The Bomber

switched on the radio for the news at a quarter to six. Their top story was naturally the followup on the news that one of Sweden's most powerful and well-known women, Christina Furhage, was dead. They started off with commentaries on her life and work and continued with the effects this would have on the Games and sports in general. As might have been expected, Samaranch retracted his earlier statement he had made in a rival paper. After eleven minutes, they mentioned the fact that Furhage had been murdered. That's how they did it at Dagens Eko, first everything that was nice and general and impersonal, then- to the extent that they mentioned it at all- the unpleasant and upsetting. If they covered a murder, they almost always put their focus on some legal subtlety, never on the victim, the families, or the perpetrator. They would, however, run seventeen stories on the piece of equipment with which the perpetrator's brain had been examined; that was science and therefore superior information. Annika let out a sigh. In passing, they also mentioned her own story from yesterday's paper about the threat and Furhage being off-record, but it was an aside. She turned off the radio and collected the material she needed for the news meeting in the editor's office. She had a sinking feeling. Ingvar Johansson had been strange all day, short-tempered and offhand. She realized she must have done something wrong but had no idea what. There was no sign of him now.

Anders Schyman was on the phone; it sounded like he was talking to a child on the other end. Picture Pelle had already taken a seat at the conference table with his long lists. She opted to go over to the window and stare at her own reflection. If she put her hand against the glass to block out the light from the room and stood really close, she could make out the world beyond. There was a dense darkness. The yellow lights of the Russian Embassy were golden specks floating in a sea of blackness. Even this little morsel of Russia was gloomy and ominous-looking. She shuddered from the cold coming in through the window.

'Alles gut?' chirped Jansson, who had just woken up, spilling a bit more coffee on the editor's carpet. 'My last night with you lot, then I've got three shifts off. Where the hell's Ingvar Johansson?'

'Right here. Shall we get started?'

Annika sat down and noted that Ingvar took hold of the reins today. So that was it, she had talked too much at yesterday's meeting.

'Right, let's set the ball rolling,' Anders Schyman said, putting the phone down. 'What have we got, and what's the page lead?'

Ingvar Johansson handed out copies of his list and started talking as he did so: 'I think we should lead with Nils Langeby's stuff, that the police are sure it was a terrorist attack. They're chasing a foreign terrorist group.'

Annika was stunned. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

'What are you talking about?' she exclaimed. 'Is Nils here today? I didn't even know. Who called him in?'

'I don't know,' Ingvar Johansson said, irritated. 'I assumed you did: You're his boss.'

'But where on earth did he get that about a terrorist attack from?' Annika said, barely able to keep her voice steady.

'Why should he have to divulge his sources? You never do,' Ingvar Johansson said.

Annika felt the blood surge into her face. Everyone around the table was looking at her. Suddenly it hit her that they were all men, except for her.

'We have to synchronize our stories,' she said in a strained voice. 'My information is the exact opposite: It wasn't a terrorist act. The attack was aimed at Christina personally.'

'In what way?' Ingvar Johansson said, and Annika knew she was done for. She could either disclose what she knew, and then both Jansson and Ingvar Johansson would demand she write about the security codes. The news editor who'd keep a juicy angle like that under wraps didn't exist. Or she could keep quiet, and that she couldn't do because then they'd walk all over her. She quickly chose a third way out.

'I'll call and talk to my source again,' she said.

Anders Schyman gave her a questioning look. 'We'll sit tight and wait before we decide on the terrorist lead,' he said. 'Let's go on.'

Annika didn't say anything but waited for Ingvar Johansson to continue. Which he did more than willingly.

'We'll do a whole pull-out: Christina Furhage in memoriam. Her life in words and images. We have lots of tributes: the King, the White House, the Cabinet, Samaranch, a whole bunch of sportsmen and women, TV personalities. Everyone wants to pay tribute to her. It'll be really potent, really strong…'

'What happened to the sports supplement?' Anders Schyman said softly.

Ingvar Johansson was at a loss.

'Well, we'll make use of those pages for the memorial pull-out, sixteen pages in four-color print, and then add two pages to the regular sports section.'

'Four-color?' Anders Schyman said doubtfully. 'That means lifting a lot of color pages from the actual paper to the pull-out. It will leave the paper virtually gray, won't it?'

Ingvar Johansson was blushing by now.

'Well, er, yes, I suppose…'

'How come I wasn't informed of this?' Anders Schyman said calmly. 'I've been here more or less the whole day. You could have come in at any time and discussed it.'

The news editor looked like he wished a hole would open up in the conference room floor.

'I don't have an answer to that. It all went so fast.'

'That's a shame,' Schyman said. 'Because we're not having a four-color pull-out on Christina Furhage. She wasn't a popular favorite in that way. She was an elite business executive, enormously admired by some, true, but neither royalty, nor elected by the people, nor a TV personality. We'll put the memorial pages inside the paper, forget about the pull-out, and increase the number of pages instead. Because I don't suppose sports will have started on a pull-out?'

Ingvar Johansson was staring down at the table.

'What else have we got?'

No one said a word. Annika waited in silence. This was extremely unpleasant.

'Bengtzon?'

She straightened her back and looked at her papers.

'We can do quite a substantial bit on the hunt for the killer. Patrik has found out that Furhage's laptop is missing and I've also got a good source for the insider theory…'

She fell silent, but no one said anything so she continued: 'Berit is doing Furhage's last hours. I've met her family.'

'Oh, yes, how was it?' Schyman asked.

Annika paused, thinking, then said:

'The husband was mildly confused, that has to be said. The daughter was totally unhinged. I'm not mentioning her. The question is: Should we publish anything at all? We could be in for a lot of criticism for even approaching the husband.'

'Did you trick him into talking?' Anders Schyman said.

'Absolutely not,' Annika replied.

'Was he reluctant in any way?'

'No, not at all. He asked us to come, so that he could tell us about Christina. I've written the copy, and it's on the server. He didn't say much, though.'

'Do we have a picture?' Schyman wondered.

'Henriksson got a great photo,' Pelle Oscarsson said. 'The man is standing by the window, tears glistening in his eyelashes. It's a beauty.'

Schyman gave the picture editor an expressionless look.

'Okay. I want to see that picture before it goes off to print.'

'Sure,' Pelle Oscarsson said.

'Well, then,' Schyman said. 'There's another issue I'd like to discuss, so we might as well do it right away.'

He pulled his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end, then reached for his coffee, but changed his mind. For some reason this gave Annika the creeps. Had she made any more mistakes?

'There's a killer on the loose,' the editor said, quoting a famous 1970s rock song. 'I want each and every one