would
return. She had a reason for holding Annika captive down here.
She shifted positions again. She had to try and think clearly. She'd met Beata Ekesjö before. She had to start from what she knew about her as a person. During their short conversation in Sätra Hall, Beata had displayed strong emotion. She had been grieving sincerely for something, whatever that may have been, and she'd been eager to talk about it. Annika could use that. The question was how. She had no idea of how to behave in a situation where you were being held captive by a lunatic. She had heard somewhere that there were courses on that kind of thing, or had she read it? Or seen it on TV? Yes, that's it, on TV!
In an episode of
Cagney & Lacey,
one of the female cops had been taken prisoner by a madman. Cagney, or maybe it was Lacey, had attended a course on how to behave in a hostage situation. She had told him everything about herself and her children, about her dreams and her love— anything to awaken empathy in the kidnapper. If she were talkative and friendly enough, it made it harder for the kidnapper to kill her.
Annika shifted again, this time getting up on her knees. That stuff might work on a normal person, but the Bomber was crazy. She had already blown several people to pieces. That thing about children and empathy might not stir Beata; she hadn't shown much pity toward children and families this far. She'd have to think of something else but using the lesson learned from Cagney: to establish some form of communication with your kidnapper.
What had Beata said? That Annika had misinterpreted her state of mind? Was that really why she was here? She'd better read the Bomber's mood more accurately from now on. She would listen closely to what the woman said and try to be as responsive as she possibly could.
That's what she would do. She would try to establish a communication with the Bomber, pretending to understand and agree with her. She would under no circumstances contradict her but just go with her flow. She had a plan at least.
She lay down on her right side on the mattress, facing the concrete wall, determined to get some rest. She wasn't afraid of the dark, the blackness enveloping her held no danger for her. Soon she felt that familiar tug in her body, and a short while after she was asleep.
DEATH
The school I attended was a wooden building with three floors. As we got older, we moved higher up. Once every year, in the spring, the entire school had a fire drill. In those days, old school buildings were dry as dust and burned down in minutes— there was no room for either negligence or anyone crying off.
There was a boy in my class who suffered from epilepsy. I forget his name. For some reason he couldn't hold his hands above his head. Nevertheless, he took part in the fire drill the year after the end of the war. I remember the day clearly. The sun was shining, a cold and pale light, and there was a hard and gusting wind. I hate heights— I always have— and was numb with fear as I stepped out on the fire escape. The world over by the river looked like it was about to keel over, and I gripped the railings. Infinitely slowly, I turned around and stared into the red wooden wall of the school building. I held on to each rung of the fire escape with the same desperate grip. When I finally reached the ground, I was completely exhausted. My legs were shaking, and I just stood there trying to compose myself while my classmates started walking back toward our classroom. That's when I raised my eyes and saw the epileptic boy slowly climbing down the ladder. He had just reached the last landing when I heard him say: "I can't go on any further." He lay down, turning his face against the wall, and died, right before our eyes.
The ambulance came and picked him up. I had never seen one before. I stood next to the back doors when they lifted him inside on a stretcher. He looked as he usually did, only a bit paler, his eyes were closed, and his lips blue. His arms shook a bit when the stretcher was put in its place inside the large car, and a last breeze ruffled his blond curls before the door shut.
I can still recall my wonder at the fact that I felt no dread. I had seen a dead person, no older than myself, and I wasn't affected by it. He was neither repugnant nor tragic, only still.
Afterwards, I have often wondered what makes a person alive. Our minds are really nothing but a neurotransmitter and some electricity. The fact that I to this day still think about the epileptic boy actually lends him continued existence. He's present here in this dimension that we call reality, not by virtue of his own neurotransmitter, but because of mine.
The question is whether there aren't worse ways of harming people than killing them. Sometimes I suspect that I myself have crushed people, much as the teacher had by forcing that boy out onto the fire escape.
So the ultimate question in that case is whether I need absolution and, if so, from whom?
FRIDAY 24 DECEMBER
Thomas sat by the window, looking out across the water. It was a cold and clear evening. The water had frozen over and lay like a black mirror far below. The grayish brown facade of the Royal Palace was illuminated and stood like stage scenery against the wintery sky. On the bridge below, the taxis glided past toward the restaurant and Gamla Stans Bryggeri bar. He could just make out the line outside Café Opera.
He was in the living room of the corner suite on the fifth floor of the Grand Hotel. The suite was as big as an ordinary one-bedroom apartment, with a hallway, living room, bedroom, and a huge bathroom. The police had brought him here. They regarded the Grand Hotel as a suitable place for accommodating people under threat. Royalty and other heads of state often stayed here. The hotel staff were used to dealing with difficult situations. Naturally, Thomas wasn't registered under his own name. Two bodyguards had been posted in the adjoining suite.
An hour ago, the police had informed him that there were no explosive charges in the apartment on Hantverkargatan. But they would have to stay away all the same, until the Bomber had been apprehended. Anders Schyman had decided that Thomas and the children could spend Christmas at the hotel at the paper's expense, if need be. Thomas let go of the view outside and let his gaze travel across the dark room. He wished that Annika could have been there, that they could have enjoyed the luxury together. The furnishings were shiny and expensive looking, the green pile carpet as thick as a mattress. He stood up and walked in to the children in the bedroom next door. They were deep asleep, breathing softly, tired out after the adventure of going on a mini-holiday. They had had a bath in the beautiful bathroom, splashing all over the floor. Thomas hadn't even bothered to mop up after them. They'd had meatballs and creamed potatoes, brought up by room service. Kalle had thought the creamed potatoes were yucky; he was used to Annika's instant mash. Thomas didn't like it when Annika cooked sausages and mash for dinner— once he'd called it pig feed. Thinking about their stupid argument over it, he started crying, something he rarely did.
The police had found no trace of Annika. It was as if she'd vanished off the face of the earth. The car she'd been driving was also gone. The woman who they suspected was the Bomber hadn't been seen in her home since the police became suspicious of her, which was on Tuesday night. They'd circulated an alert for her. The police hadn't said what her name was, only that she'd been a building project manager at the Olympic stadium in Hammarby Dock.
Lost, he paced the thick carpet. He forced himself to sit down in front of the TV. As anticipated, it had seventy digital channels and a bunch of in-house movie channels, but Thomas couldn't settle down to watch anything. Instead he went out into the bathroom and spread the bath towels on the floor. He washed his face in ice-cold water and brushed his teeth with the complimentary toothbrush. The thick towels soaked up the water beneath his feet. He left the bathroom, undressed on the way to the bedroom, and threw his clothes in a heap on a chair in the hallway, then went in to his children. Thomas stood watching them for a moment. As usual, Kalle had spread out his arms and legs so that he occupied most of the double bed. Ellen lay curled up among the pillows at the top. One of the bodyguards had gone to a department store and bought two pairs of pajamas and some Game Boys. Thomas gathered up Kalle's limbs and tucked him in, then walked around to the other side of the bed and nestled down next to Ellen. Carefully, he put his arm under the girl's head and pulled her close. The little girl stirred in her sleep, and put her thumb in her mouth. Thomas didn't bother to pull it out; instead he breathed in the fragrance of the girl, letting his tears run free.
* * *
Work in the newsroom was performed with maximum concentration and in great silence. The noise level had been reduced considerably some years ago when the newspaper was computerized, but never before had it been this quiet. They were all sitting around the desk where the paper was produced during the night. Jansson was continuously on the phone, as usual, only quieter and mumbling more than ever. Anders Schyman had installed himself in the chair where the lead writer would sit during the day. He did very little, mostly just sat staring into thin air or talking quietly on the phone. Berit and Janet Ullberg usually worked at their desks in the far corner of the newsroom, but now they sat writing by the night reporters' desk so they could follow what was going on. Patrik Nilsson was also there; Ingvar Johansson had called him in the afternoon. The reporter had been on his flight to Jönköping, and of course he had answered the call.
"It's forbidden to have your cellphone on during the flight," Ingvar Johansson told him.
"I know that!" Patrik screamed with obvious delight. "I just wanted to check if it's true that the plane will crash if you have it on."
"So is it?" Ingvar Johansson asked sarcastically.
"Not yet, but if it does, you'll have a major scoop for tomorrow!
'Kvällspressen
Reporter in Plane Crash Drama— Read His Last Words.' "
He shrieked with laughter and Ingvar Johansson rolled his eyes.
"I think we'll hold that, we already have one reporter at the center of a bomb drama. When can you get back?" Johansson filled him in.
Patrik hadn't even stepped off the plane but returned with it to Stockholm. He'd arrived at the newspaper at five in the afternoon. Now he was writing copy for the story of the police hunt for the Bomber. Anders Schyman was secretly watching him. He marveled at the young man's speed and commitment; there was something quite improbable about him. His only flaw was his undisguised delight in accidents, murder, and various other tragedies. But with a bit of experience that would no doubt tone itself down. With time, he would become a very good tabloid journalist.
Schyman stood up to get some more coffee. He felt slightly sick with all the coffee he'd drunk already, but he needed to remain awake. He turned his back on the people in the newsroom and slowly walked toward the row of windows on the other side of the Sunday supplement desk. He stood watching the apartment block next to the newspaper offices. The lights were still on in several windows, even though it was past midnight. People were up watching the thriller on TV3, drinking glogg. Others were wrapping the last of their Christmas gifts. On several balconies, there were Christmas trees, the lights glimmering in the windows.
Schyman had talked to the police several times during the night. He'd become the link between the newsroom and the Krim people. When Annika hadn't showed up at the daycare center by 5 P.M., they began dealing with it as a missing person case. After talking to Thomas, the police command regarded it as out of the question that Annika had disappeared of her own free will. Her disappearance had during the evening been classified as abduction.
Earlier, the police had banned them from calling Annika's cellphone. Schyman had asked why but got no reply. He had, however, passed on the order to the others, and as far as he knew, no one had tried to phone her since.
The staff were shaken and upset. Berit and Janet Ullberg had been crying. It's strange, Anders Schyman thought; we write about these things every day, using people's suffering to spice things up. Yet we're wholly unprepared when hit by it ourselves. He walked off to get another mug of coffee.
* * *
Annika was wakened by a cold wind rushing through the passage. She immediately knew what that meant. The iron door under the arena had been opened. The Bomber was returning. Fear made her curl up in a little ball on the mattress; she lay still, breathing raggedly as the strip lights flickered on.
Her instincts were whispering: Be calm, listen to the woman, find out what she wants, do as she tells you, try to win her confidence.
The sound of clattering heels approached; Annika sat up.
"Look at that, you're awake. Good," Beata said and walked over to the folding table. She began unpacking various food items from a 7-Eleven plastic bag. She lined them up around the flashlight battery and the timer. Annika could make out some cans of Coke, Evian water, some sandwiches, and a chocolate bar.
"Do you like Fazer Blue? It's my favorite," Beata said.
"Mine, too, actually," Annika said, trying to keep her voice steady. She didn't like chocolate and had never tried Fazer Blue.
Beata folded up the plastic bag and put it in her coat pocket.
"We have some work to do," she said, sitting down on one of the stools.
Annika tried to smile. "Oh, what are we doing?"
Beata looked at her for a couple of seconds. "We're finally going to get the truth out."
