Annika craned her neck to look past the CNN camera. She wanted to see the reactions of the police and the prosecutor to Danielsson’s Olympic angle. Just as she had expected, they flinched when the Olympic chairman mentioned both a motive and a summation of the attack: the explosion was an act of terrorism aimed directly at the Olympics. Although they still didn’t know who the victim was. Or did they? Maybe the Olympic chairman didn’t know as much as she did – that the attack was most likely an inside job?
The Chief Prosecutor interrupted, trying to get Danielsson to shut up, but he hadn’t finished yet. He went on, ‘I urge anyone who thinks they may have seen anything to contact the police. It is vital that the culprit is caught—Yes, what is it?’
He looked in surprise at the Chief Prosecutor, who must have kicked or nudged him.
‘I would just like to stress,’ Kjell Lindström said, leaning towards the microphones, ‘that we have no information about a possible motive at this point.’ He glanced at Evert Danielsson. ‘There is nothing – I repeat: nothing – to indicate that this is an act of terrorism against the Olympics. No threats have been made against either the facilities or the Olympic Committee itself. We are currently considering various different lines of inquiry and various possible motives.’
He straightened up.
‘Any questions?’
The television reporters were ready. As soon as the invitation came they yelled out their questions. As usual, the first questions were about things that had already been mentioned, but either too slowly or in too much detail for the television news. So the reporters always asked about the same things again, in the hope of getting a clearer, simpler answer.
‘Do you have any suspects?’
‘Is there a clear line of inquiry?’
‘Have you identified the victim?’
‘Was this an act of terrorism?’
Annika sighed. The only reason for coming to press conferences like this was to watch how the police behaved. Everything they said was covered in the media, but the facial expressions of those not in shot were usually more revealing than the often rather obvious answers. Now, for instance, she could see how furious Kjell Lindström was with Evert Danielsson for talking about ‘an act of terrorism’.
If there was anything the Swedish police would want to avoid, it was the idea that there was a link between terrorism, Stockholm, the Olympic Games and this explosion. Besides, the terrorism angle was probably wrong. But, for once, they had actually revealed some new information.
Annika scribbled a few questions in her notebook. There was information regarding a person in dark clothes close to the stadium: when, and how? That meant that there was a witness – so who was that, and what were they doing there? A sample of the explosives had been sent to London: why? Why wasn’t the national forensics unit down in Linköping conducting the analysis? When would the tests be finished? How did they know the explosives weren’t military? What did that mean for the investigation? Did it limit it, or stretch its boundaries? How easy was it to get hold of civil explosives? How long would it take to repair the north stand of the stadium? Was the stadium insured, and, if so, who by? And who was the victim? Did they know? And what were the lines of inquiry that might help them identify the body that Kjell Lindström had referred to?
She sighed again. This story showed every sign of spiralling out of control.
10
Chief Prosecutor Kjell Lindström was marching down the corridor outside the press room, white in the face and clutching his briefcase hard. If he wasn’t careful, he was likely to strangle Evert Danielsson. The other participants in the press conference followed in his wake, with three uniformed officers. One of them closed the doors behind the little procession, shutting out the last and most persistent reporters.
‘I don’t see what’s so controversial about saying what everybody’s thinking,’ the chairman of the Olympic Committee said defensively. ‘It’s obvious to all of us that this is an act of terrorism. We on the Olympic Committee think it’s vital to control public opinion from the start, to build up support against this attempt to sabotage the Games—’
The Chief Prosecutor spun round, stopping inches from Evert Danielsson’s face.
‘Read my lips: There Is No Evidence To Suggest That This Is An Act Of Terrorism. Got that? The last thing the police need right now is a bloody great debate about terrorism and how to stop attacks. Anything like that would mean a total overhaul of measures to protect the Olympic venues and public buildings, and we just don’t have the resources for that … Do you have any idea how many venues are linked into the Olympics, one way or another? Of course you do. Just remember the fuss when the Tiger was causing trouble. He let off a couple of little blasts and every single fucking reporter in the country started crawling round unguarded stadiums in the middle of the night and shrieking about what a scandal it was.’
‘How can you be so sure that this wasn’t a terrorist attack?’ Danielsson said, taken aback.
Lindström sighed and started walking again.
‘We have our reasons, believe me.’
‘Such as?’ the chairman of the committee persisted.
The prosecutor stopped again.
‘This was an inside job,’ he said. ‘Someone inside the Olympic organization did it, okay? It was one of your lot. Which makes it pretty bloody awkward that you’re going around blabbing about terrorism, don’t you think?’
The colour drained from Evert Danielsson’s face.
‘That’s impossible.’
Kjell Lindström started walking again.
‘No, it’s not,’ he said. ‘If you go upstairs to the crime unit, you can tell them exactly who has access to all the pass keys and alarm codes for the Victoria Stadium.’
The moment Annika walked into the newsroom after the press conference, Ingvar Johansson beckoned her over to look at his computer screen.
‘Come and see if you can make anything of this!’ he yelled.
Annika went into her room first to drop off her bag and outdoor clothes. Her top was sticking under her arms and she was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she hadn’t showered that morning. She pulled her jacket tight around her and hoped she didn’t smell.
Ingvar Johansson was leaning over one of the newsroom’s more powerful computers with Janet Ullberg, the young temp.
‘Janet hasn’t been able to get hold of Christina Furhage all day,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a number that’s supposed to reach her, but there’s no answer. According to the Olympics office she’s in town, presumably at home. We checked her out on the national database, so we could go and pay her a visit. But when you put in her details nothing happens. She’s not there.’
He indicated the search results on the screen: no Christina Furhage. ‘There are no results for that name.’ Annika slid behind Janet and sat down in front of the screen.
‘She must be there; everyone is,’ Annika said. ‘You just made the search too narrow, that’s all.’
‘I don’t get it,’ the young temp said in a thin voice. ‘What are you trying to do?’
Annika explained as she typed.
‘The national database is the official list of names and addresses. It’s got a new name these days, Sema Group or something, but everyone still calls it Dafa Spar. It’s not even run by the government any more, but by some Anglo-French company … Anyway, every single person in the whole country is listed, along with their identity number, address, previous addresses, place of birth – every Swede, and any foreigners who’ve been given ID numbers. You used to be able to see family connections as well, whether people were married or had children, but they stopped that a couple of years ago. You can get into the system online these days, through a site called “Info Square”. That lets you choose between different databases, such as the vehicle registration site, or the register of limited companies, but we want dear old Dafa Spar. There! You just put “spar” in the search box at the top …’
‘I’m
going back. Call me later,’ Ingvar Johansson said, heading over towards the news desk.
‘… and you’re in. Then you decide how to search. You see? By ID number, date of birth or name. Voilà!’
Annika pressed enter and a questionnaire appeared on screen.
‘So, we’re looking for a Christina Furhage who lives somewhere in Sweden,’ she said, filling in the necessary details: gender, first name, last name. She didn’t bother to fill in the boxes for approximate year of birth, council district or postcode. The computer hummed and after a few seconds three lines of information flashed up on the screen.
‘Okay, we’ll take one thing at a time,’ Annika said, pointing at the screen with a pen. ‘Look at this one: “Furhage, Eleonora Christina, Kalix, born 1912, hist.” Which means that the information is historical, so that one’s probably dead. They keep dead people on the register for a year or so. But it could also mean that she’s changed her name, so she might have married some old bloke in the home. If you want to, you can check by highlighting her name and clicking historical detail, but we won’t bother with that right now.’
She moved her pen to the last of the three entries.
‘ “Furhage, Sofia Christina, Kalix, born 1993.” Just a child; probably related to the first one. Strange surnames almost always occur in just one place.’
She moved the pen again.
‘This one’s probably our Christina.’
Annika clicked on the name and the screen flashed up more details, but not the ones she had been expecting. Annika gave a start.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said.
She leaned closer to the screen, as if she didn’t believe her eyes.
‘What is it?’ Janet asked.
‘The information’s protected,’ Annika said. She printed the page, then hurried over to Ingvar Johansson with it.
‘Can you remember us ever writing about Christina Furhage having bodyguards? Or about any threats against her?’
Ingvar Johansson leaned back and thought for a moment.
‘No, not as far as I know. Why?’
Annika held out the printed page.
‘Christina Furhage is under protection, serious protection. No one but the head of the tax office in Tyresö knows where she lives. And there are only – what? – a hundred or so people in Sweden who have that sort of protection.’
She gave Johansson the printout. He stared at it uncomprehendingly.
‘What? Her details aren’t protected – her name’s on here.’
‘Yes, but look at the address: “Head of tax office, Tyresö”.’
‘What the hell are you going on about?’ Ingvar Johansson said.
Annika sat down.
‘The authorities use different types of protection when someone’s been threatened,’ she explained. ‘The least serious are covered by a block in the census results. That’s not unusual; there are something like five thousand people in Sweden covered by that level of secrecy. Then the screen just flashes up “personal details protected”.’
‘Okay, but that’s not what it says here,’ Johansson said.
Annika pretended she hadn’t heard.
‘To get your details protected there has to be some sort of concrete threat. The decision to block access is taken by the head of the local tax office where the person is registered.’
Annika tapped her pen against the printout.
‘But this, on the other hand, is really unusual. It’s a much stronger form of protection than just getting your details blocked in the database so that they can’t be viewed. Furhage isn’t in the database at all, apart from this, a referral to the head of the tax office in Tyresö outside Stockholm. He’s the only person in authority who has any idea where she is.’
Ingvar Johansson looked sceptically at her.
‘How do you know this?’
‘Do you remember those articles I wrote on the Paradise Foundation? About people living under the radar in Sweden?’
‘Of course I do. And …?’
‘That’s the only time I’ve ever come across this response before. When I looked up people the authorities wanted to hide.’
‘But Christina Furhage isn’t hidden, is she? What’s that number we’re supposed to have for her?’
They looked up the contacts database shared by all the newspaper’s computers. Under the name Christina Furhage, job title Head of Olympics, was a mobile number. Annika dialled the number. The mobile company’s automated answering service picked up the call immediately.
‘The phone’s switched off,’ she said.
She called Directory Inquiries to ask who was listed under that number. The information was confidential.
Ingvar Johansson sighed.
‘Well, it’s too late now for my picture of Christina Furhage in front of the stadium,’ he said. ‘We’ll try again tomorrow.’
‘Okay, but we still need to get hold of her,’ Annika said. ‘I mean, she has to make some kind of comment about all this.’
She stood up and headed off towards her office.
‘What are you going to do?’ Ingvar Johansson asked.
‘Call Olympic headquarters. They must know what the fuck’s going on,’ Annika said.
11
She sank heavily onto her chair and leaned her head on her desk. Her forehead hit a dried-up pastry from the day before – she took a bite, swallowing it with the remnants of the Diet Coke from lunchtime.
Brushing the crumbs away, she dialled the number for the Olympics office: engaged. She dialled again, but changed the last digit from a zero to a one, an old trick to get past reception and straight to someone’s desk.
Sometimes you had to dial a hundred different combinations, but you almost always reached some poor overworked sap in the end. No need for that this time, it worked straight away, and no less than Evert Danielsson, chairman of the Olympic Committee, answered.
Annika paused to think for a second before deciding to skip the niceties and get straight to the point.
‘We want a comment from Christina Furhage,’ she said, ‘and we want it now.’
Danielsson groaned.
‘Look, you’ve tried a dozen times already today. We’ve said we’ll pass on your questions.’
‘We want to talk to her in person. She can’t stay out of the way on a day like this, surely? Think about how it looks. These are her Games, for God’s sake! She isn’t usually so shy about speaking up, is she? So why’s she hiding this time? Get her to come forward, right away.’
She could hear Danielsson breathing down the line.
‘We don’t know where she is,’ he said quietly.
Annika felt her pulse race as she switched on the tape-recorder that was sitting beside the phone.
‘So you haven’t been able to reach her either?’ she said slowly.
Danielsson gulped.
‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ve been trying all day. We haven’t been able to reach her husband, either. Look, you’re not going to print this, are you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Annika said. ‘So where might she be?’
‘We thought she was at home.’
‘Which is where?’ Annika asked, thinking about the national database.
‘In the centre of the city. But there’s no answer there, either.’
Annika took a deep breath and asked quickly, ‘What sort of threats have been made against Christina Furhage?’
The man gasped. ‘What? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come on!’ Annika said. ‘If you don’t want me to write about this, you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on.’
‘How …? Who told you …?’
‘Her details are blocked on the national database. That means that the threat is serious enough for a judge to issue an injunction against whoever is making the threats, preventing them from contacting her. Is that what’s happened?’
‘Good God,’ Danielsson said. ‘Who told you this?’
Annika gave a silent gr
oan.
‘It’s all in the database, if you know how to read between the lines. Is there an injunction preventing anyone from contacting Christina Furhage because of threats made against her?’
‘I can’t tell you anything,’ the man said in a strained voice, and hung up.
Annika listened to the silence for a moment before putting the phone down with a sigh.
Evert Danielsson looked up at the woman standing in the doorway.
‘How long have you been there?’ he said.
‘What are you doing in here?’ Helena Starke asked, folding her arms over her chest.
The chairman got up from Christina Furhage’s chair and looked around, apparently confused, as though he had only just realized that he was sitting in her office.
‘Well, I … needed to check something … Christina’s schedule, to see if she’d put anything in her diary, about going away or anything … but I can’t find it.’
The woman stared hard at Danielsson. He met her gaze.
‘You look terrible,’ he said before he could stop himself.
‘What an incredibly chauvinistic thing to say,’ she said, her face contorted by her distaste as she walked over to Christina Furhage’s desk.
‘I got very drunk last night and threw up on the hall carpet this morning. If you say that was unusually unfeminine behaviour, I’ll punch you in the mouth.’
Danielsson felt his tongue run involuntarily along his front teeth.
‘Christina is supposed to be at home with her family today,’ Helena Starke said, pulling open the second drawer of her boss’s desk with a practised hand. ‘That means she was planning to work from home instead of here in the office,’ she clarified.
The chairman watched as Helena Starke took out a heavy diary and opened it up towards the back. She turned a few pages noisily.
‘Nothing. Saturday the eighteenth of December is completely empty.’
‘Maybe she’s doing her Christmas cleaning,’ Evert Danielsson said with a smile, and this time Helena Starke joined in. The thought of Christina putting on an apron and going round with a duster was absurdly funny.
The Bomber Page 5
