by Dan Sehlberg
‘I come.’
Samir nodded and started walking toward the fence. Momba followed just behind him. Once they were out on the road, he caught up and together they walked down to the water. The ground was full of holes and cracks. There were plastic bags, plastic bottles, and other trash everywhere. Mopeds, dented cars, and rusty bicycles passed them constantly. The houses along the road were white with red roofs. Colourful clothes were hung out to dry, and he could see clusters of children playing soccer or jumping rope. Dark-brown telephone poles ran down to the water. The slack lines reached all the way to the ground. It was nearly dusk. Scents of the sea, fish, wood fires, grilled meat, and exhaust filled the air.
There was something here in Berbera that spoke to him — something that made its way into his parched soul. He wasn’t sure what it was, but somehow this place gave him hope. The hopeless gives the hopeless man hope.
Momba hummed to himself. Passers-by averted their eyes. He was still carrying the AK-47 on his back. The road turned off toward the harbour, and the beach lay before them. The sand was greyish-brown and coarse. Samir took off his sandals and wandered down to the water, which rolled in with a constant rumble. One hundred and fifty metres out in the water, like a stranded whale, was a large tanker — a giant cadaver with a broken back. Momba pointed at the tanker.
‘Bombs. In the war.’
Samir nodded. The sand was damp and cool. Darkness was falling fast. Families were lighting fires along the beach. Perhaps Momba sensed that Samir wanted to be alone, because he left him and walked over to some older men who were standing in a group, having a loud conversation. They hugged him warmly. Samir sat down in the sand and looked out across the ocean. His eyes followed the black horizon far beyond the shipwreck. The port to the Red Sea. It was almost completely dark now. He couldn’t see the waves anymore, but he could hear the swell hissing onto the shore, and he could just see the white foam.
The first phase was over, and he had taken another step closer to the end. There were still important tasks to be completed. The group would gather again in anticipation of the next stage. Besides one brief instruction from Ahmad, he hadn’t heard anything from them. The next stage would involve martyrs. Suicide bombers.
The night surrounded him with a fantastic sky full of shimmering stars. It was reflected in the black water, and there in the sand he no longer knew which way was up. He was floating through the universe like Laika the dog, a small piece in someone else’s puzzle, tumbling through the night toward a lonely end. The dog had orbited its world 2,500 times before the capsule was destroyed by the atmosphere. Samir lay still on his back under — or above — the enormous curtain with its sparkling holes. Tomorrow he would leave Somaliland.
Jerusalem, Israel
Sinon sneaked a glance at his watch. He was in top shape today. If he could keep up this pace, he would break his personal record. He stood up on the bike, worked the gears, and pulled the Bianchi back and forth so he wouldn’t lose speed on the steep incline. The carbon-composite bike had been specially built just for him, and it only weighed six-and-a-half kilos. He biked his circuit every day, sometimes twice in one day. The winding Ruba el-Adawiya brought him up to the crown of the Mount of Olives on the outskirts of the holy city. He was halfway through the circuit, which he had measured at fifty kilometres.
The past few days had been eventful. It had begun when Unit 8200 caught the rumour of a potential virus attack. This was clever of Jacob Nachman, but careless of Ahmad Waizy. Then that Mossad bitch Rachel Papo had stumbled across the name Arie al-Fattal in Dubai. She was thought to be a very special agent. Sinon had inquired about her at the bureau to learn more. She had been born in Sderot, and her parents had died young. She became a sniper in the military, and fought in Gaza and Lebanon during the second intifada. There was also a rumour that she had infiltrated al-Qaeda and had been educated at one of their training camps in northern Afghanistan. The director of the Mossad, Meir Pardo, had taken her under his wing, and she had joined Unit 101 several years ago. Rachel Papo was a she-devil — a bitch with the blood of his brothers on her hands. He would have her skin before the Mona operation was over. He would get her, one way or another.
Sinon’s muscles protested, whimpering, but he had learned not to give in to the pain. He kept pedalling upward without letting up on the pace. David Yassur had found an important piece of the puzzle when he’d got hold of the name Arie al-Fattal. And then had come the operation in Nice. It was inexcusable. The whole project could have come to nothing. Melah as-Dullah had chosen the death of a martyr. That was lucky. And thanks to Allah’s powerful protection, Samir Mustaf had gotten away. Now the group was spread out. If he understood Ahmad’s message correctly, Samir had completed his work somewhere in Africa, and the virus had been uploaded to TBI’s network — and not a minute too soon, since apparently David had gone to the FBI for help. How he knew that he should look for clues in the US was a mystery. Maybe it was pure chance, but the FBI had managed to identify Melah, and then they’d obtained Samir’s profile. It hadn’t been too difficult: he was a Muslim expert in computer viruses who had received his doctorate at MIT and had disappeared in Lebanon. The FBI had sent his collected papers and articles over to the Mossad, with pictures, too. Sinon himself had a copy of this folder lying on his desk. Meir’s gang had turned the entire Middle East upside down, but so far Samir was still running free. They would never find him. Not as long as he was Ahmad’s responsibility.
His mobile phone rang just as he made it, panting, up to the crown of the Mount of Olives. He braked in irritation and climbed off his bike. A faint mist hung over the valley. On one side, he had a view of the old city and the dome of the al-Aqsa mosque. On the other side, he could see as far as Jordan. Sinon flipped open his phone. It was his assistant, Sophia Francke, one of the few people who had his direct number. Sophia told him excitedly that the finance minister had decided to implement a national data backup. Nothing like this had ever happened before, anywhere in the world. Sophia caught her breath. Sinon listened and looked out over the fertile valley. The initiative, which had been named Project Lehagen, Hebrew for ‘protection,’ would take time. But no one really knew how much time they had. Now the finance minister wanted to meet with the others in the inner circle. Therefore Sinon had to make an appearance in Jerusalem as soon as possible.
He hung up and shook his head. He’d had the same assistant for more than two years, but no matter how many times he told her not to bother him while he was biking, she kept calling. He changed the SIM card and sent a text to Ahmad, wherever in the world he was right now. Then he took a breath full of the scent of pine and rosemary, and pedalled back down the steep hill. The way down was always a reward. All obstacles were the same. First you had to fight — show Allah that you wouldn’t fall short, wouldn’t give up. He wasn’t surprised that Yuval Yatom had decided to back up the system. This measure was as expected as it was futile. They were underestimating Mona. The virus was already in the system. Project Lehagen was a complete waste of effort. But maybe he should still become involved in it. After all, it couldn’t hurt if the backup was delayed for a few days. That would give Mona more time to spread.
The wind rushed past his ears. There was nothing he loved more than this. He knew that there was gravel on the road, that he could meet oncoming traffic, and that his chain could snap. At this speed, that would be the end of him. Insha’Allah.
The Mona worm had penetrated TBI’s system and made its way into hundreds of pre-determined servers. At 16:34 Palestinian time, the same time that the cluster bomb had exploded in Qana five years earlier, the worms opened their digital shells and, like a Trojan horse, released their load: the world’s most powerful computer virus. Mona’s first algorithm was activated deep inside TBI’s nuclear-bomb-proof server hall, twenty metres below ground.
Stockholm, Sweden
Eric felt like a new person. He had gone to the gym
for the first time in several weeks, and he must have sat in the sauna for thirty minutes. Afterwards he bought new pants and a new jacket. He had wandered around Östermalmshallen and picked out the evening’s dinner. When he got home, he tidied the apartment, aired out his office, and cleaned out the refrigerator. Now Pavarotti was singing at top volume, the table was set, and the candles were lit. He was just placing the scallops into the frying pan when Hanna stepped into the kitchen with a surprised expression on her face.
‘What’s going on here? Shabbes on a Monday?’
He gestured theatrically toward the set table.
‘Have a seat. We’re celebrating.’
She sat down and kicked off her shoes. He handed her a glass of Riesling.
‘What are we celebrating?’
‘That you’re the world’s most beautiful woman. And that Mind Surf works.’
She lit up.
‘Then no wonder we’re celebrating! You must not have slept at all last night. I got up to pee around three, and you were still in there.’
‘I haven’t slept. It doesn’t matter — I’m not tired, and I’m way too excited to waste time on sleep. I went to the gym today. It was wonderful.’
He placed three scallops on her plate, drizzled truffle oil over them, and topped the dish with a lime.
‘Enjoy your appetiser!’
He looked at her and smiled.
‘How are you?’
She took a sip of wine.
‘Nothing much happened at work. We upgraded our security and put in some routine reinforcements. But I haven’t heard any more from Tel Aviv. Maybe the whole thing was just a scare tactic. After work, I swung by the congregation.’
She ate a scallop.
‘It’s good. Did you marinate it in garlic?’
‘It’s a top-secret recipe. How’s the rabbi-recruiting going?’
‘To hell. You should have seen our meeting. It was worse than the worst of Woody Allen.’
Eric nodded. He knew just what she meant. He had been to the meetings a few times. Everyone had an opinion, and then everyone had an opinion about everyone else’s opinion.
‘I liked that woman from New York. The one we went and listened to at the synagogue.’
Hanna nodded.
‘Me, too. But our little congregation has a hard time competing with the big cities. Next week we’re going to meet a candidate from Estonia.’
Eric walked over to the oven and pulled out a pan of lobster au gratin. He served it plain, with a slice of lemon, and sat down across from her again. Their eyes met.
‘Hanna, it was totally incredible. I can’t describe it. I was floating through my own computer. Through the internet. All those colours and images. Pure magic.’
She smiled. ‘Mats Hagström really picked the perfect time to come in — just a few days before the breakthrough.’
‘Yes, you can say that again. He acts solely on intuition, and I suppose that’s why he’s been so successful.’
He leaned across the table and refilled her glass.
‘Do you know what we’re having for dessert?’
Her lips formed a pout.
‘Sex?’
‘Well … the sex will come later, after coffee. But before coffee, there’s dessert. Today’s dessert is called Mind Surf.’
She leaned back and bit her lip.
‘You want me … I want to, but … You know I don’t like that gooey cap.’
‘No excuses. The cook has been working on this dish for the last several years. He will be very disappointed if you don’t have a taste.’
He placed his hand on hers.
‘It’s totally fantastic. You’ll be the second person in the world to try it. The first woman.’
She ate her lobster in silence. He decided not to pressure her further. He knew that she was far too curious to resist — he just had to wait. She sipped some more wine, ate a little lobster, and sipped again.
‘If I can count on you for the treat you promised after coffee, I suppose I can try the dessert.’
‘Yes! I’ll go get it ready. You have to start with the gel. It has to sit for a while before you can begin.’
She rolled her eyes. He walked to the office, humming along with The Marriage of Figaro, grabbed the packet of nanogel, and returned to the kitchen. She had put her hair up in a bun and was sorting the silverware into the dishwasher. He inhaled her perfume. She leaned her head back as he carefully began to massage the sparkling gel into it.
‘Oh, that’s nice. Can you massage my shoulders, too?’
‘Unfortunately not. This is the world’s most expensive massage oil. I can’t waste it, not even on your lovely shoulders. But I’m sure you’ll get a full-body massage anyway. In a bit. First you have to earn it.’
Twenty minutes later, Hanna was sitting in front of the computer with the sensor helmet on her head and the black glasses pulled down. The colourful braid coiled across the floor to the computer. She made a face.
‘It hurts like hell. Are you sure you didn’t make the sensor tips longer?’
‘Not a millimetre. I wanted to, but they didn’t let me — and that was lucky. It wasn’t necessary. We might even be able to make them a little shorter, now that we have the new gel. Stop whining and lean back. Let’s start the show.’
She sat still, full of expectation. He checked the EEG waves: they indicated perfect contact with her brain.
‘Here we go.’ Click. She gave a start. She opened her mouth and gripped the arms of the chair. He stood still, watching her, like a parent showing off his new baby. In a way, that’s exactly what he was doing. She laughed out loud and started waving her arms. She was breathing rapidly. He leaned forward and opened the browser on the computer so he could follow her journey. He watched as the department store NK’s site opened, and the latest collection of purses filled the screen. He shook his head. Good lord, even now she’s thinking about shopping. The pages scrolled by and sub-pages opened. The address bar turned blue, and tbi.se popped up. She was on her way to work.
He left her and got the wine glasses from the kitchen. When he came back, she was still on the TBI website. She opened her email and scrolled through her inbox. Hanna was sitting completely still; her mouth was half-open. He watched as a new email opened on the screen. Then his own email address popped up. The text area was activated, and a message started to appear, as though it were being written by a ghost:
YOU’RE A GENIUS. THIS IS THE COOLEST THING I’VE EVER EXPERIENCED. THE COOLEST! BUT NOW I’M READY FOR THE NEXT COURSE. ;-)
He smiled and kissed her on the lips. The EEG waves gave a hop on the screen. He closed the program, and she sat completely still, breathing in small bursts. He unscrewed the glasses and carefully removed the helmet. She closed her eyes. It was as though she wanted to hold on to the experience for a little longer. Then she opened her eyes and looked at him.
‘Whoa. What a gadget! Not just for the handicapped. Think of the gaming industry. Talk about Christmas present of the year.’
He replaced the helmet on Marilyn.
‘Oh well, that’s not why we created Mind Surf. It’s mostly to help the sick and the handicapped. A commercial version is still far off, but who knows what might happen in the future. Here.’
He handed over her glass of wine. She pushed it aside and threw her legs around him. Her hair was gooey and purple. She looked up at him as he stood there in front of the chair.
‘Professor, you’ve read my thoughts, haven’t you? I don’t want coffee or wine. I just want the treat you promised me. Here and now.’
Le Cannet, France
Sergeant Laurent Mutz was slumped in his chair at the simple kitchen table. It was the middle of the day, so the house was quiet. Everyone was at work, school, or day care. The s
un shone in through the windows, making the dust on the floor glow. Cleaning was not one of Michelle’s strengths, even if she was a fantastic woman and as beautiful as a movie star. And she had borne him two healthy sons. He loved her more than life itself. They lived on the top floor of a run-down three-storey building, but they could see the ocean from the balcony, and that was the most important thing. He took a sip of his cold coffee. Michelle was at the café down in Cannes, making crepes and mixing walnut cream. He didn’t like having a day off. Major Serge had ordered him to rest for a day, but he was too restless to lie around being lazy. He had already done his daily exercise routine and had read every last line in the newspaper. Now he was staring down into his coffee.
In his mind he went over and over how he had squandered the money. He tried to find a rationale that Michelle would understand, but he rejected each one and instead tried to think of a way to get back what he’d lost. Should he borrow more money and play for even higher stakes? Could he sell something? They had nothing of worth. The car wasn’t paid off, the apartment was mortgaged, and the TV was rented.
He knew what would happen. She would look at him and nod. Her shoulders would slump. She would say that she understood, that it would all work out. She wouldn’t get angry. Shit, he was such an idiot. She had a whole pile of travel magazines beside the bed. He felt sick when he looked at them. He was able to walk into an apartment full of armed terrorists, but he wasn’t capable of looking his wife in the eyes and telling her what he’d done.
Laurent stood up and put the coffee cup in the sink, along with the rest of the breakfast dishes. He walked into the hall in frustration and searched his jacket for his mobile phone. There were no missed calls and no messages. Apparently, his colleagues were respecting his day off. Then he caught sight of the small notebook in the outer pocket. He took it with him out to the balcony and sat down on one of the simple plastic chairs. In the tree across the street he could see a squirrel hopping from branch to branch. Carefree little bastard.
