Immigration and customs was busy at Logan International Airport. Despite the crucial importance the officials played in preventing threats to the United States from entering its borders, they were currently more concerned with keeping the line moving. A tall, thin, olive-skinned man with shoulder-length hair hoped to use this to his advantage.
“I can take the next in line,” a middle-aged official with thinning hair announced.
The olive-skinned man approached.
“Passport?” the official asked.
The olive-skinned man dutifully handed it to him, trying to seem natural. The contents of that “passport” would be the first lies of many.
“Where are you flying in from?” the official asked.
“Moscow, with a connection in Istanbul,” the olive-skinned man answered. This much was true. He knew this answer would prompt a string of additional questions, especially since his passport indicated he was from neither Russia nor the US, but it couldn’t be helped. He knew to lie only when absolutely necessary.
“Moscow, huh?” the official asked, showing vague interest, “What brought you there?”
“Work,” the man answered, resisting the urge to explain further. He was only to answer the questions the official asked, no more. Unsolicited explanation would just put a target on his back.
Unsurprisingly, the official asked “And what line of work would that be, Mr…Cappasella? It looks like it has kept you in Russia for a while.”
“In Russia on a work visa, yes,” the man replied. This was true for the real Lorenzo Cappasella. However, the olive-skinned man’s reason for spending time in Russia had more to do with the country’s lack of extradition agreement. “I am an evolutionary biology professor,” he continued with another half-truth, “My university approved a research grant to study a species of finch found in North America.”
The last sentence was the most nerve-wracking answer the olive-skinned man would need to give. Not only was the idea of Russians sending someone to the US for “research” a red flag, the man also knew nothing of evolutionary biology and finches.
“Which university would that be?” the official asked.
“Moscow State University.”
“How long will you be staying with us?”
“Indefinitely. It could be the length of my visa, and I may need to have it renewed. As long as I can show my employer I’m still making findings they’ll sponsor me to be here,” the man answered. He knew this would set off more red flags, but it was preferable to lying and giving a fake return date.
“Then I’ll need to see your Permanent Resident Card as well,” the official stated.
The olive-skinned man handed it over. Unlike his passport, the document stating Lorenzo Cappasella had been approved for a conditional resident status was entirely a forgery. After looking it over for what seemed like forever, the official handed it back.
“Where will you be staying during your time here?” the official asked.
“The Extended Stay Sturlusson for now, unless my studies bring me elsewhere in the country.”
The man knew his destination would also be a red flag, but again it was preferable to lying.
“Sturlusson, huh?” the official looked up, his brow furrowed, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but that area’s become rather busy lately.”
“I have, although I don’t understand what all the fuss is about,” the man replied, praying he seemed nonchalant, “The experts have already deduced that that nightclub explosion was caused by a gas leak. It’s an unfortunate coincidence that those conspiracy theorists are mobbing the city at the same time the finches are there, but it can’t be helped.”
That seemed to put the official at ease.
“If only everyone else saw it that way. It’s a real shame how many of these people fall for dangerous misinformation.”
The olive-skinned man tried his hardest to maintain his poker face at the mention of the word “misinformation.” What he wouldn’t do to get his hand around this bureaucratic bastard’s neck along with every other talking head and academic drone who accused him of spreading…
“Alright, everything seems in order here,” the official said as he stamped the passport, “Welcome to the United States of America, Mr. Cappasella.”
“Thank you,” the man said, feeling a rush of relief as he made his way to the rental car section of the airport. But he then reminded himself that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. In fact, he was going back into the woods. If any authority figure in this country found out his true identity, the US government wouldn’t simply deport him. They wouldn’t waste the opportunity to make an example of dissident thought leader Giuseppi Andolini, PhD.