Page 152 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Ambassador Gillette shifted in his wheelchair. “The Russian oligarchs in Great Britain own so much of London, it’s now called ‘Londongrad.’ They own most of Knightsbridge. So many oligarchs own property in Eaton Square, they call it ‘Red Square.’ These Russian billionaires give millions of pounds to the Tory Party. I mean, my God, the son of aKGB spysits in theHouse of Lords!”

He continued: “Before the war in Ukraine, these oligarchs used to arrive from Russia carrying bags of cash and plunk them down to buy a fancy house, and then they’d hire attorneys to launder their billions, and they’d hire a British PR firm to launder their reputation and buy them friends in Parliament. They’d give huge gifts to universities and charities. Or set up a foundation. They still own some of England’s biggest newspapers. And they own some of London’s most prominent political figures. That’s how they gain access to the ruling class. Even to Buckingham Palace. Their children are admitted to the most prestigious private schools. Put down ten million pounds, and you’re a permanent resident. They dazzle us with their mansions and their superyachts, but look closely, and you’ll see marionette strings.”

“That go right to the Kremlin.”

The ambassador nodded. “If they dare to speak out against Moscow, they’ll be assassinated. And Number Ten Downing Street does nothing about it. Did you know that fourteen Russians have been assassinated on British soil so far? And more to come. The oligarchs also provided the funding that made Brexit happen, severing the U.K. from Europe. A disaster for England.”

Paul watched the ambassador, impressed. He was as sharp as a man half his age. “They own politicians in London and Paris and Berlin and, my God, everywhere.”

“Here, too, I bet.”

Gillette nodded. “Oh, God, yes. Using dark money, they secretly own a number of U.S. senators and congressmen.” He named a few names, and Paul’s jaw jutted open.

“But since the war in Ukraine started,” Paul said, “I thought most of the oligarchs were sanctioned. Their mega-yachts seized and all that.”

“True.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Let the FBI arrest me? I guess that would probably be better than being found by one of Galkin’s agents.”

“Neither a happy outcome.”

“Who else can help me, do you know? Is there anyone who might know about what’s going on?”

Ambassador Gillette was silent for a long moment. “Do you know the name Philip Horgan?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I think you should talk to him. If he’ll talk. No guarantee he will. Philip Horgan is an ex-CIA officer who was fired for attempting to leak classified information. He’s sort of a renegade. A bit of an oddball. Lot of ink on him in theWashington Post. He lives in Manassas, Virginia, and he’s kind of a kook, but he knows a lot. Up to the highest levels. Which is why it worried so many people when he quit and started speaking out.”

“Can I use your name?

Gillette chuckled. “Better not. He probably considers me part of the deep state that fired him. Probably hates me on general principle.”

“Well, can you talk to someone inside the Bureau and call them off?”

“Oh, I can talk to ‘someone,’ all right,” he said with a crooked smile, making air quotes with two fingers on each gnarled hand. “Hold on.”

Gillette wheeled his chair over to his desk, a massive hulk of oak, and picked up a landline phone. He punched in a series of numbers. Then he said into the phone, “Tell the director that it’s John Gillette.”

A few seconds went by, and then Gillette said, “As well as can be expected, Bill, thank you for asking. I’m here with a gentleman who says he’s wanted by the FBI, and we’re trying to determine the best course of action.” He paused to listen. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. The name is Paul Brightman. I know him and can vouch for him.”

Paul was immediately filled with alarm. Why was the old man saying this to whoever was on the other end of the line? Why was he giving out his name? Was it deliberate; was it merely sloppy?

“Yes, he’s right here with me. He—is that right? Is that right? . . . And who’s running the unit? . . . Ah. And she is . . . ? Aha. Aha. CIA, you say?” He jotted something down on a yellow pad. “Yes, that was a word he mentioned. All right, talk to you soon. Aha.” He hung up the phone and wheeled back to Paul, his yellow pad in one hand.

“Strangest thing,” the old man said, shaking his head. “Normally if I ask Bill for help, he’ll fall all over himself to help me . . . Not that I call him often. He tells me you’re a cunning fraudster and a danger to national security. There’s an arrest warrant out for you.”

Paul laughed incredulously. “Me? Seriously?”

“I’m afraid so. I don’t believe a word of it, but that’s the official word from the Bureau. Obviously, something’s rotten in the state of Denmark. The director’s clearly been misinformed by someone. Unless you’re bulldozing me right now.”

Paul shook his head. “What’s the arrest warrant for?”

“Alleged theft of classified national defense information.”

“What?And how did I allegedly gain access to classified information?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” The ambassador held the yellow pad up, at a distance in front of his rheumy eyes, and read it silently.

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