Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [78]
“Thank you, no.”
“Suit yourself.”
For the next ninety minutes, not a single word was spoken. Pendergast sat in a darkened corner, motionless as a Buddha, while Mime wheeled himself from terminal to terminal, sometimes typing in a rapid-fire volley of commands, other times poring over lengthy readouts scrolling down one of the innumerable LCD monitors. As the minutes slowly passed, the figure in the wheelchair grew more sunken and discomposed. Sighs grew more frequent. Now and then, a hand slapped against a keyboard in irritation.
Finally, Mime wheeled back from the central terminal in disgust. “Sorry, Agent Pendergast,” he said in a tone that sounded almost contrite.
Pendergast glanced toward the hacker, but Mime was facing the other way, his back to the agent. “Nothing?”
“Oh, there’s a great deal—but all before that trip to Africa. Her work at Doctors With Wings, school records, medical evaluations, SAT scores, books borrowed from a dozen different libraries… even a poem she wrote in college while babysitting some kid.”
“ ‘To a Child, Upon Losing His First Tooth,’ ” Pendergast murmured.
“That’s the one. But after the lion attack—zip.” Mime hesitated. “And that usually means only one thing.”
“Yes, Mime,” Pendergast said. “Thank you.” He thought for a moment. “You mentioned school records and medical evaluations. Did you come across anything unusual—anything at all? Something that perhaps struck you as strange or out of place?”
“No. She was the picture of health. But then, you must have known that. And she seems to have been a good student. Decent grades in high school, excellent grades in college. Did well as far back as elementary school, in fact—which is surprising, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Well, that she spoke no English.”
Pendergast rose slowly out of his chair. “What?”
“You didn’t know? It’s right here.” Mime wheeled himself back to the keyboard, typed rapidly. An image came onto the screen: a transcript of some kind, typed on a manual typewriter, with handwritten notations at the bottom.
“The Maine Department of Education digitized all its old records a few years back,” Mime explained. “See the notation here, attached to Helen Esterhazy’s second-grade report card.” He leaned toward the screen, quoted: “ ‘Considering that Helen immigrated to the United States in the middle of last year as a native Portuguese speaker with no English, her progress at school, and her growing command of the language, have been impressive.’ ”
Pendergast came forward, glanced at the scanned image himself, a look of pure astonishment on his face. Then he straightened up, mastering the expression. “Just one other thing.”
“What is it, Secret Agent Man?”
“I’d like you to access the University of Texas database and make a correction to their records. One Frederick Galusha is reported as having left college his senior year, before graduation. The records should show that he graduated, cum laude.”
“Piece of cake. But why cum laude? I’ll make him summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, for just a dollar more.”
“Cum laude will be sufficient.” Pendergast inclined his head. “And make sure he gets all the course credits he needs to make his record consistent. I’ll see myself out.”
“Righteous. Remember: no more surprise visits. And please don’t forget to reset anything you may have disabled on your way in.”
As Pendergast turned to go, the figure calling himself Mime spoke again. “Hey, Pendergast?”
The agent glanced back.
“Just one thing. Esterhazy is a Hungarian name.”
“Indeed.”
He scratched his neck. “So how come her native language was Portuguese?”
But when he looked up he was speaking to an empty doorway. Pendergast had already vanished.
CHAPTER 41
New York City
AS JUDSON ESTERHAZY STEPPED OUT OF THE TAXI, he glanced up at the oppressive stone canyons of Lower Manhattan before retrieving his leather briefcase and paying the