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Paul had left work early the day he learned about Jake Larsen’s death.

He walked several blocks until he found a Duane Reade, where he bought a prepaid cell phone. He went to a nearby Starbucks, set the phone up, and called Bernie Kovan’s cell.

“Brightman!” Bernie said when Paul had identified himself. “You get a new phone number? You want to come home?”

“Your friend Mark Addison—I didn’t save his business card. I’d like to talk with him. Can you reach out?”

“What’s going on, Paul? You okay?”

“I’m fine, Bernie—nothing to worry about. But I need to talk to your friend. Here’s a number to use—tell him not to call my cell.”

*

Special Agent Mark Addison had given Paul a long set of instructions. Paul left work the next day at a little after six o’clock. Bring a change of clothes in a gym bag , Addison had said. Leave your phone and your Apple Watch, if you have one. Walk to Grand Central. It’ll be rush hour: easier to lose a tail. Walk down to the dining concourse level and find a public restroom. Change into different clothes —jeans, a baseball cap.

How will I know if I’m being followed? Paul had wanted to know.

If they’re any good, you won’t.

Once he’d changed, he headed back to the subway. He took the uptown 2 toward the Bronx to 125th Street and got off.

It took over an hour to reach Doris’s Harlem Restaurant (“Queen of the Soul Food”) on Malcolm X Boulevard. The fried chicken smelled incredible, and Paul was hungry.

Addison was sitting at a two-top in the back. Paul had forgotten what he looked like, but then he saw the big ears. The FBI man was nibbling on a large square of corn bread. He put it down when he saw Paul.

“How do I know you’re really FBI?” Paul asked as he sat down.

“Fair question,” Addison said. He produced a black leather flip case that held an FBI badge, gold with an eagle on top, and a photo ID card.

“You can probably get that made on Etsy.”

“Or you can call the New York field office and ask for me, if you want. Or you can ask Bernie—he’ll vouch for me.”

“Okay.”

“You’re suspicious. That’s good. I respect that.”

“So why aren’t we meeting at your office, anyway? Because it’s watched?”

“Partly. And because we—my section—are working in isolation from the rest of the office.”

“Isolation?”

“OpSec. Operations security. Some of our special agents are undercover.”

“What’s your section?”

“We deal with Russian oligarchs in the U.S.”

Paul nodded slowly, his eyes widening.

“So what changed your mind?” Addison asked. “Last time we met, you sent me packing.”

Paul told him about Jake Larsen’s overdose.

“And you don’t think Larsen did drugs?”

“I didn’t know him well. . . . but something doesn’t feel right. He didn’t even drink alcohol.”

Addison looked somehow satisfied—and also like he knew a lot more than he was willing to say.

“Is it possible,” Paul asked, “that Galkin has people on call who, you know—what do they call it, ‘wet work’? I mean who actually murder people? Like this guy Berzin—Andrei Berzin?”

“Galkin’s security chief.”

“He’s ex-KGB,” Paul said.

“And more recent than that, ex-FSB. Left the service not long ago. Are you asking, would a Russian oligarch arrange the death of someone he wanted out of the way?”

Paul looked at him.

Addison answered his own question. “Of course he would. Haven’t you been reading the news? It’s a whole new world.”

Paul had read, like everybody else, about Russian defectors who’d been assassinated in Britain. Served tea infused with deadly radioactive poisons. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Since the Cold War ended, the Russian intelligence services—we’re talking the last decade, mostly—have been more aggressive than ever in targeting enemies abroad. I mean, it usually happens in parts of the world Americans don’t pay attention to. Chechen émigrés in Istanbul, places like that. But they also target Russian émigrés who are outspoken Kremlin critics. People they label traitors. Most of the time, they’re careful about covering their tracks.”

“Making it look like an accident.”

“Right. Or a suicide.”

“Hence the overdose,” Paul said.

Addison shrugged. “And you’re here because . . .”

“I want protection.”

“Makes sense.”

“So what are you going after Arkady Galkin for?”

“Money laundering for the Kremlin. Stock fraud. Ever hear of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act?”

“You mean RICO? You guys use that against the Mafia.”

“Exactly. And when we take Arkady Galkin down, the whole family goes down with him. Employees, too. Including you and your wife. Congratulations, by the way.”

“But the work I do there is a hundred percent legit. His outfit is a real investment firm. I know, because I do real investment work.”

“Based on what you know. But whose money is he playing with? Who are your investors?”

Paul thought for a moment. Hesitated. Decided this was the moment. “I know about several instances of insider trading, and I’m willing to give you that information as long as I’m protected. I want immunity.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

“I also want absolute confidentiality. I do not want to testify against my father-in-law. I do not want it known that I was your source. I do not want Galkin finding out about my role.”

“Understood. Can do. Unless the case goes to trial. But these cases rarely—almost never—go to trial.”

“And I want Tatyana protected.”

Addison shook his head. “That I can’t guarantee. She’s part of the family, lives on money that was illegally obtained. Illegal proceeds.”

Paul folded his arms. “It’s nonnegotiable. She knows not a goddamned thing about her father’s business. She’s a fucking photographer. She’s an artist.”

“She’s going to lose all her money.”

This didn’t seem like a hill to die on. “But I want you guys to sign a nonprosecution agreement on her.”

After a long pause, Addison nodded. “All right, I’ll make it happen.”

What would happen to his marriage once Tatyana learned he was cooperating with the U.S. government to bring down her father? How could the marriage even survive?

Addison brought him back to the present moment.

“What kind of briefcase does Galkin carry?”

Paul tilted his head, smiled. “A Berluti. I googled it—it costs like six thousand bucks. Why?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Paul took a sip of his Coke. “One more thing. There’s been a big new development.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m going to Moscow next week.”

Addison’s brows shot up. “Whoa. With Galkin?”

Paul nodded gravely.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Does anyone go to Moscow for pleasure?”

“So it’s a business trip.”

“Honestly, I don’t know much about it. He said, ‘You’re coming,’ and I said, ‘Yes, sir.’”

“But he’s bringing you.”

“Right.”

“Interesting. We might have a job for you there.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Look, Paul, you’re a free citizen. You’re free to do whatever you want. You want to hang out in Moscow alone with Galkin and Berzin without protection, go ahead. Be my guest.”

“What’s the job?”