Page 62 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Just buy it.”

“Can you forward me the research?”

“This comes directly from the boss. Fifty million dollars in StratforTech.”

“I don’t”—Paul’s cheeks were starting to get hot—“I need to see the research, know the logic. If I’m in charge of U.S. stocks, that means I’m responsible for the entire portfolio. And I don’t buy or sell stocks without having a good reason.”

Mr. Frost gave him a poisonous look. “You don’t need ‘logic.’” He made dainty air quotes with his fingers. “Mr. Galkin is asking you to buy it. That’s your ‘logic.’”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said. “If Mr. Galkin wants to explain, I’m happy to hear it.”

Looking furious but contained, Frost left the office, leaving Paul wondering why the senior managing director had made the request in person and not by text or email. And why he was so hot to acquire shares in this little start-up.

Strange.

*

Late in the afternoon, Paul spotted Jake Larsen shrugging into his black peacoat, about to leave the office for the day, and decided to ask him out for a drink.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” Larsen said. “But I’d love to grab a ginger ale with you, sure.”

They rode the elevator together in silence. Larsen was lean, tall, vaguely athletic. Basically, like most of the guys in Midtown financial offices. Except he also looked unusually nervous. People got on and off the elevator, and the two of them stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

In the lobby, Paul said, “Well, depending on your time constraints, we could just pop into that pizza place next door. Would that be okay?”

“Perfect.”

The pizzeria smelled great, and Paul was hungry, but Larsen said he was meeting a friend for dinner, which sounded like a girlfriend, but Paul didn’t probe. So he ordered just a Coke Zero, Larsen a ginger ale. They took their paper cups to the only vacant table. Paul cleared away someone’s pizza crusts and then returned to the table.

“So you’ve been here like a couple weeks already, right?” Larsen said.

“That’s right.”

“You—enjoying yourself?”

Paul shrugged. “Sure. It’s a lot like my last job, only a lot more responsibility.”

Larsen asked him about Aquinnah, and Paul filled him in. As he spoke, he remembered he’d agreed to have a drink with Bernie the next day, and he wondered what the agenda really was.

“Can I ask you something?” Paul said.

“Uh, sure.”

“Mr. Frost wants me to buy fifty million dollars’ worth of a stock that, frankly, looks like a loser.”

“He didn’t tell you why?”

“Nope.”

“Did he ask you to or tell you to?”

“It was an order from the top, Frost said.”

“Did you execute the trade?”

“Not yet. So I might already have screwed up.”

Larsen laughed, but there was a strain there. He took a sip of ginger ale. “Look, most of your dealings here will be just like the last place you worked. They’ll make sense. Then, every once in a while, they’ll ask you to do something, and there’ll be a reason for it, but they won’t tell you.”

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