Herman Wennergren nodded slowly, picking at one nail after the other. ‘A correct evaluation,’ he said. ‘The A-Press, the Bonnier group, Schibsted, the bigger regional papers, like Hjornes in Gothenburg,
‘But it sometimes works. Take the demand that the government abolish tax on advertising,’ Schyman said.
‘Yes,’ Wennergren said, ‘that’s one example. There’s a working group up in the Press House that’s still dealing with that, but the person responsible for pushing it through is the chairman of the committee.’
Anders Schyman sat quite still, feeling the hair on the back of his neck slowly prickle.
‘As you probably know, I’m chair of the Publishers’ Association election committee,’ Wennergren said, finally letting his fingers fall to the seat of the chair. ‘In the middle of December the committee has to present its proposals for the new board, and I’m thinking of proposing you as the chair. What do you think?’
Thoughts were buzzing around Schyman’s head like angry wasps, crashing against his temples and brain.
‘Doesn’t one of the directors usually occupy that post?’
‘Not always. We’ve had editors before. I don’t mean that you would forget about the paper and just be chair of the association, which we’ve seen happen before, but I think you’re the right man for the job.’
An alarm bell started to ring among the wasps.
‘Why?’ Schyman asked. ‘Do you think I’m easily led? That I can be managed?’
Herman Wennergren sighed audibly. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, ready to stand up.
‘Schyman,’ he said, ‘if I was thinking of installing a patsy as chair of the Publishers’ Association, I wouldn’t start with you.’ He got to his feet, visibly annoyed. ‘Can’t you see that it’s the exact opposite?’ he said. ‘If I get you that post, which I may not be able to do, our group will have a publicity-minded brick wall at the top of the Publishers’ Association. That’s how I see you, Schyman.’
He turned towards the door.
‘We mustn’t delay the meeting,’ he said with his back to the editor.
Annika drove past the exit for Lulea airport and carried on towards Kallaxby. The landscape was completely devoid of colour; the pine trees dark ghosts, the ground black and white, the sky lead-grey. White veils of snow danced across the dark-grey asphalt, to the beat of the central road-markings. The hire-car’s thermometer was showing eleven degrees inside the car, minus four outside. She passed a topsoil pit and about three million pine trees before reaching the turning to Norrbotten Airbase.
The straight road leading to the base was endless, monotonous, the ground on both sides flat and with no sign of vegetation, the pines squat and feeble. After a gentle right-hand curve, gates and barriers suddenly came into view, with a large security block, and behind a tall fence she could make out buildings and car parks. She was suddenly struck by the feeling that she was seeing something she shouldn’t, that she was a spy, up to no good. Two military aircraft stood just inside the gate. She thought one of them was a Draken.
The road wound its way along the fence, and she leaned forward to see through the windscreen better. She slowly passed the conscripts’ car park and reached an enormous shooting range. Ten men in green camouflage, with pine-twigs on their helmets, were running across the range, automatic weapons in their hands, the carbines bouncing against the recruits’ chests. A signpost indicated that the road continued towards Lulnasudden, but a no-entry sign some hundred metres further on made her stop and turn the car round. The green men were no longer visible.
She stopped by the security block, hesitating for a moment before switching off the engine and getting out of the car. She walked alongside the plain-panelled building with its reflective windows, unable to see any doors, people, or even a bell. Just herself. Suddenly a loudspeaker somewhere up to her left addressed her.
‘What do you want?’
Taken aback, she looked up to where the voice had come from, saw nothing but panelling and chrome.
‘I’m here to see, um, Pettersson,’ she said to her reflection. ‘The Press Officer.’
‘Captain Pettersson, just a moment,’ said the voice, that of a young conscript.
She turned her back on the building and looked through the gates. The trees carried on inside, but between the trunks she could make out grey-green hangars and rows of military vehicles. It was hard to estimate how large the base was from the outside.
‘Go through the gate and into the first door on the right,’ the disembodied voice said.
Annika did as she was told, like a good citizen and spy.
The officer who met her was the archetype of the successful military man, stiff-backed, grey-haired and in good shape.
‘I’m Annika Bengtzon,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘We spoke on the phone last week. The anniversary of the attack…’
The man held her hand for a second too long. She evaded his open gaze and friendly smile.
‘As I said on the phone, there isn’t much we can say that hasn’t been made public before. What we can provide are summaries of the situation as it was then, the conclusions we have previously presented, and a tour of the museum. Gustaf, who’s in charge of that, is off sick today, I’m afraid, but he’ll probably be up on his feet again tomorrow, if you want to come back.’
‘There’s no chance of taking a look at the site of the attack?’
His smile grew even broader. ‘I thought we cleared that up on the phone. We’ve never made that public.’
She smiled back tentatively. ‘Did you see the article by Benny Ekland in the
The officer invited her to sit down at a table. She took off her coat and fished her notebook out of her bag.
‘I’ve got a copy of the text here, if you’d like to-’
‘I know the article you mean,’ he said, looking up at the conscript who had entered the room holding a clipboard. ‘If you could just sign the register?’
Annika signed herself in as a visitor to the base with an illegible scrawl.
‘Is there any truth in it?’ she asked, declining the offer of coffee.
The press officer poured a huge cup for himself, in a Bruce Springsteen mug.
‘Not much,’ he said, and Annika’s heart sank.
‘There were quite a few details that were new,’ she said, ‘at least for me. Could we go through the text, statement by statement, so that I can get an idea of which bits are accurate?’
She pulled the copy of the article out of her bag.
Captain Pettersson blew on his coffee and took a cautious sip.
‘The Lansen was gradually replaced by the J35 Draken in the late sixties,’ he said. ‘That much is true. The surveillance version came in sixty-seven, the fighter in the summer of sixty-nine.’
Annika was reading the article closely.
‘Is it true that there were sabotage attempts on the planes, with matches being stuck into various tubes?’
‘Left-wing groups ran around in here a fair bit back then,’ the press officer said. ‘The fence around the base is mostly symbolic; it’s fairly easy for anyone who really wants to to get over or through it. The match boys presumably thought they could damage the planes by inserting matches in the pitot tubes, but I have no evidence that they were in any way responsible for the attack in sixty-nine.’
Annika was taking notes.
‘And the leftover fuel? Is the information about buckets being used to collect it accurate?’
‘Well, yes,’ Pettersson said, ‘I suppose it is, but you can’t set light to aviation fuel with a match. It’s far too low octane. To set light to it, it has to be seriously warmed up, so that’s incorrect. At least, that wouldn’t work in Lulea in November.’
He smiled nonchalantly.
‘But there had been a big exercise that evening? And all the planes were outside?’
‘It was a Tuesday night,’ the officer said. ‘We always fly on Tuesdays; all the bases in the country do, and have done for decades. Three sorties, the last one landing at twenty-two hundred hours. After that the planes stand on the tarmac for an hour or so before they’re towed into the hangars. The attack took place at one thirty- five, so by then they were all indoors.’
