Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [14]
He turned towards the door.
‘We mustn’t delay the meeting,’ he said with his back to the editor.
Annika drove past the exit for Luleå airport and carried on towards Kallaxby. The landscape was completely devoid of colour; the pine trees dark ghosts, the ground black and white, the sky lead-grey. White veils of snow danced across the dark-grey asphalt, to the beat of the central road-markings. The hire-car’s thermometer was showing eleven degrees inside the car, minus four outside. She passed a topsoil pit and about three million pine trees before reaching the turning to Norrbotten Airbase.
The straight road leading to the base was endless, monotonous, the ground on both sides flat and with no sign of vegetation, the pines squat and feeble. After a gentle right-hand curve, gates and barriers suddenly came into view, with a large security block, and behind a tall fence she could make out buildings and car parks. She was suddenly struck by the feeling that she was seeing something she shouldn’t, that she was a spy, up to no good. Two military aircraft stood just inside the gate. She thought one of them was a Draken.
The road wound its way along the fence, and she leaned forward to see through the windscreen better. She slowly passed the conscripts’ car park and reached an enormous shooting range. Ten men in green camouflage, with pine-twigs on their helmets, were running across the range, automatic weapons in their hands, the carbines bouncing against the recruits’ chests. A signpost indicated that the road continued towards Lulnäsudden, but a no-entry sign some hundred metres further on made her stop and turn the car round. The green men were no longer visible.
She stopped by the security block, hesitating for a moment before switching off the engine and getting out of the car. She walked alongside the plain-panelled building with its reflective windows, unable to see any doors, people, or even a bell. Just herself. Suddenly a loudspeaker somewhere up to her left addressed her.
‘What do you want?’
Taken aback, she looked up to where the voice had come from, saw nothing but panelling and chrome.
‘I’m here to see, um, Pettersson,’ she said to her reflection. ‘The Press Officer.’
‘Captain Pettersson, just a moment,’ said the voice, that of a young conscript.
She turned her back on the building and looked through the gates. The trees carried on inside, but between the trunks she could make out grey-green hangars and rows of military vehicles. It was hard to estimate how large the base was from the outside.
‘Go through the gate and into the first door on the right,’ the disembodied voice said.
Annika did as she was told, like a good citizen and spy.
The officer who met her was the archetype of the successful military man, stiff-backed, grey-haired and in good shape.
‘I’m Annika Bengtzon,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘We spoke on the phone last week. The anniversary of the attack . . .’
The man held her hand for a second too long. She evaded his open gaze and friendly smile.
‘As I said on the phone, there isn’t much we can say that hasn’t been made public before. What we can provide are summaries of the situation as it was then, the conclusions we have previously presented, and a tour of the museum. Gustaf, who’s in charge of that, is off sick today, I’m afraid, but he’ll probably be up on his feet again tomorrow, if you want to come back.’
‘There’s no chance of taking a look at the site of the attack?’
His smile grew even broader. ‘I thought we cleared that up on the phone. We’ve never made that public.’
She smiled back tentatively. ‘Did you see the article by Benny Ekland in the Norrland News last week?’
The officer invited her to sit down at a table. She took off her coat and fished her notebook out of her bag.
‘I’ve got a copy of the text here, if you’d like to—’
‘I know the article you mean,’ he said, looking up at the conscript who had entered the room holding a clipboard. ‘If you could just sign the register?’
Annika signed herself in as a visitor to the base with