Hostage (42 page)

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.

S
ince 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.

T
hey 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.

Erik had never felt so alone as when the emergency doctor’s voice disappeared.

‘In that case, there’s nothing else we can do,’ Lydia said.

Unlike Erik, she hadn’t shed a tear all day; she was standing in the middle of the cockpit, pale and stiff.

‘I’ll tell the others,’ she said. ‘How long do we have left?’

Erik looked at the clock, but found it difficult to focus. His vision was blurred, and he was ashamed of his own weakness.

‘I don’t know – two minutes at the most.’

Lydia left the cockpit, and Erik was alone with Karim. He allowed the plane to lose height, as if he was going to land, and wondered whether he ought to tell the passengers what had happened. Or
what was going to happen. That he couldn’t wait any longer, that he had to try to land, otherwise they would crash into the sea. That they were going to die anyway, because the Americans were
so afraid of terrorists that they would rather shoot down a plane carrying their own citizens than risk making the wrong judgement call in favour of the hijackers.

Erik closed his eyes. He wouldn’t call his father; they had already said everything there was to say. The only person he wanted to speak to was Claudia, but he couldn’t get hold of
her.

He leaned back against the headrest.

I’m coming to join you, Mum.

Someone rang the cockpit doorbell. Erik blinked, glanced at the camera and let Lydia in. Her voice was so shrill that at first he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

‘He’s awake, Erik! He’s awake!’

But it was too late. There was no time left. The information he had received from the Americans was unequivocal: the order to bring down the plane had already been given. Erik felt a terror so
powerful that it almost ejected him from his seat. His roar must have been heard right through the plane.

‘
Listen to me, for fuck’s sake! He’s conscious!
’

He didn’t stop shouting, he just kept on repeating the same words over and over again, louder and louder.

Lydia and a colleague dragged the man into the cockpit. He was weak, hanging limply in their arms. But Erik looked at his eyes, and they showed a strength and resolve; if he could just get to
the microphone, he would be able to speak to his fellow Americans.

The man on the other end of the line was also shouting to make himself heard.

‘
So where is he then? If he’s conscious, why can’t we talk to him?
’

When Erik paused for breath, he could hear the racket in the background on the American side. It sounded as if at least a dozen people were standing there, yelling at one another.

The American reached him.

It didn’t make any difference, Erik realised, If the order had already been given, they would all die before a new decision could be made.

The man was slumped on the floor, but he reached out and Erik gave him the microphone.

‘This is Kevin Davis speaking. I can confirm that Captain Sassi is no longer in control of this aircraft. If that’s not enough, I demand that you put me through to the Pentagon so
that I can confirm my identity.’

That was when Erik spotted them on the right. Two planes. Strike aircraft, without a doubt.

An airborne death squad.

Erik gave up.

Kevin Davis was still talking, but Erik knew that it didn’t matter. His words had reached the Americans too late. There was no time to divert the strike aircraft.

Or was there?

Kevin Davis was silent now, listening to the person on the other end. Then he spoke to someone else, introducing himself once again. Erik saw his face suddenly relax.

Erik quickly turned to look at the two planes. They were still in position.

Kevin Davis tapped his arm. Erik looked at him.

And Davis said the magic words:

‘We have permission to land.’

Erik didn’t react.

‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Get us down, for fuck’s sake!’

Only then did Erik understand. As if in a trance, he turned his full attention to the task ahead.

Landing the plane.

Bringing the passengers and crew to safety.

Erik headed towards Dulles airport, where he had been told to land. There was just enough fuel, but there was no margin for error.

The strike aircraft accompanied him every step of the way.

And when the wheels of Flight 573 touched down at long last, the planes soared away into the sky and disappeared into the darkness.

I
t was the longest night of the autumn. At least, that was how Eden Lundell would remember it. She would also think of it as the night when the
past made a fresh attempt to catch up with her.

She assumed that she would win, as usual.

They were receiving bulletins from the Americans at intervals of less than a minute. First of all, the plane was going to be shot down. Then came a message that Erik had called to say that the
man he had knocked out with a wine bottle had finally regained consciousness.

Then nothing.

Midnight came and went.

After seconds so long they felt like months, another call came through. At one minute past midnight. Kevin Davis had been able to confirm that what Erik said was true. Captain Karim Sassi was
seriously injured and was no longer in command. One minute later, they were given permission to land at Dulles airport, and, as soon as the plane touched down, Bruce called Eden.

To her surprise she was shaking with rage as she listened to what he had to say.

‘They could have
died
,’ she said. ‘Do you understand what you’ve done?’

‘They could,’ Bruce replied. ‘But they didn’t, and I think we would prefer to focus on that.’

Eden didn’t waste time arguing; she slammed down the phone and turned to Alex.

‘They’ve landed. They’re all fine.’

Alex’s shoulders dropped and his face lost the strained expression he had been wearing all day.

The battle for his son’s survival was over.

‘Thank God,’ he said.

Fredrika was sitting next to him; she was equally relieved, and placed a hand over his.

It had been so close.

So horribly close.

There had been so little time left when Erik landed the plane. The fuel levels were so low that he had been prepared for an emergency landing with the engines shut down.

Bruce had called the touchdown ‘impressive’.

Eden still thought of it as extremely dangerous.

‘What happens now?’ Fredrika said.

Eden looked at the phone and tried to remember all the information Bruce had spewed out during his call.

‘There were no other planes on the tarmac when Flight 573 came down. The emergency services were waiting for them on the runway. The media were banned, but of course they realised what was
going on. The Americans are issuing a press release, and they will be holding a short press conference, where they will answer the most important questions.’