"I'm asking you if you'd be interested in a freelance contract with the paper. Very favorable. We'd help you set up your own business, maybe a company, and then you'd work for us on a less regulated basis."
The reporter gaped and blinked a couple of times. He reminded Schyman of a fish out of water.
"What the…" he said. "What the hell is this?"
"Exactly what I'm telling you," the editor said wearily. "An offer of a different form of employment. You've never thought of moving on?"
Nils Langeby closed his mouth and pulled in his legs under the couch. As the realization of the enormity of what he was hearing sank in, he turned his gaze toward the office building on the other side of the street. He clenched his teeth and swallowed.
"We could help you find an office in town. We'll guarantee you an income of five contracted days a month, that's 12,500 kronor plus contributions and holiday pay. You will of course continue to cover your own particular areas, crime in schools and…"
"It's that bloody cunt, isn't it?" Nils Langeby said hoarsely.
"Pardon…?" Schyman said, dropping part of his calm demeanor.
Langeby turned his gaze to the editor, who all but recoiled at the hatred he saw in it.
"That cunt, that whore, that bitch— she's behind all this, isn't she?"
"What are you talking about?" Schyman said, noticing he'd raised his voice.
The reporter clenched his fists and breathed raggedly through his nose.
"Damn, damn, damn! The fucking cunt wants me fired!"
"I haven't said a word about firing you…" Schyman began.
"Bullshit!" Langeby shouted and got up so abruptly that his big stomach swayed. His face had turned scarlet, and his fists were clenching and unclenching.
"Please sit down," Schyman said in a quiet, cold voice. "Don't make this more unpleasant than it already is."
"Unpleasant?" Langeby bawled, and Schyman, too, got to his feet. He took two strides up to Langeby and put his face close to his.
"Sit down, man, and let me finish talking," he hissed.
Langeby didn't do as he was told but walked over to the window and stood staring out. It was clear and cold, and the sun was shining over the Russian Embassy.
"Who are you referring to? Your boss, Nils? Annika Bengtzon?"
Langeby let out a short, rueful laugh.
"My boss. Christ, yes! It's her I'm referring to. She's the most incompetent cunt I've ever come across. She's clueless! She knows nothing! She's making enemies all over the newsroom. Ask Eva-Britt Qvist. She shouts and goes on at people. No one can understand why she got the job in the first place. She has no authority and no sub-editing experience."
"Sub-editing experience?" Anders Schyman said. "What's that got to do with it?"
"And everybody knows about the guy who died, just so you know. She never talks about it, but everybody knows."
The editor breathed in, his nostrils flaring.
"If you're alluding to the episode that occurred before Annika Bengtzon got on the permanent staff, you know that the court established that it was an accident. It's rather low of you to bring that up here," he said icily.
Nils Langeby didn't answer but rocked to and fro on his feet, fighting back the tears. Schyman decided to put in the knife and twist it.
"I find it remarkable you speak this way about your boss," he said. "The fact is that attacks of that kind could result in a formal written warning."
Nils Langeby didn't show any reaction, only kept on rocking over by the window.
"We have to discuss your performance, Nils. Your so-called article last night was a near disaster. That in itself wouldn't give cause for a warning, but recently you've been displaying a shocking lack of judgement. Your piece last Sunday about the police suspecting that the first bomb might have been a terrorist act— you haven't been able to identify a single one of your sources."
"I don't have to divulge my sources," Langeby said in a strained voice.
"Yes, to me you do. I'm the editor-in-chief of this paper. If you're wrong, I'm the one who has to carry the can. You know that."
Langeby went on rocking.
"I haven't contacted the union yet," Schyman said, "I wanted to talk to you first. We can do this whichever way you want to: with or without the union, with or without a conflict. It's up to you."
The reporter shrugged his shoulders but didn't reply.
"You can go on standing there, or you can sit down so I can explain how we can sort this out."
Langeby ceased rocking to and fro, hesitating for a moment, but then slowly turned around. Schyman saw that he'd been crying. They both sat down again.
"I don't want to humiliate you," the editor said in a low voice. "I want this to be carried out in as dignified a manner as possible."
"You can't fire me," Nils Langeby sniveled.
"Yes, I can," Schyman said. "It would cost us about three years' pay in the industrial tribunal, maybe four. It would be a damned ugly and nasty affair with mudslinging and accusations that neither you, nor the paper would have anything to gain from. You'd probably never get another job. The paper would look like a harsh and unforgiving employer, but that wouldn't matter much. It could even be good for our reputation. We'd be able to give good reason for letting you go. You would immediately, today, receive a written warning, which we would cite. We would maintain that you are sabotaging our publication, harassing and thwarting your immediate superior with invectives and four-letter words. We would produce evidence of your incompetence and poor judgement. All we have to do is refer to what has happened during the last few days and then count the number of articles of yours that are in the archives. How many have you written the last ten years? Thirty? Thirty-five? That's three and a half articles per year, Langeby."
"You said, you said only last Saturday that I would be going on writing front-page copy for
Kvällspressen
for many years to come yet. Was that just bullshit?"
Anders Schyman sighed.
"No, not at all. That's why I'm offering you the opportunity to continue working for the paper, albeit in a different situation. We'll fix you up with a company and an office, and we'll buy five days of your time every month for five years. The going rate for a freelance reporter is two and a half thousand kronor per day, plus holiday pay and pension contributions. That will give you half of your current salary for five years, while at the same time you can work as much as you like for anyone else."
Langeby wiped off the snot with the back of his hand and stared down at the carpet. After some time he said:
"What if I find another job?"
"Then we'll pay out the money as a severance packet, 169,500 a year or 508,500 for three years. That's the most we can offer."
"You said five years!" Langeby said, suddenly irate.
"Yes, but that's when you're producing copy for us. This freelance contract isn't a golden handshake. We expect you to continue working for us, under different conditions."
Again, Langeby turned his gaze to the carpet. Schyman waited for a while, then moved on to the next stage: to lessen his humiliation somewhat.
"I can see you're not happy here anymore, Nils. You haven't quite adapted to the new culture. I feel bad about you being unhappy. This is a highly advantageous way for you to build a foundation for a new career as a self-employed reporter. You don't like working for Annika Bengtzon, and I'm sorry about that. But Annika is staying; I have big plans for her. I don't agree with your assessment of her. She loses her temper sometimes, but that will soften with time. She's been under a lot of pressure lately, largely because of you, Nils. I'd like to keep you both, and I think a contract of this nature would be the best solution for all involved…"
"508,000 is just two years' salary," Nils Langeby said.
"Yes, two full annual salaries, three if you work part time. You'll get that without any argument. No one need even know about the money. You'll just make it known that you're moving on in your career and are starting up as freelancer. The paper will be sorry about losing such an experienced member of the staff but will be grateful for your continued contributions as a stringer…"
Nils Langeby looked up at the editor-in-chief with an expression of loathing.
"Damn you," he said. "What an oily, false fucking serpent you are… Damn you…"
Without saying another word, Nils Langeby got up and walked out the door. He slammed it loudly behind him and Anders Schyman heard his steps disappear among the steps of the other people in the newsroom.
The editor went over to his desk and drank another glass of water. The headache had abated somewhat with the last pill, but it was still pounding like a red heart inside his forehead. He heaved a deep sigh. This was going better than he'd hoped. Had he already won the battle? One thing was sure: Nils Langeby had to go. He was going to be thrown out of the newsroom and not be allowed to set foot there ever again. Unfortunately, he would never go of his own accord. He could hang around and poison the air for another twelve years.
Schyman sat down in his chair behind the desk and looked out over the Embassy enclosure. Some children were trying to sled down the muddy hill on the front.
This morning the MD had given the go-ahead for the editor to juggle a few items in the budget to make money available to buy out Nils Langeby with up to four salaries. It would be cheaper than paying him twelve, which the company would have to do if he stayed on. If Nils Langeby had the bare minimum of intelligence— which, granted, he didn't— he'd accept the offer. If he didn't, the other, more protracted measures were at hand. He could, for example, be transferred to the proofreading section. This would naturally mean union involvement and a big fuss, but the union wouldn't be able to stop it. They could never show that the paper had made any formal mistake. As a reporter, you're assumed to be qualified for proofreading, so that shouldn't be a problem.
The union wouldn't have much to make a noise about anyway. Anders Schyman had simply made the reporter an offer. People were often offered severance packages in the trade, even if it hadn't happened many times at this particular paper. All the union could do was to support its member during negotiations and make sure he got as good a deal as possible.
And should all hell break loose, one of the in-house lawyers, an expert in employment law, was preparing a really nasty case before the industrial tribunal. Then the union's central ombudsman would enter as the other party and appear for Nils Langeby in court, but the paper couldn't lose. Schyman's only objective was to get rid of the fucker, and he intended to succeed.
The editor took another sip of water, lifted the receiver, and asked Eva-Britt Qvist to come in. He'd given Spike one hell of a tongue-lashing the night before, so there wouldn't be any further hassle from him. He might as well deal with them all at a stroke.
* * *
The call from the tipster Leif came to the newsdesk at 11:47 A.M., only three minutes after the event. Berit took the call.
"The central Stockholm sorting office has been blown up. There are at least four casualties," the tipster said and hung up. Before the information had even registered in Berit's brain, Leif had already dialed the next paper. You had to be first, or there'd be no money.
Berit didn't put the receiver down; she just quickly pressed the cradle down and phoned the police central control room.
"Has there been an explosion at the sorting office?" she quickly asked.
"We have no information as yet," an extremely stressed police officer replied.
"But has there?" Berit insisted.
"Looks like it," he said.
They hung up, and Berit threw the remains of her sandwich in the trash.
At 12:00 P.M.
Radio Stockholm
was the first to report on the explosion.
* * *
Annika left Tungelsta with a peculiar sense of warmth in her soul. The human psyche did, after all, have a remarkable ability to self-heal. She waved to Olof Furhage and Alice as she turned into Älvvägen and drove away toward Allévägen, cruising at a leisurely pace in the pleasant neighborhood toward the main road. She could picture herself living here. She drove past the villages Krigslida, Glasberga, and Norrskogen over toward Västerhaninge Junction and the motorway into Stockholm.
She put the car in the right lane and picked up the phone that she had left on the passenger seat. "Missed call" the display said; she pressed for "show number" and noted that the switchboard of the paper had tried to reach her. She sighed lightly and put the phone back down. She was very happy Christmas was so near.
She switched on the radio and sang along to Alphaville's "Forever Young."
Just after the exit to Dalarö, the phone rang. She swore and turned down the radio, pushed the earpiece into her ear, and pressed "answer."
