Liza Marklund: The Bomber

Annika drew a deep breath and counted to three before replying. "You've brought up an important point, Nils, but this is maybe not the right time to discuss it…"

"Why not? Am I incapable of determining when I can raise a subject for discussion?" He raised himself up in the chair.

"Environmental and school crime is your beat, Nils," Annika said calmly. "You work full time on those two issues. Do you feel we're tearing you away from your patch when we pull you in on a day like this?"

"Yes, I do!" the man roared.

She looked at the furious man in front of her. How the hell was she going to deal with this? If she didn't call him in, he'd be pissed off for not having a part in the Bomber story. If she did give him an assignment, he'd first refuse and then screw it up. But if she kept him on standby, he'd argue that he was being cold-shouldered.

She was interrupted when the editor-in-chief, Anders Schyman, walked in the room. Everybody, including Annika, said hello and sat up straighter in their chairs.

"Congratulations, Annika! And thanks, Jansson, for a great job this morning," the editor said. "We beat the others. Outstanding! The center-spread picture was fantastic, and we were the only ones to have it. How did you do it, Annika?" He sat down on a box in the corner.

Annika told the story. She got some applause, cheers even. Standing on the Olympic flame and all! This would be a classic at the Press Club.

"What are we doing now?"

Annika put her feet on the floor and leaned over the desk, ticking off items on a list while talking. "Patrik, you take the hunt for the murderer, the forensic evidence, and all contacts with the officers on duty and the people in charge of the investigation. It's likely they'll hold a press conference this afternoon. Find out when and get the pics ready now. I'm sure we'll all have a reason to be there."

Patrik nodded.

"Berit, you take the victim angle, who is it and why? Then there's the old Olympic bomber, the Tiger, he was called. He's got to be a suspect, even if his bombs were firecrackers compared with this. What's he doing these days, and where was he last night? I'll try and get hold of him, since I interviewed him at the time. Nils, you do the Olympic security aspects. How the hell could something like this happen just seven months away from the Olympic Games? How has the security situation looked up to now?"

"That's just background. You could get an intern to do that. I'm a reporter," Nils Langeby said.

"It's not background," Anders Schyman said. "I think it's one of the most important and wide-ranging questions you can ask on a day like this. Get to the bottom of this type of action from a social and global perspective. How will this damage sports as a whole? That'll be one of today's most important stories, Nils."

The reporter didn't know how to react, whether to be honored to be assigned one of the most important jobs or to resent being told off. He chose, as always, the most self-important option. "Naturally, it all depends on how you do it," he said.

Annika looked gratefully at Anders Schyman. "Perhaps the night shift can do the Olympic angle. What's up with the taxi driver?" she said.

Ingvar Johansson nodded. "Our people are taking him to a hotel in town as we speak. He lives in the south suburbs, but the rest of the media could find him there. We'll keep him hidden at the Royal Viking until tomorrow. Janet Ullberg can hunt down Christina Furhage. A picture of her in front of the bomb damage would be just the thing. We've got students from the School of Journalism manning the phones for Ring and Sing …"

The paper often held phone-in polls for major news stories. It made people feel like they were part of the process. Schyman liked that.

"What's the question?" he asked, reaching for a paper.

" 'Should the Olympics be canceled? Call in tonight, between 5 and 7 P.M.' It's obvious that this is an attack by the Tiger or some group that doesn't want Sweden to host the Games."

Annika hesitated for a moment.

"Of course we should cover that angle, but I'm not so sure that's what's going on here."

"Why not?" Ingvar Johansson asked. "We can't dismiss it. Besides the victim, the terrorist angle's got to be tomorrow's big thing."

"I think we should be careful not to beat the terrorist drum too loudly," Annika said, cursing her promise not to say anything about the insider lead. "As long as we don't even know the identity of the victim, we can't speculate about what or who the bomb was directed against."

"Of course we can," Ingvar Johansson objected. "We'll have to get the police to comment on the theory, but that won't be too difficult. They're not in a position to confirm or deny anything at the moment."

Anders Schyman broke in. "We shouldn't settle on anything at the moment. Or toss anything out. Let's keep our options open and get on with things before we decide on tomorrow's stories. Anything else?"

"Not with what we've got right now. Once the victim has been identified, I suppose we'll have to approach the members of the family."

"In the nicest way possible," Anders Schyman advised unnecessarily. "I don't want people pissed off at us for intruding on their grief."

Annika smiled faintly. "I'll do it myself."

When the meeting was over, Annika called home. Kalle, her five-year-old, answered the phone.

"Hi, darling, how are you?"

"Fine. We're going to McDonald's, and you know, Ellen spilled orange juice all over 101 Dalmatians. I think that was really silly, 'cause now we won't be able to watch that again…" The boy fell silent and a sob was heard.

"That's a shame, yes. But how could she spill juice on it? What was it doing on the kitchen table?"

"No, it was on the floor in the TV room, and Ellen kicked over my glass. She was going to the bathroom."

"But why did you put your juice on the floor in the TV room? I've told you not to bring your breakfast into the TV room. You know that!" Annika felt the anger rising. Christ, every time she left the house unexpectedly something got broken. Nobody ever stuck by the rules.

"It wasn't my fault!" the boy wailed. "It was Ellen! Ellen ruined the videotape!" He was crying loudly now. He dropped the phone and ran off.

"Kalle, hello! Kalle!" Why the hell did this have to happen now? She had meant to call the kids to salve her conscience. Thomas picked up the phone.

"Christ, Annika, what did you say to him?"

She sighed. She was getting a headache. "Why were they having breakfast in the TV room?"

"They weren't," Thomas said. Annika could tell he was struggling to keep calm. "Kalle was allowed to bring his juice in, nothing else. Not smart, considering the consequences, but I'm going to bribe them with lunch at McDonald's and a new video. Don't imagine everything depends on you all the time. You just concentrate on your stories. How's it going?" He was making peace.

She swallowed. "A really nasty death. Murder, suicide, or an accident, maybe. We don't know yet."

"Yeah, I heard. You'll be late, I guess?"

"That's just the beginning of it."

"I love you," he said.

Unexpectedly, she felt tears welling up. "I love you, too," she whispered.

Her contact had worked through the night and gone home, so she had to rely on the normal police channels. Nothing further had happened during the morning; the body still hadn't been identified, the fire-fighting operation was done, and the forensic investigation was in progress. She decided to go back to the arena with a new photographer, a casual called Ulf Olsson.

"I've got the wrong clothes for this assignment," Ulf said in the elevator down to the garage.

Annika looked at the man. "How do you mean?" He was dressed in a dark gray woollen coat, ordinary shoes, and a suit.