Liza Marklund - The Bomber

"There must be a lot of people with entry cards," Annika coaxed him.

"Who are you thinking of?"

"The Olympic Secretariat, the members of the IOC, the caretakers at the arena, people from all the contractors building the facilities, electricians, builders, foundry workers, transport firms, architects, security firms, the TV sports people…"

He remained silent.

"Am I wrong?" she asked.

"Not really. All the groups you mentioned have, have had, or will get entry cards, that's correct."

"But?"

"You won't get into the arena in the middle of the night with just an entry card," he said.

Annika racked her brains.

"The security codes! They've only been given to a small group of people!"

"Yes, but you'll have to keep that under your hat for the time being."

"Okay. For how long? Who has access to the security codes?"

The man laughed.

"You're incorrigible!" he said. "We're working on that right now."

"Couldn't the alarms at the arena have been disarmed?"

"And the doors unlocked? Come on, Bengtzon!"

She heard two voices in the background, then her contact covered the handset and said something. He removed his hand and said:

"I've got to go now."

"One more thing!" Annika said.

"What?"

"What was Christina Furhage doing at the stadium in the middle of the night?"

"That, my dear, is one hell of a good question. Speak to you later."

They hung up and Annika tried phoning home. No answer. She called Anne Snapphane, but she only got the fax machine. She called Berit until the automated answering service switched on. The phone-freak Patrik answered, however. He always did. It was one of his little quirks. Once he had answered while in the shower.

"I'm at the Olympic Secretariat," he yelled down the phone, another of his quirks. Despite his fondness for the phone, he didn't quite trust it, so he always had to shout to make sure his voice would be heard.

"What's Berit doing?" Annika asked, noticing that she too raised her voice.

"She's here with me, doing Furhage's last night," Patrik shouted. "I'm doing the Secretariat in shock."

"Where are you just now?" Annika forced herself to lower her voice.

"In some corridor. People are really upset," he roared.

Annika could imagine the Secretariat staff listening to the yelling tabloid reporter from behind their half-open office doors.

"Okay," Annika said. "We'll have to concoct something about the police hunt for the Bomber. When will you be back?"

"In about an hour," he shouted.

"Good, see you then," Annika said and hung up. She couldn't help smiling.

Evert Danielsson closed his door to shut out the noise of some reporter shouting into his phone in the corridor. In an hour, the board of directors would meet, the operational, active board of experts that Christina had called "her orchestra." The board was the real board, as opposed to the Honorary Board, or the Host Committee, as it was also called, which mostly posed for the camera. All decisions were officially made by the Honorary Board, but that was just a formality. The big guns there could be compared with the members of parliament in a one-party state, while the board was the executive committee of the ruling party.

The director was nervous. He was well aware of the series of mistakes he'd made since the bombing. He should have convened the board of directors yesterday, for one. Now the chairman of the board had done that instead, one day late, and that was a major slip. Instead of convening the board, he'd gone ahead and briefed the media on a number of issues that he really had no authority to talk about. On one hand, the talk of terrorist acts; on the other, the details about the reconstruction of the North Stand. He knew that question should have been discussed by the board first. There had been a brief strategy meeting the day before, a meeting which with hindsight had taken on an increasingly panicky appearance. The informal management group had decided to seize the initiative and not to hesitate, nor attempt a coverup. They would grasp the nettle immediately. Awaiting Christina's reappearance, they'd decided to use Danielsson as a spokesman, instead of the press people, to lend weight to the message.

But the management group had no executive powers. Only the board could make any real decisions. That's where you found the real heavyweights: the government representative being the Minister for Trade and Industry; a leading councillor of the Stockholm City Council; the managing directors of the various firms involved; an IOC expert; two representatives of the sponsors; and a lawyer specializing in international law. The chairman of the board was also a government man, Hans Bjällra, the Stockholm County Governor. The management group might be fast and efficient, but its importance was pitiful compared with the board of directors. The group was composed of a core of people who were responsible for the day-to-day administration of the project: the financial manager; himself and Christina; Helena Starke and the communications director; a couple of the deputy managing directors; and finally Doris from the budget department. Between them they dealt with practical matters swiftly and easily. Christina saw to it that the board endorsed their decisions after the event. It could be anything from money and budget matters to policymaking on various environmental issues, infrastructure, the design of arenas, legal obstacles, and all sorts of campaigns.

The difference now was that Christina wasn't there to sweep up after them. He knew he wouldn't be let off the hook. The director of the Secretariat put his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands. He couldn't stop a deep sob from traveling the whole length of his body. Damn! Damn! He had worked so hard these past few years! He really didn't deserve this. The tears fell in drips between his fingers and onto the papers on his desk, forming transparent little globules that blurred the writing and graphs. He didn't care.

Annika turned on her computer and sat down to write. She began with the information gleaned from her police source. The things she learned from her unofficial channels, her "deep throats," she kept strictly to her self. She never recorded these conversations- there was always a risk that the tape would be left in the machine and someone else would find it. Instead she took notes, and then immediately typed them out, saving her text on a disk. These disks she kept under lock and key in a drawer of her desk. The handwritten notes she tore up and threw away. She never imparted any part of these conversations to people in handovers or at news conferences. The only one who, if necessary, got to hear her confidential information was the editor-in-chief, Anders Schyman.

She had no illusions about why this information was given to her especially. It wasn't because she was better or more important than any other reporter. She was dependable, and that together with her clout at Kvällspressen 's news conferences made her the right person to give information the police wanted publicized. There were a lot of reasons to leak information like this, but for the police, as for all other organizations, one thing was paramount: They wanted their version of events to be presented by the mass media. Especially when it came to the dramatic kind of events the police were usually concerned with, TV and newspapers had a tendency to rush ahead and jump to conclusions. A controlled leak gave the police a chance to stop at least the worst blunders.

In some journalistic circles, it was considered unethical not to report everything you knew at all times. You were always a reporter, first and foremost a reporter, nothing else but a reporter. This meant that you didn't hesitate to expose your neighbors, friends of your children, or your mother-in-law. Santa Claus himself if you got something on him. Talking to a police officer or a politician off the record just wasn't an option. Annika thought this was bullshit. She was first and foremost a human being, then a mother, then a wife, and after that an employee of Kvällspressen. She didn't at all feel she was a reporter in the sense of being a special correspondent of God or some other higher power. Her experience had also taught her that the reporters with the loftiest and noblest principles were the biggest bastards. That was why she was happy to let people speculate on her sources and be sniffy about her working methods. As for herself, she felt her work was important and that was good enough for her.