nada,
the usual bullshit. Now she had to rely on her colleagues and their sources.
At that moment Berit and Patrik popped their heads in the door.
"Are you busy?"
"No, come right in. Take a seat, just chuck my clothes on the floor. They're so dirty, it won't make any difference."
"Where have you been?" Berit asked and hung Annika's coat on a hook.
"In the mud outside the Olympic Secretariat. I hope you've had better luck than I have today," she said cheerlessly and gave them a brief outline of the conversation with her contact.
"Accident at work," Berit comforted her. "Shit happens."
Annika sighed. "Well, let's get started. What have you got today, Berit?"
"I've told you about my interview with the chauffeur; he's quite good. And I've been making calls about that taxi tip off. It's odd. No one wants to say anything about where Christina disappeared to after the Christmas party. We don't know what she was doing between midnight and 3:17."
"Right, so you have two things: Christina was afraid of being blown up, according to her private chauffeur, and her missing hours. Patrik?"
"I just got here, but I've made a couple of calls. Interpol is putting out an alert for the Tiger during the evening."
"Really?" Annika said. "Global?"
"I think so. Zone two, they said."
"That's Europe," Berit and Annika said simultaneously, and laughed.
"Any particular country?"
"Don't know," Patrik answered.
"Okay, so you can deal with stuff that comes in this evening," Annika said. "Unfortunately I don't have much that's worth writing about, but I've discovered a couple of things."
She told them about Christina Furhage's first husband, the wealthy old forestry official, about her dead son and pyromaniac of a daughter, Evert Danielsson's devastating love affair at work and his uncertain future, about Helena Starke's unexpected outburst, and the fact that she was a militant lesbian.
"Why are you poking about in all that?" Patrik said skeptically.
Annika gave him a look of mild indulgence.
"Because, dear boy, this type of general research into the human nature sometimes produces something. Cause and effect. An understanding of the individual and her impact on society. As you'll learn when you've been around here as long as I have."
Patrik looked like he didn't believe her.
"Whatever. I just want to get my copy onto the front page," he said.
Annika smiled slightly.
"Great. Shall we pack it in?"
Berit and Patrik left. She listened to
Eko
before she went into the evening news conference, the handover that the rank and file called the Six Session. The radio news pursued the morning broadsheet's discovery of the legal technicality and then went to town on the parliamentary elections in India. Annika switched off.
She went past the kitchen and drank a big glass of water before joining the meeting. The dizziness from the glogg had thankfully worn off.
The editor was alone in his office when she entered. He seemed to be in a good mood.
"Good news?" Annika asked him.
"Hell, no. Numbers aren't good enough. I've just had a meeting with the marketing people, that always cheers me up. How are you doing?"
"The headline with the security codes in today's paper was unnecessary. I want to bring that up at the meeting. It's a bit of a catastrophe for me. Then I've found some skeletons in Furhage's closet. I can tell you about it afterwards if you have a minute…"
Ingvar Johansson, Pelle Oscarsson, and Spike, the other night editor, entered at the same time. They were loud and noisy, laughing among themselves in the way men among equals do. Annika sat silently waiting for them to sit down.
"There's something I want to say," Anders Schyman said briskly, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "I know that no one in this room had anything to do with it, but I want to deal with it officially. It's about the headline on pages six and seven in today's paper. 'The Solution Lies in the Security Codes.' We weren't supposed to mention the codes. There could have been no doubt about that after yesterday's discussion. Still the headline ended up in the paper. A big fuck-up. I'll be calling Jansson straight after this meeting to find out how the hell it could happen."
Annika felt her cheeks go redder and redder while the editor was speaking. She struggled to look unmoved, but without great success. It was clear to everyone in the room whose brief he was holding and whose side he was on.
"It's amazing to me that I should even have to say this. I thought it was clear that we act in accordance with the decisions made in these meetings and with the directives I give. There are certain times we know of things that we don't write about. I decide when this is so. Annika's deal with her contact was to not mention the codes, which she didn't. Even so, it ended up like this. How was that possible?"
No one replied. Annika stared down at the table. To her annoyance, she felt the tears welling up, but she swallowed hard and forced them back.
"Right," Schyman said, "since no one seems to have an explanation for this, I think we should learn from it and make sure it never happens again. Agreed?"
The men mumbled inaudibly. Annika swallowed again.
"Let's go through today's list," the editor said. "Annika, what do you have at the crime desk?"
Ingvar Johansson's lips tightened as she straightened up and cleared her throat.
"Berit has two stories: She's met the chauffeur who told her Christina was afraid of being blown up, and she's looking into Christina's last hours. Patrik says Interpol will put out an international wanted alert of the Tiger tonight. He'll have to write something about the hunt for the killer during the night. I'll get the cold shoulder from my sources from now on. I met Evert Danielsson, Furhage's nearest subordinate, who's been shown the door…"
She fell silent and looked down at the table.
"Sounds promising, but we're not leading with the blast tomorrow," Schyman said, thinking of the number-cruncher. According to their calculations, no story sold for more than two, at the most three days, regardless of its significance. "We're into the fourth day and it's time to change the track. What have we got to lead with instead?"
"Should we really let go of the terrorist angle already?" Spike said. "I think we've lost that part of the story completely."
"How?" the editor asked.
"All the other papers have had accounts of the different terrorist attacks against Olympic facilities over the years, looking at which terrorist groups could be behind this. We haven't even touched on that."
"I know you haven't been in the last few days, but surely you get the paper in the northern suburbs," Schyman said patiently.
Spike swallowed the bitter pill. Once again the editor felt he was addressing a bunch of recalcitrant children.
"We did the list of past Olympic attacks in both the Saturday and Sunday papers. We deliberately refrained from unethical speculation on different terrorist groups. We've had our own stuff, which has been unrivaled. All we can hope for is that today's moronic headline hasn't put a stop to that in the future. Instead of barking up the terrorist tree, we've been leading the news, and that's something to be proud of. Our sources tell us that this was not an attack on the Olympics, neither the event itself nor the arenas. According to our information, this was a private attack on Christina Furhage, and we have confidence in ourselves. That's why we won't be doing any lists of possible terrorist groups tomorrow either. But what should we lead with, Mr. News Editor?"
Ingvar Johansson instantly put on an air of importance and started going through his voluminous list. Annika had to admit he was efficient and usually had sound judgement. While he talked, she could feel Spike's hostile gaze on her. She was relieved when the meeting ended and the men left the room.
"So what have you found out today?" Schyman asked her.
Annika told him what she knew and showed the picture of the young Christina, her first husband, and young son.
"The deeper I dig into her past, the darker it gets," she said.
"Where's it going?" the editor asked.
She hesitated. "What I have so far can't be published. I'm sure there's an explanation for it all somewhere in her closet."
"What makes you think the truth can't be published?"
Annika blushed. "I don't know. I just want to find out how it's all connected and be one step ahead. Then I can ask the police the right questions that will give us the answers before anyone else."
The editor smiled. "Great," he said. "I'm really pleased with the work you've done these past few days. You don't give up, that's a good quality, and you're not afraid of confrontation if need be. That's even better."
Annika cast down her eyes and blushed even more. "Thanks."
"Now I'm going to call Jansson and ask what happened with that fucking headline."
She walked over to her office and suddenly realized she was starving. She went over to Berit and asked if she'd like to go to the staff canteen. She did, so they picked up their coupons and set off. They were serving Christmas ham with potatoes and apple sauce tonight.
"Christ, it's all starting now," Berit said. "They won't change the menu until after New Year's Eve."
They skipped the ham and chose the salad bar instead. The big canteen was almost empty, and they took a table in the corner.
"What do you think Christina did after midnight?" Berit said and bit into a piece of carrot.
Annika thought about it while shoveling sweet corn into her mouth.
"She left the restaurant in the middle of the night, together with a well-known lesbian. Did they go somewhere together?"
"Helena Starke was drunk as a skunk. Maybe Christina helped her home?"
"How? On the night bus?"
Annika shook her head and continued her reasoning: "She had both a taxi charge card, money, and approximately two and a half thousand employees who could see to it that a colleague got home in a car. Why should she, the MD of the Olympic Games, Woman of the Year, drag a plastered lesbian down to the subway? It's not logical."
The thought hit them both at the same time.
"Unless…"
"Is that possible…?"
They started laughing. The thought of Christina Furhage being gay seemed far-fetched.
"Maybe they went to register their partnership," Berit said, and Annika smiled.
"No, really. Could they have been having a relationship?"
They chewed on their lettuce leaves and thought about it.
"Why not," Annika said. "Helena Starke said she knew Christina best of all."
"Doesn't mean they slept together."
"True," Annika said. "But it
could
mean that."
One of the busboys approached their table.
"Excuse me, but is either of you Annika Bengtzon?"
"I am," Annika said.
"They want you in the newsroom. They're saying the Bomber has struck again."
* * *
They were already sitting in the editor's office when Annika returned. No one looked up as she entered, with some corn still wedged between her teeth and her bag slung over her shoulder. The men were planning a strategy to squeeze as much as possible out of the terrorist angle.
"We're lagging hopelessly behind," Spike said louder than called for. Annika still got it. She had heard fragments of what had happened on her way up from the canteen. She sat down at the far corner of the table, the chair making a clattering noise when she wedged in her legs.
"Sorry," she said, and the word hung in the air. She'd be apologizing for more than scraping her chair. She'd have to eat some. An hour before she'd sat at this very table and insisted that the Bomber was after Christina Furhage personally, that there was no connection to the Olympics at all, and then bang! Another blast, at another Olympic facility.
"Do we have anyone there?"
"Patrik Nilsson has gone over," Spike said with authority. "He should be at Sätra Hall in ten minutes."
"Sätra Hall?" Annika said in surprise. "I thought an Olympic arena had been blown up."
Spike gave her a supercilious look.
"Sätra Hall
is
an Olympic arena."
"For what? A training room for the shot-putters?"
Spike averted his gaze.
"They're holding some events there. Don't know what."
"The question is how we should proceed," Anders Schyman interspersed. "We'll have to recap what other media have been doing on the terrorist angle. Make it sound like we've been in on it all along. Who'll do that?"
