Before telling his story, Keller asked if Milo knew anything about his family in Moscow. “Are they all right?”
“I have someone checking on it. We should know soon.”
Keller nodded. “You’re CIA, then? FBI?”
Milo shook his head. “But I’m in a position to help.”
That answer seemed to bother him. “Then, uh, what’s your relationship to Egorov? You’re not … Russian, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” Milo assured him. “I’m not CIA, MI6, or any of them.”
“Who do you represent?”
“Does it matter?” Milo asked. “I’m the only one here offering to keep you safe.”
As Keller considered this, Milo wondered if their negotiations were going to break down here and now. Because there was no way Milo would admit, at this stage at least, the secret of his organization. Eventually, Keller wiped at his lips with his thumb and said, “I didn’t know. I mean, if I had known I wouldn’t have touched it. I don’t enjoy knowing things like this.”
“I don’t doubt you.”
Keller looked around, unsure, and Gazala entered with three cups and a steaming teapot on a tray. When she set them down, Whippet came over to fill the cups. Gazala gave Keller a look—neither kindness nor hatred—then disappeared.
Milo said, “Why don’t we work through who you are first. Okay?”
Keller blinked at him. “Well, Joseph Samuel Keller.”
“Married, obviously.”
“Yes. To Emily Thompson, we have two sons—Jeremy, six, and Daniel, eight.”
“You’re an accountant, I understand.”
“CPA. Successful, too. I was. That’s how Sergei heard of me. Through my clients. Sergei Stepanov, CEO of MirGaz. You’ve heard of him?”
“I have.”
Keller gratefully accepted the cup Whippet offered, but Milo only set his on the coffee table and focused on Keller. Watched him take his first tentative sip, place the cup back on the table, and say, “This was a year ago. MirGaz, you understand, is the world’s largest natural gas producer. So Sergei’s job offer wasn’t a small thing. I moved my family from London to a gated community outside Moscow, and … well, we did well. I did good work for Sergei, skirting the bleeding edge of international financial law.”
Milo remembered how Oskar had put it: He helped make Stepanov richer than he already was. Certainly richer than he needed to be. Arguably richer than he deserved to be. “Did you like the work?” Milo asked.
“Sure. People usually like the things they’re good at, and this is what I’m good at.”
“You made Russian friends?”
He shook his head. “We weren’t social, not with them. We had our English school, a nice circle of Protestant expats—I suppose we lived in a bubble, but it was our bubble, and we were happy. Sergei and his political friends lived their lives while we lived ours. By last month, a year into it, we were still happy enough. And then I got the invitation. To a gala party at the Ritz-Carlton.”
Milo raised his brows to show he was interested. “This was Sergei Stepanov’s party?”
Keller nodded. “He put them on all the time, oligarchs and Duma members getting drunk with high-class prostitutes, but it was the first time I’d been invited.”
“Why were you invited?”
Keller shrugged. “I didn’t know. I just knew I wasn’t up to it. So I declined the invitation, and was surprised the next day when Sergei walked into my office to insist that I come. I mean, I’d been there a year but had only been in the same room as Sergei Stepanov maybe four times. And here he was, coming out to the office just to see me. He told me my ‘countrymen’ would be there, that I would make them feel more comfortable, and, well, to come for him.”
“Hard to say no to that.”
Keller nodded. “He’d rented the entire ground floor. It was—it was enormous. Hundreds of people, the social and political stratosphere. Everyone said Putin was going to show up, but I never saw him. Drinks flowed, and sometimes camera crews squeezed through, because the press had been invited, too. To show off what Russian success looked like. I didn’t know anyone, of course, and Sergei was busy entertaining others, so all there was for me was to stand around and drink. Not too much, but enough to relax a little, and that was when this Russian woman, Anna, struck up a conversation. At first, I thought she was flirting, and then I worried she was a prostitute. She was young and pretty, and the party was full of them. But she wasn’t a prostitute, and her English was quite good. Anna, it turned out, was as much of an outsider as me—not sickeningly rich, and not screwing any of these rich men. She ran a cultural blog, and she’d gotten into the party with her press pass. It turned out she also knew a fair amount about finance, and I was happy to talk about what I did … until she started asking uncomfortable questions, questions about Sergei. What kinds of financial interests did Sergei have in London? How close was he to Putin, really? And, more specifically, was it true that Sergei had close personal contact with Diogo Moreira?”
“Diogo Moreira?” Milo cut in. “Who’s that?”
“I didn’t know. Not yet. But Anna did—the name really meant something to her, and more importantly she’d come to the party to follow up on a connection between Sergei and Moreira.”
“She doesn’t sound like a cultural blogger.”
“Even I was starting to figure that out. I demanded to know what she was, really, and that’s when she admitted that she ran a dissident blog that published a lot of political exiles. RESIST. Her full name was Anna Urusov.”
“She was a well-known journalist,” Milo said. “No one figured this out when she showed up at the door?”
Keller shook his head. “The thugs at the door weren’t the cream of Russia’s crop.”
“Sure.”
“Still, I was just as ignorant. I didn’t know the name Anna Usurov from Anne of Green Gables. But I knew that anyone who ran a dissident blog and was asking questions about Sergei could only mean bad news. So I started to extricate myself from the conversation, and that was when Sergei appeared again, drunk. He introduced himself to Anna, who he didn’t recognize, and kissed her hand. But he’d come for me, wanted to introduce me to my countrymen.”
“Did you tell him about Usurov? About the questions?”
Keller took another swig of his tea, as if he might need it. He flexed his arms, the muscles and tendons taut. He said, “Look. Though I did try to close my eyes to these kinds of things, I knew where Sergei’s money came from, and where it went. Mostly. I knew Sergei was not someone to fool with, and when he asked me about Anna, I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t want anything to happen to her, but more importantly I didn’t want anything to happen to me or my family. Guilt by association, you understand?”
Milo did.
“Sergei brought me to meet a group of English businessmen. Told them I was the cleverest accountant he’d ever seen, that I could rub two stones together and make money appear. Nonsense like that. But it went over well enough. Eventually, I went to get another drink and in the lobby saw Anna again—she caught my eye as two big goons dragged her out of the hotel. Her eyes seemed to be pleading. Really. Pleading. I felt sick. I got my stuff from the coat check and left.”
“No one stopped you?”
“Why would they?”
“Sure.”
“And I drove home. Slowly, worried I’d have a wreck. I just felt so filthy. You know? I told Emily, and told her that I’d sworn off things like that. Never again. I was going to visit the office, home, church. That was it. Emily surprised me by disagreeing. But it shouldn’t have surprised me. My success is entirely her doing. If it wasn’t for her, I’d still be shuffling numbers for bloody Oxfam. But she pushed. Just like she did that night. This is how you move up the ladder, Joe, she said. You endear yourself to the boss.” He shook his head and asked Milo, “But at what cost?”
Milo felt like Keller needed an answer, but he didn’t have one to give.