Page 84 of The Oligarch's Daughter

He had begun getting undressed himself when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, which began with country code 44, which he knew was the United Kingdom.

“Paul Brightman?”

“Yes?”

“Dick Foley, I’m a friend of Rick Jacobson’s. Sorry to be calling so late.”

A Brit, by the accent, Paul thought. “That’s okay, I’m up. What can I do for you?”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’m out of the country at the moment.”

“You’re in Moscow. I am, too. We’re at the same hotel.”

“How do you know what hotel I’m at?” Paul had barely seen Rick in months. Had he told him he was going to Moscow? He was sure he hadn’t.

“Long story,” the man said.

“I’d like to hear it.”

“I’m working in Moscow, and I saw Arkady Galkin here, and I know from Rick that you work for him. He gave me your number.”

“He did?” Was this someone from the FBI sent by Addison? Paul wondered. “Okay, well, I’ve got a full schedule of business meetings while I’m here.”Pointless ones, he didn’t add. “When were you thinking?”

“How’s now?”

55

The man at the hotel bar had gray-blond hair and was dressed in a dark-gray suit, no tie. He had nearly invisible eyebrows and deep-set gray eyes. He looked to be around fifty. “Dick Foley,” the man said as they shook hands.

“Paul Brightman. How do you know Rick?”

“We’ve met in charity circles in London. My company funds some of his efforts. Anyway, I saw Galkin here, and I remember Rick saying you’d started working for him, and I thought I’d give you a call.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“May I take you to a bar I think you’ll like? It’s a speakeasy called Schrödinger’s Cat. I have a car.”

Paul hesitated a long time. Then he said, “It’s late. I’ll have one drink, here, in the hotel bar.”

The bar was dimly lit, with black tables and jazz playing low. Paul and Foley took stools at the bar. The Englishman ordered Zubrowka, and Paul ordered the same. Foley explained that it was a Polish vodka flavored with bison grass, which gave it a pale green color and a distinctive zing. They each had it straight. It had a slightly medicinal aftertaste, but Paul liked it.

“You know my boss?” Paul asked.

“He’s a clever man, your father-in-law. A shrewd negotiator. You shake hands with him, you count your fingers afterward, right?” A nervous titter. Foley was watching Paul closely, as if to gauge his reaction. He added, “You can’t help but admire him for his skill.”

Paul was intrigued but didn’t want to seem too interested. He didn’t smile or laugh. He didn’t want to show this stranger any kind of disloyalty to Galkin. “What kind of business are you in?”

“I’m a commodities trader. I work in the City.”

Paul looked around, hoping not to be spotted by either Galkin or Berzin.

Foley drained his glass, signaled the waitress for another. “Who are you meeting with in Moscow?”

“Don’t think I want to tell you that. You might be a competitor.”

“I can be very useful to you.”

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