Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  ‘Do you want to bring him here?’

  David shook his head.

  ‘I’d prefer that he stay in Nice. Rachel’s used to working with what already exists, right? If she’s really the right one for the job. We sure don’t want another Dubai.’

  They walked for a while without saying anything. Meir was thinking about Rachel. David was thinking about food.

  ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘Not much. I’ve read the general reports, and heard that she’s smart.’

  ‘I’m going to tell you something about Rachel. She … I care for her as though she were my own daughter. We haven’t spent that much time together, but there’s something about her that arouses my paternal instincts.’

  David was surprised. This was probably the most personal thing his boss had told him. Ever. Meir had no children of his own. What was so special about Rachel? She could certainly have been his daughter, age-wise. But she was an executioner. Meir read his mind.

  ‘She had a hell of an upbringing. Everything that could go wrong, did. She’s Sephardic; her family fled Morocco. She grew up in a refugee camp outside Sderot. Her parents died young. She and her sister ended up with their aunt. The man of the family turned out to be a sadistic bastard. I don’t want to dwell on it, but it’s a wonder she made it through that. Her sister was never the same again. Rachel handled it in her own way, but she was harmed as well. When I heard of her for the first time, she was barely twenty and had already carried out a number of tasks that would have made the most hardened Sayeret Matkal officer turn pale. After that, she continued to pile on combat hours. She stepped right into one hornet’s nest after the other. She’s one of the few who have managed to infiltrate al-Qaeda and lived to tell about it. She showed up in field reports time and again. I studied her profile and discovered that she also has a gift for languages; among other things, she spoke flawless Arabic. When we started Unit 101, she was one of our first recruits. At first, I kept the unit under my own direction, which gave me quite a bit of time with her, and I’m still following her. She works hard, and her boss is happy with her. But she’s difficult — it’s hard to crack through her integrity. The psychologist has suggested that the tasks she picks reflect a death wish.’

  Meir sighed.

  ‘We’ve taken her to the emergency room with self-inflicted injuries twice. Once she was unconscious from alcohol poisoning; the other time it was pills. As if that weren’t enough, she has disappeared before.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘Yes. Without a word. Gone. For several weeks, we didn’t know where she was.’

  David looked at him in surprise.

  ‘We didn’t know where she was? The Mossad?’

  ‘No. But then one morning she was sitting on the hood of my car, with not a word about where she’d been.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s dangerous and unstable. How come she was allowed to stay?’

  ‘The answer is simple: she has never failed. Not once in all the time I’ve known her. That makes her unique even in our organisation. Sure, Dubai wasn’t perfect. And sooner or later, her psych problems will mess things up. She’s living on borrowed time; but, on the other hand, most of us are.’

  David didn’t answer. Meir went on, a bit more forced and as though he suddenly wanted to change the subject.

  ‘In any case, I’ve decided that Rachel should be promoted to more skilled intelligence work. She has a great deal of knowledge and a sharp mind. We’ll see if it works. She wasn’t very enthusiastic about the change, but I want to try her out in a new role.’

  They approached a motorcade of black BMWs outside the Hotel Diplomat, whereupon the bodyguards joined their colleagues around the cars. A woman in a tight, grey suit, wearing dark glasses and with her hair in a bun, was walking toward them. When she reached them, she nodded to David and handed a mobile phone to Meir. He took it, listened with a frown, and muttered ‘ken’ now and then.

  Then he turned to David, who was leaning against the beach wall.

  ‘That was Ben Shavit. He’s having a hell of a time. The Rabbinate is demanding his head. They’ve never liked his liberal line, and now the entire Orthodox and nationalist movement is threatening him. The virus is God’s punishment, and everything is Ben’s fault. He should be in the Knesset to keep those fools in check, but instead he has to go to Washington. Poor bastard. And he knows nothing about IT.’

  ‘Can’t he send someone else?’

  ‘No. Apparently the invitation is for him specifically. I suppose they want to show how the free world is fighting side by side to solve the crisis.’

  ‘How can we help him?’

  Meir gave a faint smile.

  ‘By giving him Samir Mustaf.’

  David nodded resolutely.

  ‘We’ve found a hundred clues that all point in different directions, and we’ve put all our resources into finding him. We received a very credible tip that his group might be in a closed-down brewery in Gaza City. We waited there, but no one showed up. Either it was yet another false lead, or else someone had warned them.’

  Meir stuck his hands into his jacket pockets.

  ‘Ben asked for an updated report on the situation.’

  David looked at a man who was flying a kite on the beach. There was a strong wind, and the large kite flew back and forth in short arcs.

  ‘I’ll make up a report as soon as I’m back in the office.’

  Meir was watching the kite, too. Then he shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think we should bring in the Swede yet. There’s too much we don’t know. It’d be better to see what he’s up to, without outside influence. If our suspicions are confirmed, we’ll close up the cage.’

  ‘It’s up to you. I found one of our former agents at the consulate in Paris. He’s on his way to Nice to take over shadowing.’

  Meir turned up the collar of his jacket, still facing the sea.

  ‘Bring Rachel into the team. But remember that she’s about to be phased out of Unit 101.’

  David nodded curtly.

  ‘I’ll make sure to brief her this afternoon, after I’ve written the memo to Ben. What should I say about Eric Söderqvist in the report?’

  Meir started to walk toward the motorcade, and the back door of the middle car opened immediately. As he got in, he leaned out and met David’s eyes.

  ‘Nothing.’

  The door closed, and the car pulled out into traffic, followed closely by three other cars. David stood pensively beside his own car. Then he turned to the chauffeur.

  ‘Stop by McDonald’s on the way back.’

  The man nodded and closed the door behind him. They rolled smoothly out of the parking spot and drove along the beach toward downtown. David looked at the black-and-white photograph of Professor Söderqvist on the seat next to him. Using one hand, he covered half the portrait and studied the Swede’s eyes. You have just been given one more day of freedom. I hope you use the time well.

  Nice, France

  The Musée National Marc Chagall was beautifully framed by cypresses in a shaded neighbourhood not far from downtown. Eric paid for the taxi, looked around, and then walked into the small park full of lavender in front of the cubist complex. As he stepped into the cool entryway with its bare, concrete walls and faint scent of paper, he stopped and looked at the text message again:

  CHAGALL. SIÈGES C13.

  He still wasn’t certain that he’d guessed correctly. The name ‘Chagall’ could mean any number of different places. He had bet on the museum, but he had no idea what ‘sièges C13’ meant. He looked around. To the left lay the souvenir shop; to the right was the ticket counter. He purchased a ticket and went in. There was a certain amount of irony in his being in this particular place. Hanna loved the Jewish expressionist, and the museum was one o
f the main reasons they’d chosen to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday in Nice.

  The romantic and Biblical motifs moved him more now than they had then. He stood before a large painting that depicted a man trying to hold onto a woman in a red dress who was floating high above his head. He thought of Mind Surf, of the feeling of floating. He was the man on the ground, desperately trying to hold onto his beloved, who was floating farther and farther away. The painting was called The Promenade. It depressed him. He walked on and entered a room with a few large pieces. An older man on a bench appeared to be sleeping. A young couple with bags from the souvenir shop stood whispering in a language he didn’t recognise. Each painting seemed to attack him. There was no doubt that Chagall was on Hanna’s side. The motifs called out his guilt. There was a woman in red who lay motionless on a bed of flames, surrounded by angels. The bed floated high above a glowing red city. There were snakes swimming in her blood, there were despairing couples surrounded by doves and wild animals, and there was a burning ladder up to an orange sky.

  Eric ran a hand through his hair and tried again to concentrate on the text message. There were no numbers or letters anywhere in the room. He had sent more than 300,000 kronor to a nameless account, and all he had gotten in return was a message he didn’t understand.

  At the very end of the row of rooms, he saw a sign and an arrow: ‘Auditorium.’ He couldn’t remember seeing anything like this on his last visit. He walked through two more rooms of paintings without casting even a quick glance at them. When he got to the door marked ‘Auditorium’ he looked around. He didn’t know why, but he felt he was being observed somehow. The feeling was obtrusive, but he couldn’t see anyone who seemed to be interested in him.

  He pushed open the door and came into a large hall that was designed like an amphitheatre with a hundred seats. The room was bathed in a violet glow from three large windows with fantastic patterns and motifs. At the very front, on a raised stage, was a large grand piano. There was a sacred calm in the room, and he drank in the atmosphere. It was a beautiful place. He couldn’t remember having seen it earlier. Then he caught sight of the small brass plates that assigned a letter to each row. A, B, and … C. Each seat had a number: C1, C2. He hurriedly squeezed his way along row C to C11, C12, and C13. The seat was farthest from the stage, the last one on the left side. He studied the seat, but he couldn’t see anything different about it. What was he looking for? The faint light created dark black stripes that looked like deep furrows along the fabric. He bent down and felt the front and back of the seat. Nothing. Frustrated, he sat down on the seat.

  A man in a grey T-shirt and black pants entered the room. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the room. Eric sat still, holding his breath. The man walked slowly down the aisle and stopped at the piano, reading a plaque. Eric felt something by one foot. He sank down and reached toward the floor. There, in the dark, under the seat and off to the side, lay a plastic bag. He carefully wrapped his fingers around the thin plastic and lifted up the bag, keeping his eyes on the man at the piano the whole time. The bag wasn’t heavy, and it contained something rectangular. He wanted to leave the auditorium and look inside. But first he wanted the man to leave.

  The man walked past the stage and over to the large windows. He didn’t seem to be aware that anyone else was in the room, or else he was pretending not to notice. The seat was starting to become uncomfortable. Eric’s back ached, and one knee was crammed into the space between his and the next seat. He breathed cautiously.

  Suddenly, his phone rang. The man in the T-shirt stared straight at him. Eric stood up and walked quickly to the exit while fumbling his phone out of his pocket. The man remained standing by the stained-glass windows, watching him. As Eric left the room, the bright light of the gallery made him blink. His heart was pounding and he swallowed hard. The phone rang again. He looked at the screen. It was Judith, Hanna’s younger sister.

  ‘Hi, Judith.’

  ‘Eric! Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in France.’

  He hurried through the art galleries.

  ‘But you’re on your way home, right?’ She had spoken with Jens.

  ‘Yes, I’m expecting to be in Stockholm tomorrow afternoon.’

  There was silence on the line. He came to the lobby. He thought he heard sobbing.

  ‘Judith, are you still there?’

  ‘What the hell is the matter with you, Eric? Why would you run away when Hanna needs you the most? And what the hell are you doing in France?’

  ‘It’s a long story. The short version is that I’m here to try to find a way to cure my wife.’

  ‘In France?’

  ‘It sounds strange, I know, but maybe Jens can explain it to you.’

  ‘Jens? He says you’ve totally flipped out. He’s so disappointed in you.’

  Eric looked over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the man from the auditorium. He went out the main doors and continued down the narrow gravel path between the mimosa trees.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where you ought to be, you bastard. With Hanna.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Great. In tip-top shape. Except that she’s in a coma, and the doctors are totally at a loss. Except that she’s being kept alive by a fucking respirator. Except that she seems to be having horrible nightmares that make her twitchy and shaky. Except that … ’

  She burst into tears. The phone crackled and scraped. He caught sight of a small café on the far side of the museum park.

  ‘Judith, I know you’re angry with me, but I haven’t gone crazy. I really believe that I’m doing what’s best for Hanna. I would like nothing more than to be there with you now.’ He felt guilty, because somehow he wasn’t sure that was entirely true. Maybe this was all just an escape, like she said, camouflaged with fantasies of being a hero.

  ‘May I speak with Jens?’

  ‘He’s not here. He’s at home, sleeping. Do you realise he’s been sitting at your wife’s bedside for over twenty-four hours?’

  He sat down on a black iron chair under a winding grapevine, and placed the bag on the table. It was green, from Carrefour.

  ‘I know. Jens is a good friend.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I would have done the same for him.’

  ‘I doubt that. The other guy was about to die last night.’

  ‘The other guy?’

  ‘Your boss.’

  ‘My boss? Oh, you mean Mats. How is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I heard it from one of the nurses. I don’t give a shit about him. I’m with my big sister. Who’s always been healthy and strong. Who’s like a … like a pale angel I can’t reach. You ruined her!’

  ‘Judith, you can throw as much shit at me as you want, but I’m glad you’re with her. I’ll be home tomorrow.’

  ‘About damn time.’

  She hung up. He remained seated, clutching the phone.

  ‘Vous désirez?’ — ‘What would you like?’

  He looked up at a tall, fat man with dark, dishevelled hair and a bushy moustache.

  ‘A beer, please.’

  The man nodded and walked over to a simple bar counter beside a small, blue stall. Eric picked up the plastic bag. So this was what he got for 350,000 kronor. Inside the bag was a newspaper-wrapped package. He looked around before he unfolded the paper on the table. It contained two black-and-white photographs and a black notebook with rings on the top edge — the kind that detectives and reporters always seemed to use in American movies. He looked at the photographs. One was of a man who appeared either to be sleeping or to be dead. Someone had written ‘Melah as-Dullah’ on the upper edge of the picture in red marker. The man seemed to be about thirty; he was powerfully built and had a thin moustache. The other picture was of a man who was alive a
nd awake. He was older. The red marker read ‘Samir Mustaf.’ He had a serious expression, but his gaze was intense. Did this man have something to do with Mona? Could this Samir Mustaf lead him to Mona’s creator?

  Eric put down the pictures and picked up the notebook. Each page was full of writing and symbols. He frowned and looked carefully at one page. There was no doubt that this was programming code of some sort. But he didn’t understand it. Frustrated, he turned the notebook in his hands, studying the text from different angles. Was the key to Mona right before his eyes? Certain things had been circled in some places; in others, long strings of code had been crossed out. This notebook had belonged to someone who worked with incredibly advanced systems development, but it was written in a language he didn’t understand. The notebook might as well have been empty. He threw it down on the table in irritation, and looked out over the park. Who had written in it? What was hiding behind the incomprehensible code? Who could help him interpret it? He thought of Isaac Berns at TBI in Tel Aviv. Maybe he could help. But how could Eric contact him? He needed to show him the notebook.

  Eric caught sight of the man from the auditorium. He was standing at the museum entrance, staring straight at him. His arms were hanging slack at his sides, his posture looking unnatural. Eric’s phone vibrated. He released the man from his gaze and looked at the screen. There was another text, from the same number that had given him the bank and Chagall instructions.

  YOU ARE BEING FOLLOWED.

  He looked up at the museum entrance again. The man was gone. Eric grabbed the pictures and the notebook, stood up, and nearly knocked over the large waiter who was coming with the beer and olives. ‘Excusez-moi.’ He stumbled past the iron chairs and out onto the gravel path. He couldn’t see the man in the T-shirt anywhere, and reached the street just as a taxi was pulling out from the footpath. He waved his arms, the taxi stopped, and he yanked open the door and ducked into the bac kseat. He didn’t exhale until they were back in the heavy traffic in the Old City, when he felt he could turn around and lool out the back window. Nothing seemed suspicious. He tried to gather his thoughts. Could Carl at Aftonbladet have hired someone to shadow him? The thought was absurd. Was it the terrorists, then? Maybe they wanted their notebook back. If that were the case, he was really up shit creek. He’d wanted to talk to them, after all, but now the whole venture seemed frightening. He had pursued a childish fantasy that had suddenly become brutally real. But if it wasn’t the terrorists, who was it?