by Dan Sehlberg
‘What the hell is going on? How is she? And how are you doing?’
Eric shook his head and nodded toward the editorial offices.
‘Could we sit down somewhere there’s peace and quiet? A conference room?’
Jens looked at him for a long moment.
‘You need a bedroom.’
‘I need caffeine.’
‘We’ve got coffee over there. Come on.’
They walked across the large editorial area. In the far corner stood three large, red coffee machines. Jens put down two mugs and chose regular black coffee, with the comment, ‘It all tastes like shit anyway.’ Then he went over to a candy machine that stood next to a small sink. He ran his finger along the glass front until he found what he wanted. He waved at Eric.
‘Come here. Press them like this.’
Eric placed his fingers on the buttons.
‘Keep pressing. Don’t stop.’
Then Jens crouched next to the large machine, fished for the cord, and yanked the plug from the outlet. Eric looked at him quizzically. Jens waited a few seconds before he plugged it in again. The machine gave a growl, and the spiral that held Japp bars rotated and shoved the chocolate down into the box. Jens smiled grimly. ‘You have to show the machines who’s boss.’ He gave the Japp to Eric. ‘You need energy. Eat.’
Then he took the coffee mugs and started to walk toward a row of small conference rooms along the outer wall.
‘Well, then, you can just go to hell!’
Eric turned around just in time to see a young guy with back-slicked hair and a green tie slam the phone down at one of the editorial desks. A woman with curly blond hair looked at him curiously. The guy pointed at her with a pen.
‘Can you believe what that little pinko pig said?’
The woman shook her head. Eric turned away from them and followed Jens. Apparently, a lot had changed at this newspaper, which had once been the flagship of the Trade Union Confederation. Jens waited until he had entered one of the rooms, and then pulled the glass door shut behind him. He sat down heavily in one of the steel chairs.
‘Let’s try again … how are you feeling?’
Eric sat down next to him and put his face in his hands.
‘It doesn’t really matter. Okay, I think. Or … shit, I don’t know.’
‘And Hanna?’
‘She’s not well at all. The doctors don’t seem to know what she has. The only thing that’s for certain is that she’s getting worse. Thomas Wethje’s latest theory seems to be that it’s some sort of contagious variant of meningitis.’
‘Thomas Wethje?’
‘The doctor at Karolinska.’
‘Meningitis? But didn’t they think it was some sort of virus?’
‘Meningitis is a virus. And the symptoms are very similar to Hanna’s — dizziness, vomiting, fever, and joint pain. But I could tell that he didn’t believe what he was saying. No, she has something else inside her. Something evil. The truth is, I’m desperate. I don’t know what the hell to do.’
Jens placed his large hand on Eric’s arm.
‘You’re doing everything you can. You’re a researcher — not a doctor. All you can do is sit with her and trust that this Thomas is earning his pay.’
‘He seems good. Unusually sensible, in fact. But he’s fumbling in the dark.’
‘Surely he can do something?’
‘Fucked if I know. Everything’s boiling down to the fact that they don’t have a diagnosis to work with. Mats Hagström seems to be even worse off than Hanna. Early this morning he had a serious heart attack, and for a while it looked like he wasn’t going to make it. Now both of them are in some sort of coma. Unreachable.’
‘Dear Hanna. I’ll go see her. You have to take it easy for a few hours. Go to bed. You’ll be no help to Hanna if you fall down dead. We’ll just have to take turns sitting with her.’
Eric took a sip of coffee. He smiled weakly.
‘You’re right — it really does taste like shit. It’s even worse than the swill at the hospital.’
He thought of something he’d missed.
‘I have to call Hanna’s work. I forgot all about it, in the middle of this mess … their director of IT could hardly have chosen a worse time to get sick.’
Jens leaned back and gestured toward the editorial offices.
‘You’re right about that. All our reporters have got their hands full with the virus crisis. The Israeli stock exchange is about to crash. I don’t think anyone really gets how fragile our financial systems are. When people can no longer rely on information about stocks, they stop buying things. And when they do that, everything stops. And it’s not just Israel that’s hit a wall — it’s New York, London, Tokyo, Mumbai, too. From what I’ve seen and heard, Mona has unleashed an avalanche of distrust and panic throughout the global system. The epicentre is in Tel Aviv, of course, but the shock waves are rolling out over the entire world. The Swedish Civil Contingents Agency has called a press conference for today to try to convince us they’re doing what they can to protect the Swedish system. No one has officially taken credit for the attack yet, but more and more sources are pointing at Hezbollah. The American secretary of state is on the way to Tel Aviv, and there’s one crisis meeting after another at the EU.’
The rest of the world felt far off to Eric. Unreal. But then he remembered his own infected computer.
‘Has anyone found an anti-virus?’
Jens shook his head.
‘Not yet. I think every IT expert from Tel Aviv to Oslo is working on it, but so far we haven’t heard of any solution. The virus is really extraordinary, not something created by some rotten skateboarder kid in Arizona. No, it’s very advanced, and something totally new — a well-planned, thoroughly financed, and, above all, well-executed attack. That’s probably why everyone is at such a loss. It’s just like with that Thomas Wethje, they’re all fumbling in the dark. If they don’t understand the virus, how can they find a cure?’
Eric’s whole body went cold. The thought that had eluded him fell into place like a concrete block. He was petrified. Jens frowned.
‘What? What did I say?’
Eric put down his coffee mug and lowered his eyes. His mind was racing. What had Hanna said when she’d dropped the glass in the bedroom? He had thought she was just delirious from the fever: ‘The little girl infected me. Mona …’ How could she know? Why had she said that? No! Mona was a computer virus. Hanna was human, flesh and blood. But she had been infected with something. Mats, too. They had both used Mind Surf. But how was it all connected? Could they really be related? During her session, Hanna had navigated to TBI’s website — a website that was infected with the virus.
Jens sat quietly, studying him with worried eyes.
‘Shit, Jens. You’re never going to believe this.’
Jens leaned toward him.
‘What? Believe what?’
His mind was racing so fast that he was having trouble keeping up. Hanna had been in biological contact with Mind Surf, by way of the nanogel and the sensor helmet. She had gone to an infected website. The computer had been infected. Somehow, the virus had affected her physically. Injured her. Infected her? Not like a virus in a biological sense; that was impossible, but maybe it had altered something in her. But what about Mats?
‘What won’t I believe?’
‘Wait. Just let me think … ’
Mats had used Mind Surf after Hanna. After the computer had become infected. That’s how he, too, had been infected — no, not infected, affected. That explained why Eric himself wasn’t sick. He had used Mind Surf before Hanna visited the infected TBI site. He sat in silence, staring vacantly ahead. Jens squeezed his hand.
‘Buddy, what’s going on? Talk to me.’
If it were true, it wa
s his fault. He had made Hanna try it out. She had wanted to make love, not be a guinea pig. But he had only been thinking of himself and of taking the chance to impress her. His eyes filled with tears. Despite the absurdity of his logic, he knew he was right. Mona had hurt her. And Mats.
‘Eric, it will all work out. Hanna’s going to get better. If she’s made it for this long, things will turn around soon. The worst is behind us.’
Eric rubbed his hand over his eyes and looked at Jens.
‘What I’m about to tell you is going to sound like it’s right out of a Stephen King story.’
Jens stared at him.
‘Okay …’
‘I know what hurt Hanna. And Mats.’
‘What?’
‘My program — Mind Surf.’
Jens tried to comprehend what Eric had just said. Finally, he said in a low voice, ‘What the hell does Stephen King have to do with it?’
‘Not a damn thing. Forget about him. When Hanna tested Mind Surf, she went to the TBI site. The site was infected by the virus. Mind Surf was infected, and somehow — don’t ask me how — the malicious code has affected her biologically. The same with Mats. No matter how crazy it sounds, Mona … infected them.’
He grew silent, expecting to be declared an idiot. Jens sat without speaking for a long time, staring at him. His mouth was half open.
‘Now I see why you’re raving about Stephen King.’
The two of them sat there, deep in thought. The air felt heavy and close. Jens opened the Japp bar and ate one of the pieces, hardly conscious of what he was doing.
‘Maybe you’re right that the program is what made them sick. But it might not have a damn thing to do with the virus. I’ve always said it’s a crazy idea to hook people and machines together. Maybe that’s what the trouble is. Maybe the brain can’t cope with all those digital stimuli?’
‘That could be the case, but then I’d be sick, too. Remember, I tested it as well. But I’m healthy. It’s because I used the program before it got infected.’
‘But a computer virus is just a technical name for a piece of programming — a bunch of ones and zeroes. A biological virus is completely different. How could a person be infected by a computer program? I’m neither a computer genius nor a doctor; I studied structural engineering. But even I understand that the transmission of digital program code to flesh and blood is impossible.’
‘Jens! I’m a fucking professor of these things. I get what you’re saying. And, anyway, I don’t think they’ve been infected by the virus in the sense that the digital code has been transferred to a biological form. But I’m absolutely convinced that the virus has done something to the neurological signals that passed through the converter. Those warped commands made them sick.’
Jens still looked sceptical. Eric pushed the other half of the Japp bar toward him, but he shook his head and pushed it back.
‘You should look in the mirror. You need energy.’
‘Isn’t it extraordinary that Thomas Wethje, a top doctor at Karolinska, thinks that Hanna and Mats have been infected by a virus? But at the same time he can’t come up with a solid diagnosis?’
Jens held up his hands.
‘I don’t know. I just know that Hanna’s sick and you’re beat. Maybe you’ll come up with a more plausible scenario after you’ve gotten some sleep.’
Eric felt restless. Maybe he could do something for Hanna after all. He was no doctor, but he did understand computers.
‘I need to know more about the virus. I need to understand Mona better.’
He looked out the glass windows at the news desks.
‘Who here has the most updated news?’
Jens shook his head.
‘You’re getting worked up over something that doesn’t matter. It would be better if you slept on it.’
Eric stood up.
‘I want to talk to someone here who knows what’s going on with Mona. Who?’
He looked at Jens, his expression pleading. Jens groaned and got up. He handed Eric the chocolate.
‘I’m not taking another step until you eat this.’
Eric broke a piece off and made a show of putting it in his mouth. Then he opened the door.
‘Come on.’
They walked to the stairs that connected the levels in the large atrium. On the way up, Jens turned around.
‘After this, you’re going straight home to sleep. That’s an order.’
Eric nodded. They walked through the arts and culture department on the first floor, and arrived at a row of workstations, all cluttered with papers, newspapers, and books.
‘Here’s the hack pool. Feature things, and the more investigative stuff — long special pieces.’
Sitting at one of the desks was a thin man with purple suspenders. Jens snapped one of the suspender straps against the man’s back. The man flew up and turned around, his face bright red. But when he saw Jens, the anger drained from his face.
‘Jens, you bastard. Why don’t you work at a PR firm and do customer magazines instead? Anywhere but here.’
Jens smiled.
‘Carl Öberg, always a pleasure to see you. This is Eric Söderqvist. He’s a good friend — my best friend, actually — and he has some questions about Mona. Do you have a few minutes?’
Carl sized him up.
‘Jens’s best friend? What have you done to deserve such a horrible fate?’
‘Studied at KTH.’
Jens turned to Eric.
‘Calle has really dug deep into the virus affair. He has contact with colleagues and correspondents out in the field, and he runs off to all of TBI’s press conferences. He’s got an ambitious analysis of the whole Mona story in mind. He’s angling for the Swedish Grand Journalist Prize.’
He leaned forward, but didn’t lower his voice: ‘To be completely honest, no one here understands where he plans to publish it. Calle still hasn’t realised that he works for an evening paper that only wants to run short and preferably frivolous stories. This is not The New Yorker.’
Carl made a face and pointed at a chair. ‘Have a seat, Eric. What do you want to know?’
Eric pulled the chair closer and sat down.
‘I want to know if anyone has developed, or is in the process of developing, a remedy. Is there an anti-virus? What’s the latest news?’
‘Nothing substantial. TBI is co-operating with the Israeli state, and they seem to have backing from all the American authorities, but so far no one has come up with a solution. The latest last night was that Google has offered to lend processor power to those fighting the virus. That would speed up their work substantially. No one else in the world has so much computing power, so that’s definitely a good thing.’
Eric tore a few pages from an empty notebook he found on the desk, and borrowed a pen from a well-supplied desk organiser. He made a few short notes.
‘What other news is there?’
Carl sat silently for a moment. Then he turned to Jens.
‘Can I trust this guy?’
Jens placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder.
‘As if he were my own brother.’
Carl rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, God. Just the thought that you might have a brother gives me the willies.’
He turned to Eric.
‘I’m working on digging up something that might turn out to be a world-class scoop.’
There was no mistaking the pride in his voice.
‘This has to stay between us. Expressen will have to get its own scoop. Okay?’
Eric nodded and stifled a yawn.
‘Early on, we learned that the virus attack started in France — specifically, Nice.’
Eric frowned.
‘But I thought it came from the Middle East?�
�
‘Yes, it does. Without a doubt. But it was uploaded from the TBI offices in Nice. Information is really scarce, though, so I did my own investigation, using my own sources.’
‘What kind of sources?’
Carl blinked.
‘That’s confidential. I’ve spent quite a bit of time in Nice, and I still have friends there. Among others, a guy who works in a bar at one of the bigger nightclubs.’
Carl sneaked a look at Jens, who snorted.
‘This guy dug down into his circle of contacts and got a bite.’
‘A bite? Who?’
‘One of the policemen with the national task force. He seems to be having a rough time financially, and he wants to earn more money. He’s selling information. I haven’t got a name, but I’ve spoken with him on the phone. We’re going to talk again tomorrow evening.’
‘And has he said anything of interest?’
Carl nodded triumphantly.
‘He says that they raided an apartment a few weeks ago. In it, they found burned computer equipment and TBI access cards. Also, one person was killed during the raid. He’s been identified as …’ Carl dug through his papers, found a page full of scribbled notes, and nodded to himself. ‘… Melah as-Dullah. And now for the best part: the French security service has — and this is top-secret — linked him to Hezbollah!’
Carl looked at the two of them expectantly. When neither of them said anything, he threw up his hands.
‘Don’t you get it? None of this has been in any newspaper. Or on TV. None of it! We can be the first in the world to confirm that it really is Hezbollah behind Mona!’
Jens applauded. A woman at one of the other desks shot him a look of disapproval.
‘Well done, Carl! For the first time in your far-too-modest career, you’re earning your pay. But do we have any proof? Anything we can print? Surely a picture of that as-Dullah wouldn’t be too much to ask for?’