Stieg Larsson, My Friend - Kurdo Baksi [28]
I knew I had to ask Stieg the question, it simply had to be done.
“Stieg,” I said, after taking a swig of beer, “where do you think the boundary is between a journalist using false names and identities in order to obtain information, and infiltrating an organization?”
It seemed as if he had been expecting the question. He responded without hesitation.
“If a neo-Nazi party, or a party linked with neo-Nazism, refuses to provide information about its activities and refuses to answer questions, it is legitimate to obtain information in unconventional ways.”
I didn’t reply, but sat in silence for a while. It was obvious that Stieg was irritated. He almost spat out, “Normal journalistic techniques get nowhere with neo-Nazi groups. So what do you expect us to do? Sit back with our arms folded?”
Sighing, I realized that the discussion had already become more heated than I had hoped it would.
“I understand what you mean, but I don’t agree. There are limits, even in investigative journalism. How and when you should resort to false identities requires a long discussion. There are various ways for a journalist to pretend to be somebody else in order to find out information that is difficult to get hold of.”
He leaned back in his chair, as if waiting to hear what I would say next. It was not at all like him to allow me to speak without interruption, but perhaps it was obvious that I really was worried and angry.
“The question is,” I went on, “how one should react when undercover journalism becomes a matter of life and death. Placing a young person in a neo-Nazi or racist organization is a big responsibility. There is a constant risk that somebody might be injured or even murdered. Surely you can see the danger with this business of using a false identity? It could end in tragedy.”
I felt almost breathless after speaking so fast. It was clear that Stieg was annoyed. He shook his head.
“We have a member of staff who volunteered to do this. I would never force anybody to undertake such a dangerous assignment in order to uncover information. But what I do do is give our colleague maximum support.”
“How?”
“By protecting and being in constant touch with him. We have set up clear rules for how he should go about things. He must not spread racist propaganda, nor is he allowed to take initiatives leading to neo-Nazi campaigns. In addition we have another colleague close to where he is located.”
Now it was my turn to shake my head. I was not at all satisfied with his answer. This was a kind of life-and-death game that I couldn’t possibly accept.
“Expo has always received tips from rival neo-Nazi groups. And a lot of their members resign when they get reach thirty and start families. We are journalists, Stieg, not bloody police officers!”
Stieg reacted in a way I’d never seen him react before. He glanced quickly round the bar, which was just as deserted as it had been earlier. Then he looked me straight in the eye and raised his voice. It was both angry and reproving in a way I wasn’t at all happy about.
“The police!” he said, raising a finger. “What did they do when Expo’s printer was attacked? What did they do when the neo-Nazis shot at your flat? What did they do when Peter was car-bombed? Why did their surveillance arrangements fall short when a trade unionist was murdered? Why did it take them four months to tell us that somebody had collected our passport photos? Were they waiting for us to be murdered as well?”
“I think you’re exaggerating.”
“My point is that the police don’t take racism and neo-Nazism seriously. It’s not exactly news to you that there are neo-Nazis in the Swedish police force, is it?”
“No.”
“So why are you defending the police? Surely you haven’t forgotten that neo-Nazi millionaire in Filipstad who controlled a considerable network within the Swedish police? When three Latin Americans were beaten up in Gamla Stan in Stockholm, one of the neo-Nazis arrested turned out to be the son of that multi-millionaire. Was he ever put in a police