At once, the situation became clearer. Wilson had followed the target, Dymek. Naturally, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight. They knew that Counterterrorism in Stockholm could look after Jamal Badawi, but Dymek had left the country. They wanted to keep her under control and weren’t planning to hand that task over to the Section or anyone else.
Wilson had Dymek in his sights. Why, Bente asked again, had the British sent him to Stockholm? A man hunter; a British counterterrorism expert. Why had they put the toughest resource the British intelligence service had, a man who was used to tracking battle-hardy al-Qaida members in northern Pakistan, up against a soft target like Dymek?
If it was Wilson’s team that had dealt with Jean Bernier, then Carina Dymek only had a day or so left to live. But for what? For a report? Or were the British actually stopping an attack against the summit meeting? While, simultaneously, an American team was watching her own SSI. Uncertainty flickered through her, an unfamiliar feeling that she found surprising. The truth was there, but she couldn’t see it. It was like looking down into pitch-black water.
The others sat quietly in their chairs, waiting for her.
“Where is Dymek now?”
“At the hotel.”
So no one had yet intervened, tried to arrest her or take her away.
Dymek had sat in Parc de Bruxelles just after lunchtime, added Rodriguez. She’d made a string of calls—several to the EU Commission. Then she had returned to the hotel. He made a small, tired gesture.
“We’re trying to get as close as we can, but we have to be careful not to run into Wilson’s group. It’s harder to follow her.” Ordinarily they would have been able to follow the target closely in the urban environment, but now they were being forced to observe her from a distance.
“Continue following her. See what the Brits are doing, but avoid confrontation. No contact before I say so. Mikael, let me see the pictures again.”
Mikael got out the photographs of the woman outside Florian Klause’s home. Why would the Americans turn up there?—that was the question. Bente concentrated, looked down at the table and followed the winding grain of the wood. The Americans’ operation outside Klause’s bore none of the hallmarks of a CIA counterterrorism operation. If it had been them, they would already have carried out a rapid strike against Dymek and everyone who had any connection to the case. They would have gone in with or without the Belgian police, with a completely different level of firepower. But Klause’s name was not to be found anywhere in the ongoing terrorism investigation being conducted with the British. If the CIA saw a terrorist threat, then there was no reason to watch the poor German apprentice. Unless they had been at the address for completely different reasons. Mikael tried to say something but she raised her hand.
“Wait.”
She saw the silver car in front of her. What was it Willem had said to her in Leiden—about the annex? That it was a crazy proposal. That it would give the Americans unlimited opportunities to operate on European soil.
They were watching SSI. The CIA wanted to know what SSI was up to, but not because they were concerned about the ongoing terrorism investigation.
She smiled. That was how it was.
“Have we been able to verify the British information yet?” she asked him. “Akim Badawi, the Ahwa group—all that stuff?”
Mikael cleared his throat. He and a liaison officer had been in touch with other services. Neither the French, nor German, Danish, or Israeli services had seen any indications of the threat MI6 believed was in existence. Interpol had been curious. He hadn’t been able to verify any of the British data.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
Mikael shook his head. “No one has heard of Dymek.”
“And Badawi? What about Akim?”
“No, neither Dymek nor Jamal Badawi was in any records. Nor was Akim Badawi. No one was at all interested.” He threw out his hands.
“So they didn’t see a threat at all? What did they say about the possibility that there was an attack being planned?”
He shook his head helplessly. “They were very surprised by what I had to say. They seemed to have no similar indications whatsoever and wondered how I had found out all of this information.”
“And you explained the situation.”
“Of course I did,” he burst out passionately. “I got the DGS in Paris to call their people in Cairo. I made such a fuss that Interpol ran the names through their records twice. Nothing came up. I came across as a complete idiot.”
She nodded. “Okay. And the foundations? Did you ask about the foundations managed by Akim Badawi?”
“The French knew about Akim Badawi, but only as one of the old men in the Muslim Brotherhood. Apparently he looks after some funds and foundations, but the French consider them to be of no interest whatsoever—small academic projects. They checked him out five years ago in connection with a larger sweep, a purely routine check, and found nothing.” There were radical elements in the Muslim Brotherhood—individuals with Islamist, anti-Western views—everyone knew that. But Akim Badawi was not part of that faction, said the French. “They wondered what the hell I was up to. Akim Badawi is just an old guy in a book club.”
They sat in silence for a moment as Bente took this in.
“Good,” she said. She couldn’t help but smile. “Excellent.”
The others looked at her quizzically and probably thought she had misunderstood what Mikael had just said. But she hadn’t misunderstood anything—quite the opposite. For the first time, things were beginning to fall into place. The CIA was shadowing the Section. The reason, she realized—with an insight that came so naturally and with such ease that she was surprised—was the annex. The annex to the report. De Vries had pointed out the enormous potential of the opportunities opened up by the agreement for the American intelligence machine to operate on European soil, just as long as the Commission’s proposal was adopted by the EU members. The EIS was real to them—Washington’s focus was the report. And yet, all the Brits talked about was the terrorist threat—but, interestingly enough, a terrorist threat no one else appeared to have perceived. But the radically differing perception of the situation was no misunderstanding; it wasn’t because Interpol and the French and the Germans and every other European security service were worse at spotting threats than the British.
“Okay,” she said. “So we have two completely opposite assessments of the situation. Personally, I doubt that everyone apart from the Brits has missed a serious terrorist threat against an EU summit. And if we work off that, then . . .”
She stopped herself one last time to think through what she was saying. MI6’s assessment of the situation differed completely from how the other services perceived the situation. Or, more accurately, the threat scenario that MI6 claimed to have identified did not exist in the analyses of the other services.
She felt a kind of relief and, at the same time, the situation made her gasp. It was so brazen, so damn daring, and the worst thing was that the British had succeeded.
“If we assume that it is the British who are claiming there is a terrorist threat,” she said slowly, “and not a single other service sees that threat . . . then my conclusion is that we have been the subject of British disinformation.”
The word made the Head of Directed Surveillance groan loudly. Rodriguez and the Head of Security protested, talking over one another. She couldn’t be serious, surely? She said nothing and waited for them to calm down. Way above them were organizations with far greater influence than the Swedish Security Service, controlled by people to whom the Section, the Security Service, and Sweden in general were nothing more than appropriate tools to reach certain strategic targets. She hated the thought as much as they did, but she wasn’t in denial.
Disinformation: every person in the industry hated that word. They stared at her. Mikael didn’t protest, he just sat quietly looking down at the table. He agreed with her now. He hadn’t seen this com
ing until he saw it in black and white from other sources, but now he agreed with her.
“It’s possible that I’m wrong,” she said, “that there still is a threat to the summit meeting. But if it is as you say, Mikael, the most likely scenario is that we are the subjects of a British operation to mislead our counterterrorism efforts. Most probably all the other services are correct and there is no terrorist threat.”
Mikael nodded emptily.
“And in that case,” she continued, her voice echoing in the now silent conference room, “this is not a matter for Counterterrorism. It is about a hostile power trying to disrupt our operational capabilities.”
“But why?” exclaimed the Head of Directed Surveillance. “What the fuck do they want?”
She didn’t like the emotional, shouty tone that some of the leadership team sometimes adopted. But now wasn’t the right time to point that out. She suppressed a harsh comment and said calmly, “I think the British intelligence service wants to draw Sweden’s attention in the wrong direction. They have created a situation that we are reading as a terrorist threat; they want to give the impression that it is about terrorism. And they have gotten us to behave just as they intended. The difference is that we know about it now. That’s a small advantage.”
She reflected. Then: “I met Green last week. MI6’s chief in Brussels. He was concerned that a Swedish diplomat had come across the EIS report. I think he was telling the truth. He told it as it was, before London realized that was a mistake and began to cover everything up—sending in Wilson, ensuring it was all about terrorism.”
She was adamant now. They needed to act. If they could get the Brits to believe that SSI still trusted their intelligence, they would get a little breathing space. She thought. The situation was clearer than before, yet also more complex. They could, with a little luck, play a game of doubles—behaving as expected with a focus on counterterrorism, while also trying to establish what the British were actually up to, with a view to intervening. They had to act before the British reached their goal. They had to get there in time.
“Mikael, get in touch with the liaison officer in London and ask him to contact MI6 to request additional intelligence on the Ahwa group. Send a convincing request so that they believe we’re really on the ball.” She quickly handed out orders to the others. An operative was to contact the Head of Security at the EU Council secretariat. “Say that we believe there is a threat. Sweden believes there is a terrorist threat against the meeting. Be convincing. Make them worried. Get them to react; that way they’ll call around and the Brits will get to hear about it.”
Mikael looked up from his papers with a puzzled expression, as if he only now truly realized the extent of it all. “Bente, are you sure about this?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
They were quiet.
“The British.” His eyes flickered. “I mean, what if we’re moving too quickly? What if Badawi actually is dangerous? What if they actually are planning an attack? Then it’ll all go to hell.”
“The Brits are lying, Mikael.”
“Are we completely certain about that?”
“No, not completely certain,” she snapped. “You can’t be completely certain in these situations. You know that too, Mikael. But my assessment,” she said and turned to the others, who had all been listening downheartedly, “is that Interpol and our other partners are right. There is no threat against the summit meeting. The British are bluffing.” The only people with a threat against them right now, she thought quietly, were Carina Dymek and Jamal Badawi.
“Okay, let’s say that it’s all British disinformation,” said Mikael with a tense, somewhat sarcastic tone. “Why is Wilson hunting Dymek and Badawi? If what we have seen online isn’t attack planning and there is no terrorist threat, if everything the Brits have said is lies, as you now claim—what is Wilson doing?”
She was going to say something about the EIS report, but stopped. Mikael was right. What was Wilson up to? Ever since he had joined the investigation, he had been acting as if there really was a terrorist threat, and he didn’t do bluffing. He really believed that Bernier was a target, when in reality he was dead long before MI6 had sent Wilson in. Once again, she recalled his puzzled expression from their first meeting, with Kempell, when he had tried to smooth over the fact that he knew nothing about the report.
She stopped herself and concentrated. For a second, all these questions writhed before her like a threatening darkness. Wilson, she thought. Then she saw the pattern—how it was all connected.
“Wilson believes there is a terrorist threat,” she said, while clarifying her thoughts. “He’s convinced of it. Because that’s what London has told him. He’s lost track. Don’t you think?” She laughed. She hadn’t seen it like that previously, but now it was obvious. “London is using Wilson. They’ve fed him the same lies that he’s feeding us. Right?”
Mikael didn’t answer. He stared straight out of the dark windows, visibly struggling with his own thoughts.
“I don’t think Wilson has a clue about MI6’s true intentions,” she continued. “London just wants to stop the leak. It was the leak that Green was worried about when I met him. As I said, he mentioned nothing at all about a terrorist threat. It’s still the leak and the report worrying them. The focus on counterterrorism is just a way of misleading us, of getting to Dymek and everyone who has come into contact with the EIS report. If you’re going to lie then you have to do so truthfully—so they sent Wilson: the terrorist hunter. No one questions his motives. And to make Wilson seem plausible, they lied to him too.” The cynicism of it all was so simple, so brilliant, that she couldn’t stop herself from feeling strangely elated. London had fooled them all, even its own. “Wilson believes there is a terrorist threat.”
Mikael met her gaze: he understood.
After the meeting had ended, Bente shut herself in her office. It was night; outside the window, the lights of Brussels city center glittered. She turned on the desk lamp and sat down to briefly gather her thoughts. She needed to think. Roland Hamrén trusted the British completely—he wouldn’t see any disinformation. There was also no safe way to convey what she had just arrived at without the British finding out. She put her hand on the phone and, after a slight hesitation, dialed the number.
It took a moment for the ring to start. It was that tiny second of silence, that small latency in the connection that, back in the day, before digital connections, might have meant someone was listening to your telephone line. Perhaps they had already been exposed, she thought with a grim smile. Perhaps the British had managed to put clamps on the phone lines, connect to their servers. So let them hear this. She waited while it rang.
Hamrén answered as if he knew she was going to call.
“She’s in Brussels,” Bente said.
“We know.”
“Roland.”
“Yes?”
She stopped herself. She wanted to tell it as it was, but knew that would be madness. She would destroy the small, almost microscopic chances they still had of influencing the situation. If she told Hamrén what they had discovered, he would, firstly, not believe her, and secondly, the British would find out and launch a full counterattack. She would probably have to close SSI, and Swedish intelligence would be carved up with a cleaver.
“Bente? Hello?”
“Sorry, I was distracted. Do the Brits have anything more on Dymek?”
“They’re bugging her hotel. She’s on the move.”
“What do the Brits say?”
“She’s carrying out reconnaissance.”
“Okay. Before an attack?”
“Yes. She’s calling her contacts. Presumably, the final preparations.” A lie that came so easily out of the mouth of he who thought it was true. Hamrén was completely convinced by everything the British had said.
“Good that you’ve gotten things under control,” she said.
“We’ve gotten things under control,” he said tersely
.
“But do you have sufficient cause?” She couldn’t help but say it. “I mean, for a prosecution?”
Hamrén was immediately pointed, defensive. “That’s not for me to decide, Bente. I have a terrorist threat against the government and against an EU summit meeting, and we’re acting based on that. Quite honestly, I don’t give a shit whether there are grounds for a prosecution right now. We can work that out later, right?”
“Of course,” she said guardedly. She hated it when people were vulgar. “When do you go in?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Against Badawi?”
“Against Badawi, and against Dymek. The British will take care of Dymek. Bente”—he stopped himself—“I can’t talk now. We need to keep going. Call me tomorrow, at nine.”
Hamrén hung up.
She got out the annex. She understood what it was all about now. An operation against Jamal Badawi would take place tomorrow, whether she wanted it to or not. An operation against Carina Dymek was going to happen, and she couldn’t stop it. A network of actions had been set in motion and—once it had started, the decision had been made—it couldn’t be stopped.
36
Brussels, Friday, October 7
It wasn’t hard to work out when Jean Bernier ought to be at home. The life of a normal civil servant at the EU Commission followed a regular pattern. He got to work at nine in the morning and worked until seven, or perhaps sometimes eight in the evening. Jean Bernier was married, Carina remembered, so he probably rarely ate out—possibly he stopped for a quick beer with colleagues before the journey home to Waterloo and dinner with his wife. Since it was Friday, he might have been invited out. But he might just as well be on a business trip or on vacation. There were many reasons why Jean Bernier might not be at home, but she had to try.
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