Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  ‘Excuse me.’

  She put two boxes down beside the cart and came up to him with a broad smile.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m wondering if there are any headphones I could borrow.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  She disappeared toward the rear of the plane.

  Eric spun the thin little iPod between his fingers and thought about when Samir had come into the cell with it. Music was something they shared — something that gave both of them comfort, maybe more than religion, revenge, or love. It was what they turned to when things were at their worst. Samir had wanted to do something for him before his difficult night. Music was the best thing — maybe the only thing — he had to offer.

  ‘Here. They’re not great, but they’re better than nothing.’

  The flight attendant handed him a pair of simple black headphones with a thin silver band and large black ear cushions.

  ‘I think they’ll work.’

  ‘Thank you very much. They’ll be fine.’

  He plugged them in and returned to the playlist. Then he happened to think of Samir’s last words. He’d said that he had loaded some music for him, by Tchaikovsky. A masterpiece, he’d called it — Tchaikovsky’s seventh symphony. What else had he said? Maybe it can give you your love back. That sounded nice. It was the only memory, the only trace, of Samir he had left — one symphony. He found Tchaikovsky, and scrolled through his works. He found his old files: the second, fifth, and sixth symphonies; Pathétique; two of his ballets, Swan Lake and The Nutcracker; several piano and violin concertos, Romeo and Juliet; and chamber music — but no seventh symphony. He was convinced he’d never heard of Tchaikovsky’s seventh symphony.

  ‘What did you say?’

  He looked up and met the eyes of the man with the bushy white hair.

  ‘Me? Did I say something?’

  The man nodded. ‘You said “seven”.’

  ‘Sorry. I was talking to myself.’

  ‘It’s an interesting number — an important number with a lot of symbolic meaning.’

  Eric felt irritated, and pointedly tried to indicate that he was listening to music. He left the headphones on and held up the iPod.

  ‘The number seven is a universal symbol of consummation. Or completion. Perfection.’

  He recalled that Samir had said it was a perfect symphony. He took off his headphones.

  ‘Interesting.’

  Inspired, the man went on. ‘Just think of Jesus’s seven words on the cross, the seven sacraments in the Catholic church, the seven cardinal sins. In the Bible, Jacob had to work seven years to earn Rachel, and the Book of Revelations talks about the scroll with the seven seals.’

  ‘Did you write a dissertation on a number?’

  The man laughed.

  ‘No, no, but I’m interested in symbols. The number seven is also the fourth prime number.’

  ‘I knew that.’

  ‘Good. But maths isn’t my subject; religion is. The Ottomans liked the number seven, too. For example, they built seven minarets in the city of Bitola in Macedonia just after they’d conquered it — in the mid-seventeenth century, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Eric went rigid and stared ahead in silence. He nodded curtly at the man.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  He went back to the iPod. Was it a code? Had Samir meant something else? It was impossible that one of the world’s foremost IT experts hadn’t been able to transfer a music file to an iPod. So why wasn’t there any seventh symphony by Tchaikovsky on the playlist? He returned to the main menu and scrolled through the options. At the very bottom, a totally new category popped up:

  TO ERIC

  He took a breath, opened the folder, and found one file. He stared at it as though bewitched.

  TCHAIKOVSKY NR. 7 // CONCERT FOR NADIM

  The world around him disappeared. The trays of food arrived, but he ignored them. What had Samir said? Maybe it can give you your love back. Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ. Tchaikovsky’s seventh wasn’t a music file. It was Nadim — the anti-virus. Samir had loaded the anti-virus on his iPod. He must have hoped that Eric would somehow survive — make it out of the camp, and get home. Samir himself had died a few hours later, but he’d managed to leave a legacy within this thin slab of steel. Eric squeezed it in his hand and looked out the window at the blue sky, and at the sunlight flashing on the metal wing.

  The exhaustion was too tempting, too final. She couldn’t fight anymore; she collapsed. She pressed her naked body against the bare wall. It was now almost completely dark in the passage outside the ground floor of NK. She could still hear the storm at the top of the stairs. She pulled her legs up to her chin, and rested her head on her knees. She thought of the old alarm clock. Humanity was over. All life was gone. The world would either start over or just slowly give up. Nature would dry out, suffocated by the white ash. She shuddered. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She just wanted to sleep. Perhaps she could hear a girl’s voice, sobbing and urging her to wake up, begging, shouting that she couldn’t fall asleep. Maybe she felt small, as cold hands shook her. But she wanted to sleep. She wanted to sleep and never wake up.

  Eric didn’t have any luggage, so he went straight through the empty customs hall. When he came out into the arrivals hall, he stopped and looked around. Paul Clinton was supposed to be waiting for him. It felt unreal. The thought of seeing the FBI agent in the midst of this Swedish environment, among Pressbyrån kiosks and yellow Arlanda Express signs, was bizarre. He looked around but couldn’t see him, and was just starting to hope that he wouldn’t be there when he saw him sitting alone at the café near the exit. Their eyes met. He steeled himself against the desire to run in the other direction, and instead walked up to the American.

  ‘On time — not bad. Nice to see you again. Was your flight okay?’

  ‘It was fine.’

  Paul took a blue folder from the table and stood up.

  ‘We’re going straight to the hospital. We can take care of the paperwork when we get there. The Ministry for Foreign Affairs will meet us there.’

  They went toward the revolving doors and on toward the parking lot. The air was warm, and full of the Swedish summer. The Ministry for Foreign Affairs will meet us there. So it was all settled and arranged. There was no way out. He was angry. Could they really hand over a citizen just like that? He hated the chubby man ahead of him. How do you negotiate with the American government? How do you explain that they’ve got it all wrong? And how the hell could the Swedish authorities just swallow all the bullshit they were being fed? What would happen if he didn’t sign the consent form, if he simply refused? All he wanted was to be alone with Hanna for a few minutes — long enough to transfer Nadim. He glanced at Paul. What if he knew that Eric had the anti-virus in his pocket? Should he tell him? Could he use the anti-virus as a bargaining chip to keep Hanna in Sweden?

  It was too risky. Nadim was too desirable. They would just take the iPod away from him, and then he would have no chance to use the anti-virus on her. It would have to be his last resort. He decided not to tell anyone about Tchaikovsky’s seventh symphony, but he did feel a bit better. Having Nadim was an advantage, whatever it was worth.

  A black Volvo V70 started up as they approached the parking lot. He recognised the other FBI agent at the wheel. It was the arrogant one — the man he had tripped over when he was thrown out of the little booth in the security area. Paul opened the back door for him, but then he changed his mind and laughed.

  ‘Sorry, my old police reflexes are showing. You take the front seat; I’ll sit in back. You’re no bad guy.’

  Eric opened the door and sat down on the grey-fabric seat beside the driver. He didn’t remember his name; he didn’t even know if he’d ever learned it. The car smelled new, w
ith a rental contract from Avis on the floor by his feet. The man gave a quick nod, and backed out of the parking spot. Paul leaned forward between the seats.

  ‘I heard you did a good job in the sandpit the other night.’

  ‘I survived.’

  ‘So you did. But not the towelheads.’

  ‘The towelheads?’

  ‘The terrorists. Haven’t you noticed they like to wear towels on their heads? In every fucking possible colour. But I’m not complaining. It makes it easier to see them.’

  ‘I’m sure it does.’

  ‘You bet. But you have to be careful. All of a sudden, one of those little bastards will take off the towel and put on a suit. Or a Yankees jersey and a baseball cap. Those are the really dangerous ones — the ones in camouflage.’

  He thumped the back of the seat.

  ‘But they can’t trick me, dammit. You can tell that their suits fit like potato sacks. And they smell like kebabs.’

  The car was speeding along as they passed the exit for Kista. Paul’s tone changed, and he became more earnest.

  ‘Do you understand that we’re the only ones who can save your wife? No one else has the experience of CBRN.’

  ‘CBRN?’

  ‘Chemical, biological, radioactive, and nuclear threats. We believe she might be infected with some sort of biological weapon. Maybe a prototype for a terror virus.’

  ‘So now you believe my story?’

  ‘At first I was sure that you’d cooked something up on Hezbollah’s orders. After your home run in Gaza, though, I don’t know what to think. But it’s not up to me to give a diagnosis — the experts in Oslo will have to do that. If everything goes well, we can move her as soon as tonight. We’re all set. And do you know what the best thing is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It won’t cost you a thing. Just thank Uncle Sam.’

  Eric’s mouth was dry. Hanna was to be tossed onto a butcher’s table in an American military lab. Over his dead body.

  Something woke her. She cautiously lifted her head. Farther down the passage toward the shopping centre, the darkness took over and swallowed up every colour and shape. The storm was over, and everything was quiet once again.

  ‘Is anyone there?’

  The words rolled along the black-and-white paving stones, and dissolved into the dark. The seconds plodded on. Nothing happened. She gathered her courage, took a deep breath, and stood up. She was on her way to the stairs when she heard the girl’s voice.

  ‘Hanna.’ She sounded frightened. Hanna carefully approached the open door of NK.

  ‘Un. Ge … ou … er.’ The voice was distant and faint. All the nerves in her body resisted. Not into the darkness. Not in. She went in. ‘Un. Ge … o … er.’ The echo made it hard to understand what she was saying. Could the girl be in danger? She remembered that there was a wide staircase a bit farther in — a staircase that led down to the kitchen department. She was now far inside the department store, and the door behind her hung like a distant rectangle in black space. She felt the stairs with her feet. She swallowed and called out.

  ‘I’m here. Where are you? As she reached the last stair, the girl’s voice came back, this time loudly and clearly.

  ‘Hanna! Run. Get out of here.’

  Panic flooded her. A trap. She backed up, but ran into something and took a hard fall.

  ‘Hanna, run! Please. Run!’

  With her tailbone throbbing, she got up, fumbled in the darkness, and found the stairs. As she came to the top stair, she could see the glowing rectangle hovering far ahead. Freedom. The exit. She went faster, half-running toward the light, sure that the evil was catching up. She tripped over boxes and nearly fell, but regained her balance. A silhouette moved out of the blackness and stood in the middle of the bright rectangle. She gasped and stopped short. Death wasn’t behind her. It was ahead — an impenetrable wall between her and freedom. She knew that she would never be able to escape. She didn’t even have the strength to try, and she sank to the floor, panting. The man got bigger and bigger, and his shape soon filled the whole rectangle. He was coming toward her. All three of them knew that it was over — the naked woman on the floor among shards of glass, ash, and stationery; the little girl in the darkness by the stairs; and the faceless man. This was the end. She was the last one.

  They turned off the road and stopped in one of the handicap spots outside Karolinska Hospital. As they walked toward the entrance, Eric suddenly realised that he was about to see Hanna — realised it emotionally, and not just intellectually. How would she look? Would he even be able to handle seeing her? Shame, anguish, and worry tumbled through him and made him stop. He realised that he was breathing too fast, and tried to pull himself together. Paul Clinton noticed him lagging behind, and threw up his hands.

  ‘Come on. What are you doing?’

  There was a hint of anxiety in his voice as well. For him, too, there was a lot at stake. They arrived at the large elevators, and Paul’s taciturn colleague pressed the button. Eric tried to think clearly, but his nerves blocked out all of his thoughts. How could he keep Hanna in Sweden? He couldn’t exactly throw himself on top of her and hold on tightly. Paul seemed to read his mind; he took out the blue folder, and from it he pulled a piece of paper full of writing. In the upper-right-hand corner was the yellow-and-blue three-crowns emblem of the government offices of Sweden.

  ‘Before we get up there, you need to sign this. Don’t bother reading all the fine print. It just gives us permission to move her into the care of specialists in Norway.’

  He handed over the paper, along with a green pen from Grand Hôtel.

  ‘The government guys are waiting for you upstairs, and all they need is your signature.’

  The thought that Hanna was now only a few floors away helped push away his doubts. He took the paper and looked at it without seeing it. The elevator arrived, a nurse rolled a large bed out of it, and the three of them stepped in. The doors closed. Paul pressed the button for the sixth floor. Eric was still standing with the paper in one hand and the pen in the other. The sixth floor — she hadn’t been there before. They must have moved her. Paul leaned toward him impatiently.

  ‘Here. Sign on this line.’

  ‘What if I refuse?’

  The FBI agent slammed the emergency-stop button, and the elevator stopped with a jerk. Paul’s colleague moved at lightning speed. He clamped Eric’s shoulders as hard as a vice. Paul looked him in the eye.

  ‘Listen here, you little shit. The only reason you’re here is because I told the Mossad to let you go, on the condition that you’d co-operate. If you don’t sign, we’ll take the elevator right back down and take a walk in the woods.’

  His face was so close that Eric could see each nose hair, and each red pore in his skin. He smelled like coffee.

  ‘Don’t think for a second that we can’t do to you exactly what we did to the towelheads. If Michael is given free rein, you’ll be begging to sign that fucking piece of paper. I guarantee you, it’s better to do it now.’

  He straightened up and tucked in his shirt, which had come loose from his waistband. Michael let go of Eric.

  ‘And, besides, it will buy you time. Every second we lose could be disastrous for your wife.’

  Eric no longer had the strength to resist. He had no better ideas or plans. He pressed the piece of paper against the elevator wall and signed it. Paul yanked the document back from him.

  ‘That was a damn-smart choice.’

  He pressed the elevator button.

  ‘You can keep the pen.’

  The elevator moved again. They arrived at the sixth floor, and the doors opened with a ding. As soon as they were out, Paul took out his phone, signalled to them to wait, and made a call. He turned away when he received an answer and spoke quietly. Eric looked arou
nd. There were frosted-glass doors in both directions. The one on the right had a green sign that said ‘Unit I61. Observation.’ The one on the left had a similar sign that said ‘Unit I62. Isolation Unit.’ Under the sign was a list of instructions about shoe covers, hair covers, and masks. On the glass was a red biohazard symbol on a white background. He recognised the symbol from movies: a circle in the middle with three half-open circles above it, like rings left by a coffee mug. Beside this threatening sign was a black-and-yellow triangle that warned of gas canisters inside. Paul hung up and turned to them in frustration.

  ‘The idiot from the Ministry for Foreign Affairs went down to get a coffee. We’ll wait here — there’s no point in going in without him.’

  Eric ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Is Dr Wethje here?’

  Paul nodded.

  ‘He should be. I assume the government guy has already talked to him.’

  The elevators dinged, and one of them opened. A young man with thin blond hair and round glasses came out. He was obviously nervous. He walked up to the trio waiting between the glass doors, and put out his hand to Eric.

  ‘Welcome home. My name is Martin Abrahamsson. I work for the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.’

  Eric shook his hand.

  ‘I’m really sorry about your wife’s condition. Hopefully, the American doctors can help her.’

  Eric didn’t answer; he just looked at him blankly. The man looked uncertain, as if he wanted to say something more, but Paul took over.

  ‘Mr Abrahamsson, here’s your authorisation. Signed, sealed, and delivered.’

  He handed over the document, and Abrahamsson took it and studied the signature closely, clearly still thinking. Paul seemed to sense his hesitation, and cleared his throat.

  ‘Gentlemen, I suggest that we all go in and talk to the doctor to figure out arrangements for the transfer.’

  He opened the glass door into the isolation unit. Abrahamsson let his gaze linger on Eric before he followed the Americans through the door. Eric remained outside for a long moment; he couldn’t find the strength to go in. The others were standing just inside the door, pulling on shoe covers and washing their hands. Paul caught sight of him.