She dropped the knife in fright. The blade rang against the tiles with a metallic clatter until it came to rest, spinning in slow revolutions, underneath the breakfast table. Yvonne fled the kitchen and went upstairs. She stood for a moment on the threshold of Natasha’s room before entering her own bedroom and throwing herself full length onto the bed. A long time later she slept.
When she awoke it was late afternoon. She felt better; her earlier despair had dissipated. It’s because you’re on your own. It’ll be okay when Malcolm gets back. And he was due back tonight. She resolved to cook a special meal and turn the optimism back on. There was no news, and everyone knew that no news was good news. She went through into the study and switched on the computer. Her email was a lifeline of sorts; her friend Anna was in regular touch from Scotland and hardly missed a day without keying a few lines to make her smile.
While she waited for the machine to boot up she planned the evening menu. Malcolm would be tired when he got home. He travelled such a lot – it was unfortunate but it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t mind the odd day, but lately it had been weeks at a time. And at a time like this. Maybe he didn’t realise how weak she felt, how every day was a journey of hope tempered with stubborn self-control conjured from who knew where. She wondered at her own tenacity and when she might reach her limit, the point at which she couldn’t take any more; every day she had to dig deeper into her own psyche just to exist, just to get to the point when she could lapse legitimately into unconsciousness. But then the dreams would come...
She took a deep breath. Her lunchtime loss of control had frightened her. She had never thought like that before, never considered the possibility of... Stop right there, my girl. This was no good. Only one thought had the power to sustain her: Maybe today is the day we hear something. She opened her email and clicked send/receive. Nothing. Not even junk. She bit her lip and logged out. Should she phone Moran? As she moved to switch the machine off a message box popped up. Security Alert. She tried to close it by clicking on the ‘x’. The message box remained frustratingly in the centre of the screen. Go away. I don’t need this.
Yvonne clicked again, then dropped the mouse in surprise as the cursor began to move by itself. She watched it track across the desktop and open the Start menu. It moved to ‘Run’. A dialogue box opened and text appeared as if an invisible set of digits was typing. Her hand went to her mouth as she dithered, wondering what to do. I’m going mad. Then she remembered Malcolm talking about rogue programs that could pass control of your PC to an external operator. Hackers. She watched in fascination as a new screen appeared and began to display data, scrolling automatically from top to bottom. It was all meaningless jumble to her. A new message appeared: Decryption complete. There was a copyright message at the foot of the message box. It flicked on and off in a second, but she was sure it had said: Central Intelligence Agency, US. Then the cursor began to pause at certain words. They didn’t mean anything either: ‘Blackbird’. ‘Red Earth’...
Yvonne backed away from the PC. Why would the CIA want to hack into our – Malcolm’s – computer? She remembered James Potzner, how strange he’d been during his brief visit. She hadn’t felt safe with him. Something about the way he’d looked at her – no, looked into her. She’d felt dirty afterwards, as if some invasion of privacy had occurred without her knowledge or consent. And now one of his people was crawling around inside their computer.
The text disappeared and a diagram took its place. It was – what? A circuit diagram? A plan of some sort? And then another – a type of pyramid? It looked like a picture her younger brother used to spend hours over, a cross section of a naval submarine, with all its compartments and passages exposed like an ant colony in a glass bottle. Yvonne bent over and flicked the printer on. She hit the print key, fished out the A4 sheet and examined it. There was something familiar about the design, but her memory couldn’t place it. She heard a key turn the front door lock. He’s back. Her heart leapt with excitement. A quick glance in the mirror – she didn’t have any make-up on. Never mind.
She took the stairs two at a time and threw herself into the arms of the man at the threshold. Malcolm was pinned to the doorframe, key in one hand, overcoat in the other. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed hard. “Hi. I’ve missed you.”
“Steady.” Malcolm placed his laptop case carefully onto the hall carpet. “Give me a chance to get in the door.”