He put the computer printout on his lap. "The signal from Annika's cellphone has been connected via a station in Nacka."
The plain-clothes policeman took over: "The call has been confirmed by the manager of the daycare center. Annika didn't sound strange or at all pressured. She was relieved when she heard they were open until five o'clock. This means she was still moving around freely at 1 P.M., and she was somewhere east of Danvikstull."
The technician went back to reading the printout. "The next signal from her phone went through at 17:09. As I said before, a phone that is switched on connects with the provider's exchange every four hours."
Schyman barely had the energy to listen to the technician. He sank down on an empty swivel chair and rubbed his fingers against his temples.
"There's an internal clock in every telephone that begins the countdown every time it's switched on," the technician continued. "After four hours, the countdown is complete. Then a signal is transmitted that tells the system where the phone is located. Since the signals have been coming through during the night, Annika must have had her cellphone switched on. As far as we can see, she hasn't moved during the night."
Schyman felt his body tense. "So you know where she is?" he said in a strained voice.
"We know that her phone is somewhere near Stockholm city center," the technician said. "We can only see which area it is, and that means the central city districts and the nearby suburbs."
"So she could be somewhere nearby?"
"Yes, her cellphone has not been moved outside of this area during the night."
"Is that why you told us not to phone her?"
The policeman stepped forward. "Yes, and for other reasons. If someone is with her and hears the phone ring, they might switch it off, and then we couldn't tell if she were moved."
"If she is in the same place as the cellphone…" Schyman pointed out.
"Hasn't it been fifteen minutes yet?" the policeman asked.
"Not quite," the technician replied.
They turned their attention to the screen and waited. Schyman had to go to the toilet and left the room for a few minutes. As he emptied his bladder, he noticed that his legs were shaking.
Nothing had happened when he returned to the room.
"Nacka," Schyman said absently. "What on earth was she doing there?"
"Here we go," the technician said. "Right, there it is. The A number is for Annika Bengtzon's cellphone, the B number is for the
Kvällspressen
switchboard."
"Can you tell where she is?" the policeman asked tensely.
"Yes, I've got a code here. One moment…"
The technician tapped on his keyboard and Schyman felt cold.
"527 D," the technician said doubtfully.
"What?" the policeman said. "What's the matter?"
"We never usually have more than three cells at each base station: A, B, and C. There are more here, and that's very unusual. D cells are usually special ones."
"Where is it?" the policeman asked.
"One moment," the technician said, as he quickly got to his feet and walked over to another terminal.
"What are you doing?" Schyman asked.
"We have more than a thousand masts around Sweden; you can't remember them all," he said apologetically. "Here it is, base station 527 in Hammarby Dock."
Anders Schyman felt his head spin and a strange chill on his neck. Christ, that's the Olympic Village!
The technician had another look. "Cell D is in the tunnel between Victoria Stadium and Training Arena A."
The policeman's face turned even whiter. "What tunnel?"
The technician looked at them gravely. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, only that there is a tunnel somewhere under the stadium."
"Are you positive?"
"The call was transmitted via a cell that sits in the actual tunnel. A cell usually covers a larger area, but the reception is quite limited in tunnels. We have one cell covering only the South Tunnel, for example."
"So she's in a tunnel under the Olympic Village?" the policeman asked.
"Her phone is, at least. I can guarantee you that," the technician replied.
The policeman was already halfway out of the room.
"Thank you," Anders Schyman said, squeezing the technician's hand between both his own.
Then he hurried after the cop.
* * *
Annika had dozed off when she suddenly felt Beata tinkering with something on her back.
"What are you doing?" Annika asked.
"You go on sleeping. I'm just checking that the charge is okay. We're getting nearer the time now."
Annika felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice-cold water over her. All her nerves contracted in a hard knot somewhere in her midriff. She tried to speak, but couldn't. Instead she began shaking all over.
"What's with you?" Beata said. "Don't tell me you'll start acting like Christina. You know I don't like it to be messy."
Annika breathed rapidly and with her mouth slightly open. Calm down, talk to her, come on, talk to her, buy time.
"I was wondering… I just wanted to know… what will you do with my story?" she managed to squeeze out.
"It'll be published in
Kvällspressen,
as big as when Christina Furhage died," Beata said complacently. "It's a good piece."
Annika braced herself.
"I don't think that's going to be possible," she said.
Beata interrupted what she was doing.
"Why not?"
"How will they get hold of the text? You don't have a modem here."
"I'll just send the whole computer to the paper."
"My editor won't know I wrote it. It doesn't say that anywhere. It's written in the first person. In its present shape, it just looks like a long letter to the editor."
Beata stood her ground. "They'll publish it."
"Why should they? My editor doesn't know who you are. He might not understand how important it is that this piece is published. And who's going to tell him when I'm… gone?"
That gave her something to think about, Annika thought as the woman went back to her stool and sat down.
"You're right," she said. "You must write an introduction to the article and tell them exactly how to go about its publication."
Maybe that would buy her a little time. But perhaps she'd been wrong to play so much into the woman's hands. What if it had made everything even worse? But then she dismissed the thought. It couldn't really be much worse. Christina had fought her, and she'd had her face smashed in. If she had to die, it was better to be writing on a computer than to be tortured.
She sat up, her whole body aching. The floor was tottering beneath her feet, and she noticed she had difficulty judging the distance.
"Okay," she said. "Give me the computer and we'll finish this off."
Beata pushed the table back.
"Say that you've written it and that they must publish the piece in its entirety."
Annika wrote. She knew she had to buy more time. If she'd succeeded with the phone, the police ought to be somewhere nearby now. She didn't know how accurately the cellphone would pinpoint her, but the man out on the ice two years ago had been located immediately. He had been beyond all hope; his family had already begun to make arrangements for a memorial service when he phoned his son on his cellphone. The old man had been completely exhausted and very confused. He had had no idea where he was. He couldn't describe any landmarks. It's all white, was all he could say. Not a particularly distinctive feature in Sweden in the winter.
Still the man had been rescued within an hour. With the help of the phone operator, the police had narrowed down his whereabouts to within a radius of six hundred meters, and they'd found the man inside that circle. And the operator had been able to determine that from the signal of the cellphone.
"By the way," Annika said, "how did you get inside the stadium?"
"Nothing to it," Beata said in a superior manner. "I had both a card and the code."
"How come? It's been a couple of years since you worked on the arena."
Beata got to her feet. "I've already told you that," she said stridently. "I worked in the pool and visited every paltry little hall that was connected to the Games. We had access to the central office where all entry cards and codes are kept. We had to sign for them and hand them back after we were done, of course, but I managed to take a few. I wanted to be able to visit the buildings that spoke nicely to me. The Olympic stadium and I have always gotten along very well. I've always kept a card to this place."
"And the code?"
Beata sighed. "I'm good with computers," she said. "The codes for the arena are changed every month, and the changes are recorded in a special computer file that you have to have a password to enter. They never changed the password."
She smiled a lopsided smile. Annika started writing again. She had to think of other questions to ask.
"What are you writing?"
Annika looked up. "I'm explaining the importance of making this story as big as the death of Christina Furhage," she said cheerfully.
"You're lying!" Beata cried, and Annika jumped.
"What do you mean?"
"They couldn't make as many pages as when Christina died." Beata suddenly looked wild. "You know it was
you
who started calling me 'The Bomber'? Can you imagine how much I hate that name? Can you?! You were the worst of all of them. You always wrote that bullshit on the front page. I hate you!"
Beata's eyes were on fire, and Annika realized that she had nothing to say.
"You came in the room where I had been overcome by sorrow," Beata said, slowly approaching Annika. "You saw me in my misery and yet you didn't help me. You listened to the others but not to me. It's been like that my whole life. No one has heard me call out. No one but my houses. But that's finished now. I'll get you all!"
The woman reached out for the rope hanging from Annika's neck.
"No!" Annika cried out.
Her cry made Beata stop momentarily in her tracks. Then she grabbed the rope and pulled it as tight as she could, but Annika had been prepared. She got both her hands in between the rope and her neck. The Bomber tugged again and Annika fell off her stool. She managed to twist her body so that she fell on her side and not on the charge.
"You're going to die now, you bitch!" Beata screamed, and in the same instant Annika noticed there was something wrong with the echo. Next she felt a cold draught on the floor.
"Help!" she cried out as loud as she could.
"Stop screaming!" Beata roared and pulled again at the rope. She pulled Annika further out onto the floor, grazing her face on the concrete.
"I'm here, around the corner!" Annika cried, and right then Beata must have caught sight of them. She dropped the rope, turned around, and searched along the wall with her eyes. Annika knew what she was looking for. As if in slow motion, she saw Beata start for the battery and the fuse. The shot was fired a fraction of a second later. It ripped open a crater high up on Beata's back, pushing her violently forward. Another shot rang out. Annika instinctively turned her back to the wall, away from the gunfire.
"No!" she screamed. "Don't shoot, for Christ's sake! You might hit the charge!"
As the echo of the last shot died down, she saw smoke and dust in the air. Beata lay still a few yards away from her. The silence was complete. All she could hear was a high-frequency ringing in her ears from the shots. Suddenly, she felt that someone was standing next to her. She looked up at a pale, plain-clothes policeman stooped over her with his weapon drawn.
"You!" she said with surprise.
The man looked at her anxiously and loosened the noose around her neck. "Yes, me," he said. "How are you? Are you okay?"
It was her secret source, her "deep throat." She smiled wanly and felt him pull the rope over her head. To her surprise, she burst into a flood of tears.
The policeman picked up his radio and called out his number. "We need two ambulances," he said, looking up and down the passageway.
"I'm okay," Annika whispered.
"Hurry, we've got a gunshot injury," he called out on the radio.
"I've got an explosive charge on my back."
The man lowered his radio.
"What did you say?"
"There's an explosive charge on my back here. Have a look."
