Then he walked away. Eden stood there, with one hand on the door and the other clutching her phone as she watched him go.
Why did it have to hurt so much? The pain was actually physical. It felt as if someone had reached into her chest, pulled out her heart and thrown it down on the pavement along with her fucking fag ends.
She tried to cling to the image of Mikael, the man she had loved for so long and betrayed so badly. But over and over again, he was pushed aside, and it was Efraim’s face she saw instead.
Efraim, taking her hand and leading her back to his apartment in the heat of a Tel Aviv summer.
Efraim, winding her hair around his fingers as she cried out with a combination of guilt and desire.
She was almost fascinated to realise how easily he had punctured the protective bubble inside which she had chosen to live her life. Eden was no longer invincible. During the minute it took her to get back to the office, she cried more than she had cried in her entire adult life.
The plane was going to crash, and all those on board were going to die. The US government had chosen the option they had all thought was unlikely, and now there was no way back. That was what Eden had been told. The fact that Erik insisted he was in control of the plane made no difference. They wanted proof. And there wasn’t any.
Fredrika Bergman pretended she was calling her boss in the Justice Department because of the passengers, because the world would become a dark and evil place if the plane was not allowed to land.
But deep down in her heart and soul, she knew she was fighting for one thing only: the survival of Alex’s son.
‘We’ve tried everything,’ her boss said; he had just spoken to the Minister for Justice. ‘The Prime Minister has contacted the White House personally to express his concern, but they refuse to co-operate. Unless they have proof that Erik Recht is in command of the plane and that Karim Sassi is out of the picture, they will not let them cross the border.’
‘But what kind of proof do they want?’ Fredrika said. ‘Pictures – can we ask Erik to send pictures?’
‘That won’t help. They could be staged.’
Eden came back smelling of smoke, and Fredrika thought she looked as if she had aged fifteen years during the few minutes she had been away. She even looked as if she had been crying.
As if they could afford more secrets right now.
After the calls to the cabinet office and the Americans came silence.
Alex’s face was grey.
‘What can we do?’ Eden said.
It was a rhetorical question. She wanted them to say they had come up with a fresh approach, a new strategy for dealing with the problem. They hadn’t. The absence of words was as palpable and troubling as the smell of smoke surrounding Eden.
‘He’s got to bring him round,’ Alex said.
‘Who?’ Eden said.
‘The American he knocked out. He’s the only one who can convince them that the plane is no longer in the hands of the hijackers.’
‘But he’s unconscious,’ Eden said. ‘That’s why we’re in this mess.’
Alex shook his head.
‘As long as he hasn’t killed him, which he hasn’t, he’s got to try to bring him round.’
‘But how?’ Fredrika said, knowing that they were all thinking the same thing.
‘I don’t know. But we need to contact a doctor right away, get advice from someone.’
Sebastian was the one who reacted most quickly.
‘I’m on it,’ he said, running to his desk.
The ground beneath their feet was on fire. The situation had never been more urgent, and yet Fredrika felt as if time was standing still.
Then a call came through from Rosenbad.
Eden took it.
Erik had entered US airspace.
67 WASHINGTON, DC, 17:22
Since the decision to shoot down the plane had already been taken, Erik Recht’s emergency call stating that he was entering US airspace did not lead to any lengthy discussions. The Department of Defense had been informed, and the White House was now closely monitoring developments. Bruce had left his office an hour ago and had been transported at high speed to Dulles airport. Nobody expected that the plane would be allowed to land, but if it did happen, it would be at Dulles, and his boss wanted him on the spot. Bruce didn’t like what was about to happen. There was a risk, or a chance, that Erik was telling the truth when he said that he was now in sole command. If that was the case, then to deny the plane the opportunity to land, saving all those on board, would be unforgivable.
He had lied to Eden when they spoke just a few minutes earlier. Of course he was worried, just as she had said. But like the loyal colleague he was, he opted for an appearance of solidarity. Eden was not the kind of person Bruce wanted to confide in.
The discussions in the White House must have been turbulent. In Bruce’s opinion, the President was taking a risk. A huge risk, in fact. Because the problem was clear: once the plane had crashed, and the dead had been brought home and the wreckage salvaged, they would find the black box. There was a considerable danger that the box would contain recordings confirming what Erik had told them: that Karim Sassi had been removed from the picture.
What would the President say to his electorate then?
Bruce shared his thoughts with a colleague who had also been sent to the airport in haste.
‘So what do you suggest?’ the other man said. ‘That we allow the plane to fly in, and risk the lives of even more US citizens?’
That was out of the question. Bruce knew it. It was politically impossible for the President not to show that he had the capacity to take action.
‘How long will it take?’ he said instead. ‘To shoot down the plane, I mean.’
His colleague ran a hand through his hair. His forehead was beaded with sweat.
‘I don’t know. It’s only about a minute since he breached US airspace. I imagine we can take him down in less than sixty seconds.’
A minute.
Bruce swallowed hard.
He wondered what Erik Recht had said to his passengers. Had he prepared them for what was to come?
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking…’
One of the air-traffic controllers spoke up.
Erik Recht had been in touch with them again.
He believed he had some information they would want to hear.
68 FLIGHT 573
They had tried everything, but the American whom Erik Recht had knocked unconscious, and who apparently worked for the US Department of Defense, refused to come round. A call from Stockholm informed Erik that they had contacted Karolinska Hospital, and that one of their emergency doctors would try to give some advice.
But Erik was doubtful. Several doctors among the passengers had already tried to help, but they were all in agreement about the man’s condition. He had probably suffered a severe concussion, and even if the injury was not regarded as life-threatening, it was impossible to say how long he would remain unconscious.
However, Erik immediately called the US authorities and asked for a respite.
‘Just let us consult a doctor,’ he said. ‘I only need three minutes at the most.’
When there was no immediate response, he went on: ‘For God’s sake, it has to be in your interests not to have to shoot us down!’
He was begging, more than he had ever done in his life.
He was begging to be allowed to live, to be able to see his family again.
And he was begging for his crew and his passengers.
They gave him three minutes, but made it clear that they wouldn’t wait any longer.
Erik was so stressed that he could hardly breathe. The emergency doctor from Karolinska was put through, and quickly reached the same conclusion as the other doctors when he was told what had happened to the American, and what they had done to try to bring him round.
There was no magic wand. The man was unconscious, and that was that.