Talk about a perfect hiding place, he thought.
He sat down on a park bench and the damp immediately penetrated the seat of his pants. He didn't care.
The feeling of failure burned in his lungs as he drew deep, misty breaths. The view over the lake was as clear as his future. The prime minister was unwilling to discuss what he'd be doing after it was all over. All his energy was now aimed at salvaging the election campaign. Nothing must jeopardize that. The prime minister would get rid of him today in a public axing, on some invented pretext, and he'd grovel to the media. The amoebas, as he called them, controlled the election campaign, and it took precedence over everything else.
Except the truth, he reflected.
This realization had the same effect on his future as if the sun had suddenly broken through the thick clouds and made the fog lift in a moment.
It was that simple!
He suddenly laughed out loud.
He could choose to do damn well anything he wanted.
As long as no one found them out.
His laughter froze, the fog swallowed and drowned it.
***
"He resigned," Anne Snapphane hollered. "The news flash just came in from TT."
Annika dropped her bag on the floor. "And?"
" 'At a press conference the prime minister announced that the minister for foreign trade has resigned,'" Anne read on her screen. " 'The prime minister expressed regret at Christer Lundgren's decision but understands his motives.'"
"Which were?" Annika sat down at her own desk and switched on her computer.
"Family reasons."
"Of course he'd say that. They always say that. But it's not that straightforward."
"Oh, you," Anne said, "you're just imagining things."
"And what's the alternative? That he really is the murderer?"
"There's a lot that's pointing toward that now."
Annika didn't respond. She clicked onto the list of cable copy on the TT page on her computer. They had already reached "Minister resigns 5." No one had been able to get hold of Christer Lundgren himself for a comment. The prime minister had once again pointed out that the minister wasn't suspected of any form of criminal act and that the police interviews had been routine.
"So why did he resign?" Annika muttered.
She read that an internal committee was at present looking at the former minister's receipt from Studio 69.
She let go of the mouse, leaned back in her chair, and looked out over the newsroom. "So where are all the führers?"
"At the recruitment meeting," Anne said.
Annika's heart jumped. "I'm getting some coffee," she said abruptly, and got to her feet.
Jesus, I'm so nervous, she thought.
She went to get a copy of today's paper, opened it to page six and seven, and burst out laughing.
She was looking at a photograph of a small cat sitting on a dark green, plastic mattress in a jail cell. He was wide-eyed and dazed, maybe from the camera flash. The tip of his tail lay neatly on top of his front paws.
"Puss on Death Row" read the headline across all of page seven.
"It's a good thing that the media, at least once in a while, takes on the really important issues," Annika said when she'd pulled herself together.
"We're getting a storm of protests from the readers," Anne said. "My assignment for the day is to choose where Puss's new home will be." She waved a big bundle of telephone message notes in the air. "The switchboard will sift out all callers outside of Östergötland. How does Arkösund sound to you? Does Puss look like an archipelago cat to you?"
Anne leaned forward, studied the picture for a few seconds, and gave the answer herself. "Nah. I don't see him as a herring lover. I think he likes mice and birds. Haversby sounds like a real rat-hole, doesn't it? Is that where he should go?"
Annika got to her feet again, fidgety.
Why didn't Christer Lundgren attend his own press conference? And how come the prime minister announced his resignation and not him? Didn't he want to resign? Or did the election campaign managers think he'd shoot his mouth off?
Both, perhaps, Annika thought. In any case, it all pointed to some kind of cover-up.
She walked over to the bulletin board; the recruitment meeting had started at ten o'clock. They should be done soon. She needed to go to the bathroom, again.
When she came out, she saw Bertil Strand standing talking to Picture Pelle over by the picture desk. She knew that the photographer sat on the executive committee of the local branch of the union. They must have taken part in the meeting. Without being aware of it, she half ran over to him.
"What's the decision?" she said, out of breath.
Bertil Strand slowly turned round. "The union executive is united," he said coldly. "We think you should leave immediately. Your careless way of handling the public has compromised the credibility of the entire newspaper."
Annika wasn't taking it in. "But, do I get to stay on?"
He narrowed his eyes. His voice became icy cold. "Aren't you listening? You should leave right away."
The blood drained from Annika's face. She had to grab hold of the photo desk to keep from falling over. "Leave?"
Bertil Strand turned away and she let go of the table. Oh, dear God, get me away from here, Jesus Christ, how do I get out, I'm going to throw up. The whole newsroom was heaving up and down, the walls were swaying.
Rage surged up inside her, crimson and razor-sharp.
Shit, she thought. I've had it with these idiots. I'm not the one who's been behaving like an ass. It's not my fault the paper is going to hell. How can they say that to me, my own union representatives!
"How dare you?" she said to Bertil Strand.
The man's back stiffened.
"It's people like me who pay for your dinners with the executive committee," she said. "You're supposed to be there for me. How the hell can you stab me in the back like this?"
He turned around again. "You're not a regular member of this union branch," he said tersely.
"No, because I don't have a permanent job. But I pay exactly the same dues as everybody else. How come I don't have the same rights? How the hell can the union recommend firing one of its own members? Are you completely out of your minds?"
"Don't say anything you might regret," the photographer said, his gaze drifting away above her head.
She took a big step nearer to him, making him take a frightened step back.
"It's you who should watch what you say," she said in a low voice. "I've made some mistakes, but none as big as the one you're making right now."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anders Schyman walking toward his fish tank with a mug of coffee in his hand. She fixed her gaze on the back of his head and set off toward him. Computers, people, bookshelves, and plants moved past like fragments until she was face-to-face with him.
"Are you kicking me out?" she said, her voice much too shrill.
The deputy editor steered her into his room and drew the curtains. She flopped onto the tobacco couch and stared at him.
"Of course we aren't."
"The union wants to," she said, her voice trembling. Don't start blubbering now, she thought.
Schyman nodded, then sat down next to her on the couch. "I just can't make them out. They don't give a damn about their members. All they want is power."
She eyed him suspiciously. "Why are you saying this to me?"
He looked at her calmly. "Because that's what it's about in this case."
She blinked.
"Unfortunately, the truth is there's no opening for you at the moment. We can't hire everybody who's good, and there's only one available contract this fall."
"Oh, let me guess, that went to Carl Wennergren?"
"Yes." The deputy editor looked at the floor.
Annika laughed. "Well, congratulations! This newspaper certainly backs the people it deserves." She stood up.
"Please sit down."
"Why should I? There's no
reason for me to stay in this building for another second. I'll be leaving immediately, just like the union wants me to."
"You've got a week and a half left. Stick it out."
She gave a short laugh again. "So I can eat more shit?"
"In small quantities and at the right moments, it can be good for one's character," Anders Schyman said with a smile.
She pulled a wry face. "I've got compensatory leave to take."
"You do. But I'd rather you stayed and worked."
She walked toward the door but checked herself and stopped. "Just tell me one thing. Would this paper pay for a tip-off from a terrorist group?"
"What do you mean?" He got to his feet.
"Exactly what I say- pay money to be present during a terrorist act."
He crossed his arms and gave her a searching look. "Do you know something?"
"I never disclose my sources," she said mockingly.
"You're employed by this newspaper, and I'm your boss."
She fished out her pass from her pocket and put it on his desk. "Not any longer, you're not."
"I want to know what made you ask."
"Answer my question first," she retorted.
He looked at her in silence for a few seconds. "Of course not. It would be out of the question. Never."
"If the paper had done this since you started, you would know about it?"
"I take that for granted."
"And you can guarantee that this hasn't happened?"
He slowly nodded.
"Okay," she said in a light tone. "Then I'm satisfied. Well, then… It was short but sweet."
She held out her hand nonchalantly.
He didn't take it. "What are you going to do now?"
Annika looked at the deputy editor with slight contempt. "And what's that to you?"
He answered calmly, "I'm interested."
"I'm going to the Caucasus. Actually, I'm leaving tomorrow."
Schyman blinked. "I don't think that's a good idea. There's a civil war down there."
"Oh, don't worry about me. I'll be with the guerrillas, so I'm cool. See, the government has no weapons. The international community has seen to it that the slaughter is one-sided. Well, good luck getting this newspaper back on its feet. You've got a hell of a job ahead of you. The bosses here don't know what the fuck they're doing."
She put her hand on the door handle, paused. "You've got to get rid of that couch. It really stinks."
She left the door wide open behind her, Anders Schyman watching her weave her way through the newsroom. As she walked toward her desk, her movements jerky and angry, she didn't stop to speak to a single person.
***
Anne Snapphane wasn't at her desk.
Just as well, Annika thought. I have to get out of here without breaking down. I'm not going to give them that.
She threw her things together, a few boxes of pens, a pair of scissors, and a stapler thrown in. That was the least this shitty rag could give her.
She left the newsroom without looking round. In the elevator down, she suddenly felt a heavy pressure across her chest. She had difficulty breathing as she stared at her face, bluish pale as usual, in the wall mirror.
Damned lighting, she thought, and it's summer. I wonder what you look like in this elevator in the winter.
I'll never find out was her next thought. This is the last time I'll ever use it.
The cage stopped with the familiar jerk. She pushed the door open, heavy as lead, and walked toward the fog outside. Tore Brand must have gone on holiday; a woman she didn't recognize was behind the reception desk. The entrance doors slid closed behind her and that was the end of that.
She stood for a while on the forecourt of the newspaper building, drawing the damp air into her lungs. It was raw and unpleasant.
She recalled her words to Schyman.
Where the hell did the idea about the Caucasus come from? she wondered. But maybe going abroad wasn't such a bad idea, to just grab a last-minute trip anywhere.
A figure emerged from the veils of fog in the street. Carl Wennergren was carrying two heavy bags full of bottles. Of course he was going to celebrate!
"Congratulations," Annika said tartly when he walked past her.
He stopped and put the bags down. "Yeah, I feel great." He flashed a wide smile. "Six months, that's the longest contract they give you. Any longer and they would have to employ the person permanently."
"It must feel good, to get in here like that, by your own efforts- and with your own money."
The man smiled hesitantly. "What do you mean?"
"Daddy's little rich boy. Did you have the money to hand, or did you have to sell some stock?"
His smile immediately faded and he looked away with a sneer on his face. "So they chucked you out?" he said nonchalantly.
Her answer was shrill. "I'd rather eat cat food than buy my job from terrorists."
His contemptuous gaze swept across her body. "Well, bon appétit. You look a bit scrawny, actually. You could use something to eat."
He picked up his bags and turned around to go inside the newspaper offices. Annika saw that they were filled with Moët & Chandon bottles.
"And not only did you buy a scoop and a contract, you also gave up your own sources. That's quite a triple."
He stopped dead and looked around. "That's bullshit." She could see a hint of anxiety stirring around his eyes.
She moved closer to him. "How the hell could the police know the Ninja Barbies would hit that place at that time? How the hell did they know to evacuate that particular block? And how could they know exactly where to hide?"
"I don't know." Carl licked his lips.
She took another step toward him and hissed straight in his face, "You sold out your own sources. You cooperated with the police to get pictures of the arrest, didn't you?"
He raised his eyebrows, leaned his head back, and gave her a contemptuous look. "And…?"
She lost her head and started yelling. "You are such a fucking asshole! Fuck you!"
He turned around and stumbled toward the entrance. "You crazy bitch!" he yelled over his shoulder.
He disappeared through the glass doors and Annika felt the tears welling up in her eyes. Screw them! He gets to go in with the champagne while they throw me out on the street.
"Hey, Bengtzon, do you want a lift?"
She spun around and saw Jansson sitting in a clapped-out old Volvo at the exit to the street.
"What are you doing here?" she called to him.
"The recruitment meeting." He switched off the engine. She walked over toward the car and the night editor stepped out.
"You look tired," she said.
"Yeah, I was on last night. But I really wanted to go to this meeting. To do my bit of lobbying for you."
She gave him a skeptical look. "Why?"
He lit up a cigarette. "I think you're the best cover we had this summer. I thought the six-month contract should go to you. So did Schyman."
Annika raised her eyebrows. "Really. So why didn't it?"
"The editor in chief said no. He's a real idiot. He's shit-scared of criticism. And you had the union against you."
"Yeah, I know."
They stood there for a while in silence, Jansson smoking his cigarette.
"Are you leaving right away?"
Annika nodded. "No point in prolonging the agony."
"Maybe you could come back."
She laughed quietly. "I wouldn't bet my last dollar on it."
The night editor shrugged. "So, can I drop you anywhere?"
She looked into the man's dog-tired face and shook her head. "Thanks, I'll walk. Enjoy the fantastic weather."
They both looked around into the fog and laughed.
***
Her clothes stank of stale tobacco. She pulled them off and left them in a heap on the floor in the hallway. She put on her dressing gown and sat down on the couch.
Patricia had gone out somewhere. Just as we
ll. She reached for the telephone directories.
"You can't leave the Union of Journalists just like that," an administrator at the union central office told her reproachfully.
"I can't? So how do I do it?"
"First you have to write to your local branch and withdraw your name from the union, and then you have to write to us here at the central office. Then, after six months, you have to confirm your withdrawal, both locally and centrally."
"You must be kidding."
"The waiting period is counted from the first day of the following month. So you can't leave the union until the first of March next year at the earliest."
"And I have to pay my dues in full until then?"
"Yes, unless you stop practicing journalism."
"Well, that's exactly what I'm going to do. As of this moment."
"So you've left your present employment?"
Annika sighed. "No, I've got a permanent job on the Katrineholms-Kuriren."
"Then you can't leave the union just like that."
I'm going to reach down the telephone wire and strangle the woman. "Now listen. I'm leaving the union now. Today. Forever. What I'm doing is none of your damned business. I won't pay another cent. Just strike me off the register right now."
The woman on the phone got angry. "Obviously I can't do that. And it's not our union, it's your union."
Annika laughed out loud.
"You're too much! Well, then, if I can't leave, I just won't pay the full dues, only the unemployment benefit fund contribution. Just send me a form."
"Well, that's not the correct procedure."
Annika closed her eyes and swallowed. Her brain was about to explode.
"Okay. Tell you what. Forget it. I'll leave the unemployment benefit fund as well. Just go to hell."
She hung up, searched the phone directory, then phoned the syndicalist union, the SAC, the Swedish Workers Confederation.
"I'd like to join the unemployment benefit fund… Oh, great! Sure, I'll send you the papers straightaway."
Things could be so simple.
She went into the kitchen and made a sandwich, ate half of it, and threw the rest away. Then she went and got her notepad and settled down. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, then she wrote both the letters. She could buy envelopes and stamps at the corner shop.
Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed Page 24
