by Dan Sehlberg
‘Wait. I’ll be right there.’
He moved quickly and approached the target diagonally, from the front. The man was standing still with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. Larry clocked the blue jeans and the white tennis shoes. The shoes looked new — too new. He probably had the trigger in his hand. They often taped it to their palm so they wouldn’t drop it if they were knocked over.
At that instant, Larry made up his mind; there was no time to lose. He took a small injector from its holster and, just as he walked by, bumped into the man, pressed the tip of the injector against his carotid artery, and triggered it. A faint click, and the man’s legs gave way. Larry quickly extended his arm and caught the body. The neurotoxin had knocked him out in less than a second, and he was heavy and limp. The anaesthetic would last for about an hour. The dog let out an eager bark, and the officer yanked on its leash.
Larry lay the body on the ground, taking no heed of the group of people surrounding them. Sometimes they connected an extra detonator to the zipper of the jacket. But he had to know if it was the right man. He gritted his teeth and pulled down the zipper. The first things he saw were the large green plastic bags that hung over the man’s stomach. He tore open the first one, and a stream of sharp steel spikes ran out over his hand. He shoved the bags aside, and exposed the light-brown bomb belt. Then he carefully pulled up the man’s right arm. Taped to his palm was a black switch. Larry looked at his watch. It was seven past two.
The large truck was hard to manoeuvre, and Ali Aksani had to fight to turn the sluggish steering wheel at every curve. The stick shift was heavy, too, and it popped out of gear several times, causing the motor to rev furiously. The driver’s cab smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat. He would be there soon. He had memorised the directions hundreds of times, and even though he didn’t know a word of Hebrew, he recognised the symbols on every sign. There was a lot of traffic. The footpaths were packed, and at every stoplight the people streamed out onto the street like swarming rats. He had a nasty cough that ripped and tore through his chest. It had crept up on him in Balakot. It was cold and damp in the school at night, and there weren’t enough blankets to go around. He had coughed and coughed, so much that the other students had started to beat him. They had sneaked up to his bed in the dark and hit him in the face with their shoes. Last night it had been worse than ever, maybe because of the suspense. But soon he would once again be strong and healthy. Soon he would find peace and be met with boundless love.
The truck popped out of gear, and the diesel motor roared. Ali stomped on the large clutch pedal and managed to push the stick back into gear. Hebrew University was now only a few blocks away. The black detonator-switch hung loosely just under the stereo; if he let go of the gear stick, he could reach it easily. He had practised the motion several times in the garage. He thought of his father. If only he could see Ali now. He was no longer the little boy who fell off his bike and scraped his hands, or the crying little brat who shamefully pissed his pants in the mosque. Now he was the one swinging the sword that they all worshipped.
He came to yet another crosswalk filled with rats, large and small, and gripped the gear stick hard, taking care to keep the motor purring smoothly. He caught sight of a group of Muslim men and women, all of them old. The men were wearing white dishdashas, and the women black abayas with matching hijabs. There was something so dignified about the faithful. In among all these dirty dogs, they moved gracefully, as though they were of another world. Even though they were old and their steps were heavy, there was pride there, and purity. They stopped at the crosswalk. Ali wanted to soften the noise of the angry diesel motor and silence all the other cars. He was sweating. One of the women stepped out into the street before the others. She looked around and then helped one of the older ones. As they came closer, he could see that the helpful woman was younger than the others. Her beauty amazed him — her large brown eyes and her gentle face, framed by her hijab. She took them by the arm one at a time to help them across the street. Hurry up before it turns red. As she was leading the last one across, their eyes met. It was the most powerful moment of his life. She was an angel sent directly from Jannah. She was a sign from Allah — a sign to him that he was expected and that he was loved. The woman smiled warmly; it was as though he were already inside the gates of paradise. Something was odd about the angel’s nose, though. A car behind him honked, but he wanted to linger in the moment.
He was so caught up in the angel’s eyes that he didn’t notice when she pulled a black TAR-21 out from under her abaya. He was squinting to see it when everything exploded in a sparkling light. Without taking notice of the screaming people around her, Rachel Papo stood erect with her arm extended toward the driver’s seat of the truck, which was only two-and-a-half metres away. It only took a few seconds to empty the twenty-five bullets from the clip. She stood there with her arm out, studying the driver’s seat. There was no movement. The motor was revving loudly; it must have popped out of gear. Finally, she dropped the empty weapon on the ground and looked around. The pedestrians looked at her in terror. The old Muslims she had helped across the street pulled off their dishdashas to reveal their police uniforms. As they kept people at bay, Rachel walked up to the truck, leaned in, and turned off the engine. She looked at the body. Even though he was badly mangled, she thought she could see a smile on his lips. She stood there thinking for a moment. Then she turned back to the police, who had put up a makeshift cordon. She could hear sirens in the distance. She ducked under the cordon and disappeared into the sea of people. It was twelve minutes past two.
Kashif Kareem Muhammad was sitting at a café in the Azrieli Centre Mall in central Tel Aviv. He was people-watching and drinking a Coke. He had always loved the soda, and could still remember tasting it for the first time. It was his big brother Rahim who had ceremoniously poured a few drops into a white plastic cup. They had been sitting on the low stone wall down by the road. Rahim had received the bottle from the shepherd as thanks for the day’s work. He had been fascinated by the beautiful bottle with its narrow waist. ‘Like a woman,’ Rahim had whispered. ‘Just as slender and just as sweet.’ They had laughed and toasted each other with the black water. Kashif’s eyes roamed the boutiques, which were packed with colourful wares: tennis shoes, flowers, newspapers, sweets, and stereos. People streamed around him with bags and packages. How could they shop so much? What were they going to do with all those things? He listened to the music — pop. He liked the rhythm and the English voices. He happened to think of Libya, and of his brother, half paralysed after his fall from scaffolding. What was he doing now? He hadn’t seen him in over a year. There was so much he would have liked to say to him. Hopefully, he would receive the letter he’d sent. He tried to imagine his brother’s reaction when he read about his great achievement.
His eyes fell upon a woman with two small children, a boy and a girl. She reminded him of his first love, somehow, but her hair was different. And she was thinner. The children had identical jackets. It was strange that Jewish girls and boys dressed alike. They disappeared into the restroom. He put down his bottle of Coke. He was uncomfortable, and was boiling in his heavy clothes. He could see hundreds of album covers in a display window, but the only one he recognised was Madonna’s.
He was tired, terribly tired. But not afraid. He had always maintained a distance from the task, a surreal sort of feeling in the face of his big moment. It was as though it would never happen. Not for real. Not to him. When they trained at the school, when they received their instructions, when they put the belt on him, all along it had felt as though the scene would be interrupted, as though something would happen before the moment arrived.
The woman who looked like his first girlfriend returned with her children. She was talking on a mobile phone. Her little girl pulled at the brother’s arm; they were arguing about something. He thought about his two friends who were now performing their holy dut
ies. Were they already in Jannah?
Why had they moved him from the central station? The order had come at the last second. He had been so set on the station; he’d studied the drawings, memorised the stairs and doors. He knew nothing about Azrieli. But surely they knew best. The mall was at least as good a place — it had more people. He cast one last glance at the woman with the children. They would soon pass him. He realised, without any real concern, that this time nothing would break the scene. Nothing would happen to stop him. He took a deep breath, looked down at the table, and pressed the little button in his left hand. The digital clock above the sports store had just changed. It was two-fifteen.
Stockholm, Sweden
Mats Hagström woke up in a vast room with no windows. Everything was white. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. The last thing he remembered was kneeling in the warm ash, near the enormous funeral pyres. The man without a face had stood in front of him. He had shown up out of nowhere, and when Mats bellowed in despair, the man had placed cool hands over his eyes. He had banished the heat and the burning bodies, protecting him from the gates of hell. Now everything had changed. Here he lay, instead, on a cool, steel bed. White straps ran across his chest and thighs, holding him down. The man was wearing a white coat, white shoes, and white gloves. In his hand he held a cone-shaped wand that was about thirty centimetres long. It was a beautiful wand, sparklingly clean and perfectly shaped. The man’s face had no features and no hollows or wrinkles. It was just smooth skin, with no mouth, no nose, no eyes. His head was bald. The man placed his left hand on Mats’s chest. He felt the slight pressure of his palm, and could feel his heart beating under the white glove. Mats tried to relax, to breathe slowly. He wanted to show the man that he was not afraid, that he trusted him. The man increased the pressure on his chest. Mats tried to twist away so he could breathe, but it was impossible. It felt like his chest would explode. Then the man struck him with the wand. It shattered his ribcage, smashed his heart, and hit the steel bed under him with a bang. Mats let out a short gasp. The man studied the body, which was now jerking in short spasms. Behind him stood the little girl. She looked at the blood running onto the white floor from the shiny silver bed. The thick liquid made strange patterns as it found its way to the drain. The man turned to her. She tugged nervously at the hem of her white dress. She didn’t want to tell, but what choice did she have? Maybe he already knew. She swallowed and looked at the empty head. ‘There’s another one. I met her.’
Tel Aviv, Israel
They had moved him to a cell that couldn’t be larger than seven square metres. In the room was a cot, identical to the one in the interrogation room, as well as a toilet made of brushed steel with no lid. There was nothing more — no windows, no table. It smelled like disinfectant. Eric half-lay on the cot, leaning against the light-grey wall. His clothes had started to smell, and they stuck to his body and itched. He had no sense of time, but it must have been many hours since they’d left him alone. He was thirsty and hungry, and nauseated. It was a strange sensation to feel hungry and as though he were about to vomit at the same time. Could the nausea be caused by hunger? He had thought thousands of thoughts — turned over and over in his head everything that had happened and everything that might happen. He had tried to work out clever answers to potential questions, objections to those answers, and then answers to those objections. He had run back and forth along every mental dead-end, hoping each time to find a way out, a chink he’d overlooked. In the end, hopelessness won out, and he had resorted to staring at the wall across from him. He was drowsy, despite the bright light, and spent his time moving his eyes from the wall to the door to the toilet, and back again.
The door opened, startling him. With some effort, he lifted himself on his elbows, and when he saw the person who was standing before him, he had to swallow to avoid throwing up. She was wearing black boots, black military pants, and a black polo shirt. Her hair was in a bun. The door behind her was still open, but no one came in after her. She crouched down so that her face was level with his. He felt ashamed when he saw her — ashamed that she had tricked him so thoroughly, ashamed that he had fallen for her act so easily. She looked him in the eyes; he had to look away.
‘How are you?’
He looked at the lidless toilet.
‘So-so. How are you?’
‘Look at me, Eric.’
He turned back to her. Her voice was gentle and low.
‘I know you’re furious with me. You have every right to be.’
‘I’m not furious with you. I’m furious with myself. But not you.’
‘I had a really nice time with you. You’re an interesting man.’
He managed to force out a weak smile.
‘Interesting?’
‘Yes. And attractive. I was serious when I invited you to my room. I hadn’t been instructed to; it wasn’t part of my assignment. Rather, the opposite.’
‘What are you going to do with me?’
She stood up and stretched her legs. Then she nodded at the cot and he moved over a bit. She sat down, close to him.
‘There are differing opinions on what to do. Your story was surprising, to say the least.’
‘I told you it was a long story back when we were in your room.’
‘It’s surprising and very hard to believe. Do you understand that?’
‘I understand. Believe me when I say I wish I had a simpler explanation. But it’s the truth.’
Now it was Rachel’s turn to look at the toilet.
‘We know which parts of your story are true. We know about your research; we know what patents you’ve applied for and who you work with. We know your wife is sick and that your colleague is, too. We know you have friends at a daily paper in Stockholm. You were in Nice, and you transferred money to an account in Switzerland.’
‘Do you know whose account it is?’
She nodded. ‘A police officer from the national task force. We know you bought the notebook and the pictures. And we know you established contact with Samir Mustaf. Or Salah ad-Din.’
Eric was too tired to say anything.
‘What we don’t know is why. We don’t know if you are who you say you are, or if you’re just another Hezbollah volunteer.’
‘So what are you going to do? Torture me? Put me through a lie detector? Pump me full of truth serum? Kill me?’
‘You’ve watched too many movies. But we are fighting about what to do.’
His eyes were back on the wall. He wondered how they could leave the door open. Weren’t they afraid he would escape?
‘The information you gave us saved many lives today.’
He turned to her.
‘You managed to stop the attacks?’
‘Two out of three. Unfortunately, they’d moved the third one, the one in Tel Aviv. We were at the train station, but the bomber was at a mall.’
‘How many?’
‘Twelve — four of them children. About fifty injured.’
She said it as though she were testing his reaction. To eliminate any doubt, he looked her in the eyes.
‘I am truly sorry.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Has anyone taken responsibility for the attack?’
‘No. If it weren’t for the chat, we wouldn’t have known that the bombs had any connection to Mona.’
He didn’t answer. She changed position, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, and lowered her voice.
‘Eric, listen carefully. I believe your story. Or I believe enough of your story. I also believe that you can help yourself and us at the same time. I actually think you can play a crucial role. There are others who share my opinion.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve done something unique — you’ve made contact with Samir Mustaf. Not only t
hat, but you seem to be well on your way to winning his trust.’
‘Not after you stopped two of his attacks.’
‘That doesn’t have to mean anything. We might have other sources. If you can get into their cell, become one of them, then maybe we can get what we’re looking for.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Nadim. The anti-virus.’
‘How would I manage that? I’m just a plain old IT professor from Stockholm. And also a prisoner of the Mossad.’
‘You’ve managed so far. Doesn’t that say something about what you’re capable of?’
‘Managed? I’ve ruined everything.’
‘No, you haven’t. Far from it. The FBI is here. They want to know more about the virus that infected your wife. They’ve asked us to hand you over so they can fly you to Stockholm.’
‘Why do they need me?’
‘They want to move your wife to one of their own hospitals.’
He felt the rage flare up.
‘What? Where do they want to take her?’
‘Calm down. To a NATO base in Oslo. But they can hardly just go in and take a Swedish citizen from a public hospital without some form of authorisation. Apparently, the ministry of foreign affairs in Stockholm is demanding consent, preferably from her husband. That’s why they need you in Sweden. Your wife is very sick, so they want to act fast. When the papers are all in order, the FBI assumes you’ll come to Oslo, too. Of course, we’ll …’
‘Hanna will never be some fucking guinea pig! Do you hear me?’
She placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Calm down, remember. You have to let me finish.’
He ran his hand through his hair and then gave a short nod.
