rather than doing it the Russian way and filling their cups right in front of them. He set the saucer and cup down on the table next to him without taking a sip. He could smell the smoky aroma of the Russian Caravan tea her father always served at home.

“Oh, Paul, I have those biscuits you like, from Fortnum and Mason.” She handed him the plate of cookies, and he took one. He noticed that she didn’t offer the plate to Berzin.

“Great, thanks,” Paul told her.

Berzin took a sip of tea, and so did Tatyana. Paul did not. His paranoia had shifted into high gear.

“My father always drank his tea the old-fashioned way, with a sugar cube between his front teeth,” Berzin said, turning to Paul. “I like it the modern Russian way, with a little jam stirred in.” He reached over to the pot of jam and spooned a couple of teaspoons into his tea, then took another sip. “Would you like some jam, or do you have it like an American?”

“No, thanks,” Paul said.

Berzin crossed his legs. He bounced one foot in the air with a steady beat. He took another sip of tea.

“You should have your tea before it gets cold,” Tatyana said. She picked up Pushkin and cuddled him. Paul noticed that her face was flushed and damp. He could see beads of perspiration forming on her forehead and chin. He said nothing. She picked up her vape pen and inhaled.

“I think there have been misunderstandings,” Berzin said calmly. “We have reason to believe you were taking things from the firm that don’t belong to you, that you’re not authorized to see or download.”

“Not true,” Paul said.

“If we are misunderstanding, we are open to talking.”

Paul nodded. “Am I being fired?” he said.

Berzin smiled. He was not a man who smiled much, and this effort at one carved deep lines into his cheeks. “No, of course not, Mr. Brightman.”

Tatyana dabbed at her face with a napkin.

“Are you okay?” Paul asked her. “Is it too hot in here?”

“No, maybe from the tea, I don’t know.” She laughed weakly. “Am I too young for hot flashes? I should have madeicedtea, I guess.”

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