Into a Raging Blaze

by Andreas Norman

  “Then there’s the mention of the photographs.” The mouse cursor appeared, and moved to the relevant sentence. “We have validated this with”—he mumbled in an anxious tone and cast an eye at Wilson—“certain, targeted operations. We know that Akim Badawi has received photographs sent by Jamal Badawi. A steganographic analysis of the pictures hasn’t shown that they contained any hidden code, but London hasn’t reached a final conclusion yet. I know that the pictures will be subjected to further processing.”

  Wilson turned to Hamrén and then looked at Bente. “This message,” he said, pointing at the screen, “is a sign. A challenge. We know that Akim Badawi manages foundations that fund terrorism. We know that he is part of the Ahwa group. So why is he contacting Jamal Badawi now? What does he want his nephew to do? It’s questions like that which we are posing.”

  Hamrén nodded silently.

  “Adonis.” One of the Counterterrorism officers pointed. “First paragraph. Who’s that?”

  “Adonis. Yes, of course. Good.” The analyst brought the mouse cursor up.

  “It sounds like a cover name.”

  “That’s right. The individual behind the name is Ali Ahmad Said. A Syrian author. Member of the resistance. Lives in Paris,” said the analyst.

  “Member of the resistance?” said Hamrén.

  “Yes, against the Syrian regime. General anti-Western antipathy.”

  “Part of this Ahwa?”

  “Not so far as we know.”

  “But is he a threat?” said Hamrén impatiently. “Is he part of the threat? That’s what we want to know.”

  “No,” responded the analyst with a look at Wilson. “We don’t deem him to be a threat.” He continued after a brief pause, “If we go to the end of the message, we see what is possibly most interesting—the poem.”

  The analyst enlarged the text so that only the lines of the poem were visible. Bente read through the lines again, slowly. Flowery, exotic imagery. She had never understood poetry. It didn’t go anywhere.

  “It’s an ancient poem. It was written by a poet called Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi, who lived during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Ibn ‘Arabi is known throughout the Arab world as a poet and philosopher. He is one of the prominent figures in Sufism. Yes, you may be aware of dervishes and the more mythical interpretation of the Qur’an. In the Arab world, these texts are still read and used by people . . .”

  The analyst stopped for a moment, clearly noting how people in the room were looking vacantly at him. Someone moved restlessly in their chair. Out of everyone, it was only really the Salafist expert who was listening.

  “Well, anyway,” he said briefly, and cut what was probably a long explanation that he had carefully prepared back in London, “the poem.”

  Bente was grateful; little was as annoying as specialists getting sidetracked on to their nerdy pet subjects.

  “What’s in the e-mail is the last two stanzas of a longer poem. I should say that we’ve done a cryptographic analysis of the poem, but without any results. What we are probably seeing here is a basic code—a hidden message that Jamal Badawi is approaching his goal: ‘Their stations will be near.’ It’s a way for Akim Badawi to tell him that it’s time to get ready. ‘Their fire will loom before you, kindling desire into a raging blaze,’” the analyst read quickly. “It is those lines, in particular, that worry us. We know that Akim Badawi is educated—he is familiar with Arabic literature; he is familiar with the Qur’an—and he is using this to send a message. It’s the line about the ‘raging blaze’ that is key, that is what we consider demonstrates a threat. The love of God makes desire grow into a raging blaze. It’s a classic motif, even in the Qur’an. A raging blaze is mentioned in key passages in the Qur’an—it is the fire that burns when a believer is filled with the love of God, but it’s also a concept in the Qur’an that represents the final day. Our assessment is that Jamal Badawi is being prepared for some kind of attack—an attack with high aspirations, with the intention of creating massive destruction. And that involves self-effacement for Jamal Badawi.”

  The room was dead quiet. Everyone stared at the text.

  “Thank you, George,” said Wilson. “So, preparations are afoot. We know that Jamal Badawi has already given his uncle an answer of sorts. He has built up a relationship with one of your diplomats. He has managed to get close to people involved in your foreign policy and within the EU who he wouldn’t normally have access to. He has then discovered, through this diplomat, a report about European counterterrorism that contains sensitive information about our joint work against terrorism. And now we have a clear indication that Carina Dymek is a loyal recruit. Because, unless I’m mistaken, she did not leak the report to any of the parties one might have expected. Not the Russians, not the Chinese. No one, except Jamal Badawi. Now you’ve seen Akim’s e-mail; now you know what I know. London believes we are facing a threat and I’m inclined to agree.”

  Silence.

  “Are there any indications of what the target is?” said Hamrén.

  Wilson shook his head.

  “Okay,” said Hamrén. “Thank you very much.”

  The meeting was over. Wilson and his analyst left the room while the Swedish investigation team stayed behind for a quick briefing. Bente followed the Brits to the elevator. She wanted to try and get Wilson to say a little more about how they had come across this group in Cairo. She smiled at him, jokingly taking his arm in hers.

  “A very interesting presentation, Roger.”

  He nodded morosely. “Thanks. Not all of your colleagues seemed to appreciate it.”

  She let go of him as he shuffled into the elevator, followed by his analyst. He wasn’t talkative. She said something about Swedish resources naturally being ready to cooperate. As soon as the elevator doors had slid shut, she pulled out her cell and called Mikael.

  “The Ahwa group: ever heard of it? Do we have the name recorded at the Section?”

  A short pause. “A group in Sweden?”

  “No, international. Apparently it’s based in Cairo.”

  He thought for a moment. “In Cairo? No, I don’t think so. I can check.”

  “Wilson came in here with an analyst and talked about a secret group within the Muslim Brotherhood. There’s a connection to Jamal Badawi—the guy at the Ministry of Justice—and Dymek. I’ll arrange for you to get the British intelligence. Check it. Go through it all.”

  When she returned to the conference room, Hamrén and the others in Counterterrorism management were in the middle of a discussion about the threat assessment. Was Jamal Badawi a threat? To what extent should they respond?

  “We need to keep an eye on him. Where is he now?” said Hamrén. “Do we know?”

  “Right now . . . ?” The Head of Directed Surveillance leafed through his papers. “Two hours ago he left a restaurant, here, on Kungsholmen—together with Carina Dymek. They took a taxi to Badawi’s address and they are currently still there.”

  “Okay. I want Badawi watched, twenty-four seven. It’s simply not good enough that the Brits know more about our government officials than we do.”

  The men around the table took notes.

  “And as for Dymek—we need to speak to her. Bring her in.”

  Hamrén was moving fast, Bente thought. Counterterrorism worked differently from rest of the organization—more direct, no finesse. She appreciated it. Kempell, however, looked tense. If it had been his case, he would have waited for Dymek. Counterterrorism was taking a risk trying to contact her at such an early stage of the investigation, but Bente knew what they were thinking. Presumably, they were hoping that she would play along and become a Security Service informant, lead them to Jamal and then into the heart of the group in Cairo. In their eyes, this was no longer about a leak; this was the global fight against terrorism. It was about the Muslim Brotherhood, not a civil servant who had stepped off the straight and narrow.

  “Okay. Protection?”

  The Deputy Head of the Dignit
ary Protection branch had joined them after the presentation by MI6. He looked like a wrestler, with dark, cropped hair and a wide back. Personal protection of the Prime Minister had been increased as well as that of certain other ministers who might be subject to threats, he said briefly.

  Heads nodded. Roland Hamrén adjusted his dark-blue tie self-consciously.

  “Has the government been informed?” He turned back to Kempell.

  “The MFA. And SUND. But they only know about Carina Dymek, not the Ahwa trail,” Kempell said in a low voice.

  “We’ll leave it like that,” said Hamrén. “Okay. The hypothesis we’re working off is that Jamal Badawi, the nephew of Akim, is recruiting for a radical wing of the Muslim Brotherhood, and probably for this inner, secret group that the Brits called the Ahwa group. It is also therefore probable that the group poses a threat to Sweden, given its aggressive ideology and the capacity it is expected to have.”

  Kempell made a noise, as if to disagree. A few around the table turned their heads but Hamrén pretended he had not heard anything.

  “I agree with Wilson’s analysis. Badawi and Dymek are threats to the government. Given they are in a relationship, it is likely that what Dymek has done isn’t by chance but has to do with the Ahwa group. In that case, she is a threat—to the government and to national security.”

  Kempell muttered something.

  “Sorry?” Hamrén stopped himself.

  “How do we know that?” Kempell burst out. “How do we actually know that this group has anything to do with Jamal Badawi? He received a letter from his uncle. With a poem. It’s pretty thin, Roland.”

  “It’s enough.”

  “We checked Badawi out when he was appointed. Nothing suggested connections to any sort of militant Islamist organization.”

  “I believe you. And I believe British intelligence. You saw the e-mail from his uncle with your own eyes. We can’t ignore that. Surely you understand?”

  “Of course.” Kempell shrugged his shoulders.

  “The British intelligence is well founded,” one of the chief analysts said.

  “Of course, of course,” said Kempell in annoyance. “But is it possible for us to verify it? No. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “That’s true. But their signals intelligence—”

  “We have no sources of our own,” Kempell interrupted sharply.

  The analyst retreated. “No, not at the moment.”

  “So the intelligence that we are trusting is British,” Kempell continued. “Just so that this is clear to everyone: we are using solely British data as a basis for operational decisions.”

  He turned to Roland Hamrén. The room was silent.

  Everyone looked at the Head of Counterterrorism, who cleared his throat and said, “Yes. And that’s good enough. For now.”

  “And we’re placing blind trust in them,” said Kempell.

  “We’re not trusting them blindly at all,” said Hamrén sternly.

  Others would have stopped here, but Kempell carried on. He was combative. Trusting British data like this was taking a big risk, he said. Did they have anything, anything at all, that could verify that Jamal Badawi was a threat? Apart from an e-mail and some speculation about radical groups in Cairo, fed to them by the British?

  “In my branch,” said Kempell, slowly, “we would require more. Facts.”

  “You say that.” Hamrén bared his teeth with a small smile.

  Bente looked down at the table and wished that Kempell would just shut up. He had gone too far. Of course he was right—in a perfect world they wouldn’t trust the British so much—but he knew how it worked. Their world wasn’t perfect. There was a potential terror threat against the government and they had orders to respond, quickly. Kempell was just an old man who, embittered, wanted to know best.

  “What the Brits give us is top drawer,” said Roland Hamrén.

  “I’m sure. But it’s British, just British. Perhaps I’m too suspicious, but I don’t like it. You know just as well as I do, Roland, that reliable intelligence requires at least two or three sources. Otherwise it’s not intelligence, it’s just an opinion. Speculation.”

  Someone sighed loudly. If she had had a remote control for Kempell, Bente would have turned him off right away. She hated it when people made themselves a laughing stock. Kempell looked around the table with a furious expression; their gazes met. Be quiet, please, Kempell. She had never seen him like this before—so shrill in tone. He had had a bad day, management had taken his investigation away, and, for some reason, he now wanted to make his mark, but this was too much; this was pathetic. As Head of Counterespionage, he ought to welcome the apprehension of Jamal Badawi before disaster struck. But he seemed to be stuck.

  “Gustav”—Hamrén put on an exaggerated tone of friendliness—“I understand your concerns. But we have a situation here, which means we can’t wait. Okay?”

  Kempell said nothing. Hamrén pursed his lips. An uncomfortable silence fell over the table until Hamrén thanked everyone, quickly, to indicate that the discussion was over.

  17

  Stockholm, Saturday, October 1

  The homey sound of clinking crockery and the hum of the espresso machine reached Carina as she lay in bed. She yawned. The espresso machine was the only machine in the well-equipped kitchen that Jamal actually used. She stretched to pull back the curtains; a sharp, white daylight pierced through the windows.

  Jamal appeared naked in the doorway with a tray. “Good morning.”

  She sat up in bed. “Hello.”

  They drank lattes and ate toast and marmalade in bed. She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t find the words. A tentative silence lay between them. It had been the first time they had quarreled seriously. But Jamal didn’t seem to want to talk about what had happened at the restaurant the evening before, either. That was a relief; Carina was bad at sorting things out after the fact. It was usually better to look forward, she thought. Let what had already happened be. But their argument worried her. She just wanted everything to be good between them, for them to be close. She sought him out under the duvet. Jamal didn’t seem to respond at first; he looked meditative and drank his coffee slowly.

  “Do you want to go to Cairo?” He looked so serious that she pulled her hand back and sat up again.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She embraced him, kissed him on the neck. “Quite sure.”

  They carried on drinking their coffees.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said after a while. “Sorry.”

  He shook his head. She shouldn’t apologize. He understood that it was a difficult situation for her. He was stupid; he knew nothing about things like that.

  “I got worried,” he said. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  He really meant it. It struck her how long it had been since someone had cared so much about her. “I love you,” she whispered, or perhaps she only thought it.

  Jamal’s phone rang. It lay rattling on the bedside table. He kissed Carina and reached for his cell. She watched him as he sat on the edge of the bed, and noticed the change in his back, how tense he became when he saw the display.

  “I have to take this,” he said curtly and walked out of the room.

  She stayed in bed and heard him answer in Arabic before he disappeared into the bathroom. The mumble of the telephone conversation continued inside. It bothered her that he shut himself away like that, completely unnecessarily. If the conversation was so private that he didn’t want her to hear what it was about, it hardly mattered that she was listening—she couldn’t understand a word of it, anyway. It annoyed her; it felt as if he didn’t like her hearing him speak Arabic. It had happened a couple of times, and afterward he was always resolute but never said who had called or what it had been about—nothing. It was often a long time before his tense, somewhat absent manner disappeared an
d he became himself. Something was bothering him.

  The murmur carried on in the bathroom.

  She got up, pulled on Jamal’s dressing gown, made a second cup of coffee using his espresso machine and waited. Finally, he came out of the bathroom.

  “Sorry that took a while,” he mumbled, putting down his cell. She chose to ask and say nothing. Curiosity had begun to turn into vague annoyance, which she knew she really had no right to feel. She kissed him fleetingly, swept past him into the bathroom and took a long shower.

  When she came out, Jamal was sitting on the sofa with his computer on his lap. He had checked various travel agencies, he said. She sat down next to him while he clicked around the web, comparing prices. Perhaps they could go as soon as the end of October? The weather was good then. There were tickets available that weren’t too expensive. He would probably be able to take some time off. She nodded. She had all the time in the world, she thought gloomily. Quietly, she did the math; yes, she had enough money, she had savings. She would get by for six months, even if her salary from the Ministry stopped coming in.

  As if Jamal had heard her thoughts, he said he would check with relatives to see if they could borrow somewhere to stay.

  “My uncle has a house by the coast. I’ll ask him. I’m sure he’ll lend it to us.”

  “It’ll be nice to meet him.”

  “You’ll like him,” said Jamal, without full conviction. “He’s a fine man. And one of the most important people in my life. It’s time you met him. He’ll like you. I know that.”

  The thought of them together in Cairo finally broke into the slightly melancholic mood she had felt all morning. Finally she would get see something of where he had come from.

  “So you do want to go, then?” he asked.

  “Yes, I already said so.” She laughed.

  He put his laptop to one side and looked steadily at her. “It means a lot to me,” he said. “You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to take a trip like this with.”