The Bomber Read Online Free
bomb hole.
Annika's phone rang. She pressed the answer button. "Yes?"
"What's the ambulance doing?"
"Nothing. Waiting."
"What have we got for the next edition?"
"Have you found the taxi driver at the hospital?"
"Not yet, but we've got people there. He's not married, no partner."
"Have you tried contacting the Olympic boss, Christina Furhage?"
"Can't find her."
"What a disaster for her. She's worked so hard… We have to do the whole Olympic angle, too. What happens to the Games now? Can the stand be fixed in time? What does Samaranch say? All that stuff."
"We've looked into it. There are people here working on it."
"I'll do the story on the actual blast, then. It has to be sabotage. Three pieces: the police hunt for the bomber, the scene of the crime this morning, and…" She fell silent.
"Bengtzon…?"
"They're opening the back doors of the ambulance. They're taking out the stretcher, wheeling it up to the entrance. Shit, Jansson, there's another victim!"
"Okay. The Police Hunt, I Was at the Scene, and the Victim. You've got pages six, seven, eight plus the center spread." The line went dead.
She was on full alert as the ambulance people walked toward the stadium. Henriksson's camera was rattling. No other journalists had noticed the newly arrived vehicles; the training facility blocked their line of vision.
"Christ, it's cold," Henriksson said when the men had disappeared inside the arena.
"Let's go back to the car and make our calls," Annika said.
They went back toward the media gathering. People were standing around, freezing in the frigid air. The TV people were unrolling their cables, and some reporters were blowing on their ballpoint pens. Why don't they ever learn to use pencils when it's below freezing? Annika thought to herself and smiled. The radio people looked like insects with their sound equipment jutting out their backs. Everyone was waiting. One of the freelancers from Kvällspressen had returned from a trip to the newsdesk.
"They're having some kind of press briefing at six o'clock," he said.
"Live on the Rapport special bulletin— how convenient," Annika muttered.
Henriksson had parked his car way off, behind the tennis courts and the sports clinic.
"I took the route they first cordoned off to come here," he said apologetically.
They had some way to walk. Annika could feel her feet grow numb from the cold. A light snow had started falling— too bad, when you're planning to take photos in the dark with a telephoto lens. They had to brush the snow off the windshield on Henriksson's Saab.
"This is good," Annika said, looking toward the arena. "We can see both the ambulance and the doctor's car. We've got it all covered from here."
They got in and warmed up the engine. Annika started making her calls. She tried the Krim duty desk again. Busy. She called the emergency services control room and asked who had first raised the alarm, how many calls they had received, if anyone in the apartments nearby had been hurt by flying glass, and whether they had any idea as to the extent of the damage. As usual, the emergency people knew the answers to most of her questions.
She then dialed the number she had found on the sticker on the entrance doors of Victoria Stadium, the one belonging to the security company responsible for guarding the premises. She found herself at an emergency service switchboard in Kungsholmen in west-central Stockholm. She asked if they had received any alarms from the Olympic arena in the early morning hours.
"We treat all incoming alarm calls as confidential," said the man at the other end.
"I understand that," Annika said. "But I'm not asking about an alarm call you've received but about one you probably haven't received."
"Hey," the man said, "are you
Annika's phone rang. She pressed the answer button. "Yes?"
"What's the ambulance doing?"
"Nothing. Waiting."
"What have we got for the next edition?"
"Have you found the taxi driver at the hospital?"
"Not yet, but we've got people there. He's not married, no partner."
"Have you tried contacting the Olympic boss, Christina Furhage?"
"Can't find her."
"What a disaster for her. She's worked so hard… We have to do the whole Olympic angle, too. What happens to the Games now? Can the stand be fixed in time? What does Samaranch say? All that stuff."
"We've looked into it. There are people here working on it."
"I'll do the story on the actual blast, then. It has to be sabotage. Three pieces: the police hunt for the bomber, the scene of the crime this morning, and…" She fell silent.
"Bengtzon…?"
"They're opening the back doors of the ambulance. They're taking out the stretcher, wheeling it up to the entrance. Shit, Jansson, there's another victim!"
"Okay. The Police Hunt, I Was at the Scene, and the Victim. You've got pages six, seven, eight plus the center spread." The line went dead.
She was on full alert as the ambulance people walked toward the stadium. Henriksson's camera was rattling. No other journalists had noticed the newly arrived vehicles; the training facility blocked their line of vision.
"Christ, it's cold," Henriksson said when the men had disappeared inside the arena.
"Let's go back to the car and make our calls," Annika said.
They went back toward the media gathering. People were standing around, freezing in the frigid air. The TV people were unrolling their cables, and some reporters were blowing on their ballpoint pens. Why don't they ever learn to use pencils when it's below freezing? Annika thought to herself and smiled. The radio people looked like insects with their sound equipment jutting out their backs. Everyone was waiting. One of the freelancers from Kvällspressen had returned from a trip to the newsdesk.
"They're having some kind of press briefing at six o'clock," he said.
"Live on the Rapport special bulletin— how convenient," Annika muttered.
Henriksson had parked his car way off, behind the tennis courts and the sports clinic.
"I took the route they first cordoned off to come here," he said apologetically.
They had some way to walk. Annika could feel her feet grow numb from the cold. A light snow had started falling— too bad, when you're planning to take photos in the dark with a telephoto lens. They had to brush the snow off the windshield on Henriksson's Saab.
"This is good," Annika said, looking toward the arena. "We can see both the ambulance and the doctor's car. We've got it all covered from here."
They got in and warmed up the engine. Annika started making her calls. She tried the Krim duty desk again. Busy. She called the emergency services control room and asked who had first raised the alarm, how many calls they had received, if anyone in the apartments nearby had been hurt by flying glass, and whether they had any idea as to the extent of the damage. As usual, the emergency people knew the answers to most of her questions.
She then dialed the number she had found on the sticker on the entrance doors of Victoria Stadium, the one belonging to the security company responsible for guarding the premises. She found herself at an emergency service switchboard in Kungsholmen in west-central Stockholm. She asked if they had received any alarms from the Olympic arena in the early morning hours.
"We treat all incoming alarm calls as confidential," said the man at the other end.
"I understand that," Annika said. "But I'm not asking about an alarm call you've received but about one you probably haven't received."
"Hey," the man said, "are you
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