Below Zero

by Eva Hudson

  “I think it best if nothing is presumed.”

  “Very sensible.” He cleared his throat. “After the Arab Spring, the country fell into civil war. This much you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “President Assad refused to step down, and the rebels, notably the Free Syrian Army, could only provide robust opposition for a limited period of time. They simply didn’t have the supply chains, the command structures to hold out against a trained and funded military.”

  Now Ingrid wished she hadn’t had a drink at all. She needed her brain to kick up a gear, but she was having trouble working out how the hell this could possibly involve her. Didn’t they need special ops? Delta Force? She was a fed. A glorified cop. What did she know about the military and civil wars? She didn’t even speak Arabic. She was convinced they had chosen the wrong person.

  “As a consequence, to oversimplify things, the opposition crumbled and Daesh moved in.”

  “Islamic State?”

  “Or, if you’re toeing the line, I believe we are supposed to refer to them as the ‘so-called Islamic State’. Or maybe that’s just on the BBC.” He looked at his watch. “So, now we have a situation where we—or rather you, this is coming from Washington—wish to oust both Assad and Daesh and the only way we can do that is by supporting and consolidating the moderate opposition forces on the ground.”

  Ingrid was gripping the clutch bag in her lap so tightly her fingers were starting to hurt. She didn’t want to interrupt James, or whatever his real name was, she just wanted him to tell her why she had really been invited to Nick’s wedding.

  “And this, my dear, is where you come in.”

  5

  The spa of the Grand Hotel was a classic piece of restrained Scandinavian design. The Swedes, as a rule, were too pragmatic for luxury. Wool over cashmere, ceramic over porcelain, steel over chrome: understated, utilitarian and just how Ingrid liked things. She didn’t do bling. Her earrings were simple silver hoops, and even they sometimes felt like overkill. She couldn’t accessorize. Hated drawing attention to herself. Whether or not that had something to do with her Swedish ancestry she had no idea. She lay back on the lounger and scanned every person who entered the pool area, anticipating that one of them would approach and ask her about the food in Bolivia or the weather in Jakarta. Or was that just what happened in spy movies?

  Ingrid stretched out on the lounger, trying to affect a pose of relaxation. A couple in their forties appeared from the archway that led to the treatment rooms and Ingrid scrutinized them as they headed for the locker-room exit. They only had eyes for each other: they were not who she was meeting.

  It seemed impossible that her visiting a luxury spa in Stockholm could have anything to do with the war in Syria, but if the Fortnum plan was implemented effectively and on schedule, she was assured her actions would enable the State Department to pave the way for a new coalition in Damascus.

  “I believe,” James had said to her as she looked out the window at an ambulance forging a path through the traffic on Pall Mall, “it is important that you understand what is at stake, agent.”

  Ingrid turned to him. “For me, or for the State Department?”

  “For the people of Syria.”

  There was no reply to that.

  James continued: “Right now there are several factions fighting each other, presumably because they know they cannot defeat Assad or Daesh. To be blunt, we simply need them to stop.”

  Was this how the British behaved in diplomatic negotiations? Talking to warring factions like a headmaster at an ivy-clad prep school? Ingrid was starting to feel cold. In the other room, slung over the back of her chair, was a shawl that she wanted for her shoulders. But whether sitting next to a drafty Georgian window in a thin silk dress in the middle of December was the cause of her shivering she couldn’t be sure: she had never been sent to a war zone before.

  “What is it you need me to do?” she asked, her throat tightening as she spoke.

  James pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. Ingrid had done several training sessions on reading facial expressions: she understood that he wanted to reveal as little as possible. “Let’s say there are two factions. We’ll call them Faction A and Faction B, and let’s also say that we—the West—is backing the A team. Your job is to help persuade Faction B to capitulate. By Thursday.”

  Was he serious? “How? And why Thursday?”

  “There is another meeting in Vienna. By the end of that meeting, A and B must be in agreement if we stand any bloody chance of making a difference in Syria.”

  “I don’t see what I can do.”

  “You only need to do what you are told. And to follow your instructions with absolute precision and discretion. Nothing else.” He looked down at his hands and Ingrid followed his gaze. The immaculate silver hair and tailored tux were in contrast to his rugged fingers. They looked like they belonged to a gardener or a sailor: weathered, lined, callused. Ex-military for sure. Probably SAS. Hands that could kill. Hands that had killed. Without the need for a weapon.

  “And how on earth am I supposed to get Faction B to play ball?”

  “Fear not, Agent Skyberg. You won’t be doing it single-handedly. You will be part of a team, and—” he interrupted himself. “Do you watch sports?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll know the teams that win matches are the ones where the individual players stay in position, follow their manager’s instructions and don’t need to look behind them before they throw the ball because they trust their teammates will be there.” He paused, weighing up if he needed to say more. “It is also important that, as a manager, you choose the right players for the opposition. If you’re a flyweight, you’re not going to do well against one of the Klitschko brothers, are you?”

  One of the swimmers in the pool climbed out. With no magazine to read, it was hard not to watch him, a choice she regretted when he caught her staring at his penis. The man—thirties, southern European, judging by his olive skin and dark hair—was muscular with a tattoo on his upper left arm. Some sort of insignia. A regiment perhaps. She smiled at him, hoping he would recognize it as a greeting rather than a compliment. He tied a towel around his waist and walked off toward the sauna and steam room, leaving foot-shaped puddles in his wake. He didn’t look back.

  Not him.

  Ingrid had been waiting on the lounger for fifteen minutes, making it well after midday. She wasn’t sure what else she could do apart from make herself both visible and approachable. She had no idea if the person she was conducting the transaction with had her description or not. Perhaps she didn’t fit their idea of an arms dealer.

  James had explained to Ingrid that her role was to acquire a component from one organization and deliver it to another. ‘A simple courier job’ was how he’d put it.

  “What kind of component?” she had asked, fearing the answer.

  James nodded. “It is better that you understand. There is an argument for saying you should know nothing, that you should not open the package, but I like my players to know the role they are performing. It generally leads to better outcomes.” He sniffed in sharply through his nose. “You will be aware, of course, that there are restrictions on the weapons we can supply to the combatants on the ground. Officially.”

  “And unofficially?”

  He leaned forward. “Have you heard of the Haze missile?”

  She shook her head.

  “Ballistic. Laser guided. Damned effective. Can practically turn on a sixpence at 400 miles per hour. SAMs are useless against it.”

  “And you want me to, what? Go to an arms fair and buy one?”

  “No, my dear, that would never be allowed. How best can I explain this? Faction A, as I shall continue to call them, already have a supply. Via the Israelis, oddly enough. But they are all useless. They were supplied without… how can I describe it to you? You don’t know about ballistic weapons, do you?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “
Nick tells me you ride a bike?”

  “A Triumph Thunderbird.”

  “Ah, a beauty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, tell me, what would be an excellent way of preventing a thief from using it?”

  Ingrid gave it some thought. “Disconnect the battery? Remove it? Or the spark plugs?”

  “Bingo. These missiles are missing their spark plugs. Your job is to obtain these components—discreetly, without incident—and deliver them. You won’t know who you are meeting. You will not be able to join the dots. But if you play your part, by Wednesday morning Faction A will have released the first Haze attack. And by Wednesday evening, Faction B will be in the mood to negotiate and the talks in Vienna will achieve the aims of the US government.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “What a good question, my dear.” He took a sip of his Scotch. “That is why you will be collecting three of these spark plugs. It is entirely possible that the first Haze attack will be assumed to be a one-off. Faction B will likely take stock. Launching a second Haze missile should convince them Faction A have a good supply… that’s generally when we get people willing to negotiate. Same thing happened in the Iran-Iraq war.”

  “It did?”

  “Yah. You remember Oliver North and all that, don’t you?”

  Ingrid had barely been born at the time of the Iran-Contra scandal. “Of course.”

  “It was the second missile that got Saddam to the table.”

  Ingrid wondered what kind of missile he was talking about. Chemical? Worse? “So why the need for a third…” Ingrid searched for the right words. “The third spark plug?”

  “Insurance. Just in case one of them is defective. And besides, we have been offered three of them. By Thursday, the Vienna negotiations will be on the cusp of a breakthrough and no nation, not yours, not ours, will have breached the arms control agreements to which we are signatories.” He looked at her closely, making sure that she understood. “Needless to say that—if those aims bring about the intended result—many, many lives will be saved. You will have done a good day’s work, agent.”

  “I have a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You want me to collect these ‘spark plugs’ from Peter and deliver them to Paul?”

  “Correct.”

  She took a breath. “Why doesn’t Peter just take them to Paul?”

  “Ah. Yes. Obvious question.” James rattled the ice cubes round his tumbler.

  “Well?”

  He pressed his lips together, then spoke carefully. “It is important that the receiver has no way of identifying the supplier. For obvious reasons.”

  She supposed it made sense. “And I can buy these ‘spark plugs’ for five thousand dollars?”

  He bit the inside of his lip, pulling the skin tighter over his chin. “No, I imagine they cost a great deal more than that. The money is for you.”

  “I am being paid?” She knew she sounded indignant.

  “To cover your travel expenses.”

  He laid out the plan to her: get to Stockholm by midday on Monday without any means of identification and without being followed; buy two burner phones and two SIM cards from separate retailers; send a message to the number he wrote on the palm of her hand; wait for instructions; follow whatever instructions she received.

  So far, Ingrid had obeyed James’s instructions to the letter. But the longer she was made to wait at the poolside, the less sure she was she hadn’t forgotten something. Or made a mistake. Was there another Grand Hotel she didn’t know about? Had she been followed? Compromised? She was breathing deeply, her chest rising rapidly beneath the cotton towel.

  She had to try something else because waiting wasn’t working. She got up and walked back toward the locker room. From her vantage point on the lounger, she hadn’t been able to see either the fat woman or the woman in Lycra leave, but she reasoned that enough time had passed for either of them to have placed the spark plugs in her locker. If someone had the contacts to deal in ballistic missiles, was it really so ridiculous that they’d be able to get a duplicate key to a changing-room locker? Ingrid marched up to the locker room and pushed the door open with such force that it slammed into a bench. Five shocked faces turned toward her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. In English. Dammit. She clenched her jaw in annoyance. “Jag år ledsen.”

  The women—none of whom Ingrid had seen before—returned to their excited conversations about massages and pedicures. Ingrid reached down and unpinned her key. Then she took a step toward her locker, tensed every muscle in her body, and inserted the key.

  Transcript from Riksdag Committee Hearing 23

  December 14 2015

  BILUNGS: If we could continue, Inspector. When did the Stockholm City Police first learn that the suspect had been at the Grand Hotel?

  LUNDBERG: I wasn’t aware of it until the Wednesday, so the 17th. It’s possible some of my other colleagues had heard something sooner.

  BILUNGS: And you spoke to staff at the hotel?

  LUNDBERG: Yes, but not until the following day.

  BILUNGS: It was not a priority?

  LUNDBERG: You have to remember, on Tuesday 16th I was out at Västerås, where the cell phone had been traced to. That had been my part of the investigation. It wasn’t until the hotel got in touch, after our appeal for help, that we knew she had been in the spa.

  BILUNGS: Understood. So please tell us what you found out from the hotel.

  LUNDBERG: Sure. Of course. Well, there had been some thefts. A few guests reported belongings had been stolen from their rooms, and another—possibly two, actually—guests had complained of things going missing from the changing rooms in the spa. Ilse Fredriksson, the duty manager, had reported it to the police. On the Monday. Though, obviously, given what was happening next door at the museum guests were issued with crime numbers, so they could claim on their insurance policies, but it was not followed up until the Wednesday, by which time the hotel had carried out its own investigation. [Pause. BILUNGS motions for her to continue] Miss Fredriksson had already matched the spa guests against the main hotel guest list and had eliminated everyone who was staying at the hotel. She told me she was satisfied none of the hotel guests were responsible, so that left the day visitors.

  BILUNGS: And the suspect was one of these day visitors?

  LUNDBERG: Yes, there is no CCTV footage from the spa, but we believe the suspect is the woman you can see in Exhibit 38, the screenshot from the security camera in the hotel’s main lobby.

  BILUNGS: [Holding A4 photo] Is this the photograph you mean?

  LUNDBERG: Yes. It’s not a great image, but when we showed that photo to the patrons at Republik, several of them said they believed it was the same woman. Anyway, as I was saying, the hotel started to do its own research into the day visitors, most of whom we were able to trace through credit card usage, but the receptionist remembered this woman who had paid in cash. When uniformed officers followed up the theft reports on the Wednesday, and they saw this woman in the photograph, they immediately called my team. By this stage, there wasn’t a single cop in Sweden who wasn’t looking for her.

  6

  Ingrid checked the pockets of her jacket and her jeans. She checked inside her sneakers. She opened the runners’ armband she had strapped to her calf.

  “Have you lost something?” one of the women asked.

  “I’m sorry.” Though she understood her perfectly, Ingrid replied in English. “I do not speak Swedish,” she said in what she hoped was an authentic Russian accent.

  The woman, probably part of a bachelorette party, repeated herself in English.

  “No, thank you. Nothing is lost.”

  It occurred to Ingrid that she had no idea how big the components she was collecting were. Would they fit in a pocket? Would they even fit inside her backpack? Ever since James had called them spark plugs, she had been envisioning exactly that, but she had no idea if she’d need a suitcase
to transport them or if they’d fit in her pockets. She peered inside the oak locker: even if they were the size of a stamp they weren’t there.

  She put her clothes back in then went over to the mirror and made a show of fixing her hair while examining the five women as they undressed. Never had five women needed a spa day less: they were all manicured and waxed, without a dimple of cellulite between them. What happened to the universal law that in every group of five women there always had to be an ugly one? Or had that law not been in force since the dawn of the Spice Age?

  She decided she should go for a swim. Not only would it deal with her ‘hat hair’ situation, but she had been instructed not to draw attention to herself and it had to look odd that she had paid for the spa’s sumptuous facilities and wasn’t using them. A little exercise might also soothe the menstrual cramps that were beginning to tighten around her abdomen. Then she remembered that she didn’t have a swimming costume.

  To hell with it. She was part Swedish, wasn’t she? She was in the shape of her life. And maybe, just maybe, she was being watched and someone would only approach her after she had demonstrated, categorically, that she was unarmed.

  Ingrid left the hens to their chatter and didn’t miss a beat between dropping her towels on the first lounger she came to and diving in. Within a few strokes, the water didn’t seem so cold, and by the end of the first length she wondered why people didn’t swim in the nude more often until a guy switched to her side of the pool so he could swim in her wake. Then she remembered exactly why: because most men are creeps. He was too slow to get close enough for an eyeful, but when she reached the end, she climbed out, as modestly as she could, and wrapped herself in one of her towels.

  She ran the other towel over her short hair and looked again at the people using the spa. It had to be twelve thirty by now. Surely one of them was looking for her?