Page 78 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Addison was sitting at a two-top in the back. Paul had forgotten what he looked like, but then he saw the big ears. The FBI man was nibbling on a large square of corn bread. He put it down when he saw Paul.

“How do I know you’re really FBI?” Paul asked as he sat down.

“Fair question,” Addison said. He produced a black leather flip case that held an FBI badge, gold with an eagle on top, and a photo ID card.

“You can probably get that made on Etsy.”

“Or you can call the New York field office and ask for me, if you want. Or you can ask Bernie—he’ll vouch for me.”

“Okay.”

“You’re suspicious. That’s good. I respect that.”

“So why aren’t we meeting at your office, anyway? Because it’s watched?”

“Partly. And because we—my section—are working in isolation from the rest of the office.”

“Isolation?”

“OpSec. Operations security. Some of our special agents are undercover.”

“What’s your section?”

“We deal with Russian oligarchs in the U.S.”

Paul nodded slowly, his eyes widening.

“So what changed your mind?” Addison asked. “Last time we met, you sent me packing.”

Paul told him about Jake Larsen’s overdose.

“And you don’t think Larsen did drugs?”

“I didn’t know him well. . . . but something doesn’t feel right. He didn’t even drink alcohol.”

Addison looked somehow satisfied—and also like he knew a lot more than he was willing to say.

“Is it possible,” Paul asked, “that Galkin has people on call who, you know—what do they call it, ‘wet work’? I mean who actually murder people? Like this guy Berzin—Andrei Berzin?”

“Galkin’s security chief.”

“He’s ex-KGB,” Paul said.

“And more recent than that, ex-FSB. Left the service not long ago. Are you asking, would a Russian oligarch arrange the death of someone he wanted out of the way?”

Paul looked at him.

Addison answered his own question. “Of course he would. Haven’t you been reading the news? It’s a whole new world.”

Paul had read, like everybody else, about Russian defectors who’d been assassinated in Britain. Served tea infused with deadly radioactive poisons. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Since the Cold War ended, the Russian intelligence services—we’re talking the last decade, mostly—have been more aggressive than ever in targeting enemies abroad. I mean, it usually happens in parts of the world Americans don’t pay attention to. Chechen émigrés in Istanbul, places like that. But they also target Russian émigrés who are outspoken Kremlin critics. People they label traitors. Most of the time, they’re careful about covering their tracks.”

“Making it look like an accident.”

“Right. Or a suicide.”

“Hence the overdose,” Paul said.

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