Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 4

Stay with us, announced the refined voice from the fifty-inch plasma, for C-Span’s coverage of First Daughter Caitlin Prescott’s live press event from the White House East Room. The seventeen-year-old daughter of Jack and Julie Prescott is featured in this month’s edition of Vogue that includes a seven-page photo spread as well as an informative article on life inside the White House. Coming up next.

The assassin eased behind the large partners’ desk, the surface of which had become a veritable shrine to the first daughter: a hairbrush, a pair of worn Keds and dozens of magazine and newspaper clippings with headlines that read, Orlando Eighth Grader Triumphs at Regional Chess Tournament and Eastland Freshman’s Glue and Toothpick Bridge Withstands 585 lbs. The latest edition of Vogue was carefully arranged just to the right of his laptop. It featured Caitlin Prescott, considered by many in entertainment and politics to be one of the “sexiest people alive”, draped provocatively in an American flag, while sporting flashy red stilettos and a head of over-teased blonde hair. Typical, thought the assassin. Predictable. Tedious. Fashion magazines had clearly surrendered any vestige of self-respect and creativity somewhere back in the mid-Seventies. In fact, the only aspect of the shameless charade that caught his interest was the first daughter’s riveting stare that simply burned a direct line from the cover to the reader’s eyes. That’s my girl. Strong and determined.

Though he had not gone by the name Alex in many years, he figured a younger Alex would have appreciated such an energetic girl. He and Caitlin should have been high school contemporaries. The two of us would have made quite a team.

The flickering of the plasma caught his attention. C-Span had switched over to a live shot of the East Room, decorated in 18^thCentury classical style and famous venue to many public events: dances, receptions, concerts, award presentations and, of course, presidential press conferences. The camera was fixed on a small stage, framed by gold curtains, upon which stood a narrow podium, as well as four banner-size blow-ups of the Vogue spread. Guests and photographers mulled about the ornate room, gawked at the photos and mingled with one another.

Finally, a middle-aged woman in a smart business suit took the stage and introduced herself. The guests quieted down and began to find their seats. She rambled on about what an honor it was to spend the two-day photo shoot with the first daughter. The woman proudly announced that a portion of the Vogue sales would go directly to the American Cancer Society.

“Very big of you,” muttered the assassin, adjusting the laptop on the desk and tuning out the television.

The computer screen displayed exactly what he wanted. It was a specially-designed email program. The command, >telnet Eastl.edu, floated on the white screen before him, as the blinking cursor awaited its next directive. Timing was everything and now was the time. He tapped the keyboard with even strokes, and addressed his special email to the first daughter. The computer program assigned the return address he had specifically pre-programmed: WenAdams12@Eastl.edu. After a moment, the screen blinked. The computer had digested the command. Everything was now ready. The assassin composed his short message. He tapped Enter then sat back, and stared at the plasma and the view of the East Room. Go ahead. Read my message. Read it now, Caitlin.