One of Monica's friends she'd met in France at University had studied computer science and IT and had become an expert in the field; not only on paper but also in virtuality. He'd moved on to special effects in film, then done internships in several high-tech places including google itself. He obsessed over Deep Fakes and other AI created images and was currently working on a new program to search for AI in images across the web. He seemed the perfect candidate to hand over Alistair's photo - especially because he wasn't linked to the Whitehouse. The picture would not be leaked and so her husbands presidency was not on the line.
Henry Allard was surprised to get the email from Monica Bowmore, the name only ringing a bell after he'd read the whole mail. He hadn't followed up what she'd been doing after University as the two of them were not close. In a matter of seconds he found out that she was now First Lady, but he didn't prioritize her email due to that, he did it because he found the image quite interesting.
He dragged the file into the program he'd been working on and let it run. He got his answer in mere seconds. No AI has been detected. Drag or Insert File to search New Image. He shrugged, ran the test again and received the same result. After having no sucess he turned to photoshop. If it wasn't an AI generated image (which admittidly it looked very real to be) it must be a layered one. But no matter how hard he looked he found only one layer.
Henry Allard was not one to give up. He made himself a strong coffee and did repeated the entire process. No luck. So, just for fun, he inserted the image into 'yandex search' and pop. Up flew several results feautering the exact same image. He clicked on the first, the most trustworthy site of the lot. It was from a museum in East Germany, one that showed several pictures of Hitler's home life. And there it was. Under 'Alistair' there was no name, all that was written was 'unknown'. Henry pulled up a picture from the president and compared the two. They looked terribly alike. He ran a test to match the facial features and got a 100% match. After browsing through several more websites he found the picture over and over again, Alistair Bowmore only being labelled as unknown.
Monica had left a number at the bottom of her email, and he dialed it. She picked up at the third ring. "Monica? C'est toi?"
"Oui, et vous? Hernri Allard, oui?"
"Ouais. I am calling because of your email."
"Yes, what did you find out about the picture?" She asked. Her voice sounded funny over the phone, but maybe it was just that her accent was so much less pronounced than before. When she'd lived in France her accent had been horrible whenever she'd spoke an english word, now it remained noticable but not notable.
"It's not AI. And it's also not photoshopped. The photo is real, I can send you links from museum if you don't believe me. I matched their profiles and they have a 100% match. But of course, it is not Alistair, there is no such thing as immortality or time travel. But he sure does look like your husband."
"But then who is it?"
"The name just says unknown." He responded cooly. "Your husband just looks like one of Hitler's friends. Kind of funny, if you ask me.
"Yes, somehow it is..."
"And how are you Monica?"
"I've been alright. Et toi, Henri?"
"Je vais bien, merci." The silence between the two callers stiffened. "Well, it was nice to hear from you, Monica." He said eventually.
"Yes. Thank you for helping me with the image, Herni."
"And don't lose your frenchness, you're losing the accent." He said in his curtled english. He could hear her smile through the phone.
"I wouldn't, not on my life."
"Bon. Les temps sont durs, Monica."
"Oui, mais...les temps sont toujours durs."
"Yes. Good luck to your husband in his presidency."
"Thank you." Her answer crackled over the phone. "And Henri," she said, stopping him from hanging up, "if you give my number out I'll track it back to you."
"Don't worry Madame Bowmore." He replied almost flirtatiously. "I'm honoured to speak with the First Lady of the Unites States."
"Stop the crap, we both know you'd like to overthrow any and every government like the average french citizen." Her words made him laugh. He shrugged, and through she couldn't see him lift and lower his shoulders she somehow sensed it over the phone. "I was planning to visit my family soon, on a little trip to France. Maybe we could squeeze in a meeting? Grab some coffee and reminisce over past times."
"Of course! When are you coming, I would love to see you! And why? Is there a special occasion for your visit?"
"Yes. I'm pregnant, I want to share the news with my family in person." She said with a smile. He could hear that smile over the phone. He didn't know too much about her; they'd never been very close, more mutual friends than close ones, but he'd known she'd always wanted kids.
"Congragulations! But then we must really stick to coffee and not red wine..." He answered. She laughed and agreed with him. Then she explained that she didn't know the exact dates yet, she'd have to check in with Alistair first. They chatted for another half an hour, a long French good-bye. They switched to French and to Monica nothing felt more wonderful than to be surrounded by the language that she felt at home with. And after only a few minutes of conversation in her native tongue she realized something.
"Mon dieu!"
"Qu'est-que c'est passé?"
"I need to give birth in France!" The idea had hit her all at once and she was delighted by it. "My baby needs to grow up in France!"