Page 63 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Like, what do you mean?”

Larsen looked around, took another sip, and said, “Between you and me, okay?” He made a zipping motion with two fingers across his lips.

“Okay.”

“Mr. Frost ordered me to buy up a bunch of real estate in New Mexico today that makes no sense at all. I mean, it’s so remote, you couldn’t find the location on the map. And when I pressed for an explanation, he said that the government is going to be opening a new drone-testing facility there. Only nobody knows that yet.”

“What did you say?”

Larsen shook his head. “I’ve got a plan, but I can’t tell you yet. I’m trying to do the right thing, but it’s hard.”

“Do they have inside information?”

Larsen shook his head. “I can’t tell you any more. I’ve already told you too much. You won’t say a word to anybody about this conversation, will you?”

“Of course not, I told you. I promise—”

“I need to get going.” Larsen drained the last of his ginger ale and stood up. “I have to trust you,” he said, mostly to himself. Then he walked out the door.

40

O’Malley’s Saloon was on West Forty-Eighth Street between Fifth and Sixth, across from Rockefeller Center. Above it was a red neon sign for a psychic. Right outside the bar was a Sabrett hot dog stand, and Paul was beyond starved. He bought a hot dog and wolfed it down, in the process spilling orange onion sauce down the front of his white shirt. He grabbed some napkins from the vendor and did his best to mop up the spill.

Inside it was dark, so dark he could barely find Bernie. Eventually, he located him sitting at one of the dark wooden booths with another guy. Bernie was wearing a red paisley bow tie and a yellow button-down shirt and looked like a J. Press mannequin with a potbelly. Across from him sat an older-looking man with a gray crewcut, large ears, and reddened cheeks and nose, like they’d been scrubbed raw. His crewcut was not at all cool. He wore a nondescript suit and tie.

Bernie introduced him as Mark Addison, a classmate from UPenn. Bernie glanced at the stain on Paul’s shirt but didn’t say anything. As Addison ordered a bourbon and soda and Paul ordered Scotch rocks, Bernie said, “I’m not staying. Mark wants to have a little chat with you.” He stood up. “You ever decide you want to come back home, you just shoot me an email.”

“Thank you, Bernie.”

While they waited for their drinks, the two men chatted awkwardly about the Knicks. Then Addison told Paul he worked for a division of the FBI.

Paul looked at Bernie, then at Addison, his eyes widening. “What the hell . . . ?” he said.

Their drinks arrived. Addison nodded thanks at the server and took a long sip of his bourbon. Paul swallowed some Scotch. When the server had moved on, Addison said, “You’re marrying into the Galkin family.”

“And you, what—want to offer your congratulations?”

Addison ignored the comment. “Do you know anything about Russian oligarchs?”

“Is he an oligarch?” he asked, smiling. “There’s some dispute about that.”

“I’m afraid he is.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“They’re not good guys, Paul.”

“I know what an oligarch is,” Paul said. “What do you want?”

“You’re part of the family. You’ll be growing closer to Galkin himself. This can be extremely useful to us.”

“In what way?”

“You’ll be hearing things. We’d like you to report back on anything that might impact our national security, for one thing.”

“So, first of all? Whatever it is you’re asking me to do, the answer is no. Second, you think Galkin is going to be telling me about his latest conversation with the Kremlin? Alleged, that is. He’ll tell me how his cook bakes the best Russian black bread in the world—which happens to be true, by the way. Beyond that . . .” Paul raised his eyebrows, shook his head.

“You’ll learn a lot about the kind of financial deals he makes. And the more he gets to know you, the more he’ll trust you.”

---