anything without that list of contacts in official organizations,’ she said. ‘It’s important that I get that as soon as possible.’
‘Of course,’ Rebecka said. ‘I’ll be in touch soon. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to leave before you, so that we’re not seen together. Can you wait a few minutes?’
Mission Impossible
, Annika thought.
The target has left the building
.
‘Of course,’ she said.
14
The rhythm of the train forced her into a sort of concentrated calm before they had even crossed the Årsta bridge. The Tanto district glided past on her left, big buildings with big picture windows facing the water. Then greenery: how small Stockholm was! The pine trees rushing past filled her field of vision with their dark winter greenery, swaying in time with the train.
Erasing people
, she thought. Was that really possible? For an organization to be listed as representing people on official documents, contracts, any dealings with official bodies: was that even legal?
She took out her notebook and pen and started to make some notes.
If local councils really did pay for the services of the Paradise Foundation, then it had to be legal, she reasoned.
Then there was the money. How much did it cost to be erased?
She looked through her notes.
Three thousand, five hundred kronor per person, per day. Maybe that was a reasonable amount, she had no way of knowing.
She made a methodical list of the costs: five people working full time, earning maybe fifteen thousand permonth, plus national insurance, that came to about one hundred thousand kronor per month. Plus property costs. Suppose they had ten houses, each one costing about ten thousand per month in rent or mortgage payments. Another hundred thousand kronor. What else? The local health authorities stood for healthcare costs. And local councils provided social security payments. National insurance covered sick pay, and legal aid paid for any legal costs.
So the total cost ought to be something like two hundred thousand kronor per month.
What about income?
Three thousand, five hundred per day for a month came to one hundred and five thousand kronor for one person.
If they help just one woman with one child each month, they’re making a profit of ten thousand, she calculated.
She stared at her figures in surprise.
Did that really add up?
She went through the figures again.
Sixty cases at three thousand, five hundred per day, for three months, came to something like eighteen million.
Over the course of three years they’d built up costs of approximately seven million kronor, which meant a profit of almost twelve million.
This has to be wrong
, she thought.
I’m only guessing at their costs. Maybe they’re much higher, maybe there are things I have no idea about. Maybe they employ their own doctors and lawyers, with loads of contact personnel on standby up and down the country, all day, every day. That would be expensive
.
She put her things back in her bag, leaned back in her seat and let herself be gently rocked by the train.
The sounds were always the same, Anders Schyman thought. The scrape of chairs, a talk-show on the radio, CNN on low in the background, the rustle of paper, a cacophony of male voices rising and falling, short, heavily stressed sentences. Laughter, always laughter, hard and quick.
The smells, always coffee, a hint of foot-odour, aftershave. Lingering tobacco smoke on people’s breath. Testosterone.
The management group met each Tuesday and Friday afternoon to go through long-term strategies and initiatives. They were all men, all over forty, they all had company cars and exactly the same dark blue jackets. He knew that they were known as the Blue Cock Parade.
They always met in editor-in-chief Torstensson’s splendid corner office with its view of the Russian Embassy. They always had Danish pastries and biscuits. Jansson was always the last to turn up; he always spilled coffee on the carpet, never apologized and
‘Of course,’ Rebecka said. ‘I’ll be in touch soon. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to leave before you, so that we’re not seen together. Can you wait a few minutes?’
Mission Impossible
, Annika thought.
The target has left the building
.
‘Of course,’ she said.
14
The rhythm of the train forced her into a sort of concentrated calm before they had even crossed the Årsta bridge. The Tanto district glided past on her left, big buildings with big picture windows facing the water. Then greenery: how small Stockholm was! The pine trees rushing past filled her field of vision with their dark winter greenery, swaying in time with the train.
Erasing people
, she thought. Was that really possible? For an organization to be listed as representing people on official documents, contracts, any dealings with official bodies: was that even legal?
She took out her notebook and pen and started to make some notes.
If local councils really did pay for the services of the Paradise Foundation, then it had to be legal, she reasoned.
Then there was the money. How much did it cost to be erased?
She looked through her notes.
Three thousand, five hundred kronor per person, per day. Maybe that was a reasonable amount, she had no way of knowing.
She made a methodical list of the costs: five people working full time, earning maybe fifteen thousand permonth, plus national insurance, that came to about one hundred thousand kronor per month. Plus property costs. Suppose they had ten houses, each one costing about ten thousand per month in rent or mortgage payments. Another hundred thousand kronor. What else? The local health authorities stood for healthcare costs. And local councils provided social security payments. National insurance covered sick pay, and legal aid paid for any legal costs.
So the total cost ought to be something like two hundred thousand kronor per month.
What about income?
Three thousand, five hundred per day for a month came to one hundred and five thousand kronor for one person.
If they help just one woman with one child each month, they’re making a profit of ten thousand, she calculated.
She stared at her figures in surprise.
Did that really add up?
She went through the figures again.
Sixty cases at three thousand, five hundred per day, for three months, came to something like eighteen million.
Over the course of three years they’d built up costs of approximately seven million kronor, which meant a profit of almost twelve million.
This has to be wrong
, she thought.
I’m only guessing at their costs. Maybe they’re much higher, maybe there are things I have no idea about. Maybe they employ their own doctors and lawyers, with loads of contact personnel on standby up and down the country, all day, every day. That would be expensive
.
She put her things back in her bag, leaned back in her seat and let herself be gently rocked by the train.
The sounds were always the same, Anders Schyman thought. The scrape of chairs, a talk-show on the radio, CNN on low in the background, the rustle of paper, a cacophony of male voices rising and falling, short, heavily stressed sentences. Laughter, always laughter, hard and quick.
The smells, always coffee, a hint of foot-odour, aftershave. Lingering tobacco smoke on people’s breath. Testosterone.
The management group met each Tuesday and Friday afternoon to go through long-term strategies and initiatives. They were all men, all over forty, they all had company cars and exactly the same dark blue jackets. He knew that they were known as the Blue Cock Parade.
They always met in editor-in-chief Torstensson’s splendid corner office with its view of the Russian Embassy. They always had Danish pastries and biscuits. Jansson was always the last to turn up; he always spilled coffee on the carpet, never apologized and
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