Prayer by Philip Kerr Page B

in secret without being shut down or deleted by the user or administrator of the computer system. Trojans, for example. No, my Mr. Phelps e-mails arrive in my in-box, and stay there only until the moment I have read them or until they have remained unread in my in-box for a set number of hours. Indeed, as an experiment, I left a couple of these e-mails unread and both of them had disappeared like snow within twenty-four hours.
    “So far there have been at least a dozen of these Mr. Phelps e-mails. Naturally, they are anonymous. The words vary but the content is essentially the same: the e-mails are short jeremiads of sustained invective that denounce me and prophecy my imminent death. At first I ignored them. And yet their curious behavior led me to decide that I should share their existence with someone. Obviously, this couldn’t be Cynthia. (It’s an isolated spot where we live, on the edge of Tarrytown, and when I travel to New York to see Adele, Cynthia is alone out here; it would not be good for her state of mind to believe that once again her life or mine was under threat.) And since Adele knows everything about computers—she is a recent graduate of MIT’s EECS and one of the resident chic geeks at work (quite what she sees in me, I have no idea)—I decided to tell her about them.”
    Mrs. Ekman’s voice seemed to falter a little at this, the first mention of her husband’s lover, Adele; and thinking to pay her back for jerking my collar so violently earlier on, I cleared my throat and said: “Adele. I assume this is the woman with whom your husband was romantically involved.”
    “He was fucking her.”
    “Had he been—seeing her for very long?”
    “I really don’t know. I’ve only just found out about it myself. From reading this journal, that is. I suspect she was just another little unpaid whore hackette looking to get on in the dwindling world of print journalism. But like I said before, Agent Martins, perhaps it would also be best if you saved any questions you might have until I’ve finished reading.”
    “Oh, sure, I remember you saying that. But in the FBI we’re trained to think for ourselves and ask questions when we see fit, not when we have someone’s permission to do so. We’re not as patient as people imagine we are. Do you know Adele’s surname?”
    “No, I don’t know it. But I imagine it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out who she is.”
    “No. I guess not.”
    “Can I continue with this particular entry?” She shot me a bitter little smile. “Please? I’m nearly finished. There are two more after this one.”
    “A
dele lives in a nice condo on Eleventh Avenue, just around the corner from the office. She was intrigued when—we were in bed at the time—I told her about the Mr. Phelps e-mails and, her professional interest piqued, she insisted on my turning on my laptop so that she could take a look for herself. But naturally, there was nothing to see in my in-box and I do believe she half thought I was imagining the whole thing. Sweetly, Adele offered to monitor my e-mails for me, in the hope of identifying one of the Mr. Phelps e-mails herself, but that would mean giving her my password and, as much as I’m fond of her, I don’t quite trust her enough to let her through the front door of my life like this.”
    Mrs. Ekman paused.
    “That’s the end of the first entry,” she said. “The first relevant entry, that is.”
    Mrs. Ekman finished the glass of wine she’d been drinking and poured herself another.
    “Interesting,” said Helen. “I haven’t ever heard of self-destructing e-mails.”
    “Me neither,” I confessed.
    Mrs. Ekman shrugged dismissively. “If that’s what they were,” she said.
    “Do you think they might have been something else?” I asked.
    “Well, I’m not a computer expert,” she said. “But it strikes me that Adele was. This little whore he was seeing; she knew about computers, right? If you’re looking for who might be