Page 90 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Good. We’re in Van Cleef and Arpels. Mama wanted to show me something. Are you in boring meetings all the time?”

“Not at all. My meetings finished early. I’ve just been wandering around the city, being a tourist.” Trying to be casual, he asked: “Where’s your dad?”

“He’s not with you?”

“I have no idea where he is. Any idea what his plans are?”

“Pasha, when we go to Moscow, we go our own separate ways. Why are you asking me?”

“Curiosity, that’s all.”

“Are you free for dinner? We’re going to La Marée—I wanted fish. Can you join us?”

“I’ve been asked to join your father for dinner at a place called Aragvi. Kind of a command performance.”

“I understand,” she said.

Next, he called Rick Jacobson’s mobile number, using the hotel’s Wi-Fi. Late afternoon in Moscow meant it was around eight thirty in the morning in New York. His friend would either be at work or on his way there.

“Tell me about Dick Foley,” Paul said when Rick answered.

“Who?”

“The Englishman. Commodities trader in London who does business in Moscow.”

“Commodities trader? I don’t know any commodities trader.”

“He’s a funder of your foundation . . .” Paul’s voice trailed off. “Dick Foley?”

“Believe me, if he were a funder, I would know his name. I don’t know any Richard Foley or Dick Foley or anything like that. Can’t help you. Sorry.”

60

The thought occurred to Paul that his meetup with “Dick Foley” could have just been a test set up by Galkin to check his son-in-law’s loyalty. Would his father-in-law have resorted to arranging a ruse like that? If not Galkin, then maybe Berzin? Or was it the FSB? It couldn’t have been Addison . . . could it? The FBI man’s agenda was murky; Paul still didn’t know what he’d wanted, besides planting a tracker.

But he didn’t have time to obsess any longer over the strange meeting with “Dick Foley,” because he had to figure out how to plant the tracker in Arkady’s briefcase, and the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed he’d succeed. They were in Moscow for two more days. There was a deadline.

Galkin was rarely without his briefcase. Like it was part of him. Except at home, when he left it in his study there. Here, in Moscow, the trick was to get Galkin into some private setting and then wait until he temporarily left the room, went to the bathroom. Maybe in his hotel suite.

He knew Galkin would be at dinner at seven, in a few hours, but he didn’t know where he was right now. Maybe back at the hotel. Paul had his father-in-law’s mobile phone number but knew he wasn’t really permitted to call him. Certainly not now, when the man might be napping. He called the front desk and asked to be connected to Galkin’s suite.

The phone rang and rang. The hotel operator got on the line and said, “I’m sorry, I believe Mr. Galkin is not there.”

So he wasn’t back yet. He would see him in a few hours. Maybe there’d be an opportunity at dinner.

*

The Aragvi was a five-minute walk from the hotel. It was an old Moscow restaurant that specialized in Georgian cuisine. Inside the entrance, the maître d’, a middle-aged man as wiry as a greyhound, greeted him in Russian. Paul asked for Mr. Galkin’s table and was escorted to a private room at the center of which was a large oval table. Around it sat Paul’s colleagues and a few people he didn’t recognize, and at the head of the table was Arkady, who called out, “Mr. Brightman is good enough to join us.”

“Apologies,” Paul said, nodding. He’d fallen asleep in his suite, still dressed in his business clothes, and gotten up late.

Arkady began the introductions. The others at the table were Russian lawyers and consultants whom Galkin had done business with in the past, along with Orlov and Matlovsky and Berzin and one of Berzin’s security guards. Paul’s glass was filled with a Georgian white wine called Tsinandali, his plate heaped with khachapuri, Georgian cheese bread; khinkali, Georgian dumplings; and shashlik, a type of shish kebob. The wine had a pleasant floral taste.

Berzin was regaling the party with stories of the restaurant’s heyday, when Aragvi was the favorite haunt of the KGB. Kim Philby used to love coming here, Berzin said. “The rumor was that all the tables were equipped with microphones.” He had a reedy, quiet voice. “You had to be very careful what you said here.”

Galkin was relaxed, more relaxed than Paul had ever seen him before, even at home. He was telling stories, trading quips, laughing uproariously. He was in his motherland and seemed somehow different, more at home. He was holding forth. Was he making jokes at the expense of the other oligarchs who were loyal to the Kremlin? It seemed so. “Russians under czar, under Soviets, under capitalism—always same. Always there is court in Moscow filled with obedient . . . puppets.” Looking hard at Paul, Galkin said, a crooked index finger pointed at him, “A puppet thinks he is free if he loves his strings.”

The dinner broke up after midnight. Paul and the others from Galkin’s party separated in the lobby of the hotel. Galkin didn’t have his briefcase with him. It was probably back at the hotel. There hadn’t been a possible moment at the restaurant, anyway. For the first time, Galkin looked tired and older than his seventy-some years, yet still happy. Paul kept thinking about what his father-in-law had said, that a puppet thinks he’s free if he loves his strings. Did that meanhe, Paul, was a puppet? Or the opposite: that Galkin felt himself to be one?

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