Page 20 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Bernie was furious at Paul. “Look how much money you made me leave on the table!” he shouted. “Free money! Left there on the sidewalk! And thanks to you, we just walked right by!”

But Paul knew now that he’d done the right thing by pushing for Aquinnah to get out of Cavalier stock: at seven o’clock that morning, the news of the CEO’s personal life had broken on Bloomberg.

In pre-market trading, Cavalier stock dropped from twenty-five to eight. Rumors swirled that WhiteRock was going to call off its acquisition of the company because of “irregularities” and “undisclosed liabilities” found in the financials: Cavalier’s legal department, it seemed, had been spending millions defending lawsuits and making payoffs.

The exchange soon announced that trading in Cavalier had just been halted. The company had put out a press release saying there had been allegations in the press that morning and that it would put out a full statement later today.

“Man, good thing we got out of it, huh? Who called that one?” Mike said.

“Bernie, who else?” Paul said. He saw no reason to grab credit.

“Phew. Hey, what’s going on with that chick?”

“We’re seeing each other.”

“Good for you, dude. But when can you possibly go out? She’s a waitress, right? Probably works most nights?”

“She’s—no, she’s a photographer, actually.”

“Brightman! Brightman!” A shout came from the other side of the bullpen. It was Bernie Kovan. He was ebullient.

Bernie had the body of a lumbering bear with a monk’s bald spot. His neatly trimmed beard was gray, matching what little hair he had. He rushed over to Paul, who was just standing up. “I was so pissed off at you!” Bernie threw his arms around Paul, hugged him. “Thank you. Thank you. You saved our asses.”

There was a smattering of applause around the room. Mike Rodriguez was looking at Paul with a big, bright smile, shaking his head in admiration.

13

That evening, Tatyana wanted to try a new Persian restaurant in Brooklyn that served street food. Getting to deepest Bushwick wasn’t an easy subway ride from Lower Manhattan, so Paul called an Uber to pick them up on East Seventh.

The Uber was a worn Toyota Camry that smelled pungently of the Little Trees air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror (Royal Pine scent). The Little Tree was there, Paul assumed, to mask the odor of the driver’s cigarettes, smoked between customers.

Paul and Tatyana exchanged a glance about the smell.

“When I met you, you were smoking,” Paul said to her. “But I haven’t seen you smoke since.”

“Mostly I vape, when I do,” Tatyana replied. “I’m a light smoker anyway. I only smoke when I’m nervous or stressed out.”

Her hair was in a bun this evening, and she was wearing heavily smudged eyeshadow that he knew women called “smoky eye.”

“So how was your day?” he asked her.

“Not stressful. Good.”

“What’d you do?”

“Went out to Brownsville to do some shooting.” She paused, pantomimed clicking photos on a camera. “Two treks to Brooklyn today.”

“Brownsville? Isn’t that kind of a tough neighborhood? Carrying a fancy camera and all?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about me, Pasha.”

“Pasha?”

“That’s the Russian nickname for ‘Paul.’”

“Pasha? I like that. Makes me sound like a high-ranking officer in the Ottoman Empire.” He was pleased, kind of thrilled. She had a term of endearment for him.

“You’ll always be a high-ranking officer in the Ottoman Empire to me,” Tatyana said, leaning over and giving him a kiss.

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