by Dan Sehlberg
Eric discreetly glanced through Carl’s notes. He wrote down three telephone numbers and one name, Cedric Antoine. Carl nodded.
‘Sure, you’re right. The guy promised that I’d receive photographs and more information. I’ll remind him when we talk tomorrow evening. I can tell that this is going to be huge.’
Jens nodded in approval.
‘Like I said, Grand Journalism Prize. Have you talked to Bjäreman?’
‘Only hints. He’ll get the masterpiece when it’s done.’
Eric looked at Jens.
‘Who’s Bjäreman?’
‘The chief news editor. The boss. Capo di tutti capi.’
The phone rang, and Carl answered it. Jens placed his hand on Eric’s shoulder.
‘Let’s get out of here. It’s pillow time for you. And I’ll go see Hanna.’
He patted Carl on the head, and Carl reached across the keyboard and fished out a business card, which he gave to Eric.
‘Hold on … Eric, it was nice to meet you. Don’t go talking to anyone about this. And if you happen to run across anything interesting, you know who to call.’
Eric put the business card and his notes into his wallet. On the way down the stairs, Jens chuckled.
‘A guy who works at a bar in a nightclub … Jesus!’
‘What?’
‘Calle’s gay. He doesn’t advertise it, but everyone knows. One can assume that his web of sources in Nice is pretty male-dominated. Just so you know. He’s a really clever journalist — maybe the best one we have at the paper. And a damn good person, despite the suspenders. Did you learn anything from talking to him?’
‘Not really. But it does feel reassuring that Google is involved in the hunt for an anti-virus.’
They arrived at reception and ended up standing across from each other at the entrance. Jens leaned toward him and gave him a searching look.
‘Can you handle driving home, or should I give you a ride?’
‘I’ll drive. But thanks anyway.’
‘My friend, I’m going to Karolinska to sit with Hanna now. And you have to turn out the lights for at least six hours. Call me when you wake up, and I’ll give you a report from the hospital. Agreed?’
‘Agreed. It’s good to know you’ll be with her.’
He walked to the elevator. Jens remained standing in reception.
‘Eric … We’ll figure this out.’
‘Good night.’
Eric returned to his car, which had received a parking ticket. He left it where it was and backed out of the parking area. On his way back down Kungsgatan, he fished out the now-wrinkled Post-it note he’d received at the hospital, and dialled Thomas Wethje’s pager. He had driven almost all the way home before the doctor called back.
‘Eric?’
‘Hi, Thomas. How is she?’
‘Nothing new. She’s stable, but she’s still unconscious. She’s in a form of temporary coma. My request to move her to a more isolated unit was rejected. Our regular hygienic procedures are considered sufficient. So there’s no risk that this is something highly pathogenic. And, like I said, she’s stable. But Mats Hagström is worse. His vital signs keep going up and down, and we’ve had to take several emergency measures.’
Eric felt his stomach clench. He parked on Banérgatan just outside his front door, turned off the engine, and took a deep breath.
‘Thomas, I think I know what happened to them.’
‘What? What do you mean, “happened to them”?’
‘Well, what caused their condition. It’s all my fault.’
‘What are you saying? Straight talk, please.’
‘Do you remember me telling you this morning what I work with? I think they were harmed — infected, if you prefer — because they were hooked up to Mind Surf. My computer has been infected with the new Mona virus. I think the virus somehow then caused neural discord in Hanna. And Mats.’
Perfect silence came from the other end of the line. Eric held his breath. A little girl with a large pink backpack on her back was bicycling unsteadily past his car.
‘Eric, if you want me to try to diagnose them based on the hypothesis that they have been infected by a computer virus … What you’re saying is absurd. It sounds more like something out of a science-fiction novel.’
‘Stephen King.’
‘What? Yes, exactly. King. But now we’re talking about your own wife. Forget the computer virus. I have two seriously ill patients here. It has nothing to do with vanishing documents, manipulated stock prices, or crashing files.’
‘Doesn’t it? Are you sure?’
‘Eric, I really hope you don’t seriously believe this. I don’t mean to be unpleasant, but I don’t have time for this right now. You ought to be sleeping, not reading horror novels.’
‘Yes, I’m going to sleep. I understand that you can’t absorb what I’m saying. But let it sit in the back of your mind. I guess we’ll see how things unfold.’
‘Sure. Sleep well, Eric. We’ll talk again when you’re more alert.’
The conversation ended, and he stayed in the car. What had he thought would happen? That a doctor at Karolinska Hospital would believe his theory? After all, it was as absurd as everyone said. And yet, although he didn’t know why, he was sure he was right.
When he entered the apartment, he was once again struck by a sense of abandonment. The sun shone in through the windows, and it smelled stuffy and stale. He opened a window in the living room and went to the bathroom. There, he turned on the water in the bathtub and poured in some lavender oil he’d bought for Hanna a few months ago. When he’d undressed, he caught sight of a perfume bottle that stood on the bathroom shelf: Viktor & Rolf’s Flowerbomb. He sprayed a little of the perfume into the air, and its soft, floral scent filled the bathroom. Suddenly, she was there; not physically, but still fully present. He sat on the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. Her scent aroused strong, vivid images. He saw her naked in the bathroom — her wet hair, her curvy body, her long neck, narrow shoulders, and beautiful breasts, and the birthmark just under her left breast. He sat for a long time, drinking her in. With one hand, he turned off the water. Then he slid backward, without opening his eyes, into the full tub. The warm, oily water embraced him, and he lay there as if in a trance.
The doctors wouldn’t find a cure. He knew that already, somewhere deep inside. Hanna would fade away, and he would only be able to sit there and watch. The virus swimming in her blood, the black snake, was something unconquerable and evil. With each passing hour, the chances of saving her got worse. But what could he do for her? He was no virus expert. Nor was he a doctor or a rabbi. Would he dare to follow his theory to its logical conclusion?
What if Hanna and Mats really were infected with Mona? A computer communicates by electrical impulses, in ones and zeros. A brain communicates in essentially the same way. The converter that Eric had developed read digital information and translated it into neural commands. Could the virus have been converted by the sensor helmet? That was science fiction, and now he had to let go of that idea. If Mona had infected them, he had to find an anti-virus — a goal that he shared with the rest of the Western world.
Considering how many people had tried, it seemed that there was only a slim chance that anyone could build an anti-virus. The only person who could kill the snake was the one who had created it — whoever that was. He thought of what Carl Öberg had said. Nice: there was someone there who knew more about the people behind Mona. The creator of the virus, a person who could be anywhere, was the world’s most wanted terrorist at the moment. If Eric, against all the odds, could find him, would he be able to persuade him to save Hanna? A Jewish woman? For the terrorist, Hanna’s fate would just be an unplanned side effect. Maybe he would give Eric an anti-virus for that very reason. No, that was obviously impl
ausible. Maybe he didn’t even have an anti-virus. And if he did, he would never give it away. Not to anyone.
Eric’s body was numb. The apartment was perfectly quiet, and he had the sensation of floating in a massive vacuum. Maybe this was exactly how Hanna felt right now; maybe she was floating around in an endless black void. He could still smell her scent in the bathroom. He ducked his head underwater and held it there for a long time. By the time he returned to the surface, he had made a decision. It might be totally crazy, and he might be completely wrong, but, since no one believed him, he was going to have to act on his own. It was that simple. The odds that he would find the creator of Mona were close to zero, and if by some miracle he did succeed in finding him, he couldn’t expect any help from him. It was more likely that he would be killed in the attempt. But during the few seconds he had been underwater, he had made up his mind. He had never been so sure of anything in his whole life.
He was going to Nice, and he was going right away. There was not a second to spare. He would find Carl’s friend at the nightclub. With his help, he would locate the policeman who was selling information. He had money; sure, it was the money Mats had invested, but all’s fair in love and war. He would buy information that would lead him to Mona’s creator. Perhaps he would have to contact him via the internet or on the phone, rather than in person. And then he would beseech him to spare Hanna’s life — to give him the anti-virus. His plan was so desperate and unrealistic that he couldn’t stop to think it through. If he did, reason would catch up with the dream and destroy it. He already knew that he wouldn’t be capable of doing even half of what he had set his mind to. For that very reason, he had to move quickly. He could sleep later.
Wet and naked, he walked through the apartment to the hall to get his mobile phone. On hold with Scandinavian Airlines, he walked into the bedroom, dug a black Gucci bag out of the closet, and threw together some chinos, shirts, socks, underwear, and a pullover. Back in the bathroom, he gathered up his toiletries. On the way out, he grabbed the Viktor & Rolf perfume, which went into the vanity bag, along with a toothbrush, deodorant, aftershave, and hair gel. As he spoke with SAS, he took his iPod and phone charger from the table in the office and placed them in his bag. Back in the hall, he added Hanna’s computer. Then he pulled on a thin anorak and closed the front door.
His hair was still wet when he got into the car. He was booked on SAS via Frankfurt. The plane would take off at twenty to two, in exactly fifty-five minutes. He sped out onto Valhallavägen. Jens was sitting with Hanna, so she was in good hands. What would he say to him? They had agreed to talk in six or seven hours. He would land in Nice in just over seven hours’ time. There was no point in calling him now — Jens would be furious. A conversation with him might even burst Eric’s bubble and make him stay. Better to deal with it in France, where he would be beyond return. Dear God, his logic was completely gone. But now he was desperate. And he had to do everything he could, no matter how crazy it was. Doing something was better than lying there, staring at the ceiling.
The traffic was flowing smoothly as he drove past the exit to KTH. His research, the team … it all felt like a distant planet, a planet he neither wanted to nor could reach. Now, all that mattered was the black snake in Hanna’s veins, winding and twisting under her skin. So small that no one could see it. So poisonous that no one could stop it. No one but its creator.
Everything seemed to be covered in soot. Or some sort of greyish-white ash. A light breeze swept past, bringing with it a pile of documents. He looked around. He was standing at the edge of a forest. It smelled burned. Farther off he could see a deserted playground. There were papers everywhere — some partially burned, others completely untouched. He started to walk across the grassy slope to the left of the playground, rounded a small grove of trees, and ended up in front of a tall concrete tower. It was Kaknästornet, the TV tower in Stockholm. The entrance ramp was filled with paper and trash. The doors were open, and within them was a dense darkness. He crossed the parking lot, passing several wrecked cars. He came to the forest on the other side and found a narrow bridle path into the trees. The darkness descended around him. Perhaps the scent was getting stronger. Perhaps the ash was growing thicker on the ground. The bridle path turned away across a hill, and he followed it up the slope. He was plodding through the soot; it was like walking in warm snow.
He stopped when he reached the top of the hill. The Gärdet neighborhood spread out in all directions. He wanted to yell, but couldn’t make a sound. The doors of hell opened before him. An endless sea of bodies. Chalk white. Pile after pile of corpses. Large bulldozers stood among the dead. Arms and legs hung out of their enormous buckets like worn-out rag dolls. The bulldozers’ windows were broken; they had stopped long ago. Fires burned beyond the endless piles. The flames licked at the crimson sky, sending clouds of grey ash into the air.
This was the end. The end of everything. Inevitably and irrevocably.
Mats Hagström’s eyelids trembled slightly, and his fingers twitched. She felt the movements of his hand and stroked his head gently.
‘There, there, my darling. It’s only a dream.’
She lay her head on his chest and felt the thin hospital fabric against her lips.
‘Tu rêves, mon amour. Tu rêves.’
Nice, France
At nine-thirty, Eric stepped out of the arrivals terminal at the Nice airport with the black bag in his hand. The oppressive air was warm and full of foreignness. He hailed a taxi.
‘Negresco, s’il vous plaît.’
It would have been hard to find a more unimaginative place to stay, but it was the only one he could think of. As the taxi cruised along Promenade des Anglais, he turned on his phone. There were two missed calls, both from Mind Surf colleagues at KTH. They were supposed to have tested the system, but he hadn’t contacted them. The way things had turned out, they ought to be happy they’d missed their trials. He looked out the window. The dark water of the sea met the sky and created a dense, blue-black background a hundred metres offshore. As always, the promenade was full of flaneurs, runners, roller-skaters, and vendors. Over the driver’s shoulder he could see Negresco with its pink cupola and turquoise top. What would he say to Jens? He hadn’t called him from Frankfurt as planned. He hadn’t been able to. He sat with his phone in his hand and his head full of thoughts until he arrived at the hotel. The taxi abruptly swung to the left and stopped before the magnificent entryway.
He was greeted by the doorman, who was decked out in a tall hat and white gloves, and he stepped into the belle époque-decorated lobby. Eleven minutes later, he was sitting in one of the gold rococo chairs in his small hotel room, dialling Jens’s number. After five rings, he answered.
‘Hello!’
Jens always answered aggressively, but this time it felt extra threatening.
‘Jens, it’s Eric.’
‘There you are! I was getting worried. I thought maybe you were sick, too. Did you sleep well?’
He still hadn’t slept. Sleep seemed more and more abstract. He swallowed.
‘I’m in France.’
There was a long silence.
‘You’re … in France? Well, why not? Are you joking?’
‘No. I know you’re going to hate me forever, but … I’m convinced that Mona is what infected Hanna. I’ve come to Nice to try to get hold of Carl’s source.’
It was quiet again. Eric struggled on.
‘No one’s going to believe me, much less help me, so I had to take care of this myself. I have no other choice. Just lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, or sitting at Karolinska with a mug of weak coffee, for that matter, won’t work. We’re going to lose her. I just know it. We have to do something.’
‘And what the hell are you going to do about it in Nice?’
Jens was angry.
‘I know it’s a long shot. But I�
��m planning to try to buy information that will lead me to the person who designed Mona.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then I’ll convince him to give me an anti-virus.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then I’ll give it to Hanna and Mats Hagström.’
‘How will you get it into them? Are they going to drink the computer program out of a little fluoride cup? Or maybe take it with water?’
‘No. They’ll get it the same way as they got the virus. Via Mind Surf.’
‘So you’re going to come to Karolinska Hospital and wrestle each of two people who are in comas into a tight plastic cap full of wires?’
Eric didn’t answer. Outside the half-open window, accordion music blended with the rushing traffic.
‘Eric, listen to me carefully. You are about to completely lose your grip. Your story is completely nuts. Why didn’t you call me before you left so I could stop you?’
‘That’s why.’
‘You have to come home. You’re sure-as-hell no help to Hanna if you’re sitting around munching on foie gras on the Riviera. You need to be here, by her side. Get a grip and come home. Now.’
Eric stood up and walked out onto the balcony.
‘You’re right. It’s all nuts, and I’m crazy. But I’m not coming home. Not until I’ve tried. I really don’t give a shit about being sensible. All I know is that Hanna is dying, and it’s my fault. You’ll have to take care of her. I won’t be gone long. As soon as I get the information, I’ll take the first flight home. Then I’ll do the rest of the work from Sweden.’
‘Does Calle know about this? How did you get hold of the contact info for the guy in Nice?’
‘I took them from his notes when he wasn’t looking.’
‘What? Do you realise you’re sabotaging the scoop of the century?’
