Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Hello there, Professor.’

  Her voice was weak. A light-brown compress, secured with tape, hid half of her left eye. Her face was full of cuts, and her lips were swollen. One arm was partially wrapped in some sort of cloth stocking. She walked slowly to the sofa, and gingerly sat down across from him. She was dressed simply, in blue sweatpants and a grey hoodie. He looked at her curiously.

  ‘I slipped in the shower. How are you?’ she asked.

  He hesitated a second before answering.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  She tried to smile. Surely it was a warm smile, but her swollen lips made it look like a sarcastic grimace. The director of the Mossad stood behind her.

  ‘Eric, good work. Unfortunately, we haven’t got hold of any anti-virus. But we did secure two computers that we’re in the process of analysing. Maybe we can find something there.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Don’t you want to go back to Sweden?’

  Eric looked first at David Yassur and then at Rachel.

  ‘Am I free to go?’

  Both of them nodded. David smiled.

  ‘We want to hear more about your time in the tunnel, but right now there’s something more urgent.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s something you need to do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re very worried about your wife.’

  His stomach sank.

  ‘Do you have any news about her?’

  ‘She’s very sick. The Swedish doctors don’t seem able to do anything. Our American friends have offered to try to cure her. But, as you know, in order to do so they have to move her to a military hospital in Norway. You would have to authorise this. The Swedish Ministry of Foreign Affairs is adamant on that point. So for your own sake, and for us all, help us help her.’

  ‘And what do you want me to do?’

  ‘We want you to fly to Stockholm — there’s a plane leaving in less than two hours — and meet up with Paul Clinton from the FBI.’

  He was startled.

  ‘Clinton? The guy I ran away from?’

  David nodded. ‘He’s in Sweden, and well aware of the situation. Don’t worry about him bringing up past misdeeds. If you just go with him to the hospital and sign the papers, you’ll be friends for life. Look at him as your last chance to save your wife.’

  Eric looked at Rachel, who lowered her eyes. Something was wrong — David wasn’t telling the whole truth. This all felt like a bad movie. Maybe they really did believe his story, that Hanna had a computer virus in her body. Could they cure her? Was that even their goal? There were too many warning signs; too many things felt wrong, just as they had the first time Rachel mentioned the hospital in Norway. He was still convinced that Hanna shouldn’t leave Sweden, but he nodded anyway. He no longer had a better alternative. Without Nadim, his arsenal was empty.

  ‘I’ll sign the documents. Just take me home, and I’ll get the authorisation in order.’

  David looked pleased.

  ‘Excellent. Good. That’s the right decision. I think we’ll manage to straighten out your woman. She’s strong — like all Jewish women.’

  Eric tried to look happy, too, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. David leaned over the sofa and put out his hand.

  ‘Then I’ll say goodbye. You’ll be called in for more debriefings in Sweden, which I’m guessing will take place at the Israeli embassy. But, hopefully, we won’t see each other again.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Someone will come to get you when it’s time to board.’

  David left them, and the glass door closed with a rattling bang. Another plane took off low above the building, filling the room with a deafening roar. Rachel looked at him, waiting for the noise to abate. Soon he would be on board a plane — on his way home, away from here. It was all there in her eyes. He swallowed. She shook her head gently.

  ‘It would never work. I know.’

  ‘Rachel … I …’ Her eyes remained on him. She was waiting for him to continue, but he couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to. He changed the subject.

  ‘Were you the ones who arranged things at the checkpoint at Erez?’

  ‘What do you think? The border police had your fingerprints, your picture, your description, and your DNA. You would have needed more than a passport from an Italian sound technician to get through.’ She shook her head. ‘You didn’t even look alike …’

  ‘Strange. How could Samir, or Ahmad Waizy, or whoever it was, believe that a borrowed passport would work?’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t care if you made it or not. If you got through, great. If not, whatever. Or maybe it was a test. If you got through Erez, they knew you were a spy.’

  Eric didn’t say anything, shaken by the possibility that Samir already knew he was a spy when they met. What had he said? ‘A miracle.’ It was a miracle that he had got through.

  ‘How did you find the camp? I never called.’

  ‘You’re so naïve. Do you really think we were relying on you to call us?’

  He felt hurt, and stupid. Of course they had their own ways of keeping an eye on him.

  ‘So how did you find me?’

  ‘You had transmitters on you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here and there.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘It might have endangered the mission. If you’d become afraid, you might have destroyed the transmitters, or gotten rid of them. Or if you had been tortured … It was better for you not to know about them.’

  ‘So the telephone was a joke that I was dumb enough to fall for.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee.

  ‘You did something huge. You accomplished something that none of the intelligence organisations in the world has managed to do. Something the whole world ought to thank you for.’

  He let the words sink in. Was that true? It all just felt like one big failure to him. Then he suddenly remembered something important.

  ‘Not all the terrorists are dead.’

  She cocked her head — a habit he remembered from their dinner in Tel Aviv.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t really know. It was something Samir said to me. There’s one more — an infiltrator.’

  ‘An infiltrator of what?’

  ‘The Knesset. One of them is in the Knesset, or maybe even in the government.’

  She looked sceptical.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, but they have someone on the inside — someone close to Ben Shavit. That’s how they knew that you were on their trail, that they had to switch targets in Tel Aviv.’

  Rachel said nothing for a long time. He was well aware of her hand, which was still on his leg.

  ‘Did you learn anything else? A name? What he does? Anything?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s all I know.’

  She looked up at the ceiling, and seemed to be gathering her strength. He ran his fingers over her hand. It was rough with scabs and cuts.

  ‘That must have been a very odd shower you fell in.’

  ‘Explosive.’

  ‘Why did the soldiers kill him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Samir Mustaf.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’re not thinking clearly. Samir Mustaf was the creator of Mona. So our team’s orders were clear: he was not to be harmed under any circumstances. With all due respect, he was the one who was supposed to be picked up at the camp. You were, too, of course, but Samir Mustaf was the highest priority. They were all trained to recognise h
im and to fire selectively during the operation. Unfortunately, he was already dead when they got there.’

  Instantly, Eric realised what had happened. Ahmad had killed Samir for letting a spy into the camp. No, not Ahmad. He was just a tool. I killed him. I kill everyone.

  She took his hand. They sat like that for a while, their fingers interlaced. When the front door was opened by a young police officer, Eric instinctively tried to take his hand back, but she held onto it.

  ‘Eric?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t let them move her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re not interested in her survival. What they want is to limit the spread of the virus, and to carry out analyses — an autopsy.’

  He shuddered. She squeezed his hand harder.

  ‘Find a way, Eric. Don’t let them move her.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I promise.’

  She let go of him and stood up.

  ‘Good luck, Professor. And remember that you were right when you saw the taxi driver at the hotel.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are good people around. Even in Tel Aviv.’

  ‘I know.’

  She gave a short nod and walked toward the glass door, limping on her left leg.

  ‘Rachel.’

  She stopped, but didn’t turn around.

  ‘Take care of yourself.’

  She answered quietly, her back still to him.

  ‘Nesi’a tova.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bon voyage.’

  Then she disappeared through the glass door without closing it. He stood there, staring at the half-open door. The police officer behind him cleared his throat.

  ‘Eric Söderqvist, I’m going to escort you to the Norwegian Air flight to Stockholm.’

  He nodded and followed the man. Just outside was a police car with flashing lights. The man opened the back door, and Eric sat down on the black-leather seat. On it was a white envelope with his name written sloppily on the front. As the car accelerated in the direction of the large terminal, he picked up the envelope and tore it open. There was only one thing in it — a small red booklet. It was ordinary and a bit worn. He had no money, no phone, and no house keys, but now he had his passport back. He had his identity back. He held the document tightly in his hand, and sank back against the seat.

  Stockholm, Sweden

  Martin Abrahamsson opened and closed his hand a few times to get his circulation going. He had mouse arm. Was that what it was called? Or maybe it was mouse hand. He had been working at the keyboard for six hours straight. His boss, Gabriella Malmborg, was finally on her way home from Brussels. She had made herself clear on the phone: they were to surrender Hanna Söderqvist. Not officially. Unofficially. But how could someone be unofficially surrendered? Gabriella had told him she’d gone through the Söderqvist case with the minister for foreign affairs. He had given the okay, but at the same time had stressed that he would deny all knowledge of this if it leaked. Martin understood what that implied. Despite the risks, Gabriella’s orders were clear: Sweden would comply with the Americans’ wishes, and Hanna Söderqvist would be quietly handed over to the FBI. Gabriella had asked about any precedents — any argument the Ministry of Foreign Affairs could lean on — so he had spent the last hour focusing on extradition laws and the Ministry of Justice’s archives. The government certainly could give special permission for extradition, but only if a crime had been committed. Had a crime been committed? If what the FBI said was true, the husband had committed a crime. But Hanna Söderqvist hadn’t. And therein lay the problem.

  He closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept more than three or four hours in two days, and given even a moment his body would jump at the chance. He sank down in the small desk chair, and was soon leaning alarmingly far to one side. Then the phone rang. He jolted upright and looked at the blinking handset on the table, still half asleep. It was an unknown number. He stiffly reached out and answered it.

  ‘Mr. Abrahamsson! I have good news.’

  It was Paul Clinton. He hated him already.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’s on his way home.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Eric Söderqvist.’

  Martin stood up.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Paul laughed.

  ‘Hey, you’re forgetting who you’re talking to. He’s on his way here from Tel Aviv. I’m meeting him at the airport in a few hours. We’re going straight to the hospital. I suggest you meet us there with the order and affidavit, and we’ll get this taken care of right away. Then you can go home to your family and snuggle up with the wife.’

  ‘Has he been informed that you want to move Hanna Söderqvist to Oslo?’

  ‘He has been informed, and his attitude is positive.’

  ‘Positive?’

  ‘You bet. He’s going to sign all the necessary documents, and he’s promised to help in every way he can. He wants nothing more than for her to be healthy. It’s that simple.’

  ‘What about the suspicions against him?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Unfortunately, it’s all top secret. But, in any case, he’s no longer a suspect.’

  Martin tried to catch his breath as his tired brain tried to absorb this information.

  ‘If he’s no longer a suspect, then what’s the nature of the virus that you think is in Hanna Söderqvist? And how did it get there?’

  Paul didn’t speak for a moment.

  ‘We don’t know. The change in his status doesn’t solve the problem with Hanna Söderqvist. She’s still sick, and we still have every reason to fear that a biological weapon is involved. Do what you need to do, and we’ll see each other at the hospital at four o’clock. You’ll get to meet Eric Söderqvist then, too.’

  The connection was broken. He looked at the clock — four hours left. There was an awful lot to do to obtain all the orders. He sat down and logged into the Ministry for Foreign Affairs’s intranet. Go home and snuggle up with the wife. God, what an idiot.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Eric was allowed to board before the other passengers, and he sat at the very front of the cabin. The plane smelled like dusty fabric. The cockpit door was open; inside, he could see a pilot reading material in a binder. Two flight attendants were clattering around in the galley. Rachel’s words rang in his ears: autopsy. Could it really be true? And how could he rescue Hanna from the FBI? As soon as he got to Sweden, Paul Clinton would be waiting for him in the arrivals hall, and they would go straight to the hospital. Could he refuse to sign the Ministry for Foreign Affairs’s agreement? Hardly. The FBI and the ministry would find other ways to move her.

  He was on his way home. It felt completely surreal. He was on his way to Hanna, but he was terrified of seeing her — terrified of being faced with her illness, terrified of real life in the white room at Karolinska, far from Gaza and Tel Aviv.

  Passengers started streaming in; they were crowding and jostling around him. An older couple stopped, and the woman nodded at the seats near the window. He stood up and let them by. The woman sat by the window and the man, who was short and heavy with bushy white hair, sat down next to Eric with a grunt. Eric took his seat again and fastened his seatbelt. The woman poked the man and said in a broad southern-Swedish accent, ‘Stig, don’t forget to turn off your phone.’

  The man groaned, picked up a backpack, and dug out a black Sony Ericsson. Then Eric had an idea.

  ‘Excuse me. I forgot something very important, and I would be very grateful if I could borrow your phone for a minute. I’m just going to send a text.’

  The man turned to his wife, who shook her head.

  ‘We’re about to take off. You have to turn it off.’

  The
man gave him the phone.

  ‘You heard her. Be quick — no time to write a novel.’

  Eric nodded gratefully, took the phone, and typed in Jens’s number:

  ON MY WAY HOME ON NORWEGIAN. GOING STRAIGHT TO THE HOSPITAL. MFA TO SURRENDER HANNA TO FBI.

  //ERIC

  Once he’d made sure the text had been sent, he erased it and handed back the phone.

  ‘Thanks so much. That was really nice of you.’

  ‘No problem. Have you been in Israel for a long time?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just a few days.’

  ‘Did you have time to see anything?’

  ‘Quite a bit. And you?’

  ‘We sure did. We’re travelling with the Church of Sweden, and we visited Jerusalem and Bethlehem. It was fantastic. It should do us for a long time. Right, Monica?’

  He looked at his wife, who was still irritated about the phone. She pointedly turned away. Eric returned to his chaotic thoughts. Samir Mustaf was dead, and the camp had been razed. Would the Israelis find anything useful in the confiscated computers? Maybe. But it might take weeks, or even longer. And, anyway, they wouldn’t share what they found. Hanna wouldn’t receive any magical medicine. That was a fact. What would happen? Would she be in a coma forever? Would her body eventually give up? Could she be cured without the anti-virus? Miracles could happen. Absolutely, they could. But the ache in his stomach, the pressure in his chest — these were painful proof that his subconscious knew better.

  The airplane banked, and the engines revved loudly. He looked out of the small window next to the woman. Thousands of small houses passed below them, separated by winding lines of cars. He wished he could listen to some music — anything to loosen the knots in his stomach — and fished the little iPod out of his pocket. It was the only thing he still had from when he’d left home, apart from his passport and the clothes on his back. When he clicked on the round menu, the screen lit up, and he browsed through the composers, feeling a certain sense of calm just from seeing the familiar names. He straightened up in his seat and looked around. A stewardess was standing in the galley, packing boxed lunches on a red-and-white cart.