Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 13

The trailer was neat and tidy. There were several boxes lining the far wall. All had stacks of papers in them. Two large file cabinets occupied the opposite wall, along with a single laptop and printer. A low-humming air conditioning unit drooped from the far window, and a white banner hung from the opposite wall sporting words in large, black print: PLANNING-ORGANIZATION-DOCTRINE-LEADERSHIP-TRAINING-EQUIPMENT-CONCLUSION. It was the militia credo.

The sergeant motioned to a nearby box overflowing with drives and wires. “Forty-two internal drives, eleven flash drives and two-hundred and seventy CDs.”

“That’s everything?” asked the pale man, inspecting the IBM and Apple mainframes stacked next to the box of drives. From what he could see, the units were gutted and useless. Just as Maestro wanted. There would be no trace of their operation after today.

“Absolutely everything.” The sergeant added, “I’m assuming Maestro will want this stack of hardcopies for himself,” he finished, thrusting the stack of papers at him.

The pale man set down the briefcase, and sifted through the papers with a frown on his face. Why do I feel like a high school freshman attempting to translate my first Latin subtext?

At length the sergeant said, “Ever heard of packet sniffing?”

The sergeant lit a cigarette, and nodded to the stack of papers. “Three years ago, right after the election as a matter of fact, somebody representing Maestro found me and my men camped along the California-Oregon border. Said Maestro wanted to hire us to hack the Prescott email account. There was no particular rush, but Maestro wanted us to get back with him when we found something of value.”

Of course, the pale man knew all this. What he didn’t know was how it all worked—how it all came together. Though he had a flight to catch, it might not hurt to linger a few minutes and learn the specifics of packet sniffing.

“What you’re reading,” continued the sergeant, “are emails we intercepted from the first daughter.” The sergeant paused. “How can I put this in layman’s terms? Packet sniffing is like listening in on computer conversations much the way the FBI would wiretap a phone line. Get what I’m saying?”

“I’m with you so far.”

“But unlike telephone circuits computer networks are shared communication channels, so it would be far too expensive to dedicate local loops to the switch for each pair of communicating computers. The amount of loops required would be insane. Like trying to tap a million, separate phone lines simultaneously.”

“How do you get around that?”

“We set our machines to what’s known as the promiscuous mode, and capture all packets shooting across the circuit.” He exhaled. “That’s where the fun begins: the endless sorting of emails until we find what we’re looking for. Needle in a hay stack, if you will.”

“So, just how many emails did you sift through before you ran across Caitlin Prescott’s messages?”

“We camped out at that MCI server and captured tens of thousands of unrelated emails. Probably more. See, Intel first told us of the Prescott MCI account a few years back. But it was too little, too late. Before we could get to the servers to packet sniff, the Prescott’s had moved into the White House and on to a more secure network— one with all the latest firewalls and encryptions. We figured we were out of luck. But then a funny thing happened. A few months after the inauguration, Maestro learned that the Prescott MCI account was still active.”

“Why would the first family even keep the MCI account?”

“I couldn’t tell you. We did what we were hired to do, and that was to monitor the MCI servers. In fact, it was one man’s job to keep an eye out for any emails coming from that account.”

“For three years? He must have been one dedicated SOB.”

The sergeant nodded. “It nearly drove me to drink.”

The rat-tat-tat of machine guns continued in the distance. The pale man said, “I’m sure it did.”

And you’ll have to surrender your life for what you know.

“I pored over nearly two thousand pages of emails each night. After a while I was beginning to think Maestro’s plan was for shit. I knew one thing for sure: Jack Prescott was no longer using his private email.”

Probably true, thought the pale man. In fact, he had read an article on the subject just prior to Prescott’s inauguration— something to do with the Presidential Records Act, if he remembered correctly. If the occasion called for it, a commander-in-chief’s email could be subpoenaed by the courts— even by Congress. That included all electronic communication, including private emails and texts.

“Suffice it to say Jack Prescott gave up his beloved Black Berry the day he walked into the Oval Office. But we weren’t sure about the rest of the Prescott family. Hell, maybe they’d have some use for the account.”

“So you hung around and watched for activity.”

“And there was nothing from that account for the longest time. Then, out of the blue, I came across something very interesting. It was a simple email sent to a girl named Wendy Adams. As it turns out, Adams is Caitlin Prescott’s best friend, and she’s a senior at the Eastland School down in Orlando—the very school Caitlin Prescott attended until the election forced the move to D.C. The message had the IP address 192.168.100.54. Remember that number, friend. When you see it, that’s her.”

“Wait a minute,” said the pale man. “If the White House is using all the latest encryption technology, how did you manage to translate her email?”

“That’s the beauty of it, friend. The messages were sent in plain English.”

“I’m not getting this.”

“My man, the first daughter is sending illicit email through the MCI account that, for some strange reason, is still open. That’s all I know.”

“Why would she do that? Is she blind to the risks?”

The sergeant shrugged. “I guess that, beyond the glitter, she was just a typical teenage girl who was looking for a normal life. Perhaps she’s a little rebellious. I really don’t know and, frankly, don’t care. All I know is that I suddenly had what I was looking for.” He gestured to the gutted PCs lining the back of the trailer. “Other than the substantial time element involved in packet sniffing, it’s a simple process, really. Hardware, capture driver, buffer, real time analysis and decode.”

“What did you do after you discovered the first daughter’s email?”

“I sent word to Maestro.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me exactly what to email back to Caitlin Prescott.”

The pale man said nothing, simply staring back at the militia sergeant.

The sun was beginning to set. There was now a definite chill to the air.

“You’ve never heard of fake email, have you?”

“Does this somehow involve you posing as Wendy Adams?”

The sergeant motioned to the stack. “Go ahead, have a look for yourself.”

The pale man scooped up the papers. His eyes raced across the top page. “’Hey, Cait. What’s up? Can’t talk right now, but I want you to know I’m thinking of you.’” He glanced up. “When did you send this?”

“Twelve days ago.”

“And when did Caitlin Prescott answer you?”

“That same afternoon. Read the bottom.”

He cleared his throat. “’Thinking about you, too, wen. Talk to you tomorrow. I need some sleep! ’”

“Now read what I sent the following day.”

The pale man flipped to the next page, “’Can’t wait to see you again.’ Blah, blah. Bunch of stuff about school and boys.” He frowned. “What’s with the headers? They all read Apparently From:WenAdams12@Eastl.edu. Why Apparently From?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Come on. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“You sure the first daughter won’t pick up on the headers?”

“She wouldn’t know a suspicious header from her toe nail polish.”

The militia sergeant plopped down in front of the field trailer’s only functioning desktop. His fingers raced across the keyboard as he explained the process. After the brief discourse, the sergeant tapped the monitor.

“Here we go. Watch while I telnet to the SMTP socket.”

That took a moment.

Then he typed >telnet Eastl.edu

They both waited for the computer to process this next step.

“Now I’ll give the hello command.” The monitor blinked. “Okay, we’re up.”

Then he typed WenAdams12@Eastl.edu

“Of course, this is a fake return address— in this case, Wendy Adam’s address at the Eastland School in Orlando.” The sergeant sat back. “At this point, you’re ready to go. Simply type your message and send.”

The pale man nodded pensively. “Show me the last message Maestro ordered you to send to the first daughter.”

The sergeant rifled through the stack of papers. “Here we go.”

“Yo, cait. Got to see you some time, girl. When can we see each other?” The pale man glanced up from the paper. “He’s inviting her to meet him.”

The sergeant nodded. “You just read the turning point in this whole saga, guy.” He motioned. “Read Caitlin’s email back.”

“I’m going to Orlando soon. Looks like the week of the 7. It’ll be a blast. Can’t wait, Wen. Kisses.” The pale man thought for a moment. “Orlando. He’s maneuvering her into position. It’s going to be a turkey shoot.”

The sergeant took one, last drag from his cigarette. “But why the first daughter? Why not the president himself?”

The pale man grabbed the stack of papers and searched the heading of the last message. “You sent this a week-and-a-half ago.”

“We were training in Utah at the time.”

“So, what’s happened in the interim?”

“Why don’t you ask your client? After the Orlando invitation, Maestro showed a sudden interest in fake mail. He had me walk him through the process, then forbade me to send Caitlin Prescott another message.” The sergeant exhaled and moved to light another cigarette. “Let me help you with these drives.”

They loaded the drives into the Navigator, then stepped back into the trailer.

“There is,” said the pale man, “one more hard drive that needs to be disposed of.”

“That box has everything. I packed it myself. There’s nothing else.”

“The most significant hard drive in the entire trailer.”

The two men locked eyes. Neither blinked. At length, the sergeant folded his arms and glanced down at his boots.

“Are you sure?”

“You knew there was a chance it could come to this.”

“I find your answer far too glib,” he began, moving over to the nearby window. “Philosophically, how does Maestro support his position?”

“He’s our leader. Does he need to support anything?”

“If there is a human life involved, then I would say yes.”

Maestro was right, thought the pale man. He’s resisting. This was not going to be easy. In Ancient Rome, what he was proposing seldom ran counter to the state’s philosophy. He thought of Titus of Livy. Those wishing to commit the ultimate act only had to apply to the Senate. If there was nothing unsound in their reasoning, the state provided the hemlock at no fee. The sergeant was a student of Ancient Rome. He would know all about Titus of Livy.

“My client is an authority on Classic Roman law.”

The sergeant lit the last cigarette in the pack. “But soldiers were different,” he stated, searching the pale man’s face. “The suicide of a soldier was considered desertion. I am a soldier.”

Point. Counter point.

“You are much more than a soldier. Besides, I assume you’re familiar with the notion of patriotic suicide.”

“As an alternative to dishonor, yes. Am I a dishonor to our organization?”

No, but you have knowledge of the operation. You’re a possible risk. “Sergeant, let’s look at the positive. Your heroic act will provide our leader with peace of mind. He will move ahead with this mission knowing that you did your part and did it well. You are a patriot.”

He could see the doubt in the sergeant’s eyes. The hesitation.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. The pale man recognized the number, answered the call without saying a word and handed the phone to the sergeant. “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, closing his eyes. He listened for over a minute, then nodded. “Thank you very much, sir. It’s been an honor for me as well. I wish you every success.” He gave back the phone.

The pale man extended his Glock 23, but the 40 caliber hand piece didn’t even register in the sergeant’s dull eyes. Instead, he took a deep breath, and unsheathed the large knife bound to his right calf. He unbuckled and unzipped his pants, letting them drop to the floor. Next he removed his underwear. The pale man looked away, wondering if that was totally necessary. His eyes finally settled on the man’s muscular legs and stubby penis. He winced when he saw that the sergeant was actually a eunuch. He wasn’t expecting that. It was like the militiaman was a part of the Skoptsy sect or even Heaven’s Gate. He’d heard rumors about the militia’s cult-like qualities, but he was never sure what that meant. Now he knew. Some fanatics submitted to castration in order to cleanse themselves of evil and carnal thoughts that would keep them from achieving enlightenment. Some became beholden to the notion that to achieve purity, the physical cause of their mental anguish must be eliminated.

“I am a soldier but I am also a stoic,” said the sergeant, easing down on the chair behind him. He spread his legs. “To the ancient stoics death, even suicide, was considered a guarantee of personal freedom.” He examined the knife’s blade. “I will, therefore, abide—”

“It might be easier in a hot bath.” My god, he’s really going to do it. “The heat stimulates circulation. Quickens the—”

Without warning, the sergeant quickly and violently sliced deep into the inside of his upper right thigh. At first, the man stared dumbly at his leg. Then, red and frothy blood rhythmically pulsed over his calves and boots in a gaudy shower. He shuttered and grunted. The pale man stumbled backwards.

A growing puddle spread rapidly toward the pale man. By the time he reached the door to the field trailer, the sergeant had dropped the knife and was now muttering something to himself—something about a final cleansing. The pale man staggered back outside. As the door to the trailer shut behind him, he heard one, final grunt and moan coming from inside. And the expected thud moments later.

Then nothing else.

Outside, the desert winds had picked up. A definite chill was in the air. And the machine guns—they had stopped all together. The pale man staggered out into the sand. He lurched forward, dry-heaving twice. After a couple of minutes he was able to pull himself together, and climb back into the Navigator.