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Heart galloping, short of breath, Paul returned to the Rothko Suite, found Tatyana sitting in a chair, her little dog on her lap. His crazed thoughts had begun to organize themselves, form patterns. He had been sloppy in his search of AGF’s network. He must have set off some kind of silent software alarm. A thorough investigation would indeed incriminate him. What if they pulled the CCTV for the building lobby that night and saw him leaving?

“What’s wrong?” Tatyana said, reading his expression.

“Your father doesn’t trust me.”

“No? What do you mean?”

“He thinks I’m a spy. It’s his Stalinist security thug, Berzin. He’s got it in for me for some reason.”

“Did my father say he doesn’t trust you? In those words?”

“Not in so many words. He asked me if I’m a spy.”

“Just like that?”

“Right.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said no, of course not. I said that was a ridiculous accusation.”

“Why did he even ask?”

Paul shook his head. “The details aren’t important. One night, someone accessed parts of the company network that are sealed off from most employees.”

“Vova saw you,” she said, “coming out of the building in the middle of the night.”

It was like a cold breeze had suddenly rippled the air. “Where did you hear that from?”

“From Berzin.”

“Is that why you were talking to him outside his suite?”

She shrugged. She wasn’t going to answer.

“So you already know all this?”

“Yes.”

“And are you taking my side?”

“I don’t know the facts,” she said. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but her expression had clouded.

“Do you believe me or do you believe Berzin?”

“You mean, do I believe you or do I believe my father?”

He felt his chest hollow out. There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Exactly,” he said.

“Pasha,” she said after a long pause, “you know me by now. I am a Galkin.”