Page 99 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Do you know what Novo-Ogaryovo is?” Addison said. “That’s the Russian president’s dacha. Heard of him? That’s his official residence. We would not have known this if not for you. So what you did was extremely important, Paul. We can confirm now, thanks to you, that Galkin is working with the Kremlin. That’s huge.”

Working with the Kremlin, Paul thought. Jesus. What had he gotten into? “And what happens when Galkin finds the tracker? Because eventually he will. Or Berzin? Or someone working for Berzin, doing a security sweep?”

Addison appeared unworried. “Galkin has enemies. Plenty of enemies. Someone did it. Not you. Probably someone in Moscow, they’ll suspect.”

“He saw me holding the briefcase.”

“You’re hardly at the top of the list of suspects.”

“I don’t find that very reassuring.”

Addison tilted his head to one side. “My colleague Aaron tells me you got the name of the talent spotter who originally connected Galkin to the Kremlin. You have a name—Ludmilla?”

Paul just nodded.

“No last name?”

Paul hesitated. “I may be able to get that for you.”

Addison looked puzzled.

Paul changed the subject. “One more thing. I had a strange encounter in Moscow. With a guy who claimed to be a friend of a friend of mine. Turns out he wasn’t.” He told Addison about his drink at the hotel bar with “Dick Foley.” Then he took out his iPhone and showed Addison a photo he’d covertly snapped of “Foley” at the bar.

The FBI man peered at Paul’s phone, squinted at the high-res photo. “Oh, jeez,” he said after a moment, his voice taut. “That’s Igor.”

Oh, shit. “Igor . . . ?”

“Igor Krupin. SVR. Known to us. Very smooth.”

“SVR is . . . ?”

“Russian foreign intelligence. Used to be KGB, back in the day.”

“This guy spoke perfect English, with a British accent.”

“Krupin’s fluent in like six languages. What was his pitch?”

“He wanted to know what I thought about Arkady Galkin. Also, what kind of business Galkin was doing in Moscow.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“Very little. So what the hell did the SVR want with me?”

“Maybe they wanted to find out if you have some sort of agenda. How loyal you are to Galkin. What did you say about your boss?”

“I don’t remember. Something vague. Nothing critical, that’s for sure.”

Addison pulled out a small black nylon sack. “My bag of toys,” he said. The bag contained only one toy, though. “This,” Addison said, after glancing around the coffee shop, “is called a KeyGrabber.” It was a black cube half an inch long, clearly a piece of computer electronics. “It’s all you need. That and a little luck.”

*

It took Addison about fifteen minutes to give Paul instructions on using the KeyGrabber, but only because he repeated himself three times. Then he handed him a digital RFID key card. It was blank. “When you enter the AGF office to do your work for us, you obviously don’t want to use your own key card showing your name and entry and exit time.”

“Whose is this?” Paul said, turning the RFID card in his hand.

“A member of the custodial staff who’s cleared to be in the office late at night and early in the morning.”

“And what am I looking for?” Paul asked.

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