Mattias Berg - The Carrier

It was a moment of white fury, violence which was both uncontrolled and fully focused. First one, then the other. And I managed to tie both their arms together behind their backs, creating an impossible creature, a kind of physical paradox, so it was not clear where the one began and the other ended. It must have been a torture for them, their screams cut through my head like knives, until I managed to close the heavy and thick protective door behind us. Silence once more as we rushed out onto the enormous asphalt area, heading toward the gates.

“You didn’t have to take them down in that way, Erasmus. Their cries alone must have activated every guard post in Norrbotten County. There was no need for an alarm,” Ingrid said when we got back into the cover of the pine trees beside the main road.

I both nodded and shook my head. Out here you could not hear a sound from the installation, no flashing red lights could be seen, nothing to interrupt the serenity. The alarm had only gone off behind the scenes. After one mouthful of drink each, Ingrid led us a much more remote way back. One could already make out the first signs of dawn. Gradually we got our speed down to under 7 minutes per mile so as to be back in good time.

It did not take long before the nausea washed over me. After vomiting twice in quick succession, and covering the result with snow like a dog, things improved: the ultra-violence cleared from my mind. We were back at the Snowflake by 08.43. I had time to take an ice-cold shower, rinse away the last few mental images, before we went down separately to the dining room for breakfast.

The day passed without any reference on the local news, either radio or T.V., to an incident at Esrange. Which was only to be expected.

This type of break-in at a highly classified site rarely became public. Neither intruder nor those in authority had any interest in spreading information about it. Those who were called “Our new principals” on Esrange’s homepage, and who had already put a stop to the Tourist Office’s guided tours at the base, definitely did not want that.

Come evening there was still no leak, even on encrypted specialist blogs. During dinner Ingrid said that we should celebrate.

“With whom were you thinking?”

I looked around the spacious dining room, at the crystal chandeliers and the murals with local motifs. As usual only she and I were sitting at the table; the Girls and Jesús María presumably came only when we had left.

“Bettan must have gone to bed. She’s an early bird: says that the blast at 1.30 a.m. is her alarm clock. But I’m going to fetch a special guest,” she said.

We were still standing in the Ice Queen, when Jesús María came in, like a reluctant teenager. Without a word she went behind the bar and started to mix margaritas.

“And what are we celebrating?” she said.

“Go on, Erasmus, tell her! Excuse me, I have to make a call,” Ingrid said and disappeared.

Yet again: I’d been trained in all sorts of mind games, since decades back. But I still could not see through Ingrid’s strategies. I assumed that even this was some kind of test. That she would later learn from Jesús María what I had said, how much I revealed. If I really was someone worth holding by the hand as the world was ending.

“It’s my birthday today. Fifty-one.”

“Sorry, my poor Erasmo. You’ll have to contain yourself a few months more before celebrating. To be precise… 104 days, isn’t that right?”

Jesús María must have known pretty much everything about me even before our escape. Now the two of us were alone together for the first time since she had written her message in the condensation on the train window, more than a week ago. She crunched on an ice cube from her glass, raised her eyes from her drink and looked me straight in the eye.

“Feel nice to be able to fight a bit? This morning?”

I kept quiet, followed my usual tactic. Let the opponent lead. Show their cards.

“What else has the Witch said about me?”

“Not much… that you have terrible memories from home.”

“That I have a forked tongue?”

“As distinct from Ingrid?”

“No, seriously, Erasmo, I’ll show you.”

As Jesús María put out her tongue, I looked down into my glass—but still managed to catch sight of a deep groove: full of glitter that might have been diamonds, but more likely cheap bling. Then I emptied my drink and put the question.

“How come you knew my key sentence?”

Now it was her turn to wait, to divert.

“Did you know that some researchers see weaving as the first binary system, nine thousand goddam years ago?” she said at last.

“That the weft thread which goes over and under the warp threads, up and down, can quite easily be transformed into digital stuff, you know: on and off, one and zero? And that’s why the loom was so perfect for industrialization—punch cards could easily communicate with them. And why machines can knit but not crochet.”

“So what you’re saying is that even someone like you could master coding and decryption.”

“Exactly. And even someone like you.”

She looked at me, long enough for it to begin to mean something.

“But no-one can escape, Erasmo, however fast one runs. Neither you nor me. Not even Ingrid.”

She took a piece of paper and the weed—or whatever it was—out of her pocket, put her glass down, started to roll a cigarette.

“Ingrid’s and my paths crossed, our destinies as she would say, at an Army base on the Mexican border. There was only one other woman there at the time, in the late ’60s. Damaged goods, just as I was. Had to sew her up from inside out.”

I looked at this strange little figure, with her cloven tongue, who could not possibly have turned forty.

“But you can’t have been at the base at that time. You’d be at least sixty-five by now.”

“Didn’t the Witch tell you what a good craftswoman I am?” Jesús María said as she walked out, leaving me alone in the Ice Queen.

It must have taken at least half an hour, maybe more, before I made my way to Ingrid’s room. Knocked three times, short pause, then twice more—and finally one loud knock. The usual signal. Yet Ingrid still only opened when I whispered her name, pressed tightly to the door.

“What did Sixten say?” I said.

Ingrid went back to the bed and her computer, kept tapping away at the keyboard, did not seem surprised by my question.

“They have been harassing him since our operation out at Esrange. Poor Aina too. Even Lisa.”

Ingrid still had her eyes fixed on the screen.

“So they’re on their way here now.”

“Sixten and Aina?”

“No, the others, those who are after us.”

The bed squeaked as she got up and crossed the floor toward me, still standing just inside the door. Looked me straight in the eye.

“Sixten is also on his way. He’s finally been given permission by Aina to become more directly involved in the cause . He’ll be here as soon as he can.”

Perhaps I did put up some resistance when Ingrid then gently lifted the hybrid from my shoulders, took out the briefcase, laid it with the lid open on the bed next to her computer and made all the necessary preparations. Perhaps not. In any case the images appeared on the screen again: the same as when Ingrid showed me the trick a few weeks ago. Exterior and interior scenes from our intercontinental missile base at Minot. Four smaller scenes from the surveillance cameras—and one larger one in the middle, from inside the command center itself.

Everything seemed to be normal, according to the indications at the bottom of the screen. Pressure inside the missile, humidity, alert level.