Page 137 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“You want to go into witness protection. I understand. But it’s a big decision. You’ll have to leave your life behind, your name, your family. Are you really ready for that? And what about your wife? Are you prepared to leave her behind, too?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided. I don’t think she’d go with me, to be honest.” Her words—Pasha, you know me by now. I am a Galkin—echoed in his head.

“Here’s the thing,” Addison said. “There’s a whole process to determine if you get admitted into Witness Protection. You’ve got to be vetted by my higher-ups, including the woman you’re about to meet. Also, the U.S. Attorney General’s Office, the U.S. Marshals Service, the Office of Enforcement Operations. It’s a long, arduous process.”

“Okay, you can get me through—”

“But it’s only for witnesses whose testimony is crucial for the successful prosecution of a case. And we’re not at that stage yet. I don’t even know if we have a case.”

“Does that mean I have to testify against Galkin?”

“It does. Without testimony, no witness protection, simple as that.”

Paul felt a jolt of fear shoot through him. He imagined himself in a courtroom facing down Galkin, with Tatyana in the gallery, and it felt horrible. “If you don’t get me in, I’m screwed. I’m dead meat. I’ll have to do it myself. My own Witness Protection Program.”

I’ll need to disappear myself, he thought.

At that point, there was a knock on the door. Outside, visible through the glass, loomed a stout, squarish woman with blonde hair cut in a Diana, Princess of Wales, style. She was dressed in a navy suit with big shoulders. She was making a summoning sign with her index finger, palm up. A sign that meant she wanted someone to come out.

Special Agent Addison opened the door for her. She entered, and Addison and Trombley both immediately left the room. It was evident that this woman was their superior.

“I’m Geraldine Dempsey,” the woman said, clasping Paul’s hand. Her eyes twinkled. “It’s so nice to know you.” Her voice was surprisingly deep and pleasant. Then her eyebrows tented in a look of great concern. “You must be scared half to death.”

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Geraldine Dempsey—she introduced herself by name and not by title, which was interesting—had a thick twang. Texan, Paul decided.

“Scared? You could say that.” He wondered why she was here, what she wanted from him. “I assume you’re FBI, right?” he said. “What’s your title?”

“I’m not FBI,” she said. “CIA, actually.”

“But . . .”

“You could call me a Russia expert, I suppose, though maybe the ‘expert’ part is in doubt these days. I mean, isanyonean expert on Russia? Who knows what’s really going on over there?”

Paul nodded. He still wondered why she was here. She seemed to have juice. Maybe she was the emergency exit he needed.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “This is an FBI office, right?”

“We do cooperate from time to time, you know. Anyway, first I want to thank you so much for your contribution. You are a cooperating witness, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been providing information to the Bureau?”

“Several months.”

“Wonderful. Well, as you might imagine, I’m very much interested in Arkady Galkin. And the fact that one of your colleagues at Galkin’s firm is dead under suspicious circumstances.”

“Two.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Jake Larsen died of, presumably, an overdose. And Chad Forrester was killed this morning.”

She shook her head as if this were news to her. “So I’d like to get to the bottom of this.” Her accent wasWestTexan, Paul deduced. He had a friend from El Paso who sounded just like her. “We think the killers are from one of the Russian intelligence services, probably GRU.”

“Working together with Galkin?”