Into a Raging Blaze (45 page)

She stretched. “Good. Text me all the big stories for the rest of the day.” She gave him her number. “Interviews with the government. Press conferences. Focus on TV and radio, and the big guns.”

She looked around. A concentrated calm lay across the room. The analysts were at their desks around her. The technicians in Signals Intelligence had disappeared into the adjoining room to get to work. The rattle of keyboards and the murmur of voices from the news channels on the screens filled the room. The Section had started work. On this Tuesday, governments around Europe would be under attack, ministers would wake up to their last day in the job, civil servants' heads would roll, and an intelligence partnership, painstakingly worked toward for many years by the British and twenty or so other countries, would be torn to shreds. Yet Bente still felt remarkably calm and unaffected. EIS would die, as so many proposals like it had done before. It didn't bother her. There would be new proposals. But SSI would come out of this mess smelling of roses, unlike Counterterrorism back home in Stockholm, she reflected with a smile as she headed toward her office. Hamrén would have a lot of explaining to do.

She shut the door to her office and turned on the computer, glanced through her e-mails and saw that Hamrén had written to her. The tone was rushed and the message brief. He wanted to talk to her; could she call him as soon as possible? She snorted; she would leave him to sweat. She lifted the receiver, but didn't dial Hamrén's number—instead, she called the only person at the Security Service who would be in a good mood this morning.

A familiar, dry voice answered the phone: “Kempell.”

“Good morning, Gustav. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks.” Kempell was, of course, not in a good mood at all, but sounded his usual, reserved self. Since he was Gustav Kempell, he hadn't allowed himself to revel in the vain intoxication of having been right all along. “We have a big cleanup ahead of us.”

Counterespionage had launched an investigation against the British to smoke out their operatives and discover what had really happened in their contact with Counterterrorism. They had to find out how deep MI6's disinformation had penetrated the Swedish system and then secure all sources: a major cleanup.

“What's Hamrén say?”

“I haven't spoken to him. I think he's rather preoccupied.”

For a short moment, Bente thought she heard a tone of satisfaction in his voice, as if he was smiling. But maybe she was imagining it.

“I'm just wondering, given the turn things have now taken, what we should do about the investigation—the material. Hamrén asked me to go through everything we had on Badawi—”

“You can forget about that,” Kempell interrupted her. “It's no longer relevant. There's nothing the Brits have given us that will support charges against Badawi.”

“No; okay.”

“We're going to release him today. Naturally, we'll continue to keep an eye on the young man, just for safety's sake. His name turned up in the margins when we looked into the leak to the
Guardian
, but nothing more than that. I'm mostly curious to see whether the British will contact him.”

“What do the Brits say?”

“To be quite honest, I don't care what they say,” said Kempell. “But MI6 informed the British prime minister yesterday evening, and elements of the MOD and home office have been in crisis meetings ever since. According to our sources, MI6 spent a number of hours considering whether to send in resources to—as they put it—neutralize Dymek.”

“Seriously?”

“Apparently they had second thoughts,” said Kempell, unperturbed. “Dymek has been ruled out of their inquiries. They don't
need any more problems. They've also contacted us and stated that they would prefer it if the entire investigation was shut down. They presumably don't want to make a bad situation worse by having Dymek sing like a bird in court.”

Bente snorted. No, obviously not. She thought about Green and what he had said about Jean Bernier, that things like that sometimes happened—regrettable things. Dymek would never know how close she had been to ending up a regrettable corpse in a ditch outside Cairo. But the last thing MI6 needed now was another dead body they'd have to explain away.

“Although, she's still a problem, Dymek.”

“Yes . . . In what way?”

Kempell sighed. “I mean that she's likely to have committed a breach of secrecy—of the more serious kind. We could probably dig up proof that she was behind the leak to the
Guardian
 . . .” He stopped.

“But?”

“The question is, Bente, do we want a trial?” He cleared his throat. “Do you understand where this is going? If it ends up in court, everything will come out. The Brits hoodwinked us—that's a fact—and we'll not be able to hide it if Dymek ends up in court. Believe you me, it won't be about a leak then; it'll be about how Sweden's Security Service let themselves be fooled like a bunch of village idiots. The service will be dragged through the mud.”

“Probably, yes.”

“Probability of one hundred percent, I reckon. Our partners will never look at us in the same way again. It would destroy our service. I'm not going to let that happen.”

Kempell was right. A trial would be too public.

“So what do we do?”

“The Prosecution Authority wants our assessment about how much damage the leak has caused, and if there are grounds for a prosecution. We can formulate it so that there's insufficient technical evidence for the investigation to proceed.”

“And that would be enough?” It almost sounded too easy.

“Perhaps. The fact is—it's true. We've got jack shit that will stand up in court. We have a bit more on Badawi; his name is tied to three of the leaked documents. There's a risk that the prosecutor will decide to go to trial. There's not much to go on, but you never know.”

“We have to talk to Dymek.”

“Yes. She's done enough damage. Can you talk to her?”

“Me?” Bente balked. She wanted to say no, but reluctantly realized that Kempell had a point. The Section was smaller and more secret than the Security Service; they could operate outside of Sweden without anyone noticing. Maybe they could reach Dymek before anyone else did. And the only person who had any chance of getting Dymek to listen was her. A minimal chance, but it was enough.

“Okay.” She looked out of the window. The day was dawning; a pale golden glow hovered above the rooftops. “Give me an address.”

“She's not in Cairo any longer.”

“Then where is she?”

“Sorry, I thought you knew. She's on the way back to Sweden. Bought an expensive first-class ticket yesterday. I imagine she's probably in a hurry to get home.” She heard Kempell turn some pages. “Dymek flew out of Cairo at ten past three this morning on Lufthansa. Landed at Frankfurt . . . not long ago. Fifteen minutes ago. Her flight to Arlanda is in four hours: five minutes past twelve. Flight LH2414.”

49

Frankfurt, Tuesday, October 11

It was just a normal day at Frankfurt Airport. The expansive departing passenger areas in Terminal 1 were bathed in bright sunlight. Bente squinted; there were thousands of people passing through on their way to their final destinations, and somewhere among them was Carina Dymek. It would be difficult to find her in time.

She stopped by a television monitor and squinted at it. There: Stockholm, five past twelve, gate A16. Barely an hour until boarding.

She had received two text messages when she turned on her cell, both media updates from the analyst at the Section. The justice minister's press conference had gone badly. It had been short; the minister had been on the defensive and had aggressively defended the EIS and the government's decision to keep the entire process secret from the beginning because it affected national security. Everyone knew that didn't hold water. The assessment was that a bandwagon was rapidly gaining traction. There was a video clip from the press conference; Bente didn't have time to watch it now, but the first, frozen still from the video was a picture of the minister, staring into space, with a stressed expression on her face. She had probably been standing in front of a hundred journalists, gathered there as the fourth estate to pass judgment on her—an already-gone minister. The other text message contained statements from politicians. The opposition had demanded a vote of no confidence in the government. Several press releases had used the same language. Even some conservative politicians were strongly critical and wanted to see a review of the entire EIS project. The government was now fighting
for its political life. At the bottom of the message was a list of URLs to foreign media, focusing on the British government; she didn't have time to look at those, either. She called Mikael.

“I'm here. How's it going?”

“We're working on it,” said Mikael. “Maybe in half an hour . . .”

There hadn't been time to prepare the tactical support that was the norm during these kinds of operations. No targeted surveillance; no tracking of Dymek's phone; no resources in situ to locate and follow the target. At the Section, her technicians were currently frenetically trying to hack into Frankfurt's networks to access their closed-circuit cameras. But, even if everything went perfectly, intrusions like that could take a day to execute; an airport like Frankfurt had security on its computer systems that was practically up to military standards. One single mistake, one single careless attempt to introduce a virus or open a secret door might make the firewalls flare up. She knew that and couldn't demand the impossible. She would have liked to have the cell team with her, but the flights had all been full that morning. There had only been one available seat on a sufficiently early departure from Brussels. There was no point sending people in on later flights or leasing a private jet—by the time they arrived, Dymek would be in the air. Bente was on her own in one of the world's largest airports.

She had to be systematic. The airport was like a small city; the distances were enormous. If she made a bad decision and ended up in the wrong part of the airport, she wouldn't get a second chance to find Dymek. But this was what she was trained for and had spent a large part of her professional life doing: tracking and following people, gathering information about them, understanding their behavior and motives.

She would find Dymek.

She looked across the concourse. She was in Area B, a long pier stretching out from Terminal 1's main hub that tied together all the gates. Dymek's flight would depart from Area A. At least she was in the same terminal; she wouldn't have stood a chance if she had needed to take one of the shuttle buses between the
terminal buildings. Bente tried to visualize Dymek's state of mind. She had flown out of Cairo late at night. She had probably seen the news and, as soon as she had found out what had happened, had thrown herself on the first plane she could to be close to Badawi. Now she had to wait at Frankfurt for four hours—undoubtedly an anxious wait. Getting home was all that mattered to her. She would have had to re-clear security before her next flight. It was unlikely she would have stayed at her arrival gate. Most probably she wasn't nearby the gate for the Stockholm flight, but she would turn up with plenty of time to spare.

On the other hand, Dymek had spoken to Alexandra Gustavsson and knew there had been arrests. Maybe she thought she was being looked for. Maybe she was afraid to be seen. In that case, she would keep a low profile, hanging around in the shops or hiding in some remote part of the terminal until just before departure, and then she would go right to the gate.

Bente began to walk toward the main concourse; she hurried past a large group of recently arrived passengers, who filled the passageway with their travel baggage and shopping bags, and upped her pace. After ten minutes, she was in the main part of the terminal building, where the shops and restaurants were. She got out her cell and brought up the picture: Carina Dymek. She studied the photo and memorized her facial features, her hair, her eyes, and then continued on, peered between the tables in a number of fast food joints, crossed two large tax-free stores, and wandered through some of the smaller shops. People everywhere, but no Dymek. She took the escalator down to the floor below and watched the crowds before hurrying back to the main concourse again.

Terminal 1, with its three stories, was large enough to house around one hundred shops and restaurants: far too wide an area for her to have time to search it on foot. She stopped and swore at herself for almost losing her temper. Forty minutes until departure.

Before Bente had left Brussels, the Section had arranged a ticket for a flight departing from the gate next to Dymek's, so she could follow Dymek through security, if necessary. She would be able to
pass through security and stand by her gate, but if Dymek wasn't there then Bente would have no choice but to wait until she turned up to make contact with her. She needed at least ten minutes in private with Carina. To stop her from getting on the plane was pointless—it would draw too much attention. Dymek was probably dead set on catching her flight and wouldn't let anything get in her way. There would be an argument, and Bente couldn't draw the attention of the security personnel.

For safety's sake, she quickly looked in three or four other clothing stores and checked the changing rooms. In a luggage store, she waved away an assistant and tried to gather her thoughts.

Dymek had been in British captivity and had then ended up in Cairo, where she had gotten up in the middle of the night to catch her flight. She missed home. She was probably exhausted, frightened, possibly in shock, and paranoid that she was being pursued. In that state, it could be assumed that she didn't want to be surrounded by large crowds; she would prefer to be left alone.

Bente called Mikael. “I need you now.”

“We're almost in. Hang in there.”

She looked at the time. Twenty-five minutes.

Mikael called her back. They had stopped trying to access the airport's servers, he said; the security was too high. However, the technicians had found weaknesses in a system belonging to a security company, passing over an external server. “We have some surveillance cameras. About ten shops and restaurants . . .” he interrupted himself to issue rapid orders to someone in the background. “Run her face,” she heard him tell someone. Facial recognition. Bente left the shop and stood in the middle of the main concourse where she could see everyone coming up the escalators and streaming in from the different gate areas.

“We're looking,” said Mikael in a low voice.

Bente gritted her teeth. She could almost feel the minutes ticking away like a physical sensation. She wanted to scream. She was forced to control herself, to stand still and wait beneath the high ceiling of the terminal building, following the herds of passengers with her gaze.

“There!” shouted Mikael. “Asian restaurant. Coa—Cuisine of Asia. Where are you?”

“Area A, floor two, by the escalators.”

Mikael stopped for a second; he seemed to be reading from a screen. Then: “Two hundred meters to your right, opposite side of the concourse, where the shops are, near security for the A gates. She's leaving the restaurant now.”

Bente had already begun to run. The concourse was a wide thoroughfare right through the airport, with rows of shops on both sides. She zigzagged through a straggling flock of travelers on the way to their gates and squeezed past a tour group, oblivious to everything around them as they walked along the line of shops, pushing laden carts in front of them. She reached the end of the concourse and, on the left, separated from the shops, was a cluster of restaurants. She saw the sign:
COA—CUISINE
OF
ASIA
. She looked around, breathless.

The face—she was trying to spot it in the crowd.

Dymek was nowhere to be seen. But she couldn't be more than a minute away. Bente hurried toward the gates, still jogging, peering at the rows of seats by the counters. It was still deserted down by gate A16—the only person there was a woman from Lufthansa. A few passengers were sat there waiting, but Dymek was not one of them.

She swore. There wasn't long left now—fifteen minutes until boarding. Where could Dymek have gone? It shouldn't have been difficult to catch sight of her out here by the gates. Bente couldn't have missed her. She got out her cell and began to call Mikael.

Then it hit her: Dymek was flying first class. A first-class ticket.

She ran back along the gates toward security. She was right: there was the glass door. Lufthansa First-Class Lounge.

Steps inside the substantial door led up to a reception desk where a man in a dark suit looked up and greeted her with a professional, welcoming smile. No, she said at once, she didn't have a first-class ticket. The man made an attempt to explain with an apologetic smile that this was a lounge solely for Lufthansa's first-class passengers, but she interrupted him and held up her Security
Service ID. The man took it and examined it in silence with a frown. Wordlessly, he handed the card back and nodded.

A large, airy room opened up beyond the reception area. An entire wall made of glass offered panoramic views of the runways. The sun shone through pale panel curtains; there was a calm light across the room. Here and there, well-dressed men and women sat in the generous sofa suites, talking to each other, hunching over laptops, or leaning back and reading newspapers.

There.

A little apart from the other travelers, in a sofa by the glass wall: Carina Dymek.

Bente stopped, struggling to slow her breathing while pretending to select a newspaper from a nearby table. For a moment, she was unsure; Dymek looked so haggard. She was forced to double-check on her cell that it actually was her.

In no hurry, she meandered across the lounge and sat down next to Dymek.

Dymek was lost in thought and didn't take the slightest notice of her, just continued to stare emptily at the view. Bente could observe her slyly in peace and quiet.

Her face was taut, her eyes red-rimmed, as if she was sleep deprived—or as if she had been crying. There were ugly marks on her neck, Bente noted, and a yellowing bruise on her temple that she had tried to hide by wearing her hair down. She looked resolute, dogged. This wasn't a broken person, just a different one from the person smiling out at the world on the Government Offices ID card.

She followed Dymek's gaze, looking at an Airbus slowly lowering its vast body to the ground.

“It'll be good to get back to Sweden,” she said slowly, “won't it?”

Dymek came to life and looked at her for the first time, surprised to have been addressed in Swedish.

“Bente Jensen.” She reached across with her hand.

Dymek reluctantly took the hand, as a reflex. “Carina.”

“I know. We've spoken before.”

“Have we?” Dymek straightened up and looked at her intently, with a skeptical frown.

She held up her identification. Dymek lowered her eyes. She could see Dymek's breathing speed up as she read what it said on the small piece of plastic.

“I know you have a plane to catch. But I need a few minutes of your time.”

Dymek didn't answer. Her gaze darkened and she turned away. At this moment, anything could happen. The worst-case scenario was that Dymek would try to escape or begin screaming and making a scene. That couldn't happen.

“We know that you leaked the EU Commission's report about the EIS. And a number of Swedish documents,” Bente said calmly. “What you've done will cause a lot of damage to Sweden. And lots of other countries.”

Dymek said nothing. She sat, staring at the runways with an austere, stony face.

“Your plane leaves in about half an hour. You're a wanted criminal in Sweden. You'll be arrested as soon as you arrive at Arlanda, and I think your chances of exoneration are pretty small. Do you understand?”

Dymek continued to look at the runways. Two planes were approaching the airport, one about to land, and the other still in the air. Sunlight glittered on their fusiform bodies.

She didn't have much time. It was important to quickly get Dymek to recognize the facts and remove the possibility of her denying the situation. It was just as likely that a trial would be dismissed, but she needed to exert pressure on Dymek, to force her to a point where she could only select the option offered by Bente. She could use threats, flattery—whatever it took to get there—so long as she didn't deprive her of hope, at least not too soon, especially not the hope that she could save herself. One of mankind's greatest driving forces was the desire to save himself.

“You're risking several years in prison,” Bente continued. “Records that will follow you for the rest of your life. Believe me when I say—”

“Leave me alone.” Dymek continued to stare straight ahead.