Liza Marklund: The Bomber

"The South Bypass is blocked. The exit next to the stadium has collapsed, that much we know. The South Tunnel may be cordoned off, so stick to the streets."

"Who's shooting?"

"Henriksson has gone out, and the freelancers are already there."

Jansson hung up without waiting for her to answer. For a few seconds Annika listened to the hum of the line before she dropped the phone onto the floor.

"What is it now?"

She sighed inwardly before replying.

"Some explosion at the Olympic stadium. I've got to get over there. It'll probably take all day."

She hesitated before adding: "And night."

He mumbled inaudibly.

Carefully she extricated herself from Ellen's sleepy embrace. She breathed in the smells of the child: the sweet skin, the sweat-dampened pajamas, the sour mouth where her thumb was always resting. She kissed her daughter's smooth head. The girl moved sensually, gave a stretch, then curled up into a ball; three years old and utterly self-possessed, even in sleep. With her heavy arm, she dialed the direct number to the taxi switchboard. She got out of the overpowering warmth of the bed and sat down on the floor.

"Could I have a car to 32 Hantverkargatan, please. Name of Bengtzon. I'm in a hurry… To the Olympic stadium… Yes, I know it's on fire."

She was dying for a pee.

It was freezing cold outside. She raised the collar and pulled down her hat to cover her ears. Her toothpaste-smelling breath was like a cloud around her. The taxi pulled up at the same moment as the door closed behind her.

"Hammarby Dock, the Olympic stadium, please," Annika said as she landed on the back seat with her big holdall.

The taxi driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

"Bengtzon from Kvällspressen, right?" he said with an uncertain smile. "I often read your articles. I liked your stuff on Korea; my kids come from there. I've been to Panmunjom, too, you know. You wrote it just like I saw it. Soldiers standing there face to face in the DMZ, not being allowed to talk to each other. That was good stuff."

As always, she listened to the praise without taking it in. Or resisted taking it in. If she thought she was too good herself, she might lose it: the magic, whatever it was that made the writing take off.

"Thanks, I'm glad you liked it. Can you take the South Tunnel, do you think? Or should we stick to the streets all the way?"

Like most of his colleagues, he was totally on the ball. If something happened anywhere in the country at 4 A.M., you made two phone calls: one to the police and one to the local taxi company. After that you'd be guaranteed to have a story for the first edition. The police could confirm what had happened, and a taxi driver would almost always be able to give you some kind of eyewitness account.

"I was on Götgatan the time of the explosion," he said, doing a U-turn across an unbroken double white line. "Shit, the streetlights were swaying! 'Jesus,' I said to myself, 'it's the Russians, they're bombing us!' I called in on the radio to ask what's going on. They told me that Victoria Stadium had been blown to shit. One of our boys was down there when it happened, he had a fare to an unlicensed club in those new buildings, you know…"

The car rushed toward City Hall while Annika fished out a pen and pencil from her bag.

"How is he doing?"

"Okay, I think. A piece of metal came flying through the side window, missed him by a couple of inches. A few cuts on his face, according to the radio."

The went past the Gamla Stan subway station and were fast approaching Slussen.

"Where did they take him?"

"Who?"

"Your colleague with the shrapnel?"

"Oh, him… Brattström's his name… South Hospital, I think, it's nearest."

"Got a first name?"

"Dunno, I'll ask on the radio…"

His name was Arne. Annika hauled out her cellphone, put the earpiece in her ear, and pressed Menu 1, the speed-dial number for Jansson's place at the news editor's desk in the newsroom. Even before he answered, the man knew it was Annika calling: He recognized her cellphone number on his phone display.

"A taxi driver was hurt, Arne Brattström. They took him to South Hospital," she said. "Perhaps we could visit him and make the first edition…"

"Okay," Jansson said. "We'll run a check on him."

He put the phone down and yelled to the night reporter:

"Run a check on an Arne Brattström, and check with the police whether his next of kin have been informed about his injury. Then call the wife if there is one!"

Back into the phone he said, "We've got an aerial photo. When will you be there?"

"Seven or eight minutes, depending on the police cordons. What are you doing?"

"We've got the incident itself, comments from the police, night reporters calling and talking to people in the houses opposite. One of the reporters is already there, but he'll be going home soon. Then we're doing a recap of earlier Olympic bombs, we've got the guy who was throwing firecrackers in various Stockholm and Gothenburg arenas when Stockholm first applied for the Olympics…"

Someone interrupted him. Annika could sense the rush of the newsroom even from the taxi. "I'll be in touch as soon as I've got something," she quickly said before she switched off.

"They seem to have cordoned off the warm-up area," the taxi driver said. "We're best off trying the rear entrance."

The taxi turned into Folkungagatan and sped toward the Värmdö Way. Annika dialed the next number on her cellphone. While listening to the ringing tone, she saw the night's drunken revellers stumbling homeward. There were quite a few of them, more than she would have thought. It was like that these days; the only time she was in town at this time of night was when a crime had been committed somewhere. She had forgotten that the city could be used for anything other than criminal activity or work. The city had another life that only was lived at night.

A tense voice answered at the other end of the line.

"I know that you can't say anything yet," Annika said. "Just tell me when you'll have time to talk. I'll call you back then. Just tell me when."

The man at the other end sighed. "Bengtzon, I really can't say now. I don't know. Call me back later."

Annika looked at her watch. "It's twenty to four. I'm doing a story for the first edition. How about seven thirty?"

"Yeah, fine. Call me at seven thirty."

"Okay, speak to you then."

Now she had a promise, he wouldn't be able to back out. The police hated reporters calling when something big had happened wanting to know everything. Even if the police did have some information, it was difficult to judge what could be made public. By seven thirty she would have her own observations, questions, and theories, and the investigators at the criminal investigation department, Krim, would know what they wanted to tell you. It would work.

"You can see the smoke now," the taxi driver said.

She leaned over the passenger seat and looked up to the right. "Oh yes. Look at that…" Thin and black, it trailed up toward the pale half-moon. The taxi left the Värmdö Way and turned onto the South Bypass.

The road had been blocked off several hundred yards from the opening of the tunnel and the arena itself. Some ten vehicles were already parked next to the barriers. The taxi pulled up behind them, and Annika handed over her taxi charge card.

"When are you going back? Do you want me to wait?" the driver asked.

Annika smiled wanly. "No thanks, this is going to take some time." She collected her notepad, pencil, and phone.

"Merry Christmas!" the taxi driver yelled as she shut the door.

My God, she thought, it's a whole week to Christmas. Is this "Merry Christmassing" business starting already? "The same to you!" she said to the rear window of the car.