"So how do we counter that?" Borgsjo said.
"The only option is cutbacks. We haven't laid anyone off since 2002. But before the end of the year we will have to eliminate ten positions."
"Which positions?" Berger said.
"We need to work on the 'cheese plane' principle--shave a job here and a job there. The sports desk has six and a half jobs at the moment. We should cut that to five full-timers."
"As I understand it, the sports desk is on its knees already. What you're proposing means that we'll have to cut back on sports coverage."
Flodin shrugged. "I'll gladly listen to other suggestions."
"I don't have any better suggestions, but the principle is this: if we cut personnel, then we have to produce a smaller newspaper, and if we make a smaller newspaper, the number of readers will drop, and the number of advertisers too."
"The eternal vicious circle," Sellberg said.
"I was hired to turn this downward trend around," said Berger. "I see my job as taking an aggressive approach to change the newspaper and make it more attractive to readers. I can't do that if I have to cut staff." She turned to Borgsjo. "How long can the paper continue to bleed? How big a deficit can we take before we hit the limit?"
Borgsjo pursed his lips. "Since the early nineties SMP has eaten into a great many old consolidated assets. We have a stock portfolio that has dropped in value by about 30 percent compared to ten years ago. A large portion of these funds were used for investments in IT. We've also had enormous expenses."
"I gather that SMP has developed its own text editing system, the AXT. What did that cost?"
"About five million kronor to develop."
"Why did SMP go to the trouble of developing its own software? There are inexpensive commercial programmes already on the market."
"Well, Erika, that may be true. Our former IT chief talked us into it. He persuaded us that it would be less expensive in the long run, and that SMP would also be able to licence the programme to other newspapers."
"Did any of them buy it?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact--a local paper in Norway."
"Meanwhile," Berger said in a dry voice, "we're sitting here with PCs that are five or six years old. . . ."
"It's simply out of the question that we invest in new computers in the coming year," Flodin said.
The discussion had gone back and forth. Berger was aware that her objections were being systematically stonewalled by Flodin and Sellberg. For them, cost cutting was what counted, which was understandable enough from the point of view of a budget chief and a CFO, but it was unacceptable for a newly appointed editor in chief. What irritated her most was that they kept brushing off her arguments with patronizing smiles, making her feel like a teenager being quizzed on her homework. Without actually uttering a single inappropriate word, they displayed an attitude that was so antediluvian it was almost comical. You shouldn't worry your pretty head over complex matters, little girl.
Borgsjo wasn't much help. She didn't sense the same condescension from him, but he was biding his time and letting the other participants at the meeting say their piece.
She sighed and plugged in her laptop. She had nineteen new emails. Four were spam. Someone wanted to sell her Viagra, cybersex with "The Sexiest Lolitas on the Net" for only $4.00 per minute, "Animal Sex, the Juiciest Horse Fuck in the Universe," and a subscription to fashion.nu. The tide of this crap never receded, no matter how many times she tried to block it. Another seven messages were those so-called Nigeria letters from the widow of the former head of a bank in Abu Dhabi offering her ludicrous sums of money if she would only assist with a small sum of start-up money, and other such junk.
There was the morning memo, the lunchtime memo, three emails from Fredriksson updating her on developments in the day's lead story, one from her accountant, who wanted a meeting to discuss the implications of her move from Millennium to SMP, and a message from her dental hygienist suggesting a time for her quarterly visit. She put the appointment in her calendar and realized at once that she would have to change it because she had a major editorial conference planned for that day.
Finally she opened the last one, sent from with the subject line
[Attn: Editor in Chief].
Slowly she put down her coffee cup.
YOU WHORE! YOU THINK YOU'RE SOMETHING, YOU FUCKING CUNT: DON'T THINK YOU CAN COME HERE AND THROW YOUR WEIGHT AROUND. YOU'RE GOING TO GET FUCKED IN THE CUNT WITH A SCREWDRIVER, WHORE! THE SOONER YOU DISAPPEAR THE BETTER.
Berger looked up and searched for the news editor, Holm. He was not at his desk, nor could she see him in the newsroom. She checked the sender and then picked up the phone and called Peter Fleming, the IT manager.
"Good morning, Peter. Who uses the address ?"
"That isn't a valid address at SMP."
"I just got an email from that address."
"It's a fake. Does the message contain a virus?"
"I wouldn't know. At least, the antivirus programme didn't react."
"OK. It's very simple to fake an apparently legitimate address. There are sites on the Net that you can use to send anonymous mail."
"Is it possible to trace an email like that?"
"Almost impossible, even if the person in question is so stupid that he sends it from his home computer. You might be able to trace the IP number to a server, but if he uses an account that he set up at Hotmail, for instance, the trail will fizzle out."
Berger thanked him. She thought for a moment. It was not the first time she had received a threatening email or a message from a crackpot. This one was obviously referring to her new job as editor in chief. She wondered whether it was some lunatic who had read about her in connection with Morander's death, or whether the sender was in the building.
Figuerola thought long and hard about how to investigate Gullberg. One advantage of working at Constitutional Protection was that she had the authority to access almost any police report in Sweden that might have any connection to racially or politically motivated crimes. Zalachenko was technically an immigrant, and her job included tracking violence against persons born abroad to decide whether or not the crime was racially motivated. Accordingly, she had the right to involve herself in the investigation of Zalachenko's murder, to determine whether Gullberg, the known killer, had a connection to any racist organization, or whether he was overheard making racist remarks at the time of the murder. She requisitioned the report. She found the letters that had been sent
to the minister of justice and discovered that alongside the diatribe and the insulting personal attacks were also the words nigger-lover and traitor.
By then it was 5:00 p.m. Figuerola locked all the material in her safe, shut down her computer, washed her coffee mug, and clocked out. She walked briskly to a gym at St. Eriksplan and spent the next hour doing some easy strength training.
When she was finished she went home to her one-bedroom apartment on Pontonjargatan, showered, and ate a late but nutritious dinner. She considered calling Daniel Mogren, who lived three blocks down the same street. Mogren was a carpenter and bodybuilder and had been her training partner off and on for three years. In recent months they had also had sex as friends.
Sex was almost as satisfying as a rigorous workout at the gym, but at a mature thirty-plus or, rather, forty-minus, Figuerola had begun to think that maybe she ought to start looking for a steady partner and a more permanent living arrangement. Maybe even children. But not with Mogren.
She decided that she didn't feel like seeing anyone that evening. Instead she went to bed with a book on the history of the ancient world.
CHAPTER 13
Tuesday, May 17
Figuerola woke at 6:10 on Tuesday morning, took a long run along Norr Malarstrand, showered, and clocked in at police headquarters at 8:10. She prepared a memorandum on the conclusions she had reached the day before.
At 9:00 Edklinth arrived. She gave him twenty minutes to deal with his mail, then knocked on his door. She waited while he read her four pages. At last he looked up.
"The chief of Secretariat," he said.
"He must have approved loaning out Martensson. So he must know that Martensson is not at Counter-Espionage, even though according to Personal Protection that's where he is."
Edklinth took off his glasses and polished them thoroughly with a paper napkin. He had met Chief of Secretariat Albert Shenke at meetings and internal conferences on countless occasions, but he couldn't claim to know the man well. Shenke was rather short, with thin reddish-blond hair and a waistline that had expanded over the years. He was about fifty-five and had worked at SIS for at least twenty-five years, possibly longer. He had been chief of Secretariat for a decade, and was assistant chief before that. Edklinth thought of him as a taciturn man who could act ruthlessly when necessary. He had no idea what he did in his free time, but he had a memory of having once seen him in the garage of the police building in casual clothes, with a golf bag slung over his shoulder. He had also run into him once at the opera.