Into a Raging Blaze (10 page)

Mikael had given her a USB with information about the Swedish diplomat. She cast an eye around and opened the files.

The first was a photo. A young girl, looking into the camera without smiling. A determined gaze. Straight, dark blond hair; no distinguishing marks. The second file was her CV. She had the profile typical of a young civil servant: degree at Uppsala University, some work abroad, temporary role at the MFA, then eight years in different departments—the Department for Eastern Europe and now the Security Policy Department. There was even a short précis of her personal history. Born in Sweden—Stockholm; Polish father, Swedish mother. Divorced.

A normal person, by all accounts. No hits on her criminal record; no unusual financial goings-on, according to checks with the Swedish Tax Agency and the Enforcement Authority. She wasn't on the radar of Counterespionage in Stockholm. Carina Dymek was the kind of person Bente would have filtered out if looking for potential threats.

The third file was a summary of what was known about the leak. So far, that wasn't much. A report from the EU Commission had, in some unknown way, gotten out of the system and, by another unknown way, ended up in the possession of Carina Dymek. There were many unknowns. In all likelihood, there would be someone among Dymek's colleagues or friends, someone who had the same or a higher security clearance than her, who had provided her with the report. That couldn't encompass more than about fifty people.

Mikael had contacted the EU Commission; naturally, they knew of the leak at this stage—the Brits had already spoken to them.
Around twenty interviews had been conducted with employees at the Commission and anyone who might have had access to the report was to undergo in-depth security checks. The system was comprehensive. Documents, even those with high secrecy classifications, passed through many hands—there were probably hundreds of people who had come into contact with the report. The Commission, which comprised twenty-five thousand employees and tons of documents flowing back and forth on a daily basis, would essentially need to trace precisely how this document had moved through the organization, following its route between employees, through photocopiers, fax machines, and e-mails. They needed to find out exactly who had read the text, how many copies there were, who still had copies and which copies had been lost. Then they would have to compile it all carefully in order to see where the leak had occurred. It was like wandering around with a small hammer and banging on the pipes of a huge oil refinery to try and find a small crack that might blow the entire establishment to smithereens. It was a Sisyphean task, a hopeless task. It was fairly surprising that the Commission, after just three days, was claiming they had made no errors, as their Head of Security had insisted when Mikael called her, just as Bente was leaving the office. So pathetic, and so typical of larger bureaucracies. They wanted to prevent a larger investigation, avoid inspectors rooting around in their stacks of paperwork, and were protecting themselves by denying responsibility. Most likely the EU Commission had misplaced the report and had no idea where it was. It was convenient to have a young Swedish diplomat to blame.

Whatever the case, the fact was that a report from the EU Commission had leaked, and a Swedish civil servant, Carina Dymek, was mixed up in something that affected national security.

The last file that Mikael had included was the leaked EU report. A draft. Classified as
secrète
, the second highest level of classification. The text was about four hundred pages long; she didn't feel up to reading it now.

She clicked back to the photo of Dymek again. Steady gaze. Was this someone who leaked top secret material, who committed a
serious crime? Had she been tricked? Perhaps. It remained to be seen. Bente shut her computer and leaned back.

The flight was delayed by yet another ten minutes. She reflected for a while about the reasons why a plane could be delayed. Small, incorrect decisions during the loading of baggage or a slightly slow deicing of the wings could then cause a small delay that got quickly worse due to the increasing frequency of landings per minute. That was how collisions of time hit aviation schedules, with the result that yet more planes were delayed. When the situation became sufficiently critical, there was always the risk that procedures began to fall aside while they tried to bring things back under control. It was situations like those that a criminal could take advantage of. A terrorist. A spy. That was how risks were created—through chains of errors in the small details, through failed procedures. It was always about people. It was human error, the human element, which caused threats to come into being, leaks to occur.

She awakened from her thoughts. A businessman lost it, marched across to the gate, and began to argue with the woman behind the counter while the others stayed where they were, fiddling with their cell phones.

Mikael had written a brief list of actions for the Dymek case. Before she had left the office, Bente had detailed two men to listen in on the Commission's data stream. The Section was now carrying out some targeted searches on the Internet—using open sources. They were also going into Coreu and the other encrypted e-mail systems used by the EU, and making a handful of careful intrusions on to the servers of some embassies. It was important to have time to understand whether there were signs that the leak had spread through the diplomats of other countries.

The proposal for a European intelligence service was sensitive. She hadn't followed all the political twists and turns, but knew it was the darling of the Brits. For the report to have gone astray now was embarrassing. If Green was right, there was a risk that the project would be pulled apart by the media and various national parliaments who would start asking questions, demanding
investigations. It could be a scandal that brought down ministers—if Green was right. So far, only one civil servant had crossed the line.

She looked at the time. One and a half hours late now.

She hated delayed flights. For someone with a robust psyche, she found the tedium of being forced to sit among the jumble of luggage and other bored, waiting travelers unusually difficult. The whole point of airports was that you were supposed to leave them. It could be guaranteed that there was a corner of hell that was a transit hall of endless waiting.

8

Stockholm, Monday, September 26

Carina took a deep breath, pushed away, and struck downward into the pool. The water flowed along her body. She brought her head to the surface and drove her arms down through the mass of water, kicking and steaming forward in a violent front crawl. She was fast. Her muscles worked well together. She reached the tiled end quickly, turned and pushed again. She swam another length, turned and pushed. Everything around her was a kaleidoscope of blue swimming-pool water, glimmers of lights, and echoing voices. The roar of her own breathing grew. The rhythm came to her arms and legs after two lengths. Everything around her vanished.

She hadn't been able to stay at home for a second. The silence in the apartment choked her; all she wanted to do was lie down and stop breathing. It had been several months since she had felt like that: an empty feeling, a struggle to breathe, to swallow. When she had lived with Peter, there had been periods when she had felt like that every day. It was a horrible feeling that had crept into entirely everyday situations—at dinner, on a walk—toward the end of their marriage, even when they had sex. A sucking feeling that made her feel like she ceased to be Carina, made her lose her footing and, deep down, left her empty. She could only describe it to herself as being consumed from within—as if Carina was disappearing. She never told anyone, but the emptiness was there. The risk of losing herself, of ceasing to be who she was and letting the emptiness spread, was always there. That emptiness was her inner enemy. Swimming was the only thing that helped—swimming fast, for a long time,
until the limits of exhaustion, until the body was just a body and everything was reduced to beats of the heart.

She had called Jamal several times, but his cell was switched off. She had left several messages, but couldn't manage to say on the phone what had happened. Just call me as soon as you hear this. Call me, darling. The prospect that it might all be a mistake kept revisiting her thoughts; she just wanted what had happened not to be real. Over and over, she looked at her cell—in the subway, on the street, in the changing rooms at the swimming pool—just in case the Ministry had called to say it was all a misunderstanding.

She swam at a fast pace, as if a torpedo was chasing her, then switched to butterfly after fifteen lengths and beat furiously through the water. After twenty lengths, her thoughts finally cleared. They began to lose weight and finally there was nothing holding them back. They eased, dissolved. All there was left was rushing water, breathing and the movements of her body. The large blue mass of chlorinated water calmed her. She swam forty lengths without stopping. The last five lengths she floated along doing backstroke, counting the lights hanging from the ceiling.

When she finally reached the handrail at the edge of the pool and pulled herself out of the water, she had been swimming for over an hour. She was panting. Daylight streamed through the large windows to the swimming pool. The air echoed with lapping water and high-pitched children's voices. The worry and emptiness was still there, but it wasn't as strong any longer.

The changing room was quiet. The only people there were a woman with her daughter, and a group of older ladies. Carina's body felt heavy after swimming. She showered and spent a long time in the sauna. Sweat flowed from her pores and ran down her back, across her face, formed small drops on her eyebrows. Her thoughts were clearer now, there was space in her head to think things through. She was able to pick things apart again, piece by piece like she normally did, and analyze them. Why hadn't they believed her? They had always trusted her judgment previously. That a man had approached her in Brussels was a fact, so why didn't they believe
her? The EU Commission claimed the opposite, that there was no leak. But that didn't have to mean anything. They were probably trying to avoid a scandal, avoid the blame—protecting themselves. Of course, it was entirely possible the man had lied, that he wasn't really from the EU Commission, but she hadn't gotten the impression he was a liar—quite the opposite. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. Was someone else supposed to have received the report? No, the man had known her name, he hadn't hesitated—it hadn't been a mistake. Everything had happened for a reason.

She had told the truth, and yet they didn't believe her. She constantly thought back to the meeting that morning, their skeptical, contemptuous expressions; she returned to the same thought, crashing into it like a solid wall, and each time her rage grew.

Why?

Why did she have to go?

She hadn't done anything wrong. She had done everything by the book. It wasn't right. She was right, not them.

She looked in a mirror while she brushed her hair. She had to find the man in Brussels. Jean. Yes—that was the only way.

She was hungry like a beast when she came out on to Medborgarplatsen. She needed something to eat. Trembling due to low blood sugar, she staggered around, unable to decide where to go, but finally ended up in a small sushi place next to the subway station entrance, by the pedestrian crossing to Folkungagatan. It was empty, as all restaurants were in the post-lunch lull. She ordered nori wraps, miso soup, and green tea, and sat on one of the small stools by the window. She called Jamal again, but his cell was switched off.

She had a missed call. It was from Greger Karlberg. They had agreed to meet for lunch today, she remembered. She had completely forgotten; how embarrassing. She listened to his message. He had called twice; the second time, he had hung up. That had been three hours ago.

Greger was an old school friend, the only one from high school she still saw. They had grown up on the same street in Ängby and
attended the same school. After high school, their paths had gone different ways and they hadn't seen each other for over ten years. By complete coincidence, they had met in the cafeteria in the Rosenbad building one day. It transpired that he worked as a developer in the Government Offices IT Department. They had started to spend time together again and, funnily enough, it was as if almost no time had passed at all. They knew each other; they were similar. Greger still had unhappy love affairs, which they discussed. His boyfriend had recently ended it for the third, and probably final time. He was down and needed to talk.

Greger answered the second time she called his cell. It didn't matter that she had forgotten about lunch, absolutely not. Apparently he could hear that her voice sounded different, because he asked if something had happened.

Yes, she said. Something has happened. She didn't feel up to saying it on the phone. Did he have time to meet? Greger promised to come as quickly as possible. She sat for a long time, drinking green tea and looking at the crossing as people and traffic streamed past. No one asked her to leave, even though she stayed for over an hour.

Eight years she had been at the Ministry. Eight years. She had given it her all. She loved her job, despite the stress, despite the bureaucracy, despite the men and their pacts. She had never doubted that she had made the right decision applying for foreign policy instead of commercial law, like many of her classmates at college. Despite the low salary and the hundreds of hours spent working overtime, in spite of all of it, it was worth it. It was the feeling of being part of something important that drove her. She gave her all for the ministry. Even when she didn't believe in what she was doing, she did her job. She was loyal and her managers had always liked her. She was analytical and had good judgment. She delivered. International policy was a part of her life, and now they wanted to take it away from her. How could they think she was lying? She was an asset, yet they still wanted her gone.

Then she thought about her parents—what would she say to them? They were so proud of her. Especially her father, she thought
bitterly. What would she say to him? He had been so happy for her; when she had gotten into the Foreign Service it was as if all his hard work had been for something. She had succeeded in a way he never had been able to in Sweden. Andrzej Dymek, the officer forced to bury his dreams when he left the army and fled from Poland in the seventies. In Sweden he was just a fucking Pole. He had been a taxi driver for a number of years before retraining as a secondary school teacher. That she, his daughter, had gotten into the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was like a victory over the Sweden that had received him with so much suspicion and disdain. They would never get to her, because she was a diplomat, she worked for the government. She knew that was how he thought.

She could barely contemplate how they would react to the bad news. Her father would be so disappointed, or—more than that—something great would be lost. Perhaps she didn't have to tell them. Never let them know. For a second she considered the idea and saw immediately how impossible that was. She swore to herself. You should never become bitter, her father had taught her. Bitterness consumed you like a corrosive poison if you gave in. But just then, that afternoon, everything was bitter. It couldn't end like this. It wasn't fair. She looked at the crossing, where cars were sat in a large group at a red light outside the restaurant. If she found the man in Brussels, perhaps she could sort everything. It had to be done.

“Carina!”

Absorbed in her gloomy thoughts, she hadn't noticed Greger, who was standing and waving at her through the restaurant window. After a day surrounded by alien and hostile faces, it was such a relief to see him out there in the crowds on Folkungagatan. Same old Greger, with his shaved head and his black down coat spanning his massive, well-set figure. He looked like an old skinhead and might have seemed dangerous, had it not been for the almond-shaped eyes that were surprisingly friendly.

She began to cry. It happened as soon as she caught sight of Greger. She stroked back her hair and tried in vain to stop the tears
flowing. Then she collected herself, rose and stepped out on to the street, where Greger waited, worried.

“What the fuck has happened?”

They walked toward Slussen. It felt good to walk alongside him. She wasn't alone any longer. Radiant afternoon light covered the street and cut around people in the crowd, turning them into black silhouettes.

“Have you broken up with your boyfriend?”

Greger was direct—she liked that. Honest. She didn't have to pretend. The first time she had shown him a picture of Jamal, he had said, right away, that he was a hot guy, that it was unusual to see a straight guy that good looking.

“It's work,” she said. “I've been suspended.”

She hadn't intended to tell him everything. But she did. She needed to talk to someone who could listen, who she trusted. She needed to know that she wasn't imagining it all. As they wandered around Södermalm, she told him what had happened, how she had met the man in Brussels and been given the memory stick, and then how the Head of Department had called her in and interrogated her, accused her. Why hadn't they believed her?

“And what about now? What happens now?”

“I don't know,” she said.

They had reached Mariatorget, and wandered slowly between the trees while the wave of rush-hour traffic moved past them in a boisterous current along Hornsgatan.

“Do you still have the USB?”

She got out the small object and gave it to him. According to the laws governing the distribution of secret information, she wasn't really allowed to say a word to Greger about the report, let alone give him access to it. But she let him hold the USB stick. She didn't care. He clasped it between his fingers, like a rare insect.

“So it was this that he gave you? This USB stick?”

She nodded.

“What does the secret report say?”

“It was a proposal for a European security service. I've only skimmed it.”

He nodded and looked skeptically at the memory stick before returning it.

They went into the cava bar on Swedenborgsgatan, just opposite the subway station in Mariatorget, from which people were streaming out now that it was the rush hour. It was her favorite place, full of people on Friday evenings. Right now the bar was deserted; they were only just opening and the staff were moving around and lighting candles, getting ready for the evening. Greger bought two glasses of wine.

She watched him and smiled. How unlikely it was that she was sitting here, just thrown out of her job, and that it was Greger who was here and listening to her. But it was right. In a way, it was just like in high school, years ago, when they had gone to the
konditori
at Brommaplansrondellen and talked every lunch break. Greger was her friend. He was completely uninterested in her physically; everyone who knew him knew that he was gay. He had been able to talk about feelings, unlike all the other pimply Neanderthals who had surrounded her at the time. They used to talk about the world's problems: whaling, nuclear weapons, how sick it was that there were people who could press a button and destroy all life on earth within fifteen minutes. She was tired of all the idiots at school, frustrated by all the unfairness in the world. They agreed that
Blade Runner
was a great film—as was
The Terminator
and
Terminator 2
, but definitely not
Terminator 3
. Greger got her to listen to Depeche Mode and strange old bands like the Sisters of Mercy. He was chubby and hopeless, unhappily in love with the school's district champion in gymnastics.

And here they were now—grown up. He was a computer technician and she was a diplomat. She had been convinced it was possible to change the world. But was it truly possible? She wasn't so sure anymore. The ministry was a machine, within which she was clearly just a cog.

“So your bosses don't believe that you were contacted in Brussels? They think you're lying.” Greger sat down and passed her a glass.

“Exactly.”

“Why? I don't understand.”

“I don't understand either. Apparently the Commission denied they had a leak, and said the leak was someone else. So they presumably think it's me. They said I had damaged their faith in Sweden.” She threw up her hands. She didn't know herself how to explain it. It was incomprehensible.