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The Presidential Suite was on the tenth floor. It was spacious, of course, and modern in décor, with sweeping views of the Kremlin at night and St. Basil’s Cathedral; the white drapes were now open on the city vistas. Galkin led him to a sitting room with a couple of facing white couches, a glass-topped coffee table between them, topped with a spray of irises and a large platter of exotic fruits.

Slumped on the floor next to the coffee table was Galkin’s briefcase.

Each man sat on a couch facing the other. Galkin leaned back, crossed his legs, and dangled one of them. He looked a little drunk.

Paul hadn’t seen his father-in-law use the restroom at Aragvi. So soon he would have to. There’d been a fair amount of drinking at the table, and the man was afflicted with the same ailment that plagued a lot of men his age: he often had to pee, Paul had noticed. All Paul would have to do was wait him out. Talk until Galkin had to get up to use the bathroom. Then make his move.

“You are not liking Moscow, you are liking Moscow, what?” Galkin began.

“Beautiful city.”

Galkin nodded. “Where you go today?”

Paul shrugged. “Red Square, St. Basil’s, the usual places.”

“You like GUM?”

Had his father-in-law had him followed?

“Great shopping mall.” Paul tried to feign enthusiasm.

“No museums?”

Paul paused. His stomach went hollow. How much did Galkin know about where he’d gone in Moscow? “Briefly went to the Tretyakov Gallery.”

“Briefly?”

“I get museum-ed out pretty quickly. I’m not proud of that.”

“And my Tatyana is enjoying herself?”

“Think so. We’ve barely—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve barely seen each other, I know. She spends lot of time with her mother?”

“She does.”

“Tatyana also loves Moscow. You have dinner with Galina Borisovna?”

“Very elegant lady.”

“Not when she’s yelling,” Arkady replied. He smiled sheepishly. “I sorry, I must be drunk. She’s good mother. Beauty, once upon a time.” He looked down, folded his hands. “You have to say to me something?”

“Yes, I was doing—”

“You will excuse me. I have to go to gulag.” Galkin got up from the couch, almost stumbling at first.

“The gulag?”

His father-in-law smiled as he walked toward the door. “What we say when we use toilet.” He chuckled.

Galkin made a motion for Paul to get up as well. “You know, Paul, I am tired and not at most sharp,” he said, waving him out. “Goodnight.”

Shit . “To be continued in the morning?” Paul said, trying not to sound desperate.

“Everything will wait.”

“When can we talk in the morning?”

“I have breakfast with Berzin at nine.”

“Before that, then?” And hope Berzin didn’t come early.

“You come at eight.”

Paul had meetings starting at nine. “Eight is perfect,” he said. It was worth a try.

*

He got up at seven the next day, had a leisurely coffee in their suite, and got dressed.

Galkin answered the door to his suite. He was wearing an expensively tailored–looking suit and a tasteful maroon tie. He looked a little grumpy, maybe hungover.

They went to the same sitting room. Coffee was set out on the glass coffee table, next to Galkin’s briefcase, in the same place where Paul had seen it the night before.

“So Polina doesn’t come back to Moscow very often.” Paul poured them both cups of coffee.

“Bad blood, I think,” Galkin said and didn’t explain further. He changed the subject. “Your meetings go well, yes?”

“Yes. And yours?”

Galkin ignored that question as if it were impertinent. “Marriage is good?” he asked abruptly. “You don’t look at other women, I hope. Or maybe you do—but look, but don’t touch.”

“Marriage is good.” There was a pause during which both men took sips of their coffee. “So I’ve been doing a little research into Hyperion,” Paul said.

“Giperion?”

“I had a bad feeling about something, so I did a little digging.” He told Galkin how the company had just been shut down by a Siberian court for polluting Lake Baikal. Paul hadn’t seen anything online about this, so he was taking the chance that “Dick Foley” had been telling the truth.

Arkady narrowed his eyes, nodded shrewdly. If he’d had eyestalks, they’d have been waving.

“We don’t want to own the biggest polluter in Russia,” Paul explained.

“No,” Galkin said quickly. “Is bear trap.”

Paul outlined for him what Galkin himself had surely already figured out: that by buying a share in that company, they’d be taking on enormous debt. Then Galkin said, standing up, “Is time to take leak.”

Paul watched him lumber out of the room. He heard the bathroom door close. Finally , Paul thought. Now I’d better hope the pee takes him a while .

His heart galumphing, he leaned to his left and picked up the briefcase. It gave off a nice musky, animal smell.

It wasn’t locked.

His ears remained alert for Galkin’s return.

He turned the brass clasp lock and opened the flap. The bag was stuffed with papers. He saw the inside pocket he’d been instructed to look for. Pulled the tracker out of his right pocket, quickly peeled off the paper on the adhesive, and holding the tracker carefully, stuck his hand into the intended briefcase pocket.

And he listened . . . because if Galkin returned right now and saw him with his hand inside the briefcase, there would be no way out. No way to explain what he was doing. Nothing he could think of quickly, anyway.

Swiftly now, he slipped the tracker into the bottom pocket, sticky side out so it would adhere to the inside of the pocket. He patted the tracker into place.

He closed the flap of the briefcase, turned the clasp, and looked up.

Arkady was standing there watching him.

It had been an unexpectedly quick pee.

Paul’s heart rocketed. He held up the briefcase, his face flushed. “What is this, hand-rubbed calfskin?” he croaked with an admiring smile.

Galkin, smiled, seemingly flattered, and looked as if he were about to say something when the doorbell rang. It was nine o’clock exactly. The Russian turned to let Berzin in.

“Good morning,” Berzin said.

Paul stood up as Berzin entered the suite. The chief of security eyed him suspiciously. He, too, was wearing a suit. Paul wondered where the two men were going, and if they were going together.