Page 91 of The Oligarch's Daughter

The two men waited side by side at the elevator bank.

“You see some of Moscow?” Galkin said.

“I did, yes. A little bit.”

“Tatyana take you around?”

“To be honest, I’ve barely seen her! She’s been with her mother most of the time. When she wasn’t taking pictures. But, listen—I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“When, now?”

An elevator dinged, its doors opened, and they got into the car. “It won’t take long,” Paul said.

61

The Presidential Suite was on the tenth floor. It was spacious, of course, and modern in décor, with sweeping views of the Kremlin at night and St. Basil’s Cathedral; the white drapes were now open on the city vistas. Galkin led him to a sitting room with a couple of facing white couches, a glass-topped coffee table between them, topped with a spray of irises and a large platter of exotic fruits.

Slumped on the floor next to the coffee table was Galkin’s briefcase.

Each man sat on a couch facing the other. Galkin leaned back, crossed his legs, and dangled one of them. He looked a little drunk.

Paul hadn’t seen his father-in-law use the restroom at Aragvi. So soon he would have to. There’d been a fair amount of drinking at the table, and the man was afflicted with the same ailment that plagued a lot of men his age: he often had to pee, Paul had noticed. All Paul would have to do was wait him out. Talk until Galkin had to get up to use the bathroom. Then make his move.

“You are not liking Moscow, you are liking Moscow, what?” Galkin began.

“Beautiful city.”

Galkin nodded. “Where you go today?”

Paul shrugged. “Red Square, St. Basil’s, the usual places.”

“You like GUM?”

Had his father-in-law had him followed?

“Great shopping mall.” Paul tried to feign enthusiasm.

“No museums?”

Paul paused. His stomach went hollow. How much did Galkin know about where he’d gone in Moscow? “Briefly went to the Tretyakov Gallery.”

“Briefly?”

“I get museum-ed out pretty quickly. I’m not proud of that.”

“And my Tatyana is enjoying herself?”

“Think so. We’ve barely—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve barely seen each other, I know. She spends lot of time with her mother?”

“She does.”

“Tatyana also loves Moscow. You have dinner with Galina Borisovna?”

“Very elegant lady.”

“Not when she’s yelling,” Arkady replied. He smiled sheepishly. “I sorry, I must be drunk. She’s good mother. Beauty, once upon a time.” He looked down, folded his hands. “You have to say to me something?”

---