Into a Raging Blaze (18 page)

Bente stopped and read slowly. A poem.

The message ended with a short, traditional greeting, and was signed
AB
.

The analyst waited for everyone to finish reading.

“As you can see, the e-mail takes the shape of a letter from home. The people mentioned are all in the Badawi family—we've confirmed that. But this is mostly a pretext to say certain things that can't be said outright. Certain things in the message interest us in particular. You can see that he mentions ‘the movement,' which we assume to be either the Muslim Brotherhood or the Ahwa network. London is leaning toward the latter. Akim Badawi is evidently trying to persuade his nephew to return home. Home doesn't have to mean Egypt; instead, we think it means he wants to enlist his nephew, Jamal Badawi, into the group.”

“Then there's the mention of the photographs.” The mouse cursor appeared, and moved to the relevant sentence. “We have validated this with”—he mumbled in an anxious tone and cast an eye at Wilson—“certain, targeted operations. We know that Akim Badawi has received photographs sent by Jamal Badawi. A steganographic analysis of the pictures hasn't shown that they contained any hidden
code, but London hasn't reached a final conclusion yet. I know that the pictures will be subjected to further processing.”

Wilson turned to Hamrén and then looked at Bente. “This message,” he said, pointing at the screen, “is a sign. A challenge. We know that Akim Badawi manages foundations that fund terrorism. We know that he is part of the Ahwa group. So why is he contacting Jamal Badawi now? What does he want his nephew to do? It's questions like that which we are posing.”

Hamrén nodded silently.

“Adonis.” One of the Counterterrorism officers pointed. “First paragraph. Who's that?”

“Adonis. Yes, of course. Good.” The analyst brought the mouse cursor up.

“It sounds like a cover name.”

“That's right. The individual behind the name is Ali Ahmad Said. A Syrian author. Member of the resistance. Lives in Paris,” said the analyst.

“Member of the resistance?” said Hamrén.

“Yes, against the Syrian regime. General anti-Western antipathy.”

“Part of this Ahwa?”

“Not so far as we know.”

“But is he a threat?” said Hamrén impatiently. “Is he part of the threat? That's what we want to know.”

“No,” responded the analyst with a look at Wilson. “We don't deem him to be a threat.” He continued after a brief pause, “If we go to the end of the message, we see what is possibly most interesting—the poem.”

The analyst enlarged the text so that only the lines of the poem were visible. Bente read through the lines again, slowly. Flowery, exotic imagery. She had never understood poetry. It didn't go anywhere.

“It's an ancient poem. It was written by a poet called Muhyiddin Ibn ‘Arabi, who lived during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Ibn ‘Arabi is known throughout the Arab world as a poet and philosopher. He is one of the prominent figures in Sufism. Yes,
you may be aware of dervishes and the more mythical interpretation of the Qur'an. In the Arab world, these texts are still read and used by people . . .”

The analyst stopped for a moment, clearly noting how people in the room were looking vacantly at him. Someone moved restlessly in their chair. Out of everyone, it was only really the Salafist expert who was listening.

“Well, anyway,” he said briefly, and cut what was probably a long explanation that he had carefully prepared back in London, “the poem.”

Bente was grateful; little was as annoying as specialists getting sidetracked on to their nerdy pet subjects.

“What's in the e-mail is the last two stanzas of a longer poem. I should say that we've done a cryptographic analysis of the poem, but without any results. What we are probably seeing here is a basic code—a hidden message that Jamal Badawi is approaching his goal: ‘Their stations will be near.' It's a way for Akim Badawi to tell him that it's time to get ready. ‘Their fire will loom before you, kindling desire into a raging blaze,'” the analyst read quickly. “It is those lines, in particular, that worry us. We know that Akim Badawi is educated—he is familiar with Arabic literature; he is familiar with the Qur'an—and he is using this to send a message. It's the line about the ‘raging blaze' that is key, that is what we consider demonstrates a threat. The love of God makes desire grow into a raging blaze. It's a classic motif, even in the Qur'an. A raging blaze is mentioned in key passages in the Qur'an—it is the fire that burns when a believer is filled with the love of God, but it's also a concept in the Qur'an that represents the final day. Our assessment is that Jamal Badawi is being prepared for some kind of attack—an attack with high aspirations, with the intention of creating massive destruction. And that involves self-effacement for Jamal Badawi.”

The room was dead quiet. Everyone stared at the text.

“Thank you, George,” said Wilson. “So, preparations are afoot. We know that Jamal Badawi has already given his uncle an answer of sorts. He has built up a relationship with one of your diplomats. He
has managed to get close to people involved in your foreign policy and within the EU who he wouldn't normally have access to. He has then discovered, through this diplomat, a report about European counterterrorism that contains sensitive information about our joint work against terrorism. And now we have a clear indication that Carina Dymek is a loyal recruit. Because, unless I'm mistaken, she did not leak the report to any of the parties one might have expected. Not the Russians, not the Chinese. No one, except Jamal Badawi. Now you've seen Akim's e-mail; now you know what I know. London believes we are facing a threat and I'm inclined to agree.”

Silence.

“Are there any indications of what the target is?” said Hamrén.

Wilson shook his head.

“Okay,” said Hamrén. “Thank you very much.”

The meeting was over. Wilson and his analyst left the room while the Swedish investigation team stayed behind for a quick briefing. Bente followed the Brits to the elevator. She wanted to try and get Wilson to say a little more about how they had come across this group in Cairo. She smiled at him, jokingly taking his arm in hers.

“A very interesting presentation, Roger.”

He nodded morosely. “Thanks. Not all of your colleagues seemed to appreciate it.”

She let go of him as he shuffled into the elevator, followed by his analyst. He wasn't talkative. She said something about Swedish resources naturally being ready to cooperate. As soon as the elevator doors had slid shut, she pulled out her cell and called Mikael.

“The Ahwa group: ever heard of it? Do we have the name recorded at the Section?”

A short pause. “A group in Sweden?”

“No, international. Apparently it's based in Cairo.”

He thought for a moment. “In Cairo? No, I don't think so. I can check.”

“Wilson came in here with an analyst and talked about a secret group within the Muslim Brotherhood. There's a connection to Jamal
Badawi—the guy at the Ministry of Justice—and Dymek. I'll arrange for you to get the British intelligence. Check it. Go through it all.”

When she returned to the conference room, Hamrén and the others in Counterterrorism management were in the middle of a discussion about the threat assessment. Was Jamal Badawi a threat? To what extent should they respond?

“We need to keep an eye on him. Where is he now?” said Hamrén. “Do we know?”

“Right now . . . ?” The Head of Directed Surveillance leafed through his papers. “Two hours ago he left a restaurant, here, on Kungsholmen—together with Carina Dymek. They took a taxi to Badawi's address and they are currently still there.”

“Okay. I want Badawi watched, twenty-four seven. It's simply not good enough that the Brits know more about our government officials than we do.”

The men around the table took notes.

“And as for Dymek—we need to speak to her. Bring her in.”

Hamrén was moving fast, Bente thought. Counterterrorism worked differently from rest of the organization—more direct, no finesse. She appreciated it. Kempell, however, looked tense. If it had been his case, he would have waited for Dymek. Counterterrorism was taking a risk trying to contact her at such an early stage of the investigation, but Bente knew what they were thinking. Presumably, they were hoping that she would play along and become a Security Service informant, lead them to Jamal and then into the heart of the group in Cairo. In their eyes, this was no longer about a leak; this was the global fight against terrorism. It was about the Muslim Brotherhood, not a civil servant who had stepped off the straight and narrow.

“Okay. Protection?”

The Deputy Head of the Dignitary Protection branch had joined them after the presentation by MI6. He looked like a wrestler, with dark, cropped hair and a wide back. Personal protection of the Prime Minister had been increased as well as that of certain other ministers who might be subject to threats, he said briefly.

Heads nodded. Roland Hamrén adjusted his dark-blue tie self-consciously.

“Has the government been informed?” He turned back to Kempell.

“The MFA. And SUND. But they only know about Carina Dymek, not the Ahwa trail,” Kempell said in a low voice.

“We'll leave it like that,” said Hamrén. “Okay. The hypothesis we're working off is that Jamal Badawi, the nephew of Akim, is recruiting for a radical wing of the Muslim Brotherhood, and probably for this inner, secret group that the Brits called the Ahwa group. It is also therefore probable that the group poses a threat to Sweden, given its aggressive ideology and the capacity it is expected to have.”

Kempell made a noise, as if to disagree. A few around the table turned their heads but Hamrén pretended he had not heard anything.

“I agree with Wilson's analysis. Badawi and Dymek are threats to the government. Given they are in a relationship, it is likely that what Dymek has done isn't by chance but has to do with the Ahwa group. In that case, she is a threat—to the government and to national security.”

Kempell muttered something.

“Sorry?” Hamrén stopped himself.

“How do we know that?” Kempell burst out. “How do we actually know that this group has anything to do with Jamal Badawi? He received a letter from his uncle. With a poem. It's pretty thin, Roland.”

“It's enough.”

“We checked Badawi out when he was appointed. Nothing suggested connections to any sort of militant Islamist organization.”

“I believe you. And I believe British intelligence. You saw the e-mail from his uncle with your own eyes. We can't ignore that. Surely you understand?”

“Of course.” Kempell shrugged his shoulders.

“The British intelligence is well founded,” one of the chief analysts said.

“Of course, of course,” said Kempell in annoyance. “But is it possible for us to verify it? No. That's all I'm saying.”

“That's true. But their signals intelligence—”

“We have no sources of our own,” Kempell interrupted sharply.

The analyst retreated. “No, not at the moment.”

“So the intelligence that we are trusting is British,” Kempell continued. “Just so that this is clear to everyone: we are using solely British data as a basis for operational decisions.”

He turned to Roland Hamrén. The room was silent.

Everyone looked at the Head of Counterterrorism, who cleared his throat and said, “Yes. And that's good enough. For now.”

“And we're placing blind trust in them,” said Kempell.

“We're not trusting them blindly at all,” said Hamrén sternly.

Others would have stopped here, but Kempell carried on. He was combative. Trusting British data like this was taking a big risk, he said. Did they have anything, anything at all, that could verify that Jamal Badawi was a threat? Apart from an e-mail and some speculation about radical groups in Cairo, fed to them by the British?

“In my branch,” said Kempell, slowly, “we would require more. Facts.”

“You say that.” Hamrén bared his teeth with a small smile.

Bente looked down at the table and wished that Kempell would just shut up. He had gone too far. Of course he was right—in a perfect world they wouldn't trust the British so much—but he knew how it worked. Their world wasn't perfect. There was a potential terror threat against the government and they had orders to respond, quickly. Kempell was just an old man who, embittered, wanted to know best.

“What the Brits give us is top drawer,” said Roland Hamrén.

“I'm sure. But it's British, just British. Perhaps I'm too suspicious, but I don't like it. You know just as well as I do, Roland, that reliable intelligence requires at least two or three sources. Otherwise it's not intelligence, it's just an opinion. Speculation.”

Someone sighed loudly. If she had had a remote control for Kempell, Bente would have turned him off right away. She hated it when
people made themselves a laughing stock. Kempell looked around the table with a furious expression; their gazes met. Be quiet, please, Kempell. She had never seen him like this before—so shrill in tone. He had had a bad day, management had taken his investigation away, and, for some reason, he now wanted to make his mark, but this was too much; this was pathetic. As Head of Counterespionage, he ought to welcome the apprehension of Jamal Badawi before disaster struck. But he seemed to be stuck.

“Gustav”—Hamrén put on an exaggerated tone of friendliness—“I understand your concerns. But we have a situation here, which means we can't wait. Okay?”