The Bomber

SUNDAY 19 DECEMBER

Sunday has always been the tabloids' day of big sales. People have both the time and the inclination to read something reasonably undemanding, and they are relaxed enough to do crossword puzzles and try out various quizzes on one another. For years, most Sunday papers have also invested in bulky supplements with extra reading. The TS, Tidningsstatistik, the body that authenticates and publishes newspaper publication figures in Sweden, therefore separates the Sunday edition from the rest of the week's sales when compiling the statistics.

Nothing ever sells as much as a really good piece of news, however. If, in addition, it happens on a Saturday, there's potential for huge sales. That this was the case this Sunday, Anders Schyman immediately saw when he had in his hands the tabloids that were delivered to his house in the fashionable leafy suburb of Saltsjöbaden. He brought the papers with him to the breakfast table, where his wife was pouring out the coffee.

"Looking good?" his wife asked but only got a grunt in reply from the editor-in-chief. This was the magic moment of the day. His nerves were taut and he focused completely on the papers, putting his and the rival's on the breakfast table, comparing the two front pages. Jansson had done it again, he noted and smiled. Both papers had gone for the terrorist angle, but Kvällspressen had a scoop with the death threat against the Managing Director Christina Furhage. Kvällspressen had a better lead story, better celebs in the masthead, and a more dramatic picture of the stadium. He smiled even wider and relaxed.

"Fine," he said to his wife and reached for the coffee. "Very good, actually."

The cartoon voices from the children's morning TV were the first thing Annika heard. The high-pitched howls and special effects leaked in under the bedroom door. She put the pillow over her head to block out the noise. This was one of the few drawbacks of having children: The affected C-movie actors who supplied the Swedish voices to Darkwing Duck were more than she could take on a Sunday morning. Thomas as usual didn't notice. He slept on with his half of the duvet crumpled up between his legs.

She lay still for a moment to see how she was feeling. She was tired, and the pain in her legs wasn't completely gone. She immediately started thinking about the Bomber and realized she must have been dreaming about the attack. It was always like that when a big story broke- she would enter a long tunnel and wouldn't appear again until after the story was finished with. Sometimes she had to force herself to stop and breathe, both for her own and the kids' sake. Thomas didn't like it when she became swallowed up by her work.

"It's just a job," he would say. "You're always writing as if it were a matter of life and death."

But it almost always was, Annika mused, at least in her particular line of work.

She sighed, tossed the pillow and the duvet to the side, and got up. She stood there swaying for a moment, more tired than she'd thought at first. The woman reflected in the window looked a hundred years old. She let out another sigh and walked out into the kitchen.

The kids had already eaten. The plates were still on the table, standing in pools of various spilled dairy products. Nowadays, Kalle could take out yogurt and cereals himself. After burning himself on the toaster, he had stopped serving Ellen toasted rye bread with peanut butter and jam, which otherwise was a big favorite.

She put the kettle on and went in to the children. The cries of joy rose to meet her before she was through the door.

"Mommy!"

Four hungry arms and eyes rushed toward her, wet mouths kissing and bubbling and hugging and assuring her, "Mommy, Mommy, we've missed you so much! Mommy, where were you all day yesterday? Were you working all day, Mommy? You didn't come home, Mommy, we were already in bed…"

She held them both in her arms, squatting in the doorway to the TV room.

"We got a new film yesterday, Mommy. You're Crazy, Mardie! it's called. It was really scary, the horrible man hit Mia. Do you want to see my drawing, Mommy? It's for you!"

They wriggled free from her hold and ran off in different directions. Kalle came back first, with the cover for the film based on Astrid Lindgren's book about her childhood friend.

"The head teacher was really horrible. He spanked Mia for taking his wallet," Kalle said earnestly.

"I know, that was really bad of him," Annika said, stroking the boy's hair. "It was like that at school in the past. Terrible, isn't it?"

"Is it like that at school now?" he asked with concern.

"No, not anymore," Annika said and kissed him on the cheek. "No one could ever hurt my little boy."

A terrific howl came out of the children's room, "My drawing's gone. Kalle has taken it!"

The boy stiffened.

"I have not!" he shouted back. "You've lost it yourself. You did!"

The howl in the background turned into loud crying. "It's Kalle. He took my drawing!"

"Little brat! I never did!"

Annika put the boy down, stood up, and took him by the hand.

"That's enough now," she said firmly. "Come on, let's go and look for the drawing. It's probably somewhere on the desk. And don't call your sister a brat. I don't want to hear that word."

"Brat! Brat!" Kalle yelled.

The loud crying became a howl again. "Mommy, Kalle's being horrid! He's calling me a brat!"

"Be quiet now, both of you!" Annika said, raising her voice. "You're waking Daddy up."

As she entered the room with the boy, Ellen's clenched fist was in the air to hit her brother. Annika caught it before it landed, feeling her patience giving out.

"Stop it now!" she shouted. "Stop it, both of you!"

"What's the row?" Thomas was standing in the bedroom doorway. "Christ, can't I have one single morning of sleep?"

"See, you've woken Daddy up," Annika shouted.

"You're louder than the two of them together," Thomas said and slammed the door shut.

Annika felt the tears well up again. Damn, damn, damn. Why didn't she ever learn? She sank to the floor, heavy as a rock.

"Mommy. Are you sad, Mommy?"

"No, I'm not sad. I'm just a bit out of sorts. It's because I worked so late yesterday." She forced a smile and reached out for the two of them. Kalle looked at her earnestly.

"You mustn't work so much," he said. "You get too tired."

She gave him a hug. "You're so wise," she said. "Shall we look for that drawing now?"

It had fallen behind the radiator. Annika blew away the dust and expressed her admiration gushingly. Ellen beamed with delight.

"I'll put it up on the wall in the bedroom. But Daddy has to wake up before I do that."

The kettle was boiling away in the kitchen; half of it was steam on the windows. She put more water in and opened the window slightly to get rid of the mist.

"Do you want more breakfast?"

They did, and now they had toasted rye bread with butter. Their twitter rose and fell while Annika ploughed through the morning papers and listened to the radio news. There was nothing new in the papers, but the radio quoted both of the tabloids: her report about the death threat against Furhage, as well as the competition's interview with IOC president Samaranch. Oh well, Annika thought to herself, they beat us with Lausanne. Too bad, but that was not her headache.

She had another piece of rye bread.

Helena Starke unlocked the door and switched off the alarm. Occasionally, when she got to the Olympic Secretariat the alarm was disarmed: The careless bastard who had left last the evening before would have forgotten to switch it on. This time she knew it had been done properly. She was last to leave the night before, or rather, early this morning.

She went straight to Christina's door and unlocked it. The voicemail indicator was flashing; Helena felt her pulse quicken. Someone had called during the night. She quickly lifted the receiver and dialed Christina's password. There were two messages, one from each of the two tabloids. She swore and threw the phone down. Damn those hyenas! They must have figured out Christina's direct number. With a sigh, she sank into her boss's executive chair, swiveling back and forth. She still hadn't quite recovered from the hangover- there was a bitter taste in her mouth and her head was buzzing. If only she could remember what Christina had said the night before last. Her memory had cleared enough for her to remember that Christina had been with her in the apartment. She had been quite angry, hadn't she? Helena shuddered and got up from the chair.

When she heard someone entering through the front door, she quickly pushed the chair in and walked around to the other side of the desk.

It was Evert Danielsson. He had dark rings round his eyes and a tense line around his mouth.

"Have you heard anything?" he asked.

Helena shrugged. "About what? They haven't caught the Bomber, Christina hasn't been in touch, and you've certainly succeeded in planting the terrorist theory everywhere. I assume you've seen the morning papers?"

The line round Danielsson's mouth tightened. I see, it's his own big mouth he's worried about, Helena thought, feeling contempt rise within her. It wasn't the incident itself and its consequences that worried him but his own skin. How selfish, and how sad.

"The board is meeting today at 4 P.M.," she said and left the room. "You'll HAVE TO GIVE A FULL REPORT on the situation before we can make a decision on what to do after this…"

"Since when are you on the board?" Evert Danielsson said coolly.

Helena Starke froze, stopping short for a moment, but then pretended she hadn't heard his comment.

"And I suppose it's time to summon the big guns. If nothing else, they have to be informed. They'll be pissed if we don't, and we need them now more than ever before."

Evert Danielsson watched the woman while she locked Christina's door. She was right about the big guns. The captains of industry, the royalty, the church, and others on the representative Honorary Board had to be summoned as soon as possible. They needed greasing and polishing up, so that they could shine outwardly. "We need them more than ever before." How true.

"Will you see to that?" Evert Danielsson said.

Helena Starke gave a short nod and disappeared along the corridor.

Ingvar Johansson was at his desk talking on the phone when Annika arrived at the paper. She was the first reporter to turn up; the others would show around ten. Ingvar Johansson first pointed at the fresh papers lying in piles alongside the wall, then at the couch next to the newsdesk. Annika draped her coat over the back of the couch, picked up the early edition and a plastic mug of coffee, then sat down to read while Ingvar Johansson finished his call. His voice rose and fell like a song in the background while Annika checked what they had got together since she left last night. Her own story on the terrorist angle and the threat against Christina Furhage were on pages six and seven, the two heaviest and most important news pages. The picture editor had found a picture in the archive of Furhage walking at the head of a group of men, all dressed in dark suits and overcoats. She was dressed in a white tailored suit and a short, pale coat, standing out as a figure of light in front of all the men. The woman looked stern and strained, an excellent image of an innocent person under threat. On page seven was a photo of Evert Danielsson emerging from the press conference. A good picture of a hard-pressed man. Annika noted that it was taken by Ulf Olsson.

On the next spread were Berit's stories on the victim and the police finds at the scene of the crime. Jansson had picked another of Henriksson's pictures from the Olympic flame to accompany them. It worked just as well today. And there was the injured taxi driver Arne Brattström's account of the explosion.

On the spread of pages ten and eleven, she found the biggest surprises so far; Patrik had been hard at it all night, getting two stories together. " 'I saw the mysterious man outside the arena,' the secret police witness tells his story" and "The Tiger wanted by the police."

Well done! Annika thought. He had found a guy who worked at the illegal club, a bartender who told of how on his way to work he saw someone hurrying across the forecourt in front of the arena's main entrance. But this had been about one in the morning, not just before the explosion as the police had said.

"I saw a person in a black anorak with the hood up, dark trousers, and heavy shoes," the bartender was quoted as saying.

Now we have an image of our Bomber, at least until we find a better one, thought Annika.

Predictably, the police had pulled out all the stops to get hold of the Tiger. Also on the spread were the meager police theories on the murder and the attack so far.

Pages eleven and twelve were dedicated to the Olympics, the consequences for the Games, and future security issues. The retrospective of past attacks on the Olympics was also here. The following spread was given over to a display ad for the last few days of Christmas shopping, pages sixteen and seventeen were the vox pop, plus Nils Langeby's compilation of world reactions.

Then the pages flickered past up to the center spread: celebrities coming clean about their various maladies, a sick child to be pitied, a trade union scandal, an unknown pop star caught drunk-driving, and a group of drag queens protesting against cutbacks in the national health sector.

Patrik's main story about the actual attack took pride of place on the center spread. Sequence of events, places and arrows, everything concise and succinct, laid out around the helicopter photo.

She looked up and saw that Ingvar Johansson had finished his call. He must have been watching her for a while.

"This is good stuff, don't you think?" Annika said, waving the paper in the air before putting it on the couch.

"It's not bad," Ingvar Johansson said, turning round. "But that's all history. Tomorrow's paper is all that matters now."

Damn killjoy, Annika thought. Tabloid news editors lived far too much in the future and not enough in the past, in her opinion. If you got something wrong, you didn't give a shit because that was already yesterday's news. If you did something good, you never got enough credit for it. That was a pity. She thought they could gain from reflecting on what they had done, both good and bad.

"What have you got for tomorrow?" he said, his back turned to her.

What the hell is wrong now? she thought wearily. Why is he doing this. I must have pissed him off and now he's punishing me. What could it be? Is he annoyed because I stole the show at the news conference yesterday?

"How am I supposed to know what's up, I only just walked through the damn door!" she exclaimed, surprised at how angry she sounded. She quickly got up and grabbed her coat and bag. Her arms full, she started walking toward her office.

"There's a police press conference at half past ten," Ingvar Johansson called after her.

She looked at her watch at the same time as she fumbled for the door to her office. Fifty minutes left; she had time for a few phone calls.

She began with the cellphone number that was said to be Christina Furhage's. The Olympic boss hadn't made a single comment anywhere, which meant that not even the Secretariat could get hold of her. Something was very wrong with her complete silence, that much Annika knew.

To her great surprise, she got a ringing signal. The phone was on. She quickly cleared her throat while listening to the beeping signals. After the fifth one, she got the automated answering service again, but at least she knew now that the phone was working and was in use. She made a mental note of the number.

Patrik and Berit appeared simultaneously in the doorway.

"Are you busy?"

"Christ, no! Come inside and let's have a quick look at things." She got up, walked around her desk and sat down on the old couch.

"Great work yesterday, both of you," she said. "We're alone with the stuff about what was found at the crime scene, and no one else had anything on the bartender at the illegal club."

"Though our rival's interview with Samaranch was much better, unfortunately," Berit said. "Did you read it? Apparently he was furious and threatened to cancel the Games unless the Bomber was apprehended."

"Yes, so I heard," Annika said. "It's a shame we had nothing on that. But I wonder- did he really say that? If he really wants to cancel the Games, why hasn't he gone public with it? He's said to all the other media and in the press release that the Games will go ahead, at all costs."

"Has the competition got a monopoly on what Samaranch's really thinking?" Berit said.

Annika opened the paper at the page with the interview in the other paper. "Their Rome correspondent wrote it. He's good," Annika said. "I think it's correct, but Samaranch will still make an official denial this afternoon."

"Why this afternoon?" Patrik asked.

"Because by then CNN will have mentioned it and put together a special item on it," Annika said and smiled, " 'The Olympics at stake' will be the headline, and there'll be some grandiose music in a minor key…"

Berit smiled. "I heard there's another press conference soon," she said.

"Yes," Annika replied, "they're probably going to announce who the victim is, and I wonder if it's not the Olympic boss herself."

"Furhage?" Patrik said. "What makes you think that?"

"Think about it," Annika said. "Either she's hiding, or something is seriously wrong. No one can get hold of her, not even her closest colleagues. There isn't a place on earth where the attack hasn't been reported. She couldn't have missed it. Either she doesn't want to make herself known- that means she's hiding- or she can't, probably because she's sick, dead, or has been kidnapped."

"I've thought about that," Berit said. "I actually asked the investigators about it yesterday when I talked to them about the finds at the scene, but they denied it categorically."

"That doesn't mean anything," Annika mused. "Furhage is a story today too, whatever happens. We have to follow up that death threat: What was it exactly? If she is the victim, we'll have to focus on her life story. Do we have an obit for her?"

"Not for her," Berit said. "Christina Furhage wasn't exactly about to peg out."

"Let's ask for pics and cuttings before we set off for the police headquarters. Did either one of you talk to Eva-Britt yesterday?"

Both Berit and Patrik shook their heads. Annika went over to her desk and dialed the secretary's home number. When Eva-Britt Qvist answered, Annika asked her if she could come into the office.

"I know it's the last Sunday before Christmas, but it would be great if you could come in all the same," she said. "The rest of us are going to a press conference at police headquarters, and it would be really helpful if you could collect all the stuff we have on Christina Furhage while we're there, both pics and copy."

"I've just put some dough aside to rise," Eva-Britt Qvist said.

"Oh, that's a shame," Annika said. "But big things are happening here today, and the rest of us are a bit out of it. Patrik was here until half past four this morning, I worked from a quarter past three in the morning until eleven at night yesterday, Berit about the same. And we need help with what is really your job, looking things up in databases and compiling material…"

"I'm sorry, I've already said I can't," Eva-Britt Qvist said. "I do have a family."

Annika swallowed the first response that came into her mind. Instead she spoke very deliberately: "Yes, I know what it's like when you have to change your plans. It's awful to disappoint your children and partner. Naturally, you'll be paid overtime or you'll get time off in lieu whenever you want. Between Christmas and New Year, or the next school holiday, whatever. But it would be really great if you could have the material ready by the time we get back from the press conference."

"I told you, I'm in the middle of baking! I can't come in!"

Annika took a deep breath. "Okay, then we'll do it this way instead, if that's what you prefer. I order you to come in. I expect you to be here in fifteen minutes."

"What about my buns?!"

"Ask your family to mould them," Annika said and hung up. To her annoyance, she noticed that her hand was shaking.

She hated this. She would never dream of doing what Eva-Britt Qvist had just done if a superior called her and asked her to do over time. If you worked at a newspaper and something big happened, you had to be prepared to come in, that's just the way it was. If you wanted a nine-to-five job, Monday to Friday, you should join the accounts office of a phone company or something like that. Other people could check the databases- she or Berit or one of the newsroom reporters. But in a situation like this, everyone was hard-pressed. And everyone wanted to celebrate Christmas. It made sense to distribute the workload as fairly as possible and let everyone do their bit, even if it was Sunday. She couldn't climb down and let Eva-Britt off the hook because that would make her life as a manager hell. The kind of disrespect the crime-desk secretary had just shown her would not be rewarded with days off. She wished she could just fire the bitch.

"Eva-Britt's coming in," she said to the others, thinking she saw the shadow of a smile on Berit's face.

They took two cars to the press conference. Annika and Berit in one, together with the photographer Johan Henriksson, and Patrik in the other with Ulf Olsson. The media pack was, if possible, even more hysterical today. Henriksson had to park on Kungsholm's Square half a mile away; both Bergsgatan and Agnegatan, the streets running alongside the police headquarters, were solid with OB vans and Volvos with large media logos on them. Annika enjoyed the short walk. The air was clear and fresh after the previous day's snowfall, the top floors of the buildings aglow in the sharp sunlight. The snow crunched under their shoes.

"I live over there," she said, pointing at the newly renovated nineteenth-century apartment building further up on Hantverkargatan.

"Do you rent or own?" Berit asked.

"Secure tenancy," Annika said.

"How did you get hold of an apartment there?" Henriksson said, thinking of his sublet in the outer southern suburbs.

"Stubbornness," Annika replied. "I got a short lease in the house eight years ago. A small two-bedroom apartment with no mod cons at the back of the block. There was a communal bathroom in the basement of the adjoining house. The house was scheduled for a renovation and I was given a six-month lease. But then the recession came and the owner went bust. No one wanted to buy the place, and after five years I got tenancy rights. By then there were almost four of us in that small apartment: me, Thomas, Kalle, and Ellen on the way. When the building was finally renovated, we got a four-bedroom apartment at the front of the building. Not bad, eh?"

"Jackpot," Berit said.

"What's your rent?" Henriksson asked.

"Ask me something else, like how nice the wood paneling is or how high the ceilings are," Annika said.

"Goddamn yuppie," Henriksson exclaimed, and Annika laughed out loud.

The group from Kvällspressen was late and barely managed to get inside the press conference room. Annika ended up in the doorway and could hardly see anything. She craned her neck and saw reporters doing their best to show everybody else how extremely important and focused on their job they were. Henriksson and Olsson elbowed their way to the front, arriving there at the same time as the press conference participants filed into the room. There were fewer of them than the day before. Annika could only see the Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström and the police press officer. Evert Danielsson wasn't there, nor was the Krim investigator. Above the head of a woman from one of the morning papers, Annika saw the press officer clear his throat and begin to speak. He summed up the situation and went through already known facts, that the Tiger was wanted for questioning by the police and that the forensic investigation was underway. He talked for ten minutes and then Kjell Lindström leaned forward, with the entire press corps doing the same. Everybody had an idea of what was coming.

"The identification procedure of the victim at the stadium is now more or less complete," the prosecutor said, as all of the reporters craned their necks.

"The family has been informed, which is why we have decided to make it public, although there is some work still to be carried out… The deceased is Christina Furhage, Managing Director of SOCOG, the Stockholm Organizing Committee of the Olympic Games."

Annika's reaction was almost physical: yes! I knew it! I knew it! When the excited voices at the press conference were reaching fever pitch, she was already on her way out of the building. She pushed the earpiece into her ear and dialed the number she had memorized. With out a sound, her phone called the other handset, and then the number was ringing. She stopped in the small lobby between the reception area and the front doors, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and focused all her energy on communicating a telepathic message: please, somebody, pick up, pick up! Three rings, four rings, and there was a click! Someone was answering! Christ, who could it be?

Annika screwed up her eyes even tighter and began talking quietly and slowly. "Good afternoon. My name is Annika Bengtzon and I'm from Kvällspressen. To whom am I speaking?"

"I'm Bertil Milander," someone said in a faint voice.

Bertil Milander, Bertil Milander, surely that was Christina Furhage's husband? Wasn't that his name? To be on the safe side, Annika continued as slowly as before: "Is this Bertil Milander, Christina Furhage's husband?"

The man at the other end sighed. "Yes, that's right."

Annika's heart was pounding. This was the most unpleasant call a reporter could ever make- to the house of a person whose next of kin had just died. There was an ongoing debate within the press corps whether these calls should be made at all. Annika felt it was better to call than not, if for no other reason than to tell people what the paper was doing.

"Let me begin by saying how deeply saddened I am by the tragedy that has struck you and your family. The police have just announced that it was your wife Christina who died in the explosion at Victoria Stadium," she began.

The man said nothing.

"By the way, isn't this Christina's cellphone?" she heard herself ask.

"No, it's the family's," the man said in surprise.

"The reason I'm calling is to tell you that we will be writing about your wife in tomorrow's paper."

"You already have," the man said.

"Yes, we have been covering the bomb attack, the event itself."

"Weren't you the ones with that photo? The photo where…"

His voice cracked as he started sobbing. Annika put her hand over her mouth and stared up at the ceiling. God, the man had seen Henriksson's picture of the doctors picking up the pieces of his wife. God almighty! She soundlessly drew a breath.

"Yes, that was us," she said calmly. "I regret we couldn't warn you we would run that picture, but we have only now found out that your wife was the victim. I couldn't call any sooner. I apologize if the picture caused you suffering. That's why I believe it's vital to talk to you now. We will continue writing about this tomorrow."

The man was crying.

"If there's anything you want to say, I'm here," Annika said. "If you have any complaints or want us to write, or not write, about something in particular, we want you to tell us. Mr. Milander?"

He blew his nose.

"I'm still here," he said.

Annika looked up and through the glass wall saw the phalanx of media beginning to leave the building. Quickly she pushed the door open and went outside to stand next to the steps. Through the earpiece she heard two signals announce that someone was trying to get through to the other phone.

"I understand how completely awful this must be for you," she said. "I can't even begin to understand what it must be like. But this is a world event, one of the worst crimes ever committed in this country. Your wife was a prominent figure and a role model to the women of Sweden. That's why it's our duty to cover the event. And that's why I appeal to you to talk to us, to give us a chance to be respectful. Just tell me how you want it. We could make things even worse by writing the wrong things and unintentionally hurt you."

The call-waiting signal again. The man was wavering.

"I'll give you my own and my editor's direct numbers, and then you can call when you feel ready…"

"Come here," the man cut in. "I want to talk."

Annika closed her eyes and was ashamed of the exultation she felt inside. She had an interview with the victim's husband! She took the secret address, jotting it down on the back of a taxi receipt she found in her pocket. Before she had time to consider the ethics of it, she quickly added:

"Your phone will be ringing without interruption from now on. Don't hesitate to switch it off if you feel it's too much for you."

She had got hold of him. It would be best if no one else did.

She pushed inside the building to find her colleagues. The first one she bumped into was Berit.

"I got hold of the family," she said. "I'll take Henriksson and go there now. You do Furhage's last hours and Patrik the hunt for the murderer. How does that sound?"

"Fine," Berit said. "Henriksson is somewhere at the back. He dragged Kjell Lindström out to get a picture of him. It's probably quicker to go around…"

Annika rushed out and, sure enough, found Henriksson on Bergsgatan, the street around the corner from police headquarters. He was perched on a paper recycling container with Lindström below him and the steel-mesh corridor leading to the police station's security lodge in the background. She greeted Lindström and then pulled the young photographer along with her.

"Come along, Henriksson, you're getting the center spread again tomorrow," she told him.

Helena Starke wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She noticed it was smeared but didn't smell the vomit. All her senses were shut off, disengaged, gone. Smell, sight, hearing, taste were no more. She groaned and leaned further over the toilet. Was it really dark in here or had she gone blind? Her brain wasn't working; she couldn't think. There were no thoughts left. Everything she was had been grilled to charcoal and died. She felt the salty tears running down her face, but she didn't feel she was crying. There was nothing but an echo in her body. Her body was a void, filled only with a roaring noise: Christina is dead, Christina is dead, Christina is dead, Christina is dead…

Someone knocked on the door.

"Helena! How are you? Do you need any help?"

She groaned and sank to the floor, curling up under the washbasin. Christina is dead, Christina…

"Open the door, Helena! Are you ill?"

Christina is dead, Christina is dead…

"Get this door open, someone!"

Something hit her, something that hurt. It was the light from the fluorescents in the corridor.

"Christ, help her up! What happened?"

They would never understand, she mused, noticing that she still could think. They would never understand. Never ever.

She observed how someone was lifting her up. She heard someone screaming, then realized it was herself.

The building was a burnt ochre color and was built in Art-Nouveau style. It was situated in Upper Östermalm, on one of those tranquil streets where all the cars were shiny and the ladies had little white dogs on a leash. The entrance was magnificent, of course: marble floors, paneled doors with faceted glass panes, beechwood and brass in the elevator, marbled walls in a warm yellow tone. Facing the courtyard was a large ornamental stained-glass window with a floral pattern. The floor from the street door and all the way up the stairs was covered with a deep-pile runner carpet in green. Annika thought she recognized it from the Grand Hotel.

The apartment of the Furhage-Milander family was on the top floor.

"Let's tread very softly now," Annika whispered to Henriksson before she rang the doorbell. Five chimes sounded somewhere inside.

The door immediately opened, as if the man had been standing waiting behind it. Annika didn't recognize him; she had never seen him, even in a photo. Christina never brought her husband along anywhere. Bertil Milander was gray in the face and had dark shadows under his eyes. He was unshaven.

"Come in," was all he said.

He turned around and went straight into what looked like a large drawing room. His back was stooped under the brown jacket, and Annika was struck by how old he seemed. They took off their coats, then the photographer hung a Leica on his shoulder, leaving the camera bag by the shoe rack. Annika's feet sank into the thick carpets- this home would cost a fortune to insure.

The man had sat down on a couch, while Annika and the photographer ended up on another couch opposite him. Annika had taken out a pad and a pen.

"We're here to listen," she calmly began. "If there is anything you want to say, anything you want us to write, we'll take it into consideration."

Bertil Milander was looking down on his clasped hands. Then he began to cry quietly. Henriksson moistened his lips.

"Tell us about Christina," Annika urged him.

The man pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. He painstakingly wiped his nose before putting the handkerchief away. He gave a deep sigh and began:

"Christina was the most remarkable person I've ever met. She was absolutely formidable. There was nothing she couldn't do. Sharing one's life with such a woman was…"

He pulled out the handkerchief and blew his nose again.

"…a fresh adventure every day. She organized everything to do with the household. Food, cleaning, parties, laundry, finances, the responsibility for our daughter, she took care of everything…"

He stopped short and contemplated what he had said. It looked like he suddenly was struck by the meaning of his words. From now on it was all down to him.

He looked down at his handkerchief.

"Would you like to tell me how you met?" Annika asked, only to fill the silence. He didn't seem to have heard her.

"Stockholm would never have gotten the Olympics without her. She wrapped Samaranch around her little finger. She built up the entire campaign organization. It was such a success. Once she had secured the Games for Stockholm, they wanted to remove her and put someone else in charge, but naturally that was impossible. No one but she could do the job, and they soon realized that."

Annika noted down what the man was saying with a feeling of mounting confusion. She had often come across people in shock after traffic accidents and at crime scenes and knew that they could react in very peculiar ways, often quite irrationally, but Bertil Milander didn't sound like a bereaved husband. He sounded like a bereaved employee.

"How old is your daughter?"

"She was selected as 'Woman of the Year' by that American magazine, what's it called again…? Woman of the year. She was woman of the year. Woman of the whole of Sweden. Woman of the whole world."

Bertil Milander blew his nose again. Annika put her pen down and stared into her notepad. This didn't feel right. The man didn't know what he was doing or saying. He didn't seem to understand what she and the photographer were doing there.

"When did you hear about Christina's death?" Annika ventured.

Bertil Milander looked up.

"She never came home," he said. "She went to the Secretariat's Christmas party and never came home again."

"Were you worried when she didn't come home? Was she away often? She must have traveled quite a lot?"

The man straightened up on the couch and looked at Annika as if seeing her for the first time.

"Why do you ask that?" he said. "What do you mean?"

Annika deliberated for a second. This did not feel right. The man was in shock. His reactions were confused, he was rambling, and he didn't know what he was doing. But there was one question she had to ask.

"A threat had been made against the family," she said. "What was the nature of this threat?"

The man stared at her with his mouth open. He didn't seem to have heard her.

"The threat," Annika repeated. "Could you say anything about the threat against the family?"

He gave Annika a reproachful look.

"Christina did all she could," he said. "She's not a bad person. It wasn't her fault."

Annika felt a cold shiver run down her back. This was definitely not right. She collected her pad and pen.

"Thank you so much for seeing us under these circumstances," she said and started getting up from the couch. "We'll be…"

A slamming door made her jump and spin around. An emaciated-looking young woman with tousled hair and a sullen look came and stood behind the couch.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" the woman said Christina's daughter, Annika thought. She collected herself. She said they were from Kvällspressen.

"Hyenas," the woman said contemptuously. "Did you smell blood, is that why you came here? To get at the remains of the body? Suck out the best parts while you can?" She walked around the couch and came closer to Annika, who forced herself to remain seated and look calm.

"I'm so sorry about your mother's death…"

"Well, I'm not!" the daughter screamed. "I'm glad she's dead. Glad!" She burst into tears and left the room running. Bertil Milander showed no reaction; he was looking down at his hands twiddling the handkerchief.

"Is it okay to take a picture?" Henriksson said. It woke Bertil Milander up.

"Yes, yes, of course it is," he said, getting to his feet. "Right here?"

"Maybe if you could walk over to the window, that'll give us a bit more light."

Bertil Milander posed next to the beautiful, high windows. It would make a good picture. The thin daylight filtered through the mullioned window, the expensive blue curtains framing the portrait.

While the photographer shot his roll, Annika quickly went after the young woman into the room next door. It was a library, tastefully decorated with English period furniture and thousands of books. The woman was sitting in a burgundy leather armchair.

"I'm sorry if you feel we're intruding," Annika said. "It's not our intention to cause you any pain. On the contrary, we just want to tell you what we're doing."

The woman didn't reply. She didn't seem to notice Annika's presence.

"You and your father are welcome to call us if there's anything you wish to bring up, if you feel we're not telling the truth, or if there's anything you want to add or tell us."

No reaction.

"I'll give my phone number to your father," Annika said and left the room. Carefully, she closed the beautiful twin doors behind her.

Henriksson and Bertil Milander were standing in the hallway. Annika went up to them, pulled out a business card from her wallet, and added the editor's direct number to her own.

"Just call, if there's anything," she said. "I always have my phone on. Thank you for your trouble."

Bertil Milander took the card without looking at it. He put it on a gilt table next to the front door.

"My grief over her is endless," and Annika knew she had just gotten her headline for the center-spread photo.

The editor let out a sigh when he heard the knock at the door. He had hoped to get to the bottom of at least one of the piles of paper on his desk, but since he arrived at the paper an hour ago he hadn't had a quiet second.

"Come in," he said. He tried to relax. After all, he prided himself on his open-door policy.

It was Nils Langeby, and Anders Schyman's heart sank a bit further toward his shoes.

"Nils. What can I do for you?" he said without getting up from behind his desk.

Nils Langeby poised himself in the middle of the floor of the corner office, wringing his hands in a theatrical gesture.

"I'm worried about the crime desk," he began. "It's a complete mess."

Anders Schyman looked up at the reporter, stifling a sigh.

"How do you mean?"

"We're going to miss out on things; things are hanging in the air. Everyone feels insecure after the changes. What will become of our crime coverage?"

The editor pointed at a chair on the other side of his desk and Nils Langeby sat down.

"All change, even change that means improvement, brings some turbulence," Schyman said. "It's quite natural for the crime desk to be a bit unsettled. You've been without a chief for a long time and have just gotten a new one."

"Exactly, and that's what I feel is the problem. I don't think Annika Bengtzon is up to scratch."

Schyman gave it some thought.

"You don't think so? I feel exactly the opposite. I think she's a formidable reporter and a good organizer. She knows how to prioritize and delegate. And she doesn't balk at doing difficult and uncomfortable things. She's driven and knowledgeable. Just look at today's paper for an example of that. What's your problem with her, Nils?"

Nils Langeby leaned forward in a confidential gesture.

"People don't trust her. She thinks she's a big shot. She steps on people's toes and doesn't know how to behave properly."

"What do you mean, Nils?"

The reporter threw his hands out to the side.

"Well, I haven't been affected personally, but one hears things…"

"So you're here because you're concerned for your colleagues?"

"Yes. And because we're losing our coverage of crimes against the environment and in the school system."

"But I thought those particular areas were your responsibility?"

"Yes, but…"

"Has Annika tried to take them away from you?"

"No, not at all."

"So if we fail to get stories in those particular areas, it's really your responsibility, isn't it? It doesn't really have anything to do with Annika Bengtzon, does it?"

A look of confusion spread on Nils Langeby's face.

"I think you're a good reporter, Nils," the editor went on calmly. "It's people like you, with your weight of experience that this paper needs. You'll be continuing to supply us with headlines for a long time to come, I hope. I have full confidence in you, just as I have full confidence in Annika Bengtzon as crime desk editor. That's why my job here gets better and better every day. People grow and learn to work together for the benefit of the paper."

Nils Langeby was listening intently. He grew taller with each word. This was what he wanted to hear. The editor believed in him. He would go on producing headline copy and he would be a force to be reckoned with. When he left the room, he felt cheerful and in good heart. He was actually whistling to himself on his way out of the newsroom.

"Hiya, Nisse, what have you got cooking today?" he heard someone call from behind him.

It was Ingvar Johansson, the news editor. Nils Langeby stopped short and thought for a moment. He hadn't planned to work at all today, and he hadn't been called in. But the editor's words made him feel the measure of his responsibility.

"Well, quite a lot," he therefore replied. "The terrorist attack, the terrorist angle. That's what I'm working on today…"

"Great, it would be good if you could write it up straight away, so we have it ready for when the subs come in. Everyone else will have their hands full with Furhage."

"Furhage?" Nils Langeby said. "What about her?"

Ingvar Johansson looked up at the reporter.

"Didn't you hear? The mincemeat at the stadium, it was the Olympic boss."

"Yeah, right. Well, my sources tell me it was a terrorist attack, a clear as day terrorist attack."

"Police sources?" Ingvar Johansson sounded surprised.

"Impeccable police sources," Nils Langeby said, thrusting his chest out. He took off his leather jacket, started rolling up his shirt sleeves, and walked off toward his room along the corridor that overlooked the parking lot.

"I'll fucking show you, bitch!"

Anders Schyman barely had time to lift the first piece of paper from the top of the highest pile before there was another knock at the door. This time it was the photographer Ulf Olsson who wanted a heart-to-heart. He had just returned from the press conference at police headquarters and wanted to tell the editor in all confidentiality how he had been treated by the crime editor Annika Bengtzon the previous day.

"I'm not used to people criticizing me on account of my clothes," the photographer said, adding that he had been wearing an Armani suit at the time.

"Tell me what happened," Schyman said.

"Annika Bengtzon expressed her disapproval of my wearing a designer suit. I don't think I should have to take that. I've never been treated like that at other jobs."

Anders Schyman contemplated the man for a few seconds before replying.

"I don't know what went on between you and Annika Bengtzon," he said. "Nor do I know where you've worked previously or what the dress code was there. As far as I'm concerned- and I know that goes for Annika Bengtzon, too- you can wear Armani as much as you like. You can wear it down a coal mine if you want. But don't blame anyone but yourself if you've got the wrong clothes for a job. I and all the rest of the senior editors of this paper take it for granted that everyone here is reasonably up to date on what's happening in the world when they come to work. If there's been a murder or a bomb attack, just assume you'll be covering it. I suggest you get a big bag with long johns and maybe a tracksuit and keep it in the car…"

"I've already got a bag," the photographer said morosely. "Annika Bengtzon gave one to me."

Anders Schyman gave the man a detached look.

"Anything else I can do for you?" he said. The photographer got up and left.

The editor sighed heavily when the door closed. Jesus. Sometimes he felt like a grade school principal. Bunch of children. He longed to go home to his wife and a large whisky.

Annika and Johan Henriksson pulled up at McDonald's on Sveavägen and bought two Big Mac meals, which they ate in the car on their way back to the paper.

"I hate doing that," Henriksson said when he had put away the last of his French fries.

"Visiting bereaved families? Yeah, I guess that's about as bad as it gets," Annika said, wiping ketchup off her fingers.

"I can't help it, but I feel like a parasite sitting there," Henriksson said. "Like I'm only there to revel in their misfortune. Gloat because it looks good in the paper."

Annika wiped her mouth and pondered his words for a moment.

"Yes," she said, "it's easy to have that feeling. But sometimes people just want to talk. You mustn't think people are stupid just because they're in a state of shock. Sure, you have to show respect. It's not certain you'll write about the family just because you listen to and talk to them."

"But people who've just lost someone don't always know what they're doing."

"How can you be so sure?" Annika said. "Who are you to decide that someone shouldn't get the chance to talk? Who are we to judge what's best for a particular person in a particular situation? You, me, or that person? We're always arguing about this in the papers and no one has the right answer."

"I still think it's horrible," he said sulkily.

Annika smiled faintly.

"Of course it is. Facing a person who's just met with the worst possible misfortune is one of the hardest things that can happen to you, that's a fact. You can't do many interviews like that in a month. But you get used to it too. Think of people in the caring professions or in the church; they work with tragedies daily."

"They don't have to parade them on the front page," Henriksson said.

"Christ, will you stop carping!" Annika exclaimed, suddenly all steamed up. "It's not as if it's a punishment being on the front page! It shows you're important, that you count. Should we ignore all victims and members of family? Think of the fuss the victims' families kicked up after the Estonia ferry disaster. They felt they were getting far too little attention from the media, saying the papers only wrote about the faulty bow doors- and they were right. There was a time when it was taboo to even talk to an Estonia victim's family member. If you did, the entire morality mob from the current affairs programs would come after you full force."

"All right, Annika. No need to shout," Henriksson said.

"I'll shout if I fucking want to," Annika said.

They were quiet for the rest of the journey to the paper. In the elevator up to the newsroom, Henriksson gave a conciliatory smile and said:

"I think we got a really good picture of Mr. Milander by the window."

"That's nice," Annika said. "We'll have to see if we use it."

She opened the elevator door and quickly walked out without waiting for a reply.

Eva-Britt Qvist was busy compiling background material on Christina Furhage when Annika walked past on her way to her room. The secretary was surrounded by files full of old cuttings and computer printouts by the mile.

"There's no end to how much has been written about this woman," she said, trying hard to sound curt. "But I think I've found most of it now."

"Do you think you could prioritize the stuff, then hand it over to someone else to continue with?" Annika said.

"You have a way of presenting orders in the guise of questions," Eva-Britt said.

Annika couldn't be bothered even to answer but went into her office and hung up her coat and scarf. She got a cup of coffee and went over to Pelle Oscarsson, pulled up a chair, and looked at his computer screen. It was filled with stamp-sized pictures, all from the paper's archives, all depicting Christina Furhage.

"We've published more than six hundred in-house pictures of this woman," Pelle Oscarsson said. "We must have photographed her on average once a week over the last eight years. That's more than the King."

Annika gave a lopsided grin; yes, perhaps that was possible. Everything Christina Furhage had done over the past few years had attracted attention, and the woman had enjoyed it. Annika studied the photos: Christina Furhage at the inauguration of the Olympic arena; Christina Furhage briefing the Prime Minister; Christina Furhage meeting the popular singer Lill-Babs; Christina Furhage embracing Samaranch; Christina Furhage showing off her new autumn wardrobe in the Sunday supplement.

Pelle Oscarsson clicked and a new set of images appeared on the screen: Christina Furhage greeting the U.S. President, attending a Royal Theater gala premiere, having tea with the Queen, speaking at a women and leadership conference…

"Is there a single picture of her at home or with her family?" Annika wondered aloud.

The picture editor thought for a moment. "I don't think so," he said, taken aback. "Now that you mention it, there isn't one single personal picture of her. They're all official."

"I think we'll be all right, though," Annika said as the photos flashed by.

"We should use this one on the front page," Pelle said, clicking on a portrait taken in the newspaper's own studio. In a couple of seconds, the picture covered the entire screen, and Annika saw that the picture editor was right in his choice. It was a brilliant portrait of Christina Furhage. The woman was professionally made-up, her hair was shiny and styled, the lighting was warm and soft, smoothing out the lines in her face, she was wearing an expensive, close-fitting tailored suit, and had assumed a dignified, relaxed pose in an elegant antique armchair.

"How old was she?" Annika wondered.

"Sixty-two," the picture editor replied. "We did a piece on her last birthday."

"Wow," Annika said. "She looks fifteen years younger."

"Plastic surgery, healthy lifestyle, good genes…" Pelle said.

"Or all of them," Annika replied.

Anders Schyman walked past with an empty, dirty coffee mug in his hand. He looked tired, his hair was tousled, and he had loosened his tie.

"How are you doing?" he stopped and asked.

"We've been to see Furhage's family."

"Anything we can use?"

Annika hesitated. "Yes, I think so. Some. Henriksson took a picture of the husband, who was quite confused."

"We'll have to look at it carefully," he said and continued walking in the direction of the cafeteria.

"What pics do we use for the news stories?" Pelle Oscarsson asked while clicking the portrait away.

Annika swallowed the last of her coffee.

"We'll have to run through that with the others as soon as they arrive," she said.

She threw her plastic cup in Eva-Britt Qvist's wastepaper basket, went into her office, and shut the door behind her. It was telephone time. She started off with her contact; he was on the day shift today. She dialed his direct number, past the police headquarters' switchboard. She got lucky- he answered on the first ring.

"How did you figure that out, about her being off-record?" he wondered.

"When did you figure out it was Furhage?" Annika retorted without answering the question.

The man let out a sigh.

"Almost straightaway. It was her stuff at the stadium. But the actual identification took a bit longer, of course. You don't really want to make a mistake…"

Annika waited in silence, but he didn't continue. So she said:

"What next?"

"Checking, checking, checking. At least we know it wasn't the Tiger."

"How do you know?" Annika said in surprise.

"I can't tell you that, but it wasn't him. It was someone on the inside, just like you thought yesterday."

"I have to write that story today, you know that, don't you?" she said.

He sighed again.

"Yeah, I guessed as much," he said. "Thanks for keeping it under wraps for twenty-four hours, though."

"Give and take," Annika said.

"So what do you want?" he asked.

"Why was she off-record?"

"There was a threat, a written one, three or four years back. A kind of violent incident, too, but not very serious."

"What kind of violent incident?"

"I don't want to go into that. The person in question was never prosecuted. Christina didn't want to 'ruin' them, as she's supposed to have put it. 'Everyone deserves a second chance,' she is also reported to have said. She was content with moving and asking for- and getting- herself and her family classified as off-record."

"How magnanimous of her," Annika said.

"Absolutely."

"Did the threat have anything to do with the Olympics?"

"Not in the least."

"Was it someone she knew- a member of the family?"

The policeman hesitated.

"Yes, you could say that. The attacker had purely personal motives. That's why we don't want to make it public; it's too close to her. There is absolutely nothing that points to the bomb attack on the arena being a terrorist act. We believe it was aimed at Christina personally, but that doesn't mean the perpetrator was someone close to her."

"Will you question the person who threatened her?"

"We already have."

Annika blinked.

"You're not exactly sitting around doing nothing, from what you're saying. What did that give you?"

"We can't comment on that one. But I can say this: There is today no one person who's under more suspicion than anyone else."

"And who is 'anyone else'?"

"That you can figure out for yourself. Anyone who's ever had contact with her. That must be about four or five thousand people. We can rule out quit a few of them, but I don't intend to tell you who."

"There must be a lot of people with entry cards," Annika coaxed him.

"Who are you thinking of?"

"The Olympic Secretariat, the members of the IOC, the caretakers at the arena, people from all the contractors building the facilities, electricians, builders, foundry workers, transport firms, architects, security firms, the TV sports people…"

He remained silent.

"Am I wrong?" she asked.

"Not really. All the groups you mentioned have, have had, or will get entry cards, that's correct."

"But?"

"You won't get into the arena in the middle of the night with just an entry card," he said.

Annika racked her brains.

"The security codes! They've only been given to a small group of people!"

"Yes, but you'll have to keep that under your hat for the time being."

"Okay. For how long? Who has access to the security codes?"

The man laughed.

"You're incorrigible!" he said. "We're working on that right now."

"Couldn't the alarms at the arena have been disarmed?"

"And the doors unlocked? Come on, Bengtzon!"

She heard two voices in the background, then her contact covered the handset and said something. He removed his hand and said:

"I've got to go now."

"One more thing!" Annika said.

"What?"

"What was Christina Furhage doing at the stadium in the middle of the night?"

"That, my dear, is one hell of a good question. Speak to you later."

They hung up and Annika tried phoning home. No answer. She called Anne Snapphane, but she only got the fax machine. She called Berit until the automated answering service switched on. The phone-freak Patrik answered, however. He always did. It was one of his little quirks. Once he had answered while in the shower.

"I'm at the Olympic Secretariat," he yelled down the phone, another of his quirks. Despite his fondness for the phone, he didn't quite trust it, so he always had to shout to make sure his voice would be heard.

"What's Berit doing?" Annika asked, noticing that she too raised her voice.

"She's here with me, doing Furhage's last night," Patrik shouted. "I'm doing the Secretariat in shock."

"Where are you just now?" Annika forced herself to lower her voice.

"In some corridor. People are really upset," he roared.

Annika could imagine the Secretariat staff listening to the yelling tabloid reporter from behind their half-open office doors.

"Okay," Annika said. "We'll have to concoct something about the police hunt for the Bomber. When will you be back?"

"In about an hour," he shouted.

"Good, see you then," Annika said and hung up. She couldn't help smiling.

Evert Danielsson closed his door to shut out the noise of some reporter shouting into his phone in the corridor. In an hour, the board of directors would meet, the operational, active board of experts that Christina had called "her orchestra." The board was the real board, as opposed to the Honorary Board, or the Host Committee, as it was also called, which mostly posed for the camera. All decisions were officially made by the Honorary Board, but that was just a formality. The big guns there could be compared with the members of parliament in a one-party state, while the board was the executive committee of the ruling party.

The director was nervous. He was well aware of the series of mistakes he'd made since the bombing. He should have convened the board of directors yesterday, for one. Now the chairman of the board had done that instead, one day late, and that was a major slip. Instead of convening the board, he'd gone ahead and briefed the media on a number of issues that he really had no authority to talk about. On one hand, the talk of terrorist acts; on the other, the details about the reconstruction of the North Stand. He knew that question should have been discussed by the board first. There had been a brief strategy meeting the day before, a meeting which with hindsight had taken on an increasingly panicky appearance. The informal management group had decided to seize the initiative and not to hesitate, nor attempt a coverup. They would grasp the nettle immediately. Awaiting Christina's reappearance, they'd decided to use Danielsson as a spokesman, instead of the press people, to lend weight to the message.

But the management group had no executive powers. Only the board could make any real decisions. That's where you found the real heavyweights: the government representative being the Minister for Trade and Industry; a leading councillor of the Stockholm City Council; the managing directors of the various firms involved; an IOC expert; two representatives of the sponsors; and a lawyer specializing in international law. The chairman of the board was also a government man, Hans Bjällra, the Stockholm County Governor. The management group might be fast and efficient, but its importance was pitiful compared with the board of directors. The group was composed of a core of people who were responsible for the day-to-day administration of the project: the financial manager; himself and Christina; Helena Starke and the communications director; a couple of the deputy managing directors; and finally Doris from the budget department. Between them they dealt with practical matters swiftly and easily. Christina saw to it that the board endorsed their decisions after the event. It could be anything from money and budget matters to policymaking on various environmental issues, infrastructure, the design of arenas, legal obstacles, and all sorts of campaigns.

The difference now was that Christina wasn't there to sweep up after them. He knew he wouldn't be let off the hook. The director of the Secretariat put his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands. He couldn't stop a deep sob from traveling the whole length of his body. Damn! Damn! He had worked so hard these past few years! He really didn't deserve this. The tears fell in drips between his fingers and onto the papers on his desk, forming transparent little globules that blurred the writing and graphs. He didn't care.

Annika turned on her computer and sat down to write. She began with the information gleaned from her police source. The things she learned from her unofficial channels, her "deep throats," she kept strictly to her self. She never recorded these conversations- there was always a risk that the tape would be left in the machine and someone else would find it. Instead she took notes, and then immediately typed them out, saving her text on a disk. These disks she kept under lock and key in a drawer of her desk. The handwritten notes she tore up and threw away. She never imparted any part of these conversations to people in handovers or at news conferences. The only one who, if necessary, got to hear her confidential information was the editor-in-chief, Anders Schyman.

She had no illusions about why this information was given to her especially. It wasn't because she was better or more important than any other reporter. She was dependable, and that together with her clout at Kvällspressen's news conferences made her the right person to give information the police wanted publicized. There were a lot of reasons to leak information like this, but for the police, as for all other organizations, one thing was paramount: They wanted their version of events to be presented by the mass media. Especially when it came to the dramatic kind of events the police were usually concerned with, TV and newspapers had a tendency to rush ahead and jump to conclusions. A controlled leak gave the police a chance to stop at least the worst blunders.

In some journalistic circles, it was considered unethical not to report everything you knew at all times. You were always a reporter, first and foremost a reporter, nothing else but a reporter. This meant that you didn't hesitate to expose your neighbors, friends of your children, or your mother-in-law. Santa Claus himself if you got something on him. Talking to a police officer or a politician off the record just wasn't an option. Annika thought this was bullshit. She was first and foremost a human being, then a mother, then a wife, and after that an employee of Kvällspressen. She didn't at all feel she was a reporter in the sense of being a special correspondent of God or some other higher power. Her experience had also taught her that the reporters with the loftiest and noblest principles were the biggest bastards. That was why she was happy to let people speculate on her sources and be sniffy about her working methods. As for herself, she felt her work was important and that was good enough for her.

Once she had locked the disk away in her drawer, she wrote a short piece about her visit to Bertil Milander's house. She kept it to the point and made it dignified, stressing that Milander himself had invited the paper, and she included his praise of his wife. She didn't mention the daughter at all. She filed her copy into the list of stories held on the newsroom server.

She got to her feet and restlessly stretched her legs in her glass cage. Her office lay between two newsroom landscapes, news and sports, with glass walls either side. The only daylight came in indirectly from beyond the two offices. To make it feel less like a fish tank and to shut out people's stares, her predecessor had put up blue curtains of some obscure material. It must have been at least five years since anyone had washed, aired, or paid any attention to these pieces of fabric. They may once have looked stylish, but now they were simply sad. Annika wished someone would do something about them. One thing she knew for certain, it wouldn't be her.

She went out to Eva-Britt Qvist's desk, which was right outside her office. The crime-desk secretary had obviously gone home and she hadn't told her. The research material lay in piles on the desk, marked with yellow Post-it notes. Annika perched herself on the desk and started browsing through the material at random, full of curiosity. Christ, so much had been written about the woman. She picked up the printout that lay on top of the pile marked "Outlines" and started reading. It was a long interview from one of the main Sunday broadsheets, a warm and intelligent piece that actually gave a taste of the person Christina Furhage was. The questions were sharp and to the point, and Furhage's answers clever and succinct. The conversation, however, exclusively turned on the relatively impersonal subjects of Olympic economics and organization theory; femininity and career opportunities; and the importance of sport for the national identity. Annika skimmed the text. Christina Furhage consistently managed to avoid saying anything that was the least bit personal.

But then this was taken from one of the broadsheets. They didn't care much for the personal, only the public. They only touched on that which was masculine, politically correct, and clean, avoiding anything that was emotional, interesting, or feminine. She put the printout to the side and leafed through the pile to look for an interview from the tabloid supplements. Sure enough, they were there, with the obligatory fact box on the person: Name: Christina Furhage; family: husband and one child; residence: house in Tyresö; income: high; smokes: no; drinks: yes, wine and coffee; best personal quality: that's for others to judge; worst personal quality: for others to judge… Annika leafed on. The answers in the boxes were the same for the four years since she was put off the records. Never any mention of her husband's or child's name, and she always said she lived in the house in Tyresö. She found a six-year-old article in a Sunday supplement where she gave Bertil and Lena as her family. So that was the name of the daughter. Her surname was probably Milander.

She left the pile of profiles and started on the thinnest pile, marked "Conflicts." There didn't seem to have been many of these. The first piece was about a dispute over a sponsor that had backed out. It had nothing to do with Christina Furhage; her name was mentioned in one place, thus the "hit" in the computer search. The next article was about a demonstration against the effects of the building of the Olympic stadium on the environment. Annika was getting annoyed. This had nothing to do with Christina Furhage personally. Eva-Britt had done a lousy job. She was supposed to weed out stuff like this. That was the whole point of having a research assistant on the crime desk. She was supposed to compile background material to save time for the reporters in tight situations. Annika picked up the whole pile of conflicts and leafed through it: demonstrations, protests, a think piece… Annika stopped. What was this? She fished out a small piece from the bottom and dropped the rest of the pile. "Olympic Supremo Fires Secretary for Love Affair" was the headline.

Annika immediately knew who had carried the story: It was Kvällspressen, of course. The story was seven years old. A young woman was forced to leave her job at the newly established Olympic Secretariat because of an affair with one of her superiors. "It's humiliating and outdated," the woman had said to the reporter from Kvällspressen. Christina Furhage declared that the woman had not been fired but that her contract had simply expired. It had nothing to do with any love affair. End of story. The article didn't name either the woman or her superior. No one else had run the story. Annika wasn't surprised: It was extremely thin. This was the only conflict involving Christina Furhage that had been reported in the media. She must have been a brilliant boss and administrator, Annika concluded. For a moment she contemplated the mass of media coverage over the years about conflicts in her own workplace, and this wasn't even such a bad place.

"Anything interesting?" Berit asked from behind her.

Annika stood up.

"You're back, good. No, nothing special. Well, maybe. Furhage let a young woman employee go because she'd had a relationship with her boss. It's worth keeping in mind… What have you found?"

"Quite a lot. Shall we go through it quickly?"

"Let's wait for Patrik," Annika said.

"I'm here," he called from the picture desk. "I'm just…" He walked away to attend to whatever he needed to do.

"Let's go into my office," Annika said.

Berit went to her desk and hung up her things. In Annika's office, she sat on the old couch, balancing her notes and a cup of coffee from the coffee machine.

"I've tried to piece together Christina Furhage's last hours. The Secretariat had a Christmas party at a restaurant in west-central Stockholm on Friday evening. Christina stayed until midnight. I went over there and talked to the waiters. I also spoke to Evert Danielsson, the director of the Secretariat."

"Good." Annika said. "So what were her movements?"

Berit looked at her notes. "Furhage arrived late at the restaurant, after 10 P.M. The others had already eaten- a Basque Christmas dinner, as a matter of fact. She left with a colleague, Helena Starke, just before midnight. No one saw her after that."

"The explosion was at 3:17 A.M., which leaves more than three hours unaccounted for," Annika said. "What does Helena Starke say?"

"Don't know, she's ex-directory. She lives in South Island, but I haven't had time to go there yet."

"Starke's good; we have to talk to her," Annika said. "What else? What was Furhage doing before she went to the Christmas party?"

"Danielsson thinks she was at the office, but he isn't sure. Apparently she put in hugely long hours at the office, like fourteen, fifteen hours a day."

"Superwoman," Annika muttered, remembering Christina's husband's ovation for all the work she did at home too.

"Who does The Furhage Story?" Berit asked.

"One of the masters of style over at the features department. I went to see the family- that didn't produce much. Tricky lot…"

"How do you mean?"

Annika thought a second. "Bertil, her husband, was old and gray. He was quite confused. He seemed to feel admiration for his wife rather than love. The daughter came in screaming and crying, saying she was glad her mother was dead."

"Really…"

"How's it going?" Patrik said as he came through the door.

"Fine. What about you?" Annika asked.

"Well, this will be great," he said, sitting down next to Berit. "So far the police have found one hundred and twenty-seven pieces of Christina Furhage."

Both Berit and Annika grimaced.

"That's disgusting! You can't use that!" Annika exclaimed.

The young reporter smiled, unruffled.

"They've found blood and teeth all the way over to the main entrance. That's several hundred meters."

"You're making me want to puke. Have you got anything worse?" Annika said.

"They still don't know what the Bomber used to blow her up. Or they're not saying."

"So what will your story be?"

"I've talked to an all-right cop about the hunt for the killer. I can do that."

"Okay," Annika said. "I've got some stuff on that, too. What have you got?"

Patrik leaned forward, his eyes shining.

"The police are looking for Christina Furhage's laptop. They know she had a laptop computer with her on the Friday night; a girl from the Secretariat saw it. But it's gone, it wasn't among the debris at the arena. They believe the murderer must have taken it."

"Couldn't it have been blown up?" Berit asked.

"Impossible, at least according to my source," Patrik said. "The computer is gone, and that's their best lead, so far."

"Anything else?" Annika said.

"They're considering asking Interpol to help catch the Tiger."

"It wasn't the Tiger," Annika said. "It was an inside job. The police are sure of that."

"How do they know?" Patrik said with surprise.

Annika thought about her promise not to say anything about the security codes. "Trust me, I've got a reliable source. What else?"

"I've talked to the staff at the Olympic Secretariat. They're on the verge of a collective breakdown. Christina Furhage seems to have been a Christ figure to them. Everyone's in tears, including Evert Danielsson. I heard him through his door. I don't know how they're going to get by without her. She seems to have had all the good qualities a person can have."

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Berit said. "Isn't it possible for a middle-aged woman to be liked and appreciated?"

"Sure, but to that extent…"

"Christina Furhage had an outstanding career, and she handled her job as Olympic supremo excellently. When a woman succeeds in running a project like this from start to finish, you can bet your life she's something out of the ordinary. Twenty-eight simultaneous world championships, that's what the Olympics is."

"Are her achievements so remarkable just because she was a woman?" Patrik said teasingly, and that really made Berit hot under the collar.

"Oh, please, will you grow up!"

Patrik got to his feet. "What the hell do you mean by that?" he exclaimed.

Annika wanted to back up her female colleague. "Patrik, you're a man and you aren't affected by the oppression of women. Of course, it's more difficult for a woman than for a man to hold down a position like hers, just as it would be more difficult for someone who was deaf and dumb than for someone with his faculties intact. Being a woman is tantamount to being a walking handicap. Do you have anything more?"

Patrik was bemused. "What do you mean, 'a walking handicap'?"

The atmosphere was getting a little tense. Annika let it drop. "Do you have anything else?"

He leafed through his notes.

"The hunt for the Bomber, the Olympic Secretariat in shock… No, that's all I've got."

"Okay, Berit does Christina Furhage's last day. I do the family and add to your story on the hunt for the killer. Finished?"

They parted without saying anything more. The strain is beginning to show on us, Annika thought. She switched on the radio for the news at a quarter to six. Their top story was naturally the followup on the news that one of Sweden's most powerful and well-known women, Christina Furhage, was dead. They started off with commentaries on her life and work and continued with the effects this would have on the Games and sports in general. As might have been expected, Samaranch retracted his earlier statement he had made in a rival paper. After eleven minutes, they mentioned the fact that Furhage had been murdered. That's how they did it at Dagens Eko, first everything that was nice and general and impersonal, then- to the extent that they mentioned it at all- the unpleasant and upsetting. If they covered a murder, they almost always put their focus on some legal subtlety, never on the victim, the families, or the perpetrator. They would, however, run seventeen stories on the piece of equipment with which the perpetrator's brain had been examined; that was science and therefore superior information. Annika let out a sigh. In passing, they also mentioned her own story from yesterday's paper about the threat and Furhage being off-record, but it was an aside. She turned off the radio and collected the material she needed for the news meeting in the editor's office. She had a sinking feeling. Ingvar Johansson had been strange all day, short-tempered and offhand. She realized she must have done something wrong but had no idea what. There was no sign of him now.

Anders Schyman was on the phone; it sounded like he was talking to a child on the other end. Picture Pelle had already taken a seat at the conference table with his long lists. She opted to go over to the window and stare at her own reflection. If she put her hand against the glass to block out the light from the room and stood really close, she could make out the world beyond. There was a dense darkness. The yellow lights of the Russian Embassy were golden specks floating in a sea of blackness. Even this little morsel of Russia was gloomy and ominous-looking. She shuddered from the cold coming in through the window.

"Alles gut?" chirped Jansson, who had just woken up, spilling a bit more coffee on the editor's carpet. "My last night with you lot, then I've got three shifts off. Where the hell's Ingvar Johansson?"

"Right here. Shall we get started?"

Annika sat down and noted that Ingvar took hold of the reins today. So that was it, she had talked too much at yesterday's meeting.

"Right, let's set the ball rolling," Anders Schyman said, putting the phone down. "What have we got, and what's the page lead?"

Ingvar Johansson handed out copies of his list and started talking as he did so: "I think we should lead with Nils Langeby's stuff, that the police are sure it was a terrorist attack. They're chasing a foreign terrorist group."

Annika was stunned. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"What are you talking about?" she exclaimed. "Is Nils here today? I didn't even know. Who called him in?"

"I don't know," Ingvar Johansson said, irritated. "I assumed you did: You're his boss."

"But where on earth did he get that about a terrorist attack from?" Annika said, barely able to keep her voice steady.

"Why should he have to divulge his sources? You never do," Ingvar Johansson said.

Annika felt the blood surge into her face. Everyone around the table was looking at her. Suddenly it hit her that they were all men, except for her.

"We have to synchronize our stories," she said in a strained voice. "My information is the exact opposite: It wasn't a terrorist act. The attack was aimed at Christina personally."

"In what way?" Ingvar Johansson said, and Annika knew she was done for. She could either disclose what she knew, and then both Jansson and Ingvar Johansson would demand she write about the security codes. The news editor who'd keep a juicy angle like that under wraps didn't exist. Or she could keep quiet, and that she couldn't do because then they'd walk all over her. She quickly chose a third way out.

"I'll call and talk to my source again," she said.

Anders Schyman gave her a questioning look. "We'll sit tight and wait before we decide on the terrorist lead," he said. "Let's go on."

Annika didn't say anything but waited for Ingvar Johansson to continue. Which he did more than willingly.

"We'll do a whole pull-out: Christina Furhage in memoriam. Her life in words and images. We have lots of tributes: the King, the White House, the Cabinet, Samaranch, a whole bunch of sportsmen and women, TV personalities. Everyone wants to pay tribute to her. It'll be really potent, really strong…"

"What happened to the sports supplement?" Anders Schyman said softly.

Ingvar Johansson was at a loss.

"Well, we'll make use of those pages for the memorial pull-out, sixteen pages in four-color print, and then add two pages to the regular sports section."

"Four-color?" Anders Schyman said doubtfully. "That means lifting a lot of color pages from the actual paper to the pull-out. It will leave the paper virtually gray, won't it?"

Ingvar Johansson was blushing by now.

"Well, er, yes, I suppose…"

"How come I wasn't informed of this?" Anders Schyman said calmly. "I've been here more or less the whole day. You could have come in at any time and discussed it."

The news editor looked like he wished a hole would open up in the conference room floor.

"I don't have an answer to that. It all went so fast."

"That's a shame," Schyman said. "Because we're not having a four-color pull-out on Christina Furhage. She wasn't a popular favorite in that way. She was an elite business executive, enormously admired by some, true, but neither royalty, nor elected by the people, nor a TV personality. We'll put the memorial pages inside the paper, forget about the pull-out, and increase the number of pages instead. Because I don't suppose sports will have started on a pull-out?"

Ingvar Johansson was staring down at the table.

"What else have we got?"

No one said a word. Annika waited in silence. This was extremely unpleasant.

"Bengtzon?"

She straightened her back and looked at her papers.

"We can do quite a substantial bit on the hunt for the killer. Patrik has found out that Furhage's laptop is missing and I've also got a good source for the insider theory…"

She fell silent, but no one said anything so she continued: "Berit is doing Furhage's last hours. I've met her family."

"Oh, yes, how was it?" Schyman asked.

Annika paused, thinking, then said:

"The husband was mildly confused, that has to be said. The daughter was totally unhinged. I'm not mentioning her. The question is: Should we publish anything at all? We could be in for a lot of criticism for even approaching the husband."

"Did you trick him into talking?" Anders Schyman said.

"Absolutely not," Annika replied.

"Was he reluctant in any way?"

"No, not at all. He asked us to come, so that he could tell us about Christina. I've written the copy, and it's on the server. He didn't say much, though."

"Do we have a picture?" Schyman wondered.

"Henriksson got a great photo," Pelle Oscarsson said. "The man is standing by the window, tears glistening in his eyelashes. It's a beauty."

Schyman gave the picture editor an expressionless look.

"Okay. I want to see that picture before it goes off to print."

"Sure," Pelle Oscarsson said.

"Well, then," Schyman said. "There's another issue I'd like to discuss, so we might as well do it right away."

He pulled his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end, then reached for his coffee, but changed his mind. For some reason this gave Annika the creeps. Had she made any more mistakes?

"There's a killer on the loose," the editor said, quoting a famous 1970s rock song. "I want each and every one of us to be aware of this when we publish pictures and interviews with people who were close to Christina Furhage. The majority of all murders are committed by someone close to the victim. That seems to be the case here, too: The Bomber could be someone who wanted revenge on Christina personally."

He fell silent and let his gaze travel around the table. No one said anything.

"Well, you must know what I'm getting at," he said. "I'm thinking of the Bergsjö murder, you remember? The little girl who was murdered in the basement. Everyone pitied the weeping mother while the father was the main suspect. Then the mother turned out to be the killer."

He raised his hand against the immediate protests.

"Yes, I know, we can't be police detectives and it's not our job to judge, but I do think we should bear it in mind with this case."

"Statistics say it should be her husband," Annika said dryly. "Husbands and partners are responsible for almost all murders of women."

"Could that be the case here?"

Annika paused and considered the question.

"Bertil Milander is a stooped old man. It's difficult to imagine him running about in sport arenas with his arms full of explosives. But he may not have done it himself. He could have hired someone to do it."

"Any other possible suspects? What about the people at the Secretariat?"

"Evert Danielsson, the director," Annika said. "The deputy managing directors of the different divisions: accreditation, transport, arenas, events, the Olympic Village. There are quite a few of them. There's the chairman of the board, Hans Bjällra. Among the members of the board, there are both local politicians and cabinet ministers…"

Schyman sighed.

"Okay, it's pointless to lose sleep over that. What have we got for the rest of the paper?"

Ingvar Johansson ran through the rest of his list: a pop singer who'd been given planning permission to build a winter garden despite protests from the neighbors, a cat that had survived five thousand spins in a tumble-dryer, a sensational derby victory, and all-time high audience figures for Channel 1's Saturday programming.

They ended the meeting soon afterwards, Annika hurrying away to her office. She closed the door behind her, feeling dizzy. Partly because she'd forgotten about dinner, partly because she could feel the power struggles in the news conferences were grinding her down. She held on to the desk while walking toward the chair. She'd just sat down when there was a knock at the door and the editor-in-chief walked in.

"What did your source say?" Schyman asked.

"It was an act by a single perpetrator," Annika said and pulled out the bottom drawer. If her memory served her right, there was a cinnamon bun there.

"Directed at Furhage personally?"

The bun was moldy.

"Yep, not at the Games. They are convinced of it because someone had used the security codes to disarm the alarm system to get in the stadium. The codes were only distributed to a very narrow circle of people. The threat against her had nothing to do with the Olympics. It came from someone close to her."

The editor gave a whistle.

"How much of this can you write about?"

She pulled a face.

"None of it, really. It's difficult to say anything about serious threats against her immediate family. The family would have to comment, and they don't want to do that; I asked today. The security codes I promised to keep quiet about. The codes and Patrik's missing laptop are essentially all the police have to go on."

"That's what they say to you," Schyman said. "It's not clear they're telling you everything."

Annika looked down.

"I'm going off to Langeby to find out what the hell he's up to. Don't go anywhere, I'll be back."

He got up and closed the door carefully behind him. Annika stayed in her chair, her head almost empty and her stomach emptier than that. She had to eat something before she fainted.

Thomas didn't come home with the kids until half past six. All three of them were soaked through, exhausted and supremely happy. Ellen almost fell asleep on the sled on the way home from the park, but one more song and a snowball fight soon made her shriek with laughter again. Now they all fell in a big heap on the floor inside the front door and helped each other off with their wet clothes. The kids took hold of one foot each to help Thomas off with his boots. When they didn't succeed, they both pulled in opposite directions until he pretended to split in two. Then he put them in a hot bath and let them splash around while he cooked semolina pudding for them. That was real Sunday-night food: white porridge with lots of cinnamon and sugar, plus ham sandwiches. He took the opportunity to wash Ellen's long hair, using the last of Annika's conditioner because the girl so easily got knots in her hair and it hurt her to comb it out. They ate in their towel bathrobes, and then they all crept into the big double bed and read Bamse. Ellen fell asleep after two pages, but Kalle listened wide-eyed to the end of the story.

"Why is Burr's daddy so mean all the time?" he asked afterwards. "Is it because he doesn't have a job?"

Thomas thought about it. He ought to be able to answer that, manager at the Association of Local Authorities that he was.

"You don't get mean and unkind just because you don't have a job," he said. "But you can become unemployed if you're really nasty and mean. Nobody wants to work with someone like that, do they?"

The boy gave that some thought.

"Mommy sometimes says I'm mean to Ellen. Do you think I'll get a job?"

Thomas lifted the boy into his arms and blew softly in his wet hair, rocking him slowly back and forth, feeling his damp warmth through the bathrobe.

"You're a wonderful little boy, and you're going to get any job you want when you grow up. But both Mommy and I get sad when you and Ellen quarrel, and you can be such a tease, you know. You don't have to tease people and quarrel with them. You and Ellen love each other, you're sister and brother. That's why it's nicer for everyone if we can all be friends."

They boy nestled up in a little ball, put his thumb in his mouth, and said: "I love you, Daddy."

The words filled Thomas with a great and powerful sense of warmth. "I love you, too, my little boy. Do you want to go to sleep in my bed?"

Kalle nodded, and Thomas pulled off his damp bathrobe and put the pajamas on him. He carried Ellen to her bed and put on her nightie. He watched her lying in her little bed for a few moments; he never tired of looking at her. She was the spitting image of Annika, but she had his blond hair. Kalle looked just like he had at that age. They were truly two miracles. It sounded banal, but it was an inescapable fact.

He put out the lamp and closed the door quietly. This weekend the children had barely laid eyes on Annika. He had to admit that it got to him when she worked this much. She became engrossed in her work in an unhealthy way. She got completely absorbed, and everything else in the world came second. She lost her temper with the children and thought only about her stories.

He went into the TV room, grabbed the remote, and sat down on the couch. The bomb attack and Christina Furhage's death was undeniably a big thing. All the channels, including Sky, BBC, and CNN, had nonstop coverage of it. On Channel 2, there was a commemorative program about the Olympic supremo; a load of people in a studio discussing the Olympics and Christina's achievements, interspersed with an interview with the deceased that Britt-Marie Mattsson had conducted a year before. Christina Furhage was actually extremely clever and funny. He watched with fascination for a while. Then he called Annika to see if she was on her way home.

Berit stuck her head through the door.

"Do you have a minute?"

Annika waved her in. The phone started ringing. She glanced at the display and continued writing.

"Aren't you going to get it?" Berit wondered.

"It's Thomas," Annika replied. "Asking me when I'll be leaving- trying to sound sweet. If I don't answer he'll be happy because he'll think I've already left."

The phone on the desk stopped ringing, and instead the cellphone started playing a melody that sounded familiar to Berit. Annika ignored that too and let the answering service take it.

"I can't get hold of this Helena Starke woman," Berit said. "She's not listed, and I've asked her neighbors to ring her doorbell and put notes in her letterbox asking her to call us and all sorts of things like that, but she hasn't been in touch. I don't have time to go there myself. I have to write up my Christina Furhage story…"

"Why?" Annika said with surprise and stopped writing. "I thought the features department was taking care of that?"

Berit smiled a lopsided grin

"Yes, but the master of style developed a migraine when he heard the pull-out had been spiked. So I now have three hours to write a puff piece."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Don't despair," Annika said. "I'll pass by Starke's on my way home. South Island, wasn't it?"

Berit gave her the address. When the door closed behind her, Annika tried calling her police contact again, in vain. She groaned quietly. She'd have to write the story now; she just couldn't sit on this information any longer. It would have to be a technical somersault, since the words "security codes" couldn't be mentioned, but the essentials would be there.

She managed better than she'd expected. The angle was that the act was an inside job. She couldn't mention that the arena's alarms were not primed and nothing had been broken into. She quoted sources other than the police in connection with the entry card and the possibility of getting access to the arena in the middle of the night. She also wrote that the police were closing in on a small group of people who, theoretically speaking, could possibly have committed the act. Together with Patrik's stuff, it made two great stories. After that, she wrote up a separate piece about the police having already interviewed the person who threatened Christina Furhage a couple of years back. She was almost done when Anders Schyman returned.

"Why did I ever become an editor!" he exclaimed and sat down on the couch.

"What do we do? Splash the news of an international terrorist organization on the front page, or expose the Olympic Secretariat?" Annika asked.

"I think Nils Langeby is losing it," Schyman said. "He maintains his story is accurate but refuses to divulge a single source or say exactly what they've said."

"So what do we do?" Annika said.

"We do the insider job, of course. But let me read it first."

"I've got it right here." Annika clicked on the document, and the editor got up and walked over to her desk.

"Do you want to sit down?"

"No, no, you sit…"

He glanced through the text.

"Crystal clear," he said and prepared to leave. "I'll talk to Jansson."

"What else did Langeby say?" Annika quietly asked.

He stopped and gave her a serious look.

"I think Nils Langeby is going to become a real problem for both of us," he said, leaving the room.

Helena Starke lived in a brown 1920s apartment block on Ringvägen. Naturally, the street door had a code lock and Annika didn't have the code. She pushed the phone earpiece into her ear and called information, asking for numbers for some of the residents at 139 Ringvägen.

"We can't just hand out numbers like that," the operator said tartly.

Annika let out a sigh. Sometimes it worked to ask for numbers in that way but not always.

"Okay, I'm looking for an Andersson at 139 Ringvägen."

"Would that be Arne Andersson or Petra Andersson?"

"Both," Annika replied quickly and jotted down the numbers on her pad. "Thank you!"

She called the first number. No answer, maybe he'd gone to bed. It was nearly half past ten. Petra was at home, and she sounded somewhat put out.

"I'm so sorry," Annika said, "but I'm visiting a friend who lives next door to you. I've been buzzing, but there's no answer. I know she's there. I'm getting a bit worried…"

"Which neighbor?" Petra asked.

"Helena Starke," Annika said. Petra laughed. It wasn't a friendly laugh.

"So you're visiting Starke at half past ten at night? Good luck, girl!" she said and gave Annika the code.

You hear so many strange things, Annika thought while walking inside. Helena Starke lived on the fourth floor. She rang the doorbell twice, but no one answered the door. She looked around the hallway, trying to figure out which direction Helena Starke's apartment faced and how big it could be. She went down on the street again and started counting. Starke ought to have at least three windows facing the street, and the light was on in two. She was probably at home. Annika returned inside and went back up in the elevator. She pushed the doorbell for a long time, then she opened the letterbox and said:

"Helena Starke? My name is Annika Bengtzon. I'm from Kvällspressen. I know you're there. Won't you open the door?"

She waited in silence for a while, then she heard the door-chain rattle on the other side. The door opened slightly and she caught a glimpse of a woman with eyes swollen from weeping.

"What do you want?" Helena Starke said quietly.

"I'm sorry to bother you like this, but we've been trying to get hold of you all day."

"I know. I've had fifteen notes through my letterbox from you and all the others."

"Could I come in for a moment?"

"Why?"

"We'll be writing about Christina Furhage's death in tomorrow's paper, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions."

"What about?"

Annika sighed.

"I'll be happy to explain, but I'd rather not do it out here."

Starke opened the door and let her in the apartment. It was extremely untidy. The air was heavy, and Annika thought she could smell vomit. They went into the kitchen, where the dishes were piled high, and on one of the burners stood an empty bottle of brandy. Helena Starke herself was dressed only in a T-shirt and panties. Her hair was in disarray and her face was all swollen.

"Christina's death is a terrible loss," she said. "There wouldn't have been any Stockholm Olympics if it weren't for her."

Annika took out a pad and pen and took notes. How come everyone kept saying the same things about Christina Furhage? she wondered.

"What was she like as a person?" Annika asked out loud.

"Extraordinary," Helena Starke said, staring down at the floor. "She was a great role model for the rest of us. Driven, intelligent, tough, funny… everything. She could do anything."

"If I've understood it correctly, you were the last one to see her alive?"

"Except for the murderer, yes. We left the Christmas party together. Christina was tired and I was pretty drunk."

"Where did you go?"

Helena Starke stiffened.

"What do you mean 'go'? We said goodbye by the subway. I went home and Christina took a taxi."

Annika raised her eyebrows. She hadn't heard anything about Christina Furhage getting in a taxi after midnight. Then there would be someone who had seen the woman after Helena Starke. The taxi driver.

"Did Christina have any enemies within the Olympic organization?"

Helena Starke gave a sob.

"Who would that be?"

"That's what I'm asking you. You work at the Secretariat, don't you?"

"I was Christina's PA," the woman said.

"Meaning you were her secretary?"

"No, she had three secretaries. I was her right hand, you could say. I think it's time for you to go now."

Annika collected her stuff in silence. Before she left, she turned around and asked:

"Christina fired a young woman from the Secretariat for having an affair with one of her superiors. How did the rest of the personnel react to that?"

Helena Starke stared at her.

"I think you should go now."

"This is my card. I'll leave it here. Call me if there's anything you want to add or correct," Annika reeled off her usual spiel and put the card on a table in the hall. She saw a note with a telephone number by the phone on the table, and she quickly jotted it down. Helena Starke didn't follow her to the door. Annika quietly closed it behind her.