by Dan Sehlberg
‘What’s going to happen to him?’
‘He’s going to be interrogated.’
Samir poked at the charred logs with one sandal.
‘What are you hoping to learn?’
‘How he managed to get into our database, who he talked to.’
‘And then?’
‘Then? A shot to the right eye. Or maybe the left. It depends on the angle. What are you doing out here?’
‘I’m thinking about my daughter. I’m trying to remember her voice. What she smelled like. Everything disappears so fast — the colours, the details. Everything fades.’
He pushed a piece of wood into the fire with his foot.
‘And I’m thinking about what I’ve done — everything we’ve done. Does it really make a difference? The grenade that exploded in our kitchen will never go away. My family will never come back. I swore revenge, and I got it. But for what? Revenge hasn’t filled the emptiness in my heart.’
Ahmad shook his head.
‘You’re wrong, my friend. Qisas gives you the right to retaliate. The Prophet, may peace be upon him, cannot be misinterpreted. The right to redress goes far back in time. The Babylonian laws established an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’
‘According to the holy Quran, forgiveness is greater.’
Ahmad laughed scornfully.
‘Do you claim to forgive those who took your daughter away from you? Your wife?’
Ahmad placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Look at me, Samir.’
Samir turned around. The contact and the voice made him tense involuntarily. Ahmad’s face was just a few centimetres from his own.
‘I believe in revenge. Retaliation has been a crucial force in many successful battles. You were the one who chose Salah ad-Din as your alias online. His vengeance was uncompromising. Yours must be as well.’
When Samir didn’t answer, he went on. ‘And, besides, that’s how we were able to recruit you.’
There was a sudden chill between them, or maybe just inside Samir. It wasn’t fear — at least not fear of physical harm. It was something considerably worse. Something he’d always suspected, but had never dared to put into words. He looked at Ahmad as though the devil himself were standing before him. His eyes begged him not to continue, begged him not to say what he was about to say — that inevitable thing. Ahmad raised his voice a bit and squeezed Samir’s shoulder harder.
‘Hate was the only thing that could make you see the fight from our perspective. To truly feel for those who had been affected, those who are vulnerable. Revenge was the only thing that could make you join us.’
Samir wanted to tear the man’s tongue from his mouth — whatever would stop him from talking. But, instead, his numb lips opened and demanded that Ahmad utter the ultimate curse.
‘What are you saying?’
Ahmad smiled, his hand still on Samir’s shoulder.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. You were crucial to our plan; we had to get you to go along with it. There was no other way.’
Samir’s legs gave way and he sank down to the sand. The anguish that filled him was so overwhelming and unfathomable that he could no longer stand. He didn’t cry. He stared with eyes wide open, past Ahmad, up into black space. Ahmad lowered his voice.
‘They were a small sacrifice for a great thing. Paradise welcomed them with open arms. Those who die a martyr’s death for Allah aren’t dead; they are alive and have been born again.’
Samir sat crumpled at the edge of the fire. He tried to collect his thoughts, but they all pulled apart and disappeared. He picked up the creased picture of Mona and stared into her brown eyes.
Ahmad had been prepared for aggression, so Samir’s collapse disappointed him. He had been looking forward to telling him the truth about Qana. But now that he was revealing the truth, he was met only with degraded weakness and unmanly apathy. He pressed harder in a last attempt to provoke a reaction.
‘We pretended that it was a little tiger cub. Apparently, little Mona loved animals.’
Samir didn’t answer. He just sat there, staring at his pathetic photograph. Ahmad took out the Glock he was carrying in the lining of his pants. There was no reaction, even when he cocked it. The Lebanese bastard didn’t even lift his head. Ahmad pressed the barrel just behind Samir’s ear and fired. Everyone was the same when faced with death. One of the world’s leading IT engineers, one minute; the next, just a pile of clothes in the sand. He shook his head and looked out into the night. There was still a strong wind. He listened to his intuition. There was something going on. Something was about to happen. He turned back toward the tunnel.
Tel Aviv, Israel
Two days after the attack, Rachel Papo was able to walk on her own. The doctors had forbidden it, but she did it anyway. She had been out wandering in the hallway, back and forth. It did not go quickly. The pain was unimaginable. Each step was a victory.
Most people would have died in such a violent explosion. Rachel was physically stronger than many people, but that wasn’t the deciding factor. It was her mind.
When the drugs left her body, she could start to think again. A bomb had exploded in her bedroom. Her lover was dead. How had someone gotten hold of her address? It was a safe house that wasn’t listed in any directories — at least not any official ones. That meant there was a leak in the Mossad — a leak at the highest security level. She struggled to open the door to the next unit. The floor was cold under her bare feet. This time, she was going to walk all the way to the cafeteria.
Near Khan Younis, Gaza
At first, Eric thought it was thunder. The first crash was dull and far off, a distant reminder of the world that still existed up there. He thought of the house on Dalarö, of how he and Hanna would stand at the large glass window and enjoy watching the lightning over Jungfrujärden. Then came the second explosion. It was deafening, and it caused the mortar in the wall to crack and fall on top of him in a shower of splinters. He screamed and curled up into a foetal position. His ears howled, and there was a sudden caustic smell in the air. He heard rattling. Tack-tack-tack — short bursts that sounded like the sound of a giant typewriter. He could hear someone shouting through the steel door, and maybe running feet. Dirt and mud ran over his hands and face. Another explosion shook the floor. He desperately pulled his legs to his body. He had never been so scared, so panicked. The typewriter kept up its clacking. Tack-tack-tack. A few words at a time. Tack-tack.
Despite the howling in his ears, he could make out the sound of the bar on the door. The door opened, and someone came in; he recognised the silhouette. It was Ahmad Waizy. He closed the door behind him, and someone replaced the bar on the outside. Was Ahmad coming to kill him? Eric lay perfectly still. The typewriter had stopped. He heard a shuffling noise, a quick intake of air, a sharp sound like fabric ripping, and then everything was quiet.
He could hear only the rapid breathing in the dark. He didn’t dare move; he waited to be stabbed or kicked or shot. But nothing happened. The dirt had stopped running over him. The ceiling hadn’t collapsed. The burned smell was still there, and maybe the smell of Ahmad, too. He smelled sweat, and sensed fear. Eric heard voices and movements outside the door. Ahmad’s breathing changed rhythm, suddenly becoming calmer. Then came the creak of the bar. The door flew open and someone turned on the light. The small room was flooded with light, making him squint at the entrance. A soldier towered up in the glow like a god stepping right out of the sun. He was wearing a helmet, goggles, a headset, and a black jumpsuit. He held an automatic rifle in front of him, with the barrel aimed at the far corner of the cell. Eric slowly turned his head and saw Ahmad. He was in the corner, in torn clothes and with his hands taped in front of him. The soldier shouted something. He aimed the gun back and forth between Eric and Ahmad, who was mumbling.
The words caused the soldier to take a step closer and fix the weapon on the wiry Arab. Ahmad got to his knees and spoke louder. Eric recognised the language. It was Hebrew. He’s trying to pass himself off as a prisoner. He wanted to warn the guard, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare make a sound. Ahmad repeated the sentence again and again. He nodded toward Eric and held his hands in the air. Sweat was running down his forehead and under his nose. Without lowering his weapon, the soldier turned his arm and studied something just above his wrist. Then he straightened up, and the room exploded in a brief inferno of deafening explosions, compressed and intensified by the close walls. Eric couldn’t hold back his scream. Bullet casings clinked around him, their ring echoing. The soldier roared something. When Eric opened his eyes, he found he was staring into a smoking gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ahmad’s body, pressed up against the wall like a rag doll. Large red spots were blooming on his chest and stomach. The man repeated his order. Eric swallowed and answered weakly, ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’ The man turned his arm again and studied what was printed just above his wrist. Then he looked at Eric and lowered his weapon. He said something into his headset and nodded. Then he pointed at the door.
‘Söderqvist — come with me.’
When the soldier bent down to help him, Eric saw what he’d been looking at. On his forearm, in a transparent plastic pocket sewn into the black fabric of the jumpsuit, was a colour picture of Eric. When they came out into the tunnel, they met several other soldiers in identical jumpsuits — black fabric, with no marks or badges. All of them had his picture on their left arms. At least two of the soldiers they passed were women. They arrived at the large chamber he’d climbed down into just over twenty-four hours before. A soldier was crouching beside a body. Eric recognised the dead man immediately: Mohammad Murid. The birthmark was impossible to miss. The soldier behind him pointed at the ladder.
‘Up and out.’
He started climbing. The closer he got to the hatch door, the louder he heard a whining roar. The noise hit him hard as he opened the hatch, causing him to recoil. About twenty metres from the hatch, bathed in the pink light of dawn, were two large helicopters whose engines were roaring. He climbed out of the hatch. The air was chilly. A soldier with a night-vision visor on his helmet pointed at the closest helicopter. He hunched over in the wind from the spinning rotor blades, and fought his way toward the open side door. The ground was burned in several places, and he could glimpse bodies in the sand — the Palestinians. Just as he was about to step onto the foot rail, he caught sight of a lone body a few metres behind the second helicopter. He recognised the pants. A wave of nausea washed over him, causing him to lose his balance. He fell onto the hard-packed sand and threw up, in waves of powerful retches that made his stomach clench. The warm vomit splashed over his spread hands. He breathed heavily, crying. He rested on all fours, leaning over the yellowish-white puddle and still crying. Snot and tears ran down his cheeks. Someone took hold of his arms, pulling him up and into the cabin. The wind disappeared, and the roar of the engines became muffled. He sank onto one of the worn seats with teary eyes. The man who had helped him into the cabin crouched down and studied his face. He, too, was dressed in a black jumpsuit, but he had no combat pack, helmet, or headset.
‘Mr Söderqvist, I’m Captain Lewin. We’re going to move you to a temporary base for a medical examination. From there, we’ll fly you to Tel Aviv. You can relax. It’s all over.’
The man stood up, patted him gently on the shoulder, and climbed out of the helicopter. As soon as he had closed the door, the cabin swayed, and the ground sank away from the windows. With aching joints, Eric straightened up and looked out. They were already so high up that it was impossible to make out any of the camp. The earth below was just a grey patchwork quilt. Expanding above them was an endless pink morning sky. His body hurt all over. There was still a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He blinked and tried to shut out the chaos. Captain Lewin’s last words lingered in the cabin. It’s all over.
The wind stirred up the lovely flakes and filled the air with snow-like clouds. The white dust stung her throat and stuck to her face. She coughed. The sky over Hamngatan was a strange shade of red, as though it were reflecting a fire burning far away. Each step seemed to intrude upon the oppressive silence. Something in her tired memory was squirming and fighting to be heard. Something about a girl and an illness. About the future. She looked out over the wrecked cars. If everyone was dead, where were the bodies? Newspapers, posters, and plastic bags danced in circles above the footpaths and traffic islands, quickly gaining height, spinning faster and faster as the wind got stronger. It whistled and whined through the car wrecks around her. A car door slammed with a dull bang. She crossed Hamngatan. The broad stairs down to the subway platform were full of boxes, boards, and papers. She took the stairs in great steps, suddenly terrified of the street, the façades of the buildings, and the whirling trash. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The entrance to the bottom floor of NK gaped darkly. The large sliding doors were wide open. The kitchen department was in there, in the dark. She shivered. Maybe the girl was still there. Maybe she was standing there, watching her. Guarding her, awaiting the faceless man.
They had stayed at the Bahad Zikim military base for three hours. He had taken an ice-cold shower, drunk a cup of coffee, and eaten a mealy apple. The base was nearly deserted, and only one of the long barracks was in use. Everyone he saw was from the same group as those who had attacked the tunnel. They all had the same quiet manner and looked at him with the same evasive glances, and they all wore black jumpsuits with no patches. An older female doctor had felt him all over and listened to his heart. Then a serious man with thick glasses had interrogated him. He hadn’t called it an interrogation — ‘debriefing’ was the word he had used. They had sat on their respective folding chairs in an empty cafeteria. The man had asked hundreds of questions, and Eric’s answers had been captured by a simple video camera on a tripod. The man had said that this was only a preliminary conversation and that he would have to submit to a number of similar sessions in the next few days. They wanted to know who was in charge of the camp, who he had met, what he had seen, what he hadn’t seen, whether they’d had weapons, what kind of weapons, whether they’d had maps, and whether he’d heard any names. But Eric was too shaken up to answer coherently. He himself could tell that he was distracted and unclear. The man was patient, and did what he could to help him put his story together.
Now Eric was back in the helicopter, and flying with him was a young man in civilian clothes and dark glasses. The man was reading a dog-eared book, and only gave him a quick nod as he sat down in the cramped cabin. The silence was welcome — Eric had no desire to talk to anyone. Despite the vibrations, he leaned his head against the wall and tried to relax. Everything had happened so incredibly quickly. Just a few hours ago he had been talking to Samir. He still had his iPod in his pocket. But Samir was gone now — murdered. The helicopter banked and lost altitude, and pain shot through his stomach. He grabbed one of the handgrips and looked around. The man across from him was still reading calmly. Samir’s death was a catastrophe. Without him, there was no anti-virus and no Nadim. Hanna would fade away, just as Mats had. The only thing he had accomplished with his journey was to waste what was left of their time together. He had let them all down: Jens, Judith, Mats, and Hanna.
The helicopter turned sharply and descended toward the ground. He pressed his face against the round window. They were on their way down to an asphalt landing pad among several low buildings. He recognised the area. It was the airport — Ben Gurion. The large machine landed gently. The man with the book stood up and walked to the door, crouching. He turned a grey handle, opened the door, and hopped out. The engine shut down and was replaced by a more distant hum from the airport. Eric remained seated, his body heavy and stiff. The door to the cockpit opened to reveal a young p
ilot in green military clothes with headphones around his neck. The pilot nodded at him.
‘This is the final stop.’
‘And where am I supposed to go?’
‘Follow me. Come on.’
He climbed out through the half-open door, and Eric followed him. When he got down onto the asphalt, he remembered his bag. He turned to the pilot.
‘I brought a bag with me to the camp in Gaza. A black Gucci bag.’
The man stared at him as though trying to figure out if he was serious. Then he shook his head.
‘Come on. They’re waiting for you.’
They walked toward a narrow, one-storey building of grey-painted concrete about fifty metres from the helicopter. Several smaller helicopters stood around the building, which bore no signs or markings whatsoever. They went in through a simple particleboard door, and came into a crowded room with brown-leather sofas and a large coffee machine. The pilot hung his headphones on a hook next to the machine, and pointed at the sofas.
‘Wait here.’
Then he disappeared through a tinted-glass door. Eric sat on one of the worn sofas. The windows rattled as a plane took off and flew just above the roof. Again, he thought about his bag. It was idiotic to ask about it; the only thing he really missed was the Sutzkever book. The glass door opened, and two people came into the room. He recognised the first as the Mossad director who had interrogated him in Tel Aviv — David something-or-other. The other … he gasped.