Mona

by Dan Sehlberg

  Near Khan Younis, Gaza

  It was chilly in the tunnel. His clothes, which had been wet with sweat, felt icy now, and Eric was so cold he was shaking. It was hard to walk, and he kept tripping. The passage was uneven and narrow; the ground was mud and gravel. The only light came from the man’s flashlight, and time and again it disappeared, causing Eric to bump into rocks and parts of the wall that jutted out. Not a word had been uttered in over forty minutes. His back and neck ached from stooping, and the bag was heavy and unwieldy. Twice he had stepped on something alive, or maybe previously alive — probably rats — and the air stank of decay.

  Suddenly, he walked straight into an earthen wall. The collision was so unexpected that he gave a shout. Behind him, the man shone the light on the walls around them and found another ladder — this time, a regular painter’s ladder that was leaning against the wall. The man knocked on the ladder with the flashlight and moved his head to indicate that they were going up it. With stiff joints and frozen fingers, Eric started to climb. When he came to the top of the ladder, he could feel that the ceiling consisted of a loose slab of wood. He pushed up. The slab fell away, letting in a burst of sunlight that blinded him. He closed his eyes instinctively and then opened them slowly, took a deep breath, and heaved himself up.

  He was standing behind a low shed. Two of the walls were made of concrete, but the other two were made of plywood; the roof was made of hung fabric. The building occupied no more than perhaps twenty square metres. The air was still very warm, and he was grateful for the sun as it sucked the chill from his body. The building was at the edge of a large field, with a small gravel road alongside it. He could see grazing sheep, and green and purple thistles; further off, tall palm trees were swaying. The wind was dry. The scent of the sea was gone.

  The black-clad man boosted himself out of the hole with the automatic weapon on his back. This was the first time in almost an hour that Eric had seen his guide — or perhaps ‘guard’ was a better word. His dark clothes were soiled with mud and dirt, and the scarf that covered his face had come loose at one side, revealing thick, black hair. The man moved one of the pieces of plywood aside and went into the building. Eric waited outside. After about a minute, the man returned with a cloak made of black fabric. Eric struggled to pull it over his head, finding it too small and tight, and smelling of mud. The man gestured with his hand that they should go around the building. Eric took his bag and started walking. As they came around the corner, the man pointed at two green bikes that were leaning against the wall. Eric took one of the rickety bikes, secured his bag on the luggage carrier, and got on. The man did the same, and they rolled off down the gravel road. The sheep paid them no attention, even though they were riding very close to them. It was a strange feeling suddenly to be sitting on a bike amid tall palms and grazing sheep. Each time he rode over an uneven spot, the bell dinged — a familiar and friendly sound. There was too little air in the tyres, which made bicycling on the gravel slow going. The tight black cloak didn’t help, but now they looked like two local farmers — at least from a distance. The disguise was simple but effective.

  His watch indicated that it was quarter past four in the afternoon. It had been more than nine hours since he had left the library in Tel Aviv. After a while, the road split in two, and he threw a questioning glance at the man, who nodded toward the left. They continued across dry fields, and their surroundings become more and more undulating, with hills that rose like large blisters out of the dry ground. Eric was thirsty, but he chose to keep pedalling. His thigh muscles were sore; it had been many years since he’d biked. They passed a large tractor that was halfway down the ditch, its giant, useless tyres looking like empty eyes on the sides of a wrinkled and rusty head. Then they biked up such a steep hill that Eric had to stand up on the pedals to make it. When they got to the top, the man shouted ‘Waqef!’ from behind him.

  He stopped, put a foot on the ground, and leaned over the handlebars, out of breath. The man studied the road, which sloped down the hill and wound off across yet another dry field. Eric followed his gaze and tried to figure out what he was looking at. Far out on the field was an old ruin. Alongside the collapsed building, he could make out a few pieces of white plastic furniture — a table and three chairs. One of the chairs had tipped over, surely felled by the same strong wind that was causing the little bell on his bike to ding. They stood on top of the hill for a long time, and the man continued to stare across the field. Finally, he signalled that they should keep going. They rolled down the hill with crunching tyres and jingling bells, and went across the bumpy field in the direction of the ruin. From a distance, the wall looked like it was covered in brown freckles.

  Another black-clad man moved out of the shadows by the house. He, too, was masked and carrying an automatic weapon. Eric pedalled toward the man, who stood waiting for them with a wide stance and a straight back. He was taller than the others. By now, Eric was so thirsty that he felt he would faint. He had tried to alternately collect saliva in his mouth and swallow it, to at least simulate some sort of liquid. Now, even that well was dry, and all his saliva was gone. They stopped at the ruin. The dotted pattern wasn’t freckles; it was made up of large bullet holes. The whole wall was full of them — thousands of them, in different shapes and sizes.

  The two men in black each lifted a bike over the shot-up stone wall and hid them in the shadows behind it. They were speaking Arabic in low voices. A car went by, far off on the horizon, on a road that Eric couldn’t see. The men grew silent, and watched the car as it slowly crept across the landscape, followed closely by a large cloud of dust. After a while, the car disappeared from sight, and the sound died out. The taller man quickly walked a few metres out into the field, bent down, and lifted another hatch door from the ground. Unlike the last one, electric light flooded out of the small entrance. It was starting to get dark, which made the glow from the hole seem even stronger. They both turned to him. He nodded, went over to the hole, pulled his bag over his shoulder, and stepped onto the first rung of the ladder. The ladder was solid; it was made of bent rebar set into rough concrete.

  Once he was down, he found himself in a surprisingly large room lit by bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The room was empty, except for a pile of jackets and dirty boots, and he stepped onto the floor just as the door above him closed with a bang. He saw that the room wasn’t really a room; it was more like a widened part of a long tunnel, large enough to drive a car in. The tunnel went in both directions, and was lit by more light bulbs at regular intervals. He thought he could hear music — maybe an Arabic song — somewhere far off. Should he keep standing here? Wait for someone? Had he reached his goal? He took a few steps in one direction, and strained to see in the darkness.

  ‘The creator of Mind Surf. I’m honoured.’

  The voice was so unexpected — and in American English, to boot, with no accent whatsoever — that Eric dropped his bag. He took a deep breath and turned around. The man was standing just a few metres behind him. He was barefoot on the bare concrete, and was wearing brown pants and a grey sweatshirt. His clothes were loose, and he seemed to be very thin. A pair of white earbud wires wound up out of his pants pocket and ended around his neck. Eric recognised him from the photograph. So this was the end of his journey — the goal he had given himself in the bathtub on Banérgatan. The man stood still, studying him with a neutral expression. Was it obvious that Eric was close to tears? He swallowed, and stuck out his hand; to his alarm, he realised it was trembling. The man took it and squeezed it gently.

  ‘Welcome, Eric Söderqvist.’

  ‘Salah ad-Din.’

  The man smiled faintly.

  ‘My name is Samir.’

  They stood across from each other for a long time without saying anything. The air was loaded, as if they were two boxers studying each other before the first round. Eric looked around.

  ‘Where are we?
’

  ‘In a transport tunnel. An important distribution channel, until the Israelis bombed it. Nowadays, it’s not good for much. For us, it’s a temporary home. Come on, let’s sit down — you must be tired.’

  He started toward the tunnel on the right-hand side, and Eric hurried after him. His steps echoed through the passage. Samir spoke without turning around: ‘I was expecting you earlier. Was the journey long?’

  ‘It took a while at Erez.’

  Samir nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s not easy to get into Gaza. Or out.’ Eric thought of the fake passport.

  ‘It’s a miracle I got through.’ Samir stopped and looked at him, searching for something in his gaze.

  ‘A miracle? Yes, I suppose that’s the right word. Truly a miracle.’ Perhaps he was being sarcastic. He started walking again, and Eric followed him. The air smelled sweet, from some sort of incense.

  ‘How many of you are there here?’

  ‘Usually, five of us, if I count the two Palestinians out there. They’re not really part of our group — they’re brothers from Hamas who are helping us for the time being.’

  ‘Usually?’

  ‘One of us has gone for a few days. Our leader.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Tonight, tomorrow, in a week. Only Allah knows.’

  They arrived in another section where the tunnel widened into a chamber, this time with a row of openings that seemed to lead to smaller side rooms or storage areas. Blankets and cushions covered part of the floor. Two drinking glasses and a small grey teapot stood next to the pillows. Samir gestured with his hand.

  ‘Sit down. As I’m sure you understand, I have many questions.’

  Eric sank down onto the cushions. When he looked into the man’s dark eyes, he was struck by a dizzying sense of unreality. He was sitting with Hezbollah in a smuggling tunnel under Gaza, across from Samir Mustaf, the most wanted man in the world — the creator of Mona.

  To an untrained ear, the propeller sounded like any aeroplane at all. But the sound was brighter, at a higher frequency. The unmanned Heron 1 plane swept over the dark fields of Gaza at an altitude of three hundred metres and a speed of two hundred kilometres per hour. With a length of eight-and-a-half metres and a wingspan of just over sixteen metres, the Heron was one of the Israeli Air Force’s largest drones. This model was equipped for scouting and searching, with infra-red video, synthetic aperture radar, MPR systems, satellite links, and UAV transmitters. The plane could work for fifty hours without stopping. This evening, all nineteen drones over Gaza had the same task: find Eric Söderqvist.

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Prime Minister Ben Shavit had cancelled dinner with the British ambassador, Matthew Gould. They knew each other well, so it wasn’t a problem, and Meir Pardo had sounded very anxious on the phone. Now he was sitting at his desk, waiting for the director of the Mossad. He had spent most of the day discussing the gas deposits outside Haifa. The crashing financial markets were threatening to upset the whole exploitation project — the two foreign banks that had promised to put up loans had sent notice late the previous night that they were pulling out. The Mona virus had scared them away. He looked out the window. It was pitch black. Yet another victim from the mall — a young woman — had died. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Ken!’

  Meir Pardo was wearing a bright-blue shirt and light-brown pants. He had been smoking his pipe; that was clear as soon as he entered the room. There was something soothing and secure about the fact that this particular man was a pipe smoker. Meir nodded curtly and sat down in one of the easy chairs across from Ben. They looked at one another without saying anything. Finally, Meir took off his glasses and straightened his back.

  ‘How are things with you, Ben?’

  ‘I’m screwed. You?’

  ‘Somewhat better. I want you to become acquainted with a person from Sweden — Eric Söderqvist.’

  Ben frowned.

  ‘Sweden?’

  Meir nodded, leaned forward, and placed a blue binder on the table in front of him. Ben opened it, coming across a black-and-white picture on the first page. The man in the picture was in his forties, and he looked kind; he had a smile on his lips, and a sheaf of papers under his arm.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘An IT professor from Stockholm. Married to a Jew.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s a long and improbable story. I’ve written it all down in the memo. The short version is that he’s managed to make contact with the terrorist cell behind Mona.’

  Ben raised his eyebrows and leaned over his desk. The chair creaked under his weight.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Meir smiled, pleased to finally be able to deliver some good news.

  ‘He has been invited by Samir Mustaf himself to take part in the project. He’s on his way to the group’s base in Gaza. There’s a transmitter on him, and we’re following him, close on his heels.’

  Ben sat with his elbows on the table and his eyes on the photograph. The director of the Mossad lowered his voice.

  ‘Ben, this is what we were waiting for. If everything goes according to plan, we will soon have their exact co-ordinates.’

  As Ben looked at the surly man on the other side of the table, he was filled with gratitude. How the hell had Meir managed to find this guy? He nodded in approval.

  ‘It’s really about time that you made yourselves useful.’

  Meir blinked in surprise, but recovered quickly.

  ‘This is what you pay us for. As soon as we’ve established his position, we can go in.’

  He stood up and started toward the door.

  ‘I apologise if I’ve disrupted your dinner plans, but I thought you’d want to know about this. Otherwise, there was the risk that you might give up.’

  Ben didn’t answer; he was looking at the photograph. Meir went on. ‘It’s all in the report. Only a small group knows about this. It’s important to keep it that way.’

  He closed the door silently. The prime minister was still sitting there with his hands on the binder.

  Everyone in his family was sleeping soundly on the top floor, but he was standing on the large terrace, looking down at the lights of Jerusalem. He needed to breathe fresh air in order to calm down. If it hadn’t been so dark he would have gone out on his bike. The short phone conversation with Ben Shavit had turned everything upside down. The prime minister had sounded relieved — and triumphant. Sure, he had promised not to pass on Meir Pardo’s information, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. And who was a better confidant than his best friend? Sinon had listened. He didn’t usually lose his composure, but the conversation had knocked him off balance. He had mumbled something about how fantastic it was, and had hung up. Then he had stood on the terrace under the starry sky, serenely. He was breathing heavily, his eyes on the illuminated al-Aqsa cupola.

  So Troy had its own Sinon. Meir had managed to infiltrate Ahmad Waizy’s group. How was this possible? There were only five people left on the Gaza team: Ahmad Waizy, Mohammad Murid, Samir Mustaf, and the two Palestinians whom Ahmad had borrowed from Hamas. And then a Swedish IT engineer had made his way into the group. It sounded completely absurd. How could they be so stupid? How could Samir do something so insane? They had to be warned, but Ahmad was in Gaza City. Sinon had tried to call him, but couldn’t get through. Gaza was a shithole — a shithole without a functioning mobile network. He couldn’t reach Mohammad either. And he didn’t dare call Samir; he didn’t trust the wonder child from Qana. The Palestinians had no phones. What more could he do?

  Ben Shavit had been so close to going along with their demands. In the past twenty-four hours, he had accepted the idea of new borders, and of freeing the prisoners as well as giving orders for a cease-fire. The US had fi
nally found a Norwegian UN diplomat, and their first meeting was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. They had been so close to their goal, but now all their plans had been upended. As soon as the prime minister had learned about the Swede, he had cancelled the meeting. Now he wanted to wait for them to find the Swedish spy and the anti-virus. Meir was ready to go into Gaza; the attack could occur at any moment.

  How had the Swede contacted Samir? What other mistakes had they made? The more he thought about it, the more questions he came up with. Ahmad had to get back to the tunnel immediately and clean up the evidence. If the Swede got his throat cut, Ben would have to go back to the bargaining table. But now it was a race against time — it was a matter of hours, maybe minutes. And he couldn’t get hold of that fucking Ahmad. He tried dialling the number again. Nothing. This was the second piece of bad news in a matter of a few hours. The first was that that little Mossad slut had survived the bombing. It was unclear how — she was injured, but not dead. He would make sure it was taken care of, but that was a project for later. Right now, everything hinged upon quickly getting Ahmad into the tunnel to kill the spy. He dialled the number again. His eyes followed the well-lit wall that wound around the old city. This time, the call went through. Ahmad answered on the fourth ring.