Page 66 of The Oligarch's Daughter

For how long?He typed back.

He waited a minute, two minutes, but no reply came.

He wanted to ask Tatyana what she thought about Mr. Frost’s order and what it was all about, but she already had her Audrey HepburnBreakfast at Tiffany’ssleep mask on, turquoise satin with an image of golden eyelashes on it, and he didn’t want to bother her anymore.

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Having no idea how long he’d be in Chicago, he decided to pack for a couple of days, just in case he needed to stay over. Where he was going in Chicago and whom he was meeting with and why, he had no idea. Mr. Frost was apparently determined to keep all that mysterious.

At exactly seven in the morning, a black Suburban pulled up to the curb in front of Tatyana’s apartment building. There was no one in the car but the driver, someone he didn’t recognize. Paul handed him his garment bag and climbed inside with his briefcase. The driver didn’t speak a word the entire half-hour drive to New Jersey. The Suburban stopped at the airport gate, where a security guard asked for Paul’s ID and the driver’s as well. He checked a visitors’ list, apparently found Paul’s name, and waved them through. The Suburban drove around the tarmac to where a plane was parked, a gleaming cobalt-blue-and-white aircraft that was smaller than a commercial jetliner. This must be Galkin’s private jet, or one of them.

The driver came around to Paul’s side, opened the door, and held it as Paul got out. Then he opened the luggage compartment and removed Paul’s garment bag, handing it to a waiting man, who took it without a word.

A young woman with an iPad waved at Paul and beckoned him over to the plane’s movable staircase. “Hi, Mr. Brightman,” she said, as if she knew him. She was black-haired, attractive, of Asian descent. “Welcome aboard.”

Paul followed her up the stairs and into the cabin.

“You’re in seat four,” she said.

He found his seat up front, white leather and extravagantly cushioned, off by itself against a large window. As he sat, he looked around for Galkin but didn’t see anyone farther back. He was the first passenger. Presumably not the only one. He saw a long white leather sofa. A dining table at the back, draped in a white cloth, and set for one, with twinkling crystal glasses and gleaming silverware.

He unsnapped his briefcase, pulled out his laptop and opened it, and found the Wi-Fi. Checked his emails, looking for anything from Eugene Frost. But there was nothing. The cabin attendant, who introduced herself as Robin, approached and asked if he wanted anything to drink—coffee, tea, or juice. Or water, still or sparkling.

She had a hard job. She had to get to the hangar while it was still dark to supervise the catering, order Nespresso pods, do the dishes, and look unruffled as she did it all. It took someone with the politesse of a diplomat.

“Who else is traveling this morning?” Paul asked, looking out the window at the tarmac.

“Mr. Galkin and a few of his aides,” said Robin. “They should be here in the next half hour.” She glanced at her watch, gave a confident smile. More than thirty minutes later, a helicopter thundered into view. Steadily louder, it landed on the tarmac a few hundred feet away. The doors popped open as the blades slowed, and Arkady Galkin emerged, followed by Berzin, his security chief, who carried a briefcase. Then two other briefcase-carrying minions, both blandly good-looking young males Paul didn’t recognize. Galkin’s entourage.

Galkin bounded across the asphalt and up the stairs, bursting into the main cabin with Robin the flight attendant right behind. He was dressed in a suit and a ball cap with a logo on the front that Paul had seen before. It was a foot with wings, no words. The logo of one of the most exclusive golf clubs in the world. Winged Foot, in Westchester County. Very subtle, that hat. You had to recognize the logo to know where the cap was from.

Galkin trundled toward the rear of the plane, not even seeming to notice Paul as he swept by. Paul could smell freshly made coffee and jet fuel. On the public address system, Robin announced that they would be leaving momentarily. Paul turned around, saw Galkin seated at the cloth-draped table in the back, drinking coffee. His laptop was on the table in front of him, next to silver and porcelain dishes.

Shortly after they lifted off, breakfast was served. Robin asked Paul again if he wanted any coffee. This time he asked for a decaf espresso. “How long is our flight?,” he asked.

“Two hours and thirty minutes,” Robin replied.

The minutes passed. For forty minutes, no one came up to him except Robin, occasionally, so he decided to order breakfast: a plain omelet, Canadian bacon, berries. Breakfast came quickly. Paul had lifted his fork and taken a first bite of his omelet when Robin approached diffidently. “Mr. Galkin would like you to come back.”

One of the young minions who was seated across from Galkin got up and yielded his seat to Paul.

“Paul, nice to see you. Sit down,” Galkin said. “How you are liking new job?” He was in a sociable, expansive mood. He wore a pinstriped gray suit, lavender shirt, and purple tie. On the seat next to him was his briefcase.

“It’s good,” Paul said. “A smaller organization than Aquinnah, but that’s not a bad thing.”

“Your office?”

“Very nice.” Paul wanted to ask for details regarding this trip to Chicago, but he let Galkin speak first.

“Do you know how Russians hunt for mushrooms?”

The question caught him off guard. “Not really,” he said. He knew, from Tatyana, that Russians loved varieties of mushrooms and enjoyed hunting for them; that was all he knew. But what that had to do with anything . . .

“We love to hunt for mushrooms. It is . . . You are one with the nature. If you have fight with someone, you only must to go mushroom hunting together, and after—you are friends again. But you must be very careful. Some mushrooms are what they call ‘false twins’: they look just like edible mushrooms, but dangerous. Highly toxic. Even experienced mushroom hunters can be fooled. It could be a death cap, and a sliver will kill you.” He wagged an index finger. “So you never go to unfamiliar forest alone to collect mushrooms, you understand? If you do, you may die.”

Your point?Paul thought. But all he said was “Okay.”

“When you are buying stocks for me, you are looking for hidden treasures. But you listen also to advice from those who know.”

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