Hostage (39 page)

She ended the call and put down the phone. The aroma of coffee still lingered. And the hands of the clock moved on relentlessly.

Alex’s phone was in his pocket. He couldn’t walk around with it in his hand all the time. Eden was still in her meeting with the CIA, and Alex was accompanying
Dennis, the head of the investigation unit. They were on their way to speak to Zakaria’s girlfriend Maria, who was still in reception.

‘Do you usually conduct interviews yourself?’ Alex asked. He had expected one of Dennis’s team to do it.

‘Only sometimes, but it doesn’t do any harm to keep your hand in. And right now everyone is busy with other things.’

Alex thought that was an eminently sensible attitude.

Maria looked surprised when two more officers came looking for her.

This time they refused to accept her insistence that she was going nowhere.

‘I want to see Zakaria,’ she said.

‘That’s out of the question,’ Dennis said in a tone of voice that brooked no disagreement. ‘On your feet. Come with me.’

And she did.

Dennis took them to one of the smaller interview rooms. It had no windows, and smelled musty.

‘Please take a seat,’ Dennis said, sitting down next to Alex.

Maria sat opposite them.

Dennis wasted no time on unnecessary chat.

‘At nine thirty yesterday, someone drove Zakaria’s car out of the city, heading towards Arlanda. Was that you?’

Alex could see that the girl was genuinely surprised.

‘No.’

He believed her.

‘So who was it?’

‘I don’t know.’

Everything happened so fast that Alex didn’t have time to react. Dennis leapt out of his chair and leaned across the table. With his face just inches from hers, he roared at the top of his
voice:

‘
Do you think this is some kind of fucking joke? Four hundred people could die because you’re sitting here thinking that your miserable concerns are more important than everybody
else’s.
’

He sat down again.

His outburst bore fruit just seconds later.

‘The hijacking is nothing to do with me.’

‘We know that,’ Dennis said. ‘However, you are guilty of protecting a criminal, which is a crime in itself.’

Alex searched for something to say, but decided it was best to allow Dennis to steer the conversation in the right direction.

Maria folded her arms; it was a pathetic gesture. She was on the verge of tears, but Alex couldn’t have cared less. This was serious, more serious than it had ever been. Dennis was right.
Her personal concerns were a drop in the ocean compared with what was about to happen to the passengers on Flight 573.

‘Someone came round yesterday morning and asked to borrow the car. And I can promise you that the person in question had nothing to do with the hijacking.’

‘Unfortunately, that’s not enough for us; we have to eliminate that possibility for ourselves,’ Dennis said.

‘Yes, you seem to be good at that.’

Alex thought Dennis was about to erupt again, but it didn’t happen.

‘Start talking,’ he said instead.

‘It was only hours before you picked up Zakaria. The doorbell rang, and I went to answer it. And . . . she was standing there. She asked if she could borrow the car until Thursday.
There’s nothing odd about that – we’ve lent her the car several times in the past.’

‘Who, Maria? Who was it who wanted to borrow the car?’ Dennis couldn’t hide his impatience.

‘She’s got nothing to do with any of this.’

‘Who was it?’

This was something Alex had never understood, throughout the whole of his career. People who kept quiet even though everything was already lost. Why didn’t they simply put their cards on
the table, take responsibility for their actions? How could they justify such a course of action to themselves? How could they decide to be the difference between right and wrong, between life and
death?

In the end, she gave up, after one last shot.

‘I want to see Zakaria.’

She was crying, which wasn’t good. Not now they were so close.

‘That’s not possible,’ Dennis said. ‘But I promise we won’t keep him away from you for one second longer than necessary.’

It was true, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t lie about something like that. Maria could see it too. She wiped away a solitary tear as it trickled down her cheek.

‘It was Zakaria’s sister, Sofi.’

H
is hair was short and unevenly cut, his face emaciated, exhausted. Eden Lundell was sitting at her computer looking at the picture of Adam Mortaji
that the CIA had sent over.

So this was what he looked like. The man who had almost cost Zakaria his entire future, and who was evidently so important that he was worth risking his life for. Or perhaps he was important to
Sofi, and therefore to Zakaria?

Or was Zakaria lying to protect himself, regardless of who the phone had belonged to in the past?

How was she going to find out?

Someone had clearly thought that Adam Mortaji was privy to vital information, and had taken him to a remote part of the world where he had probably been subjected to torture in order to make him
talk.

God knows what he had said.

Personally, Eden would have started talking right away if anyone had tortured her. Particularly if they did something to her teeth. She would confess to anything, anything at all if they did
that.

The murder of Olof Palme.

Lockerbie.

Anything, just as long as they stopped.

Eden printed off a copy of the picture and went to see Dennis.

‘May I introduce Adam Mortaji, the guy who used to own Zakaria’s phone.’

Dennis took the picture.

‘Nice one – where did you get hold of this?’

Eden perched on the edge of Dennis’s desk.

‘From our American friends. And he’s not only the guy who used to own Zakaria’s phone. He’s also the link between Zakaria and Tennyson Cottage.’

She relayed what the Americans had told her to Dennis, who was briefly lost for words. Then he exploded.

‘They knew right from the fucking start that there was a guy in Sweden who’d been in Tennyson Cottage, and they didn’t tell us?’

‘I don’t think they were lying. I think they believed he lived in Germany, and didn’t have any connections with Sweden.’

‘But surely the Germans must have known who he was?’

‘I’m sure they did. But that doesn’t mean they followed his every move. It’s not exactly difficult to travel from Germany to Sweden without any of the authorities taking
any notice. And if I’m reading the call lists correctly, he’s spent a lot of time in Sweden, both before and after his internment.’

Dennis pulled up the lists on his computer.

He looked at Eden with admiration.

‘A lot of things seem to be falling into place,’ he said.

‘There’s also a great deal that worries me,’ Eden said. ‘We know that Sofi has been in contact with Adam Mortaji, and I think that could partly explain why Zakaria
wasn’t prepared to give us his name. But it concerns me that Sofi has kept such a low profile throughout Zakaria’s trial, and that she has never, ever come forward. I think she must
have her own reasons for behaving in that way.’

Dennis ran a finger over the picture of Adam Mortaji. God knows what he had endured during his time at Tennyson Cottage.

‘Is Zakaria’s sister the brains behind everything that’s happened?’

‘It’s possible, don’t you think?’ Eden said.

‘And I’m sure Adam Mortaji has been a great help to her.’

Eden bit her lower lip.

‘That’s the thing,’ she said. ‘Mortaji died in June.’

Dennis was clearly shocked.

‘He’s dead?’

‘He killed himself. The Americans didn’t say why, but I’m guessing it had something to do with his imprisonment.’

‘Which could explain the demand that Tennyson Cottage specifically should be shut down.’

Eden nodded.

‘What I still don’t understand is how Karim Sassi fits into all this.’

Eden knew that her tone was a little too matter-of-fact, but she had neither the time nor the energy to become personally involved in the tragic stories that were unfolding. There was a limit to
how much misery a person could absorb in one day.

Dennis shook his head slowly.

‘Me neither,’ he said.

He looked at the sheet of paper in Eden’s hand.

‘More surprises?’

Eden looked at the printout. It was the article about Adam Mortaji that she had found on the Internet after a thorough search. She passed it to Dennis.

‘Mortaji isn’t mentioned by name,’ he said after a moment.

‘No. His father was afraid for both himself and his son, and chose to remain anonymous. But of course the Americans realised who he was.’

‘And you said he died in June?’

‘Yes. Apparently, Mortaji left Europe in May, and returned to Morocco. He died soon afterwards. His father was terribly upset that his son’s girlfriend didn’t get there in
time.’

‘In time for what?’

‘You can read it for yourself,’ she said. ‘But if I remember rightly, the girlfriend was on her way to Mortaji’s parents to be reunited with her lover, but for some
reason she was delayed, and didn’t arrive until the day after he died.’

She shrugged.

‘It’s a very sad story, but right now we need to get this picture out as quickly as possible. Send it to the Germans, and distribute it to our own staff. I want to know everything
there is to know about Adam Mortaji.’

She swallowed hard. Wanting to know everything was something they often wished for but rarely achieved.

The nasal voice of her British boss echoed in the back of her mind:
Go, Eden, for God’s sake, just go.

Memories from a time gone by, a time she didn’t want to think about.

‘I’ll give the picture to one of our operatives,’ she said, reaching out to take it from Dennis.

‘Hang on,’ he said, looking more closely at the image.

He pointed to Mortaji’s chest, which was partly visible because he was wearing a vest.

‘He’s got a tattoo there,’ he said.

Eden looked. Dennis was right; she hadn’t noticed it.

‘What does it say?’

‘I’ve no idea; something in Arabic, I think.’

‘I’ll ask Sebastian,’ Eden said.

She found the head of analysis at his desk.

‘Can you get this translated?’ she said, showing him the tattoo.

Sebastian opened a drawer and took out a magnifying glass. Eden burst out laughing.

‘Bloody hell, Sebastian – you keep a magnifying glass in your drawer? Does that improve your analytical skills?’

Sebastian gave her a wry smile.

‘Watch it, Eden.’

She remembered the discussion when she had referred to his colleagues as so-called Arabists, and tried to assume a serious expression. It didn’t last long; she was soon laughing again. The
magnifying glass was covered in greasy fingerprints, and looked like something that had been stolen from a museum.

‘Come with me,’ Sebastian said.

With the picture in one hand and the magnifying glass in the other, and Eden following on behind, he went over to one of his colleagues.

‘Can you read this?’ he said, handing her the picture.

The girl screwed up her eyes and peered at it.

‘It’s a bit small.’

Sebastian gave her the magnifying glass, and she smiled.

Eden coughed into the crook of her arm to suppress another giggle. Who would have thought a laugh could be so liberating.

‘It doesn’t say anything in particular,’ the analyst said, and Eden’s high spirits turned to disappointment.

Of course it didn’t; why had she thought otherwise?

‘But surely it must say something?’ Sebastian said.

‘It’s just a name. It could be his girlfriend or his sister. Hard to tell – there’s only a forename.’

Sebastian was equally disappointed.

‘Okay, thanks for your help,’ he said. ‘So what’s the name of this girlfriend or sister?’

‘Sofi.’

S
he was woken by an excruciating pain. At first, she couldn’t remember where she was, or what had happened. She cautiously moved her arms and
legs, but stopped immediately. The source of the agony was in her head. The smallest movement made her want to scream. The pain came in waves; the only way to keep it under control was to lie
absolutely still.

Fatima blinked. Once, twice.

The floor was hard against her cheek. Hard and cold. And there was a constant banging sound all around her. She closed her eyes. She had to think, try to remember.

Slowly, the memories began to surface.

She was still on board the plane. She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious, but she realised they were still in the air.

More memories.

Erik Recht had got up and left the cockpit. She recalled Erik’s face and the message in his eyes before he walked out:

‘Make sure you stay here until I come back.’

The next recollection was from the toilet, where she and Erik had locked themselves in so that they wouldn’t be disturbed. Erik had been agitated, talking loudly about Karim’s odd
behaviour. She had stuck up for Karim, hadn’t wanted to hear such nonsense – how could Karim possibly be involved in the hijacking?

And now she was lying on the floor of the cockpit, knocked down by the same man she had defended just hours earlier.

The realisation of the dilemma in which she found herself almost took her breath away. She was terrified. She was still in the cockpit, which must mean that Karim was there too.

Please, God, don’t let him notice that I’ve come round.

When had he hit her? The details were unclear, but she thought her problems had begun when Erik rang the bell, wanting to be let back in.

‘Leave him out there,’ Karim had said.

And then, when he saw first surprise and then resistance in her face, when he saw her reach for the button that would open the door, he had leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of her.

‘For fuck’s sake, don’t you understand what I’m saying? I don’t want him in here – if you let him in, we’re all going to die.’