by Dan Sehlberg
‘You’re right. I’ve been out of it —a narcissistic pig. And I’ve taken you for granted. I’m sorry. If you only knew. I had this idea that I had to be successful. That you thought it was as important as I did.’
He ran his hand through her wet hair.
‘But now … I understand what you mean to me. So much. I just can’t lose you. Call it a second chance.’
She stood and picked up her wine glass.
‘You’ve had chance after chance. You have to do something concrete. Your words and your actions have to match. You talk and talk, but nothing happens. Enough with your babbling and your empty promises. I don’t know if you can hear what you’re saying, but to me it’s always about your needs, your ideas. I don’t want to be your fucking psychologist! You’ll have to work hard if you’re going to save this relationship.’
She went to the bedroom, and he followed her. He still felt uncertain. He wanted to take the initiative — say the right things, feel the right feelings. Halfway through the living room, she turned around with tears in her eyes.
‘Don’t think you can lock me up. And don’t think that you’ll solve anything by getting me pregnant. Got it?’
She held a finger up in warning.
‘I am not ready for a child. And how could you take care of a child when you can’t even take care of yourself? Or me?’
He took a step toward her. He didn’t want to become angry. He knew that was wrong. But he couldn’t help it.
‘Oh, give it up. Do you hear me? Give it up! I’m tired of all your bullshit about kids. You and I both know what the problem is, don’t we? You’re afraid. Afraid of taking responsibility. Afraid of becoming ugly. Afraid of pregnancy. Afraid of the delivery. Afraid of being dependent! Afraid of being left. Afraid!’
He was shouting, even though she was less than a metre away from him.
‘Well, okay, Hanna, but don’t spew your fucking anxiety all over me!’
It came out of him all in a long and far-too-loud rush, a roaring torrent of black water that washed over her. She stood there in silence, looking at him, looking deep into his eyes, as though she were searching for something deep inside them. Her cheeks were wet and her arms hung loosely. She was still holding onto her glass. Time stood still. He was so sorry that it hurt. He wanted to take back every word. But instead the words hung between them with a thundering resonance, bouncing back and forth. She was so small, so fragile. He saw her just as she was. He wanted to embrace her. Kiss her.
She silently turned around and went into the bedroom. She turned off the light and closed the door carefully behind her. He stood alone in the dark. Him and Sinatra.
Jerusalem, Israel
It was Sunday, and the weekly meeting of the cabinet had just ended. The select four had gone straight to Ben Shavit’s home, Beit Aghion, in Rehavia. The grey villa was idyllically situated at the intersection of Balfour and Smolenskin, with a view over the old city in Jerusalem. The neighbourhood of Rehavia had been patterned after garden cities in Europe, with parks that flowered in fantastic colour. There was an exclusive tranquillity throughout the whole area. A dog was barking somewhere; otherwise it was quiet. At the hastily called meeting were Mossad director Meir Pardo, minister of finance Yuval Yatom, minister of defence Ehud Peretz, and strategic adviser Akim Katz. Several of the men had been friends since their time in the army with Ben Shavit. They chose to sit in the shadows out on the terrace, where the mood was casual, and niceties had long since been done away with. A tall palm tree stretched its leaves over the terrace floor. A short assistant in a yarmulke was serving fresh mint tea, while Ben sat heavily in one of the rattan chairs, twisting his wedding ring in a sign of impatience. He turned to the minister of finance, who was also the godfather of his fifth child.
‘Yuval, what’s bullshit and what should we take seriously?’
Yuval stirred his tea thoughtfully. He was the oldest of them, and he was always calm. Nothing seemed to upset him. During his own most impatient moments, Ben found his slow ways annoying. But he knew that there was intense mental activity going on behind that quiet façade.
‘Thus far it could all be bullshit, but we can’t afford to take any risks. It’s been a long time since we kept bars of gold and bundles of money in our bank safes. Today, our safes have been transformed into servers, and our gold to ones and zeros. Everything is digital. Our security is very sophisticated — no doubt the best in the world. But if we’re talking about a well-planned, well-financed attack, we have to assume that our current protection isn’t enough. Like we’ve always said, Ben, ‘Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.’ That’s the correct strategy this time, too. If the virus were to knock out our systems, it would hurt us, but it wouldn’t be a catastrophe. We would lose some data, but we can deal with that. After we got up and started over, we would be up and running again. But …’
Yuval took a sip of tea. Ben twisted his ring.
‘... if what we encounter instead is a more intellectual, more sophisticated virus, the consequences could be devastating.’
Akim took off his sunglasses and placed them on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat and looked at Yuval, who was stirring his tea again.
‘What do you mean by a “sophisticated virus”?’
Everyone looked at Yuval. Everyone but minister of defence Ehud, who, like Amos Dagan in military intelligence, thought that this was all nonsense compared to the threat of a nuclear-capable Iran or the presence of Russian rockets in Gaza. Yuval drained his cup of tea and looked at his colleagues around the low wooden table.
‘A sophisticated virus wouldn’t shut down our systems. Quite the opposite — it would want to keep them going. It could manipulate and change data. It could make erroneous transfers between accounts, erase loan information, and manipulate rates on the stock exchange. Some people or businesses might suddenly appear to be debt-free, while others might see their accounts weighed down with Israel’s fiscal deficit. We are completely dependent on these systems, day and night. So we can’t shut them down, even if we know that they’ve been infected. We also don’t know when the virus will enter the system, or if it’s already there, which means that it can passively tag along during backups. We don’t know what or who will activate it. Our analysts have done simulations of a number of scenarios, each one more hair-raising than the next. A full-scale attack — if it were successful — could undermine our entire stability as a nation. Retirement accounts, loan payments, credit-card systems, stock-exchange transactions, interest rates … everything could crash.’
In the silence that descended around the table, they could hear the dog barking in the distance. A woman across the street called for her child. Ben looked at his strategic adviser.
‘What do you have to say about this mess?’
Akim rested his chin on his hands, which were folded as if in prayer.
‘I agree that this threat must be taken seriously. We have reliable sources. But we know too little. We don’t know why, how, or who.’ He nodded at Meir.
‘The Mossad has put together a large team to get more information. They’re usually successful, so we will surely know more soon. But we don’t know how much time we have, so we need to act now. How, I don’t really know. Unfortunately, IT is not my strong point.’
Meir stood up with difficulty, walked over to the rail of the terrace, and made eye contact with one of the security guards on the street. He took out his pipe, filled it carefully, and lit it. Then he took a puff and looked at Yuval.
‘We’ve given this the highest priority. We’ll find out more information. But I don’t think we can wait. We should initiate a backup — protect everything that’s possible to protect. We’ll just have to take the risk that the virus might sneak in along with the backup. We should also beef up our firewalls. We have to build a new wall — a digital one this time.’
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He fell silent for a moment. Then he looked at Ben.
‘Another thing I’ve thought of involves TBI. Our sources indicate that they will be hit first. One way to protect us might be to minimise the contact between TBI’s systems and the rest of our networks.’
Yuval shook his head.
‘That’s not possible, unless we’re prepared to send TBI into bankruptcy. They’re one of our three largest banks, and they’re the foremost creditor in the business world. In addition, they have hundreds of thousands of private clients, maybe even up to a million. If they can’t communicate with external banking, stock, and payment systems, they might as well give up. And that is just not an option.’
Meir nodded.
‘That may be so. But that would be better than the whole country giving up.’
Ben didn’t need to think for long.
‘We can’t sink TBI based solely on a rumour. What if we were wrong? And by the time it was confirmed, we might already be infected. No, I’m leaning more toward the backup idea. I realise it will be expensive — and we risk raising a lot of questions. But an extra backup copy of sensitive data ought to be started right away, nationally. If nothing else, it will give us a cheat sheet for what everything looks like before it starts to break down.’
Yuval was staring down at the table, and answered without looking up.
‘It’s going to take a gigantic amount of resources, if it’s even possible. Especially since we don’t know what has to be copied. And, like you say, it’s going to raise a lot of questions. I think we can all agree that this absolutely shouldn’t get out. That would be almost as devastating as the virus itself — the financial system is based on trust. Let’s wait a few days before we decide to do the backup. Maybe we’ll get a better picture of what we’re up against. And then we’ll be able to better define our resources.’
Ben stood up.
‘Gentlemen, let’s get something to eat. We’ll continue this discussion inside.’
Of the five men on the terrace, only one of them knew what truly awaited the country. He stood up along with the others. On the way into the house, Ben placed his arm around his shoulders.
‘My friend, I’m too old for this internet stuff. I have an iPhone I can’t even turn on. I like enemies I can see. Ones I can touch. Not these clever hidden ones and zeroes.’
Sinon nodded.
‘I feel the same, Ben. But I think we have to get used to it.’
Nice, France
Pierre Balzac had died instantly. Shot in the head at close range, he had ended up on the stairs. The same neighbour who had first called the police municipale had called again about the gunshot. Sergeant Laurent Mutz had never met Pierre Balzac, but he was still upset about his colleague’s death. The local police were almost never armed, so Pierre hadn’t had a chance.
There were sirens in the distance, and they were almost entirely drowned out by the loudly revving engine. The van veered sharply, and Laurent grabbed the handle on the ceiling. In his other hand he held his SG 551, the lightweight assault rifle that was standard issue for the GIPN, Groupes d’Intervention de la Police Nationale, the French national task force. Today, his SG 551 was loaded with thirty of the new SS190 bullets, controversial ammunition that could penetrate Kevlar and leave an exit wound four inches in diameter. As usual, Laurent — like his colleagues in the van — was dressed in a dark-blue jumpsuit, black gloves and boots, a black bulletproof vest, a black facemask, a headset, and a helmet with a visor. He carried a gas mask at his belt, just behind his FN Five-Seven pistol. Two stun grenades were clipped at his hip.
Laurent had been having bad luck during the past few weeks. The dogs he’d bet on had all lost — exactly the opposite of what the so-called experts had said would happen. He’d borrowed more money to win back what he’d lost, but it had all fallen apart. Michelle didn’t know any of this; she thought their savings were still in their family account, but they were all gone … and just in time for her to think up a dream vacation for them. The down payment should have been made already. He tried to shake off his anxiety, and tightened his grip on his weapon. He had to concentrate on the present.
Across from him sat Rafael Monor. He had a big bolt cutter on his belt, and a pump-action shotgun lay across his lap. Rafael looked at him and grinned.
‘Do you think he’s still there?’
Laurent shrugged.
‘No idea. I wouldn’t be, if I were him. Who the hell wants to run into us?’
‘If he’s still there, he’ll have to stand damned still when I step through the door.’
The building façades of Nice rushed past outside the barred windows of the van, and they could glimpse the sea between the buildings. Laurent looked at his watch. It was a quarter past three. Nineteen minutes had passed since the call came in. Would they be fast enough? He went back over what he knew. At seven minutes past two, a female tenant at Avenue du Maréchal Foch 3 had called in a disturbance. According to the woman who called, there were new occupants in the apartment across the hall, which was owned by a Greek shipping company. The new tenants — who, according to the woman, appeared to be of Arab descent — never seemed to sleep. The lights were on in the apartment day and night, and they made noise all night long. Today, after lunch, the woman had heard a sharp bang from the apartment, and when she opened her door there was an odour of burning in the stairwell. She became worried and called the police.
Constable Pierre Balzac had had the misfortune of being on patrol nearby. He answered the call and went to the apartment building to see what was going on. He rang at the new neighbours’ door after the woman directed him to it, and it was opened after a number of rings. Something had been said, but the woman was unable to repeat it. Then Balzac was shot by the man who opened the door. The woman, who had seen all of this through her peephole, was shocked, but managed to call the police again. This time, the call was forwarded to the GIPN. The area had been cordoned off by the local police, and no one had entered or left the building since the shot was fired. At least that’s what they said on the radio.
The van made a sharp turn, and he was thrown against Louis Menard’s rock-hard right arm. His colleague caught his automatic rifle, which he’d dropped as he was tossed around. Laurent shook his head and looked out the window. They passed several police cars and an ambulance.
‘We’re here.’
Everyone straightened up and checked their headsets. The van stopped short, and Louis stood and threw open the door. They hopped out and arranged themselves on the street just in time to meet the second black van, which braked in a rain of gravel. Major Serge stepped out and approached the waiting GIPN group.
‘Okay. The perpetrator, or perpetrators, are presumed to still be inside the apartment. Monor will take the lead and force the door when he gets the go-ahead. Secure the place with tear gas. Monor, Menard, and Mutz will make up the first wave. Martin, Dubois, and Benoit will follow as backup and get into position in the stairwell. Durocher, Leroux, and Thomas will get into position at the sides and front of the building, and make sure that not a single rat gets out.’
All of them nodded, and Laurent followed his two colleagues across the street at a run. A large number of people had gathered around the cordons. He took the safety off his weapon and ducked into the stairwell. Their target was two floors up. They advanced with weapons drawn, in a well-trained pattern. Number one advanced under cover of numbers two and three. One took up a new position, and two and three caught up. Two continued to another position ahead, and they continued to overtake each other. Always forward. Always covered.
As they came to the first floor, they saw blood on the stairs. They cautiously continued on up. From outside they could hear more approaching sirens and the sound of at least one helicopter in the air. The radio crackled, and Major Serge asked for their position. Laurent responded and the
n quickly stuck his head out into the landing. The first thing he saw was Pierre Balzac. Laurent proceeded toward the body. The shot must have come from a small-calibre pistol — maybe a .22 — that had left a small entry wound just above the left eye. Pierre Balzac had a surprised expression on his face. The stone tiles under his head were covered in blood, and he was clutching a notebook in one hand.
They stepped carefully past the body and got into position around the closed door. Laurent cast a glance toward the other door and wondered if the woman was still standing there, looking through her peephole. It would have been better than TV. He turned his attention back toward their target. On the door was a brass plate that said ‘Thessaloniki Marin Transfer.’
Rafael put down his shotgun and inspected the hinges with his hands. He gave a thumbs-up and fished a small electric saw out of the black bag at his hip. After that, he stood next to the door, his stance wide, and looked at the others. Louis pointed at one of his tear-gas canisters with two fingers. The others nodded, sank into crouches, and pulled on their gas masks. Rafael stood up and got ready, placing the saw against the hinge. Laurent nodded and got the door in his sights. The saw started up and cut through the steel with a deafening howl. When the second hinge detached, Rafael grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door loose; it fell heavily to the stairs. At the same time, Louis took a step forward and threw two canisters of tear gas through the opening, one after another. The whitish smoke hissed out into the stairwell as Laurent stepped into the smoky apartment, followed closely by Louis and Rafael. The other team got into position just behind them. The noise from the helicopters filled the apartment.
Laurent walked forward carefully, his automatic rifle raised. He pushed open a door with his foot. The kitchen table was covered in empty cartons of Chinese take-away. On the floor were Coke cans, pizza boxes, and bottles of water. The window was open out to the street. There was a teapot on the stove. He walked slowly through the room. A glass bottle clattered loudly against the stone floor. His headset crackled. It was Rafael.