Into a Raging Blaze (46 page)

“I'm here to offer you an alternative.”

Dymek turned around and cut her off. “Go to hell.”

This kind of aggressive rejection was to be expected. Dymek was off balance, and struck out with the weapon of the powerless: the demand to be left alone.

“Do you have any other documents?” she said calmly. “Apart from the ones that the
Guardian
has?”

Dymek shook her head and muttered no.

“Sorry?”

“No,” said Dymek loudly.

“Are you certain?”

“Do I look uncertain?”

Bente looked at her for a second and then smiled. “No.” The woman sitting next to her was worn out and exhausted—scruffy, but not uncertain. Not with that harsh look. Bente recognized herself in her: the confidence in her own abilities, the unbending determination not to let herself down. She wouldn't get Dymek where she wanted her unless she at least pretended to lay her cards on the table.

“Let me be completely honest with you,” she said. “We have no interest in charges being brought against you.”

She waited. Carina was sat with her back to her, but seemed to be listening.

“Leaking those documents was very stupid. We don't want to have to deal with any other incidents like that; do you understand? All we ask is that you never breathe another word about the EIS for the rest of your life. Or about anything that has happened.”

“You want to silence me.” Carina laughed. “Isn't it a bit late for that?”

“That's not for you to decide. If you say as much as a word about something to do with the EIS, I can promise you that we'll do everything we can to stop you.”

Dymek shuddered. She tried to hide it, but it was clear in the way she tensed her shoulders and back.

Bente leaned forward and adopted a more conciliatory tone: “On the other hand, if you keep up your end, we should be able to arrange for you to return to work at the MFA.”

“The MFA?” Carina looked up. Her face was contorted with rage. “You think I want to go back there? They told me to leave and I've no intention of going back.”

Bente had actually thought this would be sufficient bait to secure Carina.

“So you don't want to go back to the Ministry?”

“Never,” said Carina sullenly. “I accepted the report and passed it on to my bosses. I did what any civil servant would have done. I didn't do anything wrong. They threw me out just because it suited them. And now they want me to come back nice and quietly—is that it? They can go to hell.”

Carina wasn't anywhere near as broken as she had expected. Bente couldn't help but feel a certain tenderness for the furious young woman sitting there on the sofa.

“But do we have an agreement, Carina?”

“This isn't even about the EIS, is it?” Carina looked calmly at her, with a hard stare. “This is about Jean Bernier. It was you people that killed him, wasn't it?”

“No.”

“It was you.”

“No, Carina,” she said quickly. “You're wrong, and I have no intention of discussing this with you. I'm sure you understand that.”

“Because then you'll have to shoot me too, is that it?”

“You have no idea what you're talking about.” She needed to bring this idiotic conversation to an end. It was so annoying how Carina, somehow, had managed to turn the tables and make her sit there defending herself. There was so little time; she needed to get them back on topic.

“What kind of people are you?” Carina asked.

“Just like you. Normal people.”

“I don't believe that.” She looked up as if a thought had just struck her. “It was you that called me in Brussels.”

“Yes.”

“Were you trying to rescue me?”

She hesitated. Rescue? “Yes. You could say that.”

“You were trying to rescue me, but killed Jean Bernier. How can you live with yourself?”

“I'm doing my job.”

“Your job.” Carina shook her head with a smile. “Jean Bernier is dead. People like you killed him.”

“Carina . . .”

But she wouldn't be interrupted. “He said I had a conscience. And I actually think he was right. I have a conscience. But you . . .” Dymek looked at her in disgust. “You're just empty.”

“That's enough,” said Bente sternly. She didn't want to hear anymore. “I've asked you a question and you still haven't given me an answer.”

“I don't care about your questions.”

“Maybe not,” she said slowly. “But you do care about Jamal. We have his name connected to the three Swedish documents the
Guardian
received.”

She waited; let the words do their work. She could see them taking hold. Carina stared at her; her eyes glazed over. Bente had guessed right. Carina would never betray Jamal. It was endearing, and useful.

“Leave him alone.”

“That depends on you.”

She met Carina's gaze.

“On me?”

“Yes.”

“And how do I know you're not lying?”

“You'll have to trust me,” Bente said lightly.

Carina snorted and looked out of the window. Then she got up, wordlessly. It was time to go to her gate. Bente followed silently as she left the lounge.

The noisy airport enveloped them. Droning announcements about different impending departures soared above the clamor
and clatter of thousands of feet and bags. The last call for boarding to Stockholm had been made; all remaining passengers were requested to go to the gate immediately.

“I'll keep quiet,” Carina said harshly. “If you release Jamal. You have to let him go, and leave him alone. Forever. If he doesn't call me when I get to Arlanda, then—”

“Okay.” Bente met the raging eyes of Carina. “He'll call you.”

“And you have to exonerate him; you have to leave him alone. Forever. Get it?”

She nodded. Carina was, without a doubt, serious. She had already inflicted serious damage upon Swedish and European intelligence operations and wouldn't hesitate to do so again if they didn't keep up their side of the bargain. Right after this conversation, Bente would call Kempell and get Badawi released from custody.

Carina glared at her as if she was going to say something so scathing that it would cut into the deepest, most secret parts of Bente. But she seemed to change her mind, merely shook her head and wordlessly set off down the ramp toward the gates. Bente watched her go. She felt sympathy for Carina Dymek, a kind of warmth that aroused an impulse to catch up with her and continue the conversation. She knew the impulse was a weakness that occurred when suspects managed to transfer their world view to an investigator. She didn't grab hold of the feeling and it slowly faded away, just like the tickle of an unfulfilled sneeze.

Dymek was no longer visible in the crowd. Slowly, Bente began to walk to her own gate. She was in no hurry; the flight to Brussels wasn't for another hour. They had now buried a truth. That didn't bother her; secrets were necessary and good things. They were the matter that made up her work—that filled her life. Modern existence would never function so well, so smoothly, if it didn't—to a large extent—consist of secrets.

She lifted the phone to her ear. It rang. After their conversation, Kempell was going to contact Counterterrorism and then the prison, and within a few hours Badawi would be driven to Arlanda and released, thus contributing to a small, heartwarming reunion,
written and directed by the Security Service. They would conduct limited monitoring of the couple for a few months, until Counterespionage was convinced they would maintain their silence. In time, the media would also let go of the story, in accordance with the inexorable logic of the news hunters that even the biggest scoop ended up with the same number of column inches as an obituary. Then Carina Dymek would be on her way into obscurity. Dymek, someone would remind themselves. Oh, her, yes. She had to go. A shame. She was good, but she made a mistake—so they would say in the corridors of the Ministry. But eventually no one would remember what that mistake had been, and no one would be able to say what had actually happened.