by Dan Sehlberg
‘He has a transmitter in his arm?’
‘Yes. We injected a passive GPS chip under his skin.’
‘Won’t he notice it?’
‘It’s not visible, but if he happened to rub his skin right there, he would feel a small bump. The phone transmitter is the strongest of the three, and it’s the only one that’s active — that is, it receives power. But it’s not dependent on the phone battery — it has its own energy source. Incidentally, we made a mistake there.’
‘What?’
‘Some idiot forgot to charge the phone during the night. At the most, it has 20 per cent battery left.’
Paul made a face.
‘That was dumb. But he’ll probably notice and use it sparingly.’
They sat in silence for a moment. Rachel squeezed the empty cup until it split. She tossed it into the wastebasket under the whiteboard.
‘What do you really think about Eric’s story?’
Paul shook his head.
‘It’s screwed up. David Yassur is convinced he’s full of shit. It’s almost too implausible to be made up. Maybe parts of it are true.’
She cocked her head.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he really is after an anti-virus.’
‘To save his sick wife?’
‘It could be. It could also be for purely commercial reasons. The anti-virus is priceless. He could sell it to Israel. To TBI. Or to one of the other banks that’s been hit.’
‘If that’s true, why would he cook up a science-fiction story about his wife being infected with a computer virus? It doesn’t make sense. We know Hanna Söderqvist is sick, and we know the hospital hasn’t been able to come up with a diagnosis. We also know that the other man … what’s his name again?’
‘Hagström.’
‘Mats Hagström … he died after exhibiting the same symptoms as Hanna Söderqvist.’
‘Why did he die, and not Hanna Söderqvist?’
‘Maybe she’s stronger and younger. He might have had a weaker heart. I’m sure there are hundreds of possible factors.’
Paul didn’t say anything. After a moment he nodded, as though to affirm something he’d been thinking. Rachel looked at him.
‘What?’
‘You’re right that his wife’s illness is odd. On the one hand, that would mean he’s correct; on the other hand, it’s frightening. What if she really does have a virus that’s somehow connected to the terrorists? That could mean some sort of biological weapon, right? Maybe Eric Söderqvist is in collusion with Samir Mustaf after all. Maybe he developed a virus, and then — either on purpose or by accident — he infected his wife. We need to find out more about the virus. I’d venture to say it’s top priority. We really should move Hanna Söderqvist to the base in Norway. Sweden doesn’t have anywhere near the same resources, and, more importantly, our work is being blocked by a hell of a lot of laws. We need a free rein to perform the measures and tests that need to be done, without worrying about any idiotic ethical guidelines.’
Now it was Rachel’s turn to be silent. For Paul, Hanna Söderqvist was an object, a thing. Above all, she was a threat. The tests he was referring to would hardly hold up under scrutiny. And they would hardly increase Hanna’s chances of survival. But she wasn’t a thing. She was Eric’s wife, a woman he seemed prepared to risk everything for. And she was Jewish. Paul interrupted her thoughts.
‘I think I’ll go to Stockholm after all while you keep an eye on Eric Söderqvist. I’ll fly there and talk to the Swedish authorities. Who knows, maybe I’ll even be allowed to visit Mrs Söderqvist.’
Rachel stood up.
‘Are you going right away?’
‘I might as well. And you?’
‘I haven’t slept since that night at Montefiore. I’m taking tonight off. Eric is on the radar, and we have a good team who will track him if he moves.’
Paul took the last biscuit from the plate. Rachel opened the door and cast one last look at him.
‘You shouldn’t eat so many sweets.’
Jerusalem, Israel
Sinon was enjoying the mint tea. Sure, it had had gotten cold, but it tasted fresh and a bit sour. He had chosen to have his afternoon tea in one of the deep easy chairs, and not at his desk like he usually did. He sat near the large windows that looked out onto a leafy garden and a large birdbath made of white marble. His office was just two doors down from Ben Shavit’s, and it was several square metres larger. Ben was seldom there, and he didn’t feel that he needed a more spacious room. But there had been too many people at the meeting today, and Sinon’s office had worked better. He had decorated the walls with university diplomas, pictures of himself shaking hands with several of the world’s leading politicians, pictures of himself standing beside his beloved bicycle, and the obligatory family photo. He had chosen the furnishings himself: a large desk in dark oak, and a tall office chair of black leather with large armrests and a flexible headrest; a wastebasket made of an actual elephant’s foot, a gift from the ambassador of South Africa; and a dark-red carpet and three deep easy chairs of dark-brown leather. Just inside the door was a tripod that held a flipchart, because he liked to sketch when he was explaining things. But today the paper was blank. He couldn’t show the true strategy. It wasn’t necessary. It was all already in his head.
One by one, the puzzle pieces were falling into place. Ben had decided to negotiate. Although two out of the three attacks had been prevented, the explosion in the shopping centre had provoked a clamour for action from the opposition and the media. Everyone knew that Hezbollah had offered an anti-virus and armistice. What could Ben do, besides go along with their demands? Sinon had seen his anguish, and felt his anger. And he had recommended that he go along with Hezbollah’s demands, that he put aside his own feelings, his own pride, and instead do what was best for Israel — no, not just Israel, for the whole world. Nothing was more important than getting access to the anti-virus. Everyone would consider him a hero; no one would think he was weak or a coward. No one except, possibly, for himself. Ben had listened, and now they were just waiting to set up a meeting with a neutral mediating party. And Sinon would stand at his friend’s side and make sure that he signed the agreement.
It would be a historic defeat for Israel. A historic victory for all the world’s true believers. And for himself.
His thoughts went back to the attacks. How could the police have learned about them? Ahmad Waizy was furious. To him, everyone was a suspect. He’d already shot Arie al-Fattal. Sinon didn’t know if he really had been the one to spill the beans. No matter who it was, though, it was right to shoot al-Fattal. Sinon had never liked him. But Hezbollah’s section leader had been upset — Ahmad wasn’t one of them, and he couldn’t shoot one of their brothers at random. Sinon had dealt with it, but it wasn’t Ahmad’s suspicions or Arie’s death that was bothering him; it was the uncertainty. Even with all of his power and all of his contacts, he hadn’t been able to find out who had tipped off the police. Neither Meir Pardo nor David Yassur had said anything. He doubted that even Ben knew. Ahmad was demanding that he quickly find out who the leaker was, but it was hard for him to ask around too much. It could raise suspicions.
The tea was gone, and he chewed the wet mint leaves. His thoughts wandered to his private project: killing Rachel Papo. He was finally finished with his preparations. Everything had been arranged, even though it hadn’t been easy. He had worked only with his own contacts, so that no one on the team knew — not Ahmad, and not anyone in Hezbollah. This would be a surprise for them. That murderer Papo would soon be gone, and it would be dramatic: no anonymous robbery/homicide in a dirty alley; no silent heart attack. No, everyone would know that she had been punished for what she’d done, that the wrath of Allah had finally caught up with her. Her dramatic death would be a clear warning to everyone who was a threat to
Islam. It would show them that no one — not even their best agents — was safe. Not anywhere. Not even in their own homes. He looked at the clock. It was almost time to go home and change for his evening bike ride.
Tel Aviv, Israel
‘Who’s after you?’ He put the teacup down on the desk again and kept his eyes on it, studying its chipped rim and the scrolling red floral pattern on the greyish-white porcelain. Her question was inevitable. He was too stressed — too out of place in this environment, this culture, this city. She had seen so much fear in her life that his didn’t go unnoticed. There were many reasons for her question. Who was after him? Or, rather, what was he running away from? The superficial answer was that he was running away from the Israeli police and the FBI. But the real answer lay deeper: maybe he had been running the whole time. He took his eyes from the teacup. He didn’t want to answer. Then he caught sight of the computer, and his heart skipped a beat. A new entry was flickering in the chat room. She could see that he had lost his concentration. Maybe she could also sense that he didn’t want to, or couldn’t, answer the question.
‘All right, I know you have better things to do than sit and dwell on things with me.’
He immediately shook his head, but she held up her hand and stood up.
‘I’m going home. Something tells me you have nowhere to go. If you want to, you may stay here. There’s nowhere to sleep, but if you’re tired you can sleep anywhere. Believe me, I know. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning.’
Eric gave a resigned smile.
‘You’re right, I have nowhere to go. I’d love to stay here tonight. I’ll watch over your treasures.’
She nodded.
‘And they’ll watch over you.’
He leaned forward and gave her a hug. It happened quickly and spontaneously; it was just something he had to do. She stayed in his embrace without moving away. Then she took her teacup and left him. He stood by the desk until he heard the glass door click. Then he sat down in front of the keyboard and stared at the message.
WHERE ARE YOU?
:SALAH AD-DIN
Was it dangerous to give his address? What did he have to lose?
ON THE RUN FROM THE POLICE. HERZL STREET 44 IN TEL AVIV.
:ES
He leaned back and looked up at Abraham Sutzkever. The man stared back at him; perhaps there was something calming about his gaze.
Near Khan Younis, Gaza
He had been forced to tell Ahmad Waizy. His curiosity about the man who had showed up out of nowhere was too great; his thirst for an intellectual sparring partner was too strong. For the first time since Qana, he had felt interested in another person. Why it should be Eric Söderqvist in particular, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was his timing. Samir knew that he would never be able to meet Söderqvist if it wasn’t first approved and then arranged by Ahmad. If he were to believe what Söderqvist wrote, he was in Tel Aviv, of all places. And the police were looking for him. That complicated things and made it riskier. Was he genuine, or was he a fraud? Ahmad could check whether there really was a description of him out; all he had to do was give Sinon a call. Ahmad had been surprisingly calm, almost uninterested, as he was told about Söderqvist. Samir had doctored his story a bit. He had only said that there had been one entry in the secret chat room — from a Swedish IT professor who wanted to join their mission. He had shown Ahmad the Google hits he’d gotten on Söderqvist’s background. The hits verified that he was a reputable professor at the technical institute in Stockholm.
Ahmad had asked several indifferent check questions: ‘How did he find the chat?’ I don’t know. I assume he hacked his way in. ‘Would he add to the group? Aren’t you in the final phase of your work?’ A great deal. The anti-virus is almost finished, but it needs to be tested and packaged. ‘What have you told him?’ Nothing. I wanted to check with you first. ‘Where is he?’ Tel Aviv.
They sat on their respective white plastic chairs, with a small white plastic table between them. The dirty pieces of furniture, which stood near the ruins of an old farm, were the only signs of life above ground — waste products of the use-and-toss society in the middle of a tightly packed world of sand displaying the occasional purple thistle. In the east, the otherwise dark night reflected the light from distant Israeli cities.
Ahmad felt relaxed. No one had said anything about Arie al-Fattal, who was rotting in a ditch six hundred kilometres away. Their new hideout — or maybe the right word for it was ‘home’ — was part of a deserted smuggling tunnel. Gaza was full of them, as though gigantic chipmunks had been given free rein under the oblong strip of land between Israel and the sea.
In reality, the chipmunks were an established contracting company that built tunnels on commission for professional smugglers. The section of tunnel outside Khan Younis had been bombed several times, and the walls had collapsed in a number of places. The tunnel was two metres in diameter, and it was three-and-a-half metres below ground. The walls were reinforced with concrete, and light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Side rooms and storage areas had been dug out in several places. Hamas ruled the tunnels, and Mohammad Murid had somehow managed to arrange access to them. Samir suspected that Ahmad was planning more attacks, and that was why he wanted to be close to Israel. These days he was quiet and never talked about his plans. They lived like rats, but Samir liked it better here than in the prince’s palace. Ahmad placed a hand on his arm.
‘I want you to do two things. First, delete all the information from the chat room. I thought it was secure, but apparently I was wrong. Remove all the entries.’
Samir nodded.
‘Then I want you to write and tell the professor that we’re coming to get him. I’ll take care of the practical matters.’
‘But shouldn’t we check first to see if he’s really running from the police? To see if his story checks out?’
Ahmad smiled.
‘Of course we’ll check to see if he’s telling the truth. But no matter what we learn, we’ll go get him. If he’s lying, he can keep Arie company.’
Tel Aviv, Israel
Traffic was at a complete standstill on Sderot Ben Gurion. The radio had said something about problems with the traffic lights in Tel Aviv. The computer virus continued to eat its way into the country’s infrastructure. Although Rachel Papo didn’t want to admit it at first, she kept thinking about the Swede, Eric Söderqvist. She had been to the home to visit Tara, and now, stuck in traffic, she thought about him. He probably wouldn’t make contact with Samir Mustaf and the terrorist group again. It was a far-fetched plan. But what if, somehow, he was successful? Then he would be in danger. He had no training, and Hezbollah’s military cells were brutal and paranoid. David Yassur was fully prepared to sacrifice him. Eric was bait, and all he had to do was wriggle on the hook for as long as possible.
She thought of his face — soft, almost childish, with grey hairs in his stubble. His hands were nice — thin, but strong. She thought about his absent-minded and muddled manner, of his interested expression when she spoke. She had a mental image of him on the cot in his cell, when they’d sat close together, looking at a photograph of Mona. The whole time, there had been something subdued and distant about him. A weight lay upon him. His sick wife? He would never think of choosing her, Rachel, over that beautiful woman. And why should he? What was she good for? She couldn’t cook, couldn’t take care of children, couldn’t fold laundry. And she had too much baggage. But she wished they had stolen a night together. She wanted him to take her, just for a few hours.
The traffic let up a bit, and Rachel changed lanes without using her blinker. The car behind her honked angrily. She didn’t want to be alone tonight, so who could she call? She looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was a quarter past ten. That meant her options were limited.
Captain Dan Lichtman’s leave was over. As usual, the three days had gone by fa
r too quickly. He hadn’t had time to do even half of what he’d planned. But he’d had his priorities straight; he’d partied with his little brother. The tequila hung across his forehead like a doughy blanket. He was worn out, but happy. Benjamin had appreciated having a night with his big brother. When Dan left he was sitting on the sofa, hung over, staring apathetically at reruns on TV. Dan tightened the straps on his saddlebag and buttoned his leather jacket. The motorcycle was his second-biggest passion. The first was his F-16 Fighting Falcon. Sure, she belonged to Heyl Ha’Avir, the Israeli air force, but when he sat in the cockpit she was his. It was one hundred and ten kilometres from Benjamin’s apartment in Haifa to the base, Tel Nof, so he would make it in time. He climbed onto his Harley Davidson, and was just about to start the engine when his phone vibrated in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled off his glove and fished out the phone.
COME AND GET ME. RP
Dan smiled and put the phone back. The engine started with a roar, and he took a short cut across the parking lot and accelerated onto the street. There would hardly be any assignments overnight, so he could afford to be a few hours late to base. He hadn’t heard from her in a long time. The last time they’d seen each other, he’d been sore for several days afterward.
Despite encountering a traffic jam on the highway into Tel Aviv, he navigated smoothly between the cars and managed to maintain an average speed of one hundred and thirty kilometres per hour. Forty-five minutes later, he put down the kickstand outside the white two-storey building on Shlomo Ben Yosef. The neighbourhood was dark, and the streetlights didn’t seem to be working. He went up the stairs and stopped outside the door. There was no nameplate. He could hear faint music, and he knocked. After a moment, the door opened, but only barely. Rachel Papo looked at him through the opening as he crossed his arms and waited. She opened the door. Her thick hair was down, and the black curls fell over her bare chest. She was wearing only a pair of blue jogging pants, she was barefoot, and she had a cigarette in her hand. He took a deep breath. She was short and thin, all muscle. She had several ugly scars on her body, and on her left upper arm there was a tattoo of an olive tree, the symbol of the Golani Brigade. On one wrist she had a tattoo of a symbol that he didn’t recognise; it might have been a hieroglyph. He knew nothing about her work, but she was without a doubt military. And maybe an elite athlete.
