Liza Marklund: The Bomber

Annika weaved her way through cars and people and up to the barrier. They weren't police barriers. Good. Those she would have heeded. She jumped over the wooden roadwork barriers and fell into a jog on the other side. She didn't hear the indignant shouts behind her but just stared up at the Olympic complex. She had driven past here many times and never failed to be fascinated by the enormous structure. Victoria Stadium was built into a rock; the hill where there used to be a ski slope had been hollowed out for it. Environmentalists had kicked up a fuss, of course, as they always did as soon as a couple of trees were chopped down. The South Bypass continued straight into the hill and underneath the stadium, but at the moment the tunnel entrance was blocked off by large concrete blocks and several vehicles from the emergency services. Reflections from the rotating lights on their roofs gleamed on the surface of the slippery asphalt. The North Stand normally jutted out like a giant mushroom over the tunnel entrance, but now it was damaged. The bomb must have gone off right there. The normally rounded shape stood jagged and torn against the night sky. She ran on, realizing that she probably wouldn't get much closer than this.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" a fireman shouted.

"Up there!" she shouted back.

"The area's been sealed off!" he continued shouting.

"Oh yeah," she muttered to herself. "See if you can catch me!"

She continued straight on and to the right as far as she could. She could see that Sickla Canal was frozen. Above the ice-covered canal, there was a concrete platform, some kind of ledge that the roadway rested on before disappearing into the tunnel. She pulled herself up on the railing and jumped down, a drop of about three feet. The holdall bounced on her back as she landed.

She paused for a moment and looked around. She'd only been to the stadium twice before: at a press preview and on a Sunday afternoon last autumn with her friend Anne Snapphane. To her right lay what would become the Olympic Village, the half-finished blocks in Hammarby Docklands where the athletes would be staying during the Olympics. The windows were black holes; it seemed that every pane had been blown out. Straight ahead she could just make out a training facility in the dark. On her left was a thirty-foot-high concrete wall. Above this lay the forecourt in front of the main entrance to the stadium.

She ran along the road, trying to differentiate the sounds she could hear: a faraway siren, distant voices, the hissing of a water cannon or possibly a big fan. The emergency vehicles' lights were flashing across the road. She reached a set of stairs and started running up them to the stadium entrance. At the same moment, a police officer started unrolling blue-and-white tape to block the entrance.

"We're sealing off the area," he told her.

"My photographer's up there," Annika said. "I'm just picking him up." The officer waved her past.

I'd damn well better not be lying, she thought.

The stairs had three equally long landings. As she reached the top, she was forced to catch her breath. The entire forecourt was full of emergency vehicles and people running around. Two of the pillars supporting the North Stand had collapsed, and smashed green stadium seats lay scattered all over the place. A TV crew had just arrived. Annika saw a reporter from another tabloid- Kvällspressen 's only serious rival on the market- and three freelance photographers. She turned her head upward and looked into the hole created by the bomb. Five helicopters were circling the area low, at least two from the media.

"Annika!" It was Johan Henriksson, the photographer from Kvällspressen, a twenty-three-year-old casual employee who had come from a local newspaper up north in Östersund. He was both talented and ambitious, two qualities of which the latter one was the more important. He came running toward her with two cameras bouncing on his chest and the camera bag dangling on his shoulder.

"What did you get?" Annika asked, pulling out her pad and pencil.

"I got here only half a minute after the fire brigade. I got an ambulance driving off with a taxi driver; he had some cuts. The fire brigade couldn't reach the stand with their hoses. They drove the engines inside the stadium. I've got pictures of the fire from the outside, but I haven't been inside the arena. A couple of minutes ago, the cops started running around like crazy. I think something's happened."

"Or they've found something," Annika said, putting away her pad. Holding her pencil like a baton, she began jogging toward where she remembered the furthermost entrance to be. If her memory didn't fail her, it was to the right, just under the collapsed stand. No one tried to stop her as she crossed the forecourt. There was too much chaos for anyone to notice. She weaved her way through chunks of concrete, twisted reinforcing rods, and green plastic seats. A stairway with four flights led up to the entry door; she was panting by the time she reached the top. The police had already cordoned off the doorway, but that didn't matter. She didn't need to see any more. The door was intact and seemed to be locked. Sticking to their routine, Swedish security companies could never refrain from putting silly little stickers on the doors of all buildings they'd been charged with guarding. Olympic stadium was no exception. Annika took out her pad again and jotted down the name and number of the company.

"Please clear the area! The building could collapse! I repeat…" A police car drove slowly across the forecourt below, the loudspeaker droning. People retreated to the training facility and the Olympic Village below. Annika trotted along the outside wall of the arena, which meant she could avoid returning to the forecourt. Instead she followed the ramp that descended gently to the left all the way along the building. There were several entrances, and she wanted to see them all. Not one of them seemed to have been damaged or forced open.

Eventually, Annika was stopped by a policeman. "Excuse me, madam, it's time to go home." The young officer put a hand on her arm.

"Who's the officer in charge?" she asked, holding up her press card.

"He's too busy to talk to you. You have to leave, we're evacuating the entire area."

Noticeably agitated, the officer started pulling her away. Annika wriggled free and stood in front of him. She chanced it: "What have you found inside the stadium?"

The policeman licked his lips. "I'm not sure, and I'm not allowed to tell you anyway."

Bingo! "Who can tell me, and when?"

"I don't know. Try the Krim duty desk. But you have to go now!"

The police sealed off the area all the way beyond the training facility, several hundred yards from the stadium. Annika found Henriksson over by the building that was going to house the restaurants and the cinema. An improvised media center was forming where the sidewalk was at its widest, in front of the post office. Journalists were arriving all the time, many of them walking around smiling, greeting their colleagues. Annika wasn't too keen on the backslapping of fellow journalists, people who would wander about scenes of accidents bragging about the parties they'd been to. She moved aside, pulling the photographer with her.

"Do you have to go to the paper now?" she asked. "The first edition is going to press."

"No, I've sent my rolls along with the other freelancers. It's cool."

"Great. I have a feeling something's about to happen."

An outside broadcast van from one of the TV companies pulled up alongside them. They wandered off in the other direction, past the bank and the pharmacy down toward the canal. She stopped and stood looking toward the arena. The police vehicles and fire engines were still on the forecourt. What were they doing? The wind from the sea was bitterly cold. Further out on Hammarby Inlet, the sea approach to Stockholm, a channel through the ice glowered like a black wound. She turned her back to the wind and warmed her nose in her gloved hand. Through her fingers she saw two white vehicles on the footbridge from Södermalm. Bloody hell, it was an ambulance! And a doctor's car! She looked at her watch, just gone twenty-five to five. Three hours until she could call her contact. She pushed the earpiece into her ear and tried the Krim duty desk. Busy. She called Jansson, Menu 1.