Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  ‘We will agree to hand you over. They’ll take you to Ben Gurion airport to transfer you to Stockholm — they have their own plane. But at the airport, you’ll run away.’

  He looked at her dubiously.

  ‘I’ll do what?’

  ‘Run away.’

  ‘Run away? From the FBI?’

  ‘From the FBI.’

  ‘And how will I do that?’

  ‘You’ll be given an opportunity. I’m going to help you.’

  ‘And what if I get shot?’

  ‘You won’t. Then you will contact Salah ad-Din again and make sure you meet him. Then, if you can manage to get hold of Nadim, you’ll be a hero — to Israel, and to your sick friends in Sweden.’

  ‘And what if I can’t persuade him to give me the anti-virus?’

  ‘Then you contact us. We’ll work together to try to convince him.’

  ‘And what if they kill me?’

  ‘They won’t — not if you continue to be as trustworthy as you’ve been up to now.’

  ‘How will I contact you?’

  ‘You’ll call us.’

  ‘Call you? From what?’

  ‘Your mobile phone. I’ll work it out so you get back your belongings before we hand you over to the Americans.’

  He tried to collect his thoughts. This assignment seemed vague and unmanageable. Rachel read his mind.

  ‘It sounds more complex than it is. I’m sure my boss would have laid it all out more elegantly, more pedagogically. I’m not very good at giving explanations. It’s not really that difficult, is it? I’ll get you out. You persuade Mustaf to give you the anti-virus.’

  ‘What if I can’t contact him again?’

  She considered this. ‘Then we’ll improvise.’

  ‘I don’t have a passport. I don’t have any money or credit cards.’

  ‘As I said, I’ll make sure you get your belongings back. We’ve even paid the hotel bill for you, so you’ll come out ahead. The passport might be difficult, but I’ll do what I can. We don’t want the FBI to suspect anything.

  ‘Why don’t you co-operate with them? Wouldn’t that be more natural?’

  Rachel shook her head.

  ‘Let’s just say that we have slightly different priorities right now. For us, the crucial thing is to trace the terrorist group and get hold of the anti-virus. The FBI seems more concerned about a potential biological threat.’

  Eric sighed.

  ‘Tell me more about Samir Mustaf.’

  ‘He was born in Beirut. One younger sister. Shia Muslim family. Lawyer dad; nurse mum. They fled to France when Samir Mustaf was fifteen, and settled in Toulouse. His mathematical knowledge led to a scholarship at MIT. He stayed there for sixteen years, got a Ph.D., and taught.’

  ‘In what area?’

  ‘Computer viruses. He quickly became an expert. He helped the Pentagon, among others, several times.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘One daughter. He met his wife at a wedding in Lebanon. Then they lived in the US for almost ten years. After that, they moved back to Beirut. Samir Mustaf got a job as head of IT at a Lebanese bank. She worked for Siemens. One day the family was going to get together for a birthday party at his mother-in-law’s home in Qana. There was an explosion at the house. We don’t know exactly what happened, but the police report mentions a cluster grenade. Shortly after the accident, Samir Mustaf disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘He was at the hospital to identify the bodies. Since then, no one has seen him. Our theory is that he was recruited by Hezbollah and that they’ve kept him hidden since.’

  He sat in silence, thinking about Samir’s fate. Rachel gave him a small colour photograph. It depicted an angelic girl with big, brown eyes, a doll-like mouth, and thick, curly hair. He looked at Rachel.

  ‘His daughter?’

  ‘Do you know what her name was?’

  ‘Let me guess … Mona?’

  ‘Mona Mustaf.’

  ‘And who was Nadim?’

  ‘His wife.’

  Eric’s stomach growled. Rachel smiled faintly.

  ‘Haven’t we given you anything to eat?’

  ‘No. The room service at the Hilton Mossad has certain shortcomings.’

  She stood up.

  ‘I’ll take care of it. And to show you we’re serious, I’ll get your things. Everything but the computer — we have to keep that. Meanwhile, I suggest you think about my idea. Are you prepared to run from the FBI, make your way into Hezbollah’s network, establish contact with Samir Mustaf, and get hold of the anti-virus? If you are, you’ll be out of here within twenty-four hours.’ She stood up.

  ‘Rachel, who are you?’

  She was startled, and it took a second for her to answer.

  ‘A katsa.’

  ‘Katsa?’

  ‘A jack of all trades.’

  ‘So, not an interpreter in London?’ He couldn’t mask his anger.

  For a moment, she looked tired. Or perhaps sad.

  ‘I hope we’ll have a chance to get to know each other better. A second time — you as a professor at KTH, and me as a katsa.’

  The door closed with a click. He looked at the girl in the picture, Mona Mustaf. His stomach let out another muffled protest. He put the photograph in his pocket.

  The wall, the door, the toilet. The wall, the door, the toilet. Waiting made him feel anxious. She had been gone for more than an hour now. He had considered her offer, if you could call it that. Some part of him just wanted to stay in the quiet cell and sleep, to avoid making any decisions — avoid taking responsibility. But, at the same time, he wanted to contact Jens. He had to find out how Hanna was. He needed to hear that she was still strong, still fighting. And now, at least, there was hope. Nadim was real, after all, and Rachel’s plan was the only way forward. If nothing else, it would put an end to his being a prisoner. But he knew he would be a quarry on the run.

  The door opened, and Rachel returned with a tray of food and a white plastic bag.

  ‘Role-reversal. Now I’m the one bringing food to you.’

  She placed the tray in front of him. He took a baguette with cheese, and bit off a large chunk. She watched him, standing there with arms crossed.

  ‘Normally, I don’t work on this sort of assignment.’ When he didn’t answer, she went on, ‘I asked to be the one in contact with you.’ He could tell that she was fumbling for words, that she was searching for some sort of sign that he wasn’t angry. She smiled.

  ‘I think they let me because we get along so well.’

  He took a sip of coffee and nodded.

  ‘I’ll do it — if you can promise me I won’t be shot by the FBI.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. I’m sure it’s the right decision, for you and for us.’

  She emptied the bag onto the bed. There were his keys, wallet, iPod, and mobile phone.

  ‘Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to get your passport, but the bag with your toiletries and clothes is on its way. I’ve spoken with the FBI, and you’re going out to Ben Gurion early tomorrow morning.’

  After he’d eaten a yoghurt and drunk more coffee, he felt somewhat better. She stuck her hand into one of the front pockets of her pants.

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to take the notebook, but I grabbed these.’

  She gave him the wrinkled napkins from the restaurant. The translations were still fully legible.

  ‘You’ll need this information to get back into the chat room.’

  ‘But what if I don’t have a computer?’

  ‘You’ll have to go to an internet café — they’re all over the city. But be careful. The FBI’s going to require us to use all our resources to find you. I can slow them down, but
I can’t stop them. They’ll be hunting for you.’ She saw his expression and added, ‘It’s good for the alibi you’ll give Samir Mustaf. If he finds out that the FBI is hunting for you, your story will be more believable.’

  Eric forced a smile.

  ‘This is all such a nightmare, so unrealistic, that I just can’t absorb any more shit. Maybe I’ve become immune.’

  ‘I think that’s good. Only God knows how much more awaits you. But at least now you’re following a plan that might lead to something positive.’

  ‘Sure. If I succeed.’

  He picked up his mobile phone, and saw that there was a missed text from Jens. He felt a knot in his stomach as he opened the text. The words that flickered on the small screen made the walls collapse around him with a deafening roar:

  MATS HAGSTRÖM IS DEAD.

  PART III

  TCHAIKOVSKY’S SEVENTH SYMPHONY

  Sheikh Zuwayid, Egypt

  It was quiet in the car. There was no radio reception, and Nesril Mansour hadn’t brought any CDs. A cautious driver, he was driving slowly even though they were on a four-lane highway and there was almost no other traffic. The sun was frying the roof of the small van, which had no air conditioning. They were all wet with sweat; they’d been sitting in the van for six hours, and still had several hours left to go.

  Ahmad Waizy was furious. He punched the thin metal roof several times. Something had gone wrong in Israel: the police had stopped two of the three attacks. This could only mean that someone had tipped them off, but how was that possible? Only a few people knew the exact targets. The only one in the country who knew the details was Sinon, but he was a professional and would never let the cat out of the bag. And, besides, it was thanks to him that the attack in Tel Aviv had still succeeded. Sinon had warned him that something was up with the police, so he’d switched the target from the Savidor Merkaz train station to the Azrieli mall at the last minute. He hadn’t given Enes al-Twaijri, the project’s financier, any specific details, so it couldn’t be him. Prince Abdullah bin Aziz hadn’t known anything about the martyrs, either.

  Everyone who’d known the details was here in the van. He looked at his fellow passengers. Nesril was a simple soldier; he had no access to confidential information. Arie al-Fattal and Samir Mustaf, however, had full knowledge of the attacks. So did the new administrator, Mohammad Murid. One of these three men must have leaked it. On purpose, or out of carelessness? Who was it? Samir never said a word unless it was necessary; he was always silent and distant. Ahmad wasn’t even sure he’d understood the details of the attacks.

  He looked at Samir, who was staring out the window with a blank expression. As always, he had his earbuds in. Ahmad didn’t understand the skinny Lebanese man. He had worked hard, and delivered what he’d promised. But he always kept to himself, and was taciturn and evasive. Ahmad knew that Samir spent a lot of time brooding — about his task, his beliefs, the family he’d lost. However difficult he was, it was unlikely he was the one who’d leaked information about the attacks.

  Ahmad concentrated instead on Mohammad and Arie. Both of them had had contact with the world outside in the course of their work. Mohammad was the one who had arranged the destination for today’s journey — their new base. This was an alarming thought. If he’d spilled the beans, their new base in Gaza might be known, too. Would an Israeli commando be waiting for them when they arrived? He looked at Mohammad’s narrow face, with its ugly birthmark on the left cheek. He always sat so that his birthmark faced away from the others. Mohammad dressed simply. He had worked for Hezbollah for many years, and Ahmad had done a thorough background check before he was chosen as an administrator. Mohammad was careful and loyal, and a devoted Muslim. Ahmad looked at Arie. He remembered seeing him for the first time at the meeting in Tabriz. He was a swaggering salesman hired by Hezbollah, self-impressed and pedantic. He might have won over Enes, but he had never made a great impression on Ahmad. There were many things about Arie that irritated him. The far-too-expensive watch on his fat wrist — a Rolex? — for a start. The colourful clothes he dressed in. His poor physical condition — Arie huffed and puffed after walking for only a few minutes. His obesity was more proof that he lacked character. How important was he to Hezbollah, really? Surely not at all, now that the financing was secured and the project was nearly finished. Arie met his gaze and smiled. Ahmad didn’t smile back.

  Samir looked out the window without really seeing. The scenery outside had remained unchanged for several hours — endless desert, with an occasional road sign. They seldom encountered any traffic. He was listening to Chopin, even though he was tired of the piano variations he had stored. He ought to download more music, but he no longer had a credit card, and his iTunes account had been shut down long ago. He had to be satisfied with pirating programs, and the selection of classical music was limited. The van was horribly hot, and each breath was an effort.

  Hezbollah had sent their demands to Israel. With this, the project had entered its final phase. He doubted that Prime Minister Ben Shavit would go along with the demands, but it was possible that Mona had done such damage to the country that he had no other choice. Perhaps, as his close adviser, Sinon could convince Shavit to give up; perhaps not.

  Nadim, the anti-virus, was essentially ready. Samir had managed to solve the problem of the mutating Mona strings; Nadim could now read and mirror Mona’s DNA, no matter how they had evolved in the infected systems. The function was relatively simple, but the application of it was an act of genius. But, as usual, there was no audience to applaud him. He was alone with his creation.

  His thoughts moved to Eric Söderqvist, the stranger who had somehow gotten into the group chat room. What could he have found there? For one thing, all the conversations about Mona, Nadim, and the attacks. Was that why the attacks had failed? He had a hard time believing it, but the risk was there. He hadn’t told anyone about his conversation with Söderqvist, and he’d deleted all the entries the next day. Was it dangerous for him to be in contact with someone outside the group? Of course it was, but he hadn’t revealed anything. Naturally, he should tell Ahmad, but he’d already waited too long. Now it would come back to bite him. And, somehow, he wanted to keep the secret of Eric Söderqvist to himself. It was the first real contact he’d had with the outside world in almost four years. Who was Eric Söderqvist? Where was he?

  Arie leaned forward and said something to Nesril. The van slowed down and stopped at the side of the road so they could take a piss break. The silence was overwhelming, except for the hot motor that made popping noises. Arie climbed past Mohammad. Samir remained seated. He didn’t need to piss, and he was wet through with sweat and had no desire to stand unprotected in the sun. Nesril, too, climbed out onto the asphalt and stood beside Arie. The streams of their urine could be heard all the way in the back seat of the van. Ahmad leaned over Samir’s lap and dug through a bag that had slid around the floor on the journey. He took out a black pistol and, without saying a word, climbed out of the car and walked up to the two men at the side of the road. Things seemed to happen in slow motion as Samir watched Ahmad extend his arm holding the pistol and aim at the back of Arie’s head. There was a sharp pop, like a firecracker, and Arie fell forward in the sand. Nesril jumped sideways and fell to his knees. He shouted something incoherent in a shrill voice, and appeared to tug at Ahmad’s pant leg. Ahmad ignored him, leaning forward to look at Arie’s body. Then he kicked him hard in the head. There was a dull thud. When he returned to the van, he smelled like gunpowder. Nesril came back, sniffling, and shut the door. Samir thought he could see red flecks on his cheek and collar. The engine started. Mohammad looked down at the floor. None of the four men said anything. The car bumped along the edge of the road for a bit before steering onto the asphalt and going down the endlessly straight road through the Sinai desert.

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Prime Minister Ben Shavit had
built his government as a team. Even though their mandate was weak, and their power was based on a fragile coalition, he had managed to bring together a group of individuals who, at least on a personal level, made an effort to work together. But there would always be times when he had to stand alone. When arguments pro and con were already screwed in so tightly that they couldn’t be given another twist. When everyone else backed away to give him space for the final decision — a decision that could be made by only one man, even if there were one hundred and twenty members of the Knesset, and his government was the largest in Israeli history, with thirty ministers.

  Twelve of those ministers were now sitting silently before him. The office was too small for so many people. It was stuffy; the dust glittered in the sunlight. He caught Meir Pardo’s eye, looking for support. Meir smiled, but gave no hint of his opinion of the upcoming decision. Ben’s gaze wandered to Yuval Yatom. The minister of finance nodded almost imperceptibly — he might have imagined it — and then looked away. Ben looked at the minister of defence, Ehud Peretz, who was much more obvious: he shook his head. This was not too surprising; Ehud had never compromised in his whole life. Ben turned to Akim Katz, his strategic adviser and close friend. Akim looked him in the eyes for a long moment and nodded slightly. This was a discreet but clear recommendation. To accept. To take a seat at the bargaining table. To give in, no matter how humiliating it might be.

  Akim was an active right-winger, an uncompromising negotiator, and a thick-skinned supporter of the national coalition. For both Yuval and Akim to recommend that he negotiate was a powerful sign. But it was so wrong. Everything he had fought for — indeed, all his convictions — began with the idea that good would always triumph over evil in the end. If you could just hold out long enough, the enemy would break down. But this threat was too abstract in nature. How could they fight against it? Where could they fight it? And who would they be fighting? The battle was no longer with people of flesh and blood. This time, the threat was a computer program — they were dealing with science fiction. He looked past the grim men and out the window. It was all wrong; the blue sky and the bright sun were a paradox. The sky ought to be dark and dreary when the country’s stock exchange was being slaughtered, and while twenty victims of the Azrieli-mall massacre were still fighting for their lives at Ichilov Hospital. But maybe the sun didn’t care.