to live a celibate life.
Next, I log on to Intellipedia, a wiki open to officers from all sixteen American spy agencies. If Dr. Carey has done anything of interest to the intelligence community, I might find her name here…but I come up with nothing.
Finally, I log on to A-space, the spooks’ answer to MySpace and Facebook. The top secret network allows agencies to share photos, notes, and gossip, but again, I come up with nada on Renee, Rene, or Renae Carey.
So I look up the name on Google and discover an absolutely overwhelming number of hits in open-source material. Renee Carey is, according to the Web, a Democratic city council member in Houston, a psychologist living in McLean, Virginia, and a photographic artist living in Boston.
Dr. Mewton says Renee Carey is my aunt…and I have no experience with the word. Scarlett O’Hara had an Aunt Pittypat who proved useless in crisis situations. I’ve watched Auntie Mame, a 1958 movie about a young boy who grows up as the ward of his father’s eccentric aunt…and I’ve found myself wondering what happened to the boy’s mother. Was she dead like mine?
An incoming message on the secure server interrupts my musings. Raven is impressed with my progress on the brain scan program, but wonders if I’ve had a chance to create subprograms with culturally specific cues. I respond with a question: What culture did you have in mind?
The answer appears within seconds: Islamic. With subprograms for Sunni, Sufi, Shi’a, and Kharijite sects. Do you like jazz?
“Your friend,” I call to Judson, “is hitting on me.”
“Better let him down easy,” Jud answers, “or he’ll be thinking he can wander through those marble halls until he finds you working in a cubicle.”
I’ll research those sects, I type. But I only like jazz on the fifth Tuesday in February. Sorry.
When the message disappears, I type my father’s name into the Google search box. I click Enter and wait as the screen fills with the same links that appeared yesterday and the day before.
Nothing new.
Then I enter my aunt’s name again and select the link for the psychologist in Virginia. A professional Web site fills the screen, revealing a picture of a stucco building situated beneath a spreading tree. Under the photo of the office I see a picture of a woman who might be anywhere from thirty to fifty—I’m not good at guessing ages. Like me, she has brown hair and dark eyes.
Nothing else about her face matches mine.
I lean closer and peruse the page. According to the information presented here, Dr. Renee Carey has been practicing psychology since 1997 and specializes in mood disorders, particularly clinical depression and bipolar disorder. She looks prosperous, healthy, and happy.
So…why does this woman want to meet me now? Is she suffering a midlife crisis? Maybe she’s stuck at step eight of a twelve-step program, struggling to make amends to all the people she’s harmed or ignored during her lifetime…
I activate my screen saver as something thumps against my desk. Judson has pulled off his headphones and wheeled himself over to my station. “Sarah, sweetheart. Want to do me another favor?”
“Can’t, I’m busy.”
His charming smile disappears. “You okay? You sound uptight.”
The man has developed an uncanny knack for reading my voice. I glance toward the hall, then glare at the intercom. Well, let her listen. It’s not like I’m about to threaten our national interests.
“Why—” I turn toward Judson “—after all this time, why would my aunt want to see me?”
Jud folds his hands across his chest. “Have you ever met anyone from your family?”
“I didn’t know I had family. I never knew my parents.”
“They were with the company?”
“My father was.”
“What did he do?”
“That…I don’t know.”
Judson presses a finger across his lips. “I think,” he says sotto voce, “that if it’s at all possible, you ought to meet this aunt. Everyone has a
Next, I log on to Intellipedia, a wiki open to officers from all sixteen American spy agencies. If Dr. Carey has done anything of interest to the intelligence community, I might find her name here…but I come up with nothing.
Finally, I log on to A-space, the spooks’ answer to MySpace and Facebook. The top secret network allows agencies to share photos, notes, and gossip, but again, I come up with nada on Renee, Rene, or Renae Carey.
So I look up the name on Google and discover an absolutely overwhelming number of hits in open-source material. Renee Carey is, according to the Web, a Democratic city council member in Houston, a psychologist living in McLean, Virginia, and a photographic artist living in Boston.
Dr. Mewton says Renee Carey is my aunt…and I have no experience with the word. Scarlett O’Hara had an Aunt Pittypat who proved useless in crisis situations. I’ve watched Auntie Mame, a 1958 movie about a young boy who grows up as the ward of his father’s eccentric aunt…and I’ve found myself wondering what happened to the boy’s mother. Was she dead like mine?
An incoming message on the secure server interrupts my musings. Raven is impressed with my progress on the brain scan program, but wonders if I’ve had a chance to create subprograms with culturally specific cues. I respond with a question: What culture did you have in mind?
The answer appears within seconds: Islamic. With subprograms for Sunni, Sufi, Shi’a, and Kharijite sects. Do you like jazz?
“Your friend,” I call to Judson, “is hitting on me.”
“Better let him down easy,” Jud answers, “or he’ll be thinking he can wander through those marble halls until he finds you working in a cubicle.”
I’ll research those sects, I type. But I only like jazz on the fifth Tuesday in February. Sorry.
When the message disappears, I type my father’s name into the Google search box. I click Enter and wait as the screen fills with the same links that appeared yesterday and the day before.
Nothing new.
Then I enter my aunt’s name again and select the link for the psychologist in Virginia. A professional Web site fills the screen, revealing a picture of a stucco building situated beneath a spreading tree. Under the photo of the office I see a picture of a woman who might be anywhere from thirty to fifty—I’m not good at guessing ages. Like me, she has brown hair and dark eyes.
Nothing else about her face matches mine.
I lean closer and peruse the page. According to the information presented here, Dr. Renee Carey has been practicing psychology since 1997 and specializes in mood disorders, particularly clinical depression and bipolar disorder. She looks prosperous, healthy, and happy.
So…why does this woman want to meet me now? Is she suffering a midlife crisis? Maybe she’s stuck at step eight of a twelve-step program, struggling to make amends to all the people she’s harmed or ignored during her lifetime…
I activate my screen saver as something thumps against my desk. Judson has pulled off his headphones and wheeled himself over to my station. “Sarah, sweetheart. Want to do me another favor?”
“Can’t, I’m busy.”
His charming smile disappears. “You okay? You sound uptight.”
The man has developed an uncanny knack for reading my voice. I glance toward the hall, then glare at the intercom. Well, let her listen. It’s not like I’m about to threaten our national interests.
“Why—” I turn toward Judson “—after all this time, why would my aunt want to see me?”
Jud folds his hands across his chest. “Have you ever met anyone from your family?”
“I didn’t know I had family. I never knew my parents.”
“They were with the company?”
“My father was.”
“What did he do?”
“That…I don’t know.”
Judson presses a finger across his lips. “I think,” he says sotto voce, “that if it’s at all possible, you ought to meet this aunt. Everyone has a
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