by Dan Sehlberg
‘I can’t help it. If I’m right, he’ll have something else to write about. Then we’ll be talking about some fucking scoop.’
‘Eric, for the last time. Throw a litre of cold water in your face, look in the mirror, box your own ear — do whatever it takes to wake you up. Quit this madness, and come home.’
An airplane with blinking lights came in low over the water on its way to the runway further south. He looked down at the broad street with its steady stream of cars and mopeds.
‘Just one day. That’s all I need. I promise that, no matter what happens, I’ll come home tomorrow night.’
‘What if something happens here? With Hanna?’
‘That’s why you’re there. If you weren’t with her, I couldn’t do what I’m doing. I trust you, more than anyone else in the world. I’ll call you tomorrow at lunchtime.’
‘Eric, what’s wrong with you? Dammit, you have to — ’
He ended the call and stood before his reflection in the balcony door. A pale figure stared back, and above the thin body the evening traffic flowed by on Promenade des Anglais. Jens was right — he was crazy. No question about that. He picked up his wallet and unfolded the paper with his notes from the meeting at Aftonbladet. Before he called, he hid his number from caller ID. Then he dialled the first number he’d copied.
‘Bienvenue à la police de Nice. Votre cas?’ — ‘Welcome to the Nice police.Your case?’ Eric hung up, took a deep breath, and went to the next number on the list.
‘Le Trusted Bank of Israel est fermé pour aujourd’hui. Nous serons à nouveau ouvert demain, à dix heures.’ — ‘The Trusted Bank of Israel is shut today. We re-open tomorrow at ten o’clock.’
He hung up and stared at the phone. He had called two out of three options on the piece of paper without getting a hit. The telephone numbers were the only thing he had to go on. If the third number was no good, he was screwed. He would have to go home. He looked at the ten digits. Win or lose?
He made a face and dialled the last number. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
‘Vous êtes sur le répondeur de Cedric. Parlez après le bip sonore.’ — ‘You’re on Cedric’s answering machine. Speak after the beep.’
He thought quickly.
‘My name is Eric Söderqvist and I work with Carl Öberg at the newspaper Aftonbladet. I’m staying at Hotel Negresco, in room 321. Call me as soon as you get this.’
Now all he could do was wait. He realised he hadn’t eaten anything in over a day, and called room service to order a club sandwich. Then he lay sideways across the bed with his clothes on. He was stiff and sore. And tired — incredibly tired. A car honked somewhere outside. He fished the iPod out of his pocket and scrolled to Albinoni. He thought of the time he and Hanna had been in Nice. It had been an unusually warm weekend for October. They’d swum alone at the rocky beach, and eaten mussels at the only open beach café. He remembered the night they’d sat in a dark bar in the old town, drinking absinthe like David and Catherine in Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden. She was turning thirty-five. La vie en rose. Soon he was fast asleep.
Balakot, Pakistan
Sixty kilometres east of the city of Balakot, along the river Kunhar and deep among the inaccessible mountains in the north-western corner of Pakistan, the barren landscape flattened out into a field with a total area of two hectares, surrounded by tall mountains with steep faces. In the south-eastern corner was the Sohrab military training camp, named for the historic Persian warrior. Sixty years before, the camp had been decommissioned by the army, and after the devastating earthquake in 2005 it had been briefly used as a communication centre for relief efforts. Despite this, the CIA’s spy satellites had registered activity at the site during the previous five months. The images had been saved in the servers at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, but no action had been taken.
On this damp but warm afternoon, two men had arrived at camp Sohrab. They had come on heavily loaded packhorses, and were dressed like the local mountain-dwellers. A light fog hung over the field. The particular geography of this place often caused fog to form in the area between the mountains — a natural phenomenon that was convenient for the camp, since it obscured the view of the American eyes in space.
Everyone in the camp knew that the visitors were not from the area. Although no one knew who they were, they knew why they had come. And everyone knew that three of the camp’s students had been chosen for them. The chosen ones and the new arrivals found themselves in the largest of the barracks. The students — Ali Askani, Syed Nuledi, and Kashif Kareem Muhammad — sat on the floor with crossed legs. They were dressed in white, and were wearing black bands on their heads. They sat close to one another with heads bent. Across from them, the two visitors sat on simple wooden chairs, conversing with Tuan Malik, the highest-ranking leader of camp Sohrab. They spoke in low voices, and sometimes Malik pointed at the three men on the floor. Incense had been lit to mask an underlying smell of sewage, and the air was heavy and sweet.
After a little more than an hour, one of the visitors got up and walked over to the students. He crouched down and looked at each of them for a long time. Nothing was said. Then he gave a barely perceptible nod, got up, and left the building. Tuan Malik and the other visitor immediately stood up and followed. The men on the floor didn’t move. Outside the barracks, Ahmad Waizy went over to his horse and mounted it. He looked around. The camp was empty. The students were in their dormitories, studying the Quran. He inhaled the humid air, finally free of the sewage smell and the incense. Out here, the air smelled of grass and wet earth. This place was fertile and nourishing. It was a good place for a school. They were nearly self-sufficient, which minimised the need for deliveries that might raise questions. He waved urgently to the guide, who was still standing along the short wall of the barracks, talking to Tuan Malik. It would soon be dark. Certainly, the guide had promised to lead him back to Balakot even after darkness, but he wanted to get away as soon as possible. Despite the difficult journey, Ahmad was satisfied. He had found his martyrs.
Ahvaz, Iran
No one would ever be able to create an anti-virus for Mona. Perhaps ever was too strong a word; maybe in a hundred years, processor speeds and viral analysis would be so much better that even Mona’s code could be cracked. But with current technology, it was impossible if you didn’t have an answer key. Mona wasn’t really one virus, but rather forty different ones whose strings of code had been braided such that they evolved and changed in patterns that were new each time. He had come up with new software that could reprogram itself like this even back at MIT. The technique was more than sufficient to allow Mona to destroy any computer system unimpeded. But he hadn’t stopped there. He had spent several months searching for and identifying previously unknown errors and weaknesses in the systems that Mona would attack — errors that the manufacturers themselves didn’t know about. This made Mona a ‘zero-day virus,’ which meant that she exploited unknown weaknesses and flaws in the programs she infected.
Samir had known that she would be effective; but, like Oppenheimer after the first nuclear-bomb detonation, he was still in awe of the destruction that the virus had caused. Mona had shaken up Israel’s financial structure to such a degree that no information could be relied upon anymore. Thirty per cent of all critical information had disappeared, taken hostage behind Mona’s impenetrable bars. Twenty per cent of Israel’s transactions and backup data had been erased. The remaining information already was, or risked becoming, corrupt. The virus had paralysed the Western world. He himself had a hard time surveying the situation. Incredible sums had been obliterated, and new features on the virus were constantly appearing on CNN and al-Jazeera. Mona had also begun to affect other systems. Hospitals, traffic-control systems, and mobile-phone operators were reporting disruptions in service. This was something he hadn’t foreseen. He had opened Pandora’s box and released a force that
was beyond all control.
The others in the group were preparing the next step of the operation. Ahmad Waizy had gone away to arrange recruits. Arie al-Fattal was working on the delivery of the explosives. According to the original plan, they ought already to have been on site in Gaza, but their journey had been interrupted at the last minute. Sinon had warned Ahmad that the Mossad knew of the address. While awaiting new directions, they remained in Abdullah bin Aziz’s palace. Arie had been very upset. To stay in one place for too long was dangerous. He repeated this every morning at breakfast. Sooner or later, one servant or another would let it slip.
‘Don’t forget that we’re the most wanted people in the world. We must always keep moving.’
Samir was doing anything but moving. He spent most of his time in his room, in front of the computer. He was working on the second part of the masterpiece that was Mona: the anti-virus, Mona’s first and last enemy. He was as careful with the anti-virus as he had been with the virus. Samir knew that there were powers within Hezbollah who didn’t like the fact that he needed to create a true anti-virus. Israel would never be given the cure anyway; it was just an empty lure. But he had made up his mind: if they didn’t want to risk the world collapsing, they needed an anti-virus. Maybe total anarchy was what Ahmad wanted, but that wasn’t his own goal. The anti-virus would happen. And he needed to work in order to forget.
Since he knew Mona’s stealth signature, the code that made her invisible, it would be easy for him to find the infections. Once that was done, he would use a holistic quarantine technique to isolate the virus and then disentangle the various strings. After he was finished with that, he would have to construct individual countermeasures for each variation of the virus.
The problem was that he had to outwit his own mutated creation — a creation that by now might be more sophisticated than his own knowledge. His work had been made even more difficult since he’d lost his notebook. He cursed his carelessness in Nice.
Nice, France
He was suddenly woken by his phone ringing. The light in the small room was dim, and he could smell food. Eric looked around, still half asleep. He was in a hotel room in … Nice. He caught sight of a tray on the round coffee table. How had it gotten there? In the middle of the tray sat a silver dome, and beside it were ketchup, a bottle of Evian, a glass, and a small white vase with a blue flower. They must have delivered the food without waking him. That was a disturbing thought. The phone rang again. Cedric! He flew out of bed and stumbled over to the desk by the balcony door.
‘Hello!’
There was a loud crackling noise on the line.
‘Allô?’
‘This is Eric speaking.’
He held his breath.
‘Hi, Eric. This is Cedric Antoine. I got your message. Sorry I’m calling so late, but I just finished work. May I come by the hotel now?’
Eric looked at the clock. It was 4.23 a.m.
‘Bien. I’ll see you in the lobby. How will I recognise you?’
Cedric didn’t say anything for a long moment.
‘Didn’t C. say anything?’
‘No. What?’
‘You’ll understand.’
The call ended. Eric ran a hand through his hair and gathered his thoughts. Then he went to the bathroom to piss. The man in the mirror looked like him, but was at least ten years older. He rinsed his face in cold water for a long time. Hiding under the silver dome was a cold and bland club sandwich. He ate a few of the chips that surrounded the sandwich, and drank the water in five big gulps. Then he smoothed his wrinkled clothes, took his key, and left the room. With any luck, Cedric hadn’t called Aftonbladet to talk with Carl Öberg. He arrived at the lobby, which was deserted except for the night receptionist behind the desk. The man gave him a sceptical look.
‘Can I help you?’
Eric shook his head.
‘No, thanks. I’m waiting for someone.’
He sat down on one of the square red sofas in the middle of the lobby. Beside him stood a large white bust with curly hair and an expression of irritation. The sculpture captured the mood at the hotel. There was something inhospitable about this place. He thought about Cedric. Why had he assumed that Carl had given Eric a description? Was there something remarkable about his appearance? He had trouble imagining what it might be.
Yet another receptionist popped up and starting putting out morning papers on the front desk. Eric read several of the headlines; they all seemed to revolve around financial crises and computer viruses. He had a mild headache. After about half an hour, a tall blonde woman walked through the glass doors that opened onto the street. She was heavily made up and was wearing tight leather pants, shoes with very high, pointy heels, and a clingy red top. Her nails were black. The men behind the desk exchanged a look and went to meet her. The woman saw what was about to happen and swept the lobby with her eyes. She caught sight of Eric and gave an inquiring smile.
‘Eric?’
It was a man’s voice. Eric remained on the sofa, his mouth half-open.
‘Eric! C’est moi, Cedric!’
The men in their green uniforms and black gloves looked at Eric with a mixture of surprise and disgust. The older one cleared his throat.
‘Do you know this … this person?’
Eric stood up and nodded.
‘Sure. Of course. This is my date.’
Cedric smiled happily and looked at the uniforms with a resolute look.
They hesitated. The younger one sneaked a look at the older one, who shook his head, turned toward Cedric, and gestured theatrically. ‘Bienvenue à Negresco.’ Cedric swept past him with head held high, but Eric caught up with him after just a few steps and pulled him back out the doors. ‘I need air. Let’s sit by the sea.’ Cedric said something in French that Eric didn’t understand, but he followed without protest. The sun had already managed to warm up the morning, and the sea glittered invitingly. The promenade was nearly empty, so they walked across the street without waiting for a green light. They found a white bench in front of the low wall that ran along the beach, giving them an excellent view of the bay. Cedric sat down and dug a pack of cigarettes out of a worn, green handbag. He lit one with a simple Bic lighter and took a deep drag.
‘How is C.?’
Eric answered, gazing out at the blue-green sea.
‘Everything’s fine.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cedric studying him.
‘How do you know C.?’
Perhaps there was a hint of jealousy in his voice. He turned his head and met Cedric’s eyes. He was quite a bit older than Eric had thought at first. More tired. His hands were wrinkled, with narrow fingers and cracked nails. The nail polish had been painted on carelessly.
‘I guess I’m kind of an errand boy. I run around trying to find my place among all the star reporters. Carl sent me here to learn more about the terrorists.’
Cedric took another deep drag.
‘I could tell that you weren’t prepared for me. Didn’t C. say anything — anything about me at all?’
Eric faced forward again. Far off, a man was swimming. His head bobbed in the waves like a buoy.
‘He said you were a friend, and someone who could be trusted.’
Cedric considered Eric’s words.
‘We were together for almost six months. I was different back then. Not like now. Not this desperate.’
He laughed suddenly. His laughter was clear and nervous.
‘I still had my dignity.’
The traffic had picked up behind the park bench, and the promenade was starting to fill with motion. Cedric tossed his cigarette butt over the wall.
‘You see, I live far from here. Over an hour-and-a-half by bus, up through the mountains.’
Eric nodded, wondering why C
edric was telling him this. He definitely had no intention of asking him to sleep head-to-foot at the hotel.
Cedric lit another cigarette, and Eric took his chance: ‘I want to contact your policeman right away. I’ll pay big money if he has good material.’
Cedric nodded.
‘He really needs money. Poor bastard. Apparently, he bet it all away. His wife has no idea.’
‘What kind of information does he have?’
‘I don’t know. He says he found something during the apartment raid. Something very valuable. But he’s terrified that his name will get out. It’s evidence, so I understand why he’s stressed.’
‘I want to meet him as soon as possible.’
Cedric closed the zipper on his bag and stood up.
‘I have to go. The bus doesn’t go very often. Stay at the hotel and answer when he calls.’
Several passers-by stared at Cedric. Eric placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘You have no idea what this means to me. How much do you want for your help?’
Cedric looked offended.
‘Say hi to C. from me. And make sure to answer when the phone rings.’
Then he bent forward and gave him a gentle hug.
‘Take care of yourself. You look miserable.’
He turned and walked toward the crosswalk, his steps swift despite the high heels. Eric sat heavily on the bench. He followed the large blonde man-woman with his eyes until he was lost among the morning traffic. Eric turned back to the sea. The black head was bobbing, far away. Cedric was right. He was miserable.
When Eric got back to the hotel room, the bed had been made and the tray was gone. It was seven-thirty. He threw the balcony door wide open and pulled the curtains back from the large windows. The air was full of the sea, even up here. He went to the bathroom, took a long shower, and then put on blue chinos and a white polo shirt. He sat barefoot at the desk. His phone was within reach; there was still hope. All he had to do now was wait. Should he call Jens? Out of cowardice or self-preservation, he refrained.
