Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  ‘Bedroom secured.’

  He kept going. He heard Louis’s voice.

  ‘Living room secured.’

  He pressed the button.

  ‘Kitchen secured.’

  When he came out of the kitchen, he ended up in a servants’ hallway with flowery pink wallpaper. On the floor lay an issue of Le Monde. Rafael stepped out ahead of him. Louis joined him, and they walked toward the closed door at the far end of the long hallway. Laurent stopped and signalled to the others to take off their masks. Not much of the tear gas had reached this part of the apartment, and their masks were unwieldy, limiting their sight. As he took off his mask, he smelled the pungent odour of burned plastic. It lay like a stifling blanket over the hallway, and mixed with the smell of tear gas, dust, and leather. Rafael reached the door first and waited for the others. Behind him he heard the back-up team’s calls as they secured the rest of the apartment. Rafael carefully tested the door. It was locked. He gripped his shotgun in both hands and kicked. The lock broke, and the door flew open in a shower of splinters.

  Before him he saw a large room — a library. The walls were covered in bookshelves. In the middle of the room was a set of grey furniture. The heavy curtains at the large windows were drawn, which gave the room a dim light.

  Laurent thought once again of the dog races. His mistake had been that he was too uncertain. He listened too much to other people, instead of listening to his intuition. He could have sworn that Island Storm would win. There were very good reasons to think so — his fantastic track record, his pedigree, the test runs earlier that day. And then, when Napoleon Victory crossed the finish line, Laurent had just stood there hollowly. Everything was gone.

  Louis gave a start: ‘Police! Down on the floor!’ Only then did Laurent notice a figure sitting at a desk at the far end of the room, like a ghost in the dim light. It was a man, with his back to them, and he was typing at a computer. There was a pistol on the desk beside him. All three raised their weapons while moving toward him. Menard repeated his order: ‘Lie down! Now!’ The man ignored them and kept typing. They were no more than three metres away from him when the man picked up the pistol and shot himself in the head. It all happened so fast that none of them had time to react. The man had acted with no hesitation whatsoever. His head was thrown to the side and he fell heavily from his chair.

  Laurent, the first one to reach him, placed his foot on the hand that still held the pistol. The man’s body was convulsing, but his eyes were already staring blankly down at the floor. Blood flowed rapidly from under his head. The man appeared to be an Arab, about forty years old, of average build, wearing a burgundy shirt and worn jeans. He was barefoot, and his heels were dry. His body stopped shaking. Laurent pressed the button on his radio.

  ‘Major Serge, over.’ A brief silence, and then he heard Major Serge’s clear voice.

  ‘Serge here. Status?’

  ‘Target down. Apartment secured.’

  ‘Okay. We’re coming.’

  Laurent kicked the pistol out of the man’s hand, in a routine measure. The man was dead, and would never use his pistol again. Laurent exhaled, dazed by what had just happened. He had been unfocused. Though he had worked on the task force for four years, this was the first time he had seen anyone shot at such close range.

  He looked at the man on the floor. How could a person be so cold? He must have been sitting there working when Balzac rang at his door. He’d stood up, walked all the way to the front door, opened it, and shot the officer. After that he had returned to his seat and kept working, even when the door was forced open, the canisters of tear gas exploded, and heavily armed police stormed the apartment. And when he was done with his work … he’d shot himself without a second thought. It was so fucking morbid. Laurent looked around the room. On the table by the furniture, the local phone book was open to Chinese restaurants, alongside an unopened chocolate bar and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. What the hell had the man been up to in here? He looked at the desk, and then at the computer. The white screen had become dotted with red. He leaned closer and caught sight of a small, animated symbol in the lower corner of the screen. A grey garbage can opened its lid and swallowed a file. The garbage can turned red and then grey again. Another file popped up and was swallowed by the garbage can, which turned red again. He realised what was happening — the computer was erasing its information! He tossed the chair aside and dove to the floor next to the dead body, shoving his way in under the desk. The man’s hand crunched under his knee. He grimaced and searched for the cord, found the outlet, and tore out the plug.

  Louis looked at him in surprise.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  Laurent crawled out from under the table, knelt, and squinted at the screen. The garbage can was still munching files. Had he pulled out the wrong cord? His eyes swept the desk and caught sight of a laptop with its lid closed. The screen and keyboard were connected to it. It was running on battery power. Just as he was about to lift the computer up to remove the battery, the garbage can turned green, and there was a faint ‘ding’ from the laptop in his hand. It had finished deleting.

  His headset crackled.

  ‘Boys, come over to the bathroom in the hallway.’

  He picked up his automatic rifle and slung it across his back, and they turned back the same way they’d come. The door of the bathroom was open. Major Serge was standing outside it, talking on a mobile phone. When he saw them, he nodded at the open door. Laurent stepped into the small, tiled room. The whole bathtub was full of sooty, contorted computer equipment, and there was also something that might have been binders or folders. Only the binder rings and a few spines had survived the fire. A grey sludge covered the bottom of the bathtub, and the walls were scorched and sooty. There had been quite a fire in here — that was the smell which the woman next door had noticed. The technicians would have to work for many hours if they were to salvage anything of use. He backed out into the hallway. Major Serge was standing with his legs planted far apart, his arms crossed, right outside the door.

  ‘I’ve spoken with Monor. In my opinion, you all handled it by the book. How are you doing?’

  ‘It was pretty damn unpleasant, but I’ll get over it. What kind of sick bastard was he?’

  Serge looked at Laurent grimly and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to find out. From what we found in the bedroom, we know that at least two people lived here. Where the other one is, we don’t know. We haven’t found anything to identify them — no papers or legible documents. The only thing of any value, besides that soup in the bathtub, is an access card from a bank. TBI.’

  Laurent frowned.

  ‘Arabic?’

  ‘Israeli, but don’t worry about that. Go home and hug Michelle.’

  Laurent smiled and nodded. He walked silently through the apartment, which was now full of activity. People were everywhere, taking photos, speaking into their radios, looking through books, and tearing through drawers of clothes. Big metal boxes of analytical tools were rolled in on a grey cart. He pushed his way through, nodded at those he knew, and made his way out into the stairwell again. Pierre Balzac’s body was gone. Only the dark-red stain was still there. He saw prints from his own boots in the dried blood. The peephole on the other side was staring at him. It said ‘Marie Scribé’ on the nameplate.

  His front pocket vibrated and he took out his phone. Michelle’s number was blinking frantically. He swallowed and answered.

  ‘Allô?’

  ‘Is everything okay, Laurent?’ His wife’s anxious voice sounded distant and canned.

  ‘Everything is fine, ma chérie.’

  She exhaled in relief.

  ‘I saw it on TV. Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here. But it’s over now.’

  ‘Come home!’

 
‘Of course. I just have to go by the station, but then I’ll be home.’

  ‘I’ll run a bath for you. And Laurent …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you had time to pay for our trip?’

  He stared at the peephole, which stared back scornfully.

  ‘No. I didn’t have time today. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. Au revoir.’

  He stood there with his phone in his hand. How the hell would he sort this out? How do you tell your beloved wife that you’ve bet away your family’s whole savings? What a fucking idiot he was. He opened his breast pocket to put his phone back, but dropped it. The phone struck the marble floor hard, and the battery flew off down the stairs.

  ‘Merde!’

  He bent down to look for the battery, and found it against the edge of third step. As he picked it up, he caught sight of the notebook that also lay on the step — Pierre Balzac’s notebook. It must have fallen down there when they picked up the body. How incredibly sloppy of the ambulance crew! He stuck it in his pocket along with the battery, and went down the stairs. What an afternoon. A bath was a hell of a good idea.

  Stockholm, Sweden

  Was it possible to overdose on caffeine? Eric was convinced it was not. In any case, he’d done his best to test the limits. The Nespresso machine in the kitchen was spitting out black ristrettos at high speed, which he was knocking back one after another. All this, to stay awake when the house was finally quiet and everyone was asleep, including the phones. He had placed two thick terrycloth towels over the machine so it wouldn’t wake Hanna. There was a growl under the towels, and another shot was ready. He emptied the small silver cup in one gulp as he looked out of the window at the early-summer morning. There was not a car on the street, except for his Volvo. It was street-cleaning night. He’d completely forgotten — there was probably a ticket for nine hundred kronor on his windshield. He put down the cup and trotted back into his dark cave. It smelled stuffy and sweaty in there. He’d spent too many hours in too little space. As he sat down in front of his computer, his left hand twitched. This was quite natural, considering that his blood had been replaced with pure coffee.

  He hadn’t slept a wink in the past twenty-four hours. The day had consisted of one failure and one success. The failure was that it was impossible to lengthen the sensor needles; in fact, the KTH team even wanted to shorten them. The success was that he had received a FedEx package from Kyoto University, which turned out to contain a new shipment of nanogel. The Japanese researchers had managed to increase the potency of the gel — both the absorption capability and the conductive capacity were several times stronger than they had been. Could this compensate for the short sensor needles? If the improved gel and the upgraded version of Mind Surf didn’t work, he was out of options.

  He looked at the small, white packet with Japanese symbols on it. Nanogel, version 2.0. It was time. There were still a few more steps to take, but the gel needed thirty minutes to be absorbed by the skin. He might as well put it on. He carefully opened the packet and squeezed a blob out into his hand. The liquid was cold and sparkled purple, as if it had its own energy source. The nanogel contained a substance from jellyfish, with a fluorescing glow that was bright in the dark office. Eric pulled back his hair and massaged the odourless gel in. When he was finished, he went back to doing a few final checks of the program. There was a stinging sensation as the substance began to penetrate his skin.

  He went over to Marilyn and removed the sensor helmet. Its colourful hair ran in a long braid from the helmet to the computer. He checked that all fifty wires were properly attached to their respective sensor needles, and then he put on the helmet. It clung to his head like a swim cap, and burned as the sensors penetrated like acupuncture needles. He grimaced, sat down at the computer, and turned off all his control and troubleshooting programs. Then he started the program that controlled the contact between computer and brain. His index finger lingered over the Enter key for a moment. Click. His scalp tingled. Ten seconds passed. He held his breath.

  CONTACT ESTABLISHED. RECEIVING NEURODATA. SIGNAL STRENGTH 92%

  He sat stock-still, looking at the blinking message. Ninety-two per cent — that was very good reception. Better than it had ever been. Then he went back to the menu and opened a diagram that showed the status of each individual sensor. All fifty sensors registered surprisingly strong signals. He started the program to surf three-dimensionally, and lowered the dark glasses that were attached to the front of the helmet. He could feel the sensors pricking him, and fumbled to find the screws that further tightened the needles. He gave it a few turns, and groaned with the pain. Vision was sensitive, and if something went wrong he could go blind.

  His eyelids tingled. Mind Surf had established contact with the optic chiasm. He could no longer see anything, since the glasses were made of black-painted plastic. If everything worked, he wouldn’t need eyes to see.

  Eric extended his hand and felt his way across the keyboard until he found the Enter key. He swallowed. The sensation could be likened to the seconds before you scratch off a lottery ticket. Maybe you’ll win; maybe not. The dream is alive as long as the ticket is hasn’t been scraped.

  He thought of the long journey to this day, of all the people who had been a part of it. Of Mats Hagström’s money. Of Hanna. He saw her before him, standing in the half-darkness with a sad, searching gaze. He saw himself in the chair. What must he look like, sitting there with cords trailing from his head and the dark glasses on his face? He was the vision of a mad scientist. Was he crazy, or was he a genius? The answer was one digital command away. Either it worked and would be a success, or it didn’t work and that was the end of the project — two polar-opposite outcomes. No, there was another possibility: he could go blind, or become brain-damaged. He knew there were risks with BCI. A spike in power or another form of unexpected change in voltage could burn up parts of the brain.

  The helmet stung, and he felt jabbing pains in his head. There was a bang from the hallway. The morning papers had arrived. Best to get it over with. He took a deep breath.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  David Yassur was fascinated by the coded telex that had been sent to the Mossad from the Israeli embassy in Paris. In this high-tech age, he couldn’t believe that anyone still communicated via telex. He didn’t even know that the Mossad had such a device. He made a mental note to find out where it was. The decoded copies, which were stapled to the original message, were alarming. The police in Nice had raided an apartment because of suspected terrorist activity within it. The suspicion of crime had led to a report being sent to DCRI, Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, the French internal intelligence authority. A suspected terrorist had been killed in the operation. This person had not yet been identified.

  At the Mossad’s request, the telex had been supplemented with an email containing a number of documents, including a photograph of the deceased terrorist. David looked at the black-and-white face, which had a small spot just over the right eye — the entry wound. This was no one he recognised. DCRI had determined that it was a case of computer crime, and had informed SCSSI, Service Central de la Sécurité des Systèmes d’Informations, the national IT security unit. An access card from TBI had been found during the operation, so SCSSI had informed the Israeli embassy. Fortunately, the person who received the warning had taken it seriously and had forwarded it to Tel Aviv. By telex.

  He read the report again. In the apartment, they had found several burned computers and hard drives that were impossible to salvage. The dead terrorist had had a page from a notebook in his pocket, but there were no identifying documents. David leaned closer and studied the blurry copy of the notebook paper. It looked like hieroglyphs — probably a code. He looked through the list of seized articles, without finding a notebook. But the paper had to come from somewhere. The messy hieroglyphs were important, he was sure. He held th
e paper up to the light and tried turning it in different directions. Well, this was definitely the same gang that radio intelligence unit 8200 had reported on. He took Jacob Nachman’s report from his worn leather briefcase. Nice and TBI were both mentioned. And, with that, Jacob’s suspicions were confirmed. In addition to his boss, Meir Pardo, and the cabinet, he should inform Isaac Berns, TBI’s director of IT. They had been in contact recently to discuss the bank’s security. Now Berns would have to start going through each pixel in his French operation right away. He would have to determine whether anything had been stolen or damaged, and above all whether there was a virus in their system.

  How would they identify the dead man? And where had the other person in the apartment gone? David looked at the photograph once again, mulling it over. Right now, it was the most important piece of the puzzle. If they could establish his identity, they could match it in their database, and with any luck link him to a known terror cell. David couldn’t hold back a smile when he realised who he ought to call. He picked up his mobile phone and looked up a number he hadn’t used in a very long time. It rang twice, and then came a familiar voice: ‘Paul Clinton.’

  ‘Shalom, Paul. David Yassur here. How is Evelyn?’

  ‘You old putz. Are you calling after five years of silence to ask about my ex?’

  David’s smile broadened.

  ‘You know I’ve always loved Evelyn. You’ve made a lot of mistakes, Paul — shooting JFK was one of them — but losing Eve was without a doubt the worst.’

  Paul snorted into the phone.

  ‘Go fuck yourself. What can the FBI do for an old combatant? Is it about the threat against TBI?’

  David shook his head.

  ‘That’s supposed to be a state secret. But it sure is. I have some pictures and names I hope you can run through your fantastic databases: CIA, NSA, IRS, Disney World … the whole lot.’