Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [93]
‘Isn’t that the Blaster? That’s her, isn’t it? Look! In the tunnel, she was on telly . . .’
She didn’t turn round, knew that the whispering would pass; if you sit by the river long enough, you will see the bodies of your enemies float by. Soon no one would remember the Bomber in the tunnel and she would be just one among all the others in the well, a grey-black flake slowly drifting down towards the sludge at the bottom, ignored by everyone.
She stopped before the glass door to number 16, one of the government’s discreet departmental entrances. The window-frames were all polished copper, and behind large empty glass windows and well-tended potted palms was a reception desk with bullet-proof glass and a uniformed guard.
Annika pushed open the two doors, the grit on the soles of her shoes scraping against the marble floor, and went up to the guard, her skin creeping with the feeling that she was a shameless infiltrator. She tapped on the microphone in front of the closed screen.
‘It works,’ the elderly man behind the glass said; she saw his lips move and heard the words to her left, through a hidden speaker.
‘Oh, good,’ Annika said, trying to smile and leaning towards the microphone. ‘I’d like to check Karina Björnlund’s post.’
It was done, the spy is here, about to go through the bins and the post-box.
The man picked up a phone and pressed some buttons.
‘Take a seat and I’ll call the registrar.’
She went over to the waiting area, three curved brick-red sofas, one EU flag and one Swedish flag, a designer rack holding a mass of magazines, a metal statue possibly supposed to be a small child. Maybe a girl.
She looked at the statue; was it bronze?
She took a step closer. Who was the girl? How many inquisitive spies had she watched come and go?
‘Hello? Did you want to look through the minister’s register?’
She glanced up and found herself looking at a middle-aged man with a ponytail and sideburns.
‘Yes,’ Annika said. ‘That’s me.’
She held out her hand, not mentioning her name. According to the freedom of information laws, you could check public documents without having to prove your identity, a law she was happy to safeguard as often as she had the chance. At least it saved her from having to feel the slightest shame, because they didn’t know who she was.
‘This way.’
They passed two locked doors and a passageway painted in diagonal stripes, and took the lift up to the sixth floor.
‘To your right,’ the man said.
The marble floor was replaced by linoleum.
‘Down the steps.’
Worn oak tiles.
‘This is my room. So, what did you want to see?’
‘Everything,’ Annika said, taking off her jacket and deciding to get as much spying done as possible. She put her coat and bag on a chair in the corner.
‘Okay,’ the man said, starting up a program on the computer. ‘Karina has had six hundred and sixty-eight official items since she started as a minister almost ten years ago. I’ve got the whole list on here.’
‘Can I have a printout?’
‘This year?’
‘Everything.’
The registrar’s expression didn’t change, he just started his printer.
She glanced down the first page of the printout: registration date, item number, in date, documentation date. Then the name of the person who had been in charge of the item, the person who had sent it, name and address, a description of the item in question, and finally what it led to.
Decision, she read, ad acta.
‘What does “ad acta” mean?’ she asked.
‘No reply,’ the man with the ponytail said, turning to face her. ‘Archived without action. Could have been an encouraging note, or a rambling letter from one of our more regular correspondents.’
She went through the descriptions of the items: an invitation to the Cannes Film Festival, a request for a signed photograph, a plea to save a publishing