Liza Marklund: The Bomber

"How were we tipped off this morning?" she asked.

"Smidig," Henriksson replied.

Every newsroom has a number of more or less professional tipsters who keep an eye on what's happening on their particular newspatch. Kvällspressen was no exception. Smidig and Leif were the best police informers; they slept with the police radio on by their beds. As soon as anything happened, big or small, they called the newspapers and told them. Other informers would pore over the records of the different legal institutions and other government authorities.

Annika, lost in thought, slowly let her eyes travel over the facility. Straight ahead lay the ten-floor building where the technical operations of the Games would be conducted. From the roof of this building was a footbridge up to the rock. Strange, who would want to walk there? She followed the footbridge with her eyes.

"Henriksson," she said, "we've got another pic to take."

She looked at her watch. Half past five. They'd make it to the press conference. "If we climb up next to the Olympic flame, at the top of the hill, we should be able to see quite a lot."

"You think so?" the photographer said, unconvinced. "They've built the walls so high no one can sneak in or see inside."

"The actual grounds are probably hidden from view, but maybe you can see the North Stand. That's what we're interested in now."

Henriksson looked at his watch.

"Do we have time? Hasn't the helicopter taken all that? Shouldn't we be watching the ambulance?"

She chewed on her lip.

"The helicopter isn't here right now. Maybe the police ordered it down. We'll ask one of the freelancers to keep an eye on the ambulance. Come on, let's go."

The rest of the journalists had discovered the ambulance, and their questions were buzzing in the air. The Rapport team had moved their OB van nearer to the canal to get a better picture of the arena. A frostbitten reporter was rehearsing his stand-up for the six o'clock bulletin. There were no police around. After Annika had given the freelancers instructions, they were on their way too.

It was further to get up the hill than she'd thought. The going was hard- the ground was slippery and stony. They stumbled and cursed in the dark. On top of everything, Henriksson was lugging a large tripod. They didn't encounter any cordons and got up there in time but only to be faced with a seven-foot-high concrete wall.

"I don't believe it," Henriksson groaned.

"Maybe this'll work in our favor," Annika said. "Get up on my shoulders and I'll hoist you up. Then you can climb up on the actual flame. You should be able to see something from there."

The photographer stared at her.

"You want me to stand on the Olympic flame?"

"Yes, why not? It's not alight, and it hasn't been cordoned off. I'm sure you can get on top of it; it's only another yard up from the wall. If it's to hold the eternal flame, it should be able to hold you. Come on, let's go!"

Annika passed up the tripod and the camera bag to him. Henriksson crawled up on the metal frame.

"It's full of little holes!" he shouted.

"Gas holes," Annika said. "Can you see the North Stand?"

He stood up and looked out over the stadium.

"Do you see anything?" Annika shouted.

"You bet I do," the photographer said. He slowly raised his camera and started snapping.

"What?"

He lowered his camera without taking his eyes off the stadium.

"They've lit up part of the stand," he said. "There are about ten people down there walking around picking things up and putting them in little plastic bags. The guys from the doctor's car are there. They're also picking stuff up. They seem to be extremely meticulous about it." He raised his camera again.

Annika felt the hair on her neck stand on end. Shit! Was it really that bad? Henriksson opened up the tripod. After three rolls of film, he had finished. They alternately ran and slid down the hill, shocked, slightly nauseated. What would doctors be picking up and putting in little bags- explosive residue? Hardly.

A couple of minutes before six they were back down with the media scrum. The TV cameras' bluish lights were illuminating the whole scene, making the snowflakes sparkle. Rapport had their link in place, and the reporter had powdered his face. A group of police officials, led by the officer-in-charge, headed their way. They lifted the cordon but couldn't get any further. The wall of journalists was solid. There was silence when the officer screwed up his eyes against the camera lights. He glanced at a paper in his hand, raised his eyes, and began talking.

"At 3:17 A.M. an explosive charge went off at Victoria Stadium in Stockholm," he said. "It's not known what kind of explosives were used. The explosion badly damaged the North Stand. It's not clear at the moment whether it will be possible to repair it."

He paused, consulting his papers. The still cameras were clattering, and the TV cameras were rolling. Annika was standing far out to the left so that she could keep an eye on the ambulance while following the press conference.

"The explosion caused a fire, but this is now under control." Another pause.

"A taxi driver was injured as a piece of a reinforcing rod penetrated the side window of his car," the police officer continued. "The man has been taken to South Hospital and is in stable condition. Some ten buildings on the other side of Sickla Canal have had damage to their windows and facades. These buildings are under construction and not yet occupied. No further personal injuries have been reported."

Another pause. The officer looked very tired and somber as he continued.

"This is sabotage. The explosive device that destroyed the arena was powerful. We are in the process of securing evidence that may lead to the identification of the perpetrator. We are assigning all available resources to the search. That is all for the moment. Thank you."

He turned round and ducked under the cordon. A wave of voices and calls made him stop.

"…any suspects?"

"…other victims?"

"…the doctors at the scene?"

"That is all for the moment," the officer repeated and left. Shoulders hunched, he walked off with determined steps, followed by his colleagues. The media pack dissolved. The Rapport reporter entered the camera lights and ran through his piece to the camera, then handed over to the studio. Everyone was punching his or her phone and trying to get his or her pen to work.

"Right," Henriksson said, "that didn't tell us much."

"Time to go," Annika said. They left one of the freelancers behind and walked up toward Henriksson's car.

"Let's go past Vintertullstorget and get some eyewitness stories."

They visited the people who lived closest to the arena. They met families with children, seniors, a couple of drunks, and some club kids. They spoke of the bang that woke them up, if it had, the shock, and how frightening it was.

"That's enough now," Annika said at a quarter to seven. "We've got to pull things together."

They drove back to the office in silence. Annika composed intros and captions in her head. Henriksson mentally leafed through negatives, sorting them through, figuring which shots might work, pushing the film, and dodging the prints.

The snow was coming down heavily now. As a result, the temperature had risen and made the road surface dangerously slippery. They drove past four cars in a pileup on the West Circular. Henriksson stopped to take some shots.

They arrived at the newsroom just before seven. The atmosphere was composed but charged. Jansson was still there; on weekends the night editor also handled the suburban editions. Normally on a Saturday it was a question of changing the odd story, but they were always ready to change the whole paper around entirely. This was what was happening right now.