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Dinner was to be served in an outdoor dining area on the aft deck, which was beautifully illuminated. With them so far away from the lights of the shore, the sky was black, crowded with stars. The yacht’s railings were glass. Several bodyguards, in their gray suits, stood around awkwardly, a couple of them leaning against the bulkhead. That meant the boss was nearby.

Sure enough, Paul spotted Galkin sitting at a small table by a full bar, talking quietly to someone, a younger man with a mop of gray hair. Galkin was wearing a blue blazer and an ascot, like someone out of an Edith Wharton novel. When he saw his daughter entering with Paul, he stood up and extended his arms. He greeted them in Russian and hugged and kissed Tatyana and then, to Paul’s surprise, hugged him. In English, he said to Paul, “Welcome to the Pechorin . You know who is Pechorin?”

“He’s the hero of our time,” Paul said.

“ Prekrasno! ” Galkin said. Terrific. “You understand?”

Paul nodded. “Yes.”

“You read this book?”

Paul shook his head. “But I will.”

“Pechorin is brave and lives his life fully. ‘To the hilt,’ you say, yes? He doesn’t care about society. He never needs to impress people.” Then Arkady changed the subject. “How is your room? Is okay?”

“It’s great,” Paul said. “Amazing. What a beautiful boat.”

“Thank you,” he said, nodding. “Not bad for half a billion dollars, yes?”

“Not bad at all.”

“We talk later, yes?”

Paul, even though he’d been expecting this, felt a jolt in his gut. He said, “Sure,” but Galkin had already turned to hug Polina, who was wearing a shimmering gold strapless gown that grazed the floor and looked dazzling. Polina hugged and kissed Tatyana, then Paul, while Galkin greeted the latest arrivals: the two couples from the jet, his old friends. Both the men wore blue blazers. They’d gotten the memo.

Then Niko arrived, wearing a blue blazer and white pants and Gucci loafers with no socks. He gave his sister a peck on the cheek and gave Paul a perfunctory nod. But at least no poisonous look this time. Niko was accompanied by a new girlfriend. He was constantly bringing a different girl around. Then he turned and gave his father a hug and a kiss on the cheek as well.

Dinner was served at one long table. The dining chairs looked like they were covered in gold leaf. There were place cards with the hosts’ and guests’ names in calligraphy. The stewards and stewardesses all wore white gloves. They were serving flutes of champagne, and vodka for whoever preferred it. The table was set with gleaming silverware and water and crystal wineglasses. On each plate, a white napkin was neatly folded and in a silver ring, in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. There were white floral centerpieces.

At one end of the table, presumably the head, sat Arkady Galkin. Polina sat at the other end. Tatyana was seated near her father. Paul was quite a ways from her. The place card next to his read, ILYA BONDARENKO . Paul committed the name to memory.

A moment later, Bondarenko arrived. He spoke fluent English with the flat accent of a Russian trying to imitate American and maybe overshooting. He didn’t wear a blue blazer but a suit jacket and an open shirt. He had thick glasses and a pudgy face, a sallow complexion. He looked about Paul’s age, maybe a little older.

“So how are you connected to this gathering?” Ilya asked as he sat.

“I work for Galkin,” Paul replied.

“Oh, yeah? I used to, too. What do you do?”

“I manage U.S. equities.”

“So you’ve got my old job,” Ilya said. “If you don’t mind my saying, I’m surprised he hired an American.”

Paul didn’t want to explain that he was married to Galkin’s daughter.

“Where’d you come from?” Ilya asked.

“Bernard Kovan’s fund, Aquinnah. Where do you work now?”

Ilya gave the name of a well-known U.S. hedge fund.

“Why’d you leave Galkin’s firm?” Paul asked.

“Rather not say. Sorry. We didn’t exactly part on good terms.”

“No,” Paul said. “I get it.” He knew better than to probe. It couldn’t be an accident that this guy had been seated next to him.

“Actually, I’m kinda surprised he invited me,” Ilya added. “I’ve been on his yacht only once before. I figured once I was out of his orbit, I was dead to him. But I guess not.” He picked up his large white cloth napkin and mopped sweat from his brow.

“You okay?” Paul asked. It was a cool night.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just hot. Have you walked around this boat yet?”

“Not yet. Just got in.”

“Pretty fucking amazing. You know what it’s called, right?”

“Sure, Pechorin .”

“You know who Pechorin is, right?”

“Hero of our times,” Paul said, almost by rote. “Lermontov.”

“You should read the book. Pechorin is arrogant and cynical. A destroyer of lives. A shithead. A moral cripple.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a weird name for a boat. It’s really a statement. Sorta like, I don’t give a shit what you think of me. You do you. I do me.”

Food was served by two stewards wearing white shirts, gray vests, and black pants. They placed down, from silver platters, some kind of chilled soup served in shot glasses, then a Thai green mango salad. The wines included a Lafite Rothschild as well as a Romanée-Conti. Paul was not a wine guy, but he knew these were very expensive wines. Galkin was showing off.

The main courses were grilled lobster on a bed of peas and rice in the Caribbean style and porcini-crusted filet mignon on a bed of roasted garlic mashed potatoes. You could choose one or have both. Go crazy.

Paul noticed that Ilya Bondarenko wasn’t eating or drinking anything. His filet lay untouched. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Not hungry,” Ilya said. “Also a little queasy. Will you excuse me?” He got up and left the table.

Paul decided it was a good moment to take a break, so he got up from the table and looked for the bathroom. The day head, the bathroom, was inside the deck they were on, conveniently located close by. But he bypassed it and kept going down the corridor to the elevator. He took that up two floors to where Tatyana’s and his suite was located. As he walked down the wide hall, which was paneled in a light tropical wood, he saw the door to their suite suddenly swing open and several men emerge from it. Two of the men were wearing the gray suits that all Galkin’s security seemed to be wearing.

Paul froze. The third man was Berzin, and he was carrying a brown leather briefcase. Up close, Paul could see that the ginger-and-gray-haired Berzin’s face was lined with wrinkles. Prematurely: the man was said to be only in his forties. Then there was that scar.

As he approached, and before Paul could say anything, Berzin spoke: “Apologies. I thought it was the WC.” He gave Paul a thin, taunting smile and walked away.