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It was a small crew in Moscow, the oligarch and his daughter, Paul, and a couple of fluent Russian-speaking investment officers from the firm, Ivan Matlovsky and Matt Orlov.

The five were driven in two armored Bentleys: Paul, Tatyana, and her father in one. The weather was gray and drizzling, and the first stretch beyond the airport facilities was ugly. Mostly warehouses and commercial buildings, gray and unsightly. When they reached the outskirts of Moscow, Paul saw high-rise apartment complexes, enormous housing blocks built in Soviet times. As they entered Moscow proper, the buildings became commercial and surprisingly international in style. They drove along Kutuzovsky Prospekt, one of Moscow’s main drags, past Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Versace, Dior. A Rolls-Royce showroom. It was like Rodeo Drive in L.A., except cold. Moscow in May could be cool and rainy. Paul had read that Kutuzovsky Prospekt, named after a famous Russian general who defended the city against Napoleon, was now the Park Avenue of Moscow. But a lot flashier, he decided. The buildings were lit up purple and blue. There were huge electronic billboards—ads for the Armani Exchange, Chanel, Omega watches, and something called Megafon, which he later learned was a major Russian mobile phone network operator. Neon and LED lights everywhere. The city sparkled in the night. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

He thought anxiously about his assignment. Special Agent Addison hadn’t prepared him well for Moscow; he’d made the city sound gloomier and more Soviet than it actually appeared to be. So Paul wondered if Addison was up on what surveillance was like in Russia these days. Paul would be in meetings most of the three days they were scheduled to be there. And he didn’t even know how paranoid to be, a thought that made him paranoid. Would he be followed around town, the way foreigners were in the movies?

They checked into what he was told (and soon believed) was the finest hotel in Moscow, the imposing, grandiose building that was once the Hotel Moskva, designed by the same architect who designed Lenin’s Mausoleum. It was 2 a.m. Moscow time. Even though they’d flown private, in luxury, with lie-flat seats, they were all exhausted. Tatyana and Paul checked into their room, a gorgeously appointed suite. Surely, he got the upgrade only because Tatyana was with him.

“How are you feeling about being back?” he asked her from the bathroom as he was brushing his teeth. But she was already snoring softly.

He noticed he had an incoming message on the Signal app. It was from Addison. The FBI agent had assured him that Signal was safe to use, that it was secure, as opposed to WhatsApp or the Russian messaging app Telegram. WhatsApp had a history of exploits, and Telegram wasn’t encrypted. The Russians, Addison had said, hadn’t broken Signal. Paul hoped he was right.

Meet friend Tues 1pm Moscow time @ GUM Burberry boutique. You should be out of your meetings by then.

Meet who? Paul texted back.

Colleague of mine. Leave your phone in hotel.

*

In the morning, as Tatyana slept, Paul took a shower and shaved and went downstairs to the Bystro restaurant on the second floor to have breakfast with the other two AGF guys. He was bleary and half-asleep, whereas Matlovsky and Orlov looked wide awake. He got the explanation a few minutes later, after the waiter had poured them all coffee, when Orlov offered him some Provigil, saying that airline pilots took it all the time. It made you alert and wakeful and improved your cognitive performance. Paul pocketed a pill, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood for experimenting with a drug he’d never tried before.

Matlovsky had black hair, short on the sides and longer in the middle, and a large, sharp nose. Orlov had long blond hair, fair skin, gray eyes, and high cheekbones and looked very Slavic. They were both American-born ethnic Russians who spoke Russian fluently because they’d grown up speaking it with their parents.

Matlovsky and Orlov decided on the Russian breakfast buffet, returning with their plates loaded with cold cuts and cheese and sausages and yogurts. Paul ordered an American breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. He wasn’t ready to go full Moscow yet.

“What’s the purpose of this first meeting?” he asked them. “I have briefing books and a PowerPoint deck, but Frost never filled me in.”

“We’re mostly just entertaining pitches,” said Orlov.

“A thought shower,” Matlovsky said.

“Where’s the boss?” Paul asked.

“Which boss?” asked Orlov.

“Galkin.”

“We don’t ask,” said Matlovsky. A waiter came by and filled their coffee cups. Paul knew only that Arkady was staying in the Presidential Suite alone, without Polina, who for some reason usually didn’t want to go to Moscow. Galkin went several times a year, the guys had told him earlier.

Maybe his father-in-law was still asleep, Paul thought. It was clear that he kept his own schedule. Paul and the two Russian American guys were on their own.

They met in one of the hotel’s conference rooms with five people from Propulsion, a Moscow-based firm that was pitching ideas all over the place. At one point, the lights went out so they could watch a PowerPoint presentation, and Paul came close to drowsing, but instead he poured himself a fourth cup of coffee. The Russians—two women, two men—spoke English fluently with British accents. They also used the jargon of the corporate world: “boil the ocean” and “robust” and “best practices.”

The meeting with Propulsion broke for lunch. Paul was slowly coming to the realization that their meetings were pointless, just for show. Nothing more than busywork for him while the real show took place. And the real show must be whoever Galkin was meeting with. Paul and Matlovsky and Orlov were there only to provide a pretext for Arkady’s Moscow trip.

Paul went out to the hotel lobby. It was spacious and stunning: high ceilings, ornate chandeliers, polished marble floors, and plush carpets in beige and cream. He was waiting for Tatyana; they would be meeting up with her mother. Soon he noticed an elegant, slim-hipped woman in her late fifties standing off to the left of the front desk, wearing what he knew from Tatyana’s closet was a St. John suit in a powdery olive hue. She could have been a retired model. She had silver hair and very red lipstick.

Just then, Tatyana emerged from the bank of elevators and, seeing the silver-haired woman, half-ran toward her. “Mámochka!” she called out. There were tears in her eyes.

The two embraced tightly, for a long time. This was Galina Borisovna Belkina, Arkady’s first wife and the mother of his two children. Speaking in machine-gun Russian, Tatyana introduced Paul. He extended a hand, but Galina leaned in and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Wonderful to meet you,” she said in Russian. “ Moi zyat . My son-in-law.” She spoke with the deep rasp of a longtime smoker. “Will you come with us or . . . ?”

“I can’t join you for lunch, I’m sorry,” said Paul. “Business meetings.”

More rapid-fire Russian.

“She wants to invite you to dinner at her dacha tonight,” Tatyana said.

“I’d love it,” Paul said.

“Have you ever been to Moscow before?”

Paul said he hadn’t.

“You should be a tourist for a while. Will you have a chance? Hire a guide from the hotel.”

At that moment, Arkady Galkin emerged from the elevator bank. He was wearing a blue suit, a silver tie, and very shiny black shoes, more dressed up than Paul had ever seen him. He smelled of cologne and cigars. Galkin approached Galina, kissed her chastely on her cheeks three times. Tatyana was holding onto her mother’s hands as if afraid she would leave.

Galkin and his ex-wife spoke for a few minutes, civilly. At one point, Paul understood him to say that he was visiting a friend’s dacha on the Rublyovka. Paul knew that was a tony area west of Moscow where the rich had dachas, or country houses.

Galkin turned to Paul and said, “So you want to see Moscow.” Sardonically he added, “I suppose you will see Lenin Mausoleum.”

“Maybe.”

“No Muscovite goes there. Only for tourists.”

“Just like I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty. Is the great man’s body really there?”

“Looks like wax, but really is his . . . body. At least head. How you get around?”

“What do you advise?”

“Take company car. Driver is also security guard.”