with the sorts of things one might find on perhaps 85 percent of the home computers in the United States — a word-pro cessing program, a Web surfer, home finances software, and an assortment of soft porn.
The fact that the porn had been deleted made no difference to NSA computer expert Robert Gallo, whose computer tools allowed him not only to view the images but also to reconstruct “missing” parts of the files. More important, his software allowed him to search the files for encrypted messages.
He found none.
“Porn wasn’t even that interesting,” he told Johnny Bib.
“Better stuff on MySpace.”
“Who’s having the affair?” asked Johnny, pointing at one of the text blocks on Gallo’s machine.
“Huh?”
“The instant message.”
Gallo moused over to the screen and brought up the files.
The instant messages had been left from a cache several weeks before.
Goin’ to bed. Jealous?
OK
Francois?
“Oh yeah. Account ID got ripped out when the file was deleted, but it’s gotta be the kid, no?” Johnny Bib picked up one of the printouts, leafed through, and showed it to Gallo. “Takes Spanish.”
“Yeah, so that’s why he’s asking about the girl’s French. If it’s a girl.”
Johnny Bib leaned over Gallo’s screen. “It’s from computer one.”
“Yeah, but the kid used both. You think it’s important?” Johnny Bib answered by staring at Gallo, opening his eyes as wide as they could go, and then crossing them.
“I guess that’s a ‘duh,’ ” said the analyst. He selected a software tool that constructed a “session profile” and used it to determine when the computer had been used and what else it had been used for during the IM session. There were plenty of gaps, as the tool relied primarily on cookies, saved and deleted files, and other bits of deleterious. Nonetheless, it showed that at roughly the same time the instant message had been saved, the checkbook program was running.
“All right. Probably Agent Forester,” Gallo said. “But why would anyone need French?”
“Ha!” said Johnny Bib. “Find out who was on the other end. And see what else you can recover.” thin as it was, the fact that Forester had been having an affair with another Secret Service agent was the first real evidence against the suicide that Rubens had seen. Men who were having affairs, especially with younger women, did not kill themselves.
In his opinion. A prejudice, surely.
Rubens dismissed Johnny Bib and placed a call to Jed Frey. The Secret Service director was not in his office, but his voice mail gave the number of his cell phone. Rubens punched the number in. Frey answered immediately.
“Jed, this is Bill Rubens. I have some additional information about Agent Forester I wanted to share. It’s somewhat sensitive.”
“Shoot.”
“Gerald Forester was having an affair with another member of the Ser vice. We’ve recovered several suggestive IMs they sent.”
“IMs?”
“Instant messages. Her name is Amanda Rauci. I wonder if that’s come up.”
“It hasn’t,” said Frey.
“I’d like to have someone talk to her,” said Rubens.
“Fine. We’ll tell her to be available.”
“It occurs to me that she might be a target herself,” said Rubens. “If Agent Forester’s death wasn’t a suicide.” Forester didn’t answer.
“Jed?”
“You’re right,” said Frey. His voice sounded as if he were coming from quite a distance away. He was thinking about Forester, Rubens guessed. “We’ll protect her.” There were two things that interested Rubens. One was his admittedly optimistic thought that someone who was having an affair wouldn’t kill himself, assuming the affair was still continuing. And the second was the fact that French was often used in Vietnam.
Rubens called down to the Art Room and told Marie Telach that he had changed his mind about the assignment for Vietnam. He wanted Lia to talk to Amanda Rauci.
“I believe she may have an easier time connecting with her than Ambassador Jackson,” said Rubens. “Though he, too, can go along.”
“Lia is supposed to be going to Vietnam with Charlie.”
“Have Tommy Karr meet him there instead.”
“He is on vacation.”
“I’m sure Mr. Karr will understand.”
23
Kjartan “Tommy” Magnor-Karr reached across the table and poured the last of the wine into his girlfriend’s glass.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, mister?” said Deidre Clancy.
“Nah. Just tipsy.”
Deidre smiled at him. Tommy Karr realized he was the one who was tipsy, though not on the wine.
“So tomorrow, we go to Disneyland Paris?” he said, picking up his glass.
“You came all the way to Paris to go to Disneyland?”
“I came all the way to Paris to see you,” said Karr. “Everything else is bonus.”
“You flatterer.”
Deidre told him in French that he was a sweet-talking foreigner whom she knew she must be careful of; Karr’s limited French allowed him to pick out every third word — the good ones, of course.
“How about the Louvre tomorrow?” she asked in English.
“With a picnic lunch in the Luxembourg Gardens?”
“Disney Thursday?”
“Disney Thursday.”
“Deal.”
As the word left Karr’s mouth, his sat phone began to vibrate.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
Deidre heard the buzzing. “I don’t suppose you could not answer it,” she said.
“I could ignore it. But then they’d send someone to chase me down. Which might be kinda fun.”
“You better answer it,” said Deidre.
Karr took the phone from his pocket and slid up the antenna.
“O’Brien’s Real Italian Delicatessen,” he said. “Mao Ze-dong speaking.”
“Tommy, it’s always fun to hear your voice,” said Marie Telach. “Can you talk freely?”
“Hey, Mom. Not really.”
“Good. I know you’re on vacation, but Mr. Rubens needs you to cut it short.”
“Gee, that sucks,” said Karr. He looked over at Deidre, who already wore a disappointed frown. “Right away?”
