“My pleasure. I’ll be in touch very soon,” Westcott said. “How long are you in town for?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m headed to Portland, Maine, to see my folks.”
“All right, then. Enjoy your time in Maine.”
Westcott watched the man leave. He didn’t like questions without answers. And Dr. Nelson Anderson had just raised a few.
Westcott sank into his seat at the back of the armored Escalade. The powerful engine purred as they pulled away from the curb. To his left, Mpassi tapped through an interface on a secured tablet.
“Well?” Westcott asked.
Mpassi looked up. “We may have a problem with the good doctor,” he said.
“Go on.”
“You asked me to monitor your dinner. We captured the entire conversation and ran it through our analysis software in real time. The AI picked up several inconsistencies with Dr. Anderson’s answers.”
Westcott tilted his head. “Such as?”
“He told you he flew into Newark.”
“He did.”
“Well, he didn’t. Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Anderson did land in Newark earlier today, but he did so because he took a flight from Boston, not Nairobi.”
Westcott raised an eyebrow. “When did he get back from Africa?” he asked.
“Two days ago. He landed at Logan Airport in Boston.”
“He told me he has family in Maine, so that makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Then why did he tell you he was still jet lagged?” Mpassi asked.
“What’s your point, Charles?”
“What I’m saying is that he made it sound like he had just flown in from Nairobi, when in fact he didn’t.”
Westcott looked out the window, his mind going through the reasons that could have pushed Nelson Anderson to make him believe he had just flown in from overseas. Could it be a simple misunderstanding?
“And there’s more,” Mpassi continued. “His parents own a trucking company near Portland, Maine. And FYI, the ATF has a file on them. It’s unclear why.”
“These companies attract federal attention all the time,” Westcott said. “Could be tax evasion, interstate-cargo irregularities, drug trafficking—”
“I get it,” Mpassi said. “Could be anything. But I’m looking into it.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. He has a brother.”
“I remember him mentioning having a sibling,” Westcott said. “Works at the United Nations, right?”
“Name’s Caspian Anderson. He was a translator at the UN.”
“Was?” Westcott asked.
