The Bomber

and 'Furhage.' Seven hits. Since they computerized the archive in the early 1990s, they had written about the man on seven occasions. Annika chose F6 for 'show' and gave a whistle. Not a bad sum of money- a quarter of a million kronor was handed out every year. Carl Furhage wasn't mentioned in any other context.

She logged out, picked up her entry card, and walked out through a fire door next to the sports desk. A steep staircase took her two floors down; she went through another door that called for both entry card and a code. On the other side lay a long corridor with worn linoleum on the floor and hissing pipes in the ceiling. At the far end of the corridor was the paper's archive, with double steel fireproof doors. She went inside and greeted the staff who sat hunched over their computer terminals. The steely gray filing cabinets, with everything written in Kvallspressen and in its sister 'highbrow' broadsheet since the 19th century, filled the enormous room. She started walking slowly between the cabinets. She reached the biography section and read A-Ac, Ad-Af, Ag-Ak, skipped a couple of rows of cabinets and found Fu. She pulled out a large box with surprising ease. She leafed her way up to Furhage, Christina, but there was no Carl. She sighed. She'd drawn a blank.

'If you're looking for the cuttings on Christina Furhage, most of them have already been picked out,' someone said behind her.

It was the head archivist, a competent little man with firm opinions on how to do his job. The correct heading to file a story under was one of his favorite peeves.

Annika smiled. 'I'm actually looking for another Furhage, a Director Carl Furhage.'

'Have we written about him?'

'Oh, yes, he instituted a large scholarship. He must have been loaded.'

'Is he dead?'

'Yes, he died in the 1960s.'

'Then you may not find him under his name. The cuttings will still be there, but they could be filed under another subject field. What do you think we should start with?'

'No idea. Scholarships, perhaps?'

The archivist looked doubtful. 'There are quite a lot. Do you need it today?'

Annika gave a sigh and started walking back. 'Not really, it was just a hunch. Thanks anyway…'

'Could he have been photographed?'

Annika stopped short. 'Yes, I guess so. Some special occasion or something like that. Why do you ask?'

'Then he'll be in the picture archive.'

Annika went straight over to the other end of the room, past the sports archive and the reference section. She found the right box and leafed through it to Furhage. The envelopes with pictures of Christina filled almost an entire box, but on one flat little C5 envelope, frayed at the edges, she read: Furhage, Carl, director. The dust whirled when she pulled it out. She sat down on the floor and emptied the contents of the envelope onto the floor. Inside were four pictures. Two were little black and white portrait photos of a stern-looking man with thin hair and a firm chin: Carl Furhage, 50 years old, and Carl Furhage, 70 years old. The third was a wedding photo of an aging Carl and an old woman, Dorotea Adelcrona. The fourth was the largest of the photos. It was upside down. Annika turned it over and felt her heart do a somersault. The caption was taped to the picture. 'Director Carl Furhage, 60 today, with his wife Christina and son Olof.' Annika read the caption twice before believing her eyes. It was definitely Christina Furhage. A very young Christina. She must have been barely twenty years old. She was very slim and had her hair put up in an unbecoming frumpy hairdo, dressed in a dark suit with a skirt down to below the knees. She looked shyly into the camera, attempting a smile. On her lap was an adorable little boy of two with blond curls. The boy wore a light sweater and short trousers with suspenders. He was holding an apple in his hands. Carl Furhage was standing behind the couch with a determined look, a protective hand resting on his young wife's shoulder. The picture was extremely stiff and contrived, breathing turn of the century rather than the '50s, which was when it must have been taken. She hadn't read a word about Christina being married before or about her having a son. She had two children! Annika let the picture drop to her lap. She didn't know how or why, but somehow this was of vital importance; she felt it inside. A child couldn't disappear. This boy exists somewhere and was sure to have a thing or two to tell about his mom Christina.

She put the pictures back in the envelope, got to her feet and went over to the head archivist.

'I'd like to take this with me,' she said.

'Sure, just sign this,' he said without looking up.

Annika signed for the picture envelope and walked back through the corridor to her room. She had a feeling this would be a long afternoon.

* * *

The press release about Evert Danielsson's resignation was sent to the news agency TT at 11:30 A.M. After that, the Olympic Secretariat's press department faxed it first to all major newspapers, the morning broadsheets, and TV, then the radio, the evening tabloids, and the bigger local newspapers in descending order of importance. Danielsson wasn't a major player in the Olympics so the editors around the country didn't exactly fall on the information. Forty minutes after the release reached TT at Kungsholm's Square, a brief item was added to their news schedule about the head of the Olympic Secretariat leaving his current post to deal with the repercussions of Christina Furhage's death.

Evert Danielsson sat in his office while the fax machines rustled in the background. He would keep his office until his new assignment had been sorted out. His initial happiness at the wording of the press release was gone. Reality had set in. The anguish was beating like a hammer inside his forehead. He couldn't focus long enough to read a whole sentence in a report or a newspaper. He was waiting for the wolves to set upon him, for the frenzy to begin. He was fair game now; the mob would soon be snapping at his legs. But to his surprise, the phone wasn't ringing.

Somewhere inside him he'd expected the situation to be similar to the one after Christina's death, when all the telephones in the office had been ringing throughout the day. They didn't. One hour after the release had gone out, the 'highbrow' broadsheet called for a comment. He heard his voice sound completely normal as he said he saw this more as a promotion and that someone had to bring order in the chaos that Christina Furhage's death had caused. The reporter had been satisfied with that. His secretary came in, had a little cry, and asked if she could get him anything. Coffee? A cookie? Maybe a salad? He said no, thank you, he wouldn't be able to get it down. He gripped the desk and sat waiting for the next call.

* * *

Annika was on her way down to the canteen to get something to eat when Ingvar Johansson came walking toward her with a paper in his hand.

'Isn't this one of your guys?' he said, handing her a press release from the Olympic Secretariat. She took it and read it.

' 'One of my guys' is putting it a bit strongly,' she said. 'He's answered the phone when I've called. Why, do you think we should do something with it?'

'I don't know, I thought it might be good for you to know.'

'Sure. Anything else going on?'

'Not in your line of business,' he said and walked off.

Asshole, Annika thought. She walked over to the cafeteria instead of the canteen. She wasn't really hungry anyway. She bought a pasta salad and a Christmas must, the special Swedish Christmas soft drink, and brought it back to her room. Annika ate the salad in four minutes flat, went back to the cafeteria, and bought another three bottles of must. She was into the second one when she dialed the Olympic Secretariat and asked to speak to Evert Danielsson. He sounded distant. He said that he really saw the change as a promotion.

'So what will you be doing?' Annika asked.

'That isn't quite decided yet,' Evert Danielsson replied.

'So how do you know it's a promotion?'

The man at the other end went quiet.

'Well, eh, I don't see it as being fired,' he finally said.