Page 135 of The Oligarch's Daughter

*

While they were getting ready for bed, and Tatyana was removing her makeup, she said, “When do you want to move?”

Her question caught him by surprise: he’d been lost in thought about how this might be one of the last times he’d watch her remove her makeup. About how he’d probably never live with her anymore. He had no choice about this, he was sure. Galkin’s people would get him unless he took off before they had a chance. “Move what?” he said distractedly.

“To the new apartment, silly. Should we wait until this weekend, when you’re free?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Of course, it might take a while to get a moving truck—I don’t know if anyone’s going to be free this weekend, last minute.”

“We don’t have that much to move,” he said, deciding to play along. If he did decide to leave, it was crucial that it be a surprise to her father.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what are we moving? I’ve got maybe two suitcases’ worth of clothes in my apartment, and you—you might need a wardrobe trunk for your nicer clothes and that’s it.”

“What about my couch and dining table and chairs?”

“Why don’t we sell them? The new place is already furnished, and your furniture might look funny there.”

He knew he would never live with her in their enormous new apartment.

*

In the middle of the night, his cell phone rang, but he’d left it charging in the living room and didn’t hear it.

*

In the morning, on his way to the bathroom, he snatched his phone from the coffee table and checked it. One missed call. It was from Chad Forrester. He’d left a voice memo.

While he made coffee, he listened to Chad’s message. As he listened, his stomach grew tauter and tauter, and he suddenly didn’t want coffee anymore, didn’t want or need the jolt:

Brightman, I’m so fucked. I’m, like, a dead man. They think I downloaded some top-secret files from, like, the inner sanctum or something, which I definitely did not do. I have no fucking idea what they’re talking about. And, like, they say they have me on video leaving the office at two in the morning last week. Which is bullshit—I was home asleep! And they have audio recordings of me bitching about the firm.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, man. I mean, look what they did to Larsen, and if I die of an overdose, you know it’s not true. And you’re next, man. Don’t come into work, man. I saw the security people coming out of your office, and you know what that means, right? I saw them going into Larsen’s office right before they killed him. So, call me, man. Now.

Chad had called at 3:10 a.m.

When Paul called him back, the phone rang and rang and rang.

89

While Paul was in the shower, he thought about what Chad had said.They say they have me on video leaving the office at two in the morning last week.

Paul had deliberately worn the standard-issue young-investment-professional uniform: the quilted Orvis vest, the Yankees cap, the Stan Smiths. He’d meant to look like anyone in the firm. Plenty of guys wore Yankees caps, though not Paul. But maybe the Stan Smiths were a mistake—Chad wore them.

He felt queasy with guilt. He didn’t know what to do.

He heard his phone ring. Dripping wet from the shower, he grabbed it off the bathroom vanity, saw that the caller was Mr. Frost.

“Yes?”

“When you come into work this morning, please come directly to my office,” Frost said, and the line went dead.

At about the same time, his phone plinked with an incoming Signal text notification. That could be only one person: Special Agent Addison. They were already scheduled to meet at noon; was Addison canceling for some reason?

The phone slipped out of Paul’s wet hand and hit the tile floor. “Shit,” he said. He leaned over, picked it up. The screen wasn’t cracked; the phone looked okay. He clicked on the FBI man’s text message: