Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

‘That says a lot about how you’d like other people to see us,’ Annika had said when she saw which picture he had chosen to frame.

He hadn’t responded, had actively chosen not to engage in yet another discussion that would never lead anywhere. It was important to him how he was perceived by other people; that was true. Ignoring the impression you made was both irresponsible and stupid. Annika thought the exact opposite.

‘You can’t be loved by everyone,’ she would say. ‘It’s better to take a stand for what you believe than to try to please everyone.’

He ran a finger over the hard, dull metal frame, his nail lingering over Annika’s curved breasts.

An insistent internal call made him jump.

‘You have a visitor in reception, Sophia Grenborg from the Federation of County Councils. Do you want to come down and fetch her?’

He felt the sweat break out on his brow and under his arms.

‘No,’ he said. ‘She knows the way. You can let her come up.’

He put down the receiver, got up from his chair and crossed the floor, opening the door slightly and looking around the room as if he had never seen it before. He decided to lean against the desk, and crossed his arms and legs as his listened hard for noises out on the stairs. He could only hear his own heart thumping, and struggled to identify his feelings, but found only bottomless confusion.

He didn’t know. He was expectant, but he was ashamed. He felt longing, and he felt hatred.

He heard footsteps making the sound that only hers made, the steps echoed through the silence of the corridor, light and happy.

She pushed the door open and stepped into his room, and her eyes were shining with a shyness and hesitancy that couldn’t be hidden by the great wave of goodwill pouring out of them.

He walked towards her, turned off the main light and pulled her to him as he pushed the door shut. He kissed her hard and senselessly, her mouth was bitter and warm, he took her breasts in his hands, as her hands reached inside the back of his trousers.

They panted into each other’s mouths and pulled off their clothes and lay down on the desk, the mug of pens hit him in the back and he swept it aside along with everything else behind him, she climbed on top of him, her eyes capturing his, her lips swollen and trembling. He slid inside her as if she was warm butter, and leaned his head back and shut his eyes as she slowly began to ride him. The slow waves made his body take flight. As his orgasm approached he opened his eyes wide and happened to stare straight into Annika’s, as she tried to hide her resigned tolerance of the family party she had not been able to avoid.

He couldn’t help the cry he let out as he came.

In the silence afterwards he could hear the monotonous whirr of the air conditioning, the singing of the wires in the lift-shaft, an abandoned phone on another floor that rang and rang and rang.

‘We’re mad,’ Sophia Grenborg whispered in his ear, and he couldn’t help laughing. Yes, they really were mad, and as he kissed her and stood up, she tumbled off him and fluid ran out of her and down onto one of the project papers.

They hastily put their clothes back on, giggling and fumbling. Then stood close together, their arms around each other’s waist, smiling into each other’s eyes.

‘Thanks for today,’ Sophia said, and kissed him on the chin.

He caught her mouth, biting her tongue.

‘Thank you,’ he breathed.

She pulled on her coat, picked up her briefcase and was about to leave when she suddenly stopped.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I almost forgot what I came for.’

He was sitting on his chair, leaning back, feeling the sleepiness that always followed sex. Sophia put her briefcase on his desk, opened and took out a folder of papers bearing the logo of the Ministry of Justice.

‘I spent some time with Cramne this afternoon; we went through the outline for the action plan.’ She smiled at him with an almost bovine look on her face.

He felt his face close up, the need for sleep vanish.

‘What?’ he said. ‘I thought I was supposed to do that?’

‘Cramne called me. He couldn’t get hold of you because you were in a meeting. You can read it through this evening and call me early tomorrow morning, can’t you?’

He looked at his watch.

‘I have to pick up the kids,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if I’ll have time tonight.’

Sophia blinked, something pale falling across her nose. ‘Okay.’ Her voice was suddenly smaller and sharper. ‘Call me when you can.’

And she turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Thomas stayed in his chair, suddenly aware of the stickiness around his groin.

How was the collaboration with the Federation of County Councils going? Sophia Grenborg, what was she really like?

He lunged forward, crumpled up the project document and threw it in the bin, left Sophia Grenborg’s discussions with the department next to the mug of pens and hurried off to the nursery.

Annika’s legs had almost gone to sleep on the uncomfortable chairs outside Anders Schyman’s room when the editor-in-chief finally opened the door and let her in.

‘I’ve got ten minutes,’ he said, turning his back on her before she had chance to reply.

She stood up, trying to shake some life into her legs, and feeling strangely ill at ease. She followed Schyman’s broad back into the room, taking nervous steps on the swaying floor. She was unnerved by his attempt to hurry her along, and sank into one of his visitor’s chairs, putting her notes on top of some sort of diagram on his desk.

The editor-in-chief walked slowly back behind his desk and sank into his creaking chair. He leaned back.

‘You’re not letting go of this terrorist angle, then,’ he stated, clasping his hands together over his gut.

‘I’ve uncovered information that’s extremely controversial,’ Annika said, staring down at her notebook, realizing it was open on the wrong page. She quickly pulled the notes over to her and searched feverishly for the summary she had put together. Schyman sighed.

‘Just tell me instead,’ he said, and Annika put the book down in her lap. She was fighting against a stubborn sense of falling, which was making the floor sway like mad.

‘The terrorist’s name is Göran Nilsson,’ she said. ‘Born in Sattajärvi in the Torne Valley in nineteen forty-eight, the son of a Læstadian preacher.’

She picked up her notes and leafed through them.

‘He moved to Uppsala to study theology at the age of nineteen, joined the Rebel movement in the spring of nineteen sixty-eight and became a Maoist. Abandoned his studies and moved back to Norrbotten where he worked for the Church. He joined Maoist groups in Luleå under the codename Ragnwald, and seems to have lost his faith, because he arranged a civil marriage ceremony. One way or another he was involved in the attack on F21, even if the police don’t believe that he actually carried it out. He disappeared from Sweden on the eighteenth of November nineteen sixty-nine and hasn’t been seen since then. The wedding, which was supposed to take place on the twentieth of November in Luleå City Hall, just two days after the attack, was cancelled.’

Schyman nodded slowly. ‘Then he went to Spain and became a professional killer for ETA,’ he filled in, glancing at the newspaper spread out on one of the side tables.

Annika raised her hand, putting her feet down hard to find solid ground.

‘It’s F21 that’s the interesting bit,’ she said.

‘I thought you said the police had discounted him, that he didn’t carry out the attack?’

She swallowed silently, nodded.

‘So who blew up the plane?’ Anders Schyman said in a neutral tone of voice, his hands still.