through my children, and in return I give them their inheritance.’
He staggered, clutching his stomach.
‘No one will be able to exploit you any more,’ he said. ‘Your days on the treadmill are over.’
‘What do you mean?’ Karina Bjornlund seemed less scared now.
‘He’s going to give us presents,’ Hans Blomberg said, his voice echoing with astonished disbelief. ‘It’s Christmas for all of us! Or perhaps some post-funeral coffee? The revolution is dead, didn’t you hear?’
‘Stop it, Hans,’ Karina Bjornlund said, taking hold of his arm. ‘Mao’s dead, too, and even China is capitalist now.’
‘You believed as well,’ Hans said. ‘You were a revolutionary too.’
‘But, good God,’ she said, ‘we were nothing but children. Everyone believed in the revolution. That was just the way things were back then, but that all vanished long ago.’
‘Not for me!’ Hans Blomberg shouted, and Goran Nilsson took an unsteady step towards him.
‘Panther,’ he said, ‘you’ve misunderstood me.’
‘No!’ the archivist yelled, his eyes red and moist. ‘You can’t do this to me. The revolution is the only thing that matters.’
‘Pull yourself together,’ Karina Bjornlund said, shaking the archivist’s arm in irritation.
With an angry tug the man pulled himself free from the Minister of Culture and the next moment he raised his clenched right fist and punched her hard in the face.
46
Someone screamed. It could have been the minister or the alcoholic or Annika herself; and then the furious archivist turned to face Goran Nilsson and shoved him with all his strength against the wall with the poster of Mao. The Yellow Dragon fell to the concrete floor with the audible crack of breaking bone, and a hissing sound as the air went out of his lungs.
‘You bloody traitors!’
Hans Blomberg’s voice was breaking. He gathered himself and leaped for the door, throwing it open with a crash and slamming it behind him with the same force.
The candle flame flickered but did not go out; the shadows slowly stopped dancing about.
‘I’m bleeding,’ the minister shouted from the floor behind the compressor. ‘Help me!’
Then silence settled heavily and the cold grew even harsher. Annika could hear the archivist cursing through the brick wall as he disappeared towards the railway line. She went over to Goran Nilsson. He was unconscious by the wall, his right foot twisted at an unnatural angle. His right leg looked a bit shorter than the left. Yngve the alcoholic stared drunkenly and unsteadily at his leader lying there on the floor, his face almost completely colourless and his teeth chattering. Karina Bjornlund struggled to her feet, holding a hand to her face, blood was trickling between her fingers and down onto her fur-coat.
‘My nose is broken,’ she howled. ‘I have to get to hospital.’ She started to cry, then stopped because it was too painful.
Annika went over to the minister, put a hand gently on her arm. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, inspecting the woman’s face behind her hand. ‘It’ll heal okay.’
‘But what if it’s crooked?’
Annika turned away and went back to the man slumped on the floor. He really did smell unbelievably bad, the stench of something severely diseased.
‘Goran,’ she said loudly. ‘Goran Nilsson, can you hear me?’
Without waiting for a response she leaned over, taking off her gloves, and pulled the man’s gun from his pocket, it was heavy and ice-cold. With her back to the others she slipped it quietly into one of the outer pockets of her polar jacket, she knew nothing about revolvers and tried to convince herself that the safety catch must be on.
The Yellow Dragon groaned, his pale eyelids flickering. She put her hand on the frozen cement floor to see how cold it was, sweat making her fingers stick to it at once. Shocked, she pulled them away.
‘You can’t lie here,’ she told the man, ‘you have to get up. Can you stand up?’
She looked up at Karina Bjornlund.
‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ she said. ‘This place is worse than a freezer. Can you help me carry him?’
‘But I’m wounded,’ the Minister of Culture said. ‘And why should I help him? After all he’s done to me. Can’t Yngve carry him?’
The alcoholic had sat down on the floor clutching the half-empty bottle in his arms.
‘You can’t fall asleep here,’ Annika said to Yngve, feeling reality letting go of her, the ice-cold room threatening to strangle her.
‘If you knew how much I’ve suffered over the years,’ Karina Bjornlund said from over by the compressor. ‘Always afraid that someone would let on that I knew these fools. But that’s what happens when you’re young, isn’t it? You think a load of crazy things, get in with the wrong crowd?’
Goran Nilsson tried to sit up but let out a little cry and slumped back on the concrete floor.
‘Something’s broken in my hip,’ he whispered, and Annika remembered her grandmother’s broken hip that winter when there was so much snow.
‘I’ll go and get help,’ Annika said, but a second later the man was holding her wrist in a vice-like grip.
‘Where’s Karina?’ he muttered, his eyes unfocused.
‘She’s here,’ Annika said quietly and wriggled loose in horror, standing up and turning to the minister. ‘He wants to talk to you.’
‘About what? We’ve got nothing to say to each other.’
Karina Bjornlund’s voice sounded thin and nasal. She took a few cautious steps towards the man and Annika could see that her nostrils were bleeding badly. Her face was bruised and swollen, from her lips right up to her eyes. Annika met her gaze, reading in it all the bewilderment that she herself was feeling, and inside her a small light went on: she wasn’t alone, she wasn’t alone.
‘Keep him company,’ Annika said, and the minister went hesitantly over to the terrorist, but as she leaned over him he screamed.
‘Not blood,’ he panted. ‘Take the blood away.’
Something short-circuited in Annika’s head. There he was, the mass-murderer, the professional hitman, the full-time terrorist, and he was whining like a cry-baby. She flew over to him and grabbed him by the coat.
‘So you don’t like the sight of blood, you bastard? But killing all those people, that was all right, was it?’
His head fell back and he closed his eyes.
‘I’m a soldier,’ he said flatly. ‘I am nowhere near as guilty as the leaders of the free world.’
She felt tears welling up.
‘Why Margit?’ she said. ‘Why the boy?’
He shook his head.
‘Not me,’ he whispered.
Annika looked up at Karina Bjornlund, who was standing in the middle of the floor, a look of shock on her face.
‘He’s lying,’ she said. ‘Of course it was him.’
‘I only strike at the enemy,’ Goran Nilsson said flatly. ‘Not against friends or the innocent.’
Annika stared at the man’s pain-racked face, his apathy, disinterest, and she suddenly knew that he was telling the truth.
It wasn’t him who murdered them. There was no reason for him to kill Benny Ekland, Linus Gustafsson, Kurt Sandstrom or Margit Axelsson.
So who had done it?
She was shaking. She stood up on numb legs and walked unsteadily towards the door.
It was shut. Stuck fast, immovable.
She remembered the lock on the outside, and realization hit her like a physical blow. Hans Blomberg had shut
