Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

by Liza Marklund

  The group of men stopped next to her desk.

  "The night reporters go on at noon and work until eleven P.M.," the editor in chief said with his back turned to Annika. "They work on a roster and many of them are freelance. We see the night shift as a bit of a learning experience."

  Schyman broke off from the group and came up to her. "I'm Anders Schyman." He held out his hand.

  Annika looked up at him. "So I've gathered." She smiled and took his hand. "I'm Annika Bengtzon."

  He returned her smile as they shook hands. "You've been covering the Josefin Liljeberg murder."

  Her cheeks turned red. "You're on the ball."

  "Are you on the permanent staff?"

  Annika shook her head. "No- I'm just covering for the summer. My contract ends in a few weeks' time."

  "We'll get a chance to talk more later," Schyman said, and returned to the group. All the eyes that had been fixed on Annika lifted and flew away over the newsroom.

  She made her decision when the group left.

  She was no squealer. She wasn't going to call the police and tell them about the Ninja Barbies; neither would she tell Spike. So many lunatics called the paper every day, she couldn't go running to the news editor with all of them.

  She returned to her story on the police breakthrough and managed to sound well informed without quoting Patricia. She wrote about the suspect without betraying the police press officer as her source and hinted the boyfriend was the wrongdoer without actually saying it explicitly. She kept the story about the Täby grief counseling concise and terse.

  She went to the cafeteria, bought a Coke, and listened to the headlines on Studio 69, the current affairs program. They were talking about the role of the media during the election campaign. She switched off and instead started working on Josefin's last hours, entering addresses and times on a grid. The only thing she left out was the name of the club where Josefin had worked- she just called it the Club. When she had finished, she walked over to the illustrators, who would enter the data on a map or an aerial photograph of Kungsholmen.

  When she was done, it was nearly seven o'clock. She felt hot and weak and had no energy for more research. Instead she made herself comfortable and scrutinized the morning broadsheets. At half past seven, she turned up the volume on the TV and watched Rapport. They had nothing on either Josefin or the IB affair. The only item of interest came from the Russia correspondent, who rounded off his series on the Caucasus with an expert in Moscow who gave his view of the situation.

  "The president needs weapons," the expert announced. "The country has completely run out of ammunition, shells, antiaircraft defenses, rifles, machine guns, everything. This is the main problem facing the president. As the U.N. has imposed a weapons embargo on the nation, he is finding it extremely difficult to get hold of anything. The only alternative is the black market, and he can't afford that."

  "How come the guerrillas are so well equipped?" the correspondent asked.

  The expert gave an embarrassed smile. "The guerrillas really are quite weak- they're badly trained and have poor leadership. But they have unlimited access to Russian weapons. Russia has important interests in the Caucasus region and is subsidizing the guerrilla warfare."

  Annika remembered the Swedish-speaking old man, the president, whose people suffered constant attacks from the guerrillas. World leaders were such cowards sometimes! Why didn't they stop Russia from supporting this civil war?

  By the time Rapport had finished, the calm had returned to the newsroom. Spike had gone home and Jansson had taken his place in the chief's chair. Annika scanned through the latest TT telegrams, read the copy on the server, and checked the headlines on the nine-o'clock TV news Aktuellt. Then she went over to Jansson.

  "Nice map," the night editor said. "And good copy on the suspect boyfriend. No big surprise there."

  "Is there anything else for me to do here?"

  Jansson's phone rang. "I think you should go home now You've been here all weekend."

  Annika hesitated. "Are you sure?"

  Jansson didn't reply. Annika walked over to her desk and collected her stuff. She cleared up the desk as she would be gone for four days and some other reporter would be using it.

  She bumped into Berit on the way out.

  "Do you want to go for a beer at the pizza place on the corner?" her colleague asked.

  Annika was surprised but tried not to show it. "Sure, I'd love to. I haven't had dinner."

  They took the stairs down. The evening was as sultry as the day had been hot. The air above the multistory garage was still quivering.

  "I've never seen the likes of this summer," Berit said.

  The women walked slowly toward Rålambsvägen and the seedy pizzeria that miraculously survived year after year.

  "Do you have any family in town?" Berit asked as they waited for the traffic light to change at the crossing.

  "My boyfriend lives in Hälleforsnäs. What about you?"

  "A husband in Täby, a son who's away at university, and a daughter who's an au pair in Los Angeles. Are you going to try to stay on at the paper this fall?"

  Annika gave a nervous laugh. "Well, I'd like to stay, and I'm giving it my best shot."

  "Good, that's the most important thing."

  "It's pretty tough going. I think they use the freelancers pretty ruthlessly. They take in a whole bunch of people and let them fight it out over the jobs, instead of filling the positions that are actually available."

  "True. But it also gives a lot of people a chance."

  The pizzeria was all but empty. They chose a table toward the back of the restaurant. Annika ordered a pizza and they both had a beer.

  "I read your piece on the IB affair on the server," Annika said.

  "Here's to more big scoops!"

  They clinked their glasses and sipped from them.

  "This IB story seems never-ending," Berit said as she put down the misty glass on the plastic tablecloth. "As long as the Social Democrats go on telling lies and dodging the issue there will be a story in it."

  "But maybe you need to see their side of it. It was the middle of the cold war."

  "Actually, no. The first forms for the registration of people's political affiliations were sent out from party headquarters on September twenty-first, 1945. The covering letter was written by Mr. Sven Andersson himself, party secretary and defense secretary to be."

  Annika blinked in surprise. "That early?" she said skeptically. "Are you sure?"

  Berit smiled. "I have a copy of the letter in my filing cabinet."

  They watched the other patrons in the restaurant in silence for a while, a few local loafers and five giggly youngsters who were probably below legal drinking age.

  "But seriously," Annika said, "why would they want to keep a register of Communists if the cold war hadn't even started yet?"

  "Power. The Communists were strong, especially in Norrbotten, Stockholm, and Gothenburg. The Social Democrats were afraid of losing their hold over the trade unions."

  "Why?" Annika asked, feeling stupid.

  "The Social Democrats were determined to hold block membership in the party for all workers. Section One of the Metalworkers' Union fell into Communist hands as early as 1943. When they canceled the collective affiliation to the Social Democrats, the party lost thirty thousand kronor in membership fees per year. That was a huge sum of money to the party in those days."

  Annika's pizza arrived. It was small and the base was tough.

  "I don't get it," Annika said after a few mouthfuls. "How could the registration help the Social Democrats maintain power over the unions?"

  "Can I have small piece? Thanks… Well, there were certain representatives who rigged the elections of nominees to the party conference. All Social Democrats were ordered to vote for certain candidates just to cut out the Communists."

  Annika chewed, looking at her colleague with skepticism in her eyes. "Come on. My dad was shop steward at the works in Hälle
forsnäs. Are you saying that people like him obstructed democratic local proceedings to toe the line defined by the party in Stockholm?"

  Berit nodded. "Not everybody did it, but far too many. It didn't matter who was the most competent or who had the trust of the union members."

  "And the Social Democratic headquarters had lists of all the names?"

  "Not from the outset. At the end of the fifties the information was held on a local level. At its peak there were over ten thousand representatives, or 'political spies,' if you like, in Swedish workplaces."

  Annika cut a slice from her pizza and ate it with her fingers. She chewed in silence, mulling over Berit's words.

  "No disrespect, but aren't you making too much out of this?"

  Berit crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "Sure, there's people who think that. More and more people have no interest in even recent history. We're talking about the fifties- that's the Stone Age for today's generation."

  Annika ignored that one. She pushed her plate to one side and wiped her mouth and hands on the napkin. "What happened next?"

  "IB. It was established in 1957."

  "The Information Bureau, right?"

  "Or 'Inform Birger," after the head of the IB domestic bureau, Birger Elmér. The foreign intelligence outfit was called the T Office for a while, after its boss, Thede Palm."

  Annika shook her head. "Jesus. How do you keep track of everything?"

  Berit smiled and relaxed a bit. "I subscribed to Folket i Bild Kulturfront when they published the piece by Jan Guillou and Peter Bratt that started unraveling this major scandal. It was in 1973, the famous issue nine. I've written quite a lot about IB and SAPO since then. Nothing revolutionary, but I've kept an ear to the ground."

  The waiter came and removed the remains of Annika's pizza: the crusts and some particularly leathery processed pigs' snouts.

  "My father talked a bit about IB," Annika said. "He thought it was all ridiculously exaggerated. It has to do with the safety of the nation, he said, and the Social Democrats should really be commended for making the country safe."

  Berit put down her glass with a bang. "The Social Democrats set up registers of people's political opinions for the good of the party. They broke their own laws and lied about it. They're still lying, by the way. I spoke to the Speaker of the Parliament today. He flatly denies having known Birger Elmér or having had anything to do with IB."

  "Maybe he's telling the truth,"

  Berit gave Annika a pitying smile. "Trust me. IB is the Achilles' heel of the Social Democratic Party. Their great big, gigantic mistake that also happened to keep them in power for over forty years. They'll do anything to keep their secrets. Through SAPO they mapped out the entire Swedish population. They persecuted people for their political opinions, had them frozen out at their workplaces and even fired. They will go on lying as long as no one produces the hard evidence, and that's when they start to equivocate."

  "So what was SAPO? A Social Democratic security police?"

  "No, SAPO stands for the Social Democratic Organization for Workplace Representatives. It was completely kosher on the surface- the SAPO reps were the party mouthpieces in the workplace."

  "So why all the secrecy?"

  "SAPO were the ants on the floor in the IB organization. Everything they reported ended up with Elmér and the government. SAPO is the crux of the matter, the proof that IB and the Social Democrats are one and the same."

  Annika looked over toward the window and the summer night outside. Three dusty artificial green plants obstructed her view. Behind them was the grimy window that laid a gray film against the busy street outside.

  "So what was in this foreign archive?" she asked.

  "The names of agents, journalists, seamen, aid workers. People who traveled a lot. They would hand in reports with the aim of predicting impending crises. They had agents in Vietnam whose information was passed straight to the Americans and to a great extent also to the Brits. Strictly speaking they were regular intelligence reports, outlining things like the Vietnamese infrastructure, how the people lived, how they responded to the war, how bad the devastation was."

  "But Sweden's a neutral state," Annika said with surprise.

  "Yeah, sure," Berit said tartly. "Birger Elmér used to have lunch with the American ambassador and their Secret Service chief in Sweden. And Elmér and the Prime Minister Olof Palme met quite often. 'I'll handle the politics, you keep the Americans happy,' Palme told him. 'I've got to walk in the demonstrations, meanwhile you take care of the Americans.'"

  "And a copy of their archive has suddenly shown up."

  "I'm convinced that the originals still exist," Berit said. "The only question is where."

  "What about the domestic archive?"

  "It was entirely illegal and contained detailed personal data about people who were considered the enemies of the Social Democrats. Somewhere in the region of twenty thousand names. Everyone on that register was to be imprisoned if war broke out. They might have found it difficult to get a job and they were excluded from all union work. You didn't have to be a Communist to end up like that. It was enough to read the wrong papers, to have the wrong friends. Be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  They sat in silence for a while.

  Annika cleared her throat. "Still, these things happened forty years ago. In those days people were sterilized by force and DDT was sprayed everywhere. What makes these papers so important today?"

  Berit pondered the question. "They are most likely full of unpleasant details about bugging, break-ins, and stuff like that. But the really sensitive material is gone: the whole picture."

  "What do you mean?"

  Berit closed her eyes. "In practice it means that high-ranking Social Democrats were American spies. Today, the proof of repeated deviations from Sweden's official neutrality that may be hidden among these documents would be worse than the systematic registration of political affiliations. The Social Democrats didn't just lie to the nation; they were horse-trading under the table with the superpowers. This wasn't completely without risk. The Soviet Union knew what was going on in Sweden, the spy Wennerström had seen to that. It was accounted for in the Russians' war preparations. Sweden was probably a primary target if war broke out, precisely because of this double game."

  Annika looked wide-eyed at Berit. "Jesus Christ. Do you really think it was that bad?"

  Berit drank the last of her beer. "If the activities of IB were to be thoroughly investigated, down to the last vile detail, it would be devastating for the Social Democrats. They would lose all credibility. Completely. The key is in the archives. The Social Democrats would find it difficult to form a government for a long time if they came to the surface."

  The young people left the restaurant and spilled out loudly onto the street. They left an abstract pattern of peanuts and spilled beer on their table. Annika and Berit followed them with their gaze through the window, saw them cross the busy road and walk to the bus stop, where the 62 bus rolled in and the youngsters climbed on it.

  A thought suddenly occurred to Annika. Should she tell Berit about the Ninja Barbies?

  Berit looked at her watch. "Time to go. My last train will leave soon."

  Annika hesitated and Berit waved to the waiter.

  Never mind, Annika thought. No one's ever going to find out.

  "I'm off tomorrow," she said. "I'm really looking forward to it."

  Berit gave a sigh and smiled. "I'll have to give this IB stuff everything I've got for a couple of days. Though I'm enjoying it, really."

  Annika returned her smile. "Yes, I can see that. Are you a Communist yourself?"

  Berit laughed. "And you're spying for SAPO, I guess!"

  Annika joined in the laughter.

  They paid the check and stepped outside. Slowly the evening had changed color and texture and become night.

  Seventeen Years, Eleven Months, and Eight Days

  T ime is rent apart, leaving deep marks.
Reality tears love to pieces with its pettiness and tedium. We are both equally desperate in our ambition to find the Truth. He's right; we have to share the responsibility. I lack consideration; my focus is blurred; I don't concentrate fully. I take too long to reach orgasm. We have to come closer, commit completely, without interference. I know he is right. With the right kind of love in your mind there are no obstacles.

  I know where the problem lies: I have to learn to harness my desire. It comes between our experiences, our journeys into the cosmos. Love will carry you anywhere but you have to have absolute dedication.

  His love for me is beyond words. All the wonderful details, his concern for every aspect of me: his choice of books for me, of clothes, music, food, and drink. We share the same pulse and breath. I have to rid myself of my egotistic tendencies.

  Never leave me,

  he says;

  I can't live without you.

  And I promise, again and again.

  Tuesday 31 July

  The draft woke her up. She stayed in bed, eyes closed. The sharp light from the open window penetrated her eyelids. It was morning. Not so late that she would feel depressed about having slept through the whole day, but enough for her to feel rested.

  Annika pulled on her dressing gown and walked out into the stairwell. The cracked mosaic floor sent a welcome chill through her body. The toilet was a half-floor down; she shared it with the other tenants on the top floor.

  The curtains flapped like big sails in the breeze when she came back into the apartment. She had bought thirty yards of light-colored voile and draped it over the old curtain rails- with striking effect. The walls all through the apartment were painted white. The previous tenant had rolled on a coat of primer and then given up. The matte walls reflected and absorbed the light at one and the same time, making the rooms seem transparent.