Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  Samir was excited. So there was a man on the inside, close to the prime minister. A Sinon. He studied Ahmad, who had stood up and was now standing with Enes; they were conversing in low voices. There was something disagreeable about Ahmad. He was going to be part of their group. Until then they had been a small team that lived together around the clock. Would Ahmad help them? Would he control them? He had demanded that they carry out physical attacks in Israel. If he had read Ahmad correctly, the attacks would be aimed at civilians. Samir pushed aside the images that popped up in his mind, and returned to the project. Work was his only escape from the memories that otherwise kept him awake at night. With the financing taken care of, and with Sinon’s help, they could truly succeed. Even if Ahmad scared him, there was something persuasive and powerful about him.

  Mona wasn’t finished yet. This was no average, run-of-the-mill virus. It was a masterpiece, a singular life form created for a single purpose.

  To move forward, Samir needed to decide on an appropriate gateway, the port through which the virus would enter the central banking system. He had weighed several alternatives, but at the moment he was leaning toward using TBI, the most international of Israel’s banks. They would need information about the bank’s firewalls, system specifications, and network structure. Through the bank’s network, Mona could access all of Israel’s financial systems. Samir had a contact at TBI’s offices in Nice, an old friend from his youth, from his years in Toulouse, who was now the director of the local credit division. He was a Muslim, but they couldn’t automatically count on his support. Their friendship ought to be a good start, though. They would need to be physically present in Nice, so they would need a place to live undisturbed, but that wasn’t his responsibility. Arie would take care of it.

  With this, they were entering a more operational phase, and more people would learn of their identities and plans. Samir was going to trespass in a heavily guarded network, which would leave traces and activate alarms. The risks would increase, but he wasn’t worried. No matter what happened to him, it would only affect his shell. What he did worry about was that something would stop him from completing the project — that there wouldn’t be time to place Mona in the Israeli network. He had sworn over her burned body that she would get her revenge. After this, all that was left was the reunion. They were waiting for him in paradise, and when the time was right he would go to them.

  He shivered in the chilly air of the conference room. He would be going back to France. A whole life had gone by since he had left that country more than twenty years before. Here, in north-western Iran, France felt infinitely far away. And his journey seemed very precarious.

  Stockholm, Sweden

  Mats Hagström took an apple from the bowl of fruit, and bit off a large chunk. As he chewed, he studied the apple as though he were a predator. He bit off another piece and chewed loudly. Eric sat silently on the couch across from him. Framed covers of Donald Duck comics hung from floor to ceiling, filling the walls in the large conference room. The covers started with the first issue in September 1948, and continued into modern editions. Mats was known for collecting all kinds of things, and parts of his collections hung in all the rooms.

  Another vigorous bite of the apple. Eric guessed that he would have to wait until the apple was gone before they could continue. He didn’t like money-begging meetings. He felt worthless and mistrusted. But he couldn’t forego them. The limited aid that his team received from the institution didn’t go far.

  Mats Hagström was done with the apple. ‘Check this out, kid,’ he said.

  He turned in his chair and tossed the core across the room, toward the wastebasket next to the window. It missed, hitting Donald Duck from March 1956 instead. Juice from the apple ran down the glass of the frame, and the core ended up on the floor. Mats turned to Eric.

  ‘Now you see why I gave up my career in basketball.’ He looked back at the bowl of fruit, and Eric feared he would start in on another apple.

  ‘I understand that BCI is very promising. There’s clearly a demand for it in the international market. Its scalability is high. Scalability is always the first thing I look for in a potential investment.’

  He leaned forward and took another apple from the basket.

  ‘I say potential investment, because what made me rich was not the investments I made, but the ones I didn’t. Do you understand? I have great radar. It helps me avoid losses before they happen. Those who invest in my funds know I have this radar. Do you follow?’

  Eric nodded. He wondered to himself how it was possible to get rich off projects you’d declined. Mats continued: ‘So your idea is good, and the market is there for it. But this also means that other people have surely seen what your people have seen. So the next thing I think about, second to scalability, is protection from competitors. If I’ve understood you correctly, the nanogel is what makes your project unique. The nanogel achieves neurological contact as good as that of systems surgically placed in the brain, but without an operation. Is that right?’

  Eric nodded again. Mats looked at apple number two in his hand.

  ‘What is there to stop someone else from inventing the same thing two days after I’d invested in your project?’

  Eric was prepared for the question. This was becoming routine; it was his thirteenth investor meeting. So far, he hadn’t received any capital. These investors all asked the same things and seemed to come to the same conclusion: it was better to invest in Russian stocks or shares in Ericsson. The lack of money meant that work on Mind Surf was more or less at a standstill. For his part, Eric was living off of Hanna’s salary. This was not exactly something that improved their relationship. He took out a plastic folder and handed it over to Mats.

  ‘Here are the patent applications we’ve submitted. Two of them have already become legally valid, but only within the EU. These patents, however, are based on an earlier substance. We have since made some modifications, and the new patents are awaiting approval. As you know, the patenting process is lengthy. We are safeguarding both our nanogel and our sensor helmet. We’ve also applied for a patent on the software we’ve developed.’

  Mats looked up from the papers.

  ‘Is that Mind Surf — the thing that makes it possible to surf the net with your eyes closed and your arms crossed?’

  ‘Exactly. Mind Surf reads and interprets more information from the brain than any previous system. The result is an intuitive and powerful system of communication between brain and computer. The program isn’t quite finished, but we’ve already applied for a patent on the holistic graphics and the digital converter that translates information between neural and digital formats.’

  Mats turned toward the wastebasket again.

  ‘How long will it be before Mind Surf works?’

  He didn’t take his gaze from the wastebasket. Eric’s answer was directed at the back of his head.

  ‘I’m working day and night to finish the first demo version. I estimate that it will be ready within the next few weeks.’

  The back of Mats’s head nodded.

  ‘Then here’s what I suggest. You finish your surfing program …’

  Mats tossed the uneaten apple in an arc across the room. It landed perfectly in the wastebasket, and he raised his hands in the air: ‘Yes!’ Then he looked back at Eric.

  ‘Do you know what just happened, kid?’

  Eric shook his head.

  ‘I believe in fate. Don’t go on talking too much about that, because in my world you’re toast if you start going on about fate. But sometimes I just get things into my head.’

  He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Maybe there’s a higher power. Someone or something that knows it all, that has all the answers. Someone who knows where the FTSE 100 will end next week, where the Dow Jones will close next Friday, or what sales H&M will show in its upcoming re
port. Are you with me? It’s probably not the case. But what if it is? And what if this power really does want to help us, but fails because we’re too narrow-minded and dense? We’d rather sit and mess with our technical analysis programs, hedge our bets, and try to discount our way to a reasonable net worth. But what if the most important answers are right before our eyes? If they are, it’s important to be receptive.’

  Mats adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.

  ‘I thought about all of this just before I threw the second apple. I decided that if I missed, I would say no. If it went in, I’d move forward.’

  Eric looked at him in bewilderment.

  ‘You let an apple determine your investments?’

  Mats sighed. ‘No, not usually. I have a bunch of MBA up-and-comers who count it all, up and down. It’s so serious that it gets boring. Maybe it was my basketball training that made the apple land in the garbage. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe it was fate. The only way to find out which it was is to say yes to the investment. If it all goes to hell, we can rule out fate.’

  Eric ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘So you want to invest in our project?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And it will be in accordance with the disbursement plan we discussed earlier. Twenty million in four blocks, all to be paid out as you reach the goals we set out. But … and there is a “but”. There always is. I’m not going to make the first payment until you have Mind Surf up and running. It’s only going to be a few weeks anyway, and then we’ll know that the program really works.’

  Eric smiled, but regretted having been so optimistic about the timeline. It might just as easily be months before the program was ready. But what the hell, at least it was up to him now. He stood up and extended his hand. Finally, a yes. Funny that it turned out to be at the thirteenth meeting.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll make sure to have a working version for you as soon as I possibly can.’

  Mats shook his hand. ‘Now you’ve got a damned-good reason to finish. And let’s hope that we have fate on our side.’

  As always, Riche was full, and Eric crowded his way between tables. He saw Jens standing and gesticulating at a full table with a view out onto Birger Jarlsgatan. Everyone at the table was laughing. Jens knew every single person there, with no exceptions. As one of the crime reporters at Aftonbladet, his social skills were a great asset. Eric drew up next to him. ‘Hi there. I’m going to go sit at our table.’

  Jens nodded and thumped one of the diners on the back. Eric moved on along the crowded row of lunch patrons and arrived at the corner table next to the wall. He sank into the chair and exhaled. He hadn’t been able to relax after the meeting, until now. What had they actually agreed on? He had to prove that they could protect themselves from competitors — that the patent was strong enough to keep encroachers at bay. Above all, he had to get Mind Surf working. But it would be a challenge. He had been running into problems during the last few weeks. Mind Surf worked when it was controlled by the keyboard, but it froze up when he used the helmet. He hadn’t been able to locate the error. The conversion engine at the heart of Mind Surf was complex, and it interpreted a great deal of neural information. In addition, the three-dimensional interface worked in real time, which made it vulnerable to a number of potential problems. Perhaps the error was somewhere in the interpreting processor. Perhaps the problem was that the contact with the brain was too weak, after all.

  Eric looked out the window at the traffic on Birger Jarlsgatan. A bicyclist wobbled past a taxi, which slammed on its brakes and came within a hair’s breadth of being hit by a yellow Porsche. Two young women with shopping bags from Gucci ran across the street.

  He was going to sell half his company to Hagström Fund Management. Actually, it wasn’t solely his company. He owned it along with the KTH innovations fund. But it felt like his company. It was his idea, and his research. The board of directors at KTH were the ones who decided on the worth of the company. Had they priced it too low? Was that why Mats Hagström had accepted? He felt a certain amount of trepidation at the thought of a new constellation of owners. Mats would come up with more demands. Why did Eric feel so uneasy about it? Why did he always have such trouble listening to authority? Why was it so difficult to relinquish control?

  A waiter put down a plate of beef Rydberg. Eric shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I haven’t ordered yet.’ The waiter chuckled, took back the plate, and pressed on through the crowd. Riche was the same as always. He really would have preferred a quieter place, like Teatergrillen or Prinsen — a restaurant where you could speak with fewer interruptions. He studied his friend, who was brazenly leaning over the other table and taking a handful of fries from one of the patrons’ plates. No one seemed to find this strange; they just laughed, and someone raised a glass of beer. Jens played by his own rules. He was larger than anyone else in the restaurant. He had blond hair and a beard, which wasn’t that unusual, but he was wearing blue loafers, green corduroy pants, a white shirt, and a red scarf. Jesus. Hanna would have gone nuts if she had seen him. She liked to use Jens as a ‘don’t’ example when Eric was dressing himself: ‘You can’t wear that shirt, you’ll look like Jens.’ But he thought it was liberating.

  Eric looked at the other guests in the restaurant: businessmen in dark suits, models in leather jackets, and rich kids with bandanas and back-slicked hair. Here and there, an artist. Maybe they were actors, or drunks with red noses and messy hair. Which pigeonhole did he fit in? The one for dusty academics? Or dreaming entrepreneurs?

  ‘Eric! My very own Professor Calculus!’

  Jens hugged him as heartily and roughly as always. His rough beard scratched Eric’s cheek. There was a scent of too much aftershave, and a spot of ketchup on his shirt.

  ‘You know I like to eat at noon. Papa’s hungry now! I hope the same goes for you.’

  Jens opened the menu with delight; he was always happy when it was time to eat. Eric smiled and looked down at the options. He wasn’t particularly hungry. The tension during the meeting with Mats had made him lose his appetite.

  ‘I’m going to have toast Skagen.’

  Jens’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Whoa. Such imagination. And what will you have after that?’

  Eric grinned when he saw Jens’s disappointment.

  ‘An espresso.’

  Jens shook his head.

  ‘We decided on a long lunch. And besides, I waited an extra hour. I’m having prosciutto figs. They’re fantastic — two servings, so you can have some, too — and then salt-fried shrimp. And grilled char. What are we drinking?’

  There was no compromising with Jens when it came to drinks with a meal. He would never eat without wine.

  ‘You choose. I know I’ll be in good hands.’

  Jens waved at the bustling waiter, who nodded, left a couple who were in the middle of ordering, and came to their table.

  ‘Jens — always a pleasure to have such a fine guest. What can we do for you today?’

  Jens smiled happily. The abandoned couple shot an angry look at them.

  ‘We’ll start with the essentials, my dear Pierre. To start, we’ll have a bottle of that good Blanc de Blancen, Deutz 1998. And then we’ll have La Chablisienne Grand Cru, from Grenouille, 2004. But, for God’s sake, make sure it’s colder than last time.’

  The waiter bowed and disappeared. Jens tucked in his shirt, which had worked its way out of his pants, noticed the ketchup spot, and chuckled. Then he placed his large hand on Eric’s.

  ‘Mr. Söderqvist. How are things with you … really?’

  Yes, how were things, really? Inside? Nervous. Uncertain. Wounded. With Jens, he might as well be honest. They had known each other long enough and were close-enough friends.

  ‘I’m scared, Jens — scared I’m losing my grip on things. I think I’ve been working too much and I’ve been too c
ut off. My job is turning into a suit of armour. I put down the visor and go out onto the battlefield. The worse things get with Hanna, the longer I linger. Running away.’

  Jens looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘Why are you wearing armour in the first place?’

  ‘So I can stand it. Above all, at my job. I feel responsible to my co-workers. To my students. To the investors. To the whole project. And not least to Hanna. I have to get my own salary.’

  ‘We’ve all watched you lose yourself in your job. Or maybe escape into it consciously. It’s like you’ve been obsessed, especially the last few months. To be honest, I was surprised when you called me back yesterday. It’s been a long time. If all you do is live up to other people’s expectations, you’ll lose yourself. You and the armour will become one.’

  ‘Sure. Hanna knows that, and I know it. And, hell, maybe she has a suit of armour, too.’

  Jens looked concerned.

  ‘When the battle is over, you’ll be alone. Everyone will be gone. Everything you fought for will have been lost.’

  The champagne arrived. Jens took the opportunity to order the food.

  Eric thought about Hanna. Why was it all so complicated? They had often joked that they were living in a beautiful piece of crystal, separate from everyone else. But the crystal had smashed to pieces. It was as though the two of them had crossed a line during their fights in the past few weeks, and maybe even more so in the silence between times. Jens held up his glass.

  ‘No more battlefields. Skål for peace. And farewell to arms.’

  Eric sipped the cool wine.

  ‘When we make love, it’s like the armour falls away. That makes me happy. That’s exactly what makes it all so fucking hard. We fight one night and make love the next.’

  ‘There’s no doubt you still love each other. I hear that from Hanna, too. That might be why you should take a break. Hopefully, you’ll both realise you don’t want to live without each other.’