information appeared.
"What?" Janet said.
"The woman is off the record," Annika said. She typed "command p" and went over to the printer. With the printout in her hand, she walked over to Ingvar Johansson.
"Have we ever written anything about Christina Furhage having bodyguards? That she's received death threats or anything like that?"
Ingvar Johansson leaned back in his chair and considered her question. "Not that I know of. Why?"
Annika held out the computer printout. "Christina Furhage must have received some serious threats. No one but the director of the local tax office knows where she lives. You know, there are only about a hundred people in Sweden who have this protection."
She handed the paper to Ingvar Johansson. He looked at it blankly.
"What do you mean? Her personal data isn't protected. Her name is here."
"Right, but check the address: 'c/o loc dir Tyresö'."
"What are you talking about?" Ingvar Johansson said.
Annika sat down.
"There are different levels of protection the authorities can use when people are at risk," she explained. "The lowest protection is when you have a security flag in the Public Register. That's not too unusual; there are about five thousand people whose personal info is classified. That's when it says 'protected data' on the screen."
"Yeah, I know all that. But it doesn't say that here," Ingvar Johansson said.
Annika pretended not to hear. "To have a security flag against your data, there has to be some form of tangible threat. The decision to classify data is made by the director of the local tax office in the area where the person is officially living."
Annika tapped her pen on the printout. "This, on the other hand, is really unusual. This level of protection is much tighter and a lot harder to get than being merely flagged. You're invisible in the Public Register. Furhage simply isn't listed in the register, except like this, with a reference to the director of the local tax office in Tyresö outside Stockholm. He's the only civil servant in the entire country who knows where she lives."
Ingvar Johansson gave her a skeptical look. "How do you know all this?"
"You remember my work on the Paradise Foundation— articles on people living underground in Sweden?"
"Of course, I do. So what?"
"The only other time I've come across this was when I was searching for people the government had done their best to hide deep down."
"But Christina Furhage isn't hidden, is she?"
"We haven't found her, have we? What telephone number do we have for her?"
They searched the newspaper's contacts book, which could be found on all the computers in the newsroom. Under the name Christina Furhage, title Olympic Boss, there was a GSM cellphone number. Annika dialed the number and got connected to an automated answering service.
"Her phone's not on," she said. She called directory enquiries to find out in whose name the subscription was. The number was ex-directory.
Ingvar Johansson sighed. "It's too dark anyway for my picture of Furhage in front of the arena," he said. "We'll save it till tomorrow."
"We still have to find the woman," Annika said. "It's obvious that she'll have to comment on what's happened."
She stood up and started toward her room.
"What are you going to do now?" Ingvar Johansson asked.
"I'm calling the Olympic Secretariat. They've got to know what the hell is going on here."
* * *
Annika dropped into her chair with a thud and leaned her forehead on the desk. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a cinnamon bun that had been sitting there since the day before. She took a bite. It was stale, but she mixed it in her mouth with the dregs of the Diet Coke she'd had at lunch. Having collected the crumbs with her fingers, she dialed the switchboard of the Olympic Secretariat. Busy.
"What?" Janet said.
"The woman is off the record," Annika said. She typed "command p" and went over to the printer. With the printout in her hand, she walked over to Ingvar Johansson.
"Have we ever written anything about Christina Furhage having bodyguards? That she's received death threats or anything like that?"
Ingvar Johansson leaned back in his chair and considered her question. "Not that I know of. Why?"
Annika held out the computer printout. "Christina Furhage must have received some serious threats. No one but the director of the local tax office knows where she lives. You know, there are only about a hundred people in Sweden who have this protection."
She handed the paper to Ingvar Johansson. He looked at it blankly.
"What do you mean? Her personal data isn't protected. Her name is here."
"Right, but check the address: 'c/o loc dir Tyresö'."
"What are you talking about?" Ingvar Johansson said.
Annika sat down.
"There are different levels of protection the authorities can use when people are at risk," she explained. "The lowest protection is when you have a security flag in the Public Register. That's not too unusual; there are about five thousand people whose personal info is classified. That's when it says 'protected data' on the screen."
"Yeah, I know all that. But it doesn't say that here," Ingvar Johansson said.
Annika pretended not to hear. "To have a security flag against your data, there has to be some form of tangible threat. The decision to classify data is made by the director of the local tax office in the area where the person is officially living."
Annika tapped her pen on the printout. "This, on the other hand, is really unusual. This level of protection is much tighter and a lot harder to get than being merely flagged. You're invisible in the Public Register. Furhage simply isn't listed in the register, except like this, with a reference to the director of the local tax office in Tyresö outside Stockholm. He's the only civil servant in the entire country who knows where she lives."
Ingvar Johansson gave her a skeptical look. "How do you know all this?"
"You remember my work on the Paradise Foundation— articles on people living underground in Sweden?"
"Of course, I do. So what?"
"The only other time I've come across this was when I was searching for people the government had done their best to hide deep down."
"But Christina Furhage isn't hidden, is she?"
"We haven't found her, have we? What telephone number do we have for her?"
They searched the newspaper's contacts book, which could be found on all the computers in the newsroom. Under the name Christina Furhage, title Olympic Boss, there was a GSM cellphone number. Annika dialed the number and got connected to an automated answering service.
"Her phone's not on," she said. She called directory enquiries to find out in whose name the subscription was. The number was ex-directory.
Ingvar Johansson sighed. "It's too dark anyway for my picture of Furhage in front of the arena," he said. "We'll save it till tomorrow."
"We still have to find the woman," Annika said. "It's obvious that she'll have to comment on what's happened."
She stood up and started toward her room.
"What are you going to do now?" Ingvar Johansson asked.
"I'm calling the Olympic Secretariat. They've got to know what the hell is going on here."
* * *
Annika dropped into her chair with a thud and leaned her forehead on the desk. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a cinnamon bun that had been sitting there since the day before. She took a bite. It was stale, but she mixed it in her mouth with the dregs of the Diet Coke she'd had at lunch. Having collected the crumbs with her fingers, she dialed the switchboard of the Olympic Secretariat. Busy.
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