Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  One hundred hands shot up in the air. Eric smiled and put down the wireless remote.

  ‘What I’ve shown you here today is not a vision of the future. It’s happening here and now, within the best institution in the world: KTH Royal Institute of Technology. Thank you for your time.’

  The room exploded into applause, and several cheers could be heard through the racket. Eric took a bow, picked up the glass of Coke, and stepped down from the podium. Back in the conference room, he found his printouts neatly piled on the table next to his briefcase. All thanks to Freckles. He packed up his things and went back out into the hallway. His mobile phone showed three missed calls. Two were from Hanna; one was from Jens Wahlberg. He dealt with the easiest first. Outside, the air was still. The sky was pale blue, and the sun was very warm. He crossed the small square on his way to Lindstedtsväg, searching his pocket for his car keys. Jens answered on the second ring.

  ‘Oh, you’re alive!’

  Eric unlocked his Volvo XC60 and took note of the parking ticket on the windshield.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be alive? Do you know something I don’t?’

  Jens’s snorting laughter made the little earpiece crackle. ‘Well, a little bird — or rather an eagle, a beautiful sea eagle — whispered in my ear.’

  Eric groaned and pulled out onto Drottning Kristinas Väg. ‘You’ve been talking to Hanna.’

  Jens cleared his throat. ‘I have been talking to Hanna. Jesus, Eric. After that conversation, I considered going down to the editor-in-chief and asking them to redo tonight’s newsbill. “KTH professor living under threat of death.”’

  Eric shook his head and grimaced with the pain of the scratches on his back. Valhallavägen was dense with traffic.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I don’t tell her all the shit you say, do I? That confidence works both ways. But she was disappointed. She essentially said you’re trying to get yourself a kid by force, in order to lock her into a relationship that ought to have ended up down a Porta-Potty ages ago.’

  ‘Did she say Porta-Potty?’

  ‘No. But you get what I mean. What are you up to?’

  Eric was angry. What did Jens know about how things were? As his best friend, he ought to support him rather than preach at him. He got enough of that at home. Jens was Hanna’s friend, too, but above all he was a man. Men ought to stick together.

  Everything was so easy for Jens. He soared high above the battlefield, free to drift on whichever breeze he liked. Seen from that distance, every conflict became small and abstract. But this was about real loyalty, so he should have to pick sides, damn it. He heard Jens’s voice from high up in the clouds: ‘Are you still there, buddy?’

  ‘Jens, you don’t get how difficult this is. You live your bachelor life in the middle of the evening-paper world. Your reference point is always Aftonbladet, with its superficial stories and straightforward headlines. But this is about my life. About real feelings, way beyond the top-ten lists of Sweden’s biggest silicon tits.’

  ‘Ouch, ouch. That hurt.’

  Eric was immediately sorry.

  ‘You know I didn’t mean that. I’m just so fucking tired of everything. I’ve always been sure of where I was heading, but now my compass is just spinning. I’m feeling the pressure at work. I’m losing my grip on Hanna. Somehow we’ve lost each other. One day, things are great; the next day, it’s all-out war. Maybe I’ve lost myself.’

  Jens was quiet for a moment.

  ‘That’s why your compass is spinning. You’ve lost contact with the North Pole. With your magnetic field.’

  Eric smiled tiredly.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose she is like the North Pole. A hundred degrees below zero.’

  ‘Eric, you know she can just as easily be as heated as … as that fiery little pepper.’

  ‘A jalapeño.’

  ‘North Pole or not, she has always been your stabiliser. And now she’s just as worn out and confused as you are. Maybe you need a time-out. A little time away from each other. After all, a compass works the same, no matter how far it is from the pole.’

  A red light. Eric leaned his head against the steering wheel.

  ‘Maybe that’s true. But distance scares me — just the thought of not sleeping beside her, not seeing her every day. Even if we mostly just argue. As long as we’re arguing, at least we’re engaging. And we still have fantastic times between fights. If we put more distance between us, we might lose what little we have left. We might not fight our way back.’

  There was a gulp on the line. Jens was drinking coffee.

  ‘Who knows? But the way it is now, you’re just making things worse. I don’t think you should look at fighting as a good thing. You’re burning bridges. Maybe it’s better to put some space between you. Some temporary space.’

  Eric stared down at the black rubber mat.

  ‘Jens, can we meet tomorrow? I need someone who can listen.’

  ‘Sure. Of course. We’ll have a long lunch.’ All of Jens’s lunches were long.

  ‘I have a tough meeting with investors tomorrow morning. I don’t really know when I’ll be done. But after that …’

  ‘I’ll make a reservation. One o’clock at Riche. I’ll wait for you there. And, listen, call Hanna.’ He hung up. Eric sat there with his forehead against the warm leather steering wheel.

  Hanna was his exact opposite. He was Swedish through and through. She was Jewish, with all of Europe running through her veins. He was ordinary; she was beautiful. He was an absent-minded introvert; she was highly organised and an unparalleled social butterfly. She knew everyone and everything. Each of their weekends was booked full of lunches and brunches, always on her initiative and attended by minute planning. The same went for vacations; they were booked and planned from start to finish. Eric mostly just went along without taking any initiative of his own. At least, that was what she usually accused him of when they argued.

  They had met at KTH when they were studying their basic programs. Today she was the director of IT at the Swedish office of the TBI, the Trusted Bank of Israel. She was active in the Jewish community, and she was the chairperson of Friends of KTH. Her calendar was always full. Where was she now? Probably at the bank. He didn’t want to call her. The car behind him honked angrily. The light had turned green and was already about to go back to red. He hit the accelerator and just made it through. The angry driver was left behind.

  ‘Hi. This is Hanna Schultz Söderqvist at TBI. Leave a nice message and I promise to call back.’ He hung up.

  Tabriz, Iran

  It was just like any other business meeting. There were four men, two on either side of the long, pale-grey conference table. They were formally dressed. The two closest to the window were wearing dark suits and ties. The two closest to the doors were wearing dishdashas, long white robes, and keffiyeh, traditional Muslim headwear. Before them were various cups of coffee and tea. There were carafes of water and cherry juice, a big bowl of fruit, and two hookahs. Several documents were spread out on the table, and on one of the short ends of the table was a laptop. The scent of aftershave and coffee was in the air. The sun shone brightly through the large windows. El-Goli park stretched out far below them, and in the background — shimmering in the heat — were the roofs and roads of Tabriz. The air conditioning was on full blast, and the room was chilly.

  One of the men in a suit was Arie al-Fattal. He spoke like a seasoned salesman, always careful to seek confirmation from Enes al-Twaijri, one of the white-clad men across from him. Al-Fattal was well-read and knowledgeable. His message was energetic and impressive. Enes nodded with interest. It was unusual for this man to be the one doing the listening. As the CEO and principal owner of the oil group Al-Twaijri Petrol Group, he was one of Saudi Arabia’s most powerful businessmen. He had condemned the existence of Israel, and
, like his friend the president of Iran, was a Holocaust denier. He had told the New York Times that he was proud of the attack on the World Trade Center. Nevertheless, the FBI had reported that, despite his fundamentalist views, he did not constitute an immediate threat. He wasn’t labelled a terrorist.

  The man beside him, Ahmad Waizy, was not known to the FBI. This was despite the fact that he was one of the main players in the Islamic terror network al-Jihad, which many considered to be the governing arm of al-Qaeda. He had studied to be an imam as a young man, and now he was something of a freelancing jihadist. He was sitting quietly, too, studying the men in suits. He was tired of listening to Arie’s shrill voice. He already knew all about the project and didn’t need to hear the sales presentation. Hezbollah had, for the first time in its nearly thirty-year history, managed to come up with something good — a key recruit. But now they didn’t have the financing to do anything about it. Arie had been engaged to find financiers. He was a clown.

  Ahmad concentrated instead on the man who was sitting next to Arie. He looked deflated. His suit was too big, and his tie was messily knotted. Ahmad knew all about this person. For him, knowing was always crucial. The skeleton in the wrinkled suit was, at the moment, one of Hezbollah’s most dangerous weapons. He looked malnourished. Apparently, he was something of a prodigy. A computer genius. A pacifist, until he’d lost his family. Could he be trusted? That remained to be seen. From experience, Ahmad assumed that he couldn’t trust anyone.

  He opened the folder and once again read the description of Mona. A computer virus was nothing new on its own; they had existed in various forms for over twenty years. Early viruses had basically been simple programs, often with code of fewer than four hundred bytes. Mona, which was twenty megabytes, was something completely new. It was a powerful hybrid of two categories of infection: a worm and a virus. The worm worked like a carrier of the virus itself. It made its way into networks via security vulnerabilities, and then it replicated itself. In only a few minutes, the worm could create thousands of clones that then crawled on to other servers, where they replicated again. The worm’s functionality took up only 3 per cent of the total code. The rest belonged to the Mona virus itself, which waited under the worm’s shell like a Trojan horse.

  Ahmad closed the folder and looked again at the man in the wrinkled suit. He had a hard time believing that this emaciated Lebanese man had built all of this.

  Samir Mustaf met Ahmad’s eyes with their snakelike chill. He felt ill at ease. Ahmad was part of al-Qaeda, and despite his calm outward demeanour his whole being radiated aggression. Samir looked back at Arie. It seemed that he had succeeding in capturing Enes’s interest. They desperately needed financing if they were to be able to continue the project. For the past few months he had been working around the clock, and the project was what kept him alive. Kept his shell alive.

  Arie pushed a brown paper folder over to the Saudi billionaire.

  ‘Everything is described in greater detail in these documents. I ask that you make sure that no one other than yourself and your most trusted colleagues has access to them.’

  Enes put the folder aside without opening it. In a deep, calm voice he said: ‘Allow me to recap to make sure I haven’t missed anything. This brother,’ he gestured toward Samir, ‘has developed some sort of computer program, a virus he calls Mona. It is the most powerful virus the world has ever seen. Correct?’

  Arie nodded encouragingly.

  Enes continued. ‘The virus will be injected …’ he looked at Samir. ‘Is that how you’d describe it?’

  Samir nodded.

  ‘The virus will be injected into the Israeli banking and financial system. There it will take large amounts of information hostage. It will also destroy strategic data, and manipulate information about the stock exchange and interest rates. It will cause great injury to the occupying powers. Faith in Israel will be undermined, and foreign capital will be moved to more stable markets. Massive sums will be destroyed, and so will confidence in the Israeli leaders.’

  Enes spoke in a voice tinged with theatricality. Samir noticed that he had repeated several of Arie’s expressions word for word. He was unsure whether this was because he liked them or he was being sarcastic.

  Enes continued. ‘Then, when the unrest is at its peak, Hezbollah’s spokesmen will step forth and offer an anti-virus — a medicine to release the digital hostages and restore the banking system. In return, they will demand that Israel revert to the 1967 borders. In addition, the Zionists must free many of our brothers who are currently being held without trial. Have I understood this correctly?’

  Arie and Samir nodded simultaneously.

  ‘And in order to carry out this grand — and surprising — project,’ Enes went on, ‘you need financing. How much do you need and what, more precisely, will this money be used for?’

  Enes was looking at Samir, but it was Arie who answered.

  ‘We need three million dollars. This capital will be used to procure equipment, food, lodging, and travel, as well as compensation for a number of helping hands. We must also be able to pay bribes to security personnel. In addition, we need a buffer of $500,000 for unforeseen costs. Everything is specified in the documentation.’

  He stopped talking and looked at Samir, who nodded weakly. Enes smiled.

  ‘My knowledge of all this technical talk is very limited. And there’s no point in trying to educate me. What I do understand, however, are banking and deal-making strategies. If this virus achieves what you say it will, Prime Minister Ben Shavit will have no choice but to go along with our demands in order to get access to the anti-virus. With that in mind …’

  He seemed to be savouring what came next.

  ‘… I’m prepared to finance the project. This could crush the corrupt structure of the occupiers and carry us to victory.’

  Samir exhaled and looked at Arie, who flew up, went around the table, and embraced the oil tycoon. Enes returned the embrace, but then held up his hands to hold him off.

  ‘I do have one request, however.’

  His tone made it clear that this was more than a request.

  ‘The interests I represent, myself included, have great confidence in this man.’

  He placed his arm around Ahmad’s shoulders.

  ‘He has shown great determination, and is genuinely engaged in our fight. I want him to participate in this honourable project.’

  Ahmad didn’t release Samir from his gaze. When he spoke, it was in a surprisingly soft and low voice.

  ‘I would first like to thank Enes al-Twaijri for his faith in me. I would also like to praise you, Samir Mustaf, for your knowledge and loyalty. And you, Arie al-Fattal, for your success in recruiting this gifted brother.’

  Arie smiled, but there was a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

  ‘Your plan is well formulated. I do not think, however, that this video game you’re suggesting is enough, no matter how good it might be.’

  He deftly rolled a pen between his fingers. Samir followed the movement of the pen, from the outside of his hand to the inside and back again. The effect was hypnotic, and he found it difficult to look away.

  ‘In order for this fantastic Mona to truly give us the victory we’re all striving for, the computer attacks must be combined with a select few shahids. Real-world efforts. Efforts that will amplify the destabilisation.’

  Arie took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and looked at Ahmad.

  ‘Shahids … so, martyrs. What are the targets?’

  Ahmad stared at the tabletop before him.

  ‘“For the Rejecters We have prepared Chains, Yokes, and a Blazing Fire.” The Quran also says, “He admits whom he will in His mercy; but for the wrongdoers awaits painful punishment.”’

  Silence descended upon the room. Ahmad closed his eyes, and Samir thought he cou
ld see him silently whispering yet another quote from the Quran. His narrow lips were moving. Enes cleared his throat as the silence dragged on. Ahmad opened his eyes again and smiled at them.

  ‘Allah knows the hidden reality of the heavens and the earth. But there is something none of you knows yet. Something that will lead us to victory.’

  All three of them looked intently at Ahmad, who confidently leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Recall how Caesar had Brutus at his side. Trusted him. Listened to him. And recall how Brutus killed him when the time was right.’

  His narrow index finger pointed at them one by one.

  ‘Recall how the Greek spy Sinon pretended to be a forgotten slave and convinced the Trojans to bring the great wooden horse with Odysseus’s hidden warriors inside their gates.’

  He placed his hands on the table, palms up, and lowered his voice.

  ‘Isn’t it fitting that computer viruses are often called Trojan horses? In this important attack, we have succeeded in creating our own Sinon with Allah’s help. And this time, too, he will help us to bring our poison inside the infidels’ walls.’

  All three looked at him in a combination of fascination and surprise. Ahmad nodded thoughtfully as though to let his words sink in. He continued: ‘An organisation which shall remain nameless has long been investing extensive resources and taking great risks to get a true believer into the highest levels of the Zionist leadership. Today, this person — let us fittingly call him Sinon — is one of Prime Minister Ben Shavit’s closest men and part of the government’s innermost circle. Shavit listens to him. When the time is right, when the virus and our supplementary military measures strike fear into the country, when our brothers from Hezbollah present their demands in exchange for a cure, then Sinon will convince him to go along with our demands. As one of his most trusted men, he can influence his decision. That will be the beginning of the end of the Zionists’ tyranny — an Israel on its knees.’