Home Bill's Literary Agents and Their Authors' Books List Fiction Blog
In the News! Author's Story Forums Searches American Politics Guide
Guide to Boulder, Colorado Colorado's 14ers Photos Running Movies
Bill's Boston Marathon Qualifier Guide Errata Got Questions? Email Me
"She could probably pass for you in a biometrics test. She has a perfect American accent and goes by the name of Svetlana."
Korsakova dropped the print onto the table, then rubbed the fingers on her uniform. "I don't know what to say. That's not me, is all."
Bettmann stared at the print lying between the two of them. "That much we already know. This image was taken at the same moment that you were over the Atlantic on a flight from Moscow to Miami. Miss Korsakova--"
"Misses Korsakova, Agent Bettman. A married woman deserves that title."
"My apologies, Misses Korsakova. Do you know anyone who would have reason to try to steal your identity?"
Korsakova's eyes took on the consistency of ice. "No."
"Are you in anyway involved with a terrorist organization? Do you know anyone who is?"
"No and no. Any more questions will require the presence of my attorney, Agent Bettmann. That I do know."
Bettmann sighed and leaned into the chair that molded against his pressure. "Fine, that's your right. Those are all the questions I have for now."
Korsakova rose from her own chair as smoothly as she had occupied it. "Fine. Goodbye, Agent Bettmann."
"Goodbye, and thank you again for coming in after a long flight."
Korsakova flashed him a brief smile, then exited the door held open for her and walked down the terminal hallway with heels clicking steadily on the faux marble tiles beneath her.