Rapport.
The reporters were rehearsing their stand-ups, scrawling in their scripts; the still photographers were loading their cameras; radio reporters were twiddling the knobs of their DAT recorders, mumbling "testing, testing, one-two…" The murmur of voices sounded like a waterfall. The heat was already unbearable. Annika groaned, dropping her coat and scarf in a heap on the floor.
When the police officials walked in through a side door next to the podium, the murmur subsided and was replaced by the snapping of cameras. Four men stepped onto the podium: the Stockholm police press officer, the Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström, a Krim investigator whose name Annika couldn't remember, and, finally, Evert Danielsson from the Olympic Secretariat. They took their time to get seated at the table, then sipped from the mandatory glasses of water.
The press officer opened with the established facts: An explosion had taken place, leaving one person dead; the extent of the resulting damage was reiterated; and the forensic investigation was in progress. He already seemed tired and careworn. What would he look like once this has been going on for a couple of days? Annika mused.
Then the Chief District Prosecutor took over. "We haven't as yet been able to identify the victim at the arena. Progress has been hampered by the state of the body. We do, however, have some leads that could assist in establishing the identity of the victim. The explosive residues have been sent to London for analysis. We haven't had any definite results from them yet, but we can say at this point that the explosive is probably civilian-made. The explosives used were not from a military source."
Kjell Lindström drank more water. The cameras were clattering.
"We are also looking for the man who was convicted of two bomb attacks against sports arenas seven years ago. This man is not under suspicion at the moment, but will be brought in for questioning."
The chief prosecutor looked down at his papers for a moment, seemingly hesitant. When he resumed, he looked straight into
Rapport
's camera:
"A person wearing dark clothes was seen near the arena just before the explosion. We appeal to the public to contact us with any information that may be relevant to the bombing of Victoria Stadium. The police want to talk to anyone who was in the area between midnight and 3:20 A.M. Information that might appear irrelevant to the general public may provide the police with vital clues."
He rattled off a couple of telephone numbers that would soon appear on the
Rapport
news.
When the chief prosecutor was done, Evert Danielsson of the Olympic Secretariat cleared his throat.
"Well, this is a tragedy," he said nervously. "Both for Sweden as the host nation of the Olympic Games and for the world of sports as a whole. The Games symbolize competition on equal terms regardless of race, religious creed, politics, or sex. It makes it all the more lamentable that anyone would target this global symbol, the arena of the Olympic championships themselves, and commit an act of terrorism."
Annika craned her neck to see above the CNN camera. She watched the reaction to Danielsson's Olympic lament on the faces of the police officers and the prosecutor. As might have been expected, they flinched as, right in front of their eyes, the head of the Olympic Secretariat produced both a motive and a method: The explosion was an act of terrorism directed at the Games themselves. Yet they still didn't know who the victim was. Or did they? Didn't the head of the Secretariat know what had already been confirmed to Annika, that the attack had probably been staged by someone on the inside?
The prosecutor interrupted, trying to silence Danielsson, who went on regardless. "I appeal," he continued, "to everybody who thinks he or she may have seen something to contact the police. It is of the utmost importance to apprehend the perpetrator of… What?" Bewildered, he looked at the chief prosecutor, who must have pinched or kicked him out of sight of the reporters.
"I just want to point out," Kjell Lindström said while leaning toward the microphones, "that at the present time, we can in no way identify a motive." He glared sideways at Evert Danielsson. "There is nothing, I repeat, nothing, which indicates that this is an act of terrorism directed at the Olympic Games. There have been no threats delivered to either the facilities or the Secretariat. As matters stand, we remain open to various lines of enquiry and motives."
He sat back in his chair. "Any questions?"
The TV reporters were prepared and raring to go. As soon as the reporters got the floor, they would shout out their questions. A face-off it's called, from the ice-hockey term. The first few questions were about facts that were already known but which had been said too slowly or in a too complicated manner for a segment of 90 seconds. That was why TV reporters always asked the same things all over again, hoping to get a straighter and simpler answer.
"Do you have any suspects?"
"Do you have any leads?"
"Has the victim been identified?"
"Could it be an act of terrorism?"
Annika sighed. The only reason for going to this kind of press conference was to study the behavior of the investigators. Everything they said was reported in other media, but to observe the facial expressions of those who weren't on camera was often more rewarding than the usually predictable answers. Now, for example, she could see just how angry Kjell Lindström was with Evert Danielsson for shooting his mouth off about "acts of terrorism." If there was one thing the Swedish police were extremely keen to steer clear of, it was for the world to put the taint of terrorism on Stockholm and the Olympic Games. The terrorist angle was probably totally off the mark. For once, though, they actually had released some new information. Annika scribbled some questions in her notepad. There was the bit about a person wearing dark clothes having been seen near the arena— when and where? If there was a witness, who was it and what was he or she doing there? The explosives had been sent to London for analysis— why? Why wasn't the forensic lab in Linköping dealing with it? And when were the results of the analysis expected? How did they know the explosives were civilian-made? What were the implications for the investigation? Did it narrow it down or widen its reach? How easy are civilian-made explosives to come by? How long would it take to repair the North Stand? Is the arena insured, and if so, by whom? And who was the victim? Did they know? And what were the lines of enquiry Kjell Lindström had been talking about that might help them in the investigation? She sighed again. This could become a very long, drawn-out story.
* * *
Chief District Prosecutor Kjell Lindström strode down the corridor leading from the conference room. His face was pale and taut. He gripped the handle of his briefcase so tight his knuckles were white. He felt sure that unless he managed to keep his hands in check, he would strangle Evert Danielsson. Behind him followed the rest of the participants in the press conference, plus three uniformed cops who had been standing in the background. One of them pulled the door closed, shutting out the last of the persistent reporters.
"I don't see why it should be so controversial to say what everyone is thinking," the director said from behind him. "It's perfectly obvious to everyone that it's a terrorist attack. The Olympic Secretariat believes it's important to quickly establish an opinion, a force that can withstand any attempt to sabotage the Games…"
The prosecutor spun around to face Evert Danielsson, inches from his face.
"Read my lips: There is no suspicion whatsoever of a terrorist act. Okay? The last thing the police need right now is a big fucking debate about terrorist control. That would place demands on the security of arenas and public buildings that we just don't have the resources for…. Do you know how many arenas are connected with the Games in one way or another? Yes, of course you do. Don't you remember what happened when the Tiger was doing his thing? He let off a couple of charges and every frigging reporter in the country went sniffing around unprotected arenas in the middle of the night. Then they wrote sensationalist stories about the shitty security."
"How can you be so sure it's not a terrorist attack?" Danielsson said, somewhat intimidated.
Lindström sighed and resumed. "Believe me, we have our reasons."
"Such as?" the director persevered.
The prosecutor stopped again. Calmly, he said, "It was an inside job. Someone in the Olympic organization did it. Okay? One of your lot, mate. That's why it's extremely unfortunate for you to go mouthing off about terrorist attacks. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Evert Danielsson turned pale. "That's not possible."
Kjell Lindström started walking again. "Oh, yes, it is. And if you would follow the investigators up to the Serious Crimes Division, you can tell them exactly who in your organization has access to all entry cards, keys, and security codes for Victoria Stadium."
* * *
The moment Annika entered the newsroom after the press conference, Ingvar Johansson waved to her from behind the office modem computer.
"Come and see if you can make any sense of this," he called.
Annika passed by her office and dumped her bag, coat, scarf, and mittens. Her sweater felt sticky in the armpits, and suddenly she was conscious of not having had a shower that morning. She pulled the jacket tighter around her, hoping she didn't smell.
Janet Ullberg, a young freelance reporter, and Ingvar Johansson were both leaning over one of the newsroom computers that had a fast modem installed.
"Janet hasn't been able to get hold of Christina Furhage all day," he said while typing something. "We've got a number that's supposed to work, but there's no answer. According to the Olympic Secretariat, she's in town, probably at home. So we wanted to look up her address and go and knock on her door. But when we enter her data, nothing happens. She's not in there."
He pointed to the information on the screen. No Christina Furhage—
"The name does not exist for the given data."
Annika squeezed in behind Janet and sat down on the chair in front of the keyboard.
"Of course she's here, everybody is," Annika said. "You've done a too narrow search, that's all."
"I don't get it," Janet said in a faint voice. "What are you doing?"
Annika explained while typing away. "The Public Register, the government department for citizen information— people's births, deaths, marriages, and addresses— usually goes under the name of the PubReg. It's not even state owned anymore; they sold it to some Anglo-French company. Anyway, here you can find every person in the country— their identity numbers, addresses, previous addresses, and places of birth of Swedes and immigrants who've been given identity numbers. Before, you'd be able to find family ties as well— children and spouses— but that was stopped a couple of years ago. Now, using the modem, we log in to something called the Info Market, look… You can choose from a number of databases, the National Vehicle Register and the Register of Limited Companies, for example, but we want the PubReg. Look here— you type " 'pubreg" up here where the prompt is…"
"I'll go back to my desk. Call me when you're done," Ingvar Johansson said and left in the direction of the newsdesk.
"…and, hey, presto! We're in. Here we can choose between a number of different functions, things we want to enquire about. See? Use F2 if you have the personal number and want to know whose it is, F3 if you have a birth date but not the four ID digits, F4 and F5 are off limits— family ties— but we can use F7 and F8. To find out where a person lives you hit F8, name enquiry. Voilà!"
Annika pressed the command and a document appeared on the screen.
"So, we're looking for Christina Furhage, living somewhere in Sweden," she said, typing in the necessary data: sex, first and second names. She left the fields for approximate date of birth, county code, and postal code empty. The computer did its thinking, and after a few seconds, three lines appeared on the screen.
"Okay, one at a time," Annika said, pointing at the screen with her pen. "Look here: 'Furhage, Eleonora Christina, born 1912 in Kalix, hist.' That means the data is historical. The old lady is probably dead. Dead people stay in the register for about a year. It can also mean that she has changed her name; she could have married an old geezer from the home. If you want to check that, you highlight her name and press F7, for historical data, but we won't do that now."
She moved her pen down to the bottom line.
" 'Furhage, Sofia Christina, born 1993 in Kalix.' A kid. Presumably a relative of the first one. Unusual surnames often pop up in the same place."
She moved the pen again. "This will be our Christina."
Annika typed a "v" in front of the line and gave the command.
"My God…!" she said, leaning closer toward the screen as if she didn't believe her own eyes. A very rare piece of information appeared.
"What?" Janet said.
"The woman is off the record," Annika said. She typed "command p" and went over to the printer. With the printout in her hand, she walked over to Ingvar Johansson.
"Have we ever written anything about Christina Furhage having bodyguards? That she's received death threats or anything like that?"
