Liza Marklund - The Bomber

Anders Schyman sat down at the table and hid his face in his hands. "What the hell do we do if the Bomber has her? What if she's killed?"

No one replied. Somewhere out in the newsroom, Aktuellt came on. They could hear the voice of the anchor through the plasterboard walls.

"We'll have to do a recap of the bombings so far," Jansson said, stepping in. "Someone will have to pump the police for information on how they fixed on this particular woman. There are bound to be details there that we should…"

He fell silent. Suddenly, it wasn't so obvious what was relevant or not. The horizon had been shifted, the benchmark moved. All frames of reference were distorted; the focus was upside down.

"We'll have to handle this the normal way, as far as it's possible," Anders Schyman said. "Do what you usually do. I'll stay here tonight. What pictures do we have for this?"

The picture editor began to speak. "We haven't got that many pictures of Annika, but there is one from last summer, when we took pictures for the portrait gallery of employees. That could work."

"Isn't there one of her at work?"

Jansson snapped his fingers. "There is one of her in Panmunjom, in the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea, where she's standing next to the American president. She went there on a grant and got a place in a press delegation before the four-party talks in Washington last autumn, remember? She happened to step off the coach at the same moment as the president got out of his limo, and AP took a picture of the two of them standing right next to each other…"

"We'll use that," Schyman said.

"I've picked out some archive pictures of the damaged stadium, Sätra Hall, Furhage, and the builder, Bjurling," Picture Pelle added.

"Right," Schyman said, "what goes on the front page?"

Everyone waited in silence, letting the editor say it out loud.

"A portrait of Annika, preferably one where she looks happy. She's the news. The bomb was meant for her, and now she's disappeared. Only we know that. I think we should do it logically and chronologically: on pages six and seven, the bombing of Stockholm Klara sorting office; eight-nine, the new victims; ten-eleven, our reporter is missing; twelve-thirteen, the Bomber is a woman, the police have her pinned down; fourteen-fifteen, a recap of the bombings, an examination of mail security versus personal integrity; the center spread, the piece about Annika and her work, the picture from the DMZ…"

He fell silent and stood up, feeling nauseated at vocalizing his own decisions. Once again he went up to the window and looked out over the dark embassy building. By rights, they shouldn't be doing this. By rights, the paper shouldn't be published at all. By rights, they should let all coverage of the Bomber be. He felt like a monster.

The others quickly ran through the rest of the paper. No one said a word when they left the room.

Annika was shivering. It was cold in the passage; she thought the temperature to be somewhere around forty. Luckily, she'd put on long underwear that morning since she'd planned on walking home after work. At least she wouldn't freeze to death. But her socks were damp after the trudge through the snow and they chilled her feet. She tried wiggling her toes to keep warm. Her movements were cautious; she didn't dare move her feet too much or the explosive charge on her back might go off. At irregular intervals, she shifted position to rest different parts of her body. If she lay on her side, one of her arms was jammed; if she lay on her stomach, her neck hurt; her legs became numb if she tried kneeling or crouching. She cried from time to time, but the more time that passed, the more collected her thoughts became.

She wasn't dead yet. Panic subsided and her reasoning returned. She considered ways of escaping. That she could physically get away and run was not a realistic option. Attracting the attention of the builders up at the arena was out of the question; Beata had probably been lying when she'd said they were working up there. Why would they start the restoration on the day before Christmas? And for that matter, Annika hadn't seen a single car or person anywhere near the stadium. If the builders really had started work, there would have been various vehicles parked near the stadium, and she hadn't seen a single one. Anyway, they would have gone home a long time ago: It must be evening by now. Or even night. That meant they would have started looking for her. She started crying again when she realized that no one had picked up the kids from the nursery. She knew how pissed the staff could get; it had happened to Thomas about a year ago. The children would be sitting there, waiting to go home and dress the Christmas tree, and she wouldn't come. Maybe she'd never come home again. Maybe she'd never get to see them grow up. Ellen would probably not even remember her. Kalle might have vague memories of his mother, especially if looking at the photographs from last summer in the cottage. She started crying uncontrollably; it was all so horribly unfair.

The tears subsided after a while; she had no more energy for crying. She mustn't start thinking about death, then it would be guaranteed to happen, a self-fulfilling prophecy. She was going to get through this. She would be home for the Christmas Disney show at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. She hadn't reached the end of the line yet. The bomber clearly had plans for her, otherwise she'd have been dead already, she was positive of that. Furthermore, the newspaper and Thomas would have sounded the alarm about her disappearance, and the police would start looking for her car. It was, however, lawfully and discreetly parked among a whole row of other cars, half a mile from the arena. And who would think of coming down here? No one had done so far. They would have discovered this hideout. How could the police have missed it? The entrance from the stadium must be well hidden.

The phone rang at regular intervals. She'd searched for a stick or something that she could use to pull her bag closer but had found nothing. Her range was less than ten feet in any direction and judging by the sound, her phone must be at least ten yards away. Oh, well, at least it meant they were trying to get hold of her.

She had no real grasp of what time it was or how long she'd been lying in the passage. It had been just before half past one when she walked inside, but she had no idea of how long she'd been unconscious. Neither could she judge for how long she had been panicking, but it must have been at least five hours since she got a grip of herself. That would mean it was at least half past six now, but it could be considerably later, nearer half past eight or nine. She was both hungry and thirsty and had pissed herself again- nothing much to worry about. Her excrement had started to harden and was itching. It was disgusting. This must be what it's like for children to wear a diaper. Except they get them changed.

Suddenly she was struck by another thought: What if Beata didn't come back? No one would think of coming down here during the Christmas holidays. A person could survive without water only a couple of days. Come Boxing Day and it would all be over. She started crying again, quietly with exhaustion. The Bomber would return. She had a reason for holding Annika captive down here.

She shifted positions again. She had to try and think clearly. She'd met Beata Ekesjö before. She had to start from what she knew about her as a person. During their short conversation in Sätra Hall, Beata had displayed strong emotion. She had been grieving sincerely for something, whatever that may have been, and she'd been eager to talk about it. Annika could use that. The question was how. She had no idea of how to behave in a situation where you were being held captive by a lunatic. She had heard somewhere that there were courses on that kind of thing, or had she read it? Or seen it on TV? Yes, that's it, on TV!