Thursday 2 August
The prime minister saw the news photographers in the distance and heaved a sigh. The journalists had formed an impromptu wall by the entrance to the government offices at Rosenbad. He knew they'd be there, of course, yet he'd been hoping, somehow, that he could avoid them. So far he hadn't commented on the suspicions surrounding Christer Lundgren. He'd referred the media to the young woman who was minister for integration, who was acting head of government during the summer holidays. He couldn't go on doing this any longer. The few days that constituted this year's holiday had shrunk to almost nothing. He gave another sigh and yawned. He always did that when he was nervous. People around him thought it gave a casual impression, which could be a positive thing. Like now- the men in the car had no idea about the turmoil going on inside him or the tight knot in his stomach. His intestines were twirling with the anxiety; he'd have to go to the bathroom soon.
The media scrum caught sight of the car as it turned onto Fredsgatan. The entire group gave a start like one organism. The photographers struggled to hang the cameras with their long lenses around their necks. The prime minister watched them through the darkened windows. He could see radio, TV, and print reporters waving their little tape recorders in the air.
'They all look like toy figures,' he said to the security man in the front seat. 'He-Man with his detachable accessories. Don't you think?'
The security man agreed. All his people agreed with what he said. He gave a tired smile. If only the media and the opposition were so cooperative.
The car stopped with a soft rocking movement. The bodyguard was out of the car before the wheels had stopped, opening the back door and protecting the prime minister with his body.
The questions washed over the head of government.
'What do you think of the suspicions about the minister for foreign trade?'
'What are the effects on the party?'
'Will this change the focus of your election campaign?'
'Should Christer Lundgren resign?'
He wriggled out of the car and drew himself up full length. With all his extra weight, he could produce a highly theatrical sigh. Microphones, tape recorders, lenses, and film recorded this little exhalation. Everybody could see that the prime minister didn't look on the matter very seriously. He was dressed in a light-blue shirt that was open at the neck, crumpled trousers. His bare feet were in sandals.
'Now listen,' the prime minister said, and stopped in the glare of a TV light. He spoke slowly and quietly, in a relaxed and somewhat long-suffering manner.
'Christer is not suspected of anything at all. And this business will have no effect whatsoever on our successful election campaign. I certainly hope that Christer will stay in the cabinet, for the sake of the government and for the sake of Sweden and Europe. We need people with energy to carry our policies as the twenty-first century progresses.'
End of line one, he thought, and started walking toward the entrance. The media people followed him like limpets, as he knew they would.
'Why have you interrupted your holiday?'
'Who will be at today's emergency meeting?'
'Do you still have confidence in Christer Lundgren?'
The prime minister took a few more steps before answering, just as he'd done when practicing with the media coach. Time for his cue.
As he turned around to the group, he gave a wry grin. 'Do I look like it's an emergency?' He tried to get a sparkle in his eyes. It seemed to work. Several of the limpets were laughing.
He reached the door and the security people were prepared to open it. It was time for the grand finale. He adopted his slightly concerned face.
'Joking apart, though,' he said, his hand on the big brass handle of the door. 'Naturally, I feel for Christer at a time like this. This kind of unwarranted media attention is always a trial. But I assure you, for the government- and the party- this business is of no consequence whatever. I suppose you've all seen
He gave a pensive smile and nodded at his own words of wisdom before he entered the security doors of the government offices. As the doors shut, he could hear the questions seeping in through the crack.
'… a reason for several police interviews?'
'… seen anything in particular?'
'… comment on the latest statements from…'
He focused on walking up the stairs slowly and calmly for as long as the journalists could see him through the glass door. Goddamn hyenas!
'Shit, it's hot in here,' he burst out, and opened a few more buttons on his shirt. 'If I have to sit here all day, at least you could see to it that I can breathe!'
He stepped into an elevator and let the doors slide shut before the security people had time to get in. He really had to get to the bathroom.
The shoelace broke and Annika cursed. She didn't have any new ones at home. With a sigh she sat down on the hallway floor, pulled the sneaker off, and made yet another knot. Soon there wouldn't be any lace left to tie the shoes with. She had to remember to buy new ones.
She ran downstairs cautiously, not wanting to put too much strain on her knees. Her legs felt stiff and numb; she'd neglected her running all summer.
The air in the backyard was stagnant and heavy. All the windows of the building were open wide, baring black holes in the dilapidated facade. Curtains hung tiredly, not moving an inch. Annika threw in a towel in the shared basement bathroom and slowly jogged out through the gateway to Agnegatan.
The newsstand on the corner of Bergsgatan already had the
EXCLUSIVE PICTURES IN
STRIP CLUB ATTACK
Her pulse quickened and she began to sweat. In the picture, the door of the club was blown open, a fire blazing in the doorway.
I wonder where Patricia was when the explosion went off, she mused. Was she frightened?
She picked up a copy of the paper and skimmed the front-page story. There hadn't been any major damage to the club. She was relieved.
