Part 16 (1/2)

Annika had stopped in the middle of a gesture, almost standing, leaning across the editor-in-chief's desk, mouth open, her face livid. In the silence left by his words the thoughts were racing through her head, trying to find solutions and explanations.

'It's Spike,' she said. 'Has Spike said something about my trips?'

Schyman sighed and stood up. 'Not at all. I'm just pointing out that this business with terrorism and terrorists has started to take up a great deal of your time.'

'Well, perhaps they've been fairly important subjects in recent years.'

Annika sat down, and Schyman walked around her chair and over to the conference table.

'I'd just like you to consider whether there might be some other reason why you should be particularly interested in these things.'

'What do you mean?'

Schyman sighed again, running his fingers over the tubes containing the graphs.

'That I'm identifying myself with the terrorists, is that what you mean? That I've killed someone myself, and that makes my brain conjure up compulsive killers where there aren't any? Or do you mean the tunnel, the dynamite the Bomber tied me up to? Has that made me so crazy that I'm seeing Bombers behind every bush?'

Anders Schyman raised both hands in a placatory, soothing way. 'Annika,' he said, 'I don't know. All I can say is that this story is really peculiar. I can't run a story about a Ragnwald who might be dead and buried, or a gardener in Moscow, or a diver for the coastguards, or whatever the h.e.l.l he might be, because this is serious stuff, serious allegations.'

'Ragnwald is his codename, he isn't identified anywhere.'

'Maybe he's better known as Ragnwald than his real name. We just don't know, do we?'

She didn't answer, feeling her teeth grind as she stared into the curtains that hid the emba.s.sy compound.

'Besides,' he said, 'common sense suggests that the idea behind your article isn't very sensible. The Swedish countryside isn't exactly famous for producing fullblown terrorists, is it?'

She looked at him in astonishment. 'Are you kidding? Or are you just ignorant? The letter bomb was invented by a man from Toreboda, and the first one blew up in the hands of director Lundin on Hamngatan in August nineteen hundred and four.'

'Look,' he said, his tone suggesting that he wanted to placate her. 'Things are going really well for the paper right now. We can't put ourselves in a position where we risk the credibility we've built up with our readers with some vague accusations of terrorism.'

She leaped up, adrenalin pumping. 'Credibility? You mean you think people buy the paper for our serious and cutting-edge journalism?'

She let out a short burst of laughter.

'Anne Nicole Smith on the front page three days in a row last week,' she said. 'A boy who m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed on a reality show on Sat.u.r.day. The Crown Princess kissing her boyfriend on Sunday. What is this? Can't you see what you've done to this paper? Or are you kidding yourself as well?'

She could see he wanted to explode but was choosing not to.

'I thought you were happy about the progress the paper's been making,' he said, his voice slightly strained.

'Working with sale signals on the front cover and billboards, isn't that what you call it? Do you know what I call it? Focusing on c.r.a.p and s.h.i.+t.'

'We're a second paper. We have to push tabloid stories harder than a first paper. Or don't you want us to get ahead?'

'Not at any cost. I think it's a tragedy that you've dropped all quality control on this paper.'

'That's not true,' he said in a very controlled tone of voice. She was surprised at how angry he seemed. 'We are still running b.l.o.o.d.y serious investigative journalism inside the paper, you know that perfectly well. Be fair.'

'That doesn't stop me from regretting the way journalism is going. Along with the other tabloids we're writing about reality television as if it was the most important and relevant thing going on right now. Now that can't be right, can it?'

'You're forgetting Cain and Abel,' Schyman said, trying to smile.

'What about them?'

Annika folded her arms on her chest, waiting.

'Being seen, the most important thing for human beings, didn't you once say that? About television, actually? Being in a reality show that's being filmed and shown on the internet twenty-four hours a day is like being seen by G.o.d, all the time.'

'So who's G.o.d?' Annika said. 'The camera lens?'

'Nope,' Schyman said. 'The viewing public. When did any of us last have the chance to be G.o.d?'

'You get to be G.o.d every day, at least on the paper,' Annika said. 'Just as omnipotent, unjust and full of poor judgements as the real G.o.d was with Cain and Abel.'

Now it was Schyman's turn to be speechless. Annika could hear her accusations echo in the silence, and wished she'd bitten her tongue.

'I'm just extremely b.l.o.o.d.y upset that my story about Benny Ekland's murder was thrown off the front page,' she said, in an effort to excuse her remarks.

He snorted, shook his head, and walked over to the window.

'Benny Ekland wasn't a name,' Anders Schyman said, towards the gla.s.s of the window. 'And besides, the link to terrorism was extremely vague.'

'And how much of a name is Paula from Pop Factory?'

'Paula came second in the compet.i.tion last spring and released a single that got to number seven in the charts. She's reported the incident to the police and is prepared to have her name and picture published, even in tears,' Anders Schyman said, without sounding the slightest bit ashamed.

Annika took two steps towards his back.

'And why does she do that? Because she's fallen out of the charts. Surely we ought to think for a moment before we start doing the bidding of two-bit celebrities like her?'

'Do you know, Annika,' he said, 'I can't be bothered to argue with you about this. I don't need to justify to you the priorities that are actually responsible for saving this paper from closure.'

'So why are you doing it, then?'

'What?'

She gathered her papers, tears bubbling under the surface.

'I'm going to carry on,' she said, 'if you've no objection. But I know that you have to prioritize. If Ozzy Osbourne throws another T-bone steak into his neighbour's garden, I realize that I'm f.u.c.ked.'

She walked out before he could see her tears of rage.