Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  Ben despised his own indecisiveness. Why couldn’t one of their many technicians crack the code? The virus wasn’t just Israel’s problem. It had spread without respecting national borders or tariff restrictions. It was wreaking havoc in the entire Western world, and it wasn’t just financial systems that were affected. By now, the threat had reached hospitals, air traffic, power supplies … The modern world was completely controlled by IT systems. Without them, they were back in the Stone Age. But despite the collective threat, he was the individual who had to make the decision for all of them. Israel was the one that would be sacrificed. He thought about Abba Eban’s quote from the Six-Day War, about how the world was divided into two camps: those who want to destroy Israel, and those who do nothing to stop it. The suicide attacks had further increased the pressure. The opposition were like bloodhounds — in the Knesset, in the media, and in the rabbinate, too. Everyone was taking the opportunity to piggyback on the catastrophe; no one offered any suggestions or support. But then, those were the rules of the game. He needed a cigarette. The fact that his doctors had told him not to smoke just made it worse. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I realise this is an extraordinary situation that demands extraordinary measures. We have always said that we do not negotiate with terrorists. But …’

  He looked at Akim.

  ‘I am prepared to negotiate in order to put an end to this. This time, we were taken by surprise. Next time, we’ll be more prepared. I will negotiate, but not with Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Musawi. That will never happen. I will demand a mediating party. It could well be the UN, Sweden, or Norway, but I will not sit at the same table as a murderer.’

  Ben lowered his gaze and studied the letter on the desk for the hundredth time.

  ‘And I have a number of opinions about their demands.’

  Everyone in the room was silent. This was an unimaginable defeat, and no one wanted to look anyone else in the eye. Ben crumpled the letter and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  It would never work. In a movie, maybe, but never in reality. Eric had assumed that Rachel would give him careful instructions — details of a reliable and brilliant escape plan. Instead, all she had done was whisper ‘good luck’ as she and a guard handed him over to the two men from the FBI. One, a man in a grey suit and a white, unbuttoned shirt, sullenly introduced himself as Paul Clinton. The other, in black pants and a grey sweatshirt, didn’t say anything. He had a superior attitude, and hardly looked at Eric. For a time, it seemed that they were going to handcuff him, but when Rachel explained that it wasn’t necessary, that Eric actually wanted to go to Sweden and see his wife, Paul seemed to relax. Eric clutched his bag in his hand and kept his eyes on the floor. He didn’t dare look at the Americans, afraid that they would see how anxious he was. The handover to the FBI had taken place in the cool entrance of what must have been the Mossad’s headquarters, on the ground floor, several floors above his cell. He had sneaked looks at Rachel over and over, hoping for a signal, a hint, or a furtively passed note. But she just shook hands with the men and left them. Had she changed her mind? Was he going to have to fly to Stockholm?

  In one way, he longed for home, but returning there would also mean the end. It would signal his absolute failure. All night, he had been prepared to run, to re-establish contact with Salah ad-Din and to continue the hunt for Nadim. Now, he was sitting in the back seat of a big black car with the superior-seeming man beside him. Paul and a short driver sat in the front seat. The car smelled of leather and oil, the windows were tinted, and the doors were locked. They drove at high speeds along Highway 1. He thought of Mats Hagström. Mats was dead. No one had been able to save him. Mona had won, and now he was gone. Eric had felt it all along. He had known that the doctors at Karolinska wouldn’t be able to stop the virus, but now it was a fact. Mats was dead, and Hanna was dying. He remembered his conversation with Mats’s wife. What was she doing now? She had lost her beloved. Was he on his way to the same fate? If he didn’t find Nadim, it was over. For Hanna. For him.

  The car cruised through the morning traffic at high speeds, and he could tell from the road signs that they were approaching the airport. He fantasised about cars forcing them off the road and rescuing him, or about a beautiful woman standing by the road and making the driver stop, and of him somehow getting out of the car and fleeing across the field. None of this happened, and they arrived a few minutes later. Even though the car’s air conditioning was on full blast, he was sweaty. He had showered, but he already stank of stress. The superior man opened the door for him and brusquely helped him out of the car.

  By the time they walked into the busy departures hall, his fantasies of fleeing had subsided, and Eric bitterly prepared to spend the next few hours in the air. The two men remained on either side of him as they pushed through loud and colourful lines. The airport was in total chaos; nothing seemed to be working. The large screens that usually displayed departure times were just flashing incomprehensible combinations of letters, and airline personnel at the check-in desks were trying to calm angry passengers. A teary-eyed woman beside him was speaking into a cell phone.

  ‘I don’t know, dammit,’ she was saying. ‘Everything’s crashed because of that fucking computer virus. They’re doing the check-ins manually. We don’t know when we’ll be able to leave — if we even can leave.’ For a brief moment, hope was awakened in Eric once more. Would the virus keep them grounded? Would Mona end up rescuing him? That would be ironic. He sneaked a look at Paul, who didn’t seem in the least concerned. He just kept moving forward with resolve, brutally shoving his way past all the confused people with overloaded luggage carts and crying small children.

  Eric hurried after him. At the far end of the large hall was a shorter line, which was markedly calmer than the others. They stood behind a black man in a light-grey suit with a small Louis Vuitton bag at his side. The sign at the check-in counter said ‘Private and corporate jet check-in’. His hope that the virus would save him died away. Here, everything seemed to be functioning despite the computer problems. A woman and a man were doing manual check-ins, and their unconcerned smiles indicated that they had the situation under control. So the FBI had their own plane. But it was strange that they had to wait in line. Why didn’t they just drive up to the plane? Paul read his mind.

  ‘High security. We have to go in through the door back there, and then we can go straight out to the plane.’ He nodded at two large white doors directly behind the counter. A young man with two children was just taking their passports from the counter and going through the doors. When they opened, Eric caught a glimpse of a security line and an X-ray scanner. If he went through those, he could give up all hope of fleeing. Should he just turn around and run? But where would he go? They would catch him in a few seconds — they were surely in better shape than he was. Paul showed his FBI badge and his passport. When Eric saw his own passport with its Swedish emblem, he wanted to cry. Sweden was another world — an orderly, structured, safe place, far off on the edge of the world. Their home was there. Jens and Hanna were there. His passport was a painful reminder of freedom, of normalcy.

  The woman at the counter returned the documents and smiled at them as they passed. Eric felt like he was going to his own execution. He felt the adrenaline that had built up during the car trip subsiding, leaving behind an empty exhaustion. Two security guards were waiting on the other side of the doors. He put his bag on the narrow conveyor belt, while Paul walked ahead of him through the detector. It didn’t go off. That meant he was unarmed. In the movies, all the FBI agents carried large pistols, but apparently they didn’t in reality. Then Eric walked through. Nothing. Just as he was going to take his bag from the X-ray machine, it stopped and backed up. His bag went back into the machine. Paul became restless, and sighed audibly. The guard at the monitor said something to his colleague. The bag came back out of the X-ray machine, and the
guard lifted it up.

  ‘Is this yours?’

  Eric nodded as he tried to think of what had caused them to react — he wasn’t carrying a computer, or any liquids, or sharp objects. The guard opened the door to a small, cube-shaped holding area that was slightly larger than a dressing room.

  ‘Come with me. I need to take a closer look at your bag.’

  Paul made a move to come along with Eric, but he was stopped by the guard.

  ‘Wait here. This won’t take long.’

  The room within the white plaster walls was only a few cubic metres in total, with a small table in the middle. On the wall was a poster of things that couldn’t be brought on board, and in one corner was a green box of latex gloves. The guard placed the bag on the table and rapped on a side door. Another guard immediately crowded into the already-cramped space. Eric was still trying to think of what could be wrong with his bag when he caught sight of the newly arrived guard’s face, and recoiled. The guard had an open wound just above his temple, and his eye was swollen and dark blue. The guards spoke together in Hebrew. Then the injured one turned to him and handed him his bag.

  ‘Listen carefully. On my signal, you yank open the door and run straight across the hall. The Americans are unarmed, but you have to be quick. On the other side there’s an emergency exit. It’s usually locked, but today it’s open. Four floors down you’ll find an exit that will take you to the tarmac. There’s a blue motorcycle there. Take it and drive straight across the runway. Don’t get too close to the big gates. The personnel out there haven’t been informed. We’ve secured most of the people involved, but we couldn’t risk briefing the main thoroughfare — too many people. If they get suspicious, they’ll stop you. They’re armed. You have to go to the south-western part of the field, where there’s a smaller gate — a boom and two guards. The boom is open, and the guards are busy with other things. Drive through, and then you’re free. From there, you’re on your own.’

  Eric felt dazed and terrified. He had changed his mind. He didn’t want to run now. The guard leaned toward him with a resolute expression.

  ‘There’s a helmet hanging from the handlebars. Don’t forget to put it on. You have to wear a helmet in Israel — otherwise the police will get you right away.’ A rational question popped up in the midst of his whirling thoughts.

  ‘My passport?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I can’t help you there.’

  Blood had started to run from the wound down onto the guard’s cheek.

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  The guard smiled stiffly.

  ‘You hit me.’

  ‘What?’

  Before he had time to think, the guard punched the plaster wall with a bang and gave him a hard shove toward the door. He tumbled back out into the hall and fell on top of Paul’s colleague. Before anyone could react, he heard the guard yell.

  ‘Stop him!’

  He flew onto his feet, nearly losing his balance, then shoved his hand into the FBI officer’s face and set off, away from the security line. Emergency exit. Where the fuck is the emergency exit? He caught sight of a green sign at the far end of the hall, turned, and came close to slipping, but regained his balance. If he fell, it was all over. Those he passed looked at him in fear. A fat woman made an attempt to stop him, but he was already gone. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder. Then he reached the emergency exit, and tore open the door. He stumbled out into a stairwell with a grooved steel staircase, and started down it three steps at a time. Behind him he heard the door fly open with a bang, and several people filled the space above him. He kept going, his pulse roaring in his temples, sure that he would soon be captured.

  The stairs ended at the ground floor. He managed to get a steel door open, and found himself on the windy tarmac. He ran toward the corner of the building and saw a motorcycle leaning against the wall. It must have been at least twenty years since he’d driven one. The motorcycle was old and shabby — some sort of off-road type. He threw his leg across the frame and grabbed the handlebars. Panic-stricken, he realised he didn’t know how to start it. There was no kick-start, and no button on the handlebars. He heard agitated voices; they were already out on the tarmac on the other side of the building. He caught sight of a key sticking out of the frame, just under the petrol cap. When he turned it, the engine started with a loud rattle. He turned around and wobbled off across the grey concrete. The helmet was still dangling from the handlebars — he’d have to put it on later. Thirty metres ahead, just to the right, was a small white jet with the Stars and Stripes on the tail — the FBI’s plane. He passed just in front of its nose, and could see two faces behind the windscreen. The wind was howling, and he had a hard time keeping his eyes open. A strong odour of diesel pierced the air. A Lufthansa plane with engines roaring, looking like a thundering monster larger than anything he’d ever seen — a lethal dinosaur that could squash him like a fly — turned off a nearby taxiway. At first, it looked like he was going to drive straight into one of its enormous wheels, but the plane turned majestically, and they ended up running parallel instead. The wingtip stuck out several metres above his head, and the sound of the engines cut through his head like a power saw.

  He tried to orient himself; he kept an eye on the fence, and saw the large gate a few hundred metres to his left. The wind made his eyes tear up as he tried to see whether the guards had seen him as well. Something flashed in the sunlight, blinding him. He turned his eyes away and concentrated on keeping his speed equal to the plane’s. Maybe it was to his advantage to run alongside the large machine; it ought to make it harder to see him. He passed the checkpoint at a distance of a hundred metres, and couldn’t make out any activity there. The Lufthansa plane slowed down and turned its nose toward the terminal building. He was once again alone with the rattling engine. He clamped his bag between his legs. The tyres were low. He felt every bump in the concrete, and the handlebars were vibrating hysterically. He tried to remember what the guard had said. The south-western part. From which direction? He followed the fence with his eyes, and steered closer so he wouldn’t miss anything. He drove past three white helicopters parked in a row. Then he saw the boom. It was a few hundred metres ahead, the fence opened at a little outpost — a white boom, a signal light, and a blue guardhouse. He was approaching fast, and couldn’t see any people about. The boom was open, as planned. Then he saw someone sitting in the guardhouse. He held his breath, and drove through the opening without slowing down.

  As he flew forward on the straight stretch of concrete, away from the sentry, he expected a bullet in the back. His whole spine tensed; he could feel the point at which the bullet would hit him, just between his shoulders. It would throw him forward, and he would be dead before he hit the gravelly concrete. But nothing happened. He soon came to a wider road, which joined a busier entrance ramp after about a kilometre of warehouses and car-rental lots. He slowed down and stopped at the side of the road, put on his helmet with trembling hands, looked over his shoulder, and then accelerated up the ramp and out onto the highway. A blue road sign told him that it was eleven kilometres to Tel Aviv. He relaxed a bit and began to breathe again. Rachel had done it. He had done it. He had pulled off a completely impossible escape. No one flees Israel’s largest airport on a motorcycle — but with the help of the Mossad, the impossible had become possible. He was still conscious of the point just below the last vertebrae in his neck.

  After a shaky fifteen minutes, he was back in Tel Aviv. The traffic was thick on Levinsky Street. He drove between two wide lines of cars, hoping that no one would open a car door or change lanes. He wasn’t the only one driving a motorcycle. There were around twenty mopeds, Vespas, and motorcycles ahead of and behind him, all of them zig-zagging through the traffic in a death-defying manner. The buildings along the street were two and three storeys high, and their façades were dingy and cracked. Many of the windows had
red-and-blue shutters; most of them were closed. On one balcony, someone had hung a large Italian flag. At ground level, there were electronics stores, bakeries, groceries, and bars — but no internet cafés. He passed a newspaper stand. The headlines surprised him, and he nearly lost his balance: ‘IT-TERRORISTS OFFER ANTI-VIRUS.’ So it was official. Nadim had become a useful bargaining chip in the conflict.

  The light turned red, and he stopped. With a sense of vertigo, he realised he was next to a blue-and-white police car. He had been too absorbed in the headlines, and hadn’t noticed the cars in line. Thank God he had remembered to put on his helmet. But he was still wearing the same clothes and riding the same motorcycle. They must have put out an alarm, including a description of him. One man and one woman sat in the police car. They were talking to each other, and so far they had only been looking ahead. He tried to play it cool and turn his head to the side as naturally as possible. His stomach hurt, and it felt like an eternity until the light turned green. He gave the motorcycle full throttle, and nearly fell off as it accelerated. At the T-intersection with Ha’Aliya, he turned right toward Derek Shlomo.

  He slowed down and stopped just past a bus stop. A row of motorcycles was already standing there, so he climbed off, hung the helmet back on the handlebars, took his bag, and left the motorcycle with the key in. It wasn’t until now that he noticed the heat. The sky was a clear blue, and the air between the asphalt and the building façades was still. The footpath was full of people trudging heavily on. No one was in a rush. It was too warm; they were all like ants under a magnifying glass. The sun was relentless. A few men in military pants were walking around with bare chests; one was wearing his automatic weapon on his back, and the other was carrying his, along with a green bag. Eric passed a pizzeria and a perfume shop. There was a large grey plastic garbage bin outside the store, which was so full that the lid couldn’t close. The sickly stench of rotting food was in sharp contrast to the perfume advertisements in the shop window.