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The man at the hotel bar had gray-blond hair and was dressed in a dark-gray suit, no tie. He had nearly invisible eyebrows and deep-set gray eyes. He looked to be around fifty. “Dick Foley,” the man said as they shook hands.

“Paul Brightman. How do you know Rick?”

“We’ve met in charity circles in London. My company funds some of his efforts. Anyway, I saw Galkin here, and I remember Rick saying you’d started working for him, and I thought I’d give you a call.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“May I take you to a bar I think you’ll like? It’s a speakeasy called Schrodinger’s Cat. I have a car.”

Paul hesitated a long time. Then he said, “It’s late. I’ll have one drink, here, in the hotel bar.”

The bar was dimly lit, with black tables and jazz playing low. Paul and Foley took stools at the bar. The Englishman ordered Zubrowka, and Paul ordered the same. Foley explained that it was a Polish vodka flavored with bison grass, which gave it a pale green color and a distinctive zing. They each had it straight. It had a slightly medicinal aftertaste, but Paul liked it.

“You know my boss?” Paul asked.

“He’s a clever man, your father-in-law. A shrewd negotiator. You shake hands with him, you count your fingers afterward, right?” A nervous titter. Foley was watching Paul closely, as if to gauge his reaction. He added, “You can’t help but admire him for his skill.”

Paul was intrigued but didn’t want to seem too interested. He didn’t smile or laugh. He didn’t want to show this stranger any kind of disloyalty to Galkin. “What kind of business are you in?”

“I’m a commodities trader. I work in the City.”

Paul looked around, hoping not to be spotted by either Galkin or Berzin.

Foley drained his glass, signaled the waitress for another. “Who are you meeting with in Moscow?”

“Don’t think I want to tell you that. You might be a competitor.”

“I can be very useful to you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Sure. You’re trying to impress the big man. But you’re in a little over your head, aren’t you? You don’t know the lay of the land. And I can help.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Let me tell you a few things that might be very useful to you, something you can’t get on your Bloomberg terminal. You’re looking to buy a stake in a Russian paper company called Hyperion—‘ Giperion ,’ as the Russians call it.”

Paul was surprised the man knew that one of the companies AGF was looking at was a huge pulp and paper mill in Siberia. “What about it?”

“Well, for years they’ve been pumping toxic waste into Lake Baikal. Which you may know is the largest freshwater lake in the world. And they were just shut down by a regional Siberian court. You don’t want to own the biggest polluter in Russia. Not to mention, any equity stake you take in this company is going to come with a bloodbath of red ink. That company is what Russians call a bear trap. Don’t take my word for it. Do the research yourself.”

“So why are you telling me all this?”

“I’m establishing my bona fides.”

“Meaning you want something from me.”

“Of course I do. I can help you, and I suspect you can help me. I want to know who he’s meeting with in Moscow. I don’t mean you, the junior lackeys. I mean the great man himself.”

“That I can’t tell you, because I don’t know.”

“But you’re a smart young man and, in this instance, well connected. You can find out.”

“I don’t think I can help you. I know what I know, and I know what I don’t know.” Paul put his drink down onto the wooden bar top with a thump. He took out a handful of rubles, but Foley waved them away.

Paul got down from the stool and extended a hand. The men shook, and Foley said with a smile, wriggling his fingers, “All my fingers—all there!”