Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  He started Hanna’s computer. There were several folders on the desktop, one of which was named ‘Pictures.’ He slowly clicked through a world of memories, and stopped at a close-up of her taken in Åre. Wearing a pink hat, with her blond hair in a braid, and white ski goggles around her neck, she was looking at the camera resolutely. Her gaze was so alive that he wanted to touch her, but his fingertips touched only the static surface of the screen. She wasn’t real, alas. She wasn’t in a little mountain cabin in Åre. She was in a coma at Karolinska Hospital. He threw a frustrated glance at the silent phone.

  Then he went back to the computer. Perhaps TBI had some new information about Mona. He found the wireless network and connected to the internet, but when he tried to open TBI’s internal network, he got an authentication prompt. He frowned. Then he remembered the fob in Hanna’s computer bag. While he was up, he also took a bag of chocolate-covered nuts and a beer from the mini-bar. He quickly got into TBI’s net using Hanna’s authentication, and found several interesting files. There were new versions of Mona Tza’yad, but they still only had the ability to find the virus. There was nothing there that could stop it. One name recurred in the documents: Isaac Berns. Eric knew who he was — TBI’s international director of IT. Berns seemed to be the one in charge of everything to do with the crisis at the bank. Eric looked at the flickering screen. He opened the beer and took a large gulp. What if he could get into Isaac Berns’s computer? That’s how he’d probably find out what was really going on. But the IT director’s access level was completely different from Hanna’s. He took another sip of the beer. Could he hack his way in? He put down the can and started on the security system.

  It took him an hour-and-a-half to find a flaw in the firewall. The clock on the screen said it was quarter past ten. The phone was still silent. Before him he had a mirror of Isaac Berns’s computer. He started looking for folders and documents about Mona, but it was slow going. A lot of the material was written in Hebrew, and he had to use a translation program.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  At 10.22, the trespass alarm had been activated at TBI. Nine minutes later, the radio intelligence unit 8200 had been brought in. Jacob Nachman had come down from his office and was now sitting beside a young computer tech.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m not really finished, so we’ll have to hope he doesn’t disconnect. I need a few more minutes. But we know it’s an individual with level-three security access who’s found a way to reclassify himself as level-one. This intruder is now using that access to go through Isaac Berns’s personal files.’

  Jacob became impatient.

  ‘You’ve already said that. Give me something new. Can’t we see who it is through the log-in identification?’

  ‘Unfortunately, the ID info seems to be corrupt. Now I’m tracing the IP addresses backwards.’

  ‘And?’

  The tech looked up.

  ‘The intrusion came from a French network.’

  ‘Where in France?’

  ‘The signal is coming from a provider in Lyon, but that’s not where it’s pinging from.’

  Jacob took out his mobile phone. The young man leaned closer to the screen.

  ‘Nice! The intrusion is coming from Nice.’

  ‘Where in Nice?’

  ‘It seems to be coming from one of the hotels’ wireless networks. Or maybe a restaurant. I have to do a match against the national register. Give me a few more minutes.’

  Jacob had already begun to compose an email on his phone. Before he was halfway done, the man smacked his hand on the edge of the desk with a bang.

  ‘Yes!’

  Jacob looked at him questioningly.

  ‘I’ve traced the intrusion all the way to the source.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Hotel Negresco.’

  Jacob clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Impressive. Well done.’

  He erased the email and instead dialled the number to David Yassur at the Mossad. As it started ringing, he saw that the tech was looking at him triumphantly.

  ‘Was there something else?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘He’s in room 321.’

  Jacob looked at him in surprise as the phone rang at David’s end.

  Nice, France

  Eric was downloading a series of documents from Isaac Berns’s computer that seemed to be linked to Mona. It was clear that the virus had already caused a great deal of harm, and in an internal memo to the CEO of the bank, Berns said he feared further attacks. Eric also found two emails to Berns from something called Unit 8200. The first one described the evidence that had been found during the raid on the terrorists’ apartment. The other named the two terrorists. The one who had been killed in the raid was Melah as-Dullah — a name Eric recognised from Carl Öberg. The other, who had managed to escape, was named Samir Mustaf. Unit 8200 had linked Melah to an organisation called Jihad al-Binna, which was controlled by Hezbollah and was working to rebuild Lebanon. His mobile phone rang. Eric looked at the screen. The lump in his stomach was back.

  ‘Hi, Jens.’

  ‘Eric, tell me you’re on your way home.’

  ‘I’m on my way home.’

  ‘Thank God. I haven’t slept all night, and could do with a break. Hanna’s stable, but I can tell that the doctors are concerned. You have to come back.’

  The hotel phone rang. Eric looked desperately at the blinking light on the phone. Jens continued, ‘When do you land in Stockholm?’

  ‘I’ll have to call you back.’

  ‘No, wait. I …’

  Eric hung up and grabbed the receiver of the brown room phone.

  ‘Hello!’

  There was silence on the other end. Had he missed the call?

  ‘Hello!’

  More silence. Then a low voice.

  ‘Monsieur Söderqvist?’

  ‘Yes. This is Eric Söderqvist.’

  ‘You want to buy information. Correct?’

  ‘That’s right. What kind of information is it?’

  ‘A notebook.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A notebook that was seized at Maréchal Foch.’

  ‘What is in it?’

  ‘It belonged to the terrorists. The whole thing is full.’

  Maybe it contained a phone number, an address, something that could lead him forward.

  ‘Full of what?’

  ‘Code. Very careful notes. Page after page.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I promised to get photographs. And I did.’

  ‘Photographs of both of them?’

  ‘One that we took of Melah as-Dullah ourselves, and one that we received at the station of the other, Samir Mustaf.’

  His mobile phone rang again. It was Jens. Eric made a face and rejected the call.

  ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Fifty thousand euros.’

  Half a million kronor! How the hell could he get so much money? What if the notebook was useless? Sure, he had the Mind Surf money, but that wasn’t really his; it was Mats Hagström’s. On the other hand, it would be in Mats’s best interest for him to get his hands on an anti-virus. But half a million?

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  Silence. He could hear his pulse beating in his temples.

  ‘I can go to down to forty thousand, but that’s my best offer. Otherwise I’ll sell it to a newspaper.’

  ‘I’ll give you thirty thousand.’

  Click. The man had hung up. Eric stood still with the phone in his hand, shocked. What had he done? He had just lost the most important person in the world. He sat on the bed and stared at the brown telephone. Maybe it was just a negotiating act. Maybe the man would call again soon, with
a new offer. After twenty minutes, he realised that the man was gone. What the hell was he going to do? Cedric Antoine! Cedric had to help him. He could hunt the man down and patch up their relationship.

  He dialled Cedric’s number, but there was no answer. What if he had spoken to Carl? Then he would never help him. But what if Eric told him the truth? How would he find Cedric? All he knew was that he lived several hours away, up in the mountains. But where? Grasse? Vence? What were the French White Pages called? His thoughts were spinning. The room felt oppressive, like a tiny prison cell without air. He had to get out. Eric took his phone and left the room. When he arrived in the hectic lobby, he was reminded of how he had sat waiting for Cedric on that red sofa earlier the same day. How could he have messed things up so completely? He had lost his only reason for being in Nice. He could see one of the receptionists from the morning staring at him without masking his distaste. Fuck it if the whole hotel thought he was a pervert. The only thing that mattered was getting hold of the tipster. All he wanted was a small miracle.

  When Eric came to the glass doors, he saw that the receptionist was waving at him. He sighed and walked to the desk. He was not in the mood for a sermon on the ethical guidelines of the hotel.

  Without greeting him, the receptionist said, ‘Message for you, monsieur.’ He held up a white envelope with the golden Negresco logo. Then, with a scornful smile, he added, ‘Perhaps it’s from the delightful woman you see?’

  Eric took the letter without a word and turned back to the red sofa, sitting beside a fat woman who was looking at pictures on a digital camera. He tore open the envelope. Written on Negresco stationery was a short message:

  35,000 EUROS. TEXT 04 93 84 42 99 FOR ACCOUNT INSTRUCTIONS.

  He read the text once more. Warm relief ran through his body — he was back in the game. Somehow, he knew that this was the turning point. He hadn’t pressed the man too hard after all. Instead, he had gotten the price down, and now it was all or nothing. He picked up his phone and send a blank text to the number he’d been given. Then he sat stock still, with the phone before him as though it were the key to heaven. Perhaps that was exactly what it was. The phone vibrated, and a text popped up on the screen:

  SWISS ACCOUNT NUMBER 0AI024502601, IBAN CH78 0055 40AI 0245 0260 I. CONFIRMATION CODE BY TEXT ASAP.

  He flew up so fast that the fat woman dropped her camera. Taking no note of her German curses, he ran out through the large glass doors. He had obtained travellers’ cheques in Nice before, and knew which bank to go to, although it remained to be seen whether they could help him take 35,000 euros out of his Swedish business account and then send them to the account of an unnamed person in Switzerland. He jogged along the beach promenade and turned off at Avenue de Verdun. And what if he was being scammed? He was about to send a fortune to someone he’d never met. What would Jens have said? Or worse — Hanna? But he was desperate, and desperate people do desperate things.

  The footpath was packed with people, and he jostled his way through Japanese people and families with small children. In the midst of all his despair, he also felt a sense of exhilaration. This was the turning point. Money was just money, and the notebook might turn out to be invaluable. The same went for the picture of the surviving terrorist. He went around a woman who was having problems with her motor scooter, and stepped on the black fabric of a street vendor’s table. The man, who was on all fours, turned his face up in anger, but Eric was already past him and running along the narrow Rue Paradis.

  When he arrived on the busy Rue de la Liberté, he hesitated. Was the bank to the right or the left? He tried to find the green-and-white BNP Paribas sign, but all he saw were ice-cream parlours and clothing boutiques. The street was filled to the brim with tourists. He took a chance and went right, entering the northbound stream. He came to Galeries Lafayette and looked around again. Had he chosen the wrong direction? Just as he was about to turn around, he saw the sign a few hundred metres away in the direction of the sea. He crossed the street and ducked into the air-conditioned bank, panting. One of the two counters was open, and there were three people in a short line. There were no queue numbers. He stood at the end of the line and took out his phone. There were two missed calls — one from Jens and one from Aftonbladet. That was probably Carl, who must have talked to Cedric. He considered calling Jens, but to his relief he saw a sign on the wall with a crossed-out mobile phone. Instead, he wrote a short text to say that he’d gotten a lead, and promising to call that afternoon. Once he’d sent the text, though, he felt powerless. The feeling of exhilaration had disappeared. This would never work. He looked around for the exit. Then it was his turn, and an older man with horn-rimmed glasses and a sharp gaze smiled at him coolly.

  ‘Que puis-je faire pour vous?’ — ‘What can I do for you?’

  He swallowed and brought up the text message with the Swiss account number.

  ‘I’d like to transfer 35,000 euros from a Swedish bank account to an account in Switzerland. How do I go about that?’

  The man looked at him for a moment, a V-shaped wrinkle between his eyes.

  ‘Is the account in Sweden in your name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is the account in Switzerland in your name?’

  ‘No. I don’t know the name of the account holder.’

  The V deepened. ‘You want to transfer 35,000 euros from an account in Sweden that isn’t yours, to an account in Switzerland whose owner you don’t know?’

  Eric maintained his smile and nodded. The man sighed.

  ‘Wait here. I have to talk to my boss.’

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Apparently, the Mossad director’s leg was better. Meir Pardo had suggested that they take a walk on Shlomo Lahat, along the marina. It was cloudy but warm, and there were large waves on the sea. The boats in the marina were bobbing violently, and there weren’t very many people on the promenade. David Yassur walked with his hands in the pockets of his thin sport coat. Meir was paging through the pictures he’d received from him, and he stopped on a black-and-white portrait. He studied the face in the image.

  ‘Tell me about Eric Söderqvist.’

  ‘Thirty-nine years old. Research professor at the KTH Royal Technical Institute in Stockholm, focusing on BCI, Brain Computer Interface, which involves — ’

  ‘I know what it involves. Is he good at it?’

  ‘If the information we’ve received is correct, he’s just secured financing — from an external investment fund.’

  ‘Which country is the fund from?’

  ‘Sweden.’

  ‘And he’s married to a Jewish woman?’

  ‘That’s right. Hanna Söderqvist, née Schultz. Very active in the congregation. The couple visits Israel several times a year.’

  ‘And she works for TBI?’

  ‘As a director of IT. She’s one of the first ones who found Mona.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s the same age as Söderqvist. They met at Stockholm University. Her maternal grandparents are from Poland, survivors of Treblinka. Her grandmother, Eva Schultz, died last year at the age of eighty-seven. Her grandfather, Lev Schultz, is eighty-nine and lives in a nursing home in Stockholm. He has dementia. Hanna has a younger sister, Judith Schultz. The sisters grew up in an assimilated environment, but Hanna has recently started using her maiden name and has become more interested in her heritage.’

  ‘And she’s out sick, right now?’

  ‘She called in sick two days after Mona was discovered in the Swedish system.’

  ‘And now her husband has popped up in Nice. He uses her log-in code, and hacks into Isaac Berns’s computer — Berns, his wife’s boss. And he’s searching it for information about Mona?’

  David nodded and looked out at the large breakwaters, where the water was being flung several metres into the air. He knew it
was best to let Meir sort through this information in peace and quiet. David was hungry; he usually ate before he met with his boss. Meir handed back the pictures, took out his pipe, and sucked on it thoughtfully without lighting it. After a moment, he took the pipe from his mouth and shook his head.

  ‘Strange story. It doesn’t add up. But that’s how it goes sometimes. Life isn’t a straight line.’

  David said nothing. Meir smiled at a little boy who was running after a brown dog.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘That we bring him in. I want to know who he is, what he’s doing, and with whom.’ Meir nodded and David went on.

  ‘We normally have three people in Paris, but right now they’re on an assignment in Hamburg that shouldn’t be aborted. I don’t believe we should involve the French authorities, because we can’t risk any mistakes. The French have already let one man get away in Nice. This is primarily an Israeli matter. Sure, the world is losing money, but for us it’s about survival. We must handle this with our own resources. If we inform the security service, they’ll just interfere.’

  ‘You’re aware that he is a Swedish citizen? And that the only thing he’s really done is hack through TBI’s firewall?’

  ‘I agree that there could be a number of explanations for the intrusion. But why now? And why is he in Nice, of all places? I’m prepared to take the risk. We’ll have to handle the first stage with kid gloves.’

  ‘And what if it turns out that he does have links to Hezbollah?’

  ‘We’ll have to put some cracks in the system. A traffic accident or a regular old robbery — nothing that will attract the attention of the Swedish authorities. You can arrange for a red slip from Ben Shavit to sanction taking out Eric Söderqvist. And we’ll bring a 101 member onto the team. Isn’t Rachel Papo already part of the hunt for Mona?’

  Meir chuckled.

  ‘My friend, everyone is part of the hunt for Mona.’

  They arrived at Hotel Alexander and the harbour district. Meir nodded to let the bodyguards know they were going to turn back. He looked at David.