The Silent War

by Andreas Norman

  This flirtatious exchange makes her happy. He’s a handsome man, and she reflects that if a man like that were to actually make a proper pass at her, she’d be tempted to give in. She would resist, of course; she’s no schoolgirl. But still.

  She catches sight of Mikael on the pavement. She raises her hand, but he doesn’t see her because he’s talking on the phone. He looks concerned. She thinks he may be burning out; she has noticed that he often stays late in the evening, long after everyone else has gone home, and she knows that he has recently separated, because he has taken to mentioning that he has the kids this week, as only one with shared parenting responsibilities would. Then he spots her and stiffens.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks when she reaches him.

  At first he seems unwilling to say, hesitating and opening his mouth as if contemplating lying to her, before changing his mind in a split second.

  ‘It’s Gustav,’ he explains.

  Gustav Kempell, Head of Counter-Espionage back at Stockholm HQ. She looks at Mikael in astonishment, and then at the mobile he is holding out. Would she like to speak to him?

  Gustav’s dry, friendly voice is so familiar. He was her mentor when she started at the Security Service, and has always been a supporter. She doesn’t trust many people – Gustav is one of the few that she never doubts – but right now she wonders what is going on. His voice is remarkably flighty when he speaks.

  ‘Hello, Bente,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

  Well, he had needed to have a word with Mikael. She can hear him making an effort to try and make the fact that he is speaking to her deputy, rather than her, sound unremarkable. So what are they talking about? But she doesn’t ask; that’s not how it’s done, it’s an unspoken rule. Instead, she asks whether he’ll be joining the conference call.

  ‘I’ll try,’ he says evasively. ‘Speak soon.’

  She hands the phone back to Mikael.

  On the way back to the office, she asks Mikael what Gustav wanted. There’s an issue with the IT system and Stockholm wants to run some tests, he explains, and she can see he is hiding his face in the sandwich he is devouring.

  She surveys the conference room and its wide, oval-shaped table. The black conference phone is resting in the middle of the polished table like a minimalist space probe. It is from here that the voice of Roland Hamrén, Deputy Head of the Security Service, is emerging. The volume is a little too high and is breaking up in the treble.

  As soon as she hears Roland Hamrén’s voice she senses a restless and mutinous anger.

  She detests the man. Hamrén is the kind of man who is fundamentally unwilling to acknowledge that women can be more competent than men, and who always believes, regardless of how little space a woman takes up, that she is taking up too much space and asking for too much. Hamrén always manages to find different reasons to question her, in particular. She has always disliked him, but the hatred had arisen from an occasion five years ago when he had been Head of Counter-Terrorism and had forced her to cast suspicion on a civil servant in the Ministry of Justice in order to avoid a crisis with MI6. It had been a dirty game, and Hamrén had made her play along. She had only just become Section Head and could offer no resistance. Hamrén had bowed down before Jonathan Green and forced her to do the same. He had taken away her pride: the pride in doing the right thing. Since then, their relationship has been a case of cut-and-dried hostility, and the fact that he became Deputy Head of the whole Security Service three years ago has only made things worse, if that were possible.

  ‘We’ve looked at your British contacts in more detail,’ he says in an edgy, irritated tone of voice.

  ‘I understand,’ she says.

  ‘Your way of handling it is worrying.’ The information she has obtained about the location referred to by the British as ‘the House’, and British operational procedures in northern Syria, is interesting. But the haphazard way that the information has been obtained is unfortunate.

  ‘I understand,’ she repeats, relieved that he is not in the room and can’t see her clenching her jaw or Mikael rolling his eyes.

  It is a strange sensation to sit and talk to the small black device, as if in worship of it. But that is how it is – she can hear it in Hamrén’s voice. A big dose of obedience is expected.

  ‘The Brits are our partners,’ Hamrén continues. His voice crackles. ‘Valued friends.’

  He speaks for a long time about how the knowledge of such powerful British secrets will harm relations with the Brits. The annoyed tone escalates and the sound breaks up. The very fact that they are in possession of unauthorised information about MI6 will harm the relationship.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  She draws a large square in her notepad. She takes care to get the lines straight, but she presses too hard and the square contorts into a rhombus.

  ‘The mere suspicion that you are in possession of unauthorised information is a big problem,’ she hears Hamrén say. What she has done may result in damage, he says angrily. ‘An irrep-arable loss of trust,’ are the words that crackle out of the speaker.

  She turns silently towards Mikael and casts her arms out as they listen to Hamrén’s mechanical way of quickly and irritably coughing up words. Even if she defers to him completely, he won’t be satisfied, she reflects as he continues to talk about the consequences that the leak may have on the relationship.

  She opens her mouth to reply, but all that emerges is an audible pause; there is no space for her voice. ‘You shouldn’t have accepted that British contact,’ says Hamrén. ‘That’s not what we do to our friends.’

  It is apparent that he won’t be letting her speak. She really ought to strike back – she shouldn’t let him talk to her in this dismissive manner, as if she were an intern who had made a mistake – but she knows that if she protests, it will only make things worse. So she sits quietly, or answers briefly in the affirmative. She had hoped Gustav would join them so that they could discuss the situation. Indignation floods through her. It is just as well she doesn’t get the opportunity to speak; she would only have screamed at the small black device.

  ‘The material you have received is of such an explosive nature that it might topple a British government,’ he says. ‘You must realise that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies. She realises that.

  She can’t help herself as she adds:

  ‘It was the Brit who contacted us—’

  ‘You should have turned him away,’ Hamrén says, cutting her off.

  She battles to slow her pulse. The way he is talking to her – as if she were some snotty-nosed brat – is intolerable. She is familiar with the procedures, and considered him of interest, she quickly adds.

  She knows where this is going. Hamrén sees that there is a risk of damage to the relationship with the Brits, and needs to be able to sacrifice her, should the need arise. It’s not fair, she thinks. She didn’t ask for the documents, and she can’t stand him treating her as if she had ruined everything. She was just doing her job.

  ‘That man came to us because he thought the information would end up in the right hands,’ she says.

  ‘It was a mistake.’

  That’s enough, she thinks, leaning over the table and speaking loudly and angrily:

  ‘Regardless of the relationship, we need to deal with what we now know about the House,’ she says. They all know what it is.

  The black device emits a negative silence.

  ‘We accept a lot of British information about Syria and the Middle East,’ she says. ‘But if that intelligence is coming from methods like that, it changes everything. It’s illegitimate and we can’t rely on it. The very fact that we’re using it is a breach of several conventions . . .’

  ‘We are aware of that particular issue.’

  But she doesn’t allow the interruption. It
is surprising, she says, finally managing to adopt a tone befitting her role, that they are discussing the leak as if all that mattered was protecting the relationship with the British. They all know what is meant by ‘specific procedures’. What bearing does this have on the information they receive from the British if it is being beaten out of their sources?

  She slumps back into her chair. She has said what she has to say.

  The hum of silence comes out of the speakers.

  ‘Let it go, Bente.’

  She says nothing. Perhaps he is right. Maybe she should let it go.

  ‘You should have checked in about your contact with this B54 before you met him. You should have anticipated the risks.’

  She silently drives a biro into the palm of her hand until the pain makes her calm down.

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘You do nothing.’

  Nothing, she snorts, looking out of the window in her office. She is alone. It is a tough situation, because if she does nothing, then the British will set the rules of the game and determine her future. But if she takes action, she will be going against Stockholm. Refusing orders, sabotage – Hamrén would see it as a golden opportunity to sack her. ‘The bastard,’ she mutters to herself. Hamrén would sacrifice her without hesitation; at least he is a clear enemy. And the Brits? She has no idea what Jonathan Green is up to, but knows that, beneath the placid surface, he is a dangerous person.

  There is a knock on the door. She runs a hand over her face, as if to adjust her expression.

  A young technician opens the door. He holds out a box.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your new mobile phone,’ he says.

  When she doesn’t bat an eyelid, he says in a more formal tone that it is the phone she ordered.

  ‘I didn’t order a new mobile.’

  The technician looks at her in confusion.

  ‘But there was an order . . .’

  He falls silent and appears to be trying to resolve the misunderstanding that must have occurred. He is certain there was an order, he mutters.

  She is suddenly wide awake. ‘Oh, that one,’ she says, as if remembering what it is all about. She takes the box from him and smiles.

  ‘I had completely forgotten.’

  The technician smiles in relief and skips back to his eager, service-oriented tone. ‘No worries,’ he says. Would she like him to deal with her old phone?

  With a smile she hands over her mobile.

  She has only just sat back down again when her new phone buzzes. A new message: Call me.

  She wanders past the throbbing machinery of the roadworks, cuts through the traffic jam that has formed on Rue de la Loi, and then ambles through the backstreets towards the old quarter behind the vaulted glass façade of the Berlaymont building. She needs a coffee and some air. What does Gustav want? Once she is in the older, higher part of the city, she pulls out the new phone.

  Gustav Kempell picks up with a warm and steady voice: ‘Hello, Bente.’

  He would like to see her. Can she come by this evening?

  She is so surprised she comes to a halt. To Stockholm?

  No, he’s in The Hague, engaged in certain discussions, and could meet her somewhere in her neck of the woods, he replies cryptically. Might that work? It is apparent that he doesn’t want to go into detail on the phone. She is happy to meet him. She feels glad of the opportunity, because she needs him, someone to trust.

  ‘Just you, and no one else,’ he says. ‘Tell no one.’

  8

  That afternoon, Bente drives to the sea. Once on the motorway, she calls Fredrik, but all she gets is his bright answerphone greeting. He’s probably in a meeting, she thinks to herself as she types a brief message: Away tonight. Can you take care of the boys? xxx. Without really knowing why, she then changes the sign-off to a more restrained x, which somehow feels more appropriate.

  The sky is covered in pink clouds as she crosses the Dutch border. An hour later, she reaches the seaside resort of Noordwijk. The satnav guides her smoothly through the cornfields and houses, round empty roundabouts and along avenues where the wind rustles the trees.

  Then suddenly she can smell seaweed and salt.

  Gustav has chosen a modest apartment hotel close to the beach. She wanders along the balcony until she reaches a narrow orange door.

  Gustav opens it; he is wearing a cardigan and shirt. He looks reserved, but when he opens the door slightly she notes the vigilant glance he casts over her shoulder before letting her in. He tells her he’s glad she came.

  The apartment he has rented is a basic two-room affair with beach views. He nods towards the dark windows. Can she hear?

  The sea is a whispered roar.

  He has procured dinner. There are takeaway cartons in the kitchen containing two portions of beef, potato gratin and sauce that he bought in the small restaurant on the ground floor.

  Gustav wants to know how things are going for her in Brussels, how life is. She answers vaguely, as one does when unsure of the intentions behind a question. Sitting with him in a small holiday apartment and eating dinner is bizarrely familiar, and she feels tense from trying to discern what exactly it is he wants. They make small talk, and once they have finished eating they settle on the sofa with cups of coffee.

  ‘What’s your mobile number, again?’ he says, as if in passing.

  She doesn’t understand the question; he has her number. He smiles at her with a friendly, inscrutable expression, as if the question were completely ordinary.

  He slowly stirs his cup of coffee while watching her with his bright eyes.

  ‘Where was your phone on Friday evening?’ he continues.

  On Friday evening she was at the Swedish embassy reception. And her mobile . . .

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘It was at home,’ she says. She had the mobile at home, and then on the way to the Hotel Metropole she realised she didn’t have it with her . . .

  She falls silent.

  ‘Is there a problem with my mobile?’

  Gustav tilts his head as if to say ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Essentially, it’s you that’s the problem, Bente.’

  At first she thinks he’s joking. Her?

  Then it’s as if Gustav has finally reached what he has been avoiding saying all along. The strained warmth gives way, and he becomes serious.

  ‘At 20.50 on the dot last Friday evening your mobile was subject to an attack,’ he says. ‘A virus. Malware made its way through the mobile and spread on to our servers in Stockholm. Do you understand what I’m saying, Bente?’

  She nods, and feels the shock slowly penetrating through her. Has someone got hold of it?

  ‘Have you had any break-ins lately?’

  ‘No,’ she replies, thinking that he knows very well that she would report something like that to Stockholm.

  The tempo of the questions subtly increases. A quick shift has seen an ordinary conversation transform into an interrogation. Gustav wants to know where she keeps her mobile. How does she look after it? She replies. Does she take it with her? Does she have it locked away when she is at home? He observes her, unmoving, while she answers. Has Fredrik borrowed her mobile?

  Then she remembers.

  ‘It was in his coat pocket.’

  She hadn’t been able to find her mobile on Friday, she says, before correcting herself – because the memories are now coming back rapidly in a whirlwind of fragments, and she remembers the embassy, and the exhilarating sense of freedom, now lost, and she wonders whether she will ever feel it again. She remembers how they arrived at the reception, and how it occurred to her that she didn’t have her mobile with her, she says, but that Fredrik said he had his. And then at the weekend, after she had asked Fredrik if he had se
en her mobile, she found it in his jacket pocket.

  ‘When?’ says Gustav. ‘When did you find it?’

  ‘On Saturday morning.’

  Gustav is looking at her as if to devour the slightest shift in her expression. She answers promptly and candidly; she’s got nothing to hide.

  When did she last see the phone before it went missing? She describes how she left the phone to charge on Friday morning at home on the hall table. What time? Be precise: eight o’clock, half past eight, nine? Around nine, she had been working from home. So she must have forgotten it when she went into the Section at lunchtime. She had forgotten it? Gustav asks. So when did she remember it again? He listens, hums and haws. Oh, she wasn’t that concerned about it. ‘Okay, you looked for it. And then you remembered it again at reception?’

  Gustav wants her to describe the reception desk. She notices that he is looking for any circumstances in which the phone could have disappeared. Was there anyone about on Friday evening who could have taken it?

  She wishes he would drop his expressionless face and just talk to her; they know each other. But he maintains a cool distance, his tone neutral and impersonal. With each question, he methodically dissects the course of events, every detail cut out by his sharp attention. They keep going back to the same sequence; she says the same thing at least ten times, as a splitting headache takes hold of her.

  ‘Why did Fredrik have your mobile in his coat pocket?’

  She shakes her head; she doesn’t know. She was with him all evening. Or almost, she thinks, but for some reason she is reluctant to tell Gustav that they lost each other for a while, or rather that he found some colleagues and forgot her. It’s just one of those silly things, and she doesn’t want to talk about it.