Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  WHY ARE YOU CONTACTING ME?

  :SALAH AD-DIN

  He answered right away:

  I HAVE ANALYSED MONA. I CAN HELP YOU IMPROVE THE CODE. I SUPPORT YOUR CAUSE.

  :ES

  KHALIL ALLAH?

  :SALAH AD-DIN

  Khalil Allah? Eric went to Wikipedia and typed in the name. Then he went back to the chat.

  FRIEND OF GOD. IBRAHIM. TARAKH’S SON. FATHER OF ISMAEL. MAY PEACE BE UPON HIM. THE FOURTEENTH SURAH.

  :ES

  It was transparent — too much cut and paste.

  WHY MONA?

  :SALAH AD-DIN

  TO SHOW THE INFIDELS THAT THEY ARE OUTNUMBERED. TO HONOUR ALLAH, THE ONE TRUE GOD.

  :ES

  The screen was empty for a long time. There were no new messages. Eric breathed heavily, his fingers resting on the keyboard. Had he lost him? Had he said the wrong thing?

  GO IN PEACE. MASHA ALLAH.

  :SALAH AD-DIN

  Salah ad-Din had asked him to leave the chat. But he couldn’t — not when he was so close! He could not fail. He thought feverishly, as his eyes fell upon the wrinkled napkins full of notes. The Ottoman code! He ran over to the hallway, where he found the notebook on the floor just inside the door. He rushed back to the computer, opened the notebook to a random page, and placed it in front of him on the table. Launching Word, he looked through its special symbols. It took him forty minutes to put together a series that were somewhat similar to the symbols written in the notebook. He wanted to write a sentence of his own in Salah ad-Din’s code. It was far-fetched as hell, but what did that matter? It was sink or swim. He copied the block of text into the chat, and sent the message. There was another delay. The morning sun shone in onto his bare legs; outside the balcony door, a bird was singing loudly and energetically.

  IMPRESSIVE.

  :SALAH AD-DIN

  He was back.

  LET ME HELP YOU.

  :ES

  WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW NIGHT. IF YOU ARE STILL BEHIND US, WE WILL TALK.

  :SALAH AD-DIN

  WHAT’S HAPPENING TOMORROW?

  :ES

  THE NEXT PHASE. A CLEARER MESSAGE. TISBAH ALA KHEYR WA AHLAM SAAIDA.

  :SALAH AD-DIN

  So the attacks were set for the next day. He copied ad-Din’s last sentence into Google Translate. He had said good night to him; the conversation was over. Eric would have to wait until after the attacks before he could re-establish contact. He looked up at the ceiling. Suicide bombers in Israel — within twenty-four hours. Oh, God. He had to warn someone, but who? If he called the police, he would reveal himself to Salah ad-Din, and he might never be able to contact him again. But if he didn’t warn someone, innocent people would die. He sat there for a long time, staring blankly at the flickering screen. Maybe Salah ad-Din was sitting and staring back on the other side of the internet.

  He stood up, went out to the balcony, and inhaled the early-morning air redolent of sea and pine. A rustling noise made him look down at the garden, where a skinny dog was trying to pull a garbage bag out of an overturned bin. He turned his face to the warm morning sun. There was a stale taste in his mouth. He had to talk to someone, otherwise he would go crazy. It was a quarter past seven. Even though he hadn’t slept for more than a few hours, he pulled on his wrinkled clothes, grabbed his PC, and went down to breakfast. In the restaurant were an older couple and, at a window table, a young man with an iPad. Rachel wasn’t there. He put his computer under his arm, gathered breakfast for two on a tray, and went up to her room on the second floor. He hesitated for a moment, but then knocked on the door lightly. Not a sound. He knocked again. He heard her moving, and then she opened the door. She was wearing the hotel’s black robe, and was barefoot, with messy hair. She was shorter than he remembered, and her eyes were swollen. He had woken her up.

  She looked at him without saying anything. Suddenly, he felt like crying. Maybe she could tell. Maybe she could see how tired he was, how desperate he felt. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Shalom,’ she whispered, carefully closing the door behind him. Her room was smaller than his. With the exception of the unmade bed, there was no sign that anyone was staying there. The bowl of fruit and the champagne were untouched, and he couldn’t see any suitcases, books, or clothes. She, too, had opened the balcony door. She sat down cross-legged on the bed and didn’t seem to mind that, by doing so, she’d bared a large portion of her legs. She had some sort of tattoo on her ankle, and her toenails were painted dark brown. He set the tray down in front of her, sank down into one of the chairs across from the bed, and then placed his computer on the table beside the bowl of fruit. She looked at him and tilted her head.

  ‘Why are you sad?’

  He lowered his eyes.

  ‘It’s a long story. Infinitely long.’

  ‘Are we in a hurry?’

  ‘Maybe not. But I’m too tired. I’d be happy to tell you another time. I’m sorry I woke you up like this, but …’

  ‘It’s okay. I was happy to see you. I thought about you last night before I fell asleep.’

  ‘What were you thinking about?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Oh, no … You shouldn’t ask about a woman’s thoughts.’ Eric smiled weakly.

  ‘I thought about you, too.’

  She cocked her head. ‘Would it have been a big deal if you’d slept over?’

  ‘Yes. It would have been a big deal to me.’

  At first she didn’t say anything; she fiddled with the teabags on the tray. Then she lowered her voice.

  ‘Then I guess it was lucky that you left. Or what do you think?’

  He sighed.

  ‘I’ve only known you for a few hours, but you’re special. In every way. But I can’t. Not now. I just need a friend — to be close to someone.’

  She picked up one of the yellow Liptons, tore the paper, and put the teabag in one of the cups. Then she looked at him again.

  ‘Why did you come here, Eric?’

  He reached for the computer.

  ‘Last night, I used your translations to get into the database. The code let me right into Mona’s development environment.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No. And that’s not all. From there, I got into a chat room that the terrorists use. There were hundreds of entries going back several months.’

  She shoved the tray aside and moved closer to him. ‘And?’

  ‘And there I made contact with a person who I think designed Mona.’

  It was probably crazy of him to tell her all of this, but he had to trust someone. And he had to talk. He had to share the information about the attacks with someone — share the responsibility with someone. Rachel was sitting very close to him now.

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Salah ad-Din. But that’s just an alias.’

  ‘Salah ad-Din is the Arabic name for Saladin, the highest Muslim leader in the twelfth century — the man who freed Jerusalem from the Christian crusaders. When he broke through the city’s defences, he gave the order to slaughter every inhabitant, to take no prisoners. He’s an example to many Muslims.’

  ‘Lovely. He’s about to do it again.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Slaughter people in Jerusalem.’

  Something sharp glittered in her eyes.

  ‘When, where?’

  ‘I don’t know everything, but you can read for yourself. Maybe, with your knowledge of languages, you might understand more. They’re planning suicide bombings in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.’

  He opened the computer and placed it in front of her on the bed. She ran a hand through her thick hair.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today, or mayb
e tomorrow. See what you can get out of it. Look for “phase three”.’

  She looked down at the screen. He tried to sit upright in the chair, but the exhaustion was pressing him down. He yawned. Maybe he should eat something to regain his strength, but all he wanted to do was sleep.

  Rachel reached for her cup of tea as she brought up more messages. After forty-five minutes, she came to the previous night’s conversation between Eric and Salah ad-Din. Her eyes narrowed as she read his entries, his praise of the virus, and his offer of co-operation. She looked at the man across from her, who was now deep in slumber. She took her mobile phone from her pocket, dialled a number, and waited for an answer. It came after one ring.

  ‘It’s time.’

  She hung up without taking her eyes from Eric.

  ‘Shit,’ she mumbled, in hardly more than a whisper. Then she leaned forward and gently ran her fingers through his hair.

  ‘You idiot.’

  Stockholm, Sweden

  Mats Hagström’s pulse rate increased sharply, which set off an alarm. His heart rate had changed several times during the night. His state was similar to a coma, but his brain was working intensely. The EEG was registering wild lines and straggling alpha, beta, and delta waves in rapid spikes. Doctor Thomas Wethje took note of the spikes on the readout, which were usually seen in patients undergoing severe epileptic seizures. But Mats didn’t have epilepsy, so the EEG chart was quite remarkable. And concerning. He placed his hand on Mats’s warm forehead and whispered, ‘Whatever you’re fighting — don’t give up.’

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  He was on his way across a warm, summery beach. Waves were rolling onto the shore from about fifty metres out. He was wearing Crocs and carrying a large picnic basket. Hanna was walking beside him with a blue blanket under her arm and one hand on her sunhat. She was wearing a white tunic over an orange bikini. The mild breeze was full of the scents of the sea — mussels, seaweed, salt. Then, just as he was about to take her hand, he slipped. He fell headlong to the ground, and threw up his hands to catch himself, to no avail. Pain flashed through his face, chest, and wrists when he hit the sand. There was thundering and rattling around him; his arms were caught high up on his back. Then his consciousness caught up with him, and along with it came panic. There were several men in black, with large boots and thick jackets. Someone was pressing his weight onto Eric’s back, and he was shoved hard against what he now knew was the carpet. He couldn’t breathe. He heard commands in Hebrew, and something breaking. His lungs burned, and he gasped desperately for air, trying to lift his head. Rachel. He had to protect her. What if they hurt her? He tried to twist around, but he was stuck. They fastened sharp bands around his arms and legs. Someone grabbed him by the collar, and he thought they were going to help him up. Instead, he felt a cold object against his neck, just under his jaw. There was a click, and everything went black.

  The impromptu meeting had been short and intense, and its upshot was that David Yassur didn’t have time to wait for the elevator. He tore open the door to the stairwell, and on the way down the six flights of stairs from the directorate floor to the interrogation floor, he went through it all one more time. The computer and the notebook had been taken to Unit 8200 for immediate analysis. The groups that were going to carry out the operations against the suicide bombers were ready. The local police in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem had been informed, and potential targets had been identified. The checkpoints were on high alert. Dogs trained to recognise the scent of explosives were on their way to Jerusalem. But, so far, they didn’t know the details of the attacks — where or when they might occur. They hoped that Unit 8200 would find out from the computer.

  He had met Rachel Papo. She had been there at the start of the meeting to give a report. She was more gentle than he had imagined, and gave almost a girlish impression. But he remembered what Meir Pardo had said about her dark background, about her disappearance and her wounded psyche. And about his own paternal feelings. Rachel had done a good job with the Swede — she’d proved that she was more than a sharp knife. In just a few hours, she’d gotten him to confide in her. The material they had to work with now might mean the turning point they’d all hoped for.

  The other good news was that Paul Clinton had flown to Israel. With him came access to the world’s greatest security organisation. As it stood now, the resources of the FBI, CIA, and NSA were at the Mossad’s disposal. And, right now, the Swede was their alpha and omega. Who was he? How did he fit in? They had discussed a number of possibilities, but none of their theories seemed likely. There was too much that didn’t add up. David was going to find out what was going on, straight from the source. Meir wanted to inform Ben Shavit, but first they needed more facts.

  David reached the first floor and made his way down the long corridor that led to the interrogation rooms. He passed three empty rooms before coming to a fourth, outside which stood two young guards, a red light blinking above the closed door behind them. He went into the small observation room. There, Paul was leaning against the wall, sipping a mug of coffee. He was large, bordering on fat, and was dressed in a grey suit and white shirt, as always. An interrogation clerk was sitting silently in front of a large pane of glass that looked into the interrogation room. Before her was a control panel for the recording equipment. The pane was made of one-way glass, so it could only be looked through from their direction. David stood close to the window and studied the prisoner.

  Where no counsel is, the people fall:

  But in the multitude of counsellors there is safety.

  The only thing that deviated from the colour scheme of the room was the blue banner hanging on the far wall. Under the quote was an embroidered, seven-armed silver menorah. Eric’s eyes lost focus, and the menorah seemed to float out onto the wall around it. He closed his eyes and looked again. His focus was back. His body was tense and aching. He had several small white bandages on his right arm. They had done tests on him — or they’d injected him with something. He looked around with difficulty. He was lying on a cot in a completely symmetrical room. The walls were grey, except for one large mirror. The floor was covered in speckled-grey linoleum, and three angry strip lights shone on the ceiling. The cot he was lying on was across from the wall with the mirror, and in it he could see himself with his legs drawn up and his hands between his knees. He looked strange, lifeless. One time he had been in a fire drill at KTH when they’d thrown blankets over a burning mannequin. That’s what the man in the mirror looked like — a fire mannequin wearing Eric’s own wrinkled clothes.

  In the middle of the room was a square table and three chairs. The stark light from the ceiling blinded him, hurting his eyes. What had happened? Where was Rachel? His mouth was dry. There was a bitter taste he hadn’t noticed earlier. The room was cold. He looked at the banner again, wondering who had embroidered the menorah.

  ‘Our motto!’

  The man who entered the room nodded at the words.

  ‘Our motto and our symbol.’

  He sat down on one of the chairs and placed a yellow folder on the table with a bang. Eric got up from the cot with difficulty.

  ‘Our?’

  ‘Oh, did I forget to tell you where you are? Welcome to the Mossad. I’m sorry we didn’t have a nicer room to offer you.’

  The voice was clearly full of sarcasm. The Mossad? Of all the unimaginably absurd things. But why? The man at the table looked at him coldly. Not threateningly, but not friendly either. There was something else about him, too — something hard and relentless. He was about Eric’s age, and short but powerfully built. His tanned face was lined, and his black hair was shot with white. He was wearing a black polo shirt and dark-brown chinos. He wasn’t wearing a watch.

  ‘I’m a Swedish citizen,’ Eric said in a low voice.

  ‘And I’m Israeli. That’s unimportant. My name is David Yassur, and I’m the director of oper
ations here — number two in rank.’

  Eric massaged his sore wrists.

  ‘I want to call my embassy.’

  ‘Sure. And I want to lie around at home watching soccer. But we’re here now. Come here.’

  He pointed at one of the empty chairs. Eric remained on the cot.

  ‘I have rights.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You have no rights. You have no passport, no name, and no nationality. You’re just a sack of meat and bone. Your only worth is as an informant. Either you play that role well enough to survive, or else you keep your mouth shut. And if you keep your mouth shut, you’re completely worthless. If it had been up to me, you would have been stopped in Nice. I hate those who threaten us as much as I love Israel. You had one chance, but you wasted it. Now I have a few questions for you. You can choose to answer here, or else we’ll go down to the basement. I won’t be the one to ask the questions down there. This is not a fucking playhouse. This is serious. Got it?’

  He was shocked by the man’s aggression. The words tore him out of his surreal, dissociative state. This was for real. It was not a movie, not an act. This wasn’t happening to someone else. But could they really hurt him? After all, this was a state authority in a civilised country. And yet he realised how naïve this line of reasoning sounded. He was a prisoner of the world’s most feared intelligence service. His unsteady legs carried him to the chair, and he sat down. The scraping of the chair legs hurt his ears. He placed his hands on the table and tried to calm down. The man smelled like sweat.