Page 172 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“They didn’t change the code.”

“I tell you, government bureaucracy same everywhere. Never change.” Galkin keyed open the front door lock, and the door came open, releasing a stuffy, mildewy odor. The house was rarely used, it seemed. But if Agent Trombley was as good as her word, the FBI had already been there earlier in the day, planting their clandestine recording devices. That was as far as they’d go. This entire meeting was Paul’s initiative and his alone; the FBI would cooperate if and only if he were successful. So he was on his own.

Inside the house’s cramped front room was beige wall-to-wall carpeting, a couple of red-upholstered lounge chairs, a big TV, cottage curtains. Down a little hallway off the living room was a bedroom and a bathroom.

An hour remained before Geraldine Dempsey had said she’d arrive at the safe house for an emergency consultation with Arkady Galkin. Paul looked around the small house, didn’t see any obvious evidence of recording devices—then again, would he really know what to look for in the first place? Still, he did his due diligence, opening cabinets, pulling back the fringed chenille coverlet in the bedroom. Nothing that he could see.

Paul’s plan was to get Geraldine Dempsey on tape, conversing with Galkin. Incriminating herself. The Phantom USB drive revealed her years-long relationship with her agent, Arkady Galkin, but it didn’t connect her to the FBI massacre, and that they needed.

Paul rehearsed potential scenarios with Galkin, who was surprisingly avid. Dempsey’s reluctance to meet—Galkin had had to cajole—had only confirmed that he’d been cut loose, that he was of no interest to the CIA any longer. This fact seemed to sharpen Galkin’s resolve into obsession.

When they heard a car pull up, Paul immediately secreted himself in the bedroom. But he positioned himself so that he could see out the slats in the bedroom’s venetian blinds, looking outside, at an angle so he wouldn’t be spotted, as had been the plan. Paul watched as Dempsey’s security guy entered the house, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a slightly oversize blazer that probably concealed a weapon. Paul had expected Dempsey to be accompanied by at least one officer from the CIA’s Security Protective Service. The man opened the front door and poked his head in perfunctorily, for a beat, before Dempsey entered. She was wearing a belted trench coat and carrying a large black leather handbag.

“Arkady Viktorovich,” she said in a booming voice. “You reached out using an emergency channel. This had better be a true emergency. You have disrupted a very busy day.”

“We need to talk,” Galkin said.

Paul had considered sitting on the bed in the very spare bedroom, but there was always the possibility that Dempsey would open the bedroom door just to check that there was no one else in the house. So he stood in the dank closet, through whose thin walls he could hear the conversation reasonably well.

“What exactly is going on, Arkady?” Dempsey asked, her voice slightly muffled. “Given that you no longer work for us.”

“Brightman,” he said. His voice was clearer, louder. “Paul Brightman is . . . at large. You must resolve this matter. He is threat to my family. He knows I used to work for you. If this gets out, Kremlin will come after me and my family and they will not rest until—”

A pause. “As long as your family stays on the base, you are protected.”

“Which makes us prisoners,” he said. “What life is this, after all I have done for you?”

“Phantom has been shut down. You know that full well.”

“And you freeze my assets. My money is my safety. Nearly twenty years, I give intelligence to CIA. I invest. Make fortune. Now I want my money back. At least some money.”

“You signed a waiver, years ago, agreeing to that stipulation. That money was never yours.”

“I will make deal.”

“That’s off the table. Your signature’s on the release. So if you’re done complaining and trying to makedeals, I would like to get back to my office. I have plenty of real work to do.”

“If you release half billion dollars of my assets,” Galkin said, “I give you Brightman.”

“Brightman . . .” Dempsey paused. “That might be of interest. Tell me more.”

Suddenly, a blaring noise came on—the TV, a news report, a cacophony. Dempsey had switched it on, Paul figured, to mask whatever she and Galkin were saying. To defeat any concealed recorders. Meaning she knew about them or expected them. For another minute or two, he listened, tried to make out the conversation, but couldn’t.

He leaned over to retie his shoes. They were new and a little uncomfortable.

At that moment, without warning he heard the bedroom door abruptly swing open. “I know you’re in there, Brightman,” he heard the man say. “Step out with your hands up.Now.”

The closet door opened. There stood the security officer who’d accompanied Geraldine Dempsey, pointing a gun directly at him. The man was over six feet tall, in his late thirties, with a shaved head and a tightly clenched face full of premature wrinkles.

Behind him stood Geraldine Dempsey. Next to her stood Arkady Galkin.

“Mr. Brightman,” Dempsey said, registering no surprise. “There you are. This is an unexpected pleasure. We have much to talk about.”

“Like how you hired Russians to murder FBI employees who were about to discover your mole?”

“What in the world are you talking about, Brightman? You sound unhinged.” She turned to the bald man, smiling exultantly. “Shawn? Please pat this fellow down.” In a muttering aside, she added, “Let’s make sure our conversation is between us only.”

The security guard stepped forward, pistol clutched in his right hand and still aimed at Paul. Thrusting his left hand out, he patted Paul down, starting at his shoulders and working down his torso, back, and sides. He felt the reverse side of Paul’s belt, searched his pockets, ran his hands down the backs and sides of Paul’s legs. Triumphantly, he produced Paul’s burner phone. He showed it to Dempsey, who shrugged. “Take it,” she said.

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