Hostage (16 page)

What he did care about was the fact that the head of MI5 had requested a meeting with Buster in order to discuss one of his ‘latest recruits’. He had called Buster personally, and
had said little over the phone. Eden’s name had not been mentioned during the conversation, but Buster was still convinced that she was the person his British colleague wanted to talk
about.

The call from MI5 had been surprising in more ways than one. First of all, that kind of direct contact at the highest level was unusual, and secondly it had been made very clear that the
information the head of MI5 intended to pass on to Buster must be kept within as limited a circle as possible, and that he therefore didn’t want anyone else at their meeting. Thirdly, he had
asked for their conversation to be off the record.

Admittedly, Buster hadn’t been head of Säpo for very long, but he found it difficult to imagine that this kind of arrangement was normal. He glanced at his watch; it was almost time.
He had asked his secretary to make room in his diary for a ‘special activity’, and had booked one of the less popular conference rooms. Buster Hansson leaned back on his chair. He
didn’t like the sound of this. Not one little bit.

Fifteen minutes after the agreed time, the head of MI5 called from his mobile.

‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Where can we meet?’

Buster took the lift down to the ground floor to meet his visitor at the entrance to Polhemsgatan 30. A former general director of Säpo had taken the initiative and commissioned the
construction of a new HQ, which would be ready in 2013. It was much needed. The organisation had outgrown its current accommodation long ago. The move would bring a fresh start, and would be worthy
of a national security service.

Buster led the head of MI5 to the dullest and most discreet conference room. Ugly but functional. His colleague looked around.

‘I don’t think I’ve been in here before,’ he said.

I don’t suppose you have, Buster thought.

‘Coffee? Tea? Or would you prefer water?’

Buster’s wife had always said he wasn’t a good host, and she was probably right. He couldn’t find any biscuits in the small pantry adjoining the conference room; his visitor
said yes to coffee and no to everything else.

They sat down facing one another. Buster wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, but his counterpart didn’t appear to be in any hurry. He looked a little unsure of himself, as
if he was having last minute doubts about the wisdom of requesting this meeting.

‘You’ve been busy lately,’ he said eventually.

‘You could say that,’ Buster replied. ‘But things have turned out well.’

‘I must congratulate you on the recent convictions; I had a feeling that Operation Paradise would be a great success. Just as several other European operations were at the same
time.’

‘Thanks.’

The Englishman finished his coffee and pushed away his cup.

‘Eden Lundell,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Your latest recruit. A real shooting star, and another reason to offer my congratulations.’

For some reason, this comment didn’t seem quite as sincere as the first, but Buster chose not to say anything.

‘As I’m sure you know, Eden worked for us for a number of years.’

‘I’m aware of that. I also recall that we contacted you to ask for references. You had nothing but positive things to say about her.’

‘Absolutely,’ the head of MI5 agreed. ‘Eden was one of the very best; she could have gone far with us if she’d stayed.’

‘But she chose to move to Sweden with her husband,’ Buster said.

He knew Eden’s story by heart. She was married to Mikael Lundell, a pastor who had worked for the Swedish church in London. That was how they had got to know one another and become a
couple. Mikael’s post in London was temporary; sooner or later he would have to return home to Sweden. It made no difference to Eden; she had been born in Stockholm to a British mother who
was also Jewish. Her father was Swedish and a Christian, at least on paper. If Buster remembered rightly, he had converted when he moved to Tel Aviv with Eden’s mother. The family had lived
in Stockholm first of all, then London. They had moved to Israel some years ago.

‘A wise decision,’ the head of MI5 said, referring to Eden’s move to Stockholm with Mikael. ‘She’s not the kind of woman who could cope with a long-distance
relationship.’

Buster had no idea whether that was true or not. His impression of Eden was that she was driven and full of grit and determination.

‘But there were also other reasons why Eden left the UK,’ the head of MI5 said.

‘Oh?’

‘She was fired.’

The Englishman’s expression was inscrutable.

‘I’m sorry?’ Buster said.

‘She was fired.’

The anger came from nowhere. Who the hell did this British toffee-nosed snob think he was, asking for an informal meeting then coming out with information that Buster should have been given
several months ago?

‘We discovered by chance that she had been in contact with one of Mossad’s non-declared information officers in London. At first, we thought she had been the subject of a recruitment
attempt, but then we realised that they knew one another. Once we started mapping her activities, we also realised that she had been in touch with another Mossad operative. And then of course there
were all those trips to Israel.’

Buster had a drink of water. He swallowed hard. He didn’t know what to say.

‘But her parents live in Israel.’

‘Correct. But we followed her once, and she met up with her parents on only one occasion, over dinner. The rest of the time she was on her own or with Israelis we were unable to
identify.’

‘Perhaps they were just friends of hers?’ Buster could hear how unconvincing that sounded. ‘So you fired her because you thought she was a double agent – you thought she
was working for Mossad?’ he added.

‘Yes.’

‘And you failed to pass on this information to us?’

‘We had no choice, and for that we apologise. We couldn’t risk a situation where Eden might find out that we know about her double game.’

‘But if you fired her, surely she must have realised that you knew?’

‘I don’t think so. She was actually fired for another mistake she made in the course of duty. It was serious enough to lead to her dismissal.’

‘And what was that about?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’

‘But you would still call her one of the very best?’

‘Yes.’

Buster tried to process the information.

‘Let me summarise what you’ve just said. Eden has been seen with suspected Mossad operatives. She has travelled to Israel on a number of occasions for reasons other than to spend
time with her parents. She has not been confronted with this information, and has therefore not been given the opportunity to explain herself. So it could all be perfectly innocent, but we
don’t know that.’

The head of MI5 smiled for the first time since the meeting had begun.

‘That could be true, of course. But personally, I’m convinced that Eden is playing a double game, which makes her a dangerous colleague.’

‘And what do you expect me to do now? I have to pass on what you’ve told me.’

‘Of course. Hopefully, you will be more successful than we were.’

‘Didn’t you give it to your counter-espionage team?’

‘Yes, but there wasn’t enough evidence. It would have cost too much to confront Eden with what we had until we could work out why Mossad would want to recruit one of our
agents.’

An organisation like Mossad really didn’t need any particular reason, Buster thought. In his opinion, their Israeli colleagues were among the most ruthless in the world. Ruthless, but
good.

The Englishman scratched his head.

‘We didn’t really give Eden much thought once she’d left us. After all, it was three years ago. She came to work for the police here in Sweden, didn’t she?’

Buster responded with a quiet yes. Eden Lundell had been regarded as one of the most strategic recruits for several decades within the police service. With a degree in international law from
Cambridge and her background in MI5, she was an absolute dream. In addition she was a gifted linguist, and was fluent in Russian, French and Italian as well as English and Swedish. She had also
completed two years’ military service in the British army. Buster knew that every intelligence service in Sweden had tried to recruit Eden when she arrived in Stockholm, but she had made it
very clear that she wasn’t interested. She was tired of that closed, secretive world; she wanted to work within a more open environment. She had spent some time as a consultant within the
Defence Department, but had found the work extremely boring. She had then moved to the National Bureau of Investigation, where she reorganised virtually every aspect of intelligence gathering
before she left.

Buster recalled what the head of the NCU had said when he was asked to provide a reference:

‘Eden is no ordinary woman – she’s a force of nature. And I’ll never forgive you if you recruit her.’

They hadn’t spoken since.

The mere thought that a suspected Israeli agent had been the architect behind the most sweeping reorganisation of the National Bureau of Investigation in twenty years . . . Buster could taste
the fear. This was the worst possible news.

‘Anyway,’ the head of MI5 said. ‘I’ve done what I came to do. I don’t care what you do with the information. And let me reiterate how sorry I am that I didn’t
say anything before. I’m actually in Stockholm on another matter, but when I heard about the hijacking I realised that we couldn’t keep quiet any longer.’

He took a folder out of his briefcase and handed it to Buster.

‘Pictures of Eden’s contacts and the information we have on them. Not a great deal, as you can see.’

‘How have these Israeli operatives been behaving since Eden left the UK? Have they approached any of your other employees?’

‘Not as far as we’re aware. And believe me, we’ve been keeping a close eye on them since we found out about them.’

The fact that the Israelis hadn’t turned to anyone else in Eden’s absence worried Buster. Did that mean she was irreplaceable?

Oh, Eden, my expectations of you were never anything less than unreasonable.

‘One of the operatives returned to Israel a year ago,’ the Englishman said. ‘We didn’t hear anything of him after that. Until yesterday.’

Buster gave a start.

‘Yesterday?’

‘We received new information indicating that he had returned to Europe.’

The head of MI5 took the folder out of Buster’s hands, opened it and removed a photograph, which he placed on the table.

‘Efraim Kiel. Forty-five years old, lived in the UK for four years, and prior to that in Spain for three years.’

‘And now?’

‘Now it’s exactly six hours since he entered Sweden. Who knows what he’s doing here?’

N
either of them spoke on the way back to Säpo. Eden Lundell walked fast, thinking about the mobile phone that Zakaria Khelifi insisted had
belonged to someone else when Säpo linked it to their enquiries.

If the story about the phone was his alibi, why didn’t he just give them the name of the previous owner? Was it because he was lying, or because he was guilty, regardless of who the phone
had belonged to?

Eden went straight to her office. There was a risk, or a chance, that Zakaria was both lying and telling the truth. He could be lying when he said that he didn’t remember when he had
bought the phone or from whom, but he could be telling the truth when he said that it hadn’t belonged to him during 2009 and 2010. In which case, he was lying to protect someone. Someone he
either loved or feared to the extent that he was prepared to risk imprisonment or deportation to Algeria rather than give that person’s name to the police. Or perhaps it was someone he
sympathised with for other reasons.

Eden opened Zakaria’s file on the computer. Operation Paradise had reached its final phase by the time she took up her post; all she knew about it was what she had read or been told.
According to Zakaria, he had parents and two sisters back in Algeria. A Swedish girlfriend in Stockholm – Maria. Eden remembered seeing the transcript of an interview with her. She had seemed
sensible, and had answered the questions truthfully. But they had only been together for a year. Eden didn’t believe the phone had belonged to her, although she couldn’t be sure. Apart
from his family in Algeria and his girlfriend in Sweden, there were few people who were close to Zakaria. He had two friends that he often hung out with; neither of them had ever been the subject
of an investigation by Säpo. Could one of them have bought the phone, or sold it to Zakaria?

Eden twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

They had so little time.

In her mind’s eye she could see that bloody plane zooming through the sky, passing over oceans and continents, constantly moving on but with nowhere to go.

She called Sebastian.

‘Can you get someone to check the phone traffic to and from Zakaria’s mobile again?’

‘You mean one of my so-called Arabists?’

Eden suppressed a sigh. She couldn’t cope with an argument right now; she just didn’t have the patience.

‘I’m really sorry I said that.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

And that was the end of that. For the time being, at least.

‘We need lists of all his calls,’ she said. ‘Check the calls he made, and whether it looks as if there’s a change at some point, and he starts calling completely
different people.’

She could hear Sebastian tapping away on his keyboard.

‘You believe him? You believe he didn’t own the phone before 2011, as he kept on saying?’

Eden’s eyes were itching. Bloody contact lenses.

‘I don’t know,’ she said truthfully. ‘I just want to make sure we haven’t missed something. Even if it turns out that the phone did belong to someone else, which I
don’t believe, I’m still not sure that would necessarily make Zakaria a better person.’