Hostage

by Kristina Ohlsson

  Muhammed glanced at the clock on the wall. The major parliamentary debate on immigration and integration was over, and he had devoted hardly any of his time to it. He realised it was spiteful. Those who criticised immigration could point to no less than two recent guilty verdicts in court, which was very unpleasant ammunition with which to arm themselves if they wished to kill off Sweden’s long tradition of a generous immigration policy.

  If Muhammed had not been expecting Fredrika and her boss, he would have done something that he had not done for several years: he would have got down on his knees and prayed for his brothers and sisters. If the government agreed to reduce immigration, to make it more difficult for refugees – as Muhammed himself had once been – to come to Sweden, could he remain in his post as Minister for Justice?

  The answer to that question was no. If they closed Sweden’s borders, then Muhammed would step down, because if the anti-immigration elements won, Muhammed would have lost everything he believed in. And that would mean that he could no longer see a future as a politician in Sweden.

  But these were major issues. Right now Muhammed must do his duty as Minister for Justice. In the name of democracy, meeting the demands of the hijackers was out of the question. He knew that the US government shared that view.

  In which case, the only options were to attempt an emergency landing, or to find those who had set this atrocious plan in motion, before disaster struck. With every passing minute Muhammed was less and less convinced that they would succeed.

  20

  12:01

  A match with the database that looked really bad.

  That was what Sebastian had said, and Eden feared the worst.

  They met in one of the operational conference rooms. Sebastian and one of his analysts went through what they had found out so far. Eden realised that Sebastian was still angry about her comment on his colleagues, and wondered if Alex had picked up the awkward atmosphere in the room. She didn’t think so. He had nothing to compare it with; he had no way of knowing what was a good or bad atmosphere in their normal working day. But Eden could feel the coldness emanating from Sebastian just as palpably as if he had placed an icy hand on the back of her neck. Fortunately he chose to maintain a pleasant facade in front of Alex.

  If only she could have lit a cigarette. It enabled her to think so much better. She ought to get something to eat as well. She would have to send one of her assistants out for a salad later.

  ‘What have you found?’

  All her life she had been told that she was too impatient, so she made an effort to sound neutral.

  The screen behind Sebastian flashed into life.

  ‘A remarkable connection between yesterday’s bomb threats and the threat on the plane, to say the least; this is the last thing we want.’

  A list of telephone numbers with various lines between them appeared on the screen. Four were in red.

  ‘Yesterday’s bomb threats came from these four numbers. As you know they belong to unregistered pay-as-you-go SIM cards and cannot be traced to specific users or subscribers. However, we were able to check whether there had been any other traffic to or from these phones. And there had. Three of the phones don’t appear to have been used before, but two calls had been made from the fourth phone, which was used to make the last bomb threat. One call was made this morning, one yesterday evening.’

  Sebastian pointed to one of the numbers that was highlighted in yellow.

  ‘To this number. A private mobile number, according to our enquiries. It belongs to Karim Sassi.’

  One colleague after another passed by outside the glass cube, but Eden couldn’t take her eyes off the numbers on the screen.

  Karim Sassi.

  The captain of Flight 573 had been in touch with whoever had made bomb threats against four different locations in Stockholm.

  It couldn’t be true, for fuck’s sake.

  ‘And what does this mean?’

  It was a rhetorical question; as she spoke, it sounded as if she was thinking out loud.

  ‘Hang on,’ Sebastian said. ‘There’s more. Karim also called the same number both yesterday and this morning.’

  Eden felt the waves of adrenaline surging through her body. She didn’t need to turn and look at Alex to know that he was also fired up by what he had just heard – she could feel it in her bones. The hunt united them, they were the same creatures, they had just been born at different times.

  ‘Were they long calls?’ Alex asked.

  ‘The call to Karim this morning lasted for approximately twelve minutes; the others are all between two and three minutes.’

  ‘Did Karim make the first call yesterday, or was he the recipient?’ Eden said.

  ‘The call was made to him, then he called back,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘So our esteemed captain has been in touch with the person or persons who called in with the bomb threat against Rosenbad yesterday. Rosenbad was the final target, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was,’ Alex confirmed.

  ‘That’s too many calls to be a coincidence,’ Eden said.

  ‘I’d say it’s too few,’ Sebastian said. ‘If there were a thousand calls to different numbers listed on this phone, you could argue that Karim Sassi’s had come up by chance. But there aren’t a thousand calls, and there’s just one number. And it belongs to Karim Sassi.’

  ‘Is Karim’s phone switched on at the moment?’ Alex said.

  ‘No, it’s off. We tried to call but it went straight to voicemail. We’re assuming he has it with him on board.’

  Eden thought through what she had just been told. She agreed with Sebastian – it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence, but she wasn’t sure what conclusions she could draw. Did the contact between Karim’s mobile and the unknown phone mean that he had been involved in the previous day’s threats, and was therefore probably also involved in the threat against the plane he was now flying? Or did it mean something else?

  ‘Could Karim have been threatened on a personal level?’ Alex wondered. ‘Is that why he doesn’t want to land the plane?’

  That was also a possibility that couldn’t be ruled out, of course, and it could explain a great deal that currently seemed incomprehensible.

  ‘But in that case, why did he board the plane?’ Sebastian said.

  ‘Good question,’ Eden replied.

  ‘Could we ask him over the phone?’ Alex said.

  Or would such a conversation do more harm than good?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Eden said. ‘But I think the answer is no, we can’t.’

  ‘Because if he is involved, then we’d be giving away what we know.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Alex pushed one hand into his trouser pocket.

  ‘We ought to be able to speak to his family, to his wife,’ he said. ‘The whole story is out there anyway, so I think that’s something we have to do in any case.’

  He had hardly finished speaking before he realised what he was saying.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, leaping to his feet.

  Eden understood immediately.

  ‘Your son’s family,’ she said, looking worried. ‘You haven’t spoken to them yet.’

  ‘I didn’t even think about them until I started talking about Karim’s family. I need to speak to Erik’s sister. And to Diana, my partner.’

  He looked very unhappy.

  ‘Erik’s family are on a plane to South America,’ he said. ‘I won’t be able to reach them until they’ve landed.’

  ‘Go and call the people you can reach right away,’ Eden said. ‘And you’re right, we have to speak to Karim’s family too.’

  ‘We’re also setting up a crisis line for the relatives of the four hundred passengers,’ Sebastian said with a sigh. ‘I spoke to the Foreign Office and the Justice Department earlier, but apparently, it’s the police who are expected to deal with this. The Information Office has already set up an exchange and issued a direct number.’

  Eden gave him
a grateful look as Alex slipped out of the room.

  ‘We have to move on, and fast,’ Eden said. ‘Alex is right, we’ll start with a visit to Karim’s home. I’d like you to go as soon as Alex gets back.’

  She glanced at Dennis, the head of the investigation unit.

  Sebastian indicated that he had something to say.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  Eden looked at him.

  ‘We called all the phones that were used to make the four bomb threats yesterday. They’re all switched on.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s true. We’ve managed to trace them through the phone mast, and it appears that all four phones are in the same place. Inside the airport complex. We’ve got teams on the way there now to try and find them.’

  How was it possible that someone who had made a point of making each call on a different phone that couldn’t be traced had then left the phones switched on, enabling the police to find them? Eden didn’t know what to think. Either they were dealing with an amateur, or someone who was careless. Or else, they were heading straight into a trap, meticulously rigged by someone who was holding four hundred passengers hostage.

  21

  WASHINGTON, DC, 06:05

  It was morning, but still dark outside. Bruce was wishing he’d had more sleep during the night. If he’d known he was going to be up so goddamn early, he would have sent Daisy home much sooner. Daisy with the long legs. The woman he couldn’t live with, couldn’t live without. A classic crap relationship, in other words.

  One of the secretaries came into his office.

  ‘They’re here.’

  Bruce gathered up his papers and quickly made his way to the conference room on the ground floor, where four CIA agents were waiting for him. The resources allocated to counter-terrorism measures had increased significantly within the FBI in recent years, and the same was true of the CIA. Bruce wished he’d brought some back up along when he saw how many agents had turned up from the other organisation. It made the Bureau appear inferior.

  He steeled himself. He knew that the CIA had information he needed, and he had no intention of giving up until he’d got it out of them.

  The CIA agents sat down in a row along one side of the table. Pitching up at this meeting alone had definitely been a mistake.

  ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice,’ Bruce said, sitting down.

  ‘No problem. I hardly need to say that we’re just as worried about all this as you are.’

  The man who spoke occupied one of the middle seats. He had an air of natural authority within the group, and Bruce knew he was the one who had been nominated to speak on behalf of them all. Bruce thought they had met once before; was his name – or was he known as – Green? If he remembered correctly, he was one of the heads of the CIA’s international counter-terrorism unit.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The fact is, before we do anything we need to have a discussion about which of us actually has the responsibility for this issue.’

  Fuck. Bruce felt a surge of anger. His boss would take him apart for having put himself in such an obviously inferior position.

  ‘As we see it, according to the information we have received, the FBI has the lead on this matter.’

  The man opposite smiled.

  ‘That’s strange, because we feel the CIA has the lead. At least as long as the plane is outside US air space.’

  He had a point, and Bruce knew it.

  ‘That doesn’t change a thing. The plane’s intended destination is New York, which is, as you know, US territory. And therefore the responsibility of the FBI.’

  The CIA was legally banned from operating on US soil; they hardly needed reminding of that fact.

  ‘Let’s not argue about this right now,’ Green said. ‘I understood from your message that you had some questions about Tennyson Cottage.’

  ‘That’s right. As you know, Tennyson Cottage is named in the bomb threat that was found on the plane. Needless to say, I’m wondering how the person who wrote the note could possibly know about Tennyson Cottage, and secondly, what it has to do with Zakaria Khelifi.’

  Green sat in silence for a moment, his plump forehead deeply furrowed.

  ‘I must be honest and admit that we can’t answer either of your questions. Which is incredibly embarrassing, of course, but true nonetheless.’

  ‘You must be able to give me something to work on,’ Bruce said. ‘Names, dates, telephone numbers, anything at all with a Swedish connection.’

  Green exchanged a few muttered words with the colleague on his left. Unbelievable. Bruce realised that none of the others was going to speak during the meeting. Green was in charge, and that was the end of it.

  ‘As I’m sure you understand, Tennyson Cottage is part of the most sensitive, and therefore the most secret element of our operations. With all the rumours about torture and waterboarding over the past few years, places like Tennyson Cottage are simply not up for discussion. It’s out of the question.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that,’ Bruce said. ‘Tennyson Cottage has already been leaked to the media. It’s only a question of time before some journalist sits down and Googles the name, and finds the meagre amount of information available on the internet. It’s enough for them to work out what kind of place it is.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Green said. ‘Which is why we need to lay low, restrict the dissemination of information about what goes on there to the fewest people possible.’

  Bruce didn’t have the energy to carry on being diplomatic. It was getting him nowhere in any case.

  ‘And I’m not part of this restricted group?’

  ‘Let’s not get upset for no reason. Naturally we will co-operate with the FBI as necessary.’

  They were sitting in a sandpit, digging big holes with little spades and harsh words.

  Green leaned across the table.

  ‘I will give you what you need. But not a word to the Swedes. Any information they receive will come from us. Is that clear?’

  Bruce nodded.

  ‘Tennyson Cottage is one of our newer institutions,’ Green went on. ‘It’s only been operating for just over three years. We’ve kept it as a limited facility; we didn’t want to make it too big or too well known. You could say that some of the really difficult cases ended up there. High-ranking members of Al Qaeda, when we want them to start talking.’

  Start talking.

  Bruce knew what that meant. And he was one of those who didn’t like it. Torture belonged back in the Dark Ages. Besides which, it was pointless. You couldn’t rely on information that was forced out of someone with the help of electric shocks or waterboarding or similar methods. However, he didn’t share his views with Green, otherwise the meeting would have been over before it had even started.

  ‘It’s hardly one of our most important detention facilities, but it has served its purpose with a certain amount of success. A total of approximately fifty detainees have been held there. We have tried to limit the numbers. No more than fifteen at a time, and no one has stayed longer than six months.’

  ‘You just pumped them for what they knew, then moved them on?’

  ‘That was the idea, and that’s how it worked. Of the fifty or so who have been there, forty-five were taken care of in a more permanent way; some were sent back to Pakistan, where they were handed over to our Pakistani colleagues, and some were dealt with in other ways. What has happened to them is actually of little interest; the important thing is that since their sojourn in Tennyson Cottage, they have had extremely limited opportunities to pass on their experiences to anyone else.’

  Bruce made a huge effort to remain neutral. He had met enough CIA agents to know that far from all of them shared Green’s grotesque view of how the so-called war on terror would be won, which was why he was always equally surprised when he did come across someone like Green. Bruce also knew that it wasn’t only the US government that had held a positive view of the use o
f torture to a certain extent. An astonishingly large number of the world’s democracies believed that under certain circumstances, torture could be both useful and justified.

  ‘But a small number have been released?’

  ‘A very small number. Just two, to be precise.’

  ‘I thought you said that around fifty detainees had been held in Tennyson Cottage, and that forty-five had been moved on to other institutions?’

  Green was fiddling with the pen he was holding in one hand.

  ‘We lost a couple. Quite unintentionally, I can assure you. But that’s what happened. One of them had a heart attack. Another suffered from epilepsy. I mean, we had no way of knowing that. They found him dead one morning. It was a fucking tragedy – that guy had a hell of lot to tell us.’

  Bruce felt sick as he watched the pen in Green’s hands. It was as if he couldn’t bear to sit still. And as if the words spilling out of him meant jack shit to him.

  ‘The ones who were actually released – could they have talked about Tennyson Cottage?’

  ‘One of them actually did. There is an article – just one article – on the internet where the place is mentioned by name. The father of one of the guys turned to the media to cry his eyes out over the damage that had been done to his son. Their names were protected in the article, but of course we realised who they were.’

  Green grinned at his colleagues and they grinned back. Bruce knew they had no choice. You didn’t go against someone like Green, not unless you were prepared to ditch your entire career.

  ‘Where was he from, this guy who spoke to the press?’

  Bruce had seen the piece, but couldn’t remember any details.

  ‘He didn’t speak to them himself, it was his father. He was from Morocco; he’d travelled a long way to attend training camps in Pakistan.’

  ‘But he had no connection with Sweden or Khelifi?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  Bruce thought for a moment. Zakaria Khelifi also came from North Africa, but it was a tenuous link. Khelifi was Algerian, the other guy was Moroccan. Why should they know one another?