Borderline by Liza Marklund Page B

to go bankrupt, which was unlikely, if you considered the amount of free advertising her own paper alone produced in its delight at every new product.
    Halenius picked up the shiny new mobile. ‘Which one does Thomas usually call?’
    ‘My private one.’
    ‘Not your work phone?’
    ‘I don’t think he’s got the number.’
    Halenius nodded. ‘Excellent. So we know we won’t be getting the call on that phone.’
    He went back into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.
    * * *
    The BBC put the news on its website just after six p.m., local time. Reuters issued a short, general report a few minutes later. The identities and nationalities of the kidnapped delegates weren’t released, just that they had been taking part in a security conference in Nairobi. The editorial management team of the
Evening Post
was sitting in a handover meeting, which might explain why the news seemed to pass them by at first, but Schyman knew better.
    No one ever cared about news from Africa. The continent was a black hole on the news map, except when it came to famine, misery, piracy, Aids, civil war and mad dictators, which weren’t among the issues the
Evening Post
covered.
    Assuming no Swedes were caught up in anything, of course. Or other Scandinavians, possibly, like those Norwegians who were sentenced to death in Congo or the Danish family whose yacht was seized by pirates.
    Anders Schyman found the report because he had set out to look for it. He had held back from mentioning Thomas’s disappearance at the meeting, and was planning to wait and see what happened internationally first. Reuters were reporting that a group calling itself Fiqh Jihad had taken seven European delegates hostage, and had issued a non-specific political statement in connection with the kidnapping. The message had been conveyed in Kinyarwanda, and was hosted by a server in the Somali capital, Mogadishu. Readers were referred to the BBC, which had a link to the shaky video from the kidnappers.
    Anders Schyman clicked the link and held his breath.
    A man in basic military uniform with a scarf wrapped round his head appeared on the screen. The background was out of focus, dark red. He looked about thirty and was staring at a point just to the left of the camera, presumably reading his message. The BBC had subtitled his words in English, which Schyman appreciated (his Kinyarwanda wasn’t what it should have been).
    The man spoke slowly, his voice strangely high and clear.
    ‘Fiqh Jihad has taken seven EU delegates hostage as punishment for the evil and ignorance of the Western world. In spite of all the weapons and resources surrounding the EU, the Lion of Islam managed to seize these infidel dogs. Our demands are simple: open the borders to Europe. Share the world’s resources. Abolish punitive import tariffs. Freedom for Africa! Death to the European capitalists! Allah is great!’
    The video ended. Thirty-eight seconds, including a shaky introduction and a black final frame.
    This isn’t going to be a picnic, Schyman thought, and headed out to the newsdesk.
    * * *
    The phone didn’t ring.
    It didn’t ring and didn’t ring and didn’t ring.
    Annika was walking round the living room, biting her nails until her teeth hurt.
    Schyman had emailed to tell her that Reuters and the BBC had released the news of the kidnapping, without mentioning any identities or nationalities. The
Evening Post
would be the only paper the next day with the news that the Swedish delegate was one of the hostages.
    Patrik had texted to ask if she wanted to do a sob-story in the print edition. Ideally he’d like a picture of her and the kids surrounded by stuffed toys, with tears in their eyes, and the suggested headlines ‘DADDY’S BEEN KIDNAPPED BY TERRORISTS’ or ‘DADDY, COME HOME!’ She had replied, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
    Berit had emailed to ask if there was anything, anything at all, she could do to help.
    She pursed her lips and glanced towards the bedroom.