Then Erik heard himself repeating the words Karim had spoken not so long ago: ‘I’m very sorry, but I have no choice.’
After a brief silence, Hoffman said: ‘In that case, I must unfortunately inform you that neither have we.’
And he was gone.
It took Erik a few moments to grasp the significance of what he had just heard. He got out his mobile, which was working now that they had lost height, and called the only person in the world that he knew for sure would listen to him.
‘Dad, it’s me again. I’m in a hell of a mess.’
66
STOCKHOLM, 23:20
Lights were showing in only a few windows in Police HQ. It was a cold night. Eden Lundell realised she should have put on a jacket.
She hadn’t actually gone out for a smoke. Someone had called her mobile, but then the coverage suddenly dipped inside the office. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d mentioned this problem; something was interfering with telephone traffic in the building, and it was bloody inconvenient. Particularly right now, as Erik Recht approached the US border with hardly any fuel, and still without permission to land. In spite of the fact that he had managed to deal with Karim Sassi.
So Eden had rushed outside to allow the call to come through. And lit a cigarette. She’d give her phone another fifteen seconds, then she would have to dash back inside.
She didn’t hear him until he said her name.
‘Eden.’
It couldn’t be true.
The ground disappeared beneath her feet. For the first time since the drama of Flight 573 began, something else filled her thoughts. Completely.
The voice was right behind her, and she suppressed the urge to turn around immediately. Instead, she dropped her cigarette and stamped on it. In silence, she watched the glow disappear; only then did she turn.
‘I thought we’d agreed not to see each other any more,’ she said.
Her voice sounded so thin, and her heart was pounding.
‘That’s strange. I have no recollection of any such agreement.’
It was several years since they had met, but the memories were as clear as if it had been yesterday.
They stood in silence on the pavement outside the main entrance of Police HQ on Polhemsgatan. There wasn’t a sound or a movement nearby. Everything was quiet. But inside Eden there was only chaos. Memories she didn’t want to acknowledge burst into life and faded like stars against a dark sky.
‘We’ve been waiting for you to get in touch.’
‘In that case you’ve been waiting in vain.’
The expression in his dark brown eyes was serious, and she wished he was a little further away so that the difference in height wasn’t so obvious. She was shorter than him; the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and she could see the gold chain around his neck. The one he had inherited from his grandfather, who had died fighting for his people and his new country.
It was far too late in the day for this kind of encounter. She was worn out, and knew that she didn’t have the capacity to be strong.
Eden was fragile.
‘Go away,’ she said, pushing past him.
She heard him say something just as her mobile rang again. As soon as she saw the number, the feeling of vulnerability was gone. She answered as she always did.
‘Yes.’
She had been longing to hear Bruce Johnson’s voice. Suddenly she was no longer alone on the pavement.
‘I believe Erik Recht has been in touch with you too.’
She had been waiting for this.
‘Yes.’
She held her breath.
‘Sorry, but nothing has changed. The Supreme Commander is sticking to his decision. We can’t risk letting Flight 573 enter US airspace. It’s just not possible. We have information which clearly indicates that the captain is intending to crash the plane into the Capitol building, regardless of whether we meet his demands. And Erik Recht can’t prove that he is in control.’
Eden heard the words, but she couldn’t process what she was hearing. They had had the chance to avert a disaster, and now that chance was gone. But she had clung to hope. Desperately. Mostly for Alex’s sake, she realised.
‘Your decision is incomprehensible.’
‘To you, perhaps, but not to us.’
‘That’s crap – you’re on our side. You think this is crazy too.’
Bruce didn’t say anything, but Eden stuck to her guns.
‘Is there anyone we can call? Anyone we can pressurise?’
What could he say to that? Of course there wasn’t anyone they could call. The decision had been made by the US Supreme Commander, the President himself. It was as close to a pronouncement from God as you could get these days. The plane would be shot down. According to American logic, this would cost hundreds of lives, but save thousands.
‘I’ll call you later when I know more,’ Bruce said.
Then he ended the call, and Eden was seized by uncontrollable rage.
He would call later.
Later.
But there was no later, for fuck’s sake!
The hostages would die and the perpetrators would achieve their goal. Didn’t the Americans get that? If they shot down the plane, they would be doing the terrorists a favour. They would be fulfilling the mission Karim Sassi had been unable to complete.
Eden had reached the doors now, completely focused on calling the next person to whom she must pass on the latest news: Alex. How could he possibly deal with what she had to tell him?
We still don’t know how this is going to end.
Efraim waited while she spoke to Alex, then caught up with her.
‘I’ll be back.’
She looked up.
‘That’s not necessary.’
‘I don’t agree.’
Then he walked away. Eden stood there, with one hand on the door and the other clutching her phone as she watched him go.
Why did it have to hurt so much? The pain was actually physical. It felt as if someone had reached into her chest, pulled out her heart and thrown it down on the pavement along with her fucking fag ends.
She tried to cling to the image of Mikael, the man she had loved for so long and betrayed so badly. But over and over again, he was pushed aside, and it was Efraim’s face she saw instead.
Efraim, taking her hand and leading her back to his apartment in the heat of a Tel Aviv summer.
Efraim, winding her hair around his fingers as she cried out with a combination of guilt and desire.
She was almost fascinated to realise how easily he had punctured the protective bubble inside which she had chosen to live her life. Eden was no longer invincible. During the minute it took her to get back to the office, she cried more than she had cried in her entire adult life.
The plane was going to crash, and all those on board were going to die. The US government had chosen the option they had all thought was unlikely, and now there was no way back. That was what Eden had been told. The fact that Erik insisted he was in control of the plane made no difference. They wanted proof. And there wasn’t any.
Fredrika Bergman pretended she was calling her boss in the Justice Department because of the passengers, because the world would become a dark and evil place if the plane was not allowed to land.
But deep down in her heart and soul, she knew she was fighting for one thing only: the survival of Alex’s son.
‘We’ve tried everything,’ her boss said; he had just spoken to the Minister for Justice. ‘The Prime Minister has contacted the White House personally to express his concern, but they refuse to co-operate. Unless they have proof that Erik Recht is in command of the plane and that Karim Sassi is out of the picture, they will not let them cross the border.’
‘But what kind of proof do they want?’ Fredrika said. ‘Pictures – can we ask Erik to send pictures?’
‘That won’t help. They could be staged.’
Eden came back smelling of smoke, and
Fredrika thought she looked as if she had aged fifteen years during the few minutes she had been away. She even looked as if she had been crying.
As if they could afford more secrets right now.
After the calls to the cabinet office and the Americans came silence.
Alex’s face was grey.
‘What can we do?’ Eden said.
It was a rhetorical question. She wanted them to say they had come up with a fresh approach, a new strategy for dealing with the problem. They hadn’t. The absence of words was as palpable and troubling as the smell of smoke surrounding Eden.
‘He’s got to bring him round,’ Alex said.
‘Who?’ Eden said.
‘The American he knocked out. He’s the only one who can convince them that the plane is no longer in the hands of the hijackers.’
‘But he’s unconscious,’ Eden said. ‘That’s why we’re in this mess.’
Alex shook his head.
‘As long as he hasn’t killed him, which he hasn’t, he’s got to try to bring him round.’
‘But how?’ Fredrika said, knowing that they were all thinking the same thing.
‘I don’t know. But we need to contact a doctor right away, get advice from someone.’
Sebastian was the one who reacted most quickly.
‘I’m on it,’ he said, running to his desk.
The ground beneath their feet was on fire. The situation had never been more urgent, and yet Fredrika felt as if time was standing still.
Then a call came through from Rosenbad.
Eden took it.
Erik had entered US airspace.
67
WASHINGTON, DC, 17:22
Since the decision to shoot down the plane had already been taken, Erik Recht’s emergency call stating that he was entering US airspace did not lead to any lengthy discussions. The Department of Defense had been informed, and the White House was now closely monitoring developments. Bruce had left his office an hour ago and had been transported at high speed to Dulles airport. Nobody expected that the plane would be allowed to land, but if it did happen, it would be at Dulles, and his boss wanted him on the spot. Bruce didn’t like what was about to happen. There was a risk, or a chance, that Erik was telling the truth when he said that he was now in sole command. If that was the case, then to deny the plane the opportunity to land, saving all those on board, would be unforgivable.
He had lied to Eden when they spoke just a few minutes earlier. Of course he was worried, just as she had said. But like the loyal colleague he was, he opted for an appearance of solidarity. Eden was not the kind of person Bruce wanted to confide in.
The discussions in the White House must have been turbulent. In Bruce’s opinion, the President was taking a risk. A huge risk, in fact. Because the problem was clear: once the plane had crashed, and the dead had been brought home and the wreckage salvaged, they would find the black box. There was a considerable danger that the box would contain recordings confirming what Erik had told them: that Karim Sassi had been removed from the picture.
What would the President say to his electorate then?
Bruce shared his thoughts with a colleague who had also been sent to the airport in haste.
‘So what do you suggest?’ the other man said. ‘That we allow the plane to fly in, and risk the lives of even more US citizens?’
That was out of the question. Bruce knew it. It was politically impossible for the President not to show that he had the capacity to take action.
‘How long will it take?’ he said instead. ‘To shoot down the plane, I mean.’
His colleague ran a hand through his hair. His forehead was beaded with sweat.
‘I don’t know. It’s only about a minute since he breached US airspace. I imagine we can take him down in less than sixty seconds.’
A minute.
Bruce swallowed hard.
He wondered what Erik Recht had said to his passengers. Had he prepared them for what was to come?
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking . . .’
One of the air-traffic controllers spoke up.
Erik Recht had been in touch with them again.
He believed he had some information they would want to hear.
68
FLIGHT 573
They had tried everything, but the American whom Erik Recht had knocked unconscious, and who apparently worked for the US Department of Defense, refused to come round. A call from Stockholm informed Erik that they had contacted Karolinska Hospital, and that one of their emergency doctors would try to give some advice.
But Erik was doubtful. Several doctors among the passengers had already tried to help, but they were all in agreement about the man’s condition. He had probably suffered a severe concussion, and even if the injury was not regarded as life-threatening, it was impossible to say how long he would remain unconscious.
However, Erik immediately called the US authorities and asked for a respite.
‘Just let us consult a doctor,’ he said. ‘I only need three minutes at the most.’
When there was no immediate response, he went on: ‘For God’s sake, it has to be in your interests not to have to shoot us down!’
He was begging, more than he had ever done in his life.
He was begging to be allowed to live, to be able to see his family again.
And he was begging for his crew and his passengers.
They gave him three minutes, but made it clear that they wouldn’t wait any longer.
Erik was so stressed that he could hardly breathe. The emergency doctor from Karolinska was put through, and quickly reached the same conclusion as the other doctors when he was told what had happened to the American, and what they had done to try to bring him round.
There was no magic wand. The man was unconscious, and that was that.
Erik had never felt so alone as when the emergency doctor’s voice disappeared.
‘In that case, there’s nothing else we can do,’ Lydia said.
Unlike Erik, she hadn’t shed a tear all day; she was standing in the middle of the cockpit, pale and stiff.
‘I’ll tell the others,’ she said. ‘How long do we have left?’
Erik looked at the clock, but found it difficult to focus. His vision was blurred, and he was ashamed of his own weakness.
‘I don’t know – two minutes at the most.’
Lydia left the cockpit, and Erik was alone with Karim. He allowed the plane to lose height, as if he was going to land, and wondered whether he ought to tell the passengers what had happened. Or what was going to happen. That he couldn’t wait any longer, that he had to try to land, otherwise they would crash into the sea. That they were going to die anyway, because the Americans were so afraid of terrorists that they would rather shoot down a plane carrying their own citizens than risk making the wrong judgement call in favour of the hijackers.
Erik closed his eyes. He wouldn’t call his father; they had already said everything there was to say. The only person he wanted to speak to was Claudia, but he couldn’t get hold of her.
He leaned back against the headrest.
I’m coming to join you, Mum.
Someone rang the cockpit doorbell. Erik blinked, glanced at the camera and let Lydia in. Her voice was so shrill that at first he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
‘He’s awake, Erik! He’s awake!’
But it was too late. There was no time left. The information he had received from the Americans was unequivocal: the order to bring down the plane had already been given. Erik felt a terror so powerful that it almost ejected him from his seat. His roar must have been heard right through the plane.
‘Listen to me, for fuck’s sake! He’s conscious!’
He didn’t stop shouting, he just kept on repeating the same words over and over again, louder and louder.
Lydia and a colleague dragged the man into the cockpit. He was weak, hanging limply in their arms. But Erik looked at his
eyes, and they showed a strength and resolve; if he could just get to the microphone, he would be able to speak to his fellow Americans.
The man on the other end of the line was also shouting to make himself heard.
‘So where is he then? If he’s conscious, why can’t we talk to him?’
When Erik paused for breath, he could hear the racket in the background on the American side. It sounded as if at least a dozen people were standing there, yelling at one another.
The American reached him.
It didn’t make any difference, Erik realised, If the order had already been given, they would all die before a new decision could be made.
The man was slumped on the floor, but he reached out and Erik gave him the microphone.
‘This is Kevin Davis speaking. I can confirm that Captain Sassi is no longer in control of this aircraft. If that’s not enough, I demand that you put me through to the Pentagon so that I can confirm my identity.’
That was when Erik spotted them on the right. Two planes. Strike aircraft, without a doubt.
An airborne death squad.
Erik gave up.
Kevin Davis was still talking, but Erik knew that it didn’t matter. His words had reached the Americans too late. There was no time to divert the strike aircraft.
Or was there?
Kevin Davis was silent now, listening to the person on the other end. Then he spoke to someone else, introducing himself once again. Erik saw his face suddenly relax.
Erik quickly turned to look at the two planes. They were still in position.
Kevin Davis tapped his arm. Erik looked at him.
And Davis said the magic words:
‘We have permission to land.’
Erik didn’t react.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Get us down, for fuck’s sake!’
Only then did Erik understand. As if in a trance, he turned his full attention to the task ahead.
Landing the plane.
Bringing the passengers and crew to safety.
Erik headed towards Dulles airport, where he had been told to land. There was just enough fuel, but there was no margin for error.
Hostage Page 33