Page 27 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Not his. He hadn’t moved.

He felt a sudden chill as he realized the sound had to have come from some other electronic devices nearby, maybe devices belonging to his pursuers. He went still, listened. He didn’t know how far electronic sounds traveled in the forest. But he knew that whoever it was must be close by. How close, he didn’t know.

All that mattered was that he was about to be discovered.

The pucker factor was high.

He had no choice but to remain in place, to keep as still as humanly possible. Not knowing how far away this person or persons might be, he couldn’t risk getting up and contending with the branches that served as his tent walls, the noise they’d make. He remembered giving his phone number to his friend in Lincoln, Lou Westing. What if Lou were to call him back, the ringing sound filling the forest? He reassured himself that he’d turned the burner phone off.

When he constructed it, he had thought his lean-to of twigs and dead branches looked like a natural structure and would probably attract no attention. But now he was having second thoughts. Would it really, though? Would it look like a deadfall, a natural pileup of forest debris—or like something constructed by a human and, therefore, worthy of a closer look?

If the shelter did pass muster, he would be okay so long as he remained silent, didn’t cough or sneeze.

He willed himself not to cough, which of course only made his throat tickle.

Then he heard the crunch of shoes on dead leaves.

They were nearby.

PART FOUR

POCKET CHANGE

Six Years Earlier

19

They’d been going out a few months, and he felt he was really getting to know Tatyana. You could be married for thirty years and not really know your spouse, he’d been told. But he was coming to know her pretty well. He’d learned that she liked bananas slightly underripe. That she liked real half-and-half in her coffee, that she snored softly, that she ate desserts, that she worked out like a fiend at a boxing gym. That she loved sushi but hated Indian food. That she wasextremelyticklish. That she always had music on. She liked to listen to Lizzo and Saweetie and Kendrick Lamar. When she was in a romantic mood, she played Jon Batiste or John Legend. Her cheer-herself-up guilty pleasures were Olivia Rodrigo and Taylor Swift.

Paul and Tatyana were meeting Paul’s friends for dinner at Sansovino, a rooftop Italian restaurant in Chelsea that had small plates and an extensive wine list. The reservation was for eight. They got there a few minutes late. The other couples were already there and had introduced themselves.

Paul’s friend Rick and Rick’s wife, Mary Louise, still hadn’t met Tatyana. Paul, a little anxious, introduced her to them. Their opinion was important to him.

But their immediate reaction was enthusiastic. “So you’re the famous Tatyana!” Mary Louise said. “Paul says you’re Russian?”

“Russian American, really. I was born in Moscow.”

“So your parents immigrated here?” Rick said.

“Right.”

“I know a lot of Russians who come here have a hard time finding jobs,” Mary Louise said. “Was it tough for your parents making the transition? I know a neurosurgeon in Russia who immigrated here and had to drive a taxi.”

“True,” Tatyana said. “It’s very sad.”

“What do your parents do?”

She hesitated for a long moment. “My father is in business. My stepmother is a housewife.” Paul and Rick watched silently as Mary Louise turned up the klieg lights on Tatyana. Tatyana had told Paul that her father was a “small businessman,” but she hadn’t elaborated.

“I think it’s so cool that you’re a photographer,” Mary Louise said. “You’re an artist. You must have a day job, right?”

“Come on,” Rick said quietly to his wife.

Mary Louise persisted, “Do you sell your photographs?”

Tatyana hesitated. “Not yet. I’m still making a name for myself.”

Paul put in, “She has a gallery show of her work coming up in a few weeks at Argold.”

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