Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  Near Khan Younis, Gaza

  They had sparred and jabbed, testing each other’s techniques, strengths, and knowledge. After they had tossed Mona algorithms back and forth for an hour, Samir Mustaf had seemed to relax; maybe he was satisfied with the answers. If this was a job interview, the worst part was over. Samir had since left Eric alone, and he now sat quietly on the dusty blankets in a daze, trying to collect his thoughts. The air was stale and cold. Eric hadn’t seen any other people.

  Should he hate Samir? Mats Hagström was dead, and Hanna was gravely ill — maybe dying. But was it really Samir’s fault? He had created a virus to destroy computers and digital networks, but he never could have dreamed that it would physically affect people. It wasn’t Samir’s creation that had made Mats and Hanna sick. It was his own — Mind Surf. He was the guilty one, or at least an accomplice. They were both to blame. In different ways. In different forms.

  Samir returned with a tea tray and a plate of small cookies in different colours. After the break, their discussion became more theoretical. Eric took a sip of jasmine tea while using his free hand to rub out the mathematical formula he had written in the dust on the floor. Samir shook his head.

  ‘There’s still no one who has been able to implement Lov Grover’s algorithm.’

  Eric put his teacup down back on the small metal tray.

  ‘That’s true, but Matthew Hayward has proven that all the operations are quite possible.’

  ‘Do you mean that Peter Shor’s reasoning was relevant?’

  Eric nodded.

  ‘Absolutely. Discrete logarithms for prime factorisation. I’ve used a variation myself, in Mind Surf.’

  Samir looked at him for a moment. He seemed sceptical.

  ‘You talk a lot about quantum data. What’s your opinion on singularity in relation to the quantum computer?’

  ‘Are you thinking of science fiction? A scenario in which we create artificial quantum computers with higher intelligence than we have, which will then take over the world?’

  Samir was silent. Eric took a neon-green cookie, swallowed it in one bite, and continued.

  ‘Like I said, science fiction — an apocalyptic theory with no base in reality.’

  Samir’s voice took on a sharp tone. ‘Even today we can do some pretty apocalyptic things with the help of technology.’

  Eric met his gaze.

  ‘You mean Mona?’

  Samir answered with a question: ‘How much have you worked with ANN?’

  ‘Artificial neural networks? In Mind Surf, I work with genetic algorithms. Why?’

  ‘Do you agree that the human nervous system and the most sophisticated ANN systems are quite similar?’

  Eric nodded. ‘Absolutely. They’re self-healing, and the nodes are similar to our own nerve cells.’

  ‘Do you also agree that biological viruses and computer viruses are the same in many respects?’

  Eric sat as if petrified. He was excited, and suddenly uncertain. Samir frowned.

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  Could it be a coincidence? He looked at the man across from him, trying to figure out if he was playing a cynical game. Did Samir know everything? He felt ill at ease, unsure. Samir’s eyes were dark and lifeless, and impossible to read. Eric cleared his throat and struggled to smile, uncertain whether he had managed to.

  ‘I agree. There are a lot of similarities. But there are also some differences.’

  ‘There are. But in order for me to create the world’s foremost computer virus, and for me there was no other option, I first had to learn everything I could about biological viruses — how they work, how they reproduce, how they protect themselves. And, not least, how they attack their host.’

  Eric looked at the floor. Samir took a yellow cookie from the plate and went on in a lower voice.

  ‘You could say that Mona is the world’s first biological computer virus.’

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  The cup hit the wall beside the large map of Israel with a bang. Coffee and porcelain flew onto the piles of paper and folders that were piled on the floor. When David Yassur was younger he’d had a notoriously bad temper, but he had learned to keep himself under control — up to a point. They had just passed that point. It was quiet on the other end of the phone. He swallowed hard and tried to calm himself. It was late, and he was tired. He hissed into the small receiver.

  ‘So when was the last time you had contact with Eric Söderqvist?’

  Larry Lavon answered in a weak voice. ‘In Erez. Six-and-a-half hours ago.’

  ‘Why the hell did you wait three hundred and ninety minutes to call?’

  Silence. He threw the phone down on the desk and did a lap around the room. He couldn’t call Meir Pardo and say they’d lost the Swede. Ben Shavit had already been informed of their successes, and Meir was working on putting together a task force. He went back to the phone.

  ‘Now listen up, Larry.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Tear Gaza up. Do you hear me? Blow out every last fucking tunnel, empty all the houses and farms. If you don’t find the signal within three hours, I’m going in with a full-scale ground invasion. And it will be at your expense.’

  Near Khan Younis, Gaza

  He should have seized the opportunity and put all his cards on the table. Samir’s comment about the similarities between computer and biological viruses was an invitation — a chance to ask about the anti-virus. But Eric was too cowardly. Instead, he changed the subject, and he hated himself for it.

  ‘What are you listening to?’

  He nodded at the earbuds hanging around Samir’s neck. At first, Samir didn’t understand what he was referring to, but then he took a red iPod from his pocket and glanced at it.

  ‘The latest was Johann Pachelbel, Hexachordum Apollinis.’

  Eric nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Apollo’s six strings.’

  Samir looked at him with the same expression he’d had when he mentioned Shor’s theories — possibly sceptical, or just cautious.

  ‘You listen to Pachelbel, too?’

  ‘I have several of his works on my own iPod, but Hexachordum is probably my favourite.’

  ‘Which of the arias do you like best?’

  ‘The sixth one. Sebaltina. It’s different from the others.’

  Samir nodded, clearly excited.

  Eric reached for his black bag and found his own iPod. He tossed it to Samir, who leaned against the wall and started scrolling through his music library. Without taking his eyes from the small screen, he said, ‘Isn’t it funny that two devoted IT experts like you and me are still using iPods?’

  ‘They have great battery life. And the format is great, too.’

  Samir nodded, his eyes still on the screen. ‘It is without a doubt the most precious thing I own. At least now, after everything that has happened to me. Not so much the player itself, but the music. The memories.’

  Eric was just about to ask him what he meant, even though he knew very well, when he was interrupted by steps in the tunnel. He looked up from his spot among cushions and blankets. A tall, thin man was just walking into the larger room. The man was wearing worn grey sweatpants, a brown linen shirt, and sandals. As he came closer, Eric saw that he had a large, ugly birthmark on one cheek. The man ignored him, and walked up to Samir and whispered something in his ear. Samir nodded. It seemed like he might be nervous.

  ‘Eric, this is my colleague, Mohammad Murid. He is responsible for the administration of the group.’

  The thin man gave a brief nod without looking at Eric. He remained standing near Samir for a moment. Eric happened to look at his toes. He had yellow nails — fungus. Mohammad seemed to make some decision and rushed off with flapping sandals. Samir picked up Eric’s
iPod again and continued to browse through the music, but Eric could tell he was no longer looking at the information. Mohammad’s message had thrown him off balance. He didn’t say anything for a long time, and when he finally looked up their eyes met.

  ‘Mohammad told me that my boss, Ahmad Waizy, will be here soon. He’s very eager to meet you.’

  Something in his voice made Eric feel ill at ease. The room was cold, and the air felt thinner. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Where has he been?’ mostly just to say something, anything, and perhaps shake off the uneasy feeling that now filled the air between them.

  Samir looked at him with his inscrutable eyes.

  ‘Not very far away.’

  Eric changed the subject.

  ‘You said the iPod is your most precious belonging. You said “after everything that’s happened to me.” What happened?’

  Samir’s eyes narrowed. At first, Eric thought he’d gone too far, that he’d barged into a topic that was off limits. But then Samir answered in a faint voice.

  ‘In the war against Hezbollah, southern Lebanon was bombed eighty times in one month. In almost all of the attacks they used cluster bombs.’

  He stopped talking and lifted his teacup; at first, it looked as though he was going to drink from it, but then he changed his mind and put it back on the tray. He sat for a long time with his hand on the cup. Eric had to change position because one leg had gone to sleep. His movement seemed to rouse Samir.

  ‘Mona, my daughter, loved animals. Not just pets or dolphins, like all kids do. To her, each little bug was a miracle — a living wonder that deserved all her attention and love.’

  Eric thought of the little girl with the curly hair. He remembered that the photograph was in his pocket.

  ‘It was my sister-in-law’s birthday, and the party was at my mother-in-law’s house in Qana. My wife, Nadim, and Mona went there early.’

  He stopped to catch his breath.

  ‘A grenade got into Elif’s kitchen. I don’t know how. Maybe it was Mona — maybe she found it when she was out playing. Someone said that’s what happened. The grenade wiped everything out. Everything that was important. I …’

  His voice died out. Eric couldn’t bear to look at his tortured face, and lowered his eyes. Samir’s hands were clasped as if in prayer. The gap around his wedding ring spoke to the fact that his finger had been fatter when the ring was made. They sat in silence for a long while. Something creaked in the distance, making a chilling sound like nails on a chalkboard. The echo rolled off down the tunnel.

  ‘The Mona virus is your revenge?’

  Samir didn’t answer. His head hung heavily, and his shoulders were slumped. After a moment, Eric tried again.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss. And I understand even better why you fight.’

  Samir looked at him. When he spoke, his voice took on a harsher tone.

  ‘And you, Eric Söderqvist from Sweden. Why are you here?’

  Eric stiffened. A deep hole opened in his stomach. It had all come down to this. Samir’s dark eyes drilled into him, and he was about to be swallowed up by his own lies. Where should he start? How could he explain something so crazy without coming off as insane? He cleared his throat and tried to find the right tone of voice.

  ‘You might not believe what I’m about to say, but give me a chance. My wife, Hanna Söderqvist …’

  A sudden crash from the right-hand tunnel made him stop. He could hear the quick steps of several people, and then one of the Palestinian guards came into the room. He worked the bolt action of his automatic rifle as he breathlessly placed himself between them on the cushions. One of his boots landed on the cookie plate and upset Samir’s teacup. The barrel of the gun pointed at Eric’s face, black and mute. The Palestinian yelled something he didn’t understand, but he instinctively put his hands up over his head. The guard glanced at the mouth of the tunnel. A short, pale man stepped into the light from the bulb. He was wearing baggy brown pants, a long brown shirt, and a thin keffiyeh with a black pattern. The guard looked back and forth between him and Eric. He didn’t dare even to breathe. The man smiled, but only with his mouth.

  ‘Mr Söderqvist, welcome to Khan Younis. I hope you two have had a rewarding meeting.’

  He spoke English perfectly, with a faint British accent. No one answered.

  ‘I’m sorry to stomp in like this, but your conversation is over for the time being.’

  He barked something at the Palestinian, who immediately took a step closer to Eric, raised his weapon, and hit him in the head. The sound of it was soft and dull, like being hit with a wet towel. The ground came toward him, and then he was lying at the man’s boot. The sounds around him were distant and warped. His last conscious thought was of Rachel. How could she let this happen?

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Reality was merciless, the opposite of the morphine buzz. In reality, her limbs were pulled out of joint, and the blisters and scales on her skin had burst. As her morphine dose was decreased, reality gradually became more present. The pain ran over her like boiling water. She wasn’t dead; she wasn’t alive. She had no concept of time or space. She could see Tara’s face before her. Tara was keeping her there. It had been tempting to let go, to just let herself be carried along — so easy. But Tara wouldn’t make it without her. Tara needed her. Beautiful, sweet Tara.

  What had happened? She had just put on ‘Careless Whispers’. A white wall had hit her, thrown her here, to a place between life and death. Rachel lay still, her body burning. All she wanted was to crawl out of it and escape. Eric was also there in her thoughts, but not like Tara. Not as clearly. She had to protect Tara. Rachel would overcome the pain. That’s what she was trained to do. She slid back into a dreamless sleep.

  Near Khan Younis, Gaza

  It was very dark, but there were scents and sounds all around him. He was lying on a hard, rough surface — concrete with a layer of gravel. There was a stale odour in the air, like wet dirt or mud, or maybe urine. Eric cautiously felt his head where the butt of the automatic rifle had hit him. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, but there was a large, painful swelling there. He felt sick; he knew he was concussed. He struggled to prop himself up on his side, and whimpered from the pain in his head.

  ‘Shit.’

  He sank back down, and lay still for a long time, breathing. He stretched out one arm and fumbled around, but nothing came to hand. He felt behind himself and immediately struck a cool wall. He was in some sort of cell or storage room. He remembered the thin man with the British accent. Was that Ahmad Waizy? The man Samir called his boss? Was he the same person who had written the chat entries under the signature ‘A?’ Probably — which meant he was the man who had planned and ordered the suicide bombings. And he knew that Eric was a fraud. But they hadn’t shot him. Maybe they were awaiting orders, or else they wanted to interrogate him first.

  He rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes. Not that it made a difference to have them closed, but it had a calming effect. He had failed. The Mossad had failed. Maybe they had never expected him to make it. He was probably just one of many lures they had cast, in the hope that one would work. And now he had been crossed off the list. Rachel had moved on to new tasks.

  There was a metallic taste in his mouth. He thought of the little library at Herzl Street 44, of the woman and her fantastic story, of the paper brigade and the poet Abraham Sutzkever. Then Hanna popped up in his thoughts. They had never been apart for this long. After a while, he dozed off, his sleep uneasy. After an hour or so, he was awoken by a creaking sound that cut through his head like a sharp knife. He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. Someone opened the door to the chamber, and a silhouette appeared against the light.

  ‘Mister?’

  The voice sounded uncertain. Eric lay still in the dark, not daring to move.

&
nbsp; ‘Mister?’

  It wasn’t Samir or Ahmad. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Yes.’

  The silhouette waved its hand slightly.

  ‘Come.’

  He got up and immediately hit his head on the ceiling. The pain was so sharp that he fell to his knees, and his eyes instantly filled with tears. He breathed heavily, waited until he had regained his balance, and then stood up carefully and walked toward the light, stooping. The man in the doorway was Samir’s assistant — the tall man with the birthmark. He indicated that Eric should follow him. They walked quickly through the partially lit tunnel, with Eric expecting to come eye-to-eye with Ahmad at any moment. Finally, they arrived at the large area at the entrance. The man nodded at the ladder. Eric hesitated. The man pointed.

  ‘Up.’

  He had no choice, so he grabbed the rebar and started climbing. What was about to happen? Was Ahmad waiting outside? The Palestinians? An execution patrol? The hatch door was open, and he saw the star-filled sky like a round, glittering eye at the top of the ladder. When he got to the last rung of rebar and boosted himself out, he saw a campfire some way off. A light breeze brought with it the scent of burning wood. The face with the birthmark popped out of the hatch, but its owner didn’t climb out. Instead, he pointed at the campfire.