Page 98 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Maybe this was routine . . . but maybe it wasn’t.

Were they FSB, and were they looking for an American businessman named Langfitt? They wouldn’t find him here. But what if they had a photo of “Langfitt’s” face, from a camera Paul hadn’t spotted? When he walked by, they’d see him, they’d detain him . . .

He switched places with Tatyana so she would be on the side nearer the reception desk and he wouldn’t be as visible, and together they passed by reception and reached the elevators, Tatyana tottering, her heels clearly uncomfortable after a long day.

Before they could push a button, though, Paul heard a loud male voice calling out in Russian. It was Arkady, approaching the elevator, and he seemed a little unsteady himself. Like father, like daughter. Gripping his briefcase in one hand, Galkin gave his daughter a half hug with the other and said something in Russian aboutdoch’, which Paul knew meant “daughter.” He reeked of cigars and booze. Then Galkin turned to Paul. “How was your last day in Moscow?”

“Very nice, thanks.”

“Your meetings go well?”

“Quite well, thanks.”

“What you do after meetings? While my daughter and my ex-wife are spending my money?”

Why was he asking? “Mostly walked around aimlessly.”

“Yes?”

“Beautiful city.”

A long pause, and Galkin’s eyebrows furrowed, his eyes glittering. “Why you go to Bauman?”

Paul’s stomach sank.He must have had me followed, he realized.

Laughing, Tatyana said in disbelief, “You went to the Bauman Institute?”

“I did,” Paul said to her. “I knew your father went to school there, and I knew it was important to him, so I read about it. Saw an interesting mention of its architecture.” Turning to Galkin, he said, “Partly nineteenth century, partly Soviet, but it’s harmonious. It works.” Paul the architecture critic. How much did Galkin know about what his son-in-law had researched at his alma mater?

Had he been followed to Ludmilla’s apartment, too? He would have no way to explain that.

Galkin gave Paul a hard look. “Architecture of Bauman not interesting” was all he said.

66

The days after Paul’s return from Moscow were filled with anxiety. He found himself waiting for the hammer to come down, for Moscow to catch up with him. Had Ludmilla given the police his phony name, pointed out his connection to Galkin? Would Galkin learn that Paul had been going around Moscow looking into his past?

He found it hard to concentrate on work. Tatyana seemed energized after seeing her mother; she seemed to float. Paul, for his part, was glum and fretful. She asked why he seemed so ill at ease. He told her there was a lot of pressure at work.

The third time he met with Special Agent Mark Addison was in a Starbucks at the corner of Astor Place and Lafayette Street—the foulest Starbucks Paul had ever been in. Several vagrants were sleeping at tables; a disordered man shouted at a mirror near the bathrooms; not even the smell of coffee could mask the low-lying ambience of urine and body odor.

When they were settled at a table, each man with a coffee, Paul recounted for Addison the tension-filled days in Moscow, what he was able to accomplish, and then said acerbically, “Was it worth it?”

“Waswhatworth it?”

“Putting the tracker in Galkin’s briefcase. I nearly got caught.”

“But youdidn’tget caught, did you?”

“Hard to know for sure. I don’t know exactly what Galkin saw, what he thought.”

“Well, you didn’t. Because it worked.”

“How so?”

“We were able to track Galkin to a meeting in Novo-Ogaryovo, on the outskirts of Moscow.”

Paul shrugged. He didn’t know what the place was or its significance.

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