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Why did Galkin want to see him now? His late night in the office? Polina running her hand along his thigh? His rooting through the firm’s old files stored in that defunct limestone mine, discovering a flash drive labeled “Phantom”—and taking it?

Or Moscow?

Or had he been seen photographing the ship’s manifest?

There were any number of possibilities, none of them good.

In the elevator, he pressed 03, but the button didn’t light up. Then, realizing that Galkin’s floor was probably protected, he held his palm up to the black circle, the sensor of the palm-vein scanner device mounted above the number panel. It beeped, a light turned green, and the elevator started to move.

When it stopped, the doors slid open on a narrow corridor and an unmarked set of double doors. Security precautions, maybe. He rang the doorbell.

He waited a full minute—he smelled cigar smoke—and then the door came open. Galkin was resplendent in his blue blazer and open white shirt, no ascot.

“Ah, Paul,” Galkin said, escorting him in.

The décor here was similar to their suite’s, only the place was even larger. A leather couch, several groups of chairs, a massive slab of stone for a coffee table, and a lot of gold leaf everywhere.

Sitting in one of the club chairs was Andrei Berzin.

Paul’s throat tightened.

Galkin pointed to the couch as if Paul were a well-trained dog. Paul sat at one end of it. The leather was buttery soft.

Galkin sat in a high-backed chair across from him, Berzin off to the side. A half-smoked cigar sat in an ashtray on a small, round side table next to Galkin. Berzin didn’t appear to have one.

“You know Andrei Dmitrovich, I assume,” Galkin said, turning toward Berzin.

“We haven’t properly met,” Paul said coldly, looking at Berzin. I know who you are , he thought. They’d exchanged words outside Paul’s suite. And a few words in Moscow. After an awkward pause, Paul stood up and shook hands with Galkin’s security director. Berzin’s hand was dry and rough.

“Andrei Dmitrovich takes care of my security,” Galkin said.

“Yes, I know,” Paul said.

Berzin nodded.

“You are having good time, I trust,” Galkin said.

“I am, thank you. You have a beautiful boat. But isn’t she a bad investment, in purely financial terms?”

Galkin scoffed. “Oh, Paul, my friend, you have imagination of accountant. I will tell you this: one deal signed on Pechorin pays back many times over.”

Paul nodded. “A good point.”

“You like cigar?” Galkin said.

Paul shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Galkin leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs. “You take something from me,” he said, looking at Paul. He picked up his cigar and drew it back to life, expelling a cloud of bluish-gray smoke.

Paul’s insides froze. Galkin had to be talking about the Phantom drive.

“Excuse me?”

More slowly now, enunciating clearly, Galkin said, “You take something from me.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” Galkin said gravely. “My daughter.”

Paul smiled, but Galkin wasn’t smiling.

“Not really,” Paul said. “She’s still her daddy’s girl.”

“So I want you to accept my wedding gift, for Tatyana’s sake. Do not deprive my daughter.”

“Thank you so much for the apartment,” Paul said. “It was extremely generous of you. But I need you to understand something. I need to build my own thing. You weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth, either. I’m sure you understand.”

Galkin tipped his head to one side, eyes squinting in the wreathing smoke: maybe he didn’t know the expression.

“You came from nothing, got help from no one, and you built this empire,” Paul explained. He knew that wasn’t true. Galkin had been funded by the Kremlin. That’s why he got so rich. “So I’m sure you understand why I want to do my own thing.”

“Listen, Paul. I like you. You’re not like these coked-up party boys Tatyana used to waste her time with. You have ambition. Zhenya Frost says you are good worker. But I want you accept my wedding present.”

A long pause, and then Paul said, “Okay. We will, if Tatyana agrees. And thank you again.” He and Tatyana had already agreed they’d accept it. He looked around the suite, at Berzin and then at Arkady. Galkin nodded as if a deal had been struck. “How is Ilya Bondarenko, do you know?” he asked.

“Recovering. He has terrible walnut allergy. Had severe allergic reaction to walnut oil in salad. But this is not why I ask you here. Andrei Dmitrovich has couple questions for you.”

“Sure,” Paul said, feeling his stomach contort.

Berzin cleared his throat. “You know Volodymyr Shevchenko, our IT specialist.”

This wasn’t a question. Paul said, “Yes. Vova worked on my computer last week.”

“Someone using Vova’s credentials signed into the system late one evening last week, and it wasn’t Vova.”

“Yes? Is that a question?”

“Was it you?”

“How in the world would I—”

“Just answer the question.”

“Of course it wasn’t me,” Paul said hotly.

Berzin continued in his icily calm tone. “Vova thought he saw you leaving the building at two in the morning.”

Thought he saw you . They didn’t know. Paul had badged out using the credentials the FBI had provided, of course, not his own.

“Well, he’s wrong. I was at home in bed.”

“But when you—”

“ Khvatit! ” Galkin told his security director abruptly. “ Dostatochno! ” “That’s enough,” he was saying. Then, in English, he said, “Andrei Dmitrovich, this is my son-in-law. My daughter’s husband.”

“Of course,” Berzin said hastily.

“There will be time for investigation.” Turning to Paul, his eyes dead, Galkin said, “Are you a spy, Paul?”

“A spy?” Paul said. He felt a freeze creep up his spine. His mind was careening; he was unable to think clearly. Had they found the tracker in Galkin’s briefcase and somehow figured out he’d planted it? “Come on, Arkady, that’s ridiculous.”

“Ah,” Galkin said, raising both hands like a benediction. His small eyes glittered. “My security director says you are. I want to believe you . Because if you are lying to me”—he wiped his hands together as if he were ridding them of dirt—“I will not care if you are married to my daughter. Is all clear?”