Into a Raging Blaze

by Andreas Norman

  Wilson leaned toward Sarah and said something into her ear. Kempell and Joakim, the investigator who had stayed behind, sat still, as if carved from stone, surreptitiously watching the exchange between the Brits in silence. Finally, Kempell made a small gesture toward the visitors and muttered that they should continue.

  “Okay,” said Wilson with gusto. “Absolutely.”

  The MI6 woman sat up and straightened her papers. “We have been monitoring Akim Badawi and those around him for some time. It wouldn’t affect you or Sweden if it weren’t for one thing: this man appears in several of our terrorism investigations. And, about three months ago, Akim Badawi contacted his nephew, Jamal. We intercepted an e-mail.”

  “An e-mail?”

  “Yes. A message to Jamal Badawi.”

  Wilson leaned forward and passed a piece of paper to Kempell, who glanced through it and passed it to Joakim.

  “We should probably go through this letter more thoroughly later,” said Wilson, “when your colleagues from Counterterrorism are present.”

  “And this . . . letter,” said Kempell, looking skeptically and the two Brits, “has made you suspicious of Jamal Badawi. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Wilson. “That’s about right.”

  Everyone stared at the two Brits.

  “You mean that the leaked report . . . that it was on the orders of certain individuals in the Muslim Brotherhood? Is that what you mean?”

  “There’s a lot to suggest that.”

  Good God. Bente shut her eyes for a moment and rubbed her face.

  She had wondered why London had sent one of their counterterrorism specialists, but now she understood. She observed the MI6 woman, who straightened some papers in front of her. Wilson leaned back and looked at the Swedes opposite. It was clear that the Brits knew what they were talking about. Dymek wasn’t the target—she was just a courier—the person of interest was Jamal Badawi.

  “Why would Akim contact his nephew?” she said.

  “Jamal Badawi is well placed, I assume.”

  “So he’s meant to be an infiltrator?”

  “We don’t know,” said Wilson. “But he’s in your system.”

  “We check all employees close to the government,” interrupted Kempell.

  “We’re not suggesting you’ve failed in your security checks. We’re just telling it as it is.” Wilson shrugged his shoulders.

  There was quiet. For a moment, the far-away traffic was audible, even through the dirt-speckled bulletproof windows.

  “This is very . . . dramatic information,” said Kempell slowly. At first it seemed as if he was about to add something, but then he stopped and a sharp crease formed on his forehead. An intense thought process seemed to occupy him. He looked to the ceiling, first to the right, then to the left, while everyone waited.

  This wasn’t okay; Bente hated it when meetings ground to a halt. Kempell just sat in his chair, fingering the investigation the Brits had handed them. He was quiet; he seemed to have withdrawn into his own thoughts. She turned to Wilson.

  “What you’re saying paints a whole new picture of the threat. It means that we’re potentially dealing with terrorism, right?”

  They looked at her.

  “We’re grateful for this information,” she continued. “But we need to take it to our chiefs.”

  Wilson raised his hand. Absolutely, absolutely.

  “How long will you be in Sweden for?”

  “As long as is necessary. You can contact me on this number.” He held out a card.

  She envied the British and their way of controlling events. Being able to give and take, being able to enforce their will. They created the weather of tomorrow, while the Swedes were forced to guess the forecast.

  “And your signals intelligence is actionable?”

  “Yes,” said Wilson in a surprised tone, as if it was a dumb question. “We’re listening to everything being said in Cairo.”

  Bente smiled. And in Stockholm, but out of politeness he didn’t say that.

  “I would like to provide you with access to our signals intelligence. Can you let us know how we can contact you in Brussels?”

  Bente wrote down a number for the Section in Brussels and handed the note over to Sarah. The number would lead to the Section’s inbox—an answering machine with no recorded greeting. Anyone who called it was, after a number of security checks, permitted to speak to Mikael, or another coordinator, who returned the call.

  Wilson nodded with a smile. “And if I might make a suggestion . . . ?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Dymek. She’s Badawi’s little girlfriend. Use her. Let her lead us to the bigger fish. Then we’ll bring her in. We can always get her to talk.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Wilson.”

  “A conversation, Bente. Just a conversation. Jesus Christ, I’m not proposing that we give her suppositories and fly her to Damascus.”

  “Okay.”

  “I suggest that we prioritize the Arab. Focus on Jamal Badawi, study him, and see what he does. He’s just a little shit in the grand scheme of things. Akim is the target. If we handle this right, his nephew can lead us into the Brotherhood. And our primary way in to him is through this diplomat, Carina Dymek.”

  Wilson was right. Carina Dymek was useful, if she played along. They needed to talk to her and get her to understand the threat, appeal to her loyalty and sense of duty; she did, after all, work for the Swedish Ministry of Foreign Affairs—for Sweden. Now she was suspended, and probably worried and angry; perhaps they could offer a solution to the suspension and arrange a promotion, if she cooperated. Anything was possible. Bente thought for a moment. There would be ways in to Dymek, ways to get her to understand the threat, ways to make her willing to cooperate; what mattered was making contact with her and getting her to act under their orders so that Badawi didn’t suspect anything. Then bring Badawi in when they knew more, when he was surrounded and had no other options, and get him to talk, sing to them all he knew. It was elegant. She caught herself smiling and immediately pulled her face together.

  The Brits already had the case in hand; they would be forced to let them in on this. In reality, it was already a British operation. But they didn’t have much choice in the matter; they needed London’s intelligence. And Stockholm needed good relations with London, as Kempell had pointed out earlier. This story was just a fraction of a decades-long conversation.

  “We welcome your cooperation. But we need to be on the same page.”

  “You mean the two Badawis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Certainly. We’ll give you what we have.”

  Wilson looked cheerfully at her and then at Kempell. The woman, Sarah, made a small note. “Excellent!” Wilson slapped his broad hands together. “Let’s get to work.”

  15

  Stockholm, Friday, September 30

  They had agreed to meet at Mäster Anders and Carina was five minutes late. The spacious, warm bistro was booming with the sound of the many guests trying to drown out each other’s voices.

  She looked around the room and spotted Jamal at a table in a far corner with a glass of wine. He was always punctual. She couldn’t help but stop and look at him for a moment. There he was, sitting and waiting for her. He had come to mean so much to her that she could barely believe that they had only met by coincidence.

  They had had their first proper date here, at Mäster Anders. She would always associate the bistro, its egg-yolk yellow tiled walls and large mirrors, with Jamal—with a time of happiness. For a moment, the Ministry, the report, and everything else meant nothing.

  She made her way to the table. When he caught sight of her he stood up, like a gentleman of the old school, and she liked it—a little against her own will. She hugged him and kissed him for a long time. They hadn’t seen each other for several days and a funny kind of shyness came over them when they let go of each other. There was so much to say that they didn’t quite know how to
start talking about what had happened; instead, they merely smiled at each other and engrossed themselves in the menus. After they had ordered food, he asked her carefully how she felt, if she had heard anything from the MFA.

  “No, nothing.” There wasn’t much to tell. She didn’t really want to think about it now; she just wanted a break from it all for a bit and to be there, in the moment, with him.

  Jamal sat before her, looking handsome, dressed formally, as always, in a shirt and dark suit with a dark-colored Italian tie. He looked so calm. Mäster Anders was somewhere he felt able to relax, he had said. If you were well dressed then, here, you were just one among the many, and that was exactly what he wanted. She absorbed him with her eyes and decided to remember this picture forever. For a second, she considered saying nothing more about the report, but she could see that Jamal was curious. He knew that she was thinking about something she didn’t want to say; he was like that—he noticed these things. There was no point in pretending, either; there was nothing that would make her change her mind now. She was going to Brussels to look for the man who called himself Jean, to make him understand what sort of position he had put her in by giving her that damn report, to persuade him, get him to understand that it had been wrong to pull her into this, even if she did have a conscience. She needed to make him understand that she was just a normal civil servant. As if it was quite unimportant, she said, finally, “I’ve decided what I’m going to do.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going to go to Brussels and talk to the man who gave me the report.”

  Jamal looked at her thoughtfully but said nothing.

  “He’s the only one who can prove I’m telling the truth,” she continued. “What’s more, I want to know what this proposal is really all about.”

  Jamal pursed his lips. They sat in silence and drank wine, watching other guests around the room. Finally, after the food had arrived, he said, “But if you go to Brussels . . . don’t you risk looking more suspicious?”

  “I don’t think I can be under any more suspicion, Jamal.”

  He looked down at his plate and carried on eating.

  “I requested those documents from the archives, by the way,” he said after a while.

  “Did you? Thank you, darling.” She leaned forward and stroked his hand.

  “It’s sensitive material.” He sighed.

  “I know.”

  “You have to be careful, my love.”

  Yes, she would be careful. But at the same time, what did she have to lose? If she didn’t do something, they would never believe her.

  Jamal looked at her with concern.

  “I asked a friend to help me find him.”

  “A friend?”

  “Greger.”

  “Greger?” For the first time the steady, calm expression on Jamal’s face fell away. “The computer guy?”

  “Apparently, he knows someone who . . .” She stopped herself, because what she was about to say sounded strange to her ears. “Well, he can do stuff like that.”

  Jamal looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  “He said he can find him—Jean.”

  “But tracking someone down . . . That’s illegal.” Jamal shook his head and said through clenched teeth, in a low voice, “Carina—think.”

  Think. As if she hadn’t already done so. He had no right to rebuke her. She was almost tempted, out of pure spite, just to provoke him, to say she was going to give Greger a copy of the report. But she stopped herself. She needed Jamal; he couldn’t turn his back on her. She knew how careful he was. They were similar, had both studied law. Breaking the law wasn’t in their nature. The difference was that she was fighting not to be left in the cold. And she had read the report, and something in it had made her recoil.

  “I have to get hold of him, Jamal.”

  “I understand. But doing things like that . . . doesn’t help.”

  “You mean illegal things.”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. She wanted to believe him, but she knew that he was wrong. She reached for her wine glass and drank deeply. They sat in silence.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “About Brussels.” She looked around the noisy room. She was thinking about what the man, Jean, had said—that she had a conscience. It had annoyed her that he had inferred things about her; it was meddlesome. But he had been right: she did have a conscience.

  “When I read the report . . . It’s such an awful proposal. He was right,” she said, “the guy who gave me the report. It’s not something the EU should accept.”

  “Carina”—Jamal leaned forward, took her hands in his—“think carefully. Don’t bring emotion into this. What you feel may be right, but take it easy.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “But if you don’t want to burn all your bridges, at least keep Greger out of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Tracking people . . .”

  “He’s a friend and I trust him.”

  “More than me?” Jamal’s dark eyes were looking straight at her. He was sitting quite still, as if trapped in his suit. She could have just reached forward with her hand and said something, something small to make him calm down. But she didn’t want to ask for forgiveness; it wasn’t her turn to say sorry. A bitter sadness stung her insides. Wasn’t he listening? He shook his head.

  “Don’t be silly,” Carina said.

  Jamal took an angry swig of wine. He tapped the table hard with his index finger. “You should’ve talked to me.”

  “I did. I am right now.”

  He wasn’t listening. “That report,” Jamal continued irritably, “it’s green-stamped, isn’t it? Your pal, Greger, doesn’t have that level of security clearance, right?” He looked straight at her. “He doesn’t even have the right to hear you whisper about material like that. And you know it.”

  She was silent.

  “I think it’s really very unwise to look for this man in Brussels. There must be other ways. It’s confused enough already—”

  “It’s not me who has confused matters,” she interrupted him. “Okay?”

  The sadness and anger heaved out of her. She didn’t want to feel like that. She wanted to be happy with Jamal, but couldn’t deny the anger welling up inside her.

  “I just tried to do the right thing. I can’t help it that he gave me that fucking report. I was approached. And for some reason that leaves me out in the cold. I was just trying to do my fucking job.”

  The people at the next table glanced at them, Jamal turned toward them and they immediately looked away. “I know,” he said in a low voice.

  She wasn’t so sure he did. But she had no desire to hurt him; he meant well, even if he didn’t understand.

  “I have to get hold of that man. That’s just how it is. And”—she looked around the lovely dining room—“that report has no business masquerading as a part of European democracy.” It had been said. She took a deep gulp of her wine. “Greger can help me.”

  “I can too.”

  “Can you?”

  Jamal looked right at her. He didn’t answer the question but instead said seriously, “There are lots of other ways to deal with this situation, Carina. And I care about you a lot. You know that.”

  They were lying in Jamal’s bed; it was just after midnight. They had made love, hard—more intensely than for a long time. He had gotten so far inside her in a way that made her scream and want to bite him. She felt calm and serious, as if a deep sadness had only now come to the surface.

  They kissed. Then he got up to fetch them each a glass of wine. He went to the kitchen, took the bottle out of the fridge, and returned with two glasses.

  “What’s that book?” Carina asked.

  It was the small, worn yellow book that she had found next to the sofa a week ago. Now it was on his bedside table. She snatched it up and flipped through the pages.

  “That?” He gave an embarrassed smile. “A poetry anthology. I
got it a long time ago.” He took the book from Carina and turned its pages; he seemed unable to decide whether he liked talking about it or not. “They’re poems by Ibn ‘Arabi. Do you know him?”

  She had to say no, she didn’t know who that was.

  “Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi—an old Sufi master.”

  She nodded. He carried on turning the book’s pages, casting an eye at her, cautiously, as if trying to decide whether she thought he was silly. Or as if he was in some way worried. She stayed silent. Something told her that she was, quite unexpectedly, very close to a hidden part of Jamal, a part that had lain buried within him behind rows of closed doors. Every word she uttered now would make him stop and shake off the situation, laugh—bat everything away in a heartbeat. She sat quite still and waited.

  “My uncle likes the Sufis,” he said with an empty laugh.

  She nodded. So he had an uncle.

  “I got it as a birthday present when I turned ten. Give a ten-year-old a poetry anthology by a medieval Sufi poet.” Jamal laughed again in the same dry way, like a snort, and became serious. He fingered the book. “He said it was a book I would find useful as I got older . . . and lived far away,” he continued quietly. “He was right.”

  Jamal turned the pages slowly, quietly, as if swathes of thoughts were passing through his mind, unsaid. “It’s a special book.” He looked at her with an oddly sorrowful gaze. “I’ve never shown it to anyone.”

  She nodded. “Sorry, I—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize. You weren’t to know. And, as it’s you, it’s fine anyway. You’re not just anyone. You mean so much to me.”

  Could he read her something from it?

  At first he was embarrassed by the question. No, he laughed, he was terrible at reading aloud. “It’s in Arabic. You won’t understand any of it.”

  “Read it anyway. I want to hear it.”

  He looked at her, as if weighing her up with his eyes, judging whether he could trust her. Then he shrugged his shoulders and turned the pages of the book. Finally, he settled on a poem. He chose the one that was underlined at the end.

  “I don’t know what it’s called in Swedish,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”