Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  The taxi turned off at Negresco. He didn’t want to leave the car. He just wanted to stay in the back seat and drive away, without having to worry about pictures of terrorists and a notebook full of strange code. He paid the driver, and quickly ran up the stairs to the entrance. When he stepped into his hotel room, he sat down on the soft bed and stared blankly in front of him. It was a quarter past five in the afternoon. What the hell had he expected? That he would fly down, get a phone number, call Gaza, and order medicine for a computer virus? He was already in danger, even though he’d barely scraped the surface. If he kept going, the pressure on him would increase. He was no superhero or secret agent. He was alone and afraid.

  He placed the bag on the desk and stood at the balcony door, looking out at Promenade des Anglais. Down there, everything went on in the same rhythm: motorists and flaneurs with not a care in the world. He breathed deeply for a long time. Then he sat down at the small desk and started up Hanna’s computer. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was intuition. Maybe sheer madness. But, in any case, he didn’t end up with a ticket to Stockholm. Instead, he bought a ticket to Tel Aviv. The notebook was his only hope, and maybe Isaac Berns could decipher the notes. He would search him out. Isaac was Hanna’s boss; he had to help. Then he would go home.

  Just one more day. For Hanna’s sake. Everything he did was for Hanna’s sake.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Meir Pardo was irritated. David Yassur could tell that right away when he answered the phone. Maybe David’s news would put him in a better mood; maybe not. He threw a glance at the paper and got right to the point.

  ‘He’s on his way here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Swede. He’s coming here.’

  Meir sighed, obviously distressed.

  ‘I thought I made myself clear when I said you should hold off on seizing him.’

  ‘We haven’t lifted a finger. He voluntarily got on a Swissair plane this morning. He’s flying by way of Zurich, and will be landing at Ben Gurion at two thirty-five.’

  There was a long silence. David moved the phone to his other ear and waited. He could hear a faint smacking sound on the other end. The director of the Mossad was smoking his pipe. Finally, he heard Meir’s voice again:

  ‘Why is he flying to Israel?’

  David looked out the window.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m wondering. Why is he flying to Israel?’

  Montefiore. They always stayed at the swank little boutique hotel on Montefiore Street. The building had been constructed in the Twenties, and had started out as a home. The architecture was a combination of Oriental and pre-Bauhaus details. Hanna had loved their breakfasts, and the hotel was close to her cousin’s apartment on Rothschild.

  The street was bathed in a dry, still heat. Eric had spoken to Jens in the taxi on the way from the airport. He had sounded blunt and distant. Gone was the entertainer; now he was curt and cold. He had asked when Eric was planning on coming home, and suggested guardedly that Eric call Hanna’s doctor.

  Eric so desperately wanted Jens’s blessing — to get him to believe in the plan, to sanction it, but all he received was judgmental silence. By the end of their conversation, he had tears in his eyes. He wasn’t disappointed or angry at Jens. How could he be? The real reason for his tears was his own doubt, his fear that Jens was right — that he really was running away. But what could he do? Go home and acknowledge that he had been fooling himself? No, it was better to keep going for a little longer. He would only stay for one more day, perform one last act. If the curtain fell, it would crush him. But he had made a decision in the bathtub in Stockholm, and another in the hotel room in Nice. Now he was in Tel Aviv, and he wouldn’t go home until tomorrow.

  He went up the short flight of stairs and stepped into the hotel. There was a great contrast between this and the bright sunlight on the street. Inside it was cool and dim.

  ‘Shalom.’

  A young man with straggly hair gave him a friendly greeting from behind the black-lacquered reception desk. The lounge music was loud, and even though it was only a quarter past four in the afternoon, the bar was already full of people. Eric said hello and checked in on the thin touchscreen on the counter.

  ‘How long do you plan on staying?’

  ‘Two nights at the most.’

  He handed over his credit card and waited for the hair to make him a key. He remembered the last time they were here; it must have been at Pesach. He looked out through the open doors, and suddenly saw a woman waving her arms wildly. He excused himself and went over to the doors. By the time he got to the footpath, the woman was standing with her hands on her hips, looking down the street dejectedly. Beside her was a small silver suitcase. She was wearing a thin, brown dress and ballet flats, with a beige Gucci bag hanging on one shoulder. She was shorter than Hanna — maybe 160 centimetres — and her hair was black and curly. A beautiful woman. Eric gathered his courage.

  ‘Excuse me, is there something wrong?’

  She sighed without taking her gaze from the street.

  ‘The taxi left. I still had a suitcase in the trunk.’

  He studied the shaded street.

  ‘I think it will be okay. People are usually honest.’

  She looked at him in surprise.

  ‘You’re not from Tel Aviv, that’s for sure.’

  He swallowed unconsciously and extended his hand.

  ‘It seems we’ve chosen the same hotel. Eric Söderqvist.’

  She brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead and gave him a searching look. Then she took his hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

  ‘Rachel Papo.’

  Checkpoint Qalandia, Israel

  The Israeli military bus rolled slowly through the notorious checkpoint between Jerusalem and Ramallah. A lone officer was driving, and in the back of the bus sat a solder and two Palestinian prisoners. The prisoners were sitting close together. They had clearly been mistreated, and they sat in silence with their heads bent. In the middle of the concrete labyrinth, they were stopped by two Israeli soldiers. The driver joked with them, and one of the soldiers opened the back door and poked at the prisoners with his M16. ‘Boom!’ The men started, and the driver laughed brightly. The Palestinians looked tired. Tired and scared. The soldiers spoke, and one of them lit a cigarette. Then the oldest of them nodded to the officer and waved his arm — the vehicle could pass. All four passengers exhaled. Ahmad Waizy turned on the emergency lights and set out for the old city of Jerusalem.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  The hotel room was large and light. One wall was covered in books, and the ceiling must have been four metres high. A large balcony looked out onto a green courtyard. On a table beside two black easy chairs stood a large bowl of fruit and a bucket of ice holding a bottle of champagne. Eric threw his bag on the bed, took out Hanna’s computer, and sat in one of the chairs. The computer quickly found the hotel’s network, and he Googled Isaac Berns’s name. After scrolling through about ten pages, he found a mobile number. He also wrote down the switchboard number for TBI headquarters. Berns didn’t answer his own phone, and the bank’s switchboard informed him that he was unavailable. Eric left a short message.

  After the call, his initiative left him and he ended up sitting in the chair with his eyes closed. A moped sputtered by down on the street, and the trees outside the half-open balcony door were full of chirping birds. He was tired from his journey, and he had a mild headache. Without opening his eyes, he felt through the pockets on his jacket and found his iPod. He didn’t bother to untangle the earbud cord; he just started the music at random, which happened to be Shostakovich’s fifth symphony — a piece he must have listened to a hundred times. The familiar harmonies flowed through his aching body, dissipating tension and undoing knots. He lost himself in the moderato; the cinematic strokes, powerful and strai
ned; the stochastic rhythm, followed by the gentle, lyrical melody played by the first violins. He had always loved this ambiguity. Then came the waltz-like part — nervous, perhaps ironic. He thought of the notebook, and tried to remember the long lines of code and the mysterious symbols. He pictured the men in the black-and-white pictures — one dead and one alive. Had the journey to Israel brought him closer to Samir Mustaf?

  After a long time, he opened his eyes and stretched. The music had stopped. The light in the room was softer; it was ten minutes past seven. Still half asleep, he took a few grapes from the bowl of fruit and looked at his mobile phone. This was the second time in a short while that he had found himself waiting for a phone call in a hotel room. He turned on the TV, where CNN’s top story was the financial crisis that had been brought on by the Mona virus. Stocks were still falling all over the world, and the screen was filled with image after image of concerned analysts and pale-faced bank directors. All the charts and diagrams pointed down — CNN was talking about a financial meltdown. The virus had hit Israel hardest, but Asia, the US, and Europe had big problems, too. The prime minister of Israel, Ben Shavit, was in the US. CNN showed him shaking hands with the American secretary of state. The commentator said that there was no solution in sight, despite the fact that the free world was united in the fight against cyber-terrorism.

  The next clip showed a woman announcing that TASE, the Israeli stock exchange, had decided to close, effective the next day — a measure that had never before been taken in its fifty-year history. Suddenly, Isaac Berns popped up on the screen. Eric leaned forward and turned up the volume. Berns was wearing a wrinkled suit, and he was standing next to an older man with severe facial features, identified as Henrik Goldstein, the CEO of TBI. The two men were standing on marble steps outside a large glass complex. Eric recognised the building: it was TBI’s headquarters. Goldstein was answering questions from a female reporter. He vowed that all clients who had suffered a loss would be reimbursed as soon as the most pressing problems had been dealt with. Berns, though, said nothing. Eric guessed that the CEO had forced him to come along for support as an expert.

  As CNN cut to a fat analyst at the London stock exchange. Eric turned off the TV and reached for a few more grapes. Was that coverage live? If it was, Isaac Berns was at TBI’s offices. But it looked sunnier than it was outside his balcony; it must have been taped. His headache pressed against his temples. He wouldn’t be able to get hold of Isaac Berns today — not unless he looked up his home address. That would be a desperate measure. But he was desperate. He didn’t give a shit if he bothered Berns while he was in his bedtime slippers; he needed his help. But taking such action might annoy Berns. No, it was better to postpone contacting him until tomorrow. His stomach ached. He stuck the black notebook in his inner pocket and left the room.

  The hotel restaurant was full, as always. Café Noir next door was full, too. He walked up the street to Restaurant Pronto and sat down at one of the tables on the footpath. It was warm, and smelled like pine and exhaust. He ordered a martini and took out the notebook. Large chunks of writing had been crossed out in the beginning. Farther on, when the author must have felt surer of himself, it was more cogent and without changes. Eric moved his fingers along the rows of text, and tried to imagine the man who had written all of this. Why couldn’t Eric crack the man’s code? The pages’ content seemed familiar in some strange way. It was as though the focus was blurry, and that if he just twisted the lens a little bit it would all become clear. He had studied more than ten programming languages. Secret codes and ciphers had always fascinated him, from the Enigma technique to pig Latin.

  The waiter put a bowl of olives on the table, and handed him an orange menu. Suddenly, Eric caught sight of the woman from the hotel. She had changed clothes — she was wearing black high heels and a dark dress — and had put her hair up. She was walking along the footpath, and would soon pass him. He averted his gaze and returned to the menu as her heels clicked between the walls of the buildings. Should he say ‘Hi’, or pretend to be absorbed in choosing his dinner?

  ‘Shalom.’

  He lowered the menu, and found that she was standing near his table.

  ‘Shalom.’

  He felt awkward, as though he had been caught red-handed. She smiled.

  ‘The driver came back with my bag. You were right. There are honest people, even in this city.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Now I can admit that I said it mostly to cheer you up.’

  She was wearing a beautiful pearl necklace that sat tightly around her neck. From it hung a thin, silver Star of David.

  ‘So you’re manipulative?’

  ‘That’s what my wife says. I prefer thoughtful, myself.’

  ‘Okay. Then we’ll call it thoughtful. I can actually believe you are. You look like that kind of person.’

  There was something about her easy-going, slightly teasing manner that gave him the strange sense they had been friends for many years. Did she remind him of Hanna? Maybe — a dark-haired version of her. And yet not. He gestured. ‘To prove I’m thoughtful, I’ll buy you a drink. We can toast the return of your suitcase.’

  She instinctively glanced at her watch.

  ‘I’m supposed to meet some friends up at the Rothschild. But I have time for one drink.’

  He stood up, walked around the table, and pulled the chair out for her. She sat down. There was something graceful in the motion. In all her motions.

  ‘What would you like …?’ He searched his memory. ‘… Rachel?’

  She looked impressed.

  ‘I must have made quite an impression. I’ll have what you’re having.’

  ‘Then it will be a dry martini.’

  He held his glass up toward the waiter. She took an olive and looked at him intently. Then she removed the pit and shook her head.

  ‘I can’t think of it.’

  ‘Think of what?’

  ‘Your name. It fell right out of my memory. I blame the fact that I was flustered.’

  ‘A good excuse. Eric Söderqvist.’

  ‘That’s what it was! It was on the tip of my tongue. Maybe the olive was in the way. And where is Eric Söderqvist from?’

  ‘Sweden.’

  ‘You don’t look Scandinavian.’

  ‘How does a Scandinavian look?’

  ‘Thin, blond hair, blue eyes, and at least two metres tall.’

  ‘Then I’m an unusual, brown-haired Swede, but a Swede nonetheless. And you?’

  Her drink was placed on the table.

  ‘I live in England these days, but I was born here. In Sderot.’

  He raised his glass. ‘Cheers to being able to trust people.’

  Something flickered in her gaze. She clinked her glass against his.

  ‘L’chaim. To life.’

  ‘To life.’

  The waiter gave her a menu. She placed it on the chair without opening it.

  ‘Tell me what you do.’

  ‘Do? What do you mean? Right now, or in general?’

  ‘Both.’

  He thought quickly.

  ‘I’m a journalist. I work for an evening paper in Stockholm.’

  She reached for her bag without taking her eyes from him.

  ‘And what is a Swedish evening paper doing in Tel Aviv? Could it be the financial crisis? The virus?’

  She fished out a pack of cigarettes. He looked around for matches, but she was quicker, and handed him a black lighter. He lit the cigarette, and she turned her head and blew out smoke. He tried to look unconcerned and studied her profile. Something had happened to her nose; it looked broken. He thought about what he should say.

  ‘I’m working on a side story to the big headlines. About how Israel’s outstanding IT has become a curse. If Israel hadn’t become so digitised, t
he virus wouldn’t have done so much damage. Something along those lines.’

  She seemed to be considering what he’d said. She took a drag on her cigarette and nodded.

  ‘It’s not the first time we’ve been too smart for our own good. Our advances have always been annoying to those who haven’t come as far, read as carefully, or earned as much. We Jews make up less than 0.2 per cent of the earth’s population. Despite that, we’ve received 50 per cent of all the Nobel Prizes and 60 per cent of all the Pulitzer Prizes. Naturally, some people become jealous.’ Her English was soft, slightly singsong. The atmosphere was charged. But what did it matter that she was a woman? That wasn’t why he was sitting there, talking to her. She was an intelligent person. Nothing more. He needed a friend. He wondered what Rachel would say if he told her that she was the second person he had really spoken to in over two days. The last one had been a homosexual transvestite in Nice.

  Rachel wrote a short text on her phone. Then she leaned toward him and smiled.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  Somewhere inside his body, a flock of butterflies took off.

  ‘Uh … yes, I’m hungry.’

  She put out her cigarette.

  ‘Then let’s eat. What do you want? I’d like meat. If they had a cow on the menu, I’d take it.’

  She laughed. The Star of David bobbed. Eric nodded.

  ‘Then meat it is. But weren’t you supposed to meet some friends at the Rothschild?’

  ‘I was. But I rescheduled for tomorrow. I’m here now, and all I want is a cow and a bottle of wine.’