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On his way back to the hotel, Paul stopped at a Russian fast-food chain called Teremok and got a chicken Caesar blini. As he ate, he wondered how the hell he was going to get access to Galkin’s briefcase—alone. And what would happen if he got caught trying to insert the tracker? He looked around the restaurant, sensed that he was surrounded by Russians, not tourists. He didn’t know if he was being followed anymore and didn’t feel qualified to know for sure. He’d changed back into his own clothes at the FBI man’s apartment and looked like an American again.

At the hotel, he found their suite empty except for a maid cleaning the bathroom. Tatyana was gone, maybe still at lunch with her mother. He would have to explain to her where he’d gone, have to make up a story about how he wandered around Moscow as a tourist. He switched off the iPhone that the FBI had given him, then hid it in a pocket of his suitcase. He pulled out his own iPhone, saw that he had a few messages. One was from Arkady, inviting him to a “business dinner” at a nearby restaurant called Aragvi.

He called Tatyana.

“How’s your day going, sweetie?” he said when she answered.

“Good. We’re in Van Cleef and Arpels. Mama wanted to show me something. Are you in boring meetings all the time?”

“Not at all. My meetings finished early. I’ve just been wandering around the city, being a tourist.” Trying to be casual, he asked: “Where’s your dad?”

“He’s not with you?”

“I have no idea where he is. Any idea what his plans are?”

“Pasha, when we go to Moscow, we go our own separate ways. Why are you asking me?”

“Curiosity, that’s all.”

“Are you free for dinner? We’re going to La Marée—I wanted fish. Can you join us?”

“I’ve been asked to join your father for dinner at a place called Aragvi. Kind of a command performance.”

“I understand,” she said.

Next, he called Rick Jacobson’s mobile number, using the hotel’s Wi-Fi. Late afternoon in Moscow meant it was around eight thirty in the morning in New York. His friend would either be at work or on his way there.

“Tell me about Dick Foley,” Paul said when Rick answered.

“Who?”

“The Englishman. Commodities trader in London who does business in Moscow.”

“Commodities trader? I don’t know any commodities trader.”

“He’s a funder of your foundation . . .” Paul’s voice trailed off. “Dick Foley?”

“Believe me, if he were a funder, I would know his name. I don’t know any Richard Foley or Dick Foley or anything like that. Can’t help you. Sorry.”