Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  ‘It’s my husband. Oh my God …’

  ‘What’s wrong with your husband?’

  ‘He … he’s lying in the kitchen. Please, come quickly.’ The woman started to cry.

  ‘Has he had an accident?’

  ‘He’s lost his memory.’

  ‘Lost his memory? That’s not a matter for emergency dispatch. You’ll have to visit a clinic tomorrow.’

  ‘Damn it, that’s not why I called! He’s sick. Really sick. It’s all happened so fast.’

  ‘What kind of symptoms does he have?’

  ‘He’s been throwing up. All over. And he has a fever. I think it’s way too high. And he’s delirious.’

  ‘Okay. Do you think you can drive him yourself, or maybe take a taxi, to the nearest hospital? Could he have eaten something that was bad?’

  The woman breathed heavily into the mouthpiece.

  ‘You fucking listen, you pimply little shit. My husband is one of the most respected businessmen in the country. He got sick so fast, I’m afraid he might die. Either you send an ambulance, or else I will personally make sure that you’re fired.’

  The man at the dispatch centre shook his head.

  ‘There’s no need to threaten me. We’re here to help. I’ll send an ambulance. What is your address, and what is your husband’s name?’

  The woman answered in a dogged voice.

  ‘My address is Elfviksvägen 62 on Lidingö. My husband’s name is Mats Hagström.’

  Another brown-plastic mug of weak coffee went down the hatch. He needed to drive away the exhaustion that was creeping into his body and causing him to freeze. Once again he was sitting on a rickety plastic chair, this time beside her bed. She had been moved and was now lying in a larger room with three other beds, all empty. The hospital workers were being careful to keep her isolated, since they still didn’t know if she was contagious. The lights were dimmed. Hanna was sleeping and breathing calmly. He held her hand, careful not to touch the IV line. Her body jerked now and then, and her hand trembled in his grasp. Dreams? Eric didn’t know what to do. He went over and over the last few days in his mind, trying to find an explanation. Dr Thomas Wethje was still responsible for her care, even though she had been moved. He came by at regular intervals, but seemed to be as bewildered as everyone else. Hanna had an infection. That had been confirmed. It wasn’t bacterial; it was some sort of virus. Several hours ago, Thomas had brought a whole flock of doctors with him, and they’d stood around Hanna’s bed writing in their notebooks. Before they left, Thomas squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘She’s stable. We’ll figure out what’s going on with her. Don’t worry.’

  But the doctor’s eyes had told a different story. At least, that was how he understood it. He stood up and walked over to the window. Far below, he saw a large courtyard. A few silhouettes stood beside a door, smoking. He looked at the clock. It was already 7.30 in the morning. He hadn’t slept at all during the night, and remembered he was supposed to meet with Mats Hagström this morning. They were supposed to be at his office at nine. He went into the hall and blinked in the bright neon light. The unit was quiet, and a nurse with short, red hair was preparing a breakfast cart. He pointed at his mobile phone, and looked at her inquiringly. She wrinkled her nose in disapproval.

  ‘You’ll have to go over to the elevators. You’re not allowed to use that in here.’

  He nodded and made his way down the corridor. His body felt like it had been run over by a semi. He dialled Mats’s number. There was an answer on the third ring.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was a woman’s voice. He looked at the screen to make sure he’d dialled correctly.

  ‘Uh … I’m sorry. I’m trying to reach Mats Hagström.’

  The woman answered absent-mindedly. ‘Unfortunately, he’s not available. I’m his wife — would you like me to take a message?’

  ‘My name is Eric Söderqvist, and I had a meeting scheduled with him this morning. I’m afraid I need to cancel it because I’m at Karolinska Hospital. Unfortunately, my wife became sick during the night.’

  The woman was silent for a moment, and he had to look at his mobile phone again to make sure the call hadn’t dropped out.

  ‘Hello? Are you still there?’

  ‘I’m still here. We’re closer than you think. I’m in the emergency room, myself. Mats became ill during the night.’

  Eric sat down on the stairs next to the elevators.

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘No one knows — not a single bastard in this whole hospital. Can you believe it? Because I sure as hell can’t. They’ve done test after test, but can’t figure it out.’

  There was a crackle from the phone. She might have been sobbing.

  ‘Isn’t this supposed to be a world-class hospital? The best one we have?’

  Eric tried to collect his thoughts. What was going on? The doctors couldn’t come up with a diagnosis … just like with Hanna. Had they been infected by the same thing? When? How? He stood up and walked back into the unit.

  ‘Just a minute, I’m going to check with our doctor about something.’

  ‘Wait? Please, that’s all I’m doing. Wait, wait, wait. And while I do, he’s fading away. Fading away!’

  He caught sight of the red-headed nurse. When she noticed that he was talking on the phone, she put her hands on her hips and frowned.

  ‘Didn’t you understand me? Mobile phones are not allowed on the unit. Either get out of here right now, or hang up.’

  He shook his head, walked past her, and continued on toward the office. She started to follow him.

  ‘Come back. What are you doing? You’ve got some nerve!’

  He stuck his head in through the office door. A young woman with a ponytail looked up from a computer.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I need to talk to Dr Thomas Wethje right away.’

  She looked at the clock on the wall.

  ‘He ought to be here in an hour or so. He’s down in the emergency room right now. You can wait in …’

  ‘I can’t wait. He had a pager. What’s the number?’

  The red-headed woman stepped between him and the one with the ponytail, panting.

  ‘Out with you. We’re trying to do our jobs here, so hang up right now. The signals disrupt our equipment. Do you understand?’

  She had her hands on her hips again. He remembered that Mrs Hagström was still on the line, and turned to the red-headed woman. ‘I will, as soon as I’ve gotten hold of Dr Wethje.’

  ‘Oh, no. The doctor has important things to do. You can’t go around bothering him with whatever you want.’

  Eric lost his patience.

  ‘Shut it, you goddamned carrot top. I’m trying to save lives, too.’

  The nurse looked as though she’d been struck by lightning. For a moment, she seemed to waver, but then she clenched her fists.

  ‘I’m getting security!’

  As she shoved past him, Eric was met by the sour smell of sweat. The ponytail looked at him questioningly. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m tired and stressed out. I haven’t slept all night, and my wife is seriously ill. No one seems to know what’s wrong with her. I’d really appreciate it if you could give me the doctor’s pager number. It’s important.’

  She hesitated at first, but then nodded. She stood up and gave him a yellow Post-it note.

  ‘Britta is a real witch. Nice that someone put her in her place.’

  He looked at the cute girl in front of him and smiled.

  ‘Thanks. It was my pleasure.’

  Eric went back into the corridor as he asked Mrs Hagström if he could call her back. Then he dialled the doctor’s number and sat down on t
he stairs by the elevators again to wait for his call. After ten long minutes, the phone rang: it was an unknown number.

  ‘This is Thomas Wethje. You paged me?’

  ‘Hi, I’m really sorry to bother you. This is Eric Söderqvist.’

  ‘Hi, Eric. Can this wait? I’m awfully pressed for time.’

  The nurse with the ponytail popped up at the doors into the unit. She gestured at him. He spoke more quickly.

  ‘Just give me a minute. Yesterday I met with a colleague. We’d scheduled a meeting for today, but when I tried to reach him, I spoke to his wife. Apparently, he’s a patient here, in the emergency room, with symptoms very similar to Hanna’s, and …’

  ‘Mats Hagström?’

  ‘Mats Hagström.’

  ‘His wife sure is a tough lady. She’s giving us all hell. Hagström is exhibiting symptoms like the ones we’ve seen in your wife, but there are also some differences.’

  Eric caught sight of Nurse Britta through the glass window. A Securitas guard with a shaved head was marching beside her.

  ‘Can you come down to the emergency room?’

  ‘I don’t think I have a choice. A nurse is about to throw me out.’

  Thomas chuckled.

  ‘I hear you’ve met Britta Stensson. You’d be smart to hurry down here. If she gets hold of you, no one can save you.’

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Rachel Papo crouched and studied all the pastries in the glass case carefully. She dare not pick the wrong one. Anything could cause Tara to become hysterical — the wrong colour, wrong shape, wrong icing. Last time, a green marzipan rose had provoked an attack that lasted nearly twenty minutes. In the end, Rachel had managed to calm her down, but by then she had already overturned the table and dirtied her clothes so much that they had to go home. But it was Rachel’s fault: she had ordered from a waiter without first checking what they would give her. She knew reasonably well what made her little sister nervous. She saw a white pastry with brown dots — perfect. She ordered tea for herself, and a Fanta for Tara. She looked carefully at the glass that the cashier gave her. It absolutely must not be dirty, or have any text or logos on it. It appeared to be okay. She took the tray, and returned to the table in the back corner of the café. Tara didn’t like to sit near windows — especially not on so lively a street as Dizengoff.

  Rachel sat down across from her sister and smiled warmly. Tara was counting the sugar cubes in the bowl on the table. When she finished this, she immediately started over, sighing, and shaking her head. They had the same thick, dark hair, but Tara’s was shorter. Tara’s body was bloated and swollen with the side effects of her strong medications. But she was still beautiful — more beautiful than any other person on earth. They were different and alike at the same time. Tara’s face was more innocent, soft, and perfectly symmetrical. They had the same almond-shaped eyes. But there was something innocent and genuine about Tara that Rachel lacked. And then there was Tara’s straight nose, not broken like her own.

  Tara was eight years younger, on paper. Emotionally, she was at least twenty years younger — a small, confused child. It hadn’t always been this way, but after their departure nothing was the same. She carefully took Tara’s hands and moved the sugar bowl aside. Then she gave her the pastry and poured the Fanta. Tara looked at the pastry for a long time. Rachel stopped pouring and prepared herself for a catastrophe. But then Tara lit up, took the spoon, and ate a large bite. Rachel relaxed and watched her sister’s movements. There was something peaceful about her when she ate.

  They had taken the Singapore assignment away from her. Rachel had done all the preparations: read up on the target, planned escape routes, and selected a suitable identity. But someone else had gone in her place, and she was still in Tel Aviv. At first, she’d thought it was because Dubai had gone to hell and she was in the deep freeze until the inquiry. But what was there to investigate? Mohammad al-Rashid had attacked her, and she had reacted instinctively. It was unfortunate, but everyone who worked in the field knew that you couldn’t plan everything in advance. The bureau’s second-in-command, David Yassur, had called her to ask a bunch of things about Arie al-Fattal and the virus attack. But then Meir Pardo had written to her. She was being promoted. You are so much more than muscles. That’s what he had said.

  She knew that the director of the Mossad liked her. She had never really understood why. The organisation had nearly ten thousand employees, and Meir was at the top, as close to God as you could get. She was at the bottom of the ladder. But despite that, he had often spoken with her, helped her, and he’d always been careful to keep in touch. And now a promotion had come. No more assassinations for Unit 101; now she would work with intelligence tasks instead.

  Rachel had already been at a briefing in her new department. She had been placed in the group that was leading the hunt for Samir Mustaf, the creator of the Mona virus. It was a small, hand-picked team made up entirely of men, except for her. Not just men, she corrected herself: good old boys. Did she even want to get away from Unit 101? She had received a thick folder full of hundreds of documents she was expected to read, and a pile of pictures. All of them were of Samir Mustaf, except for one small colour photo of his daughter, Mona. She was cute as a Barbie doll — big brown eyes, curly black hair, a brilliant smile. Rachel had a hard time imagining the sorrow at losing a child. She had none of her own, and knew that she never would. But Tara, if something were to happen to her … She looked at her sister. She had stopped eating, and was now blowing bubbles in the soda with her straw. Rachel hadn’t succeeded in protecting her the night before their departure, but she would not let her down again. Never again. Nowadays, she had different training; different experience. Nowadays, she herself was a weapon. She would devote her life to avenging her.

  She drank some tea. Perhaps she already had avenged her. All those people — she had never hesitated, had never been filled with regret over grown people crying and begging for mercy. She did it to protect Israel, to act against the constant threat to Jewish existence. The country needed all types of defence, even Unit 101. But how many times did a person have to kill in order to be free? Tara would never be free. Never. So, could she understand what Samir did? He had lost his child, and his family. Could she sympathise with him? She let the question tumble around her mind, and sipped her lukewarm tea. Tara had returned to the pastry.

  The question was irrelevant. The answer was uninteresting. Samir Mustaf constituted a threat — end of story. There were thousands of such heartbreaking motives, but she could never allow them to affect her. It was up to the mourners to spin their thick silk threads over the fallen body: threads that gave it the shape of a martyr and hero. She was not one of the mourners. She came before them. Tara put down her spoon, picked up the sugar bowl, and started to count.

  Stockholm, Sweden

  He was driving along Sveavägen. The sound of the engine had a soporific effect, and at one point he had to swerve so as not to cross into the wrong lane. An oncoming car honked vehemently. Eric slowed down. He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. It felt strange to leave Hanna, but they were going to do more tests, and he would only be in the way. And he needed to get away, collect his thoughts. The fact that Mats Hagström had become ill had changed everything. Eric had been with both of them. He was the link between them. But he felt fine. Could he be carrying the virus without knowing it? According to Thomas Wethje, it was possible, but not likely. He had given samples of urine, blood, and saliva anyway. The doctor was considering moving Hanna to a more isolated part of the hospital, a special unit for patients who were highly infectious. Eric blinked and changed lanes. Beyond a few symptoms, there was nothing else so far to link Hanna and Mats. But something was alive in them. He could feel it. A poisonous snake, evading X-rays and blood tests, was swimming around in Hanna’s blood and biding its time.

  Eric made a right turn onto Kungsgatan and
sped up down toward Vasagatan. He wasn’t going to stay long — just have a coffee and talk for half an hour or so to a rational, conscious person. Then he would go back to the hospital. Jens was worried about Hanna, of course. If Eric was a carrier, could he infect Jens? But when would he have become infected? And why hadn’t he got sick? He went through everyone he had seen in the last few days. The lecture at KTH? There was a clear risk of contagion there; it was a closed room, with one hundred people in the audience. Or had Mats been the first to be infected? He could have infected Eric at their meeting the other day — the meeting with the famous apple toss. And then Eric could have carried the virus with him and infected Hanna when they saw each other later that evening. But, in that case, Jens should be sick, too. They had met at Riche right after the meeting. No, that couldn’t be it, either. Could it have been an exotic virus that came in the package with the new gel? In the package from Kyoto University? Could a virus survive several days in a package?

  He passed Vasagatan and continued up toward Kungsbron. The morning traffic was non-existent, and he soon turned onto Västra Järnvägsgatan. He knew too little about viruses. But considering how virologists had to put so much effort into keeping them alive in labs, it hardly seemed likely that a virus could travel around the world and stay alive. And if there had been a virus in the package, he ought to have been sick himself. Jens, too. He shook his head in irritation. There was something bubbling away in his subconscious. Something important. He’d had the same feeling since he’d left the hospital: he was missing something. He tried to grasp the elusive thought, but it was pointless. He was too tired. Aftonbladet’s yellow logo sat high up on the wall of the square glass colossus that contained the paper’s main offices. He pulled into an empty parking spot and turned off the engine. He sat still for a moment, his head against the steering wheel. The last day swept through his head like a crazy play. The answer was there somewhere, but it was lost in the whole.

  He stepped out of the car and breathed in the fresh morning air. The area around the station seemed to be one big construction site, full of cranes stretching toward the sky. Stockholm was growing. He locked the car and entered the building. In the elevator, he ran his hand through his messy hair, and tucked his shirt into his jeans. When he stepped out into Aftonbladet’s sky-lighted atrium, Jens stood up from one of the red sofas in the reception area and rushed toward him. They hugged. Jens leaned back and looked him in the eye, his arms still around his shoulders.