For a couple of minutes she stood completely still, splashing the water, dabbing her face, and rinsing her mouth. Hopefully Viola hadn’t seen her. The old woman’s window faced this way but her blinds were still down.
After a while, when she felt better, she straightened back up. She shivered and cursed herself, or rather her body, for ruining this beautiful morning. The birds paid no attention to her troubles, the wind continued its soft humming in the alder thickets down toward the sea, and—despite the early hour—the sun was warm. But still she shivered uncontrollably.
She wanted to walk down to the shore but hesitated. If she went in to get a sweater, Edvard would likely wake up. Then she remembered that Viola had an entire collection of coats and sweaters in the hall. She walked carefully across the gravel yard, opened the creaking door, and picked out a red sweater, which she wrapped around herself.
The sea was almost completely calm. A slender band of mist hovered like smoke along the inside of the bay. She felt better and smiled. The peacefulness of the water and the pastoral idyll of this early morning caused her to swallow, deeply moved. So beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful. Nature smiled at her and seemed to say: I envelop you in my finest clothing, my beloved.
Lindell wasn’t religious but felt an intoxicating sense of wonder. Her shivering was replaced by a warmth rising up through her body. This was what Edvard had seen, she thought. The faint scent of thyme and a tidy little stand of goldmoss sedum emerging from a crack in the rock brought her to her knees. A light spray of water rinsed the bun-shaped rocks on the beach. A tendril of water snaked up toward her foot but then retreated languidly. She stretched out on the rock and let the sun warm her face.
She could hear noisy sea gulls carrying on in the distance. She knew that they would soon appear, perhaps attracted by her presence. She lay completely still, her eyes closed. One of her hands caressed the rough goldmoss. She mentally examined her recent interactions with Edvard. He had been shy, hadn’t said much. She had expected—perhaps because he had talked so passionately about the boys and the construction of the dock—that he would be more talkative and tell her about his hopes and plans for the future, but he had only gazed at her with loving eyes. That night they had made love as before, intensely and furiously.
She loved his hands, his chest, and the tender words he whispered when he was excited. Afterward they had finally talked. He did want to try again. He had longed for her but had tried to build his own life. I thought I was a loner, he said. Someone who can no longer handle close contact with another, with a woman. He paused, but Lindell had urged him on. He told her that the renewed contact with his boys had weakened these convictions. He wanted to live with her. The boys had awakened his desire to share his life with someone, and Ann was that someone.
“There is no one else,” he had told her. “I knew that two years ago. That’s why I called.”
“I’m glad that you did,” Lindell had murmured, moved by his declaration.
As she lay on the rock, surrounded by the most seductive scents of Gräsö Island, her resolve grew even stronger. The intoxicating lovemaking could be an illusion, but she knew now that it was Edvard and no one else. They would pull it off. Maybe she could move out to the island. Violent Crimes was her life, but there had to be other work opportunities that would bring her closer. Any job on the outskirts of Uppland would be a step down, she knew that. It would curtail her career possibilities, but that wasn’t what worried her. She could handle that. She didn’t really have the ambition to climb that ladder. But she would miss the collaboration with her coworkers. And Ottosson. Uppsala was a fast-paced district in the hands of bunglers, but all the activity in their building, the interactions with her colleagues, and the encounters with the people of the city stimulated her, kept her going.
She tried to imagine working in Tierp or Östhammar, but she knew too little about northern Uppland to imagine what it would be like. She would have a life with Edvard, but what about the rest? She would have the bay, the pastures, and the chicken coop, but would she be able to stand the peace and quiet? Edvard did. He was raised in a small village. She had fled Ödeshög for the big city.
She lay on the rock for over an hour. It wasn’t nausea but hunger pangs that made her rise. As predicted, the black-backed gulls had come. They were sitting on the skerry, screeching and quarreling as usual.
Somewhere in the distance, a motorboat started up. Lindell walked slowly back to the house. The water clucked against the stone-filled dock. A gull sat at the very end of it, grooming itself. She thought of the small plaque with the names of Edvard, Victor, and the boys, and how important it was.
In some way she wished that the guests of last night’s celebrations had put their name on a similar plaque, hung somewhere. The cousins, wonderful Gerd with her temper and her dry sense of humor, the increasingly frail Viola and her Victor, Edvard and herself. This collection, connection—that’s what it’s all about, she thought. To live your life with the hope that love can forge a connection to other people. In her work she had seen what the absence of this could lead to.
* * *
She stayed until Sunday night. Victor had returned, out of a concern for Viola, it seemed to Lindell. When Lindell was staying, Viola was a third wheel. They’d had lunch and dinner together the day after Midsummer, and he had also come by on Sunday with several freshly caught perch that Viola had fried up with plenty of cream.
Ann and Edvard had gone on long walks, talking carefully of how the winter and spring had been. They were testing each other and themselves. This must be love, she said to herself.
They agreed to be in touch later in the week. Maybe Lindell would spend a week or two of her vacation out on the island. Maybe they would travel somewhere together. Perhaps they would go to Ödeshög together. Nothing was decided, but both of them knew it would be a good summer. Then they would have to see. Summer was easy. It was in September that the true test would come.
Fifteen
Ove Lundin sat in the Avid editing room, putting the finishing touches on a segment about the Akademiska hospital. He thought he had seen the images before, the politician who said the same thing that all the other county officials had said before.
He heard someone on the stairs and then Anna’s voice. She was the studio host and was escorting Ann-Britt Zimén from the Liberal People’s Party, who was scheduled to appear in the studio later. Anna turned on the television in the small space outside the control room. He heard Anna explain when they were going to go in.
Lundin left the editing room, greeting them both. Zimén appeared nervous. He joined the rest of his colleagues in the control room. There was Melin, the audio tech, the image editor, Rosvall, and the editor for the evening, Charlie Nikoforos. The writer, a new girl Ove had hardly even spoken a word to, was sorting out the exact spelling of Zimén’s name. She typed it in and was then done with her work. She was in charge of all of the times and the names.
In the studio there were two cameramen and Anders Moss, who was going to lead the conversation in the studio. The newscaster had not come down yet. They had a quarter of an hour to go. They would start at 18:10.
There was no shocking news to deliver. Beside some health care issues, there was a segment about genetic research, a quick report on a situation regarding the detention facilities in Enköping, and one about the Pharmacia board meeting. The LPP politician was the “headliner” who was going to try to bring county politics to life for the audience. Ove Lundin was not expecting her to cause a sensation. She had looked almost frightened.
Birgitta Nilsson, who would be reading the news this evening, arrived in the studio and commented on the new backdrop on the wall. For the nth time, Lundin noted with exasperation.
She sat down, glanced down at the computer screen built into the desk, and exchanged a few words with Moss.
“You have a spot on your nose,” he said, and even though she knew that he was joking, she had to get out her compact and
double-check. She put on her lapel mike and checked the prompter she would be reading from. The intro was already on it, the lead that gave all of the program headlines before two minutes of advertising took over. She sighed, but if this bored her, she did not show it. In fact she looked markedly alert.
She pressed the earpiece in firmly and immediately heard the editor’s voice.
“We’ve shortened Enköping by twenty seconds.”
She quickly checked the screen.
“Okay,” she said.
* * *
Anna Brink observed the female politician. She looked extremely nervous. The guests often were—studying their image in the mirror again and again, pulling on their hair, making tiny movements with their mouths, straightening tie or blouse, laughing in a forced manner, or simply standing without saying anything. Anna had seen all of these behaviors, and Ann-Britt Zimén managed to combine all of them into a sort of spasmodic pattern.
“It’s going to be fine,” Anna said.
She felt sorry for the woman. They just had to hope that she would calm down or Anders Moss would have a hell of a time of it in the studio.
All at once the woman’s face twisted into a frozen look of horror. She stared through the window in the door and whimpered. Anna followed her gaze. On the other side was a young woman. Her hair was no longer blonde but red with blood, as was her face. The whites of her eyes glinted, her mouth was open, and she was pressing one hand against the glass.
Anna pushed the paralyzed Zimén to one side, unhooked the chain, and opened the door. The young woman tried to say something that Ann couldn’t understand.
“What has happened?”
The woman quickly pulled the door shut, and before Anna had time to understand what had happened, three or perhaps four figures dressed in black rushed from the loading dock into the narrow waiting area. All of them were masked, and the first thing the bleeding young woman did was also to pull a mask on.
“Not a word,” one of them said and laid a hand over Zimén’s mouth.
Security was an issue that had been discussed at the station. A lock for the front door had been ordered but not installed, so in a couple of seconds they had been invaded by some gang. This was not a studio visit.
“We don’t mean any harm.”
Anna saw that they were all young. Slender bodies, thin hands, and youthful voices.
“As long as you keep your mouths shut and do as we say,” said another.
Anna and Zimén were forced into the Avid editing room. One of the masked figures grabbed the telephone receiver and pulled out the cord.
“Give me your cell phones,” he said, clearly nervous. “How many of you are there?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Anna said. “Six or seven. Some are in the control room and a couple are in the studio. What do you want?”
“None of your business.”
Anna was surprised at herself. She was afraid at first, but felt no terror. Zimén, however, had collapsed, much like her party, and was sitting apathetically against the wall. She would not say anything coherent for a long time. Anna leaned over and told her that everything would be all right.
The door of the room closed. One of the masked men remained outside. The rest stormed into the control room and the studio, the element of surprise on their side. There were only two minutes until the broadcast was scheduled to begin. Charlie Nikoforos attempted to resist them, grabbing one of them by the arm, but the invader only laughed and shrugged him off.
“No one will be hurt if you do what we say,” said the one who appeared to be the leader. That was what the audio technician said to the police afterward, that the others seemed to look to him for direction, to follow his instructions.
“We want to broadcast our message and you’re going to help us.”
He looked slowly around at the entire editorial team, all of whom had gathered in the control room.
“This bag,” he said and held up an old-fashioned shopping bag, “contains an explosive massive enough to blow this studio to pieces. You see this thread—if I pull it out there will be only ten seconds until the blast. Some of you may get out in time but not everyone.”
They all stared at the insignificant shopping bag. A plastic string stuck up through a gap in the zipper. The man held the bag aloft in his left hand and waved the other, visually suggesting an explosion.
“Who is the newsreader?”
“I am,” Birgitta Nilsson said.
“Good. You’ll be reading a text for us.”
He glanced at the clock on the wall, which read 18:09.
“I want you to look normal, read from the paper, nothing else. Do you understand?”
Birgitta Nilsson stared at him but didn’t say anything.
“What the hell,” said the editor, “you can’t do that!”
“What’s this about?” Ove Lundin asked.
“You’ll see. All of you should do what you normally do. No tricks. Everything calm and orderly. When our message has gone out, we’ll be on our way.”
For a brief second, the room was deathly quiet. The shock and the feeling of unreality that had gripped the editorial team started to give way to fear. What if something went wrong? What would happen?
“And no messing around. We have someone on the outside to call to make sure the transmission is going out, so don’t try anything. Get it?”
The masked man shouted out his commands. The red marker on the clock was steadily advancing.
“Sit down in there. Look like normal!”
“Thirty seconds,” the scriptwriter said and sent a pleading look to the editor.
“Okay,” he said, “go to the desk.”
Birgitta Nilsson stared at the paper she had been given but couldn’t seem to bring herself to read a single line. They all took up their positions in silence. Mechanically, Birgitta picked up the mirror and looked at her pale, blank face. The editor sat down at the small table in the control room. He turned on the microphone that put him in communication with Birgitta.
“Are you there?” he said softly. “You can do this.”
One of the cameramen made himself ready.
“Ten seconds,” the editor in chief announced.
His gaze was fixed on the monitors. The broadcast began. The introductory music sounded completely unfamiliar.
“Should I do the usual bit?” Birgitta asked.
Anders Moss looked over at the leader, who took a step closer to the open door of the studio, peered in, and then nodded.
“Then there are ads for two minutes.”
The masked man nodded again. He appeared to have calmed down.
“Why?” Moss said. “They’ll put you away for this.”
“Shut up,” the man hissed.
Moss was suddenly exasperated with the whole thing. Why do we have to put up with such idiots? The ads were running. Two masked men were keeping watch at the control table, another was in the studio, and then there was the leader. We could take them, Moss thought and tried to make eye contact with the audio technician. But he was just staring dumbly at his controls as if he didn’t understand what he was supposed to do.
The seconds slowly ticked away. Ten seconds, Moss thought. How far can we get in ten seconds? Maybe it’s a bluff, but who wants to show their colors?
The ads were coming to an end. The audio tech was trembling with terror. His hands rested on the table and were audibly shaking against the surface.
“Ten seconds,” the script girl said.
She was the calmest of them all. Birgitta was suddenly on the screen. She gazed nervously into the camera. Those who knew her and who saw the broadcast said afterward that they had noticed nothing, but she felt nauseated from anxiety and fear.
She looked down at the paper in front of her. It was printed in large type, perhaps fifteen rows of strange black letters.
“The Uppsala company MedForsk conducts illegal experiments with primates,” she said and then paused.
�
��What the hell!” the leader yelled from the control room. “Keep going!”
A couple of seconds that felt like years went by before she was able to continue. At this point many of the viewers realized that something was wrong. Perhaps they had heard the wild masked man’s voice; perhaps they thought that the text had become jumbled and was the cause of the confusion in Birgitta’s face.
“These activities have been conducted for the past two years and are both against the law and a terrible injustice to the primates who are held captive under the most abject conditions. They live in tiny cages and suffer pointlessly. We, the Animal Liberation Front, are warning MedForsk: Put an end to the painful experiments or we will put a stop to your bloody experiments. You think that you can put yourselves above the animals and excuse your behavior by saying that it serves mankind, but the only thing you want is to make money. A final warning: Desist from your criminal activities or you will regret it.”
Calle Friesman, who was hanging around waiting for the story on Akademiska that he had finished earlier that afternoon, realized immediately that something was wrong. The first sentence could have made sense, although he hadn’t heard anything about a segment on apes, but there was something about Birgitta’s voice and gaze. She was reading from a piece of paper, not the prompter, and that in itself was unusual. Admittedly all newscasters had papers in front of them that they occasionally pretended to read from, but that was simply to give a little more life to the presentation.
When she went on, he was chilled to the bone. What the hell is going on with her? he thought and stood up. He looked around the editorial office, but he was the last one there. Maybe someone in marketing was still working, but they didn’t normally watch the broadcast closely. Had she lost her marbles?
* * *
When she had finished the text, Birgitta Nilsson simply stared helplessly into the camera. She heard Anders shout something about cutting to black. The cameraman collapsed on the floor.
The leader had been in touch with someone who was watching the program. He turned off the phone and gave a chuckle.
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