The Terrorists Read Online Free PDF

into the foyer. Only the accused, her guard and one spectator remained in the courtroom.
    Bulldozer studied his papers busily for about two minutes, then looked curiously at the spectator, a woman Bulldozer reckoned to be about thirty-five. She was sitting on one of the benches with a stenographer’s notebook open in front of her. She was of below average height and had dead-straight blond hair, not especially long. Her clothes consisted of faded jeans, a shirt of indefinite color and strap sandals. She had broad, sunburnt feet with straight toes, flat breasts with large nipples that could be seen quite clearly through her shirt. The most remarkable thing about her was her small, angular face with its strong nose and piercing blue gaze, which she directed in turn on those present. Her gaze rested especially long on the accused and Bulldozer Olsson; in the latter case so piercingly that the public prosecutor rose and fetched himself a glass of water and moved into a position behind her. She at once turned and caught his eye.
    Sexually she was not his type, if he even had a type, but he was intensely curious about who she could be. Viewed from behind, he could see that she was compactly built, without being in the least plump.
    If he had asked Martin Beck, who was standing around in a corner of the foyer, he might have learned something. For instance, that she was not thirty-five but thirty-nine, that she had a considerable background in sociology, and that at present she was working for the social welfare services. Martin Beck knew a great deal about her in fact, but had very little information he wished to proffer, as most of it was of a personal nature. Possibly he would have said, if anyone had asked him, that her name was Rhea Nielsen.
    Twenty-two minutes after the prescribed time, the doors were thrown open and Crasher appeared. He was carrying a lighted cigar in one hand and his papers in the other. He studied the documents phlegmatically and the judge had to clear his throat meaningfully three times before he absently handed the cigar to the court official to remove from the courtroom.
    “Mr. Braxén has now arrived,” said the judge acidly. “May we ask whether there is any further objection to starting the case?”
    Bulldozer shook his head and said, “No, certainly not. Not as far as I’m concerned.”
    Braxén rose and walked to the middle of the floor. He was considerably older than anyone else in the room, a man of authority with an impressive stomach. He was also remarkably badly and unfashionably dressed, and a none too squeamish cat could have made a good meal from the food stains on his waistcoat. After a long silence, during which he fixed Bulldozer with a peculiar look, he said, “Apart from the fact that this little girl should never have been brought to court, I have no judicial objections. Speaking purely technically.”
    “Would the counsel for the prosecution now introduce his case,” said the judge.
    Bulldozer leaped up from his chair and with his head down he began plodding round the table on which his papers lay.
    “I maintain that Rebecka Lind on Wednesday the twenty-second of May this year committed armed robbery of the PK Bank’s branch in Midsommarkransen, and thereafter was guilty of assaulting an official in that she resisted the policemen who came to take her into custody.”
    “And what does the accused say?”
    “The accused pleads not guilty,” said Braxén. “And so it is my duty to deny all of this … drivel.”
    He turned to Bulldozer again and said in melancholy tones: “What does it feel like to persecute innocent people? Rebecka is as innocent as the carrots in the ground.”
    Everyone appeared to ponder this novel image. Finally the judge said, “It is for the Court to decide that, is it not?”
    “Unfortunately,” said Crasher.
    “What is meant by that remark?” said the judge, with a certain sharpness. “Would Mr. Olsson please now state his