She read that an internal committee was at present looking at the former minister's receipt from Studio 69.
She let go of the mouse, leaned back in her chair, and looked out over the newsroom. 'So where are all the fuhrers?'
'At the recruitment meeting,' Anne said.
Annika's heart jumped. 'I'm getting some coffee,' she said abruptly, and got to her feet.
Jesus, I'm so nervous, she thought.
She went to get a copy of today's paper, opened it to page six and seven, and burst out laughing.
She was looking at a photograph of a small cat sitting on a dark green, plastic mattress in a jail cell. He was wide-eyed and dazed, maybe from the camera flash. The tip of his tail lay neatly on top of his front paws.
'Puss on Death Row' read the headline across all of page seven.
'It's a good thing that the media, at least once in a while, takes on the really important issues,' Annika said when she'd pulled herself together.
'We're getting a storm of protests from the readers,' Anne said. 'My assignment for the day is to choose where Puss's new home will be.' She waved a big bundle of telephone message notes in the air. 'The switchboard will sift out all callers outside of Ostergotland. How does Arkosund sound to you? Does Puss look like an archipelago cat to you?'
Anne leaned forward, studied the picture for a few seconds, and gave the answer herself. 'Nah. I don't see him as a herring lover. I think he likes mice and birds. Haversby sounds like a real rat-hole, doesn't it? Is that where he should go?'
Annika got to her feet again, fidgety.
Why didn't Christer Lundgren attend his own press conference? And how come the prime minister announced his resignation and not him? Didn't he want to resign? Or did the election campaign managers think he'd shoot his mouth off?
Both, perhaps, Annika thought. In any case, it all pointed to some kind of cover-up.
She walked over to the bulletin board; the recruitment meeting had started at ten o'clock. They should be done soon. She needed to go to the bathroom, again.
When she came out, she saw Bertil Strand standing talking to Picture Pelle over by the picture desk. She knew that the photographer sat on the executive committee of the local branch of the union. They must have taken part in the meeting. Without being aware of it, she half ran over to him.
'What's the decision?' she said, out of breath.
Bertil Strand slowly turned round. 'The union executive is united,' he said coldly. 'We think you should leave immediately. Your careless way of handling the public has compromised the credibility of the entire newspaper.'
Annika wasn't taking it in. 'But, do I get to stay on?'
He narrowed his eyes. His voice became icy cold. 'Aren't you listening? You should leave right away.'
The blood drained from Annika's face. She had to grab hold of the photo desk to keep from falling over. 'Leave?'
Bertil Strand turned away and she let go of the table. Oh, dear God, get me away from here, Jesus Christ, how do I get out, I'm going to throw up. The whole newsroom was heaving up and down, the walls were swaying.
Rage surged up inside her, crimson and razor-sharp.
Shit, she thought. I've had it with these idiots. I'm not the one who's been behaving like an ass. It's not my fault the paper is going to hell. How can they say that to me, my own union representatives!
'How dare you?' she said to Bertil Strand.
The man's back stiffened.
'It's people like me who pay for your dinners with the executive committee,' she said. 'You're supposed to be there for me. How the hell can you stab me in the back like this?'
He turned around again. 'You're not a regular member of this union branch,' he said tersely.
'No, because I don't have a permanent job. But I pay exactly the same dues as everybody else. How come I don't have the same rights? How the hell can the union recommend firing one of its own members? Are you completely out of your minds?'
'Don't say anything you might regret,' the photographer said, his gaze drifting away above her head.
She took a big step nearer to him, making him take a frightened step back.
'It's you who should watch what you say,' she said in a low voice. 'I've made some mistakes, but none as big as the one you're making right now.'
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anders Schyman walking toward his fish tank with a mug of coffee in his hand. She fixed her gaze on the back of his head and set off toward him. Computers, people, bookshelves, and plants moved past like fragments until she was face-to-face with him.
'Are you kicking me out?' she said, her voice much too shrill.
The deputy editor steered her into his room and drew the curtains. She flopped onto the tobacco couch and stared at him.
'Of course we aren't.'
'The union wants to,' she said, her voice trembling. Don't start blubbering now, she thought.
Schyman nodded, then sat down next to her on the couch. 'I just can't make them out. They don't give a damn about their members. All they want is power.'
She eyed him suspiciously. 'Why are you saying this to me?'
He looked at her calmly. 'Because that's what it's about in this case.'
She blinked.
'Unfortunately, the truth is there's no opening for you at the moment. We can't hire everybody who's good, and there's only one available contract this fall.'
'Oh, let me guess, that went to Carl Wennergren?'
'Yes.' The deputy editor looked at the floor.
Annika laughed. 'Well, congratulations! This newspaper certainly backs the people it deserves.' She stood up.
'Please sit down.'
'Why should I? There's no reason for me to stay in this building for another second. I'll be leaving immediately, just like the union wants me to.'
'You've got a week and a half left. Stick it out.'
She gave a short laugh again. 'So I can eat more shit?'
'In small quantities and at the right moments, it can be good for one's character,' Anders Schyman said with a smile.
She pulled a wry face. 'I've got compensatory leave to take.'
'You do. But I'd rather you stayed and worked.'
She walked toward the door but checked herself and stopped. 'Just tell me one thing. Would this paper pay for a tip-off from a terrorist group?'
'What do you mean?' He got to his feet.
'Exactly what I say- pay money to be present during a terrorist act.'
He crossed his arms and gave her a searching look. 'Do you know something?'
'I never disclose my sources,' she said mockingly.
'You're employed by this newspaper, and I'm your boss.'
She fished out her pass from her pocket and put it on his desk. 'Not any longer, you're not.'
'I want to know what made you ask.'
'Answer my question first,' she retorted.
He looked at her in silence for a few seconds. 'Of course not. It would be out of the question. Never.'
'If the paper had done this since you started, you would know about it?'
'I take that for granted.'
'And you can guarantee that this hasn't happened?'
He slowly nodded.
'Okay,' she said in a light tone. 'Then I'm satisfied. Well, then… It was short but sweet.'
