Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 9

The darkened Center Hall was a veritable tomb. The only light came from the glowing iPad in Caitlin’s lap, as she sat cross-legged in a gold wing chair just outside the West Bedroom. She had little difficulty digging up Uncle Terry’s obituary in the Orlando Sentinel archives. Terrence Cody Prescott, 51, passed peacefully in his sleep. The family asks that, in lieu of flowers… Either her mother was lying about the obit, or she had grossly underestimated the power of the Internet. Probably both; she didn’t trust her mother any farther than she could throw her.

The iPad chimed. It was Wendy. Finally, they’d get a chance to speak. The first daughter tapped the FaceTime icon. Wendy’s face and curly blonde hair filled the screen.

“There you are,” sighed Wendy. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been stuck in the East Room. Where do you think?”

Wendy took a shot from her Albuterol inhaler. She had been asthmatic as far back as Caitlin could remember. But it’s funny how some things turn out. The awkward blonde girl who could never complete the half-mile in elementary school, went on to become the captain of the girls varsity soccer team her junior and senior years of high school. How was that for determination?

“Asthma kicking up?” asked Caitlin.

“Forget my asthma. Something’s bothering you. I can see it in your face. What is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Cut the shit. Remember our promise. No secrets. Now tell me about this email.”

Right, no secrets. Caitlin remembered making that promise a long time ago.

“Someone emailed me tonight. I thought it was you.”

Caitlin watched Wendy frown. “We never email each other. You know that.”

“I just wasn’t sure at first. The from line had your Eastland address.”

The first daughter could see Wendy digesting her words.

“Someone’s using my account?”

“Just relax. I don’t think so,” responded Caitlin. “The headers read apparently from, followed by your Eastland email address. That’s all I know at this point.”

“Apparently from. The hell does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. I have to do some—” The iPad chimed once again. The first daughter squinted at the screen. “Wen, I got another call. It’s Lisa Wong.”

“What are you, the teacher’s pet?”

“She’s helping me with my catapult for physics. I need to talk to her.”

“I don’t like this email stuff, girlfriend.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“I mean it.”

“Later.”

“Fine, call me tomorrow. But I want to know everything. Wait. I think you should tell the Secret Service about the emails.”

“Goodnight, Wen.”

She switched over to Wong. The woman’s exquisite Asian features never failed to captivate Caitlin. She would kill for those delicately slanted eyes and perfect skin.

“Tonight’s little Vogue soirée looked painful,” said the young teacher. “You okay?”

“I’ll live.”

The two had met in the West Wing while Wong, then a senior at Dartmouth, worked as a White House intern. Wong’s father had worked for Microsoft, but began free-lancing with various companies and governmental agencies, most notably the Department of Agriculture. It was that connection that landed Wong her opportunity to work in the White House. From nine to six, Wong played goferfor Jayson Aldridge, Assistant to the President for Communications. Caitlin and Wong literally ran into each other helping underprivileged kids at the White House Easter Egg Hunt that spring. They hit it off immediately and it was Jack Prescott who pulled strings at Sidwell to get Wong a teaching position after her graduation.

“If I know Mother Prescott, she’s ticked as hell that you left that stage early.”

The first daughter took a deep breath. “That isn’t the half of it.”

“Wish I could help, kid. Anyway, I have a few thoughts on velocity and angular acceleration,” said Wong. “We’ll get that catapult of yours up to specs in no time. You got something to write with?”

Angular acceleration? This brought back memories of their Solarium Sundays, when Wong and the first daughter would retreat to the White House Third Floor, and the intern would tutor her in Algebra II. Wong was all business; she didn’t mess around when it came to academics.

“Could you hold that thought for a sec? I have a computer question for you.”

She watched Wong roll her eyes from the iPad screen. Though Wong taught math fulltime at Sidwell, she was also certified in the computer science field. “I’m going to start charging you by the hour.”

“How do you identify fake email?”

Wong paused and stared at Caitlin.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s not me. I’m just curious.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Caitlin.”

Dammit. She should have known Wong was far too intelligent not to see through the charade.

“Okay, you got me.”

“Have you told the Secret Service?”

Come on. Et tu, Lisa? “No, I haven’t.”

“I think you should. Wait a sec. Is this your encrypted account?”

“Not really. What I need…”

“NO? Then what account are you using?”

The first daughter exhaled.

Wong was now pointing. “Stop bullshitting me, Cait. This isn’t funny. First, you know damn well you shouldn’t be using an unauthorized account. Second, grab your nearest detail agent and show him the emails.”

“I will. Just…”

“Now.”

“Lisa! Calm down. I’ll do that. Just tell me what you know about fake mail, for crying out loud.”

Wong took a few breaths and thought about the question. “I knew a guy, my junior year at Dartmouth, who used FakeOut.com to tell off his boss at our campus bookstore. He substituted his user address with that of his ex-girlfriend, who also worked at the store, and got her into some serious hot water. When the ex- found out, she pulled a Carrie Underwood: smashed his truck’s headlights, slashed his tires and smeared dog shit all over the dashboard. I hear it took him weeks to get the smell out. They expelled the guy, eventually. Anyway, some fake mail, the older, outdated stuff, is easy to identify. The headers tend to get distorted. But I’ve also seen mail that looks almost exactly like the real thing.”

“The headers?”

“That’s right. Does that mean anything to you?” asked Wong.

Caitlin nodded. “It might. Go on.”

Wong continued for the next few minutes, spouting computer jargon the first daughter had never heard before. To create fake email, Wong told her, many recommend a program called nslookup. “Let’s say this person is using a standard nix system…”

Caitlin exhaled, and did her best to pretend she knew what the heck Wong was talking about. The teacher finally came up for air a couple of minutes later.

“Does that help? I can tell you more, but you don’t look terribly interested.”

Where in God’s name did you learn all this? “No, that’s fine. Lisa, I need you to do something for me.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Caitlin sat up and adjusted the iPad in her lap. She looked for any sign of life from her parents’ bedroom. There was no spillage of light into the West Sitting Hall. It was apparent the president and first lady were done for the night.

“Lisa, I’m going to send you an email I received this evening. I want you to take a look at it and tell me what you think.”

Wong checked her watch, then nodded. “Very well. Send it over.” Again, the teacher pointed. “But I am not happy with your little email stunt. Do you hear me?”