17. Maksim #4
I question every single person who had access to the kitchen in the past week and I’m not gentle about it.
My ribs are agony and my head is pounding, but my son is in a coma. I’m past caring about rules or restraint or keeping up appearances.
The first fifteen are terrified and crying, swearing they had nothing to do with it. I believe them—I can see the genuine horror in their eyes when they realize what happened. The shock that someone would poison a child.
But one of them is different.
Artem Abaza. He’s a kitchen assistant and twenty-eight years old. He’s been working at the compound for three years. His background checks came back clean and his references checked out. He’s supposedly loyal.
When I walk into his interrogation room, he’s already sweating, but it’s not the nervous sweat of someone who’s scared of being questioned. No, this is the guilty sweat of someone who knows he’s caught.
He’s sitting in a metal chair in the center of the room, his hands zip tied to the armrests. Two of Nikolai’s most trusted guards stand behind him—Dmitri and Pavel, both men who’ve been with the family for over a decade and know how to keep their mouths shut. Nikolai observes from behind me.
The room is bare concrete with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows. There’s a drain in the center of the floor and tools are arranged on a metal table against the wall.
Everything needed for an interrogation that doesn’t follow any legal guidelines.
“Artem.” I close the door behind me, the sound echoing in the small space. I pull up a second chair and sit down across from him, close enough that our knees almost touch. “Want to tell me what you did?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But his voice shakes and his eyes dart to the tools on the table then away.
“My seven-year-old son is in a medically-induced coma because someone poisoned his dinner plate. And you’re the only person who looks guilty.
” I lean forward, ignoring the pain in my ribs.
“So I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer. What. Did. You. Do.”
“I didn’t—I wasn’t—I had nothing to do with—”
I slam my hand on the arm of his chair, and he flinches so hard the chair scrapes backward. “Wrong answer,” I snarl.
For the next hour, I break him down piece by piece and question by question.
I use every interrogation technique I’ve ever learned. Good cop. Bad cop. Reasonable explanations. Unreasonable threats. I tell him we’ll protect him if he cooperates. I tell him I’ll kill his entire family if he doesn’t.
Some of it is true. Some of it isn’t. He doesn’t know which is which, and that’s the point.
When words stop working, I move to the table and pick up a pair of pliers. I guess it’s time for pain.
“Wait!” Artem’s voice cracks. “Wait, please, I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you everything!”
I don’t put down the pliers. “I’m listening.”
The words pour out in a rush. “Alexander approached me three months ago. I was at a bar in Brooklyn just having a drink and he sat down next to me and started talking. He knew things. Things about my family.”
“What things?” I ask as I sit down again.
“Where my sister works. Where my mother lives. The fact that my nephew has a heart condition and needs medication we can barely afford.” His voice is shaking. “He said he could help and pay for my nephew’s treatment. Make sure my sister was safe. But I had to do something for him first.”
My hands grip the pliers tightly. “Poison a child.”
“Not at first!” Artem protests wildly, his face pale with fear.
“At first he just wanted information. Guard rotations. Security protocols. Who had access to what parts of the compound.” Artem is crying now, tears and snot running down his face.
“I thought—I thought maybe he was just checking security. Making sure the boss was protected. It didn’t seem that bad. ”
Stupid, idiotic boy. “When did it change?”
“After the car bomb failed.” His whole body is shaking now. “He contacted me through an encrypted messaging app and told me the new job. He said I had to poison the boy and make it look like natural causes if possible, but make absolutely certain he died.”
Red floods my vision. My hands clench on the pliers hard enough that the metal cuts into my palm. “He told you to murder my son,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry! God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to, but he threatened my family!
” The words are tumbling out faster now.
“He showed me pictures of my sister leaving work and my mother getting on the bus. My nephew at school. He said accidents happen all the time. If I didn’t do what he wanted, if I didn’t follow through, they’d all die. ”
“Your family.” I stand up slowly and move around to stand behind him. “You were worried about your family, so you tried to kill mine.”
“I didn’t have a choice!”