The Silent War

by Andreas Norman

  When she returns to where she left Fredrik, he is gone. As if by magic, he and the middle manager he was speaking to have vanished into thin air. She surveys the room of faces.

  Perhaps he has gone to the men’s room. For the first few minutes, she sips her wine and amuses herself by watching nearby guests. But after five minutes, the wait is beginning to drag. She puts down the glasses of wine. Perhaps he has found someone else to talk to and become so absorbed that he has forgotten she went to fetch wine for them. It has happened before. After eight minutes, she has the feeling he won’t be coming back. Hesitantly, she leaves her spot on the floor and does a lap of the room. After fifteen minutes her absent-minded pondering has grown into perplexed irritation. A hollow absence flows between all the unfamiliar faces – all she can see is the absence of Fredrik. She ends up standing in the middle of the crowd like a spare part.

  Where is he? She leaves the ballroom and quickly walks down a corridor until she reaches a door, but it is locked. She turns around and heads up the wide marble staircase to the next floor, but all she finds is an empty breakfast room.

  She had hoped for a pleasant evening together with him, and now she has to wander around looking ridiculous as she searches for her worse half. The festive atmosphere which had been seeping into her just a little while ago has been subsumed by cool anger. She has already begun to formulate her righteous criticism, polishing up some of the wording she will direct at him, when she catches sight of some double doors one floor down that she hadn’t noticed previously.

  Chilly evening air wafts in through the open doors. There are clusters of guests standing in the cobbled inner courtyard in the dark of the evening. So this is where the smokers have set up shop. She slowly walks the courtyard perimeter, shivering in her flimsy dress.

  She catches sight of three men and a woman standing to one side, talking cheerfully. When one of the men leans forward she sees his face. It’s Fredrik, and then, in a moment of flat, confused denial, she wonders why he is standing there with that woman and the two men. He appears to be telling them something funny. The woman laughs enchantedly: they are in the midst of a lively conversation. It is clear they know Fredrik, but Bente has never seen them before. Perhaps they are colleagues.

  She heads towards them and just catches sight of the woman leaning towards Fredrik for a farewell kiss on the cheek before quickly disappearing into the crowd.

  Fredrik doesn’t notice Bente until she is standing right in front of him. He obviously hasn’t been looking for her; quite the opposite, in fact: he looks surprised, as if he has completely forgotten that they came here together. She feels embarrassed, ridiculous even, when he loses his thread in the middle of telling a lively anecdote to the other men. ‘Darling,’ he exclaims, giving her a slightly distracted look, before hastily introducing her to the men, who immediately seem to want to leave them alone. ‘Be in touch,’ they say to Fredrik, while smiling at Bente.

  ‘Where did you get to?’

  He explains that he ran into some people from work and nods in the direction of the men. She says she has been searching for him for a long time.

  ‘I looked for you,’ he says evasively.

  He reaches out a hand and touches her arm. ‘Darling . . .’

  He shrugs his shoulders as if to excuse himself and says that surely no harm has been done. She holds her tongue and looks around the courtyard without actually seeing anything except shadows. A dull sadness runs through her veins when she hears him say, ‘I was only gone for a few minutes,’ in the tone of voice reserved for moments when he wants to appear sensitive and a little wounded in order to make her feel controlling, and to get the better of her by insinuating that she limits his so-called freedom – this is one of his favourite stratagems when they row. A tremor, almost imperceptible, runs through Bente; they are close to stepping over a line. Then she decides not to make a scene – he clearly isn’t planning on apologising. She takes his hand and notices how he immediately relaxes.

  Jonathan Green is shaking the hand of the energetic, greying man in the chalk-stripe suit, whose name he has already forgotten, and repeating how pleasant it has been talking to him. This is not entirely true: he remembers nothing of what the ageing man has just said, except that he is a manager at Crédit Lyonnais.

  When he thinks no one is looking, he allows his face to relax. The smile melts away. He looks around, but Bente Jensen has already disappeared into the crowd. He surveys the ballroom with the fatalistic feeling that a seemingly insignificant, but ultimately catastrophic mistake could happen. Has he been careless?

  He looks at his watch.

  He makes his way through the guests with a determined stride, without pausing to greet anyone, so that no one is tempted to stop him. Two hours of small talk with management consultants, financiers and bankers is more than enough. The effort of appearing interested has formed a grey cloud of exhaustion inside him. What’s more, it bothers him that Bente happened to see him, since she is the only person in the room who knows who he actually is. Ever since he took the post as Senior Trade Attaché, he has been exceedingly careful to wear the mask that the diplomatic role calls for – a lie that has to fit him like a universal truth. Knowing that the Swede is out there in the ballroom and can see through his charade makes him feel uneasy.

  They are still working out how such a junior analyst could have gained access to so many sensitive documents. The thought that the Swede has them and is familiar with vast swathes of their work in Syria makes him feel out of sorts. Semper Occultus – always secret. Well, not so semper any longer, he thinks to himself bitterly. If he had his way, he would simply approach her and force her to give him everything, but that’s not how it works. He will resolve the problem by other means, and if everything goes according to plan, then the leak will soon be under control.

  He is out of the scrum. The smile that has been frozen on his face for hours finally gives way to forbidding seriousness.

  Fifteen minutes later he pulls up outside the British Embassy in his car. The building looms like a dark fortress above the sparse traffic on Rue de la Loi. He squints at the light of the coldly bright entrance, and holds up his pass – but the guard has already recognised him.

  All is quiet on the fifth floor. He wanders down the deserted corridor, the air-conditioned peace calming him. This is where MI6 has its Brussels bureau.

  He grew tired of Brussels long ago but still likes his office. He also has an official workspace, which is attached to the trade delegation. The ambassador likes to acerbically point out that the trade delegation is based on the third floor, and that if he is meant to be pretending to be the Senior Trade Attaché then he actually ought to play the role. To avoid unnecessarily irritating the ambassador, he makes the journey down two storeys once a week to his official office to reply to emails about business lunches and other pointless frivolities, before returning to MI6’s office.

  He looks at the time.

  Standing by the window in his office, he traces the glittering stream of traffic flowing around the roundabout at Place Schuman. If everything goes according to plan, he will soon be able to say that the leak has been handled and that the danger has passed. But the Swede is aware of the House. He could tell when he saw her at the reception: she knows. It bothers him that she looks at him that way – as if he has a burden of guilt on his shoulders. As if he is guilty.

  A minute or so left to go.

  Barely a month ago, he thought his time at MI6 was over. The leak was a disaster, but he has taken responsibility and attempted to minimise the damage, as London knows. But it has been a dreadful month ever since that wretch stole the documents that he shouldn’t even have known about, let alone shared with the Swedish Security Service.

  How could a young Brit betray the confidence that becoming part of Her Majesty’s Secret Service involved? He has never encountered such self-indulgent blind faith in mora
lity. So awfully disloyal. Putting yourself above the system just because some things don’t suit you is treachery, he thinks. It’s lucky he didn’t recruit the conscientious arse; that would definitely have meant curtains for his own career.

  He knows what they have been saying back in London over the last month: Brussels leaks like a sieve. An office of incontinence. Even if he manages to deal with the leak, there will be many who remember him as the station chief who made a mistake. This vexes him deeply.

  Hercules, he thinks. That operation is an opportunity for him. If it ever happens. It has been quite impossible for Robert to get anyone to make a decision over the last month. The leak has paralysed everyone. Everyone knows how Parliament would react if they ever heard about the House. Damn hypocrites.

  Personally, he despises the House, but he doesn’t believe that entitles him to object to what goes on there. His own personal views and thoughts are one thing; his loyalty to his organisation is more important than his own values.

  The phone rings, piercing the silence.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jonathan, old boy.’

  Robert’s familiar baritone reaches him through the receiver. He can hear the hum of the city in the background: London.

  Robert sounds short of breath – as if he is walking upstairs – as he says that he is looking forward to Jonathan coming to London. Then it goes quiet. He hears his friend close a door and seamlessly change tone. He no longer merely speaking with his friend Robert, but also Robert Davenport, Head of the MI6 Middle East Department.

  ‘They want to revive Hercules,’ he says, purring like a cat. ‘The powers that be have given us the nod. So how are things in Brussels? Have things started to resolve themselves?’

  Jonathan sits down in his office chair; he is finally able to give Robert the good news that he has been wanting to share all evening.

  ‘The leak is under control,’ he says. It feels wonderful to finally be able to say it. ‘We have infiltrated them. It is only a matter of time before I have confirmation. If everything goes to plan, we will be able to eliminate all leaked documents over the weekend.’

  ‘Good, good . . .’

  It is gratifying to hear how relieved Robert is.

  ‘And what about you?’ he says. ‘I mean . . .’

  ‘We’ve dealt with him.’

  ‘Dealt with’ is an unpleasant term. He is tempted to ask what exactly they have done with the analyst, but he stops himself. No, he doesn’t want to be involved, and as soon as he has that thought he feels relieved. To hell with the analyst.

  They talk about Hercules.

  ‘So we have an operation?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Robert exclaims jovially. ‘The final obstacle is Paddy. The Minister of Defence is still worried about the leak. Same old story – it could cost the Minister’s job. But if the leak has been eliminated then that’s marvellous. That means they have reasonable grounds to deny any and all knowledge of the matter. They don’t want to hear a word about the House. You wouldn’t believe how many times Paddy has called in the last week and been concerned.’

  They laugh.

  The Minister’s advisor, Paddy, has been constantly concerned for three weeks. For God’s sake, imagine how easy everything would have been if the Ministry had simply never found out about the leak, he thinks to himself. They would never have heard about the House, and Operation Hercules would already be complete. Robert liked to say that Ministers didn’t need to know everything, and he was inclined to agree. It would be better if the politicians gratefully accepted the information provided to them by MI6 without giving so much thought to the methods behind espionage.

  ‘A meeting?’

  ‘On Sunday. Just Paddy. He is prepared to discuss the operation with us again.’

  Robert sighs deeply in the same way he has been sighing in recent weeks. The fact that Robert has secured a meeting about Hercules at the Ministry of Defence is truly good news – the bad news is Paddy. Paddy the Bouncer – the Ministry’s very own doorman. This man has made a shining career out of saying no. But perhaps he can be persuaded if the Prime Minister has expressed interest in the operation.

  ‘I need you in London, Jon.’

  Jonathan smiles, because there is nothing he would like more than to leave Brussels to travel to London.

  ‘I can be there tomorrow.’

  Robert insists they have dinner. No ifs, no buts. He interrupts Jonathan’s polite objections in his usual loud manner. He will collect Jonathan at his hotel at six o’clock and won’t entertain another word on the matter.

  Bente coaxes the high heels off and massages her sore feet. Maybe she should have said that seeing him standing there with his colleagues and directing attention at them that he should have been giving her made her feel jealous. She knows she is exaggerating, but it can’t be helped. The thought that there are people who know Fredrik but are complete strangers to her, and who make him forget her, blossoms in her mind like a dark flower.

  They had been planning to go to a bar afterwards for a drink, but in the end they hadn’t. Both of them had been tired. They joked about how they were no longer party animals.

  On the way home they didn’t talk about it – because what exactly was it that had happened? Nothing. She told him about the snobby Frenchmen and they laughed and talked about the diplomats, the other guests, the Hotel Metropole and what a magnificent building it was. Then they sat in silence.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he had asked her, and she had responded evasively.

  But she could have said: ‘I’m thinking about how we belong together. That it’s difficult not knowing whether I can trust you as much as I should.’ But opening up like that scared her and she had remained silent.

  They have lived in Brussels for five years. She is not happy. This isn’t some deep insight but more of an objective understanding that has emerged. She will never be on good terms with this untidy, rainy city. And she can’t understand how to speak French – the sounds seem to slide around in her mouth and make her feel stupid when she tries to pronounce them.

  Time has passed so quickly while also seeming to last an eternity. It is strange to think that in future just one sentence will encompass the myriad of events that has passed in five years.

  The boys are asleep. She can see the traces of their evening together: the dirty plates on the coffee table, leftover grilled chicken, glasses and a bottle of pop. Everything seems to be in order. She can’t put her finger on when it happened, but her boys need her less now – soon they’ll need her less than she needs them.

  But she is worried about Rasmus. He is in secondary school, but doesn’t see the world like other children of his age, and he has an anxiety that pulses through the entire family and can make them lose their footing. Down the years, they have discussed medicines and therapies with a string of paediatricians, and she wonders whether any of them work. They struggled with his last school and now, finally, he has moved to a new one. But his outbursts have got worse recently. Over the last few weeks he has been behaving oddly. He turns away from his parents, furiously retiring into his shell in a new way that frightens her. It is going to be a tough winter and spring. A new year of screaming and fighting with his big brother.

  She hears Fredrik open the bathroom door. Quickly, she gets up and turns off the light so that the dark conceals her.

  Sometimes she can see the boys watching her and Fredrik, as if they are only just understanding that their parents are separate individuals, with their own mysterious lives that began long before they were even born.

  She presses herself softly against Fredrik as he lies beside her. She carefully runs her hand down his stomach and feels him react. He grows between her fingers and it makes her feel assured. She likes being able to make him breathe more deeply, to make him go hard. Then he is on top of her, and she is wet. Perhaps it’
s the relief that he wants her too that excites her. She meets him with her hips and lets him enter her while wrapping her arms around him, because she wants to push away all disappointment, she wants to be taken, not tenderly, no, not with comforting affection, but powerfully and unconditionally. And then it happens: rhythmically, further and further up the bed until they turn to face the ceiling, united in their lonely lament into the darkness.

  2

  It is gently drizzling outside. Bente is lying in bed, calm and comfortably at ease. There is a mild sense of happiness in waking up on a Saturday morning and knowing that this is her home and that she has a day off with her family. No work, or at least not before lunch.

  All their weekends begin in the same tranquil way: Fredrik cooks breakfast which they eat together, whereupon they all lose themselves in their respective newspapers and devices.

  She hears Fredrik rattling about in the kitchen. She can hear the boys in Rasmus’s room and for once their voices are soft and calm. She likes lying there listening to her family. She likes that Fredrik sorts out breakfast at the weekend and is so painstaking when he cuts up grapefruit, scrambles eggs, slices different breads and puts out sandwich fillings. It is a resolute love. She can’t understand what made her so glum the evening before.

  Fredrik is already dressed when she descends to the kitchen. My husband. She is only wearing her dressing gown and she is tempted to open it slightly to make him touch her. ‘Did you sleep well?’ He nods, then shouts upstairs that breakfast is ready.

  She often reflects that a family is a unit built on trust and a sense of kinship. It is unspoken ties, and the silent commitment to give each of the others a specific place in one’s life, that hold them together.

  The soft thudding of boys’ feet can be heard on the stairs. Rasmus lumbers forward sulkily and slumps into his chair, helping himself to a slice of bread and some scrambled egg.

  ‘Good morning, Rasmus.’