Chapter 50
The day after the party, Ambra woke up with a hangover that went straight to the top spot on her list of Worst Hangovers I’ve Ever Had.
She would never drink again. It was undignified to feel like this.
For a while, she didn’t dare move her head, because she couldn’t remember how she got home and had a terrible feeling that she might have brought—oh God, she couldn’t even remember his name. Fredrik? Patrik? Henrik—right. She blinked and made the effort to turn her head. Thankfully, she was alone in bed. Right, she and Henrik had parted ways not long after they left the party.
Ambra took a cab home, cried the whole way from Djurgården to the Old Town, cried in the hallway, in the bedroom, and into her pillow.
She could barely even blink now. Barely breathe. Everything was swollen.
But everything was also over, so it made no difference how she looked or felt.
* * *
“How was the party?” Jill asked when she called just after lunch. By then, Ambra had been taking painkillers since she got up and was lying on the couch watching Lyxfällan—What Happened Next?
Ambra muted the sound on the TV and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She was freezing. “It was good. Aside from the fact that Tom’s ex turned up and that he dumped me and spent the whole evening with her. But apart from that, it was totally fine.”
Jill was silent. “How are you?” she eventually asked, quietly.
“You know.”
Jill sighed. “Did you sleep together again?”
Ambra thought back to the sex they had in the powder room yesterday.
The truth was, it had been magical. There was no other word for it. The way Tom looked at her in the mirror, the way he touched her, it felt like they were so close, not just physically but mentally too. Not like they were just having sex. But what was magical for her had been nothing but physical desire and release for him. Now there was nothing to do but try to be an adult about it.
“No,” she lied. Jill would be angry, and Ambra couldn’t handle any criticism today.
“He treated you like shit,” Jill said.
“Yup,” Ambra replied. Jill was right, she had duped herself.
“You want to know what I think?” Jill asked.
Ambra was fairly sure she didn’t.
“You need to meet someone else as fast as you can. That way, you’ll forget all about him.”
She should never have talked to Jill about Tom. Jill’s advice was terrible. “Can’t you see how crazy that sounds? People aren’t interchangeable like that. You’re messed up.”
“Maybe. But am I the one feeling sorry for myself at home? No, exactly. You need to toughen up a little. Men are idiots.”
“I’m an idiot,” Ambra said. It was just as well it had happened now, she told herself. Before she developed any stronger feelings. She ignored the fact that her feelings were already strong and that she wasn’t sure how many more times she could handle being abandoned.
Ambra rolled onto her back and stared listlessly up at the ceiling of her living room.
“Did you wear the dress? The shoes?”
“What the hell, Jill, it has nothing to do with what I was wearing. The love of his life turned up and looked at him with those fawning eyes and he left me without blinking.”
“Some men can’t resist a damsel in distress. Maybe he has some kind of hero complex?”
“Definitely.”
“Those macho men. They know girls love them, and they exploit it.”
Ambra pulled the blanket over her head. “No one’s been exploited. I knew what I was doing. But I don’t have the energy to talk anymore. I’m working tomorrow,” she said, and hung up. She needed to pull herself together somehow, she thought, curling up on the couch and crying beneath the blanket until she could barely breathe. Tom called her for the tenth time that day, but she rejected the call and then he stopped trying. That was good.
* * *
Early the next morning, Ambra started her new five-day shift. From today on, for eleven hours a day, Aftonbladet owned her. They could send her wherever they wanted, to practically anywhere in the world, and demand her to work overtime.
She dumped her bag on the chair, stretched, and yawned. The office looked like it always did. Sleepy reporters, cleaners, and a super-energetic Grace clip-clopping around in a pencil skirt, fitted Armani jacket, and Louboutin heels.
Ambra poured herself a coffee, hid yet another yawn, and tried to shake some life into herself. It felt like she was still hungover, like she was in a haze. Henrik had been in touch to see how she was feeling. He really was a good guy. She wished she could be interested in him instead of stupid Tom, that he had replied the first time she’d sent him a message, that they had met up, dated, made out. Then it might have been him she was in love with by now.
She held her head in her hand, wishing deeply she had never gone to Kiruna, never met Tom. Maybe one day, in ten or so years, she would be grateful she had met him after all. But not today. Now all she had was regret, shame, and a hollow feeling in her chest that felt far too much like unbearable sadness.
Tom had called again, but she couldn’t bring herself to talk to him.
She wrote a short piece about a dating app while she wondered what he was doing. Was he with Ellinor? Were they still in Stockholm? Had they slept together? While she scanned through the Central News Agency’s press reports, she thought about how she wanted to go and spy on them, do something, anything to stop it being so damn painful. Though of course she did nothing of the sort. She just kept working, obsessing, and internalizing her feelings as much as she could. She wanted to ask Jill to find out if Mattias knew anything. But she didn’t do that either. She just tried to cope.
Back in the saddle, Ambra.
By lunch, she had tackled the majority of her unread messages, deleted all the hate mail—Lord_Brutal9000 was in a particularly vile mood today—and replied to a few normal readers’ messages.
As she sat there, staring at her screen, a message from Karsten Lundqvist, the security expert, appeared. Jesus, she had completely forgotten about him.
The subject line read: Got new info, can we talk? She didn’t even have time to reply before she saw him striding toward her. He was wearing corduroy trousers and a wrinkled shirt, and as he came closer she noticed he sported one brown sock and one blue.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
Ambra nodded for him to sit down opposite her. He folded his tall body into the chair and slid closer.
“Are you still interested in Chad?” he asked.
“What did you find out?” she replied, without revealing that she hadn’t given Chad a single thought lately.
“That area we talked about. Apparently there was some kind of attack there.”
“What kind of attack?”
“Rumor is that foreign soldiers turned up, killed civilians, raped women. Awful.” Karsten leaned back and studied her with a thoughtful look. There was more, she could see it.
“There are links to a Swedish security firm, which makes the whole thing considerably more interesting from our point of view. You asked me about Swedish security firms before?”
Ambra nodded, couldn’t bring herself to say anything. Had Tom’s unit murdered civilians in Chad? Raped women? It couldn’t be true. Tom had talked about his morals, guaranteed that no innocents were killed, and she had believed him. Had he lied to her? How many Chadian lives was one Swedish doctor worth? Did Isobel know? David Hammar? If this was true, it was dynamite.
Karsten continued in a thoughtful tone. “I did some research. It does actually seem that individuals from a Swedish security company may have been in the area at the time the attack took place. I guess you already suspect which?”
“Say it anyway.” Her voice was weak. She grabbed her coffee and drank the last ice-cold drops. And she hadn’t thought her day could get any worse. It was like Grace always said: Things could always be worse.
“Lodestar Security Group,” he said.
She wanted to throw up.
Jesus Christ.
She stared at Karsten, didn’t know what to say.
She needed time to process all this. There were so many uncertain variables, of course.
But still.
It was awful.
Tom Lexington must be dumb if he didn’t realize she would find this information.
“What are your sources?” she asked, because that was crucial in this context.
“They’re weak,” he said. “Plenty of it’s unconfirmed. That was why I wanted to check with you. I wouldn’t write anything based on this alone, but maybe you have more.” He got up and stretched his long arms. “I’ve gotta get back,” he said, disappearing.
Ambra remained where she was, trying to process the facts as objectively as she could. The information was uncertain, to say the least. There were so many people who tried to spread disinformation. She needed a second opinion. She looked over to Grace. “Could we talk? I need to bounce an idea off you.”
They sat down in one of the conference rooms, and she told Grace everything.
Aside from the fact that she had slept with Tom, of course. And nothing about them dating. Or going to a party, or a sauna, or watching the Northern Lights together; almost everything, in other words.
Grace leaned back, looked up at the ceiling, and closed her eyes: “A Swedish former elite soldier who first raped and killed civilians abroad, then got held captive? And a Swedish woman being rescued? I’m not going to deny, it’s interesting.” She opened her eyes and looked at Ambra. “Do you want to write it? An ‘Aftonbladet Reveals,’ maybe? It could be really damn good. And just between us, this is precisely what you need.”
Yes, Ambra had thought the same. A report like this would almost guarantee her a place on the Investigative desk and recognition from Dan Persson. Maybe even the Swedish Grand Prize for Journalism, her own private Holy Grail. “I’m not sure. I think I want to wait until I know more.”
“Okay,” Grace said, taking her feet down from the table and getting up. “But it does sound interesting.”
“Grace, while I’m here anyway . . .” Ambra started. But Grace must have known where she was heading. She sighed loudly. “If it’s that foster home thing again, then no, no, and no.”
“What if I get more info?” Ambra couldn’t give up; it felt more important than anything.
Grace waved her hand absentmindedly. “Sure, fine, maybe we can talk again then. You need to go now. I’m being interviewed by one of those damn weekly four-color magazines.”
Back at her desk, Ambra wrote a quick article about the weather—she wondered how many of those she had written over the years—and then, just before the second editorial meeting of the day, she got a message. It was from Elsa.
Heard anything else about the picture I sent?
She had completely forgotten it. Ugh, falling in love sucked. It took up far too much time. How could she have forgotten the girls? She was ashamed.
Not yet.
Ambra opened the picture Elsa had sent a few days earlier, the unknown man Esaias was talking to. Again, a small bell started ringing at the very back of her mind, as though she really had seen him before. She drummed her fingers impatiently.
She went over to the coffee machine. Stood there awhile, eavesdropping on different conversations. Thinking. Came up with something. Quickly went back to her desk, put in her earphones, and dialed Henrik Ståhl’s number.
“Hey,” he replied warmly. “How are you?”
“I’m calling about work,” she said apologetically.
“Shoot.”
Something he’d said while they sat together getting drunk had made its way through the alcohol haze and popped into her head. “You mentioned you had an advanced image search program, right? Is it something I could borrow?”
“Send me the picture and I’ll run it for you.”
“You sure? Even though we’re competitors?”
“Let me be your knight in shining armor—it’s not often that we Dagens Nyheter, Daily News, guys get the chance.”
Ambra sent him the picture. Not long after, as she was on her way to the afternoon’s editorial meeting, he replied:
His name’s Uno Aalto. Barely a trace online. But we managed to do a deep web search and then he turned up. He’s a so-called “demon exorcist” from Finland.
For a moment, she thought Henrik was messing with her. But she opened the information he sent her, scrolled through everything while the others sat down. It was true. Uno Aalto was a genuine, old-fashioned, crazy Laestadian exorcist. Who associated with Esaias. And she remembered where she had seen him before. On the notice board outside the church. Every warning bell in her body was ringing.
“Ambra?” The voice belonged to Grace; she sounded insistent. Apparently she’d asked a question.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear,” she was forced to say. Oliver gave her a snide look while Grace repeated the question. How had she ended up on the same shift as Oliver Holm? There were so many reporters she never got to see. Couldn’t Oliver take one of their shifts instead?
With a dark look at Ambra, Grace continued the meeting. They talked about headlines, front pages, and angles, things Ambra usually loved to discuss, but she was finding it difficult to concentrate.
Oliver droned on about something he wanted to write. Ambra yawned into her hand; she was exhausted.
“What about you, Ambra? Do you have anything?” Grace’s voice shook her. It felt almost as if she’d nodded out.
“I just found out that an exorcist has arrived in Kiruna. I want to investigate that.”
Grace raised a slender eyebrow.
Oliver snorted. “Isn’t that the same old rope? Didn’t we finish off that one last time?”
Ambra gave Oliver her most poisonous look. She knew she wasn’t at her most socially competent that afternoon, but she was hungover, being provoked, and in love with someone who might well be a crazy psychopath; she didn’t have the energy to be nice to Oliver on top of that.
She had to find something, otherwise she could forget about that job on the Investigative desk.
“It’s an important story about kids who are at risk,” she said coolly.
“Could you tell us about Chad instead?” Grace suggested.
Ambra gave her a startled look and shook her head. She had said she wanted to wait.
“It’s too good not to keep digging. Illegal. Secret. That kind of article is precisely what we want. That’s evening paper material.”
“But I don’t want to write it, not yet.”
It was still unconfirmed, felt speculative, almost dirty. All the same, it was truly ironic that she was sitting here, possibly sacrificing her career, all so as not to tar a man who had been so careless with her feelings.
If Tom and his men were responsible for those attacks, then they would be charged, of course. But so far, the details were too vague. And she couldn’t actually believe Tom would have been involved in something like that.
Once the meeting was over, everyone left the room. Everyone but Oliver, who stayed behind with Grace. Ambra watched them talk, intensely, and she left with the sense that she was missing something vital.
She grabbed her phone the minute she was out of the room.
This time, Lotta answered immediately. “Yes?” she said, curt and distant.
“Did you get my message?” Ambra asked. She had texted earlier, sent the picture.
She received a long-drawn-out sigh in response. “I thought it was a bad joke. An exorcist? You need to stop this.”
“But you need to keep an eye on those two kids. This changes the situation.”
“Except for the fact there are no exorcists.”
“I can send you the information I have,” Ambra offered.
“Or you can listen to me: If you don’t stop calling, I’ll report you.”
And with those words, Lotta hung up.
Ambra spent the rest of the afternoon writing, anxiety like a knot in her chest. When she left the office, Oliver was still at his desk. Grace was bent over him, and they were having a hushed conversation.
The next day passed in much the same way, other than the fact that Tom didn’t try to call her. She worked, went home. Then she slept, uneasily; got up early; and walked through the cold winter air to work. Yawned, turned on her computer, checked what was going on in the world.
The first hour was quiet.
But at eight o’clock, all hell broke loose.
The morning’s lead article rolled out with huge, black, roaring letters:
SWEDISH MERCENARIES MURDER CIVILIANS. TERROR IN CHAD.
Ambra read the headline and frowned. It couldn’t be . . . ?
No.
She brought up the article. Read it with a growing sense of panic. This was her story. But in different words. With a spin she would never have chosen. Harsh word choices, insinuating angles, aggressive claims.
About Tom. About Lodestar Security Group. About secret military units, private elite soldiers. About weapons and illegal operations. And pictures, dear God, her pictures. The ones she’d taken in Tom’s study in Kiruna.
Ambra’s heart was beating so hard as she read that she thought she would explode. Words and phrases jumped out at her like accusing index fingers.
Doctor Isobel De la Grip was kidnapped.
Aftonbladet has tried to reach Tom Lexington for comment.
Je–sus. Christ.
Oliver Holm’s name appeared in the byline. He had a new author photo, she noticed, much bigger than before. It was his name on the article. But the information, the pictures, the responsibility, that was all hers.
This was nothing less than a catastrophe.
She looked over at Grace, who was standing by her screen, absorbed by it. “What have you done?”
There was still a part of her that thought it was all a macabre joke, a cruel prank, or maybe a nightmare.
“Oliver Holm wanted to write that piece. He’s done something similar before, he had a source within the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, so we decided to go ahead. You said you didn’t want it, so I gave it to him.”
“I told you I wasn’t sure about the information,” Ambra said as sharply as she could, but her voice trembled toward the end.
“Oliver talked to Karsten and came to a different conclusion. He wanted to write it. I gave him the green light and all the info. It doesn’t belong to you.”
“What about the pictures?” Those were hers, at the very least. Then she remembered she had emptied her cell phone. Had the pictures ended up on the paper’s server? Shit.
Grace’s dark eyes narrowed, a boss’s look. “You took those pictures for the paper, Ambra, on your work phone. Aftonbladet owns them. Oliver took them from your work computer. But you’ve been given all picture credit.”
That wasn’t quite Ambra’s point.
So now her name was linked to an article that would hit Tom like a grenade. The headline was already online, but that was just the beginning. She knew that. This had the potential to develop into a full-blown mass media storm, a veritable massacre. And the victim would be Tom. She didn’t know what she was most afraid of, that the information was correct or that it was an exaggeration. Both scenarios were catastrophes, just in different ways.
By nine that morning, the phones started to ring. The media industry and news agencies had woken up and smelled blood.
Ambra just wanted to hide. But this wasn’t even the worst part.
What would happen when Tom read it?