“What can I help you with?” she asked, getting up to move the clothes she’d tossed over the only other chair in the room.
Schyman pulled the sliding door closed behind him and adopted what he hoped was an open, neutral expression.
“I wanted to know what was happening with the disclosure ban and your job,” he said, managing to sound both pedagogical and friendly. “How do you think it’s working? Is there much of a clash?”
Annika Bengtzon sat down again, sighed heavily and threw a half-eaten Lucia bun into the wastebasket. She had brushed her hair and looked as if she’d actually slept for once.
“I can’t see any problems,” she said, “but I get the impression that Berit and the others are finding it a nuisance. They think I’m holding back on a load of information that I don’t actually have, and they’re tiptoeing round me even though there’s no need.”
The editor in chief sat on the other chair and nodded.
“Yes, that’s the impression I’ve got as well,” he said, “and I think it’s an unfortunate situation. I know you can’t tell me, but I’m going to ask anyway: do you know anything that you haven’t told us? Anything that could be of the slightest interest?”
Annika looked at him with her heavily made-up eyes. There was something about her that always unsettled him, as if she knew something about him that she shouldn’t.
Now she stared at him in silence for several seconds.
“Two things,” she finally said. “There are two things I noticed but haven’t said. As far as I can see, they wouldn’t add anything of value to our reporting, but they haven’t been released publically yet, I presume for reasons connected to the inquiry.”
“I’m not going to ask what they are,” Schyman said, “but as long as there’s anything you haven’t told us, it complicates matters.”
“Her eyes,” Annika Bengtzon said. “She had yellow eyes. I’m absolutely sure of it, because I’d never seen anyone with such unusually colored eyes before. But that hasn’t been mentioned anywhere. They changed it on the photofit as well—she’s got green eyes on that.”
The editor in chief nodded, surprised at the confidence. He decided to wait for the second one without saying anything.
“And her bag,” the reporter said. “She had an oblong, silver-colored evening bag with a small shoulder strap. Inspector Q told me that a small gun with a silencer would fit in something like that.”
He nodded again.
“And those are the two things,” he said.
“Those are the two things,” Bengtzon confirmed.
“That wasn’t worth making too much of a fuss about,” Anders Schyman said with a smile.
The reporter sighed again, and reached for an unopened bar of chocolate.
The editor in chief decided to put his cards on the table.
“You know,” he said, trying not to sound forced, “I think it would be best for everyone if you took some time off while all this is going on.”
Annika Bengtzon stiffened, and put the chocolate down without eating any.
“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.
“You being here means that there’s an atmosphere in the newsroom, your colleagues are worried about getting you into trouble, and they’re holding back in their contact with the police to make sure it doesn’t look like you’ve told them anything. To be blunt, it’s restricting our actions, and it’s spoiling your relationship with your colleagues.”
The reporter looked down at the bar of chocolate, fingering the silver foil.
“You’ve arranged this very neatly,” she said without looking up.
“What?” he said, then bit his tongue, because he knew exactly what she meant.
She let out a laugh, then leaned back in her chair and looked him in the eye.
“I know you’re angry,” she said. “You didn’t get the job as head of the Newspaper Publishers’ Association, and you think it’s my fault.”
She laughed again.
“Who am I trying to kid?” she said. “It was my fault—I made you publish that article showing that our proprietors are a bunch of hypocritical hyenas, and I appreciate that they’re furious and withdrew your nomination. Are you firing me?”
“Absolutely not,” Anders Schyman said, feeling strangely relieved that she understood the extent of the situation. “I’m serious about the disclosure ban, your position among your colleagues is unsustainable. I can live with the rest of it, and our proprietors as well. It didn’t exactly create too many ripples in other media …”
“Of course not,” Annika Bengtzon said. “They were just pleased that TV Scandinavia disappeared.”
The editor in chief shrugged.
“The general view was that democracy will survive without yet another American commercial cable channel. I want you to take some vacation until things have calmed down on the terrorism front.”
“Not vacation,” the reporter said. “On leave with full pay. Access to the archives and databases with my own password so I can work from home on my own computer. Ten free taxi rides each month.”
Anders Schyman felt a sense of purely physical relief—this had gone much easier than he had anticipated.
“Full pay and a password,” he confirmed, “but no taxis.”
She shrugged and broke off a piece of chocolate.
“Can I go straightaway?”
Annika sat like a statue as the editor in chief left her glass office and pulled the door closed behind him.
Shit, she thought. I didn’t actually think he’d do it. I didn’t think he had the stomach to shove me further out into the cold, out of the fridge and into the freezer, but he did it, he actually did it.
She sat back in her chair with a slow sensation of falling, the usual sign of an imminent panic attack, preceding the angelic chorus, but nothing happened; she didn’t faint, and the angels kept quiet.
It’ll actually be quite a relief to escape this place for a while, she thought, then immediately felt a sense of grief, already missing the reassurance of having a context, the vital feeling of belonging somewhere.
I can find another home, she thought, realizing that she was on the point of tears. She pulled herself together and blew her nose in an old napkin, forcing her self-pity back down again.
She logged into the computer and began going through her files and folders. Anything she thought she might need she sent off to her online archive at [email protected].
“What did Schyman want?”
Berit had put her head around the door.
“He’s sent me home on indefinite leave,” Annika said, taking a deep breath. “He doesn’t want me back until this whole terrorism story is over.”
Berit stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
“Did he say why?”
“The rest of you think it’s a nuisance having to work round me,” Annika said, making a real effort not to sound bitter.
“That’s just an excuse,” Berit said, “and you know it. What terms did you get?”
Annika sighed again, a bit too deeply, and it sounded almost like a sob.
“On leave with full pay and access to the archives. You know what?”
She smiled weakly.
“It doesn’t feel as bad as you might think. I’ve nothing against having some time off. We’re moving out to Djursholm in the spring, and maybe now I can do some packing, get things organized and do a bit of research without getting stressed. That can’t be bad, can it?”
Berit smiled back.
“Definitely not,” she said.
“And you know something else?” Annika said. “All that money helps. I know I don’t have to work anymore if I don’t want to. I’ve been toying with the idea of handing in my notice and going off to do something completely different. Study law, or maybe Russian, at university.”
Berit was the only person who knew exactly how much money Annika would be getting as her reward. Not even Thomas or Anne Snapphane kn
ew the correct sum.
“You’ll need something to do,” Berit said, “otherwise you’ll go mad.”
“And it looks like Thomas is going to get a new job,” Annika said, “so I’ll probably be seeing even less of him in the future. He’s so full of himself right now he looks like he’s going to burst …”
“Why?” Berit said, reaching for Annika’s bar of chocolate.
“You know he was working on that project looking into how safe politicians are, together with the Association of County Councils and the Justice Department? Now they’re talking about him being part of a group drawing up new legislation governing the use of bugging and phone tapping for the Department. I don’t know if it’s going to come off, but he’s already entertaining all of our acquaintances with stories about how vital this new legislation is. You should have heard him out at his parents’ on Saturday.”
Berit shook her head.
“This legislation has all the signs of being a really nasty business. Do you want to go for lunch before you go home for the last time this year?”
“I just want to check I’ve got everything …”
She looked through the last of her folders, sent off some background notes about an old murder case to her email archive, then switched the computer off. She poked about in her desk drawers and realized that she didn’t want to take anything with her.
She got up and picked up her bag and coat.
“Okay, my treat this time,” she said.
The door to the government offices at Rosenbad was locked, cold. Thomas gave the brass handle, embossed with the three crowns, a cautious tug, but the door didn’t move. He glanced around to check if anyone was watching him, then pulled hard on the door, and it flew open.
“Oops,” he said out loud to himself, hearing how silly it sounded, and stepped inside the government building.
His shoes were muddy, leaving brownish-gray marks on the white marble floor. He tried in vain to wipe them before going through the swinging doors.
A white marble staircase led up to a white foyer, and his gravelly footsteps crunched under the vaulted ceiling. His heart was in his throat and his hands felt clammy.
He had spent seven years walking past the Cabinet Office on his way to work at the Association of Local Councils on Hornsgatan. Seven years of looking up at the apricot-colored façade and letting his thoughts run away with him: What would it be like to work in there? Going to work in Ferdinand Boberg’s solid art nouveau palace? Being a small cog in the machinery of power?
The fact was that he had never been in here before. During his previous project, looking into the threats faced by politicians, they had either met at the Association of County Councils, or the Association of Local Councils, or in some bar. Per Cramne, the representative of the Justice Department, had preferred the last.
Now he looked around, unable to conceal his fascination, the white floor with its inlaid granite triangles, the four statues along the wall on his left, the marble pillars, the vaulted ceiling.
Two workers in overalls were standing by the security desk, apparently arguing about something, but apart from them the foyer was empty. Thomas went and stood behind them, forming a short queue, and looked at his watch. Perfect. You had to be careful with your timing—you didn’t want to look too keen, or too nonchalant.
“You don’t have clearance,” the security guard said, passing back the men’s ID cards through a small hatch at the bottom of the glass screen.
The workmen looked at each other in resignation.
“It must be a misunderstanding,” one of them said. “We’re supposed to be doing a job here.”
The guard was a young woman, with a neat center part and a tie.
“I can’t help you,” she said curtly. “You names aren’t down here. You don’t have clearance.”
“Sorry,” Thomas said, “but could you just let me in?”
She looked at him closely.
Thomas pulled his driving licence out of his wallet and passed it through the hatch as the woman called the workmen’s boss.
“I’m seeing Per Cramne in Justice,” he said, feeling the workmen’s stares on his back.
She tapped at her computer and picked up a phone.
“Straight up the stairs,” she said, then turned back to the workmen.
Thomas tried to look relaxed and confident as he went through the doors leading into the government offices. He pressed the button of the elevator nearest to him, then looked up to find himself facing the deputy prime minister.
“Hello,” the deputy prime minister said. “Do you want right or left?”
“Sorry?” Thomas said, unsure if he had heard correctly.
“Right or left?” the deputy prime minister repeated.
“Er,” Thomas said, “I was thinking of going up.”
“In that case I recommend you go left. You’re heading toward the freight elevator. It stops on every half floor, like in John Malkovich’s head.”
The man, who was famous for speaking his mind when he thought no one was listening, smiled cheerily at him and held open the door of the lift to the right.
“After you.”
This can’t be happening, Thomas thought.
Cramne met him inside the doors to the sixth floor.
“Come in, come in,” the assistant undersecretary said, shaking Thomas warmly by the hand. “Welcome! Have you been here before?”
“Not for a long time,” Thomas said.
“Okay, we’ll take a quick tour of the corridors of power before I show you where you’ll be working—what do you say?”
Per Cramne turned and unlocked the doors leading to the offices without waiting for a reply. Thomas was sweating badly in his thick winter coat and would dearly have loved to take it off.
“There are sixteen sections in Justice, plus the legal secretariat and the metropolitan chancery,” Per Cramne said. “PO is the largest, the section that deals with the police, as well as general issues of law and order. That’s where you and I belong. Oh, but take your coat off, otherwise you’ll burn up.”
Relieved, Thomas shrugged off his coat. He hung it over his arm and hurried to catch up with his new colleague.
“This is where the minister, the directors general for legal affairs, the press secretary, and the political advisers have their offices,” Cramne went on, gesturing vaguely as they walked quickly down a white-painted corridor.
The carpet on the floor was light gray, thick as a mattress. It swallowed every sound and left the air still and clean. From the rooms he sailed past, Thomas thought he could sense focused individuals at their desks, having reasoned discussions in low voices.
“Here, for instance,” Cramne said, stopping outside a half-open door. He lowered his voice, pointing at a woman sitting half-concealed behind the door, talking on the phone.
“Director general for legal affairs in L5, criminal jurisdiction. Damn smart girl, she’s spent a lot of time working on issues of sexual violence recently, and the whole issue of compensation for raped children, you know … The permanent undersecretary—no, down there—is responsible for legal procedure, courts, police, and all the rest of it. He had to deal with the raids on those security transports …”
Thomas straightened, feeling power tickle the back of his neck.
“The Blue Room,” Per Cramne said, pointing to one corner. “Mondays are departmental days, and that’s where we have our briefings. Each section presents its activities to the minister, at quite a pace. As one of the pen pushers, you’re bound to end up in there at some point.”
“Where’s my office?” Thomas asked, shifting his coat to the other arm.
Per Cramne laughed.
“Not up here, you’ll be with me down on four,” he said, then turned off around a corner.
A new corridor with similar white doors and gray carpet stretched off into the distance. Photographs of justice ministers through the ages hung in three rows along one wall. The voices were louder her
e, someone laughing, the signature tune of the lunchtime radio news.
“This is the Minister’s office,” Per Cramne said, stopping by a door on the right. He glanced at his watch.
“He’s down in a cabinet meeting; they meet every day between twelve and one. Usually he doesn’t have to go—five ministers are enough to reach quorum—but there was going to be a roll call today and I think he was the one doing it. Difficult to miss something like that … His secretary is outside his actual office.”
Thomas put his head in and looked at the Justice Minister’s rooms. It reminded him of a small apartment, with the secretary’s room as an entrance hall, then a fairly nondescript office with light, modern furniture, a painting, a desk covered in papers and a computer, a low bookcase holding files and pictures of children. The room faced the Parliament building and the waters of Norrström, the water down there gray as lead.
“At the back there’s a small bedroom and bathroom,” Cramne said. “He’s a whiz at Sudoku; we think he sits in there practicing. Shall we move on?”
He gestured to a door on the left.
“The press secretary. If the minister gets kicked out, she goes too, as well as the undersecretary and the political advisers. Then the caretaker comes along and unscrews all the nameplates and that’s the end of them.”
“How many people are we talking about?” Thomas asked.
“What, political appointees? A handful, six or seven. No more than that. The rest of us faithfully serve whichever master we have. Are you hungry?”
Thomas shook his head.
“Excellent. You’ve met Karin, head of planning? She was responsible for your appointment. Shall we say hello to the undersecretary?”
Cramne went on, past several more doors.
“Jimmy? Have you got a moment to meet our new bugging adviser?”
The undersecretary of state for the Justice Department came out into the corridor in jeans and a checked beige shirt, his hair all over the place.
“Hi,” he said with a broad smile. “Welcome aboard. When do you start?”
They shook hands.
Last Will Page 13