by Dan Sehlberg
‘We wait.’
The door closed softly after him. Eric remained seated, his eyes on the floor. Hanna’s condition was improving, and Thomas was convinced it was thanks to the antiretroviral drug. Maybe he was right. Or it might be due to Nadim. Whatever it was, it was moving things in the right direction. But she might have suffered damage. He stood up restlessly and went over to the computer table, where he disconnected the iPod. Needing a little music to calm his nerves, he returned to the chair and started scrolling through the music. He wished he’d had the real Tchaikovsky’s seventh to listen to — if it even existed. He would have liked to know if it were melancholy or cheerful. Considering how Tchaikovsky felt toward the end, one could guess that it would be in a minor key. Eric exited the music section and went to the main menu to relive the fantastic feeling he’d gotten when he first discovered the anti-virus program. He scrolled down to the category ‘To Eric’ and opened it. It was empty. He looked more closely at the little screen. Nothing. Tchaikovsky’s seventh was gone. Nadim was gone. How was this possible? He stood up and walked over to the computer and started the servers. While he waited for the system to warm up, he looked at the iPod again. Apparently, Nadim had erased itself after it had been used on the device. He hoped it was still in the computer. The program was invaluable to Israel, to the world. Nadim could revive the hundreds of thousands of infected computers all over the world that were currently useless. The desktop came up, and he searched in vain for Nadim. The computer searched for a few seconds and then returned the result — the result he had known he would get even before he started the search:
NADIM NOT FOUND
He stood still with both hands on the keyboard and gathered his thoughts. Samir Mustaf had wanted to help him save Hanna. But he had also made sure that Eric couldn’t spread the anti-virus or use it for anything else. The version of Nadim he’d received must have been instructed to erase itself after a certain amount of time, or after a certain series of events. The program had been transferable to his main computer, and transferable once more after that — in this case, to Hanna. Eric shuddered as he thought of what the consequences would have been if he had tried the anti-virus program on a second computer before he had hooked Hanna up. Or if he had let Paul Clinton have a copy.
He stared at the three words that flickered on the screen. The world would have to do without Nadim, and Tchaikovsky’s seventh symphony. Without a working anti-virus, it would be a slow and difficult task to rebuild all the infected systems. Presumably, all the affected data and programs would have to be deleted, and rewritten all over again. The costs would be inconceivable. He shook his head in resignation, fetched the chair by the door, and sat down as close to the bed as he could. The anti-virus was gone. Now it only existed in Hanna’s body. Perhaps they were both in there, Nadim and Mona. Or maybe one of them had already been obliterated, and only the victor remained. Who was stronger? Mother or daughter? He had never received confirmation that the virus was destroyed. The little clock had just disappeared, replaced by an empty screen. It was impossible to know if the operation had succeeded.
The room was quiet, and it was almost surreal how distant from the rest of the world it felt. It was as though he and Hanna were the only people left on earth, alone in a white cube. He ran his hand through his hair and looked at the black screens. The respirator had been removed; Hanna was breathing on her own. He listened to her calm breathing, which was was quiet and regular, like distant ocean waves. He had always dreamed of living by the sea. He thought of their little house on Dalarö. They hadn’t been there a single time this summer. There was nothing he wanted more than to be there with her — lying on the dock, near her body, listening to the sea.
All night, Eric sat there on the chair, looking at her and dreaming that she would wake, imagining that he would finally see her open her eyes. How would it feel? What would he say? As it turned out, it ended up the other way around. He fell asleep around four-thirty, and slept deeply for an hour-and-a-half. When he returned, half-asleep, to his aching body in its uncomfortable position — crowded between the wall and the respirator — she was looking at him. He tried to focus, sure that he was still asleep. But then she smiled. Her head was sweaty, and it had sunk deep into the pillow; her hair ran along her shoulder and over her chest, flowing like a golden sea around her pale face. He sat stock-still, as if a sudden movement might scare her away. After a few long seconds, he softly whispered the only thing he could think of to say: ‘I’m sorry.’ Tears caught in his throat. ‘I’m sorry about everything.’
She looked at him, following him as he stood up, pulled off his mask, leaned forward, and kissed her carefully — on her forehead, on her eyelids, on the bridge of her nose. It was all so familiar, so safe. Before he pressed his lips to hers, wrapped in her light breath, he whispered, ‘Welcome back, my darling.’
Jerusalem, Israel
In the fall, Bianchi was coming out with a completely new frame. He had read about it in Bicycling — a frame that was lighter, but also more rigid than the one he had now. He had written to the company to try to order one, but they hadn’t yet decided on the price and delivery date. He wasn’t interested in the price. He had already spent over four hundred thousand shekels on his hobby. But then, it was the only extravagance he allowed himself; in everything else he was an ascetic.
As he pedalled along, he inhaled one scent after another. The humidity in the air intensified their nuances, as he cut through puddles that had formed in the holes of the asphalt. There was no traffic this early, so he could use the whole road to straighten the curves and keep up his tempo. His thigh muscles were working hard, and he stood more than he sat. The first half of his route was uphill and sometimes very steep. He did intense cardio first, pushing his body to the limit. Then the road went downhill, where concentration and technique were crucial.
Sinon thought about everything that had happened in the past few weeks. The Mossad had infiltrated the group and had guided in a task force. Now everyone was gone — Ahmad Waizy, Samir Mustaf, Mohammad Murid — and the Palestinians he had borrowed from Hamas, both specially trained in Iran. Ben Shavit was being praised as an international hero. This was an historic failure for Hezbollah. If only they’d had another day, Ben would have signed the agreement. But there was no point in dwelling on it. Allah had had other plans. He passed a lone jogger, panting and struggling his way up to the top of the Mount of Olives.
He thought of his own situation. No one had uncovered him yet. His true role was inconceivable to them. He couldn’t believe it. Imagine — if the world only knew that the fêted Mossad had missed an enemy who’d been right before its eyes for so long. What was the best way for him to make use of his valuable position? He could still cause damage to the enemy. Sure, it was dangerous to be too confident; sooner or later, they’d expose him. He could leave the country tomorrow. With all he’d done, he’d already secured his place in heaven. But he was a soldier; he had to make use of this unique opportunity.
He glanced at his watch. It looked like he’d finish the first stage in a new record time. He pushed harder. Probably the best thing he could do would be to cut Ben’s throat — in his own home, right in front of his family. What headlines that would create! What great revenge for the Gaza fiasco! He reached the crest of the hill and didn’t bother to stop, not when his time was so good. The road turned downhill, becoming steeper and steeper. He bent over the handlebars so that he could rush forward like a projectile. He thought of Rachel Papo. She had survived. That had been improbably good luck. Now she would be more on guard, and they would increase security around her. But he still had one trump card left: the address of the home where her retarded sister lived. It would be easy to go there and get her. The idea excited him. He would videotape everything he did to her and then send the tape to Rachel.
He pressed himself closer to the frame. The wind whined in his ears and drew out tears that ran up an
d back across his cheeks. When he rode bent over at high speeds, he was one with the bike, and his head was clear of all thoughts. He managed to keep up this speed for nearly seven kilometres, and finally turned into the street that led up to his house. The street was deserted, and he changed gears and pedalled with his last stores of energy to guarantee what he already knew would be a new personal best. Two kilometres later, he skidded in behind the large house and looked at his watch, full of expectation. It was incredible: four minutes better than his previous record. He was weak but happy. This was a sign — a sign that he was stronger than ever, that he had Allah on his side and that everything was possible.
He leaned the bike against the wall, grabbed his helmet, stiffly stretched his sore joints, and started walking to the front of the house. He was thirsty and exhausted. None of the windows seemed to be open; his family was still sleeping. If he was lucky, he’d be able to cuddle up with his wife and sleep for half an hour before breakfast. Just then, as he rounded the corner of the house, he saw a girl sitting on the hood of his car. He blinked to see better in the bright sunlight. Was she one of his daughter’s friends? Was she sitting there waiting for them to go to school? But would she be here this early? And on his car? She was wearing a tracksuit and black gym shoes. He became angry, and walked more quickly. But when he was just a few metres from the car and the girl turned her head, he realised his mistake. He stopped and let his helmet fall to the ground, too tired to come up with a single sensible thought. He knew there was nothing he could do — not in this situation, not with this person. Rachel Papo smiled at him.
‘Good morning, Mr Katz,’ she said.
Epilogue
Their simple cabin was squeezed between enormous New England-style designer homes and architect-designed glass palaces. Their cabin, in its Falu-red paint, was not winterised or modernised. Outhouses and hand pumps were scarce on Dalarö. Maybe they should spend the money and improve the standard; maybe not. They liked everything just as it was. They had fought, laughed, cried, and made love here throughout the summers. Even their boat was unusual for this island. While everyone else had big day-cruisers, jet-skis, and RIB boats, they had an old rowboat with a grey-green, two-stroke Husqvarna engine. Eric couldn’t remember the last time it had started; right now, the boat was bobbing gently at its buoy. The wine he had drunk warmed his body. A light breeze was blowing off Jungfrufjärden. It had rained, and the air was fresh and humid. The boards under his bare back were slippery with seaweed and algae. He couldn’t tell if it was early in the morning or late at night. It didn’t matter.
She twined her fingers into his and whispered, hardly audibly, ‘I want to have a baby.’ He kissed her wet hair and hugged her hard. His happiness, at this very moment, in this very heartbeat, was greater than he had ever experienced before. It was a feeling of peace, security, and a wonderful future. She pressed her face to his chest. ‘Her name will be Mona.’
He laughed. ‘What if it’s a boy?’
She turned her face toward the bay, hesitating to speak, as if she were listening inside herself. ‘A boy?’ The horizon was swept in haze, and it was still raining over Rögrund. She let go of him and rolled onto her back. ‘It won’t be.’
Dr Thomas Wethje blinked in irritation at the bright lights on the ceiling. He had a bad migraine, and he felt tired. In front of him were all the documents, transcriptions, notes, and case histories from Mats Hagström and Hanna Söderqvist. He had been working since very early that morning, and he ought to have gone home a long time ago. But he couldn’t let go of the strange cases that had taken up practically all of his time recently. In his twenty years as a doctor, he had never seen anything like this. Sure, the human body was and remained a miracle, and just as humanity was still discovering new species of animals and plants, there was an infinite amount still to be discovered in the body. There were certain generic patterns, a biological logic that influenced and governed the systems in a somewhat similar direction — basic laws of medicine that helped decode new sequences of events. But the cases of Mats Hagström and Hanna Söderqvist were different. Every time he had thought he had found the logic of their illnesses, the conditions changed. Every time he was ready to give a diagnosis, even with a great deal of uncertainty, new symptoms showed up that blew his theories apart.
He had consulted a number of experts, within and outside Sweden, and had received hundreds of articles, suggestions, and recommendations in response. But nothing had helped him come to a satisfactory conclusion. After a great number of tests and analyses, he knew that he was dealing with a virus that was in many ways reminiscent of the coronavirus that caused SARS — the contagious, acute pneumonia that had caused epidemics in Asia, Canada, and the Middle East. It was spherical in shape, with a diameter of ninety nanometres. Like SARS, it had spikes that stuck out of the protective membrane and made it look like a crown under the electron microscope. The lab in Huddinge had managed to describe an inner capsule consisting of very complex virus proteins. Also, like HIV, the virus had the ability to trick the body’s immune system. The new virus had been given the name NCoLV, Novel Corona-Like Virus.
After all their attempts, using conventional and unconventional methods of treatment, Centric Novatrone had finally beaten NCoLV in Hanna Söderqvist. It had worked improbably quickly and with no apparent side effects. What made the whole thing even more puzzling, though, was that the tests they had done just hours after Hanna left the hospital hadn’t shown any reaction at all between NCoLV and Centric Novatrone. The medicine had worked only in her body, and it hadn’t been possible to recreate the results in a laboratory. All the data conflicted. They had been able to identify certain similarities during a comparative analysis of Mats Hagström and Hanna Söderqvist, and there was no doubt that they had both been attacked by NCoLV, but at the same time the virus seemed to be unique in each host.
What worried Thomas was that they had discovered, mostly by chance, that there might be two more cases of the illness. One was a woman who had been admitted to Huddinge Hospital two days before with similar symptoms; it turned out that she had worked at the same bank as Hanna. The other was an ambulance driver who was exhibiting NCoLV-like symptoms. He had driven Mats Hagström to the hospital. They had tried Centric Novatrone on him at Söder Hospital, but so far to no effect.
Maybe it wasn’t NCoLV. The tests wouldn’t be finished before early afternoon tomorrow. And they still didn’t know how the virus was transmitted. So what should he write in his report? How could he summarise it? Up to today, there had been de facto only two defined and established cases of the virus. The other two might turn out to have something completely different wrong with them. If they did, NCoLV was just a biological fluke — something that wouldn’t be repeated. Thomas fervently hoped that this was the case. Otherwise, they had waited too long to move Hanna Söderqvist to an isolation unit. He hadn’t succeeded in getting permission to move her until after Mats Hagström’s death. By then, a great number of doctors and nurses had had contact with her.
He took a sip of water. Nurse Pia opened the door to the office and sat down on the chair next to him.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Not well. I don’t know what to write.’
She gave a small smile.
‘Maybe it’s better to wait until tomorrow, when you’ve gotten some rest.’
He leaned back and took off his glasses.
‘And what about you? How long are you planning to stay?’
She shook her head.
‘I’d been planning to stay until the morning shift at six, but actually think I won’t make it. I didn’t sleep very well.’
Thomas gathered the documents and put them in a green hanging file.
‘Did you drink too much coffee?’
‘It’s not that. I …’
She stopped talking.
‘What?’
�
��I’ve been having nightmares. Horrible nightmares that wake me up.’
He opened the filing cabinet and hung the file in it.
‘What kind of nightmares?’
‘I can’t remember everything, but they were scary. They were about the apocalypse — the end of the world. There was an alarm clock. For some reason, I remember that. There was a rusty old alarm clock, and a little girl — a dirty, dark-skinned girl with curly hair.’
Thomas looked into her eyes. She gave a laugh. It was a nervous laugh, as though she were ashamed that she’d told him about her dream. Then she cleared her throat.
‘Well … what does the doctor think of that?’
He didn’t answer. He had no words. During the last few nights, he, too, had met the little girl with the curly hair.
Outside the window of Karolinska Hospital, the early-morning sun was turning the night’s rain to steam. The drops were going back the same way they’d come. Garbage trucks rumbled along outside the doors, and there was a faint scent of baking bread around the hospital, perhaps from Kungsholmens Bakery. The breeze was blowing across the bed of an open truck at Norrtull carrying white construction dust that settled in a thin film on the windshields of parked cars at Haga Forum. Solnavägen was filling with people hurrying to work, day care, and school. Stockholm was waking to yet another warm late-summer day.
Nothing spreads like a computer virus.
‘The flower is grey now and its petals are withered,
but tomorrow, in the dew, it will bloom again.’
Abraham Sutzkever
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
PART I
Five years later. Dubai City, Emirate of Dubai