Page 169 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“She doesn’t exist. The CIA created her out of whole cloth, out of rumors and gossamer, and they used her to funnel billions into Galkin’s fund when it was just starting. To the rest of the intelligence community, it looked like Natasha Obolensky was a wealthy, reclusive Russian living abroad, in Ireland. It looked like Kremlin money. But it was the CIA’s.”

“And all that insider trading at Galkin’s firm?”

“All of it was based on top-secret defense-related government intelligence that Dempsey passed to Galkin. A major no-no.”

Then Paul explained to her what he wanted to do.

Trombley looked around the shop, made sure no one was within earshot. “What you want to do is impossible.”

“Impossible?”

“Nearlyimpossible.”

“It will make your career.”

“Undoubtedly. But do you think I can just snap my fingers, and—”

“I don’t doubt it’s complicated, that it’ll require someone who’s really good at working the law enforcement system. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“I know damned well why you’re talking to me. Because of what happened to Mark Addison.”

Paul raised his eyebrows, then pulled a rueful smile. “Because I knew you’d care. And because you’re the only FBI agent I know. There’s that, too.”

Trombley just looked at him, but in her eyes, he could see a world of hurt.

“Wait. If Dempsey’s unit was shut down,” he said, “how could she be sending people after me?”

She hesitated a long while. “That’s a mystery, I’ll admit. I’m in touch with the CIA’s counterespionage unit—the mole hunters—which is a small, tightly compartmented group. We have an FBI officer embedded in that unit. We’re taking the lead, but we have to coordinate with them. And they say we’re going to need to get Dempsey on tape. And good luck with that. She’s as smart as they come. Russian studies major at Swarthmore, PhD from Georgetown. Knows more than anyone—or so she believes. How do we get her to incriminate herself? Because until we do, we’ve got nothing. FBI won’t do a thing.”

“The Phantom memory stick isn’t enough?”

“No. They need her on tape admitting responsibility for the FBI massacre.”

A long pause, then Paul said, “I think I have a way.”

“I’m all ears,” said Stephanie Trombley.

111

The world’s largest naval station, and the headquarters of the U.S. Navy’s Fleet Forces Command, is NAVSTA NORVA, or Naval Station Norfolk, a giant base of over four thousand acres in the southeast corner of Virginia. Paul had driven the three hours from D.C. without a break. Now, just outside Gate 5, he stopped at the Pass and ID office to get the one-day visitor pass that was waiting for him. He used his Grant Anderson driver’s license, praying they didn’t check criminal databases. Clearly they didn’t. The pass now hung from his rearview mirror. There was no way to get onto the base, he noted, not without handing over your ID. No one could sneak on. It was reasonably well protected.

The higher-ranking naval officers live in a neighborhood there called Breezy Point, in four-bedroom, pet-friendly single-family homes. The house he was looking for was located on Dillingham Boulevard. He found it, a handsome, if generic brick house with an attached garage and a good-size lawn. It looked like something you might see in a prosperous suburb. There were no armed guards circulating that he could see.

He parked his car in the driveway and rang the doorbell. He heard the familiar six chimes echoing throughout the house. A minute went by. He heard music thumping through the front door.

Tatyana Galkin answered the door.

He hadn’t seen her in five years. Her hair was blonder than it used to be, and she’d styled it differently—up, in a messy bun. She was as pretty as ever, though the years had etched fine lines on her face, on her forehead and around her eyes. She’d gained a little weight, and it looked great on her. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, neither his nor anyone else’s. She was dressed in a plain white T-shirt and Paul’s Reed College sweatpants, which he’d left behind. He wondered if that was a deliberate choice, knowing she was about to see him.

Her face, her eyes, were red, as if she’d been crying. He heard Taylor Swift singing something melancholy and bittersweet, probably “All Too Well.” Sarah had liked Taylor Swift a lot, too.

“Pasha,” she said, her voice hoarse.

She pushed open the screen door. He gave her a hug. She smelled the same. She hadn’t changed her perfume.

He looked around. The front sitting room was furnished with institutional-looking furniture, as generic as the house. No gilt.

“Why are you crying?” he asked.

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