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.
61 STOCKHOLM, 22:30
The 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.’
She ended the call and put down the phone. The aroma of coffee still lingered. And the hands of the clock moved on relentlessly.
Alex’s phone was in his pocket. He couldn’t walk around with it in his hand all the time. Eden was still in her meeting with the CIA, and Alex was accompanying Dennis, the head of the investigation unit. They were on their way to speak to Zakaria’s girlfriend Maria, who was still in reception.
‘Do you usually conduct interviews yourself?’ Alex asked. He had expected one of Dennis’s team to do it.
‘Only sometimes, but it doesn’t do any harm to keep your hand in. And right now everyone is busy with other things.’
Alex thought that was an eminently sensible attitude.
Maria looked surprised when two more officers came looking for her.
This time they refused to accept her insistence that she was going nowhere.
‘I want to see Zakaria,’ she said.
‘That’s out of the question,’ Dennis said in a tone of voice that brooked no disagreement. ‘On your feet. Come with me.’
And she did.
Dennis took them to one of the smaller interview rooms. It had no windows, and smelled musty.
‘Please take a seat,’ Dennis said, sitting down next to Alex.
Maria sat opposite them.
Dennis wasted no time on unnecessary chat.
‘At nine thirty yesterday, someone drove Zakaria’s car out of the city, heading towards Arlanda. Was that you?’
Alex could see that the girl was genuinely surprised.
‘No.’
He believed her.
‘So who was it?’
‘I don’t know.’
Everything happened so fast that Alex didn’t have time to react. Dennis leapt out of his chair and leaned across the table. With his face just inches from hers, he roared at the top of his voice:
‘Do you think this is some kind of fucking joke? Four hundred people could die because you’re sitting here thinking that your miserable concerns are more important than everybody else’s.’
He sat down again.
His outburst bore fruit just seconds later.
‘The hijacking is nothing to do with me.’
‘We know that,’ Dennis said. ‘However, you are guilty of protecting a criminal, which is a crime in itself.’
Alex searched for something to say, but decided it was best to allow Dennis to steer the conversation in the right direction.
Maria folded her arms; it was a pathetic gesture. She was on the verge of tears, but Alex couldn’t have cared less. This was serious, more serious than it had ever been. Dennis was right. Her personal concerns were a drop in the ocean compared with what was about to happen to the passengers on Flight 573.