Part 27 (1/2)

'A bad day on the battlefield?' he said, settling down on the other side of the table.

The chairman of the board fingered the lock of his briefcase, his nails clicking against the metal in an unconscious and irritating way.

'You win some, you lose some,' he said. 'I can give you good news that I appear to be winning on your behalf. I've just come from a meeting of the Newspaper Publishers' a.s.sociation, where I proposed you as new chair after the New Year. The last chap hasn't worked out at all, so we all agreed we need a change, and my suggestion met surprisingly little resistance. No one had any objections, neither publishers nor directors.'

Wennergren seemed genuinely surprised.

'Maybe they were just shocked,' Schyman said, as his secretary brought in a coffee-tray full of cups and biscuits.

'I don't think so,' the chairman said, grabbing a ginger biscuit before the tray had reached the table. 'The managing director called you a collective capitalist. What do you think he meant by that?'

'Depends if the tone was positive or negative, and what values you attach to the description,' Schyman said, avoiding the question.

Herman Wennergren took a careful sip from the china cup with pouting lips and his little finger sticking out. He swallowed a small mouthful, then said, 'It's possible that the other groups are gathering their forces. We shouldn't crack open the champagne just yet, but I think I can get you through as chair. And once you're there, at the board's first meeting, I want you to raise a particular question that's of the utmost importance to our proprietors.'

Anders Schyman leaned back in his chair and concentrated on keeping his expression completely neutral, as the true nature of his elevation dawned on him: he was expected to be the proprietors' weapon on the ostensibly unbiased and apolitical forum that the Newspaper Publishers' a.s.sociation purported to be.

'I see,' Schyman said blankly. 'What question would that be?'

Wennergren was chewing a caramel slice. 'TV Scandinavia,' he said, brus.h.i.+ng some crumbs from the corners of his mouth. 'Are we really going to allow American capital onto our airwaves without any real debate?'

The second front, Schyman thought; the one being lost. The old boy really is worried the one being lost. The old boy really is worried.

'I thought it was being debated everywhere,' he said, not sure if he should be annoyed at the attempt to direct him as a lobbyist, or if he should pretend it was bad news.

'Of course,' Herman Wennergren said, wiping his fingers on a napkin. 'How many articles have we had about it in the Evening Post Evening Post?'

Anders Schyman stood up rather than raise his voice, and went over to sit at his desk.

Never before had the family that owned the paper exerted any pressure on him to write on issues where they had economic interests. He understood immediately what a large and sensitive issue the launch of the American channel must be for them.

'A precondition of me enjoying any sort of respect in the publis.h.i.+ng community is that I maintain a critical and independent line towards our proprietors in all circ.u.mstances,' he said, picking up a pen without using it.

'Naturally,' Herman Wennergren said, getting to his feet. He picked up his briefcase and b.u.t.toned his coat. 'An independent line, of course, to anyone looking on. But you're not stupid, Schyman. You know who you work for, don't you?'

'Journalism,' Anders Schyman said, feeling his temper fraying. 'Truth and democracy.'

Herman Wennergren gave a tired sigh. 'Yes, yes,' he said. 'But you also appreciate what's at stake. How the h.e.l.l are we going to get shot of TV Scandinavia?'

'Make sure they don't get a broadcasting licence,' Schyman said at once.

Wennergren sighed louder. 'Obviously,' he said. 'But how? We've tried everything. The government is completely unshakeable. This American consortium fulfils all the criteria for access to the digital broadcast network. The proposal is up in parliament next Tuesday, and the Ministry of Culture isn't going to change its conditions just because we want it to.'

'As soon as that?' Schyman said. 'So it must be done and dusted then?'

'All the committee stages and consultation were finished long ago, but you know what Minister Bjornlund is like. She has trouble getting anything done, let alone on time. We've checked with the parliamentary print office, and they haven't received the text yet.'

Schyman looked down at his desk, and in one corner of the latest balance sheet were the words he had scribbled down as he had considered how hard he should be on Annika Bengtzon.

Karina Bjornlund engaged terrorist Ragnwald, blew up plane F21????

He stared at the words, feeling the pressure rise.

What did he want the media landscape in Sweden to look like in the future? Did he want the Swedish media to continue its long tradition of pursuing issues like democracy and freedom of expression? Or could he let them be stifled by a global, dollar-rich entertainment giant? Could he deliberately put the Evening Post Evening Post, the Morning News Morning News, the publis.h.i.+ng companies, radio and television channels at risk, purely because he insisted on maintaining his form of mute and stereotypical ethics? Ethics that no one would ever know that he followed, nor at what cost?

And ultimately: was he prepared to sacrifice his own career?

Anders Schyman picked up the balance sheet containing the notes and looked at the chairman of the board.

'There is something,' he said. 'Something that Karina Bjornlund really doesn't want made public.'

Herman Wennergren raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

The winter sleet hit Annika in the face, making her gasp for breath. The doors slid shut behind her, the sucking sound mixed with the crunch of ice caught in the mechanism. She put her hand over her eyes to block the light of the paper's illuminated logo above her head. In front of her the street and the world stretched out, vast and impa.s.sable. Her centre of gravity sank, through her stomach, past her knees. How could she possibly take another step? How was she going to get home?

This is the biggest load of c.r.a.p I've ever heard . . . I hope you haven't mentioned this nonsense to anyone else?

At the back of her head the angels were tuning up their mournful voices, no words, just notes, reaching her through eternities of emptiness.

From now on you won't be covering terrorism at all. You will not spend a minute more on Karina Bjornlund or that b.l.o.o.d.y Ragnwald.

How could she have been so wrong? Was she really going mad? What had happened to her head? Was it because of her experience in the tunnel? Was something up there broken beyond repair?

She put her hands over her ears, closing her eyes to shut out the angels, but instead she kept them in. They overwhelmed her.

No. I don't want this.

Her mobile started buzzing from the bottom of her bag. She shut her eyes tighter and felt the vibrations filter through her notebook, chewing-gum, the bag of sanitary towels, the padding of her coat, hitting her in the waist. She stood and waited until it had stopped.

I don't want to hear another word about this.

Stockholm seemed to come to a standstill around her, the noise of traffic on the motorway disappeared, damp ghosts gathered around streetlamps and neon signs, her feet floated free of the ground, she took off and slowly floated above the pavement outside the entrance, down towards the garage, over the frozen gra.s.s lawn, past the concrete traffic island.

'Annika!'

She fell to the ground with a b.u.mp, gasping for breath, and found herself standing right outside the crunching, sliding doors, the wind tugging at her hair again, spitting and snarling.

'Hurry up, you're getting soaked.'

Thomas's old green Toyota had pulled up alongside the entrance to the garage. She looked at it in surprise. What was it doing here?

Then she saw him wave from the open driver's door, his blond hair wet and sticking to his forehead, his coat stained with sleet. She ran towards him, right into his smiling eyes, flying over the tarmac and patches of ice, drowning in his endless embrace.

'Good thing you got my message,' he said, leading her round to the pa.s.senger side, carrying on talking as he opened the door and helped her in. 'I tried to call your mobile but there was no answer so I told the caretaker that I'd come past and pick you up, I had to move the car anyway so it's no trouble, I've picked up some goodies and I thought we could maybe . . .'

Annika was panting slightly through her half-open mouth.