Liza Marklund - The Bomber

"I'm dressed to take pictures of a first-night audience at the theater. You could've told me earlier we were going to a murder scene. You must've known for hours."

The freelancer was looking at her imperiously. Her headache was worse. Now this.

"Don't fucking tell me what I should have done! You're a photographer. You photograph what we need pictures of. This is a bit more important than a first night. If you don't want to shoot mincemeat in your Armani suit, keep some overalls in your camera bag!" She kicked the door open to the garage. Fucking amateurs!

"I don't like the way you're talking to me," the man whimpered behind her.

Furious, Annika turned on her heel. "Grow up," she hissed. "Besides, there's nothing stopping you from finding out for yourself what's going on. Do you think I'm some fucking valet service for your wardrobe?"

Ulf swallowed hard, clenching his fists. "I think you're being really unfair," he sniveled.

"For God's sake," Annika groaned, "stop whining! Get in the car and drive to the stadium, or do you want me to drive?"

The photographer usually drove when a team went out on an assignment, even if it was in the newspaper's car. In many places, a newspaper's cars were in fact the photographers' company cars. But the fuss made over the expense of this perk meant that Kvällspressen had given up the practice.

So now Annika got the wheel and drove out onto the West Circular. Neither Annika nor Ulf said a word during the drive out to Hammarby Dock. Annika took the road past Hammarby industrial estate. She planned to get into the complex from the back, but it was no use. The entire Olympic Village had been cordoned off. Annika felt frustrated. Ulf Olsson was relieved. He wouldn't have to get his shoes dirty by sneaking about around the back of the stadium.

"We have to have a shot of the stand in daylight," Annika said, making a U-turn at the plastic tape on Lumavägen. "I know someone at a TV company that has its offices out here. If we're lucky, someone'll let us on the roof."

She fished out her phone and called her friend Anne Snapphane, who produced talk shows for women on one of the cable channels.

"I'm editing. What do you want?" Anne hissed. "Who is it?"

Five minutes later, they were on the roof of the old lamp factory in Hammarby South Dock. The view of the lacerated stadium was fantastic. Olsson used a telephoto lens and shot one roll. That was enough.

Not a word was spoken on the drive back.

"The press conference starts at two!" Patrik yelled when she walked back into the office. "I've got the photos sorted."

Annika waved a reply and went into her office. She hung up her things, threw the holdall on the desk, switched batteries in her phone, and put the old one in the charger.

Annika thought about her outburst against the photographer. Why did she react so strongly? Why did she feel bad about it? She hesitated for a moment, then punched the speed dial number to the editor.

"Of course I've got a minute for you, Annika," he said.

She walked through the open-plan cubicles toward Anders Schyman's corner office. Activity on the floor was almost at zero. Ingvar Johansson was eating a salad with the phone pressed to his ear. The picture editor, Pelle Oscarsson, was absentmindedly flipping through pictures in Photoshop. One of the sub-editors was arranging the following day's pages on his computer.

As Annika closed the office door behind her, the opening chimes of the lunchtime Eko news peeled from the editor's radio. Eko focused on the terrorist angle: that the police were hunting for a group with something against the Olympic Games. And that was as far as they got.

"The terrorist theory doesn't hold water," Annika said. "The police think it was an inside job."

Anders Schyman whistled. "Why?"

"No doors had been forced and all alarms had been disarmed. Either the victim disarmed them or the Bomber. Either would mean the perpetrator's on the inside."

"Not necessarily- the alarms could have been broken," Schyman said.

"They weren't," Annika said. "They were fully functional, but disarmed."

"Someone could've forgotten to prime them," the editor persisted. Annika gave it a moment's thought and nodded. That could be the case.

They sat down on the comfortable couches along the wall, half listening to the radio. Annika looked out over the Russian Embassy. The day was fading even before it had properly arrived; a gray haze made the windows look dirty. Someone, at long last, had put a few Christmas decorations up in the editor's office- some red poinsettias and two Christmas candelabra.

"I lost my rag with Ulf Olsson today," Annika said in a low voice.

Schyman waited.

"He complained about having the wrong clothes for the Hammarby Dock assignment and blamed it on me, saying I should have warned him earlier that we would be going there." She fell silent.

Anders Schyman watched her for a moment before replying. "You don't decide which photographer goes on which assignment, the picture editor does. And reporters and photographers should be dressed to tackle any kind of assignment, at any time. That's part of the job."

"I swore at him," Annika said.

"That wasn't very clever," the editor said. "If I were you, I'd apologize. Throw him a bone. Give him some advice. And find out how we're handling the sabotage hypothesis. We mustn't fall in the terrorist trap if it's wrong."

Schyman stood up, indicating that they were done. Annika was relieved, partly because she'd had support for her attitude to the Olympic coverage, partly because she got herself to tell her superior about the outburst. People got angry with each other every day at the paper, but she was a woman and new as an editor, so she had to be prepared to take some stick.

She picked up a large holdall with the company logo and took it to the photo room. Ulf Olsson was alone in the room, reading a magazine.

"I want to apologize for swearing at you," Annika said. "Here you are, it's a bag to fill with winter clothes. Put some long underwear, warm shoes, a hat, and gloves in it, and put it in your locker or in the trunk of your car."

The man gave her a glum look. "You should have told me earlier that we were going…"

"You'll have to take that up with the picture editor or the editor. Have you developed the pictures?"

"No, I was…"

"Well, then do it."

She left the room, feeling his glare on her back. On the way back to her office, it struck her that she hadn't eaten all day, not even breakfast. She passed by the cafeteria and bought a meatball sandwich and a Diet Coke.

The news of the explosion at the Olympic stadium had by now broken worldwide. All the major TV companies and international newpapers had sent correspondents to the 2 P.M. press conference at the police headquarters: CNN, Sky News, BBC, the Nordic TV companies; Le Monde, the European, the Times, Die Zeit, and many more. The TV companies' cellphone units were blocking most of the driveway up to the entrance.

Annika arrived with four others from her paper: reporters Patrik and Berit, plus two photographers. The room was packed with people and equipment. Annika and the other reporters stood on chairs at the back, while the photographers elbowed their way further forward. As always, the TV people had parked themselves right at the front of the podium, blocking everyone else's view. People were tripping over their endless miles of cable coiling all over the floor, and everyone would have to make allowances for them having to put their questions first. Their camera lights glared across the room in all directions, although most were directed at the podium where the police officials would soon address the nation. Several of the TV companies were transmitting live, including CNN, Sky, and the Swedish Rapport. The reporters were rehearsing their stand-ups, scrawling in their scripts; the still photographers were loading their cameras; radio reporters were twiddling the knobs of their DAT recorders, mumbling "testing, testing, one-two…" The murmur of voices sounded like a waterfall. The heat was already unbearable. Annika groaned, dropping her coat and scarf in a heap on the floor.