Hostage

by Kristina Ohlsson

  Good God, where had this come from? Adults didn’t cry. Crying was a sign of weakness, not humanity.

  And Eden Lundell was not, in her opinion, weak. Not after everything that had driven her from London. Since then she had chosen the only possible option: invincibility.

  Logically speaking, innocent was the opposite of guilty. The only question was, who had the right to make that judgement? The responsibility lay mainly with the court, but to a certain extent with the police, and sometimes, when everything went wrong, the media. Fredrika Bergman had quickly realised that this was one of the cornerstones of the Swedish justice system.

  Cleared up by the police.

  This meant that the police believed, following an investigation, that they knew who was behind a crime, but were unable to prove it in court, either because the perpetrator was dead, or because there was insufficient evidence. For that reason there were a number of individuals at liberty in society whom the police felt it was particularly important to keep an eye on. They didn’t need a court order to do so, merely well-founded suspicions.

  Fredrika didn’t see anything wrong with this in principle, not as long as the system was used correctly – to keep disruptive elements under control and to prevent crimes. It gave the justice system an added dimension of security, and the authorities wouldn’t start looking for another perpetrator if there was no evidence that such a person existed.

  But in the case of Zakaria Khelifi, Fredrika didn’t know what to think or say.

  And now several hundred people were being held hostage so that he would be released. People who could die before the morning, now the Americans had said that they intended to shoot down the plane. Eden had whispered the news to Fredrika when she came back from Rosenbad.

  Which made it all the more urgent to look through Zakaria’s file. If he was innocent, Fredrika couldn’t think of a better time to find out. This wasn’t about giving in to the hijackers’ demands; this was about doing the right thing, and doing it in time.

  Eden and Sebastian were heading towards Fredrika’s desk; she had returned to her own workspace after she had finished with Sebastian’s computer. Eden’s blonde hair was caught up in a messy topknot. Fredrika’s hands automatically went to her own dark hair. Every strand seemed to be in place, neatly woven into a thick plait hanging down her back. Spencer had often joked that he would leave her if she ever had her hair cut.

  ‘Come with us,’ Eden said, beckoning Fredrika.

  She didn’t stop, but merely slowed down to give Fredrika time to catch up with them. Fredrika grabbed her notebook and hurried along.

  In silence, the little troupe entered a glass cube with the curtains closed. Eden switched on the light and sat down at the desk in the middle of the floor. Sebastian and Fredrika joined her.

  ‘I heard you checked the phone records. What did you come up with?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing startling.’

  Fredrika briefly went over what she had done and how she would like to proceed. She opened her notebook.

  ‘I’ve found three numbers that were in contact with the phone before and after the time when Zakaria says he acquired it.’

  Sebastian got up and looked over her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll go and see if we’ve identified those numbers,’ he said. Fredrika gave him the notebook and he was gone.

  ‘Good idea,’ Eden said.

  Fredrika thought she looked distracted, almost as if she was having to make a real effort to hold things together.

  ‘Shouldn’t we try to speak to Zakaria’s sister as well?’ Fredrika said, mostly for the sake of something to say.

  ‘We should,’ Eden said. ‘Not least because I can’t for the life of me understand how we missed the fact that he has a sister who lives in Sweden.’

  Fredrika couldn’t understand it either, but she didn’t say anything.

  Sebastian reappeared just as Eden spoke, having given Fredrika’s notebook to one of his analysts. ‘I looked into the business of the sister; it’s all very peculiar. Nobody in the Immigration Office knew that he had a sister here.’

  ‘So she’s not an asylum seeker?’ Eden said.

  ‘We don’t know. She could be, but without having said she’s Zakaria Khelifi’s sister.’

  ‘But why hasn’t she come forward?’ Eden said. ‘I mean, we’ve been in touch with everyone else who’s close to Zakaria – either they’ve contacted us, or vice versa. Not one of them has mentioned a sister living in Sweden.’

  ‘We’ll have to speak to his uncle again,’ Fredrika said.

  ‘Can you take care of that while Sebastian and I see whether we can get anywhere with the phone numbers you’ve found?’

  With that the meeting was over, and Sebastian and Fredrika went back to the investigation team area while Eden headed for the lifts.

  Fredrika watched her. ‘Where’s she going?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Sebastian replied. ‘You never know where you’re up to with Eden Lundell.’

  It might have been a joke, but Fredrika could see that he was serious, and it worried her. The head of counter-terrorism went her own way, usually alone.

  In Fredrika’s experience, that was how a person lost their way in life.

  44

  19:50

  Efraim Kiel. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Buster Hansson didn’t even know he existed, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about him. Henrik, the head of counter-espionage, had come to pass on what they had found out about the man MI5 had named as a Mossad agent.

  ‘How’s that business with the hijacked plane going?’ he asked out of sheer curiosity.

  ‘I hope it will be okay, but it’s more likely to go badly wrong,’ Buster said. He tried to smile, but it turned into more of a grimace.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Let’s talk about Eden and this Israeli instead,’ Buster said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Henrik opened the brown envelope he had brought with him and handed over a bundle of photographs.

  Buster flicked through them; they showed the same man in various locations all over Stockholm. Efraim Kiel. In the foyer of the Diplomat Hotel. In a café in the Old Town. In a bookshop on Drottninggatan. At a bistro on Odenplan, together with another man whom Buster didn’t recognise.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He’s the undersecretary at the Israeli Embassy in Stockholm.’

  Buster let out a low whistle.

  ‘That’s bloody careless.’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  Buster carried on looking through the photographs, but there was no sign of Eden.

  ‘He hasn’t been anywhere near Kungsholmen or Police HQ?’

  ‘No, not yet. I have to admit that I’m very doubtful as to whether this guy is a Mossad agent at all. He doesn’t act like one. I spoke to surveillance at length, and he’s behaving just like an ordinary tourist; he hasn’t shown any sign whatsoever of being security conscious.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He always moves from point A to point B without hesitation. He doesn’t take a roundabout route, or make any effort to shake off a possible tail. Of course, this could indicate that he’s cool and utterly self-confident – he just doesn’t expect to be followed.’

  ‘Or else that’s exactly what he expects.’

  ‘And therefore, he’s making a point of acting as if he has nothing to hide. Of course that could be the case. But at least we know what the Brits told you: that they were convinced he was an intelligence officer, which was why they kept him under surveillance.’

  ‘And then he was called back to Israel,’ Buster said. ‘Have you managed to dig out any more information about him?’

  ‘No; this is a very tricky business. I daren’t ask our colleagues too many questions, because I don’t want them to start asking me any follow-up questions.’

  ‘Eden’s name must not come into this, not under any circumstances.’

  ‘That’s exactly my problem. We’ve got nothi
ng concrete to put to them,’ Henrik said.

  ‘In that case, you’ll just have to make something up. This has to be resolved. In the very near future.’

  The head of counter-espionage refused to meet Buster’s gaze.

  Buster went back to the pictures.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ he said, tossing them on the desk. ‘I don’t like it one little bit. It just can’t be true. Not now. Not when Eden is leading this whole business with that bloody plane. It would be a total disaster if it turned out that she was an Israeli agent.’

  Buster shook his head. That just couldn’t happen. If Eden wasn’t the person she had said she was, then she would take a lot of people down with her.

  ‘Carry on tailing him,’ he said. ‘We have to know more, we have to be sure of our ground. Then we can decide how to proceed.’

  Henrik got to his feet.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch with surveillance. They’re not very happy, I have to say.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They want to know why they’re being given so little information.’

  ‘They’ll just have to be patient,’ Buster said.

  Henrik left the room and Buster was left alone. They would all have to be patient. He had the distinct feeling that they were still a long way from the truth about Eden Lundell.

  45

  FLIGHT 573

  The first-class bar on the ground floor of the plane was empty, as usual. Erik Recht nodded to Lydia, the stewardess who was running the bar, and asked if she’d seen a young man on his own.

  ‘He was here just now – I think he might have gone to the toilet,’ she replied.

  Erik sat down on a bar stool and rested one arm on the shiny counter. Lydia looked anxiously at him.

  ‘Have you heard anything new?’ she said, so quietly that he could barely hear her.

  ‘The Americans are being a little difficult, but things will soon sort themselves out.’

  Otherwise it’s all over.

  ‘What do you mean, being a little difficult?’

  Erik shook his head. ‘I promise I’ll tell you more once I’ve got a clearer idea of what’s going on,’ he said, hoping that she would be satisfied with that.

  She didn’t ask any more questions, but he could see that she wasn’t happy about the lack of information.

  ‘Is there much talk?’ he said.

  The cockpit had become a bubble in which he and Karim were enclosed. He had no idea what the mood was like among the rest of the crew and the passengers.

  ‘What do you think? It’s incredibly difficult to walk around pretending we’re just circling because of bad weather.’

  ‘I do understand that.’ Erik’s tone was vague; he was miles away.

  ‘Can I get you something? Juice? Water?’ Lydia offered.

  He asked for a juice, and as Lydia served him a glass of freshly pressed orange, he thought about his father once again. He would have a chat with the guy who had received the text, then he would call Alex. For the first time in his adult life, Erik longed to hear his father’s voice. He hadn’t felt like that since he was a child – if even then. Erik had always felt inadequate; Alex had always found a reason to sigh over something Erik had done or decided to do. The trip to South America had been a kind of high point; after that the fight had gone out of Alex and he had stopped quarrelling with his son. Was that when Erik had become an adult? He didn’t know for sure.

  Claudia loved to talk about their first meeting. He had been so shy, she said. So gangly and immature. Not the kind of guy you wanted to go to bed with, but more of a young boy; she had wanted to stroke his cheek and whisper: ‘Your day will come.’ Erik didn’t understand it at all, but he realised that Claudia’s perception of him must have changed pretty quickly, because not many weeks had passed between the first time they saw each other and the first night they spent together.

  The memory gave Erik a warm glow. They had had a son, made a life together. He would never accept that all this could be taken away from him. Not now, not ever. One day, they would all die, but as long as Erik had something to say about it, that day would not come until they were old.

  Suddenly he was aware that he was being watched. A young man was staring at him. Erik reflexively checked what he was wearing, and tried to remember what Fatima had said his name was.

  ‘Joakim?’ he said, getting up from the bar stool.

  The young man nodded, and they shook hands. Erik explained that he was the co-pilot, and said that unfortunately the captain was unable to come out and speak to him in person. As if that was an option they had considered.

  Erik looked around; they were still alone in the bar with Lydia, so he decided they might as well stay there for a chat.

  ‘I believe you’ve heard about our problems.’

  Joakim nodded. His arms were tightly folded across his chest, and his face was pale and tense.

  ‘I realise everything must seem very worrying, but I can assure you that we are doing all we can to ensure a positive outcome.’

  Joakim didn’t look convinced.

  Erik went on: ‘It’s true that we have received a bomb threat, but we have no idea whether it’s genuine or not. What we do know is that all baggage on board has gone through rigorous security checks, and that it’s virtually impossible to bring a bomb onto the plane.’

  ‘But can you take that risk? Assume it’s a hoax?’

  ‘Of course not. We’re not taking any risks; we are following the hijackers’ instructions and working with the police.’

  Joakim’s shoulders dropped slightly.

  ‘You’ve spoken to the police?’

  ‘Absolutely – several times.’

  But unfortunately, the captain refuses to listen to what they say. The captain is a fucking lunatic who intends to keep the plane on the periphery of US airspace instead of looking for an alternative place to land.

  Erik reached out and placed a firm hand on Joakim’s shoulder.

  ‘It would be a disaster if the other passengers found out what’s happened,’ he said. ‘It’s vital that as crew members we can devote all our energy to resolving this situation. If we fail, the consequences could be very serious for all of us. Do you understand?’

  Joakim understood. He understood far more than Erik had put into words.

  ‘I won’t say a word to anyone.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Erik said. ‘I hope that includes your family.’

  He didn’t want individual passengers starting to send reports back home.

  Joakim looked hesitant.

  ‘If all this takes too long, then I’m going to text my mum. She has the right to hear from me if I . . . If we . . .’

  If we’re going to die.

  Erik couldn’t argue with that.

  Joakim sighed. ‘Although my phone doesn’t seem to be working any more.’

  Thank God for that, Erik thought.

  ‘How late are we going to be?’

  There was no answer to that, and Erik knew that Joakim realised that. If the plane crashed, they would never arrive.

  They shook hands and Joakim went back to his seat, while Erik quickly moved into first class.

  He hoped to God he would succeed, otherwise he had no idea what to do next.

  There were three empty seats. Erik tried to think strategically. Even if he spoke quietly, there was still a risk that those sitting nearby would hear what he was saying on the phone, and that would be stupid. Therefore, it would be best if those sitting closest to him didn’t understand Swedish.

  Eventually, he decided on a seat by the window, where the passengers both in front and beside him looked like Asian businessmen.

  Erik nodded to the man next to him as he slipped into the seat. Nobody took much notice of him, in spite of his uniform. However, he could see that Lydia was watching him. He ignored her.

  The telephone felt awkward in his hand, and he carefully followed the instructions to obtain an outside line from the plane. He could feel
the sweat breaking out on his forehead as he keyed in Alex’s number. Then he pressed the phone to his ear and waited as it rang out.

  When Erik eventually heard Alex’s voice, he felt tears pouring down his cheeks, much to his surprise.

  ‘Dad, it’s me,’ he whispered.

  46

  STOCKHOLM, 19:55

  The battle was no longer against the clock, but against those who were withholding information that could put everything right. Zakaria Khelifi’s uncle wasn’t difficult to get hold of, but Fredrika Bergman suspected that it would be considerably more difficult to get him to co-operate. His voice sounded weary, and for a moment she felt guilty for hassling him.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you; my name is Fredrika Bergman, and I’m with the police.’

  Was she? Hardly. Not right now. But the truth was too complicated. If she called and said she was a liaison officer between the cabinet office and the police, the man wouldn’t have a clue what she was talking about, and she would have to waste time explaining.

  She reminded herself that she must get in touch with her boss at the Justice Department to follow up on the report she had sent him. She thought about the final sentence she had added before sending it via encryption software:

  ‘There may well be reasons to question yesterday’s decision on the case of Zakaria Khelifi.’

  She had been unable to bring herself to send the document without that addition. And before it was too late, she intended to follow it up with further supporting documentation in which she would spell out the circumstances that weakened the case against Zakaria, if such information emerged. Which Fredrika believed it would.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Zakaria’s uncle said. ‘I’ve already spoken to the police.’

  ‘I know that,’ Fredrika said. ‘And I’m very sorry that we need to contact you again. But it’s about Zakaria, and it’s urgent.’

  ‘Has something happened to him?’

  The question came so quickly that Fredrika realised that Zakaria’s uncle, and no doubt many of Zakaria’s relatives, must be worried that something bad would happen to him.