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The days after Paul’s return from Moscow were filled with anxiety. He found himself waiting for the hammer to come down, for Moscow to catch up with him. Had Ludmilla given the police his phony name, pointed out his connection to Galkin? Would Galkin learn that Paul had been going around Moscow looking into his past?

He found it hard to concentrate on work. Tatyana seemed energized after seeing her mother; she seemed to float. Paul, for his part, was glum and fretful. She asked why he seemed so ill at ease. He told her there was a lot of pressure at work.

The third time he met with Special Agent Mark Addison was in a Starbucks at the corner of Astor Place and Lafayette Street—the foulest Starbucks Paul had ever been in. Several vagrants were sleeping at tables; a disordered man shouted at a mirror near the bathrooms; not even the smell of coffee could mask the low-lying ambience of urine and body odor.

When they were settled at a table, each man with a coffee, Paul recounted for Addison the tension-filled days in Moscow, what he was able to accomplish, and then said acerbically, “Was it worth it?”

“Was what worth it?”

“Putting the tracker in Galkin’s briefcase. I nearly got caught.”

“But you didn’t get caught, did you?”

“Hard to know for sure. I don’t know exactly what Galkin saw, what he thought.”

“Well, you didn’t. Because it worked.”

“How so?”

“We were able to track Galkin to a meeting in Novo-Ogaryovo, on the outskirts of Moscow.”

Paul shrugged. He didn’t know what the place was or its significance.

“Do you know what Novo-Ogaryovo is?” Addison said. “That’s the Russian president’s dacha. Heard of him? That’s his official residence. We would not have known this if not for you. So what you did was extremely important, Paul. We can confirm now, thanks to you, that Galkin is working with the Kremlin. That’s huge.”

Working with the Kremlin , Paul thought. Jesus. What had he gotten into? “And what happens when Galkin finds the tracker? Because eventually he will. Or Berzin? Or someone working for Berzin, doing a security sweep?”

Addison appeared unworried. “Galkin has enemies. Plenty of enemies. Someone did it. Not you. Probably someone in Moscow, they’ll suspect.”

“He saw me holding the briefcase.”

“You’re hardly at the top of the list of suspects.”

“I don’t find that very reassuring.”

Addison tilted his head to one side. “My colleague Aaron tells me you got the name of the talent spotter who originally connected Galkin to the Kremlin. You have a name—Ludmilla?”

Paul just nodded.

“No last name?”

Paul hesitated. “I may be able to get that for you.”

Addison looked puzzled.

Paul changed the subject. “One more thing. I had a strange encounter in Moscow. With a guy who claimed to be a friend of a friend of mine. Turns out he wasn’t.” He told Addison about his drink at the hotel bar with “Dick Foley.” Then he took out his iPhone and showed Addison a photo he’d covertly snapped of “Foley” at the bar.

The FBI man peered at Paul’s phone, squinted at the high-res photo. “Oh, jeez,” he said after a moment, his voice taut. “That’s Igor.”

Oh, shit . “Igor . . . ?”

“Igor Krupin. SVR. Known to us. Very smooth.”

“SVR is . . . ?”

“Russian foreign intelligence. Used to be KGB, back in the day.”

“This guy spoke perfect English, with a British accent.”

“Krupin’s fluent in like six languages. What was his pitch?”

“He wanted to know what I thought about Arkady Galkin. Also, what kind of business Galkin was doing in Moscow.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“Very little. So what the hell did the SVR want with me?”

“Maybe they wanted to find out if you have some sort of agenda. How loyal you are to Galkin. What did you say about your boss?”

“I don’t remember. Something vague. Nothing critical, that’s for sure.”

Addison pulled out a small black nylon sack. “My bag of toys,” he said. The bag contained only one toy, though. “This,” Addison said, after glancing around the coffee shop, “is called a KeyGrabber.” It was a black cube half an inch long, clearly a piece of computer electronics. “It’s all you need. That and a little luck.”

*

It took Addison about fifteen minutes to give Paul instructions on using the KeyGrabber, but only because he repeated himself three times. Then he handed him a digital RFID key card. It was blank. “When you enter the AGF office to do your work for us, you obviously don’t want to use your own key card showing your name and entry and exit time.”

“Whose is this?” Paul said, turning the RFID card in his hand.

“A member of the custodial staff who’s cleared to be in the office late at night and early in the morning.”

“And what am I looking for?” Paul asked.

“Formation documents. The documents used to set up the firm. Information that’s buried in the old files. Where the money came from that set Galkin up in business. Who the original investors were.”

“But how could you not have information on AGF’s investors? You’re the FBI, man! You know everything.”

“Very funny,” Addison said, not amused. “There’s plenty we don’t know. That’s why we need you. Galkin is running a private limited partnership, an LLC. So the underlying documents are not on file with state or federal authorities. To us, it’s a black box.”

Paul slipped the KeyGrabber and the RFID card into the small black canvas bag and then put the bag into his briefcase. The next day, he brought it into work. The FBI project, he figured, would take no more than three days. He would be careful and methodical. He didn’t like having to count on luck.

He waited until things at work were slow, when people were unlikely to drop into his office and Margo was on break. Then he disconnected his keyboard from the USB port at the back and plugged the little black device, the KeyGrabber, into the port and reconnected the keyboard’s black cable into it. The KeyGrabber would copy every single keystroke made on his computer. “Keyloggers have been around for years,” Addison had told him, “and most IT professionals recognize them easily. This one, though, is nearly invisible. Undetectable. No one’s going to notice it.”

The IT department in Galkin’s firm consisted of one employee, Volodymyr, who was Ukrainian. Volodymyr was in his twenties and said to be a whiz. He was small and scrawny and somehow always had a few days of stubble on his jaw. On Slack, Paul messaged Volodymyr—he went by the nickname “Vova”—and told him he was having trouble with his computer.

Not more than four minutes later, Vova knocked on Paul’s open door. Clearly he was having a slow day. “How can I help you, sir?” he said. His American English accent was nearly perfect. His “sir” seemed to be ironic.

“This is weird,” Paul said, “but I’m having speed issues with my web browser. It sort of randomly won’t load our website. Or it’s really slow to load. Like that.”

“Can you show me?”

“Will you excuse me, Vova? I’ve got to use the restroom. Why don’t you reboot it and try it yourself?”

“Sure,” Vova said as Paul left his office. He wanted Vova to reboot his computer and then enter his own password.

Paul returned some five minutes later.

“Sorry to tell you, I wasn’t able to reproduce the issue,” said Vova. “You said the company website won’t load?”

“Right.”

“Loaded just fine, sir.”

“Hmm, weird. I’ll try and get a video of it happening next time. Thanks for trying. And sorry to bother you.”

“No worries,” said Vova.

The next step was a little complicated, because Paul didn’t really have any privacy at home, in Tatyana’s small apartment, and their new place was still being renovated. She would ask what he was doing. More accurately, she would want him to stop work for the day, have a drink. So after work, he stopped at a Blue Bottle, ordered a decaf latte, and grabbed a table. He inserted the KeyGrabber, which he’d unplugged from his computer, into a USB drive on his personal laptop.

The KeyGrabber had recorded every keystroke Vova had made, including his login credentials and password. As the firm’s IT specialist, Vova probably had permission to go anywhere in the company’s system.

Now Paul had it, too.

He had everything he needed to penetrate the firm’s network.

Everything except the courage.

Addison had outlined for him how he should do it. Because there were problems. Challenges to meet. Addison suggested that Paul do it at night, after hours, after everyone had gone home. He should badge in using the RFID key card the FBI had supplied, using the janitor’s credentials. Of course, some employees worked late, till ten or eleven at night. Which meant he might have to stay as late as midnight or later—and concoct some story for Tatyana as to why he would be coming home so late. She might suspect him of seeing someone, having an affair. And if she suspected that, she might tell her father, in casual conversation—they talked a lot. So his alibi would have to be convincing.

But that was the least of his problems.

There was also the issue of the firm’s security cameras. There were CCTV cameras at the entrance and the fire exits. If anyone bothered to look, Paul would be seen leaving the office at, whatever, one or two in the morning. That would raise questions.

From his burner phone, he texted Addison and asked for another meeting.

*

Three days later, he told Tatyana he had to work late that night. “I’ve been putting it off for weeks,” he said, “but I have to make a presentation at the morning meeting tomorrow.”

That was almost true. He did have a presentation to make, but he’d already finished work on it.

“How late will you be?”

“Midnight or after, I bet.”

“You’re kidding!” she said with a pout. “I’ll be asleep!”

“I know, dushen’kaya . I’ll be quiet.”

“Does my father know how hard you work?”

*

In the morning meeting, Paul took notice of what his colleagues were wearing. Mostly button-down shirts and quilted navy vests and khakis, with various types of sneakers, leather or not.

He left work around five thirty, earlier than usual, telling Margo he had some errands to run. He made it to the Orvis store on Fifth Avenue just in time. The Adidas flagship store, a few blocks away on Fifth, was open later. At J.Crew, after buying a pair of chinos, he changed clothes in the dressing room.

To kill time, he browsed at the Barnes and Noble and then stopped at a pizza place for a slice, but he didn’t have an appetite. He was too tense. The time dragged by. He picked up a Yankees cap at a tourist shop on Sixth Avenue, then walked around aimlessly, hoping he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. This was Manhattan, where you could go for weeks without bumping into anyone, but then run into an old friend from high school when you least wanted to.

Finally, at a few minutes before nine, he returned to the office. His colleagues worked late, many of them, but usually by eight, eight thirty, the office was nearly deserted.

Wearing his brand-new quilted Orvis vest and his brand-new Stan Smiths and his brand-new Yankees cap, he entered, looking down at his feet, his face turned away from the security camera. His outfit could have belonged to anyone in the firm. He was wearing a Covid face mask, too, so there was very little face to identify. He waved the RFID card Addison had given him at the reader.

As far as the system knew, a custodian had just badged in. But if anyone bothered to look at the video feed, they wouldn’t see a face.