news.
“Were you thinking of coming in today, or are you on vacation?”
“I’m sitting here working,” Annika said.
“Good. Then you already know what’s happened?”
Annika went completely cold.
“What?”
“The terrorist group Neue Jihad have claimed responsibility for the Nobel killings.”
The newsroom was almost empty. Annika Bengtzon and Berit Hamrin came running in from the staff cafeteria, clutching their bags and coats. Patrik Nilsson was sitting reading telegrams at the main news desk; Spike was talking animatedly on the phone as he gestured simultaneously to Picture Pelle over at the picture desk.
Anders Schyman was brushing some snow from his shoulders, then he pulled off his duffel coat and tossed it onto an empty office chair.
“Shall we go through all of this one more time?” he said, hearing how tired he sounded. “This attack is a type of crime we haven’t seen in Sweden before. Which means that we have to be extremely conscious of where the ethical boundaries lie, and very careful to see that Swedish law is upheld.”
He glanced quickly across the open-plan office. None of his colleagues had slept more than a couple of hours, so he was hardly in a position to complain.
This is a new age, he thought, sitting down heavily on the sofa.
Spike slammed the phone down and grabbed at a pile of printouts.
“Neue Jihad,” he said. “A Muslim terrorist group based in Germany. The security police have been waiting for something like this. Half an hour ago the terrorists released a statement through a server in Berlin in which they claimed responsibility for ‘the murder of the Jewish fascist and Zionist Aaron Wiesel, an infidel who deserved to die.’ They seem to be a fairly creative bunch, and considering what they’ve managed to do so far they’ll probably be a force to reckon with in the future. Patrik’s been in touch with Ranstorp, the terrorism expert; we’re trying to put together an outline of the group’s previous attacks, and see if they can be linked to al Qaeda.”
“There’s one thing wrong, though,” Annika Bengtzon said.
Annika and Berit Hamrin had put their coats on top of his wet duffel coat and had sat down in a couple of free chairs at the end of the news desk.
“What?” Patrik said.
“Wiesel didn’t die,” Berit said.
Spike lost his train of thought and looked at them with a mixture of surprise and resentment.
“Yes, but for God’s sake,” he said, “that’s just details.”
“Not for Wiesel,” Annika said, “I can guarantee you that.”
Schyman was watching them from the corner of his eye, and decided not to get involved.
Spike made a sweeping gesture.
“What do I know? Maybe they wrote the message before the attack took place, then couldn’t change it. And they did actually manage to carry out their plan, to get in and shoot him during the Nobel banquet itself.”
“Before,” Berit said. “‘Before the attack took place?’”
Spike looked smug.
“Precisely. The police are holding a press conference at 2:00 PM , I thought Patrik could take it, if you’re not doing anything else, Patrik?”
Patrik Nilsson clicked to close the news agency website and yawned loudly.
“Well,” he said, “I was going to concentrate on Ranstorp, and check my sources at the National Defence College.”
“Okay, Annika, you take the press conference,” Spike said, getting ready to move on.
“Well,” Annika mimicked, “I was going to concentrate on von Behring, and check my sources at the Karolinska Institute.”
Berit started to giggle, and Anders Schyman felt himself getting annoyed.
“Are we going to cover the press conference or not?” he said, slightly too loudly.
“I can take it,” Berit said, swallowing her laughter.
“Are we going to talk to the family?” Schyman asked. “Caroline von Behring must have some sort of background? Husband, children, parents?”
“I haven’t had any answer yet,” Patrik said.
Spike did his
“Were you thinking of coming in today, or are you on vacation?”
“I’m sitting here working,” Annika said.
“Good. Then you already know what’s happened?”
Annika went completely cold.
“What?”
“The terrorist group Neue Jihad have claimed responsibility for the Nobel killings.”
The newsroom was almost empty. Annika Bengtzon and Berit Hamrin came running in from the staff cafeteria, clutching their bags and coats. Patrik Nilsson was sitting reading telegrams at the main news desk; Spike was talking animatedly on the phone as he gestured simultaneously to Picture Pelle over at the picture desk.
Anders Schyman was brushing some snow from his shoulders, then he pulled off his duffel coat and tossed it onto an empty office chair.
“Shall we go through all of this one more time?” he said, hearing how tired he sounded. “This attack is a type of crime we haven’t seen in Sweden before. Which means that we have to be extremely conscious of where the ethical boundaries lie, and very careful to see that Swedish law is upheld.”
He glanced quickly across the open-plan office. None of his colleagues had slept more than a couple of hours, so he was hardly in a position to complain.
This is a new age, he thought, sitting down heavily on the sofa.
Spike slammed the phone down and grabbed at a pile of printouts.
“Neue Jihad,” he said. “A Muslim terrorist group based in Germany. The security police have been waiting for something like this. Half an hour ago the terrorists released a statement through a server in Berlin in which they claimed responsibility for ‘the murder of the Jewish fascist and Zionist Aaron Wiesel, an infidel who deserved to die.’ They seem to be a fairly creative bunch, and considering what they’ve managed to do so far they’ll probably be a force to reckon with in the future. Patrik’s been in touch with Ranstorp, the terrorism expert; we’re trying to put together an outline of the group’s previous attacks, and see if they can be linked to al Qaeda.”
“There’s one thing wrong, though,” Annika Bengtzon said.
Annika and Berit Hamrin had put their coats on top of his wet duffel coat and had sat down in a couple of free chairs at the end of the news desk.
“What?” Patrik said.
“Wiesel didn’t die,” Berit said.
Spike lost his train of thought and looked at them with a mixture of surprise and resentment.
“Yes, but for God’s sake,” he said, “that’s just details.”
“Not for Wiesel,” Annika said, “I can guarantee you that.”
Schyman was watching them from the corner of his eye, and decided not to get involved.
Spike made a sweeping gesture.
“What do I know? Maybe they wrote the message before the attack took place, then couldn’t change it. And they did actually manage to carry out their plan, to get in and shoot him during the Nobel banquet itself.”
“Before,” Berit said. “‘Before the attack took place?’”
Spike looked smug.
“Precisely. The police are holding a press conference at 2:00 PM , I thought Patrik could take it, if you’re not doing anything else, Patrik?”
Patrik Nilsson clicked to close the news agency website and yawned loudly.
“Well,” he said, “I was going to concentrate on Ranstorp, and check my sources at the National Defence College.”
“Okay, Annika, you take the press conference,” Spike said, getting ready to move on.
“Well,” Annika mimicked, “I was going to concentrate on von Behring, and check my sources at the Karolinska Institute.”
Berit started to giggle, and Anders Schyman felt himself getting annoyed.
“Are we going to cover the press conference or not?” he said, slightly too loudly.
“I can take it,” Berit said, swallowing her laughter.
“Are we going to talk to the family?” Schyman asked. “Caroline von Behring must have some sort of background? Husband, children, parents?”
“I haven’t had any answer yet,” Patrik said.
Spike did his
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