Exposed Page 14

  She blushed.

  ‘Well spotted,’ she said.

  ‘Are you permanent?’

  Annika shook her head. ‘No, just a summer temp. My contract ends in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll get the chance to talk later,’ Anders Schyman said, and turned back to join the cock parade again. All the eyes that had been fixed on Annika lifted and drifted away across the newsroom. She watched the group go, feeling strangely uneasy.

  When the group had vanished behind the sports desk she made her decision. She was no snitch. She wasn’t going to call the police about the Ninja Barbies. And she wasn’t going to say anything to Spike either. So many idiots called every day. She couldn’t go running to the head of news about each and every one of them.

  She carried on with her article about the police’s breakthrough in the hunt for Josefin’s killer, managing to sound authoritative without quoting Patricia, writing about the suspect without exposing the press spokesman, and implying that Josefin’s boyfriend was a bastard without actually saying so. Her piece about the orgy of grief out in Täby was short and restrained.

  She swung by the cafeteria and bought a can of Coke, and listened to the headlines of Studio Six, the radio discussion programme. It was about the role of journalists in the election campaign. She switched it off and drew a graph of Josefin’s last hours. The only thing she left out was the name of the sex club where Josefin worked, deciding to call it simply ‘the club’. Then she went over to the graphics team, so that they could superimpose the details on a map or aerial photograph of Kungsholmen.

  By the time she was finished it was almost seven o’clock. She was hot and tired and didn’t feel like doing anything else. So she sat down and had a quick surreptitious read of the morning papers. At half past seven she turned up the volume on the television and watched the main evening news. They had nothing about Josefin or the IB affair. The only interesting item was from their Russian reporter. He was rounding off his series of reports from the Caucasus with an interview with an expert in Moscow.

  ‘The President needs weapons,’ the expert summarized. ‘The country is completely out of ammunition, grenades, rifles, machine guns, everything. This is the President’s over-riding problem. Because the UN has imposed a weapons embargo, it’s extremely difficult for him to get hold of new supplies. The only alternative is the black market, and he can’t afford to buy anything that way.’

  ‘How come the guerrillas have so many weapons?’ the reporter asked.

  The expert smiled sheepishly. ‘The guerrillas are actually very weak, poorly educated, and badly led. But they have open access to Russian weapons. My country has serious political interests in the Caucasus. Unfortunately, the truth is that Russia is providing the guerrillas with material support …’

  Annika recalled the old man who could speak Swedish, the president whose people were the victims of the guerrillas’ attacks. The international community was being utterly pathetic! Why wasn’t anyone criticizing Russia for its involvement in the civil war?

  By the time the news was over, calm had descended on the newsroom. Spike had gone home and Jansson was at the editor’s desk. Annika glanced through the latest reports from the news agencies, read the articles in the shared file-store, and finally checked the news on the other main television channel. Then she went over to Jansson.

  ‘Nice map,’ the night-editor said. ‘And a good piece about her boyfriend being the suspect. We could all have guessed though, couldn’t we?’

  ‘Is there anything else I can do?’ she wondered.

  Jansson’s phone rang.

  ‘I think you should go home,’ he said. ‘You spent practically all weekend here.’

  Annika hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’

  Jansson didn’t answer. Annika went back to her desk and gathered her things together. She cleared her desk – she was going to be away for four days and another reporter would be using her space.

  She bumped into Berit on her way out.

  ‘Do you fancy a beer at the pizza place on the corner?’ her colleague wondered.

  Annika was taken by surprise, but answered at once. ‘Thanks; that would great. I haven’t had anything to eat yet.’

  They took the stairs. The evening was still muggy and warm. The air above the concrete car park still seemed to be vibrating.

  ‘I’ve never known a summer like this one,’ Berit said.

  The women walked slowly towards the pizzeria on Rålambsvägen. It was shabby but it was licensed to sell beer and wine, which might explain how it had survived for so long.

  ‘Do you have family here?’ Berit asked as they stood waiting to cross the road.

  ‘My boyfriend’s down in Hälleforsnäs,’ Annika said. ‘You?’

  ‘A husband in Täby, a son studying in Lund, and a daughter working as an au pair in Los Angeles. Are you hoping to stay on at the paper in the autumn?’

  Annika laughed nervously. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d like to stay on, so I’m doing my best.’

  ‘Good, that’s the most important thing,’ Berit said. ‘Look and learn, and make your own decision about whether or not you want to stay.’

  ‘It’s pretty tough,’ Annika said. ‘I think the temps get exploited. The company seems to take in loads of people and lets them fight for jobs, instead of actually appointing people to vacancies.’

  ‘True enough,’ Berit said. ‘But that does at least mean that a lot of people get a chance to go for it.’

  The pizzeria was almost empty. They sat down at a table a little way inside the restaurant. Annika ordered a pizza, and they asked for two beers.

  ‘I read your piece about IB in the file-store,’ Annika said. ‘Here’s to the scoop!’

  They touched glasses and drank.

  ‘That whole IB business never seems to end,’ Berit said, putting her dripping glass down on the wax cloth. ‘As long as the Social Democrats carry on wriggling and lying there’ll be plenty more articles to write.’

  ‘Mind you, perhaps it’s understandable,’ Annika said. ‘After all, it was in the middle of the Cold War.’

  ‘Not then, it wasn’t,’ Berit said. ‘The first memorandum about the register of political affiliations was sent out from party headquarters on the twenty-first of September, 1945. And the accompanying letter was written by the secretary of the party himself, Sven Andersson, who went on to become Minister of Defence.’

  Annika blinked in surprise.

  ‘As early as that?’ she said incredulously. ‘Are you sure?’

  Berit smiled. ‘I’ve got a copy of the accompanying letter in my own archive,’ she said.

  They looked at the other customers in silence for a while – a few local drifters and five giggly youngsters who didn’t look old enough to drink.

  ‘So,’ Annika said, ‘why would they want to identify Communists if it wasn’t because of the Cold War?’

  ‘Power,’ Berit said. ‘The Communists were pretty strong, especially up in Norrbotten, and in Stockholm and Gothenburg. The Social Democrats were scared of losing control of the unions.’

  ‘But why did that matter?’ Annika said, feeling a bit foolish.

  ‘Money and influence,’ Berit said. ‘The Social Democrats believed very strongly that the workers should be collectively tied into the party. The Metallettan union in Stockholm was run by Communists from 1943. When they broke the union’s links with the Social Democrats, it cost the party thirty thousand kronor in membership fees per year. And that was a hell of a lot of money for the party in those days.’

  Annika’s pizza arrived. It was small, and the base was tough.

  ‘I don’t really see how this all fits together,’ Annika said after a few greedy mouthfuls. ‘How would the register of political affiliations help the Social Democrats to keep control of the unions?’

  ‘Can I have a piece? Thanks. Well, some of the party’s ombudsmen manipulated the votes and nominations to party congresses. All party members were or
dered to vote for certain selected candidates in order to wipe out the Communists,’ Berit said.

  Annika chewed and looked sceptically at her colleague.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘My dad was a union rep in Hälleforsnäs. Do you mean to say that people like him ignored local democracy just to obey the party line from Stockholm?’

  Berit nodded and sighed. ‘Not all of them, but far too many did precisely that. It didn’t matter who was most suitable, or who had the confidence of the members.’

  ‘And the Social Democrats kept a long list of all the names in their party headquarters?’

  ‘Not to begin with,’ Berit said. ‘At the end of the fifties the information was still kept locally. When it was at its height, there were more than ten thousand people reporting – or spying, if you like – on their colleagues’ political views in workplaces the length and breadth of Sweden.’

  Annika cut a slice of pizza and ate it with her hands. She chewed in silence for a while, licking her fingers thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t want to be difficult,’ she said. ‘But don’t you think you’re making more out of this than it actually merits?’

  Berit folded her arms and leaned back.

  ‘Of course there are some people who think that,’ she said. ‘We’re becoming very ignorant of our own history. We’re only talking about the fifties here. As far as today’s generation is concerned, that might as well be the Stone Age.’

  Annika pushed her plate away and wiped her mouth on her napkin.

  ‘So what happened after the fifties?’ she said.

  ‘IB,’ Berit said. ‘It was set up in 1957.’

  ‘The Information Bureau,’ Annika said.

  ‘Also known as “Information for Birger”,’ Berit said. ‘He was the head of the domestic division, Birger Elmér. The section for foreign espionage was called the “T Office” for a while, after the boss there, Thede Palm.’

  Annika shook her head.

  ‘God, what a muddle,’ she said. ‘How do you keep all this clear in your head?’

  Berit smiled and relaxed.

  ‘I was a subscriber to People in Focus when the revelations came out. I’ve written a fair bit about IB since then. Nothing revolutionary, but I’ve kept up with it.’

  The waiter took away what was left of Annika’s pizza, the crusts and a few tough lumps of what was meant to be pork.

  ‘My dad used to talk about IB,’ Annika said. ‘He thought the whole thing had been blown way out of proportion. He used to say it was all about the country’s security, and that the Social Democrats really ought to be thanked for taking responsibility for defending our way of life.’

  Berit put her glass down heavily on the table.

  ‘The Social Democrats kept a register of people’s political affiliations for their own purposes. They broke their own laws, they lied, they manipulated the system. And they’re still lying. I talked to their spokesman today. He refuses point-blank to admit that he ever knew Birger Elmér, or had anything at all to do with the Information Bureau.’

  ‘Maybe he’s telling the truth,’ Annika said.

  Berit gave her a sympathetic look.

  ‘Believe me,’ she said, ‘IB is the Social Democrats’ Achilles heel, their biggest, most monumental mistake, even though it was also the way they were able to hold on to power. They’ll do anything to cover up their abuse of power. They managed to create a map of the whole population of Sweden. They persecuted people because of their political views; they got people fired from their jobs. They’re going to lie until there’s categorical proof of what they did. And when that happens, they’ll start coming up with excuses instead.’

  ‘So how did they go about it, then? Some sort of Social Democratic security police?’

  ‘No, they used the organization of Social Democratic workplace ombudsmen. There’s nothing wrong with the organization on the surface – it was set up to relay party messages to people at work.’

  ‘So why was it so secretive then?’

  ‘The ombudsmen did all the groundwork for the Information Bureau. Everything they reported was passed to Elmér and the government. And they’re the proof that IB and the Social Democrats were basically the same organization.’

  Annika looked through the window at the summer evening. Three dusty plastic plants obstructed the view. Behind them the filthy window formed a grey barrier against the traffic outside.

  ‘So what was kept in the foreign archive?’ she asked.

  Berit sighed. ‘The names of a whole load of agents, journalists, sailors, aid workers: basically, anyone who travelled a lot. They wrote reports, and they were supposed to predict impending crises. For instance, they had agents in Vietnam reporting back to Sweden, and that information was passed on to the Americans, as well as to the British. The reports may have looked like travel diaries, but they were actually full of intelligence information. They covered things like the Vietnamese infrastructure, how people lived, what they thought about current events, what morale was like.’

  ‘But Sweden was neutral!’ Annika said, shocked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Berit said bitterly. ‘Birger Elmér used to meet the US Ambassador and Head of Intelligence for lunch at an out-of-town restaurant. And Elmér used to talk to Olof Palme a lot. Palme used to say that he would deal with the politics, as long as Elmér kept the Americans happy. And so Palme would go and shout at all the demos, while Elmér did his best to keep the Yanks on side.’

  ‘And now a copy of their archive has suddenly popped up?’ Annika said.

  ‘I’m convinced the original archive is still out there somewhere,’ Berit said. ‘The question is: where?’

  ‘What about the domestic archive, then?’

  ‘That was completely illegal. It contained detailed personal information about people who were thought to be enemies of the Social Democratic Party, probably around twenty thousand names in total. Everyone on the list would have been interned if war had broken out. But even in peacetime they had trouble getting work. They were excluded from involvement in the unions, for instance. And you didn’t have to be a Communist to end up on the list. Just reading the wrong newspaper was enough, or having the wrong friends, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  They sat for a few minutes without speaking. Annika cleared her throat.

  ‘But this is still about things that happened forty years ago,’ she said. ‘Back then people were still being sterilized against their will, and DDT was being sprayed all over the place. Why do these documents matter so much today?’

  Berit thought for a moment.

  ‘They probably contain a lot of pretty bad stuff, information about breakins and bugging, and so on. But the really sensitive stuff is missing: the big picture.’

  ‘Which means what, exactly?’ Annika asked.

  Berit closed her eyes. ‘When it comes down to it, the Social Democrats were spying for America. Any deviation from neutrality that can be proved with these documents is, by today’s standards, even worse than keeping a register of people’s political affiliations. The government not only lied to the country, but were cosying up to one of the superpowers. Not that this was without risk, of course. The Soviets knew what the Swedish position was, largely from what Stig Wennerström told them before he was caught and found guilty of treason. The Russians built that into their military planning. Sweden would probably have been one of the first targets in any new war, because of the government’s duplicity.’

  Annika looked wide-eyed at Berit.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Do you really think things were as bad as that?’

  Berit finished the last of her beer.

  ‘If all the grubby details of what the Information Bureau actually did were revealed, it would ruin the Social Democrats. People would lose whatever faith they have left in them. The archive is the key. They’d have a hard time trying to form a government any time in the foreseeable future if the archive reappeared.’

  The teenagers
at the next table got up and left, with a great deal of noise. They tumbled out into the warm evening, leaving behind them an abstract pattern of peanuts and spilled shandy on the table. Annika and Berit watched them go through the window, as they crossed the road to the bus-stop. A number 62 pulled up and they disappeared onto it.

  Should I say something about the Ninja Barbies? Annika wondered.

  Berit looked at her watch.

  ‘Well, I guess it’s time,’ she said. ‘My last train goes soon.’

  Annika hesitated, as Berit waved to the waiter.

  Oh, I can’t be bothered, Annika thought. No one’s ever going to find out.

  ‘Thank goodness I’m off tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Berit sighed, then smiled. ‘I’ve got a couple more days’ work ahead of me with IB,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be worth it.’

  Annika smiled back. ‘Yes, I can see why you’d think that. Are you a Communist yourself?’

  Berit laughed. ‘And I suppose you’re spying for IB?’

  Annika started laughing as well.

  They paid and headed out into the summer evening as it gradually changed colour and texture, from evening to night.

  Seventeen years, eleven months and eight days

  Time collapses, leaving deep tracks. Reality crushes love with its meagreness, its boredom. Our desire to find the truth is just as strong. He’s right; we have to take responsibility together. I’m not focused enough, I lack concentration. It takes a long time for me to reach orgasm. We have to get closer, devote ourselves to each other, not let anything disturb us. I know he’s right. If you have the right sort of love in your consciousness, nothing can stop you.

  I know what the problem is: I have to learn to handle my longing. It gets in the way of our experience, of our excursions out into the cosmos. Love can take you anywhere, but only if your devotion is absolute.

  He loves me more than words can say. All the wonderful details, his passion for everything about me. His choice of books, clothes, records, food and drink for me is at one with our breathing, our heartbeat. I have to let go of my egotistical desires.