Hostage (38 page)

It had been an incredibly long day.

She had to maintain her sharpness, her focus. If she relaxed now, everything would be lost. Everything.

The CIA agents were the same as last time. Eden chose to take only Sebastian in with her. They sat down opposite the Americans.

‘Thank you for coming in again at such short notice,’ Eden began.

No reaction.

‘Have you heard anything from your man on board?’ she asked.

‘No. What about you? Have you heard from Erik Recht?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

Silence.

‘As you will understand, we have a number of questions with which we need your help,’ one of the agents said.

Engaging in a trial of strength with an American was pointless. They almost always won. In general terms, Eden liked Americans. They were fun to hang out with, easy to get on with in a social
situation. And she sometimes envied that American drive, the constant determination to reach a little higher, get a little further. Or – preferably – higher and further than everyone
else. It touched a competitive nerve within Eden that was all too seldom exploited to its full capacity.

However, she found their frequent arrogance considerably less appealing. It sometimes made them very difficult to work with, which in turn could lead to a less than satisfactory conclusion.

‘I want names,’ Eden said.

‘Names? What names?’

‘The names of the internees held at Tennyson Cottage.’

She was being deliberately polite. Saying ‘held’ rather than ‘imprisoned’ was generous.

She waited. She was aware of Sebastian’s presence at her side, but she didn’t look at him. He knew better than to try to join in the discussion.

‘No,’ said one of the CIA agents, ‘that’s not possible. And as we said before – you don’t need them.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ Eden said. ‘I need a whole lot of information. I absolutely refuse to accept that shooting down the plane is a solution.’

‘It’s not a good solution, but it’s still a solution. We would be killing four hundred people in order to save thousands more. We have to have the courage to make these
decisions in our job.’

Really? Eden wasn’t in the mood for that kind of crap. Not now, not ever.

‘Not if there’s an alternative,’ she said. ‘And there is.’

She was conscious of the fact that she was repeating herself. Her own children had taught her the value of that particular tactic. If one of them said ‘ice cream’ often enough, they
usually got their ice cream.

It worked this time too.

‘Why do you want the names?’

‘To see if any of them fits into our enquiries. We have the names of several suspects.’

Adam Mortaji.

The Americans came to life.

‘Like who?’

‘You first.’

She could see that they were shocked at her boldness, but they didn’t say no. She knew she was going to win.

‘Okay,’ said the agent who had said very little so far. ‘This is what we’re going to do. We’ll give you the names of the two who were released, but that’s it.
Sorry, but that’s as far as I can go.’

Damn. It was nowhere near as much as she had hoped for, but it would have to do.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Let’s have them.’

The American on the left gave her the name of the first man, who had been allowed to return home after his internment.

‘An Iraqi who somehow ended up in Pakistan. Clearly of no interest to us. He was able to give us a small amount of information on various training camps in Waziristan, but otherwise he was
worthless. We know that he didn’t go back to Iraq, but went to stay with relatives in Jordan.’

Eden made notes.

‘Thank you. And the other?’

‘North African, originally from Morocco. He’d also lived in the UK and in Germany. We picked him up in Pakistan, where he and his pal were busy planning a terrorist attack on a
military target in Afghanistan.’

Germany. Again.

‘Germany seems to keep on coming up,’ she said.

‘Yes, but this guy didn’t live there for very long. We let him go in August; he headed straight back to Germany, but he didn’t stay there. In May, he went home to Morocco. It
was his father who was interviewed by the press and made sure Tennyson Cottage was mentioned in the article.’

‘A mistake he didn’t repeat,’ said the CIA agent in the middle.

‘Why his father rather than him?’

‘Unfortunately, the guy is no longer with us. He killed himself last summer, shortly after he returned to Morocco.’

‘Could I have a picture of him?’ Eden said.

The answer came after a brief hesitation:

‘We can send one across. If you want to read about him, the article is online.’

Eden had already seen the article. It was quite badly written, and she hadn’t paid much attention to it.

‘And what was the name of this guy?’

‘His name was Adam Mortaji.’

B
y this stage, the rumour had spread. The passengers realised that the crew had lied. There was some kind of major problem with the plane, and for
some reason the co-pilot was locked out of the cockpit.

However, not many people knew about the man who was lying on the floor at the front of the plane with his hands tied behind his back, and that was the only thing Erik Recht was grateful for. The
fear of what could happen if he didn’t manage to get into the cockpit was mixed with the fear of what would happen if they couldn’t persuade the passengers to remain calm. There were
too many of them to deal with if mass panic took over. The stewardesses just kept on moving up and down, talking to anxious individuals.

Erik had gathered the crew together for a short meeting, to bring them up to date. He told them he suspected that Karim was involved in the hijacking, that the police seemed to be thinking the
same thing, and that Erik was going to do his very best to try to get into the cockpit. Several of his colleagues had been horrified, and had demanded to know more. Surely Karim couldn’t be
involved? How could something like this happen? The opposition gave Erik an unexpected injection of strength. He had stated loudly and clearly that if they didn’t believe him, then they
should at least believe the police. Karim wasn’t the man they had thought he was. He had placed them all in mortal danger, and right now he was probably holding Fatima prisoner in the
cockpit. That silenced the crew, who were now giving him their full co-operation.

Erik hadn’t called his father; he didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily. But as the minutes passed and he still hadn’t accomplished his goal, he realised that Alex must be
beside himself with worry. It was more than two hours since they had spoken. Two hours outside the cockpit was a dangerously long time. Karim could have done anything, set course in whatever
direction he wanted.

Erik was used to overcoming the difficulties he faced, but this time it seemed to be utterly impossible. He had tried everything, first of all as discreetly as possible in order to avoid
alarming the passengers, but then with increasingly drastic methods. The fucking door refused to give way, as he had known it would. Ironically, it was impossible to force the door – for
security reasons. The very reasons that now drove him to work with the frenzy of a madman to try to gain access.

Erik sat down on the floor with his back against the door. Fatima. The stewardess he had left behind in the cockpit. Why wasn’t she helping him? What had Karim done to her? Erik
didn’t want to think about that right now; he pushed away the images of the fate that might have befallen Fatima.

He noticed that he had become disorientated, that his imagination lacked any kind of filter. He pictured the plane plunging from the sky and exploding as it hit the hard surface of the Atlantic
Ocean. At other times, he could see the plane breaking in two as it hit the water, hurling the passengers to an equally violent death.

The man on the floor moved, groaning faintly.

Who was he?

And how could he have known?

He had realised what was wrong before anyone else. Could he have managed to pick up a text from family or friends?

There is something else going on here.

Erik got up and crouched down beside him. At first, he hesitated, but then that barrier came down too. With movements that felt frighteningly natural he patted the outside of the man’s
jacket, then his trousers. He didn’t know what he was looking for or what he expected to find, but he knew he had to keep going. His hands slipped inside the jacket, feeling the rough surface
of the shirt. There was a wallet in the inside jacket pocket; without thinking twice, Erik pulled it out and opened it. Various bank cards, American Express, a driving licence.

The man was called Kevin.

Erik checked the compartment containing notes, then tucked the wallet back in the man’s pocket. What was it he’d said? That he knew what had happened. That he could help Erik. Fuck
that. Erik didn’t believe in coincidences, especially right now.

In the other pocket he found a mobile phone. It was switched on, but with the sound turned off. There was no network coverage, but it must have been working at some point, because there was a
message waiting.

‘K, mission accomplished?’

Erik went cold all over.

He had been right from the start. This was bigger than any of them had thought. There were several hijackers, and they were among the passengers. Instinctively, he looked up, searching the
silent faces following his every move. How many of them were involved?

How am I supposed to know who I can trust?

Resolutely, he got to his feet and moved back to the locked door.

Keep calm, for fuck’s sake. The only thing you have to do is to get inside the cockpit. How hard can that be? Break open the door and bring down the plane before we all die.

A movement behind him made him jump.

‘It’s only me.’

Lydia, who had been running the bar.

She was wide-eyed and pale. She had closed the bar after Erik’s meeting with the crew, and was now working with her colleagues to keep the passengers calm. Erik knew it was no easy
task.

‘I’ve tried everything, but I can’t get in,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I haven’t a fucking clue what we’re going to do.’

‘Fatima,’ Lydia said.

‘I know, she’s still in there with that fucking lunatic.’

He placed one hand on the door, unable to look Lydia in the eye. A mounting anxiety had taken root in his body, and he couldn’t shake it off.

What had happened to Fatima? Why hadn’t she opened the door? That was why he had asked her to stay in the cockpit in the first place, precisely so that this wouldn’t happen. And yet
here he was, unable to get back in. Had Karim killed her?

The anxiety grew even stronger.

If Fatima was dead, there was nothing else they could do. Nothing at all.

T
he inexorable movement of the second hand on the clock was driving her crazy. What was the best way of using the small amount of time that
remained? They had an hour left now. One hour. Then the plane would run out of fuel.

Fredrika Bergman had a horrible feeling that she kept on making the wrong choices. When she was sitting at her desk writing a brief report for the department, she felt guilty that she
wasn’t taking part in the ongoing investigative work. And when she turned her attention to the investigation, she felt stressed because she wasn’t reporting back to her employer
frequently enough.

Eden wasn’t back from her meeting with the CIA; it seemed to be going on for quite some time. Fredrika hoped this was a good sign.

Most of all, she just wanted this to be over. She wanted someone to call and say that the plane had landed, that the passengers had been released and everyone was fine. Then she would be able to
go home at last. Give her children a big hug and go to bed with Spencer. Make love and fall asleep in his arms. Time could be a difficult concept when you lived with someone who was so much older.
She had begun to hate the natural ageing process and the gap it created between her and the man she knew to be the love of her life. Sometimes she wished they hadn’t had children, because she
knew that the day Spencer died, she would no longer want to go on living. But there were other days when she felt the exact opposite – that if it wasn’t for the children, she
wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of Spencer dying before her. Mostly she tried not to think about it at all.

Fredrika called the department and eventually managed to get hold of her boss, who sounded stressed. The aroma of fresh coffee drifted through the open-plan office.

‘We need a final decision,’ he said. ‘Do we release Zakaria Khelifi, or not?’

What was she supposed to say? Right from the start, she had felt it was wrong to deport Zakaria. What did she think now?

I haven’t a clue. Is that business with the phone enough to let him go?

‘We need more time,’ she said, as if they had all the time in the world.

‘In that case, we’ll review our decision. We need to decide within the next half hour, before the plane runs out of fuel. And then we have to stick to our decision. Do you understand
what I’m saying?’

Fredrika understood perfectly.

‘You’ll have to help us explain why we reached different conclusions within days,’ her boss said.

‘You made a mistake. A mistake that is far, far less serious than hijacking a plane full of people. No normal person would regard your mistake as an excuse for mass murder. Never. Release
Zakaria Khelifi, apologise, say that new information has come to light during the day which puts a different complexion on his case. Say you are extremely sorry for the dreadful consequences of
your error, and that you will be reviewing the relevant procedures in future.’

That’s all you can do, she added silently to herself.

‘Can’t you write something we can use?’ her boss said.

Did she have time?

‘I can try.’

‘It’s urgent.’

‘I know that. I’ll get back to you.’