Page 59 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“I like him.” Paul didn’t know what else to say. “How is he as a boss?”

Chad shook his head. “Pretty much invisible. We never deal with him directly. We deal with Mr. Permafrost. Who’s Russian, in case you hadn’t guessed.”

“I did.”

“He’s a ballbuster. You’ll see.”

“He was awfully welcoming to me.”

“But you’re not a normal employee, are you?”

Paul didn’t answer, not sure how to reply. Did he really have a special cachet because his father-in-law was the boss? Probably so. But he didn’t want to say it.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I really don’t.”

37

Afew days later, Paul got a call at work from one of Galkin’s secretaries, Maddy, asking him to come by the boss’s office at one o’clock. When he arrived, he saw that it wasn’t just Galkin; there was a second man, a tall, barrel-chested, silver-haired man who looked like he’d once played football, a long time ago.

Galkin didn’t introduce the second man. He waited until Paul had sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of his desk, and then he said, abruptly, “Do you know what is wealth?”

This sounded like a trick question in a college philosophy course, so Paul said, with an indulgent smile, “Why don’t you tell me.”

“This word,wealth. You know I am not the native speaker, so I look up English words. I look upwealth. Long time ago, it doesn’t mean ‘money.’ It means, how you say, ‘well-being.’ ‘Happiness.’ But a man’s ultimate wealth is family, no?”

“Wealth is also money,” Paul pointed out.

Galkin shook his head. “Money is moat.” Paul must have looked confused, because Galkin said, “Do you say ‘moat’? Around castle? Money is this moat. To protect yourself and your family from unpredictable and hostile world. Money protects your family, your wealth. You understand me?” He tapped a fist against his heart.

Now Paul understood. Galkin was talking about the prenup.

Then, without further explanation, Arkady introduced the silver-haired ex–football player. “William Dowling,” he said. “My lawyer. Bill, this is Mr. Brightman. My future son-in-law. Pavel. That’s his name in Russian.”

“Pavel,” the lawyer said, with a crusher of a handshake.

“Paul, actually.”

“Paul, then. That’s how I had it.” Dowling lifted a silver metal attaché case and placed it gingerly on the glass desktop and popped it open. He pulled out three sets of documents in blueback folders and handed one to Paul. “This is a standard prenuptial agreement between husband and wife.”

“Should I run this by my lawyer?” Paul asked.

The lawyer replied: “You’re free to choose to have a lawyer.”

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Paul said. He didn’t have a lawyer, really. He thought of a smart college friend who’d gone to Columbia Law. Brad Sarkisian had represented a mutual friend in a costly divorce. He and Paul weren’t particularly close, but it was the first name he thought of. Paul did a quick search on his phone and found the name of Brad’s law firm. He stepped out of the office and placed a call.

“Bradley Sarkisian’s office, this is Meryl.”

“This is an old friend of Brad’s from college. Paul Brightman. I need to talk to him.”

“Will he know what this is in reference to?”

“Just tell him it’s Paul Brightman and it’s important.”

A few seconds went by, and then Sarkisian came on the line, loud and firm. “Brightman! How the hell are you?”

“Hey, Brad. Thanks for taking my call.”

“Is there something I can help with? Everything okay?”

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