Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

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 Ralambsvagen 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 Halleforsnas. What about you?'

'A husband in Taby, 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 Halleforsnas. 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 Elmer. 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