by Dan Sehlberg
Beyond Jens’s shoulder, Eric could see that the couple at the other table still hadn’t been able to order. The man looked like he was about to cry. The woman looked at him with disdain. Relationships were not easy; women were not easy. He drank some more champagne.
‘Well, Jens, maybe you’re right. I can’t always run away from difficult decisions. I’ll talk to her.’
He found himself calculating how much more work he would get done if he didn’t have to worry about Hanna. He changed the subject.
‘I got a nibble today. Mats Hagström wants to invest in Mind Surf.’
Jens looked at him. For a moment, it looked like he wasn’t going to let him evade the question of Hanna. But then he lit up.
‘Congrats! Mats Hagström — that’s really huge. Now things will start moving.’
‘Yes, I hope so. But there’s still a lot of work to be done. And with things the way they are … I’m going to have to work even more — the pressure’s on and the demands are greater. And Hanna’s already halfway out the door.’
The waiter placed a large platter of prosciutto-wrapped figs between them. Jens immediately lifted the platter toward Eric.
‘My friend, don’t look at the problems. Look at the possibilities. At least you’ve secured the finances, so you can relax. Have a few figs. Dream your way off to the sunny Arabian deserts. There, all of your thoughts are just whispers in the gentle breeze.’
Tel Aviv, Israel
The three men who sat down at the table represented the core of Israeli intelligence. Jacob Nachman, the director of the radio intelligence unit 8200, had called the meeting. Beside him sat David Yassur, director of operations for the Mossad, and across from him was major-general Amos Dagan, director of the military intelligence agency, Aman. They were waiting for the fourth participant, Meir Pardo, senior director of the Mossad. David Yassur seldom saw his boss, and when he did he always got butterflies in his stomach. He found this irritating, but at the same time it was no wonder. Meir was no ordinary man. He had been born on a train in Novosibirsk in 1943. His parents were Holocaust survivors. His family had immigrated to Israel when he was nine years old.
As a young man, Meir joined the military and was quickly accepted into the paratrooper unit. His list of military merits was long, and David probably only knew of half of them. Meir had been in charge of a number of special units and intelligence operations. In 2002, he had been appointed as director of the Mossad by the prime minister. His staff adored him. He was known at the Mossad for working eighteen hours a day, often sleeping at the office. He woke early, took a long, ice-cold shower, ate a yoghurt, and worked without a break late into the night. It was difficult for his colleagues to keep up with his pace. David was experienced enough not to try. He had other good qualities, and he had a family. Meir’s only known passions were pipe-smoking and painting. He painted watercolours. The few people who had been allowed to see his paintings said that he was extremely talented.
Meir stepped into the room. His delicate glasses were pushed up onto his forehead, and he supported himself with a cane. David grimaced. He knew that Meir was scornful of poor health, especially in himself. He had been injured twice and had to use a cane sometimes, when the pain in his leg showed itself. This put him in a bad mood. Meir grunted at the others and sat down next to Jacob, who cleared his throat.
‘My friends, I received a report this afternoon, and I want to tell all of you what it says. During the past few months, we’ve increased our focus on social media. Among other things, we’ve launched software that reads blogs around the clock. It deciphers almost all of the world’s languages, and searches for patterns and connections that might indicate some sort of hostility toward Israel. It’s a type of search engine, but unlike Google, for example, it uses an algorithm that …’
Meir raised a hand.
‘Jacob, skip the technical details. What have you found?’
Jacob looked offended, but collected himself and continued.
‘We’ve found several leads and patterns that seem to be connected. The sources are a number of blogs, as well as conversations primarily on Facebook. We’ve spent today working on a more complete analysis, and this is the picture we’re getting.’
He handed out red folders.
‘Some form of a Lebanese faction, presumably a small cell with links to Hezbollah, is preparing an attack directed at our banks and stock exchange. We don’t have any names yet. Nor do we know where in the world this group is. One lead indicates that they are in France, possibly in Nice. We also believe that one of the targets might be TBI. We haven’t succeeded in pinning down a time frame, where their finances come from, or even what they might be planning. It could be some sort of digital attack, by way of the internet.’
The men paged through their folders. David searched his memory. Something caused him to react to what Jacob had just said. He had read something a few days ago. After a few moments, Amos chuckled. Meir looked at the major-general with a frown.
‘Is something funny?’
Amos closed his folder.
‘This is pure teenage nonsense. Facebook? Twitter! Come on, Jacob. Hell, surely this isn’t what all your unit’s money goes on, is it? It’s the banks’ responsibility to have good security. What’s it called? Firewalls. There have always been hackers. Surely this is hardly a reason to sound the alarm.’
Jacob held up his hand.
‘Amos, if you think only teenagers use the internet, you’re screwed. We’re all screwed. What I’ve just shown you is the result of a very effective and well-co-ordinated intelligence project. I’ve been expecting us to see some sort of internet attack on Israel for some time. Such an attack could have very serious consequences for the whole country. Even for you, Amos.’
Meir nodded.
‘I agree that we have to take this seriously. Good work, Jacob. But in order to move forward, we need to know more. Who are they, where are they, how are they planning to attack us, and when? Our units must co-operate. The internet is good, but not all the information we need can be found there. Our job, yours and mine, Amos, is to find the information that Jacob’s guys miss.’
Jacob nodded, pleased with Meir’s support. Amos looked irritated, but chose not to say anything.
Suddenly David realised what it was he had read. He leaned over the table and whispered to Meir, who frowned at first but then nodded. David sat down and opened his laptop. The others looked at him in surprise.
‘A few days ago, one of our agents was on a mission in Dubai. This agent interrogated a Saudi building contractor with connections to the nuclear-weapons program in Iran.’
Amos gave a crooked smile.
‘I’m pretty sure I read about a murder and robbery at Burj al Arab. The victim was in real estate. Or, to be more precise, he was real estate. One of the most powerful contractors on the peninsula.’ He continued with marked irony, ‘Strange story … he was stabbed, but he died of a heart attack. Talk about bad luck.’
Meir became irritated.
‘Things didn’t go as planned. That’s how it goes when you roll the dice. You should know that as well as anyone. Continue, David.’
David nodded. The line about rolling the dice was one of Meir’s favourite expressions.
‘During the interrogation, it came out that a certain Arie al-Fattal is looking for financing for an attack against Israel.’
David looked at the screen, where he had pulled up the report from Dubai.
‘Some sort of virus attack, apparently. We didn’t get any more information, but we had assumed that meant a biological virus. But maybe it’s a computer virus, to be used against our banks.’
Jacob made some notes on the back of his report. He turned to Meir.
‘Why haven’t we been informed of this?’
Meir sighed.
‘Take it easy, Jacob. We’re not done with our analyses. Right now, we’re looking for this al-Fattal. We’ve been keeping an eye on him for a long time. He seems to be a bad apple, and it’s time to get rid of him. You will all receive a copy of the Dubai report. Thanks, David. Now we have a name, too. And it’s time to inform the prime minister.’
David looked out the window behind Amos, at the hills of Judea. The burning sun was melting against the dark mountains. Far off in that direction was the expanse of Iraq’s dry deserts, and beyond that was Iran with its underground nuclear-weapons laboratories and constant promises to destroy the state of Israel. Even farther away were the troubled mountainous regions of Pakistan, controlled by hundreds of lawless tribes. Somewhere in that area, the leader of al-Qaeda was hiding. It was a world of pure threats and enemies. If his fellow Israelis knew about even a fraction of all the threats his organisation warded off every day, they would find it difficult to fall asleep at night.
The first thing they ought to do was debrief Rachel Papo with Unit 101, and find out what had really happened in that hotel room in Dubai.
Stockholm, Sweden
Hanna still hadn’t returned home. The sushi was in the fridge, untouched. Eric was anxious. He always was when they weren’t speaking after a fight. When he didn’t know what she was doing or thinking. Clearly, he had an unhealthy need for control, or security. The uncertainty made him crazy. Was she still angry? Because usually she called — sometimes several times a day. And he had met with Mats Hagström today; she ought to be curious about that.
It was Friday evening, Shabbat, when they always ate dinner together, lighting the candles and breaking bread. He had purchased challah from a kosher bakery. But she hadn’t called. That meant she was angry. Or sad. Maybe both. Was she staying away on purpose?
He drank some coffee and tried to concentrate on his work. He was playing Chopin’s Nocturne in E-minor, opus 72 on iTunes. The piano scales rolled forth into the small office. There were folders and piles of paper everywhere. In the middle of the room stood a desk that was completely taken up by the large computer screen. Three servers stood in a row along one of the short walls. Cords twisted every which way across the floor. Next to the desk stood a mannequin that he’d named Marilyn, who was wearing the red Mind Surf helmet on her head. Fifty thin wires in every possible colour covered the helmet like futuristic hair. Someone had suggested that he should submit Marilyn to the Spring Salon modern art competition at Liljevalchs.
It was structured chaos. At least, that’s what Eric told Hanna. In truth, it was rather more of an unstructured chaos. Maybe it mirrored his own head — full of ideas and a million thoughts all at once. He liked it that way. The rest of the apartment was in perfect order: Hanna’s order. But this was his domain, his last outpost. He thought about what Jens had suggested. A time-out. What would she think about something like that? If she said she thought it was a good idea, would that mean she wanted to get away from him? If she didn’t like the idea, would that mean she was nervous about being away from each other? Nervous about what she would do? Or what he would do? Which was worse?
He stared at the screen before him. On it were the inner workings of Mind Surf: long lines of code. Somewhere among those millions of symbols, an error was hiding — an error that caused the system to freeze up every time it was put to the test. Maybe the problem wasn’t with the program. What could they do to further modify the helmet and the gel? Could they make the sensors penetrate the scalp by another millimetre or two? Could they make the nanogel more conductive?
His mobile phone jumped in his pocket. It was a text: ‘Stuck in an emergency meeting.’ On a Friday night? ‘Probably home in an hour.’ He looked at the clock. Twenty past ten. He put the phone on the table with a sigh. Then he picked it up again and scrolled down to the bottom of the message. ‘Kisses.’ So maybe she wasn’t that angry. He immediately felt his mood improve. He wrote an email to the Mind Surf group, which was scattered throughout Sweden and Japan, and described his successful meeting with Mats Hagström. Once the email was sent, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the music.
There was a bang from the door, and he squinted at the clock on the computer. It was a quarter past twelve. He must have fallen asleep. He heard Hanna’s high heels and the jingling of her keys on the hall table. He sleepily got up and went out into the living room. She looked at him and smiled.
‘Shabbat Shalom,’ he said in a hoarse voice.
‘Shabbat Shalom. God, you look a mess. You’re taking your professorship too seriously. You don’t have to look like Einstein to do research.’
He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. She seemed calm. He relaxed.
‘What happened at work?’
‘I got some information from Tel Aviv at lunch — a threat to the bank. It’s been crazy.’
She gave him a quick kiss, and he held her to him. She smelled good, despite the long day.
‘I need a shower. Why don’t you get out some wine? And something to eat?’
‘It’s almost one o’clock.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But let’s eat anyway. It must be dinnertime somewhere in the world. And I want to hear how things went at your investor meeting.’ She shouted this last bit from the bathroom.
He went to the kitchen and took out the sushi. In the fridge, he found an open Chablis that was still drinkable. He lit the candles and poured the wine. The bread was still lying under a towel. After a while, he heard Frank Sinatra’s ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ on the stereo. Hanna came in wearing a towel like a turban, with her bathrobe open. When she saw his expression, she pulled her robe around her and tied the belt.
‘Oh no you don’t. Let’s eat. I’m starving.’
She sat down across from him. Though she was trying to be cheerful, he could see that she was tired, maybe more mentally than physically. He could see it in her eyes, in the wrinkles around them. She watched him as he looked at her. He smiled and broke a piece of bread off for her.
‘How are you?’
She took the bread and ate it in silence.
‘What do you think? I’ve had a lot of crappy nights, and today was a crappy day. How are you?’
‘Something along those lines. But, actually, today was not a crappy day. I got Mats Hagström.’
She lit up.
‘Congratulations! That’s great for you.’
He frowned.
‘What do you mean by “for you”?’
‘Just what I said. It’s great for you.’
‘It is great for me. But also for you. We need two incomes.’
She didn’t speak for a moment. Then she raised her glass.
‘You’re right. Cheers to Mind Surf. How is the program itself going?’
‘I can’t quite get it to work. It works with the keyboard, but when I try to guide it neurally it freezes up.’
She stuck a piece of salmon in her mouth.
‘Maybe the program isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s a hardware issue. With the helmet. Or the gel?’
He nodded.
‘It could be. I’m working my way through all conceivable alternatives, and inconceivable ones, too. I’m a stubborn bastard, as you know, so it will probably work itself out.’
She took a large sip of wine and ate another piece of salmon. She always ate sushi with her hands. He used chopsticks.
‘What’s this threat against the bank? Is it specifically directed at the Stockholm offices? You don’t have any cash there, do you?’
She wiped her fingers with the napkin.
‘There’s a risk we’ll be hacked — some sort of virus attack. Tel Aviv believes that a group with links to Hezbollah is planning something. That’s all we know. The main office is working to find out more. As the local director of IT, I have to audit our security and upgrade the firewalls.
The same thing is happening at each office around the world. My whole gang is still on the job. I could have stayed there all night.’
‘I’m glad you came home. The virus can wait. And your co-workers are capable. Let them work so you can come in and take the credit tomorrow morning, fresh and well-rested.’
Hanna ran her finger along the edge of her wine glass.
‘What I’ve told you is extremely confidential. I can’t … I didn’t say anything to you. You know nothing. Imagine if it leaked out to our clients? Their trust is our most important asset.’
Eric stood up and walked around the table. He stood behind her and removed the towel she had wrapped around her hair. The wet strands fell down over the back of her neck. She bent her head forward, and he massaged her shoulders.
‘Of course. Trust is TBI’s most important asset. And it’s the same here at home. We have to trust one another. You have to trust me.’
He felt her stiffen.
‘What do you mean?’
He kept massaging her.
‘I mean that I don’t want to lose you. I want to grow with you, develop with you, and grow old with you. Build a long life. Build a family. You don’t need to be afraid of the future. I believe in it completely. In us.’ He realised that he was doing the exact opposite of what Jens had suggested. That what he was saying was just continuing to move forward without any real change.
She pulled away from him, but remained in her chair.
‘You haven’t seen me the past few years. You haven’t listened to me. You haven’t been … present. And now that I’ve had enough, you’re trying to make up for ten years of zombie love all at once. In bed. In the kitchen. You have to earn me, Eric. For real. I’m tired of pushing our relationship forward. I’m tired of us. Of you.’
He felt angry and hurt at the same time. He remained standing behind her, awkward. His body felt heavy, as though the earth’s gravity had increased. Hanna hunched her shoulders. She was going to start crying. He lowered his voice, uncertain of whether he should touch her.