Into a Raging Blaze

by Andreas Norman

  They stood silently beside one another at the balcony rail.

  “Europe is afraid of the Islamists,” he said after a while in a softer, more thoughtful voice. “They are afraid of Islam. Deep down, they hope that all Egyptians wake up one morning and forget everything to do with the Qur’an, forget everything about where they come from, and just go out and shop for a bunch of crap shipped there by the West. I can understand why some people want to blow them into the sky.”

  She shrank back—how could he say that? Jamal’s outburst surprised her and made her want to argue, while at the same time being stimulating. He was no ordinary civil servant; he sounded more like an activist.

  She didn’t reply, just nodded and sipped her wine. She decided that it was best to change the subject, and, after a while, said, “What would you say if I applied for a foreign posting?”

  He looked at her in surprise.

  “The big call for applications has gone out.”

  Jamal nodded and seemed to slowly release his gloomy thoughts. “Where would you like to go?”

  “I don’t know. Not Europe. Somewhere far away. I’ve almost forgotten that I can actually work anywhere around the world. I work at the MFA. And now, with a permanent contract . . . If I apply for a posting abroad,” she finally dared to finish, “do you want to come with me?”

  Jamal laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?”

  She leaned forward and kissed him. For the first time in a long time she began to feel how her life was coming together. It was Friday evening and she was standing here, a little tipsy, together with this beautiful man, and dreaming about working out in the wide world. Two years ago this had just been a dream. A tingling sensation of happiness swept through her. She was free.

  “Let’s go in.” Jamal was freezing. He took a last puff and flicked away the cigarette, which flew away in a glowing arc through the darkness.

  He began so carefully, as she had noticed that Jamal often did. He undressed her, first her blouse, then the bra, pants, and panties. They kissed. He kissed her on the breast and the neck and the collarbone. She tore his clothes off him, his erection standing straight up in the air. They made love on the sofa. Afterward, they hurried into the bedroom and got into bed, sinking into the quiet companionship that she had begun to like so much. She thought about Cairo. A pleasant intoxication hummed in her body. Jamal went to the kitchen to fill their wine glasses.

  “That report . . .” she heard him say through the wall. “I’ll read it. Then we’ll work out what you should do with it. Maybe you should tell your unit head as well.”

  “Yes.” She was still in a warm, indolent state and it was very reluctantly that she began to think about the report again. The last person she wanted to think about right now was her arrogant new boss. “No more work,” she said. “It’s Friday.”

  Jamal would still be beautiful when he grew old—the thought drifted through her consciousness while she contemplated him with a smile as he returned to the bedroom with their refilled wine glasses.

  6

  Stockholm, Monday, September 26

  On Monday morning she woke alone in the apartment. Jamal was already in Vienna. He would be away all week, together with a delegation from the Ministry of Justice. The two of them had stayed in his apartment all weekend, with a few brief interruptions to drowsily go and buy takeout. They had made love and talked about the future, about her applying for Shanghai, about traveling to Cairo, about books, international law, and a thousand other things.

  There was a note from Jamal on the kitchen table, wishing her a good morning. She missed him already. They had fallen asleep late and she hadn’t even noticed when Jamal had gotten up and left.

  She got ready quickly. The day brightened under a chilly, blue sky. On the subway into town, people thronged around her, but she barely noticed them. She was happy and exhausted. The air was cool and fresh when she emerged on the escalators, pushed through the crowds, and walked the last stretch to the office.

  The Security Policy Department was a hive of activity. Two desk officers from the task force greeted her hastily as they rushed past her in the corridor, probably on the way to a new meeting about the Libyan mission, which was going to be discussed in parliament later in the day. A group of colleagues was standing outside of the department head’s office, talking through a memo, while the Head of the International Civilian and Military Operations Unit was pacing back and forth in the midst of a serious conversation on his cell. She passed Johan’s office and said hello, threw off her coat and bag in her own office, carried on down toward the kitchen, and got a cup of coffee before collecting the latest crop of reports from the mail room. The energetic atmosphere was contagious and put her in a good mood. It was mornings like these when she felt that together they could change the world.

  She had been working at her computer for an hour when the department head’s secretary appeared. She winked at Carina and raised a mother-of-pearl-painted nail in an I-want-a-word-with-you-for-just-a-second gesture while she continued giving rapid answers into her cell. She ended the call with a few polite words, snapped her cell shut, and shook her head.

  “Nils wants to see you.”

  “Okay. About anything in particular?”

  “He didn’t say. You have an appointment at eleven o’clock. In his office.”

  The Head of Department’s secretary disappeared down the corridor before there was time to ask more. Carina could hear her cell ringing again, a strange chirruping. She smiled. The boss wanted to see her. Perhaps it was finally her turn.

  It was a few minutes before eleven when she hurried down the corridor. It was good manners to be on time; you couldn’t keep the Head of the Security Policy Department waiting. The door to his office was shut. A closed door meant a meeting was in progress and that the next person should sit down to wait on the sofa outside. Antechambered, as they said. The Head of Department’s secretary, who was sitting in the room next door, nodded at her. She could go in; they were waiting.

  They?

  Carina arranged her facial expression, knocked, and opened the door.

  The Head of Department’s large, light office always engendered respect. It had a high ceiling, with a panoramic view across Gustav Adolf Square to the Opera, the Palace, and the Baltic Sea, which penetrated right into the heart of Stockholm. In the room were the department head, Nils Bergh, the new unit head, Anders Wahlund, and someone she only knew vaguely. They stood up when she entered. The man she had not met before introduced himself as Henrik Langer from the Ministry of Justice. She got the impression that they had been sitting in silence for some time before she had knocked. They all looked at her with serious expressions.

  “Please close the door.”

  She knew what she was expected to do. A chair beside the small sofa suite where Anders and Henrik were sitting was free—she shut the door and sat down.

  The department head remained standing. He was tense. She had been in so many meetings with him that she knew how he behaved. He had a particular way of clearing his throat.

  For a moment she thought something serious had happened that they needed her to assess. Or that someone in the department had committed misconduct and they wanted to consult her on the matter. But then she noticed that it was something else.

  The department head leaned back against the table, adjusted his tie for the second time and cleared his throat. Then he finally sat and said briskly, “I have another meeting in a few minutes. But I wanted to do this right away.”

  She waited. Her attention was suddenly focused; she noted details, wrinkles in the Head of Department’s face, the reflection of the sun glittering on the small coffee table, that the new guy, Wahlund, was holding his breath. She looked quickly at Henrik Langer; his face was completely expressionless. Nils Bergh cleared his throat again.

  “We have received information from Justice that worries us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Are you familiar with this
?” He held up a bundle of paper: it was the report she had been given by the man in Brussels. “It is in your possession. Is that correct?”

  She nodded. Slowly, a worry began to form and sink through her like a cold drop of silver. The Ministry of Justice. They had contacted her bosses—who were now sitting here and looking at her gravely—about Brussels. About the contact.

  “I asked whether that is correct.”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  Instinctively, she kept a low profile—asked no questions, offered no defense. She didn’t know what had been said before she had come in or before that, but it was not about a promotion. The department head had a way of getting annoyed if he perceived that he was being mouthed off at. His background was military and he didn’t tolerate opposition. The men looked at each other, as gravely as judges who had already decided upon the death penalty but did not know who would pronounce the sentence.

  The MFA had taught her never to hesitate. To continue talking, continue using full sentences. She said, “I was given the report by someone from the EU Commission. He approached me in connection with the meeting.”

  The department head’s gray-blue gaze rested on her. They were listening now, with immobile expressions.

  “Why were you in Brussels?” said Langer, the man from the Ministry of Justice.

  “I was at the normal working-group meeting. COSEC.”

  “And you say you were given the report by someone in Brussels.”

  “Yes. He sought me out.”

  “What was he called?”

  “He . . .” She stopped when it occurred to her that she didn’t know. “He said he was called Jean.”

  “Just ‘Jean’?”

  “Yes. He didn’t give his full name. But he was from the Commission.”

  The three men stared expressionlessly at her while she told them how the man had approached her in Brussels, how they had gone to the restaurant, and she recounted their conversation there. They contemplated her the whole time she was speaking, as if they were thinking intensely, or as if there was not a thought in their heads whatsoever.

  “You’re saying that this Jean . . . gave you the report,” said Nils Bergh with a skeptical pause. “Why would someone give you a document like this?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He just turned up.”

  “We have been in touch with the Commission. According to them, no one has released the report in an improper manner.” The department head looked at her without blinking. “So why would the EU Commission lie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She fell silent.

  “Our friends in EU circles have confirmed what the Commission has said. I ought to say that we have made certain inquiries into what happened.”

  Friends. What friends?

  “We’re in a difficult position and will need to give answers to people in the EU. So I want you to tell us truthfully how you came across the document. It’s not material that you normally deal with.”

  “But I’ve told you what happened.” She looked at their disbelieving faces. “Why don’t you believe me?”

  Langer emitted a loud sigh.

  The department head had a different sharpness to his voice when he said, “Carina, surely you understand how serious this is? If you don’t tell us, we’ll be forced to investigate this.”

  “I don’t understand what this is about,” she said.

  The words hung in a cold silence.

  They didn’t believe her. They thought she was lying, that she was protecting herself.

  She knew it was too late. But she couldn’t sit there quietly. “Nils, listen to me,” she said in a last throw of the dice. “I got a report. It was given to me—by a man who said he was from the Commission. I sent the report to the affected party at Justice. That’s the truth.”

  Nils Bergh looked at her for a long time before saying, “But the Commission hasn’t got a leak. We’ve talked to them. They’ve gone through their systems and now they want us to investigate the whole thing. Sweden’s friends in the EU want us to investigate this. So we need to know more. If you really did get the material from someone at the Commission, as you claim, then you must be able to say who it is.”

  She nodded. Jean.

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said. “I’ll prove it. I can find him, if you want.”

  He interrupted her with an irritated gesture of his hand. “We don’t need to discuss this any further, Carina. You do not enter a house where you are not invited. Do you understand? As a civil servant at the MFA, you have no right to deal with issues as you see fit.”

  She remained silent as he continued.

  “I’m disappointed, Carina. You’re the last person I would have expected to do something like this.”

  He looked at her with his cool eyes. Then he sank back into his chair; the dejected movement made her shudder.

  The room was silent. They had finished and no one moved.

  “Don’t you understand? You’ve put us in a very difficult position through your self-indulgent behavior. We’ll be looked at in a different way. Seen as less reliable.”

  “Who will see us like that?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Langer cut in.

  The department head sighed and said solemnly, as if he had now reached a decision and wanted to conclude with a judgment, “You will be placed under investigation, Carina. We will therefore have to suspend you from your duties.”

  The others sat in silence.

  “Effective immediately.”

  She could no longer hold back a sharp pain that forced itself to the surface. “What is this?” she burst out. “I was sought out by someone from the Commission. How was I supposed to know what he wanted? I was there; he came to me. Why don’t you believe me?”

  “You clearly haven’t been listening to what we have said,” said the department head tersely.

  No, apparently she hadn’t listened properly. She didn’t understand what they were talking about. For a second, she fumbled in the darkness, all her thoughts running away in a chattering jumble. She didn’t understand. What had she done wrong? They didn’t believe her, and she couldn’t make them change their minds. She had an almost irresistible urge to slap their faces. She wanted to say more, but her mouth couldn’t form the right sounds.

  “You are relieved of your duties, but will remain on full pay until the investigation is concluded. Then we’ll see.”

  There was a strained silence.

  “You’re wrong,” she mumbled.

  They remained silent, staring at her.

  “Where’s the original?” said Wahlund, who had been quiet throughout.

  “In my office. In the safe.”

  “Is that it?” Henrik Langer looked at her sharply. “You sent the report by e-mail to my colleagues at Justice.”

  “I scanned it,” she said quickly.

  Something made her keep quiet about the USB stick. She no longer knew what was happening; all she had to go on was her gut feeling.

  “Who exactly did you send the report to?”

  “Per Lennerbrandt. And you,” she said, nodding at Henrik Langer, who didn’t respond in the slightest. “You were the only ones I sent it to.”

  “And Jamal Badawi.”

  She nodded.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Langer said brusquely.

  She mumbled that she had forgotten.

  “Have you given the report to anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” said Langer, with poorly disguised sarcasm.

  She remained silent.

  “It’s a shame it had to turn out like this,” said Nils Bergh. He cleared his throat. “I’m very disappointed, Carina.”

  He was disappointed? She could only look at him—every possible word had dissolved into spittle. Wahlund and Langer were gazing emptily into the air and seemed mostly to be waiting for this embarrassing, concluding part of the meeting to be over. Sh
e said nothing. The department head nodded and got up.

  Wahlund led her down the corridor after the meeting. Halfway, he turned around and said in a strangely businesslike tone, as if it was a mere practical detail, “You can give me your pass and ID card.” She fumbled for the cards and handed them over. They continued down the corridor, Carina a few steps behind.

  There weren’t many people in on her floor; lots of them were away working, like usual, with their offices empty. They reached her office. At her door was a security guard. She recognized him; he was normally down by the entrance.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “It’s standard procedure,” said Wahlund, who clearly also thought the situation was awkward. The guard looked at them sullenly and fingered his belt—he was restless and tense.

  “What should I do?” she said.

  “Get your things and he will escort you out. Don’t touch any work papers.” For the first time, Wahlund looked concerned; his eyes flickered. When she didn’t say anything, he merely nodded briefly and apologetically, turned around, and disappeared along the corridor, clearly relieved that it was over and done with.

  She went into her office. Everything looked as it should: the desk lamp was still on; her coffee mug where she had left it, still half full; her notepad, filled with scribbled notes; all the reports, papers, Post-it notes. It was her office, here was years of her work. She had been in a hurry earlier this morning; her coat was still cast across the back of the office chair. Just as she came in, the computer pinged—she must still be receiving e-mail; people were expecting her to be there to reply. Suddenly she had an impulse to sit down at the computer and just keep working, as if nothing had happened, but the guard reminded her of the reality. She tried to gather her thoughts and remember what she should do. But her skull was filled with a vast vacuum that could implode at any moment, pulling Drottninggatan and the ministries around her into a black hole. She saw herself standing there in her office on the fifth floor of the MFA building at Fredsgatan 6. The building enveloped her with its layers of corridors, offices, conference rooms, storerooms, mail rooms, and elevators—all in the middle of a gray and autumnal Stockholm, that small, well-organized, cold city that hated her. She felt faint; she wanted to throw up.