Page 77 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Very American. You listen to propaganda. Watch silly movies, read silly thrillers.” Galkin stabbed an index finger in Tatyana’s direction as he chewed a large mouthful of steak. “Moscow is world-class city now. World-class. Greatest, most fun city in Europe. Sexiest women, best restaurants, best hotels. Better Italian food there than Rome or Milan.”

“So I’ve heard,” Paul said.

“Yes! Streets clean, stores full. Is even naked barbershop. You get hair cut by naked women. Is completely different, Moscow today, than when I was young. When I was boy, I had one pair jeans. My mother constantly—” He mimed sewing.

“Repaired. Darned.”

“Yes. I would save my seven kopecks for ice cream. When I was teenage, friend got Rolling Stone record, and we played it and played it till it was too scratched to play music anymore. You know ‘Let It Bleed’? Now I hire Mick Jagger to play for me.”

“Amazing,” Paul said. It really was.

“Chekhov said, ‘In Moscow, you sit in huge room in restaurant and you don’t know nobody and no one knows you—but you don’t feel a stranger.’”

A little drunk, Paul asked, “Why did you want me on this trip? Obviously not for how well I speak Russian.”

“Is because you are smart. Also, is useful to have American face in meetings.”

Neither Galkin nor Frost, who wasn’t on the trip, had filled Paul in on what exactly the business was in Moscow. It remained a mystery. Maybe his Russian-speaking colleagues knew more. And what meetings was Galkin having? Paul wondered. Fortified by the wine, he asked, “Who are we meeting with?”

“Youare meeting with venture capital funds. I have my own meetings.”

“What sort of meetings do you have lined up?”

Galkin gave him a hard look. “Is personal.” He took a sip of wine and signaled for more.

“Got it,” Paul said, forcing a chuckle.

“Don’t drink tap water in Moscow,” Galkin said sternly, pointing directly at him. “Only bottle.”

*

Paul was a bit woozy from the wine, and he had a headache. He’d been having headaches more and more often, and he knew it wasn’t from the stress at work. Work stress he was used to, after years at Aquinnah. No, it was something else, a tension headache that had started when he’d made a decision that was irrevocable.

52

Paul had left work early the day he learned about Jake Larsen’s death.

He walked several blocks until he found a Duane Reade, where he bought a prepaid cell phone. He went to a nearby Starbucks, set the phone up, and called Bernie Kovan’s cell.

“Brightman!” Bernie said when Paul had identified himself. “You get a new phone number? You want to come home?”

“Your friend Mark Addison—I didn’t save his business card. I’d like to talk with him. Can you reach out?”

“What’s going on, Paul? You okay?”

“I’m fine, Bernie—nothing to worry about. But I need to talk to your friend. Here’s a number to use—tell him not to call my cell.”

*

Special Agent Mark Addison had given Paul a long set of instructions. Paul left work the next day at a little after six o’clock.Bring a change of clothes in a gym bag, Addison had said.Leave your phone and your Apple Watch, if you have one. Walk to Grand Central. It’ll be rush hour: easier to lose a tail. Walk down to the dining concourse level and find a public restroom. Change into different clothes—jeans, a baseball cap.

How will I know if I’m being followed?Paul had wanted to know.

If they’re any good, you won’t.

Once he’d changed, he headed back to the subway. He took the uptown 2 toward the Bronx to 125th Street and got off.

It took over an hour to reach Doris’s Harlem Restaurant (“Queen of the Soul Food”) on Malcolm X Boulevard. The fried chicken smelled incredible, and Paul was hungry.

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