Grendel's Curse. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ was different. This wasn’t just some plot of land where a Roman villa had supposedly stood. This was part of legend. Their legend. Beowulf was more than Gustavus Adolphus, the father of modern warfare; he was their King Arthur. Slayer of dragons.

      She couldn’t help but think that whatever they found in the barrow had the power to make or break a part of the nation’s psyche. What if the bones were deformed or stunted? What if they extracted DNA that proved that he wasn’t Swedish at all? She thought of Thorssen driven to apoplexy by the imagined discovery his racially pure hero was nothing of the sort, and smiled. There would be a beautiful irony in that.

      Annja shielded her eyes against the sun.

      The site was already a hive of activity.

      Given the attempt on Karl Thorssen’s life last night, it was hardly surprising the press had turned out in force to cover the ritual breaking of the ground. There were local dignitaries, too, businesspeople who provided financial muscle to Thorssen’s campaign and, giving their teachers the runaround, a group of schoolchildren who seemed to be everywhere at once, grinning and giggling and pretending to be ancient heroes with invisible swords fighting equally invisible dragons. There were half a dozen television presenters speaking to cameras, each offering a version of the same report. How Thorssen had survived the attempt on his life, how the crowd had gathered for this historic event, how Thorssen was writing his own legend and how the upcoming election promised to be a closely contested thing with a groundswell of support for the right-wing politician in the wake of last night’s tragedy.

      “Quite a turnout,” Johan Cheander said, his camera on his shoulder and scanning the crowd of faces. She couldn’t see Micke. Johan was good. He didn’t need telling what might make useful footage. Just like the night before, his camera was documenting it all down to the last detail. They’d work out what they needed later.

      “You’re not wrong,” Annja agreed, pointing to the black Mercedes coming across the grass toward them. It wasn’t designed for off-road. She’d half expected Karl Thorssen to arrive by helicopter. That seemed like the kind of over-the-top entrance he’d have enjoyed. No doubt he’d discharged himself from the hospital, telling the nurses he couldn’t miss this moment for the world. It was the kind of thing that would make good press whether it was true or not.

      The sight of the man getting out of the car with one arm in a sling, his rock-star face battered and bruised with any number of minor cuts and abrasions, left him looking like the wounded warrior he wanted to be. The cuts stood out against his pale gray skin. He saw someone he recognized in the crowd and raised a hand in greeting. It took him a second to muster his strength and don the mask of charming affability he’d need to get through the morning, but Annja noticed the occasional wince as he moved, and that he bit on his bottom lip every time the pain threatened to get too much.

      Maybe I’m being too hard on him, she thought, watching him press the flesh.

      Last night had clearly taken it out of him, but Karl Thorssen wasn’t about to be denied the spotlight by something as trivial as an assassination attempt.

      That spoke volumes about the man.

      Reporters jostled for position as he moved toward the podium that had been set up for the speech, their microphones pushed toward the front. Some were already calling out questions before he reached the lectern. He gave them time to settle down while he gathered himself. He really was good at this kind of thing, playing to the crowd. He wasn’t there to address the locals or the schoolchildren. He was talking to everyone on the planet—or as much of it as the news channels would reach. In a viral world that was everywhere there was a screen, a cell phone, a tablet or a laptop. News spread now like it never had before. The reach of microblogging sites was insidious, immense and instantaneous, turning everyone into an on-the-spot reporter. Nothing went unseen. Especially not something like this. Karl Thorssen was a political animal. This was his stage.

      He looked up at her and seemed to smile—a smile that was for her and her alone. But of course it wasn’t; it was for the cameras.

      “Ten bucks says the first words out of his mouth are about politics and have absolutely nothing to do with archaeology.”

      “I’m not taking that bet,” the cameraman said. “Might as well just give you the money.”

      “Ah, you take all the fun out of life.”

      “So I’ve been told.”

      Annja had heard enough of Thorssen’s rhetoric last night. She didn’t need to hear any more of it. Instead, she drifted off toward the archaeologists’ tents to the side of the dig site. They were more her kind of people. Of course there were plenty of archaeologists out there who didn’t think the same of her thanks to the sensationalist nature of many of the segments on Chasing History’s Monsters.

      “Enjoying the circus?” Annja said, moving over to join a small huddle of archaeologists who were intent on something. The nearest looked up. There was a flicker of recognition, but he said nothing. The joys of syndication. No doubt the show was on some obscure cable channel over here.

      “Just waiting for the clowns to turn up,” his friend said.

      “Don’t worry, they’re here.” Annja grinned.

      “Thought I heard the natives getting restless.”

      “Thorssen’s just gearing up to do his thing.”

      “Good,” the quiet one said. “The sooner he’s done, the sooner we can get on with our job.”

      “Just consider yourself lucky you’re getting to do this at all. We’ve been trying to get permission to crack open the barrow for years, but have been blocked at every turn. I don’t know how Thorssen pulled it off, but the guy’s got friends in high places.”

      “Or some very incriminating photos, more like,” the quiet one said, this time with a wicked grin. He stood up and brushed off his hands on his jeans. “You know how it is with the rich and famous—they operate in a different world to the rest of us mere mortals. Lars,” he said, holding out his hand to Annja.

      “Annja,” she said, taking it. She felt the distinctive calluses of someone used to working the dirt.

      “Ah, Ms. Creed. I thought I recognized you.”

      “Occupational hazard.”

      “Word came down from on high that you’d be doing a feature on the dig.”

      “On high meaning Thorssen?”

      “On high meaning our benefactor, yes. I’ve been told you’ve got the run of the place,” he said. He didn’t sound happy about it, either.

      “It’s not every day we break open the tomb of a legendary king. It’d be great to get some footage of you guys at work.”

      “And in return he gets more publicity for his controversial cause. I guess we know who you sold your soul to, Ms. Creed.”

      Annja took the jibe in the spirit it was intended. She wasn’t about to defend her producer’s deeply ingrained commercialism, but he was right—assuming the segment was edited together in his favor, they were providing Thorssen with yet another mouthpiece to spread his message. Luckily for everyone, Annja got to do the final edits on her segments. “There’s nothing in my contract that says he gets a second of airtime,” she said. “I’m not here СКАЧАТЬ