Validating phony army interrogators exposed

Instinctively, most of his terrified audience at the Kreditbank dropped to the floor, but some secluded themselves in a small repository for securities, and others, panicked or intrepid, or both, made for the exits, rushing pell-mell into Norrmalmstorg, perhaps Stockholm’s busiest square, whose dominant feature is the Kreditbank’s own squat, massive façade, five stories high.Planting his transistor radio on a teller’s counter, Olsson turned it on full blast, and the bank’s marble interior abruptly reverberated to the sounds of rock music.

All that mattered, it suddenly seemed to her, was his next move.

Still brandishing his submachine gun, he was announcing in English, “The party has just begun”—a line, police investigators later established, that he had recently heard while seeing an American movie about a convict on the loose.

As Olsson raised the volume, his eyes fell on a stenographer who was delivering a letter she had just typed to its author, in the loan department.

She was Kristin Ehnmark, a spirited, black-haired woman of twenty-three.

But such inward notions were far from Elisabeth’s mind as the bookkeeper lowered her to the bank floor.

At that moment, she told me, she began thinking of her weekend plans.

She liked the rhythm of her work and the responsibility that went with her duties; whenever she contemplated her future, she told me, it included the bank and, of course, her family.

At the time of Olsson’s entrance, she recalled, she was wondering whether to investigate a sale of children’s apparel at a nearby shop during her lunch break, but that possibility passed quickly from her mind with the violent stranger’s arrival.

That had happened three and a half years before, when, in her last days as a teen-ager, she came south with a young man to whom she was engaged; he had been offered an excellent post in Stockholm and was refusing to accept it unless Kristin accompanied him.

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