The Bomber

THURSDAY 23 DECEMBER

The apartment was empty when Annika woke up. It was half past eight and the sun shone in through the bedroom window. She got up and found a big note on the fridge door, held up with Santa Claus magnets:

"Thanks for being there.

Kisses from your husband.

P.S. I'll take the kids to daycare. Your turn to pick up."

She made herself a cheese sandwich while leafing through the morning papers. They were also making a great deal of the government regional bill, and they had started their Christmas material, a historical retrospective of Christmas through the ages and stuff like that. There was nothing new on the Bomber. She had a quick shower, then microwaved a cup of water and added some instant coffee, which she drank while getting dressed. She took the bus to the old entrance and took the back stairs up to the newsroom. She didn't want to see anyone until she'd seen what had been published on Christina Furhage's sexuality.

There wasn't a single smutty line about Christina Furhage or Helena Starke in the entire paper. Annika switched on her computer and entered the so-called Historical server. You could read discarded copy there for up to twenty-four hours afterwards.

Nils Langeby had indeed written a piece titled "Christina Furhage- Lesbian." The copy had been discarded at 22:50 last night. Annika clicked to open it and skimmed through it. What she saw made her feel faint. The named source who supposedly had confirmed that Christina Furhage was a lesbian was a woman at the Olympic Secretariat whom Annika never had heard of. She said: "Well, of course we wondered. Christina always wanted to work with Helena Starke, and a lot of us found that peculiar. Everyone knew that Helena Starke is one of those… Some people even thought they were an item." The reporter then quoted a couple of anonymous sources saying they'd seen the two women together out on the town.

At the end was a quote from Helena Starke herself: "The last time I saw Christina was at the restaurant last Friday night. We left at the same time. We each went home to our respective houses."

That was it. No wonder Schyman had pulled the story.

Annika read on and was hit by an unpleasant thought: How the hell did Nils Langeby get hold of Helena Starke's unlisted phone number, if indeed he had talked to her?

She looked in the newsroom electronic contacts book and saw that she had made a mistake when inputting the woman's number. She had put it in the common book, instead of in her private one. Without a moment's hesitation, she lifted the receiver and dialed Helena's number to apologize. She got the phone company's automated response: "The number has been disconnected. The customer has not registered a forwarding number." Helena Starke must have left the country.

Annika sighed and went through what had been printed. They had chosen to lead with something completely different from the Bomber story: a celebrity telling all about his incurable condition. One of the anchors on the public service television sports desk suffered from gluten intolerance; he was allergic to flour and recounted how his life had changed since he was diagnosed with the ailment a year before. It was okay for a lead on a day like this, the day before Christmas Eve. Anne Snapphane would fall on it.

Herman Ösel's snapshot of Christina Furhage and Stefan Bjurling was lousy, but it worked. The two murder victims were sitting next to each other in a dark room. The flash had given Christina red-eye and her teeth shone white. Stefan Bjurling was pulling some kind of a face. The photo was blurred but was spread over pages six and seven with Patrik's piece about the police hunt directly underneath. The headline was the one Ingvar Johansson had coined: "Now They're Both Dead." Patrik's story on the explosives was on page eight. She would tell him he'd done a good job when she next saw him.

Annika leafed through the rival, which had opted for a lead about the economy: "Do Your Tax Returns Now- Save Thousands." You could always lead with stuff like that at the end of December because there would always be one tax law or another changing at the turn of the year. Annika couldn't be bothered to read the advice. It never concerned the likes of herself, people who neither saved in share funds, nor owned houses or drove a company car to work. She knew this kind of material sold well but believed you should use it sparingly.

She fished out the disk from her bag on which Christina Furhage's lover really told all about their last hours and put it in the drawer together with the rest of her sensitive material. She called her contact, but he didn't answer. He had to sleep some time. In a fit of restlessness, she walked out to the newsroom, and noted that Berit wasn't there yet. She asked the picture desk to call Herman Ösel to arrange his payment, fetched coffee, and said good morning to Eva-Britt Qvist.

"So what was the fuss about yesterday?" the secretary asked with poorly disguised glee.

"Fuss?" Annika said, pretending to search her mind. "What do you mean?"

"Here in the newsroom. You and Spike?"

"Oh, you mean Spike's bullshit front page on Christina Furhage as a lesbian? Well, I don't know what happened, but Anders Schyman must have stopped it. Poor Spike, talk about a loser," Annika said and walked into her office. She couldn't resist it.

She drank her coffee and started outlining the day's work. The police might pick up the Bomber today, and most likely they would not announce it over the radio. So they had to rely on sources other than the tipsters. She would have to talk to Berit and Ingvar Johansson about that. Personally, she was going to try to put the pieces of Christina Furhage's past together. She would try to find her son Olof.

She closed her notebook and went on the Internet. When she had time, she did her own search with the phone company on the Net. It took longer, but it was probably more secure and more reliable. Directory enquiries would sometimes miss obvious things. She did a national search for Olof Furhage, the computer searched and sorted, and she got a hit as clear as a bell. There was only one in all of Sweden, and he lived in Tungelsta, south of Stockholm.

"Bingo!" Annika said.

Christina Furhage had placed her five-year-old son in Tungelsta, almost forty years before, and a man with that same name lived there now. She wondered whether to call him first but decided to go on an outing instead. She needed to get away from the newsroom.

At the same moment, there was a knock on the door. It was the editor; he was holding a large jug of water and he looked terrible.

"What's happened?" Annika said anxiously.

"Migraine," Anders Schyman said curtly. "I had a glass of red wine with the venison last night, so I only have myself to blame. But how are you today?"

He closed the door behind him.

"I'm fine, thanks," Annika said. "I can see why you pulled the story about Christina's lesbian escapades."

"It wasn't difficult: The story had nothing to substantiate it."

"Did Spike say how he felt he could go to press with it?" Annika asked.

The editor sat down on Annika's desk.

"He hadn't read the story, only heard Nils Langeby's description of it. When I asked Langeby to see his copy, it was settled. He had nothing substantial, and even if he had had something, we couldn't have published it. It would have been different if Christina herself had made her love affair known publicly, but to write about a dead person's intimate secrets is the worst way to intrude on her private life. She can't answer back. Spike understood that when I explained it to him."

Annika bowed her head, noting that her reflex response had been the correct one. She wondered what the editor's "explaining" consisted of.

"It was true," she said.

"What was?"

"They had a relationship, but no one knew about it. Helena Starke has been absolutely devastated. She seems to have left for the U.S., by the way."

"Really?" said the editor. "What else have you found out that we can't print?"

"Christina hated her children and scared the shit out of the people around her. Stefan Bjurling was a drunk and wife-beater."

"Shit, is that all? And we can't use it. Okay. So what are you up to today?"

"I'm off to talk to a guy, and then I'm going to check something with my contact."

Anders Schyman raised an eyebrow.

"Something we might read about in tomorrow's paper?"

"I hope we might," she said and smiled.

"What did your husband think of our plans for the future?"

"I haven't talked to him yet."

The editor got up and left the room. Annika packed her pad and pen and noted that the battery of the cellphone was running low. She packed a fully charged one to be on the safe side.

"I'm going out for a while," she said to Eva-Britt, who was barely visible behind the piles of post.

She picked up the keys from the porters for a car without the newspaper's logo on it and went down to the car park. It was a glorious sunny winter day. The snow was almost knee-deep and covered the city the way it does on postcards. Nice. With a white Christmas, now the kids can go sledding in the park, she thought.

Annika turned on the car radio and switched to one of the commercial stations and took the West Circular to the Årsta Bypass. They were playing an old Supremes song. Annika sang along at the top of her voice while the car rushed along toward Huddinge Way. She drove over the Örby Link to Nynäs Way. All the time they played songs she could sing along to. She screeched and laughed straight up into the ceiling of the car. Everything was white and crystal-clear, and soon she'd be off for a week, and she was going to be the editor-in-chief! Well, maybe not, but she would be training, and the management had faith in her. She'd suffer setbacks over time, but that came with the territory: That was a fact of life. She turned up the volume when Simon and Garfunkel started singing.

Tungelsta is a garden city about thirty-five kilometers south of Stockholm, a little oasis after the concrete desert of Västerhaninge. Work had begun on the suburb just before the First World War. Today there was nothing much distinguishing it from other residential areas of that era, with one exception: All of the gardens had greenhouses, or remnants of greenhouses. Some were beautiful, others just jagged skeletons.

Annika arrived in mid-morning. Old men shoveling snow gave her a friendly wave as she drove past. Olof Furhage lived in Älvvägen. Annika had to stop at the local pizzeria and ask for directions. An old man who'd been a postman in Tungelsta all of his adult life gave her an animated account of the old district; he knew exactly were Olle Furhage lived:

"Blue house with a big greenhouse," he informed her.

She drove across the railway and saw the place from far off. The greenhouse was by the road: further up toward the woods stood an old blue house. Annika parked on the front lawn, stopping in the middle of an ABBA tune, grabbed her bag, and stepped out of the car. She had put the phone on the front seat so she would hear it if it rang. Seeing it lying there, Annika couldn't be bothered to take it with her. She looked at the house. It was an old-fashioned semidetached house. From the windows and front she guessed it was built in the 1930s. The mansard roof was tiled with red shingles. It was a cozy and well-kept little house.

She started walking toward it when she heard a voice behind her.

"Can I help you with anything?"

It was a man in his forties, with medium-length brown hair and clear blue eyes. He was wearing a knitted woollen sweater and a pair of soil-covered jeans.

"Yes, thank you, you can. I'm looking for an Olof Furhage," Annika said and held out her hand.

The man took her hand and smiled. "You've come to the right place. I'm Olof Furhage."

Annika smiled back. This could be tricky.

"I'm from Kvällspressen," she said. "I was wondering if I could ask you some rather personal questions?"

The man gave a laugh. "Oh, well, that's direct. What sort of questions would those be?"

"I'm looking for the Olof Furhage who's the son of the late MD of SOCOG, Christina Furhage," she said calmly. "Would that be you?"

The man looked down on the ground for a moment, then looked up and pushed his hair back.

"Yes," he said, "that's me."

They stood in silence for a few seconds. The strong sunlight was harsh on their eyes. Annika felt the chill rise up through her thin soles.

"I don't want to be forward," she said, "but in the last few days I've spoken to a lot of people who were around Christina Furhage. It's important for me to speak to you too."

"Why have you been talking to people?" the man said guardedly but not unpleasantly.

"Your mother was a well-known figure, and her death has had worldwide repercussions. But despite her prominent position, she was virtually anonymous as a private person. This has prompted us into speaking to the people closest to her."

"But why? She wanted to be anonymous. Couldn't you respect that?"

The man was no fool; that much was clear.

"Naturally," Annika said. "It's out of respect for her family and her own wish to remain anonymous that I'm doing this. Since we don't know anything about her, there's a real risk of our making fundamental errors in writing about her, mistakes that could hurt her family. Unfortunately, this has already happened. Yesterday we ran an article where your mother was described as an ideal woman. That made your sister Lena extremely unhappy. She called me yesterday, I met her, and we had a long talk. I wanted to make sure we didn't overstep the mark the same way with you."

The man looked at her in wonder.

"You make it sound like you are doing me a favor."

Annika didn't know whether she should smile or be serious. The man saw her puzzlement and laughed.

"It's okay," he said, "I'll talk to you. Do you want a cup of coffee, or are you in a hurry?"

"Both," Annika said, returning the laugh.

"Would you like to have a look at my greenhouse first?"

"I'd love to," Annika said, hoping it would be warmer in there.

It was. The air was warm and smelled of soil and damp. The greenhouse was old-fashioned, and big, at least fifty yards long and ten yards wide. The ground was covered with enormous dark green plastic sheets. Two parallel paths ran alongside the wall.

"I grow organic tomatoes," Olof Furhage said.

"In December, too," Annika remarked.

The man laughed again; laughter seemed to come easily to him.

"No, not at the moment. I lifted the plants in October. You let the soil rest over the winter. In organic farming, it's vital to keep the greenhouse and soil free of bacteria and fungus diseases. Present-day farmers often use rock wool or peat, but I stick to soil. Come here, I'll show you."

He walked down the path and stopped at the far end. There was a big metal device on the outside.

"This is a steam-boiler," Olof Furhage said. "Through the pipes that enter here I pipe in steam, which goes down into the soil and warms it up. That kills off the fungus. I've had it on in the morning, which is why it's so warm in here."

Annika watched with great interest. There are so many things one doesn't know.

"So when will there be some tomatoes?" she asked politely.

"You shouldn't rush tomatoes; the plants become weak and unstable. I start toward the end of February, and by October the plants are up to eighteen feet tall."

Annika looked around the greenhouse.

"How? The ceiling isn't high enough."

Olof Furhage gave another laugh.

"Do you see that wire up there? When the plant reaches that, you bend it over the wire. About two feet from the ground is another wire. That has the same function: You bend the plant around it and it starts growing upwards again."

"That's clever," Annika said.

"How about that coffee now?"

They left the greenhouse and walked toward the house.

"You grew up here in Tungelsta, didn't you?" she asked.

The man nodded and held the door open for her.

"Please take your shoes off. Yes, I grew up nearby, in Kvarnvägen. Hello, sweetheart, is everything okay?"

The last few words he called toward the interior of the house, and a girl's voice could be heard from upstairs.

"Fine, Dad, but I'm stuck. Can you help me?"

"Sure, in a little while. I've got a visitor."

Olof Furhage pulled off his heavy boots.

"She's been down with the flu. She was really sick. I bought her a new computer game on CD-ROM to comfort her. Please come in, this way…"

A little face appeared on the stairs to the upper floor.

"Hello," the girl said. "My name's Alice."

She was nine or ten years old.

"My name's Annika."

Alice disappeared back to her computer game.

"She lives with me every other week, and her sister Petra has moved in here for good. Petra's fourteen," Olof Furhage said, while pouring water into the coffeemaker.

"You're divorced?" Annika said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Yes, a couple of years now. Milk and sugar?"

"Neither, thanks."

Olof Furhage prepared the coffee, laid the table, and sat down opposite Annika. It was a cozy kitchen, with a wooden floor, paneled kitchen cupboards, a checked red-and-white tablecloth, and an electric Star of Bethlehem in the window. There was a splendid view of the greenhouse from the window.

"How much do you know?" he asked.

Annika took out her pad and pen from the bag.

"Do you mind if I take notes? I know that your father was Carl Furhage and that Christina left you with a couple in Tungelsta when you were five years old. I also know that you contacted Christina a few years ago and that she was terrified of you."

Olof Furhage laughed again but this time a sad laughter.

"Yes, poor Christina, I could never understand why she was so horror-struck," he said. "I wrote a letter to her just after my divorce, mostly because I was feeling so incredibly low. I wrote and asked her all those questions I'd always had and never got an answer to. Why she gave me up, if she'd ever loved me, why she'd never come to visit me, why she wouldn't let Gustav and Elna adopt me… But she never replied."

"So you went to see her?"

The man sighed. "Yes, I took to driving over to Tyresö, sitting outside her house during the weeks when the girls were at their mother's. I wanted to see what she looked like, where she lived, how she lived… She'd become well-known by then. With the Olympics, she was in the papers every week."

The coffeemaker spluttered, Olof Furhage got to his feet, fetched the pot, and put it on the table.

"I'll let it percolate a bit longer," he said. He took out a plate with a sponge cake from the refrigerator. "One night she came home alone. It was in the spring, I remember that. She was heading for the front door when I stepped out of the car and walked up to her. When I said who I was, she looked as if she was going to faint. She stared at me as if I were a ghost. I asked her why she hadn't answered my letter, but she didn't reply. When I started asking the questions that I'd asked in the letter, she turned around and walked toward the front door, still not saying a word. I was furious and started screaming at her. 'Bloody bitch!' I screamed. 'Couldn't you at least give me a minute of your time,' or something like that. She started running and stumbled on the steps in front of the door. I ran after her and grabbed her, turning her around and shouting 'Look at me!' or something…"

He dropped his head, as if the memory hurt him.

"Didn't she say anything?" Annika asked.

"Yes, two words: 'Go away!' Then she went inside, locked the door, and phoned the police. They picked me up, here in this kitchen, that same evening."

He poured out coffee and put one sugar in his cup.

"Have you ever had any contact with her?"

"Not since she left me with Gustav and Elna. I remember the evening when we went there clearly. We went in a taxi, Mom and I; it felt like a long journey. I was happy. She had made it into an adventure, a fun outing."

"Did you like your mother?" Annika queried.

"Of course I did. I loved her. She was my mother, she read stories and sang to me, often gave me hugs, and said evening prayers with me every night. She was slim and bright, like an angel."

He fell silent and looked down at the table.

"When we arrived at Gustav and Elna's, we had dinner, pork sausages and mashed turnips. I remember it to this day. I didn't like it, but Mom said I had to finish it. Then she took me out in the hallway and said that I had to stay with Gustav and Elna because she had to go away. I was hysterical. I suppose I was a bit of a momma's boy. Gustav held me while Mom grabbed her things and rushed out. I think she was crying, but my memory could be deceiving me."

He had some coffee.

"I lay shaking all through the night, screaming and crying when I could muster the strength. Though things got better as the days passed. Elna and Gustav were both over fifty and had no children of their own. You could justifiably say that they spoiled me. They came to love me more than anything else in the world. You couldn't have had better parents. They're both dead now."

"Did you ever see your mother again?"

"Yes, once, when I was thirteen. Gustav and Elna had written to her, saying they wanted to adopt me. I remember I sent along a letter and a drawing as well. She came one evening, asking us to leave her alone. I recognized her immediately, even though I hadn't seen her since I was a small child. She said that adoption was out of the question, and she didn't want any more letters or drawings in the future."

Annika was speechless.

"I was devastated, of course, what kid wouldn't be? She remarried soon after coming here, perhaps that was why she was so uptight."

"Why wouldn't she let your foster parents adopt you?"

"I've wondered about that," Olof Furhage said, pouring out more coffee for Annika and himself. "I was about to inherit an awful lot of money. Carl Furhage had no other children apart from me, and after the death of his third wife he was wealthy- maybe you knew that? Yes, well, then you also know that he instituted a generous scholarship with most of his money. I received my statutory share of the inheritance, and Mother held that in trust. And she did that with a vengeance. There was hardly anything left by the time I came of age."

Annika could hardly believe her ears.

"Are you serious?"

Olof Furhage sighed.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. There was enough left to buy this house and a new car. The money came in handy, since I was at college and had just met Karin. We moved in and started doing the place up; it was barely fit to live in when we came here. Karin let me keep the house when we divorced. We had what you could call an amicable settlement."

"But you should have sued your mother!" Annika said indignantly.

"I couldn't be bothered, quite frankly," Olof said and smiled. "I didn't want anything to do with her. But when my marriage broke up, the bubble of my childhood came to the surface and burst. I tried to blame my failure on myself and my background. That's the reason I contacted her again. And it didn't make matters any better, as you might understand."

Alice came into the kitchen. She was dressed in pink pajamas and a dressing gown, holding a Barbie doll in her arms. She gave Annika a quick, shy glance and then crept up in her father's lap.

"How are you?" Olof Furhage asked and kissed the child's head. "Did you cough a lot today?"

The girl shook her head and buried her face in her father's knitted sweater.

"You're beginning to feel better, aren't you?"

She took a slice of cake and ran into the living room. Soon they could hear the theme music of the Pink Panther through the open door.

"I'm glad she'll be well enough to join in on Christmas Eve," Olof said and helped himself to another slice of cake. "Petra baked it. Try it, it's not bad!"

Annika had a slice: It was good.

"Alice came here last Friday after school and fell ill in the evening. I called the doctor at midnight; by then she ran a temperature of over a hundred and three. I sat there with a boiling hot kid in my arms until after three in the morning, when the doctor finally arrived. So when the police came on Saturday afternoon, I had an airtight alibi."

She nodded; she'd already figured that herself. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the doings of the Pink Panther.

"Well, I have to be getting back now," Annika said. "Thank you so much for making time to speak to me."

Olof Furhage smiled.

"It was nothing. A tomato grower isn't too busy during the winter."

"Do you live off your tomatoes?"

The man laughed. "Hardly! I barely break even. Making a business growing greenhouse vegetables is practically impossible. Even people who grow tomatoes further south, with subsidies, a warm climate, and cheap labor can barely make ends meet. I do it because I enjoy doing it. It doesn't cost me anything more than the commitment and the effort, and then I do it for the environment."

"So what do you do for a living?"

"I do research at the Royal Institute of Technology- waste product technology."

"Composts and stuff like that?"

He smiled. "Among other things."

"Will you become a professor?"

"Probably never. One of the two existing professorships has recently been filled, and the other one is up north, in Luleå, and I wouldn't want to move, for the girls' sake. And things might work out between me and Karin in the end. Petra is with her now, but we're spending Christmas together, all four of us. Who knows?"

Annika smiled, a smile that came from somewhere deep inside her.

Anders Schyman sat in his office, elbows on the desk, his head in his hands. The pain was out of this world. He had migraine attacks a couple of times a year and always when he started unwinding after a stressful period. And last night he had made the mistake of drinking red wine. Sometimes he could but not just before going on holiday. Now he was feeling sick, not only because of the headache, but because of what lay ahead of him. He was about to do something he'd never done before, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. He'd been on the phone for half of the morning, first with the MD and then the company lawyer. The longer the conversations went on, the worse his headache had become. He sighed and put his hands among the piles of paper on the desk. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair tousled. He stared into space for a moment, then reached out for his pills and a glass of water. He popped out yet another Distalgesic- now he would definitely not be driving home.

There was a knock and Nils Langeby popped his head around the door.

"You wanted to see me?" he said expectantly.

"Oh, yes, come in," Anders Schyman said, laboriously getting to his feet. He walked around his desk and indicated that the reporter should sit on one of the couches. Nils Langeby sat down in the middle of the largest couch, stretching himself out ostentatiously. He seemed nervous, and anxious to hide the fact. He was looking quizzically at the coffee table in front of him, as if expecting a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry. Anders Schyman took a seat in an armchair directly facing him.

"I wanted to talk to you, Nils, because I have an offer to make you…"

The reporter sat up, a light appearing at the back of his eyes. He thought he was going to be promoted, that he'd get some form of recognition. The editor noted this and felt like a bastard.

"Yes…?" Nils Langeby said when his boss didn't continue.

"I was wondering what your attitude would be toward working for the paper on a freelance basis in future?"

There, he'd said it. It sounded like a normal question, posed in a completely regular tone of voice. The editor made an effort to look calm and collected.

Nils Langeby was at a loss.

"Freelance? But… why? Freelance… how…? I'm on the permanent staff!"

The editor got up from the armchair and walked over to his desk to get the glass of water.

"Yes, of course, I know that, Nils. You've been an employee with the paper for quite a few years, and you could remain here for another ten or twelve years until retirement. I'm offering you a more autonomous way of working during your last active years."

Nils Langeby's gaze was wandering.

"What are you saying?" he said. He'd dropped his cheek; his mouth was a large black hole. Schyman sighed and went back and sat down in the armchair with his glass of water.

"I'm asking you if you'd be interested in a freelance contract with the paper. Very favorable. We'd help you set up your own business, maybe a company, and then you'd work for us on a less regulated basis."

The reporter gaped and blinked a couple of times. He reminded Schyman of a fish out of water.

"What the…" he said. "What the hell is this?"

"Exactly what I'm telling you," the editor said wearily. "An offer of a different form of employment. You've never thought of moving on?"

Nils Langeby closed his mouth and pulled in his legs under the couch. As the realization of the enormity of what he was hearing sank in, he turned his gaze toward the office building on the other side of the street. He clenched his teeth and swallowed.

"We could help you find an office in town. We'll guarantee you an income of five contracted days a month, that's 12,500 kronor plus contributions and holiday pay. You will of course continue to cover your own particular areas, crime in schools and…"

"It's that bloody cunt, isn't it?" Nils Langeby said hoarsely.

"Pardon…?" Schyman said, dropping part of his calm demeanor.

Langeby turned his gaze to the editor, who all but recoiled at the hatred he saw in it.

"That cunt, that whore, that bitch- she's behind all this, isn't she?"

"What are you talking about?" Schyman said, noticing he'd raised his voice.

The reporter clenched his fists and breathed raggedly through his nose.

"Damn, damn, damn! The fucking cunt wants me fired!"

"I haven't said a word about firing you…" Schyman began.

"Bullshit!" Langeby shouted and got up so abruptly that his big stomach swayed. His face had turned scarlet, and his fists were clenching and unclenching.

"Please sit down," Schyman said in a quiet, cold voice. "Don't make this more unpleasant than it already is."

"Unpleasant?" Langeby bawled, and Schyman, too, got to his feet. He took two strides up to Langeby and put his face close to his.

"Sit down, man, and let me finish talking," he hissed.

Langeby didn't do as he was told but walked over to the window and stood staring out. It was clear and cold, and the sun was shining over the Russian Embassy.

"Who are you referring to? Your boss, Nils? Annika Bengtzon?"

Langeby let out a short, rueful laugh.

"My boss. Christ, yes! It's her I'm referring to. She's the most incompetent cunt I've ever come across. She's clueless! She knows nothing! She's making enemies all over the newsroom. Ask Eva-Britt Qvist. She shouts and goes on at people. No one can understand why she got the job in the first place. She has no authority and no sub-editing experience."

"Sub-editing experience?" Anders Schyman said. "What's that got to do with it?"

"And everybody knows about the guy who died, just so you know. She never talks about it, but everybody knows."

The editor breathed in, his nostrils flaring.

"If you're alluding to the episode that occurred before Annika Bengtzon got on the permanent staff, you know that the court established that it was an accident. It's rather low of you to bring that up here," he said icily.

Nils Langeby didn't answer but rocked to and fro on his feet, fighting back the tears. Schyman decided to put in the knife and twist it.

"I find it remarkable you speak this way about your boss," he said. "The fact is that attacks of that kind could result in a formal written warning."

Nils Langeby didn't show any reaction, only kept on rocking over by the window.

"We have to discuss your performance, Nils. Your so-called article last night was a near disaster. That in itself wouldn't give cause for a warning, but recently you've been displaying a shocking lack of judgement. Your piece last Sunday about the police suspecting that the first bomb might have been a terrorist act- you haven't been able to identify a single one of your sources."

"I don't have to divulge my sources," Langeby said in a strained voice.

"Yes, to me you do. I'm the editor-in-chief of this paper. If you're wrong, I'm the one who has to carry the can. You know that."

Langeby went on rocking.

"I haven't contacted the union yet," Schyman said, "I wanted to talk to you first. We can do this whichever way you want to: with or without the union, with or without a conflict. It's up to you."

The reporter shrugged his shoulders but didn't reply.

"You can go on standing there, or you can sit down so I can explain how we can sort this out."

Langeby ceased rocking to and fro, hesitating for a moment, but then slowly turned around. Schyman saw that he'd been crying. They both sat down again.

"I don't want to humiliate you," the editor said in a low voice. "I want this to be carried out in as dignified a manner as possible."

"You can't fire me," Nils Langeby sniveled.

"Yes, I can," Schyman said. "It would cost us about three years' pay in the industrial tribunal, maybe four. It would be a damned ugly and nasty affair with mudslinging and accusations that neither you, nor the paper would have anything to gain from. You'd probably never get another job. The paper would look like a harsh and unforgiving employer, but that wouldn't matter much. It could even be good for our reputation. We'd be able to give good reason for letting you go. You would immediately, today, receive a written warning, which we would cite. We would maintain that you are sabotaging our publication, harassing and thwarting your immediate superior with invectives and four-letter words. We would produce evidence of your incompetence and poor judgement. All we have to do is refer to what has happened during the last few days and then count the number of articles of yours that are in the archives. How many have you written the last ten years? Thirty? Thirty-five? That's three and a half articles per year, Langeby."

"You said, you said only last Saturday that I would be going on writing front-page copy for Kvällspressen for many years to come yet. Was that just bullshit?"

Anders Schyman sighed.

"No, not at all. That's why I'm offering you the opportunity to continue working for the paper, albeit in a different situation. We'll fix you up with a company and an office, and we'll buy five days of your time every month for five years. The going rate for a freelance reporter is two and a half thousand kronor per day, plus holiday pay and pension contributions. That will give you half of your current salary for five years, while at the same time you can work as much as you like for anyone else."

Langeby wiped off the snot with the back of his hand and stared down at the carpet. After some time he said:

"What if I find another job?"

"Then we'll pay out the money as a severance packet, 169,500 a year or 508,500 for three years. That's the most we can offer."

"You said five years!" Langeby said, suddenly irate.

"Yes, but that's when you're producing copy for us. This freelance contract isn't a golden handshake. We expect you to continue working for us, under different conditions."

Again, Langeby turned his gaze to the carpet. Schyman waited for a while, then moved on to the next stage: to lessen his humiliation somewhat.

"I can see you're not happy here anymore, Nils. You haven't quite adapted to the new culture. I feel bad about you being unhappy. This is a highly advantageous way for you to build a foundation for a new career as a self-employed reporter. You don't like working for Annika Bengtzon, and I'm sorry about that. But Annika is staying; I have big plans for her. I don't agree with your assessment of her. She loses her temper sometimes, but that will soften with time. She's been under a lot of pressure lately, largely because of you, Nils. I'd like to keep you both, and I think a contract of this nature would be the best solution for all involved…"

"508,000 is just two years' salary," Nils Langeby said.

"Yes, two full annual salaries, three if you work part time. You'll get that without any argument. No one need even know about the money. You'll just make it known that you're moving on in your career and are starting up as freelancer. The paper will be sorry about losing such an experienced member of the staff but will be grateful for your continued contributions as a stringer…"

Nils Langeby looked up at the editor-in-chief with an expression of loathing.

"Damn you," he said. "What an oily, false fucking serpent you are… Damn you…"

Without saying another word, Nils Langeby got up and walked out the door. He slammed it loudly behind him and Anders Schyman heard his steps disappear among the steps of the other people in the newsroom.

The editor went over to his desk and drank another glass of water. The headache had abated somewhat with the last pill, but it was still pounding like a red heart inside his forehead. He heaved a deep sigh. This was going better than he'd hoped. Had he already won the battle? One thing was sure: Nils Langeby had to go. He was going to be thrown out of the newsroom and not be allowed to set foot there ever again. Unfortunately, he would never go of his own accord. He could hang around and poison the air for another twelve years.

Schyman sat down in his chair behind the desk and looked out over the Embassy enclosure. Some children were trying to sled down the muddy hill on the front.

This morning the MD had given the go-ahead for the editor to juggle a few items in the budget to make money available to buy out Nils Langeby with up to four salaries. It would be cheaper than paying him twelve, which the company would have to do if he stayed on. If Nils Langeby had the bare minimum of intelligence- which, granted, he didn't- he'd accept the offer. If he didn't, the other, more protracted measures were at hand. He could, for example, be transferred to the proofreading section. This would naturally mean union involvement and a big fuss, but the union wouldn't be able to stop it. They could never show that the paper had made any formal mistake. As a reporter, you're assumed to be qualified for proofreading, so that shouldn't be a problem.

The union wouldn't have much to make a noise about anyway. Anders Schyman had simply made the reporter an offer. People were often offered severance packages in the trade, even if it hadn't happened many times at this particular paper. All the union could do was to support its member during negotiations and make sure he got as good a deal as possible.

And should all hell break loose, one of the in-house lawyers, an expert in employment law, was preparing a really nasty case before the industrial tribunal. Then the union's central ombudsman would enter as the other party and appear for Nils Langeby in court, but the paper couldn't lose. Schyman's only objective was to get rid of the fucker, and he intended to succeed.

The editor took another sip of water, lifted the receiver, and asked Eva-Britt Qvist to come in. He'd given Spike one hell of a tongue-lashing the night before, so there wouldn't be any further hassle from him. He might as well deal with them all at a stroke.

The call from the tipster Leif came to the newsdesk at 11:47 A.M., only three minutes after the event. Berit took the call.

"The central Stockholm sorting office has been blown up. There are at least four casualties," the tipster said and hung up. Before the information had even registered in Berit's brain, Leif had already dialed the next paper. You had to be first, or there'd be no money.

Berit didn't put the receiver down; she just quickly pressed the cradle down and phoned the police central control room.

"Has there been an explosion at the sorting office?" she quickly asked.

"We have no information as yet," an extremely stressed police officer replied.

"But has there?" Berit insisted.

"Looks like it," he said.

They hung up, and Berit threw the remains of her sandwich in the trash.

At 12:00 P.M. Radio Stockholm was the first to report on the explosion.

Annika left Tungelsta with a peculiar sense of warmth in her soul. The human psyche did, after all, have a remarkable ability to self-heal. She waved to Olof Furhage and Alice as she turned into Älvvägen and drove away toward Allévägen, cruising at a leisurely pace in the pleasant neighborhood toward the main road. She could picture herself living here. She drove past the villages Krigslida, Glasberga, and Norrskogen over toward Västerhaninge Junction and the motorway into Stockholm.

She put the car in the right lane and picked up the phone that she had left on the passenger seat. "Missed call" the display said; she pressed for "show number" and noted that the switchboard of the paper had tried to reach her. She sighed lightly and put the phone back down. She was very happy Christmas was so near.

She switched on the radio and sang along to Alphaville's "Forever Young."

Just after the exit to Dalarö, the phone rang. She swore and turned down the radio, pushed the earpiece into her ear, and pressed "answer."

"Is that Annika Bengtzon? Hello, this is Beata Ekesjö. We met last Tuesday at Sätra Hall and then I called you in the evening…"

Annika groaned to herself, of course- the loony project manager. "Hello," Annika said, overtaking a Russian container truck.

"I was wondering if you've got time for a chat?"

"Not really," Annika said and steered back into the right-hand lane.

"It's quite important," Beata Ekesjö said.

Annika sighed.

"What's it about?"

"I think I know who killed Christina Furhage."

Annika nearly drove into the ditch.

"You do? How could you know that?"

"I've found something."

Annika's brain had really got going now.

"What?"

"I can't say."

"Have you told the police?"

"No, I wanted to show you first."

"Me? Why?"

"Because you've been writing about it."

Annika slowed down in order to be able to think and was immediately overtaken by the Russian truck. The snow whirled around her on the road.

"It's not me investigating the murder, but the Krim," she said.

"You don't want to write about me?"

The woman was obviously intent on appearing in the paper.

Annika considered the pros and cons. On the one hand, the woman was eccentric and probably didn't know a thing, and she just wanted to get home. On the other hand, you don't hang up if someone calls and offers you the solution to a murder.

"Tell me what you've discovered and I'll tell you whether I'll write about it or not."

It was hard work driving in the snow whipped up by the Russian truck, so Annika overtook it once more.

"I can show you."

Annika groaned quietly and looked at her watch: a quarter to one.

"All right, where is it?"

"Out here, at the Olympic arena."

She was just driving past Trångsund, and Annika realized she would practically be driving past Victoria Stadium on her way back to the newspaper.

"Okay, I can be there in fifteen minutes."

"Great," Beata said. "I'll meet you on the forecourt below…"

The phone emitted three short tones and the call was interrupted. The battery was dead. Annika started digging for the other battery at the bottom of her bag but gave up when she veered into the outside lane by mistake. The phone would have to wait until she got out of the car. Instead she turned up the radio again and to her delight heard that they'd just started spinning Gloria Gaynor's old hit "I Will Survive."

There were already several news reporters and photographers outside the sorting office when Berit and Johan Henriksson arrived. Berit squinted up at the futuristic building; the sun was glittering on the glass and chrome.

"Our Bomber is reinventing himself," she said. "He hasn't done letter bombs before."

Henriksson loaded his cameras while they climbed the steps to the main entrance. The other reporters were waiting inside in the bright entrance hall. Berit looked around as she stepped inside. It was a typical 1980s building: marble, escalators, and ceilings reaching for the sky.

"Is anyone from Kvällspressen here?" a man over by the elevators asked.

Berit and Henriksson looked at each other in surprise.

"Yes, over here," Berit said.

"Could you come with me, please?" the man said.

The cordons had been lifted and the approach plowed, so Annika could drive all the way up to the steps below the stadium. She looked around. The sunlight was so strong she had to squint, but she couldn't see a soul anywhere near. She stayed in the car, leaving the engine running, while she listened to Dusty Springfield in "I Only Wanna Be with You." She jumped when there was a knock on the window right by her ear.

"Hiya! My God, you scared me there," Annika said when she opened the door.

Beata Ekesjö smiled.

"Don't worry," she said.

Annika switched off the engine and put her cellphone in the bag.

"You can't park here," Beata Ekesjö said. "You'll get a ticket."

"But I'm not staying long," Annika protested.

"No, but we've got to walk a bit. The fine is 700 kronor here."

"So where should I park?"

Beata pointed. "There, the other side of the footbridge. I'll wait here for you."

Annika started the car again. Why do I let people push me around? she mused as she drove back the way she had come and parked among the other cars next to the new housing development. Oh, well, she could do with a couple of minutes' walk in the sunshine, that didn't happen every day. The main thing was not to be late picking up the kids from daycare. Annika took out the phone and changed batteries. There was a beep when she put the new one in, and "message received" appeared on the display. She pressed "c" to remove the message and called the daycare center. They closed at five, an hour earlier than usual but still later than she'd counted on. She breathed out and started walking across the footbridge.

Beata was still smiling, her breath a white cloud around her head.

"What was it you wanted to show me?" Annika said, hearing how gruff she sounded.

Beata continued smiling.

"I've found something really odd over here," she said, pointing. "It won't take long."

Annika gave a quiet sigh and started walking. Beata followed behind.

At the same moment as Berit and Henriksson stepped inside the elevator at Stockholm Klara sorting office, the Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström called the Kvällspressen newsdesk. He asked to speak to the editor-in-chief and was connected to his secretary.

"I'm afraid he's gone to lunch," the secretary said when she saw Schyman wave his hands in a dismissive gesture. "Can I take a message? I see… One moment please, and I'll see if I can get hold of him…"

Schyman's migraine just wouldn't go. More than anything he just wanted to lie down in a blacked-out room and sleep. He had, despite the headache, achieved something constructive during the morning. His talk with Eva-Britt Qvist had gone surprisingly well. The crime-desk secretary had said she thought Annika Bengtzon was a very promising manager whom she would give all her support; she wanted to join forces to make the crime desk function under Annika's leadership.

"It's a prosecutor and he's very persistent," the secretary said, emphasizing "very."

Anders Schyman sighed and picked up the phone.

"So, the law is still at it this close to Christmas," he said. "Though you've got it the wrong way around, it's we who should be hounding you…"

"I'm calling about the explosive charge that has gone off at the Stockholm Klara sorting office," Kjell Lindström broke in.

"Yes, we've got a team on its way…"

"I know, we're talking to them now. The bomb was meant for one of your employees. A reporter by the name of Annika Bengtzon. She must be given protection immediately."

The words penetrated Anders Schyman's brain through a haze of Distalgesic. "Annika Bengtzon?"

"The envelope was addressed to her and was set off by mistake in the terminal. We believe it was sent by the same person who's behind the explosions at the Olympic stadium and Sätra Hall."

Anders Schyman felt his legs give way under him. He sat down on his secretary's desk. "My God…"

"Where is Annika Bengtzon now? Is she in the newsroom?"

"No, I don't think so. She went out this morning to interview someone. I haven't seen her since."

"Man or woman?"

"What? Who she was interviewing? Man, I think. Why?"

"It's extremely important that Annika Bengtzon is found and given twenty-four-hour protection straight away. She shouldn't go home or to her workplace until the person in question has been apprehended."

"How do you know the bomb was for Annika?"

"It was addressed to her in a registered letter. We're looking into the details right now. But most importantly, Annika Bengtzon has to get protection immediately. A patrol is on its way over to you; they should be with you any minute. They'll see to it she's taken to a safe house. Does she have a family?"

Anders Schyman closed his eyes and passed his hand over his face. This can't be happening, he thought, feeling all the blood draining from his brain.

"Yes, a husband and two small children."

"Are they in a daycare center? Which one? Who might know? Where does her husband work? Can you get hold of him?"

Anders Schyman promised to take care of Annika's family. He gave the police Annika's cellphone number and begged them to hurry.

They walked away from Sickla Canal and past a small cluster of trees near the arena. The small pine trees had been torn by the explosion, one lay with its roots in the air, the branches of the others splayed in all directions. The snow was a foot deep and got into Annika's shoes.

"Is it far?" she asked.

"Not very," Beata said.

They plodded on through the snow; Annika was beginning to get annoyed. The training facility loomed large above them, and Annika glimpsed the uppermost floors of the media building further ahead.

"How do you get up when there are no steps?" she said and looked at the ten-foot-high concrete wall that supported the track.

Beata came up and stood beside her. "We're not going up there. Just follow the wall."

She pointed ahead and Annika plodded on. She could feel the stress creeping into her veins: She had to write a story on the police closing in on the Bomber, and she still hadn't wrapped the children's Christmas gifts. Oh, well, she'd have to do that after they go to bed tonight. Beata's discovery might be just the thing to get the police talking.

"Do you see how the wall disappears over there?" Beata said behind her. "You can get underneath the arena there, that's where we're heading."

Annika shivered; it was cold here where the wall blocked out the sun. She could hear her own breathing and the traffic on the South Bypass behind her; apart from that it was completely silent. At least she knew where they were going now.

The police patrol was made up of two policemen in uniform and two plain-clothes detectives. Anders Schyman received them in his office.

"Two bomb patrols with dogs are on their way," one of the detectives said. "There's a real risk that there are more bombs, possibly here at the paper. The premises have to be evacuated and searched straight away."

"Is that necessary? We haven't received any threats," Anders Schyman said.

The detective gave him a serious look. "Of course. She hasn't issued any warnings the other times."

"She?" Schyman said.

The other detective stepped forward. "Yes, we believe the Bomber may be a woman."

Anders Schyman looked from one man to the other. "What makes you think that?"

"We can't tell you that yet."

"She's disappeared," the first detective said, changing subjects. "And we haven't been able to locate Annika Bengtzon. Do you have any idea where she might be?"

Anders Schyman shook his head, his mouth parched. "No, all she said was that she was meeting someone for an interview."

"Who?"

"She didn't say. A man, she said."

"Does she drive her own car?"

"I don't think so."

The two detectives exchanged glances- this man didn't know a whole lot.

"Right, we've got to find out what car she's in, get a description of it, and circulate that to all units. Let's get moving with the evacuation of the building."

"Up there the competitors will be warming up before the events," Beata said when they were standing under the arena. It was gloomy, almost dark, in here under the concrete roof. Annika looked out through the long, low opening. On the other side stood the Olympic Village, the white houses sparkling in the sunlight. The windows glittered and gleamed; they were all absolutely new. Replacing the blasted windows had been given priority. There was a risk of the water pipes in the uninhabited block freezing and bursting.

"The competitors have to be able to reach the stadium quickly," Beata said. "This area is open to the public to avoid them having to queue for the main entrance. We've built this underground passage, leading from the training facility and up to the stadium."

Annika turned around and looked into the gloom. "Where?" she said, bewildered.

Beata smiled. "We didn't exactly put up a large sign," she said. "If we had, the public could have found it. Over there in the corner. Come on, I'll show you."

They walked further in under the roof, Annika blinking to get accustomed to the darkness.

"Here it is," Beata said.

Annika stood in front of a gray iron door, hardly noticeable in the gloom. A large iron bar lay across the door. It looked like it would be a door to a refuse room or something similar. Next to the iron door was a small box, which Beata opened. Annika saw her take out a card from her coat pocket and pull it through a swipe machine.

"Do you have an entry card to this place?" Annika said with surprise.

"Everyone does," Beata said and removed the bar.

"What are you doing?" Annika asked.

"Opening the door," Beata said and pulled the iron door open. The hinges didn't make a sound. Inside the darkness was complete.

"But can you do that, aren't the alarms primed?" Annika said, feeling an uneasiness creep up on her.

"No, the alarms won't go off during the day. They're hard at it upstairs, repairing the arena. Come inside, and I'll show you something strange. Hang on, I'll just switch on the light."

Beata turned a big switch next to the exit and a row of fluorescents flickered on. The passage had concrete walls, and the floor was covered with yellow linoleum. The ceiling height was around seven feet. The passage stretched straight ahead for about twenty yards and then veered to the left and disappeared up toward the Olympic stadium. Annika took a deep breath and started walking. She turned around and saw Beata pull the door to.

"Regulations say it mustn't be left open," Beata said and smiled again.

Annika returned the smile, turned around, and continued walking down the passage. Should she be doing this?

"Is it up here?" she asked.

"Yes, just around the bend."

Annika felt her blood pumping. In spite of herself, she thought this was exciting. She walked quickly and heard the echo of her heels in the tunnel. Further along, around the bend a pile of trash appeared.

"There's something there!" she said and turned around to Beata.

"That's what I wanted to show you. It's really curious."

Annika secured her bag on her shoulder and jogged up to the pile. It was a mattress, two simple garden stools, a folding table, and a cooler. Annika walked up to the things and studied them.

"Someone's been sleeping here," she said, and just then she spotted the box with the dynamite. It was small and white and the name "Minex" was printed on the side. She gasped, and at the same instant felt something being thrown around her neck. Her hands flew up to her neck, but she couldn't grab hold of the rope. She tried screaming, but the noose was already too tight. She started pulling and tugging, tried to run. She fell to the floor, desperately trying to crawl out of the noose, but that only caused it to be pulled even tighter.

The last thing she saw before everything went black was Beata fading in and out of focus, the rope in her hands, hovering over her, the concrete ceiling above her head.

The evacuation of the newspaper offices was comparatively fast and smooth. The fire alarm was turned on and in nine minutes the whole building was vacated. The last man to leave was the news editor, Ingvar Johansson, who said he had more important things to do than practice the fire drill. Only when the editor-in-chief had bawled at him down the phone did he leave his post, under protest.

The staff was relatively calm. They knew nothing of the bomb being targeted at one of their colleagues and were treated to coffee and sandwiches in the canteen of an adjoining office block. Meanwhile, the police bomb squad searched all the areas belonging to the paper. Anders Schyman suddenly realized that his migraine had disappeared, the blood vessels had contracted, and the pain was gone. He was sitting with his secretary and the chief telephone operator in an office behind the kitchen in the adjacent building. Getting hold of Annika's husband had turned out to be easier said than done. The switchboard at the Association of Local Authorities had closed at one o'clock and no one at the paper had Thomas's direct number. Nor did they have his cellphone number. None of the services, neither Telia, Comviq, nor Europolitan had the right Thomas Samuelsson among their subscribers. Nor did Anders Schyman know which daycare center they had their children in. His secretary was phoning around to all the daycare centers in District 3 on Kungsholmen, asking for the Bengtzon children. What she didn't know was that the daycare center didn't give out information about Annika's children to anyone. They weren't even on the telephone lists that were handed out among the other parents. After the articles on the Paradise foundation, Annika had received death threats, and since then both she and Thomas were careful to whom they handed out their address. The daycare staff were in agreement, so when Schyman's secretary called, they calmly said that Annika's children weren't in their group. Immediately, the manager called Annika on her cellphone, but there was no reply.

Anders Schyman had the metallic taste of fear in his mouth. He told the chief telephone operator to phone all possible extensions at the Association of Local Authorities. First the number to the switchboard, and then -01, -02, and so on until she got hold of someone who could reach Thomas. The police already had a patrol waiting outside Annika's house. After that the editor didn't know what to do next but went out to the detectives to hear how things were progressing.

"So far we haven't found anything. We'll be done in half an hour," the officer in charge announced.

Anders Schyman went back to help his secretary phone daycare centers on Kungsholmen.

Annika slowly came to. She heard someone groaning loudly and eventually realized it was herself. When she opened her eyes, she was immediately gripped by uncontrollable panic. She'd gone blind. She screamed like a madwoman, opening her eyes as wide as she could in the darkness. Her terror increased when all she heard was a high piping croak. Then she noticed that the torn noise echoed in the dark, bouncing and returning like horror-stricken birds against a window, and remembered the underground tunnel beneath the Olympic stadium. She stopped screaming and listened to her own panicky breathing for a minute. She had to be in the tunnel. She focused on feeling her own body, making sure all the parts were still there and functioning. She first lifted her head. It hurt, but it wasn't damaged. She realized she was lying on something relatively soft, probably the mattress she had seen before…

"Beata…," she whispered.

She lay still, breathing in the darkness. Beata had put her here, had done something to her, that's how it was. Beata had thrown a rope around her neck, and now she had left. Did Beata think she was dead?

Annika noticed that one of her arms hurt, the one that was wedged in underneath her. When she tried lifting it, she realized she couldn't move it. Her arms were tied. She was lying on her side with her arms tied behind her back. She tried lifting her legs: same thing. They were tied up, and not only to each other, but they were fastened to the wall next to her. When she moved her legs, she noticed something else: While she'd been unconscious, her bladder and bowel had emptied. The urine was cold and the excrement was sticky. She started to cry. What had she done? Why was this happening to her? She cried so hard she was shaking, the tunnel was cold, her crying seeped through the chill and into the darkness. She was rocking slowly on the mattress, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

I don't want to, she thought. Don't want to, don't want to, don't want to…

Anders Schyman was back in his office, staring out at the dark facade of the Russian Embassy. They hadn't found any bombs at the newspaper offices. The sun had set behind the former tsardom's flag, leaving the sky a glowing red for a few, short minutes. The staff were back in their seats, and still no one but himself, his secretary, and the telephone operator knew that the bomb had been addressed to Annika. Anders Schyman had been quickly briefed. All the police knew so far was that the Bomber was a ruthless bungler.

The letter containing the explosive charge had arrived at the Stockholm Klara sorting office at 18:50 on Wednesday evening. It had been sent as a registered letter from Stockholm 17, the post office in Rosenlundsgatan on South Island, at 16:53. Since the letter was sent registered, it didn't go with the regular mail but was sent in a separate shipment that would leave the terminal a bit later.

The brown padded envelope hadn't attracted any particular attention. Stockholm Klara is Sweden's largest sorting office, situated on Klarabergsviadukten in central Stockholm. The terminal building is eight floors high and occupies a whole block between the City Bus Terminal, City Hall, and the Central Station. One and a half million letters and parcels pass through there every day.

Having arrived at one of the terminal's four loading platforms, the envelope had ended up at the Special Delivery Section on the fourth floor. The staff working with various kinds of valuable items have received special security training. Since Kvällspressen has its own postcode, the receipt was sent out to the paper's ordinary postbox. This postbox is emptied several times a day and its contents delivered at the newsroom in Marieberg. At the terminal, the paper has several letters giving power of attorney, enabling the various porters to collect registered letters and parcels on behalf of other employees. Whatever registered and insured items there are, they would usually be picked up once a day, early in the afternoon.

On Thursday morning, there had been a number of registered letters in the morning delivery, since it was the time of year for Christmas gifts. The receipt for the letter addressed to Annika Bengtzon therefore ended up in a pile of other receipts in the porters' folder.

The explosion had occurred when Tore Brand was standing in the sorting office reception, waiting to pick up these special deliveries. One of the employees at the Special Delivery Section had slipped and dropped the letter. The envelope didn't fall more than half a meter, back into the same crate where it had been lying overnight, but it was enough for the device to go off. Four people were hurt, three seriously. The person who had been standing the closest, the man who dropped the envelope, was in a critical condition.

Anders Schyman bit his nail. There was a knock on his door, and one of the detectives entered without waiting for a reply.

"We can't get hold of Thomas Samuelsson either," the detective said. "We've been to his office. He wasn't there. They thought he might have gone somewhere for the day, some meeting with a local politician. We've tried his cellphone, but there's no reply."

"Have you found Annika or the car?" Schyman asked.

The detective shook his head.

The editor turned around and stared out at the embassy roof. Dear God, don't let her be dead.

Suddenly her sight returned. The light came on with a clicking sound, the lamps flickering to life. Annika was dazzled and for a moment couldn't see anything. She heard the clatter of heels in the passage and rolled up into a ball, shutting her eyes tight. The steps came closer, stopping right next to her ear.

"Are you awake?" a voice above her said.

Annika opened her eyes and blinked. She saw the floor and the tip of a pair of leather boots.

"Good. We've got work to do."

Someone pulled at her so she ended up with her back against the concrete wall and her legs pulled up, bent at the knees and jutting out to the side. It was very uncomfortable.

Beata Ekesjö leaned over her and smelled the air.

"Did you shit yourself? That's disgusting!"

Annika didn't respond. She just stared into the opposite wall and whimpered.

"Let's get you sorted out," Beata said, grabbing Annika by the armpits. Pushing and lifting, she forced Annika to sit tilted forward with her head by her knees.

"It worked all right the last time," Beata said. "It's good when you get used to doing something, don't you think?"

Annika didn't hear what the woman was saying. She was lost in a deep pit of fear, which killed off any brain activity. She didn't even notice the stench from her own shit. She cried quietly while Beata was busying herself with something next to her, humming some old popular song. Annika tried to sing but was unable to.

"Don't try to talk yet," Beata said. "The rope squashed your vocal cords a bit. Here we go!"

Beata stood up next to Annika. She was holding a roll of masking tape in one hand and what looked like a pack of red candles in the other.

"This is Minex. Twenty paper-wrapped cartridges, 22 x 200mm, at 100 grams each. Two kilos. That's enough, I noticed with Stefan. He broke in two."

Annika understood what the woman was saying. She realized what was about to happen and leaned over to throw up. She vomited so hard her whole body was shaking and bile was coming up.

"What a mess you're making!" Beata exclaimed disapprovingly. "I should have you clean up after yourself."

Annika panted and felt the bile dripping from her mouth. I'm dying, she thought. I can't believe this is happening. Why had she followed this woman down here? It's never like this in the films.

"What the hell did you expect?" Annika croaked.

"See, your voice is returning," Beata said cheerfully. "That's good, because I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Fuck you, you maniac," Annika said. "I'm not talking to you."

Beata didn't reply but leaned over and pushed something onto Annika's back, just underneath the ribs. Annika reflected, breathed in, smelled damp and explosives.

"Dynamite?" she asked.

"Yep. I'm fastening it to your back with masking tape."

Beata wound the tape around Annika's body and embraced her a couple of times. Annika felt this might be a chance for her to escape, but she didn't know how to. Her hands were still tied behind her back and the feet were fixed to a metal frame in the wall.

"There, that's it," Beata said and got to her feet. "The explosives are quite safe, but the detonator can be a bit unstable, so we'll have to be careful. Do you see this wire here? This is what I use to detonate the charge. I'm pulling it to over here, and do you see this? It's a battery from an ordinary flashlight. It's enough to set off the detonator. Amazing, isn't it?"

Annika watched the thin, yellow and green wire winding toward the small folding table. She realized that she didn't know the first thing about explosives; she couldn't say whether Beata was bluffing or telling the truth. At the murder of Christina, she had used a whole car battery. Why, if a flashlight battery was enough?

"I'm sorry it had to be like this," Beata said. "If you'd only stayed in the office yesterday afternoon we could have avoided all this. It would have been better for everyone concerned. Completion should take place in its proper place, and in your case that means the newsroom at Kvällspressen. Instead the bomb went off at the sorting office, and I'm not very happy about that at all."

Annika stared at the woman- she really was insane.

"What do you mean? Has there been another explosion?"

let out a sigh.

"Well, I didn't bring you here for fun. We'll just have to do it this way instead. I'm going to leave you now for a while. If I were you, I'd try to get some rest. But don't lie on your back, and don't try to pull the chain from the wall. Sudden movements could trigger the charge."

"Why?" Annika asked.

Beata looked at her with complete indifference for a few seconds. "See you in a couple of hours," she said and started walking toward the training facility on her clattering heels. Annika heard her steps disappear beyond the bend and then the light was gone again.

Annika carefully turned around, away from the vomit, and infinitely slowly lay down on her left side. She lay with her back toward the wall and stared into the darkness, hardly daring to breathe. Another explosion- had anyone died? Was the bomb meant for her? How the hell was she going to get out of this alive?

Lots of people were working on the stadium, Beata had said. That should be at the other end of the passage. If she screamed loud enough they might hear her.

"Help!" Annika cried as loud as she could, but her vocal cords were still damaged. She waited for a while and shouted again. She realized her cries wouldn't reach out.

She put her head down and felt panic creeping up on her. She thought she could hear the patter of animals around her but realized that it was only the sound of the chains around her feet. If only Beata had left the light on, she could have tried to get rid of them.

"Help!" she screamed again, this time with even less effect.

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic…

"Help!!"

Don't breathe too quickly, you'll only start cramping up. Nice and calm now, hold your breath, one-two-three-four, breathe, hold your breath, one-two-three-four, you're doing fine. Just take it easy, you'll be all right, everything can be sorted out…

Suddenly the first digital notes of Mozart's 40th Symphony sounded in the dark. Annika stopped hyperventilating from sheer astonishment. Her cellphone! It was working down here! God bless the cellphone! She got up on her heels. The sound was muffled and came from over on her right side. The music played on, bar after bar. She was the only one in town who used this particular signal: number 18 on the Nokia 3110. Cautiously, she started crawling toward the sound as the melody started from the beginning. She knew she was running out of time, soon the answering service would pick up the call. And then she ran out of chain- she couldn't reach her bag.

The telephone went dead. Annika was breathing loudly in the dark. She remained propped on her knees, thinking. Then she carefully moved back to the mattress; it was warmer and softer there.

"Everything'll be all right," she told herself. "As long as she isn't here, I'm all right. A bit uncomfortable, perhaps, but as long as I move around cautiously, I'm all right. I'll be fine."

She lay down and sang to herself, like an incantation, Gloria's old hit: "First I was afraid, I was petrified…"

Then she cried quietly, into the dark.

Thomas was walking away from the Central Station with long strides when his phone rang. He got hold of it in his coat pocket just before the answering service picked up the call.

"We told you we close at five today," one of the male staff at the daycare center said. "Will you be here soon?"

The traffic on Vasagatan was so loud that Thomas could barely hear himself think. He stepped aside and stopped in a shop's doorway, asking what was up.

"Are you on your way, or what?" the man said.

Thomas was shocked by the anger that hit him in his midriff. Christ, Annika! He'd let her sleep this morning, had taken the kids to the daycare center, and was coming back home on time- despite the leak on the regional bill- and she couldn't even pick up her own children on time.

"I'm so sorry. I'll be there in five minutes," he said and switched off.

Furious, he marched off toward Kungsbron. He turned the corner at Burger King, nearly bumped into a stroller loaded with Christmas gifts, and hurried up past the Oscar Theater. A group of men stood outside the jazz club Fashing. Thomas had to step out in the street to get past them.

This is what he got for being so understanding and equal-handed. His children were left waiting at a municipal institution the day before Christmas Eve because his wife, who was supposed to pick them up, let her work come before her family.

They'd been through this before. He could hear her voice through the city's noise.

"My work is important to me," she used to say.

"More important than the children?" he'd shouted once. Her face had turned pale and she'd said, 'of course not,' but he'd barely believed her. They'd had a couple of furious arguments on the issue, especially once, when his parents had invited them to celebrate Midsummer at their summer house. There had been a murder somewhere and naturally she was going to abandon all plans and take off.

"I'm not doing it just because I enjoy it," she had said. "I do enjoy going off on a job, but I'll also get a whole week's extra holiday out of them if I take on this assignment."

"You never think of the children," he'd fumed, and then she'd gone all cold and stand-offish.

"That's completely unfair," she'd said. "This will give me a whole week's extra holiday to be with them. They won't miss me for a second out on the island; there'll be loads of people there. You'll be there, gran and grandad, and all their cousins…"

"You're so damn selfish," he'd said to her.

She had been absolutely calm when she'd replied:

"No, it's you who are selfish. You want me to be there to show your parents what a nice family you have and to prove I'm not always working. I know your mother thinks I do. And she believes the children spend far too much time at the daycare center. Don't contradict me. I've heard her say it myself."

"Your work always comes before your family," he'd blurted out, intending to hurt her.

She had given him a disgusted look, and then said:

"Who stayed at home for two years with the kids? Who stays at home when they're ill? Who drops them at the daycare center every day, and who picks them up most of the time?"

She'd walked right up to face him.

"Yes, Thomas, you're absolutely right. I am going to put my work before my family this time. For once I'm going to do just that, and you'll just have to lump it."

Then she'd turned on her heel and walked out the door taking not so much as a toothbrush with her.

The Midsummer weekend had of course been ruined. For him, not the kids. They didn't miss Annika for a second, just as she'd predicted. Instead they were overjoyed when they returned home and found Mommy waiting at home with freshly baked buns and presents. In retrospect, he had to admit she was right. She didn't often put her work before her family, only sometimes, just like he did. But that hadn't stopped him from being furious. And the past two months everything had revolved around the paper. Being a manager wasn't good for her: The others tore into her and she just wasn't prepared for it.

He'd seen another sign of her not feeling well: She wasn't eating. Once, covering a mass murder, she was away for eight days and came back having lost ten pounds. It took her five months to put them back on. The company doctor had warned her about the risks associated with being underweight. She took it as praise and proudly told all her friends on the phone. All the same, she still got it in her head to go on a diet now and then.

He turned off Fleminggatan and took the steps down past the restaurant Klara Sjö, along the canal, approaching the daycare center the back way. The children were waiting inside the door, dressed and ready to go. They were tired and hollow-eyed; Ellen was holding her blue teddy in her arms.

"Mommy's picking us up today," Kalle said dismissively. "Where's Mommy?"

The nursery teacher who had stayed behind with the children was really annoyed.

"I'll never be able to get compensation for these fifteen minutes."

"I'm incredibly sorry," Thomas said, noticing how out of breath he was. "I don't understand where Annika's disappeared to."

He hurried away with the kids, and after a quick run, they managed to get on the 40 bus outside the lunch restaurant Pousette å Vis.

"You shouldn't run for the bus," the driver said irritably. "How are we going to teach children that if their parents do it?"

Thomas almost punched the idiot in the mouth. He held up his travel pass and shoved the kids toward the back of the bus. Ellen fell over and started to cry. I'm losing my mind, Thomas thought to himself. They had to stand up, jostling with Christmas shoppers, dogs, and strollers. Then they nearly didn't get off at their stop. He groaned out loud when he pushed the street door open, and as he was stamping the snow off his shoes, he heard someone speak his name.

He looked up in surprise and saw two uniformed police officers walk toward him.

"You must be Thomas Samuelsson. I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you and the children to come with us."

Thomas stared at them.

"We've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon. Haven't any of our messages reached you? Or any from the paper?"

"Where are we going, Daddy?" Kalle asked and took Thomas's hand. All at once Thomas realized something was terribly wrong. Annika! Christ!

"Annika. What's happened? Is she…?"

"We don't know where your wife is. She disappeared this morning. The officers in charge of the investigation will tell you more. If you'd be so kind as to come with us…"

"Why?"

"Your apartment may be booby-trapped."

Thomas bent down and picked up both the children, one on each arm.

"Let's get away from here," he said in a stifled voice.

The Six Session at the paper was the most tense in many years. Anders Schyman felt panic lurking just beneath the surface. His instinct told him they shouldn't be publishing a paper; they should be out looking for Annika, giving support to her family, hunting for the Bomber- anything.

"We're going to sell one hell of a lot of papers," Ingvar Johansson said as he entered the room. He didn't sound smug or triumphant; it was more a sad statement of fact. But Anders Schyman went through the roof.

"How dare you?" the editor-in-chief shouted and grabbed Ingvar Johansson so violently that the news editor dropped his mug, spilling hot coffee down his leg. Ingvar Johansson didn't even feel the burn, he was so shocked. He had never seen Anders Schyman lose his cool like this. The editor-in-chief breathed in the other man's face for a few moments, then got a grip on himself.

"I'm sorry," he said, let go of the man, and turned away. "I'm not quite myself. I'm sorry."

Jansson enterered the room last, as always, but without his usual cheerful remarks. The night editor was pale and subdued. This was going to be the hardest paper he'd put together his whole career, he knew that.

"Okay," Schyman began, looking at the handful of men around the table: Picture Pelle, Jansson, and Ingvar Johansson. The soft-news and sports people had all gone home. "How do we do this?"

For a few seconds, a tense silence filled the room. Everyone sat with his head bent down. The chair Annika normally occupied seemed to grow until it occupied the entire room. Anders Schyman turned to face the night outside the window.

Ingvar Johansson broke the silence and began talking, quietly and focused. "I suppose what we have so far must be called embryonic. There are several editorial decisions involved in this…"

Unsure of himself, he leafed through his papers. The situation felt both absurd and unreal. It was rare that the people in this room were personally affected by the business they were dealing with. Now the discussion was about one of them. And he'd just been half-strangled by the editor-in-chief. As Ingvar Johansson started going through the items on his list and giving an account of what he'd done up to that point, they did at least find a sort of strength in their routine. They couldn't get away from it; the best they could do was to go on with their work as well as they were able.

So this is what it's like to be the colleague of a victim, Anders Schyman mused and stared out the window. It might be a good idea to remember this feeling.

"First, there's the bomb at the Klara sorting office," Ingvar Johansson said. "We need one story about the victims. The man who was most badly injured died an hour ago. The others are in stable condition. The authorities will be releasing their names during the night, and we're counting on getting passport photos of them. Then there's the damage to the building…"

"Leave the families alone," Schyman said.

"Sorry?" Ingvar Johansson said.

"The injured post office workers- leave their families alone."

"We haven't even got their names yet," Ingvar Johansson replied.

Schyman turned around to face the table. Distractedly, he pulled his hand through his hair, causing it to stand straight up. "Okay," he mumbled. "Sorry- go on."

Johansson took a few breaths, braced himself, and then continued: "We've actually been inside the damaged room at Klara. I've no idea how he did it, but Henriksson managed to get in and shoot a whole roll. Normally, the room isn't open even to regular staff; it's full of special delivery mail. But we've got the pictures."

"And to that we can add something on the responsibility," Schyman said, slowly walking around in the room. "What's the responsibility of the post office in a case like this? How thoroughly should they be checking the mail? It's the classic compromise between the integrity of the general public and the safety of their employees. We'll have to talk to the director general of the post office, the union, and the cabinet minister whose portfolio it falls within."

The editor stopped by the window, looking out at the dark night outside. He listened to the sighing of the ventilation system, searching for the sound of the traffic far below in the street. He couldn't hear it. Ingvar Johansson and Jansson took notes. After a while, the news editor continued his run-through.

"There's the question of how we're affected by this at the paper, as the bomb was addressed to our crime editor. We'll have to give an account of that, the whole course of events, from when Tore Brand went to collect the parcel at lunchtime to the police attempts to trace the package."

"Annika has disappeared," Ingvar Johansson said in a low voice. "We have to face that now, and we have to write about it, don't we?"

Anders Schyman turned around. Ingvar Johansson looked uncertain.

"The question is whether we should say anything at all about the bomb being targeted at us," the news editor said. "We could end up with a flood of letter bombs, any number of copycats starting to kidnap our reporters or phone in bomb threats…"

"We can't think of it in that way," Schyman replied. "If we did, we wouldn't be able to cover anything that happened to anyone. We have to give an account of everything that has occurred, including anything involving ourselves and our crime editor. What I will do, though, is talk over with Thomas, Annika's husband, what we should write about her personal life."

"Has he been told?" Jansson asked, and Anders Schyman nodded.

"The police finally got hold of him around half past five. He'd been out of town, in Falun, all day and hadn't had his phone switched on. He had no idea what Annika was up to today."

"So we'll do a story on Annika having disappeared," Jansson said.

Schyman nodded and turned away again.

"We'll outline her work, but we have to be very careful with any details about her private life," Johansson said. "The next story will cover the police theories on why Annika was… targeted."

"Do they know why?" Picture Pelle asked, and the news editor shook his head.

"There is no connection between her and the other victims. They never met. Their hypothesis is that Annika has been digging around and found out something she shouldn't have. She's been leading the news from the first moment on this story. The motive has to be somewhere there. She simply knew too much."

The men fell silent, listening to each other's breathing.

"Not necessarily," Schyman said. "This lunatic just isn't rational. She could have sent off the bomb for reasons incomprehensible to anyone but herself."

The other men all looked up simultaneously. The editor-in-chief gave a sigh. "Yes, the police think it's a woman. I think we should print that. Annika thought this morning that the police had pinpointed her, but they hadn't told her who it was. Let's write that the police are searching for a suspect, a woman, whom they haven't been able to locate."

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!

In an episode of Cagney & Lacey, one of the female cops had been taken prisoner by a madman. Cagney, or maybe it was Lacey, had attended a course on how to behave in a hostage situation. She had told him everything about herself and her children, about her dreams and her love- anything to awaken empathy in the kidnapper. If she were talkative and friendly enough, it made it harder for the kidnapper to kill her.

Annika shifted again, this time getting up on her knees. That stuff might work on a normal person, but the Bomber was crazy. She had already blown several people to pieces. That thing about children and empathy might not stir Beata; she hadn't shown much pity toward children and families this far. She'd have to think of something else but using the lesson learned from Cagney: to establish some form of communication with your kidnapper.

What had Beata said? That Annika had misinterpreted her state of mind? Was that really why she was here? She'd better read the Bomber's mood more accurately from now on. She would listen closely to what the woman said and try to be as responsive as she possibly could.

That's what she would do. She would try to establish a communication with the Bomber, pretending to understand and agree with her. She would under no circumstances contradict her but just go with her flow. She had a plan at least.

She lay down on her right side on the mattress, facing the concrete wall, determined to get some rest. She wasn't afraid of the dark, the blackness enveloping her held no danger for her. Soon she felt that familiar tug in her body, and a short while after she was asleep.