The Backup Asset

…65

Nikolai Novachenko sat at the small table in the improvised interrogation room, courtesy of the TSA. There was one other chair in the room, empty. Both Alex and Jeremy stood, studying Novachenko closely.

On the wall at his left, there was a cheap clock, one of those $9.99 electronic wall clocks one can get from Walmart. Somehow that seemed to be the focal point of interest with Novachenko, who looked at it every minute or so.

“Got someplace to be, Nikolai?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, got a plane to catch,” he replied morosely.

“That flight is boarding now, and you’re not going to be on it,” she said. “So you can relax. The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you’ll be on your way.”

His jaws clenched the moment he heard he wasn’t going to make his flight.

“You can’t hold me here,” he protested, starting to get up from his chair. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said in an escalating voice.

“Sit down,” Jeremy said, pushing him back into his chair with a firm hand on his left shoulder.

“Who is Evgheni Smolin?” Alex asked.

“Who?” Novachenko replied.

“Cut the bullshit, will you? Or else we’ll be here ’til midnight,” Alex said, feigning anger, and slammed her hand on the small table. “I’d rather be elsewhere, you know. Smolin, who is he? He lives in your house, so you better know who that is.”

“He’s my father-in-law,” Novachenko replied, stealing another quick look at the clock, and wringing his hands.

“Wrong answer, Novachenko, think again. This time why don’t you try the truth for a change? Don’t dig yourself into a bigger hole than you can manage.”

“No, I swear, he’s my father-in-law,” Novachenko replied, turning a little pale and biting his lip.

“That’s not gonna fly,” Alex replied, opening a file and reading from it. “Smolin is from Moscow and has never had any kids. Your wife is from Kiev.”

Another quick look to check the time.

“No, no, damn it, your information is wrong. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Let’s check the facts, one by one,” Jeremy intervened. Novachenko checked the time yet again and slouched a little in his chair, more relaxed.

Alex frowned slightly, then looked at the flight schedule. The flight was still boarding. Why was he relaxing now? Made no sense. She had a strong feeling that they were missing something, something of crucial importance.

“Is your wife from Kiev?” Jeremy asked, pushing in front of Novachenko a couple of pictures, one showing Olga’s graduation from a Kiev school, the other showing the frontage of a house.

“Y — yes,” he stuttered, then glanced quickly at the clock. “Yes, she is.”

He had stopped wringing his hands, and his pallor was almost gone. Either the man was an expert in dealing with stress, or something was very wrong.

“Oh, no…” she whispered, feeling her blood drain. “What else did he have on him?” she asked Jeremy with an unspoken urgency in her eyes.

“That,” Jeremy pointed at a duffel bag left on the floor, in the corner. “And some pocket change.”

She grabbed the duffel bag from the corner and made a quick hand gesture to Jeremy to follow her. As she exited the room, she caught a glimpse of Novachenko’s pallor returning, together with his upper body tension and hand-wringing habit.

“What’s up?” Jeremy asked as soon as they closed the door.

“He was getting calmer with time,” she said, going nervously through the contents of Novachenko’s duffel bag. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

“What do you want to do?”

“You keep on drilling him. I wanna run to the mobile lab; they must have some result on that sandwich by now. And I want to give them this,” she said, holding a travel-size can of hair spray, “maybe it’s got something to do with that sandwich, or maybe it has something to do with time.”

“Huh? Do you know you’re not making much sense?”

“Yeah, I do,” she replied and turned to leave. “But neither does a short-haired man carrying aloe vera hair spray on a flight.”