Into a Raging Blaze Read Free Page A

read through what she’d written, rapidly making additions and amendments until she had a decent draft. It was a quarter past nine.
    As the Security Policy Department’s EU coordinator, it was she who had to get the department’s seventy-five diplomats to sing from the same song sheet on everything to do with EU security policy. She was the one who had to keep up with EU procedures, put together negotiation instructions for Brussels and make sure that ministers and junior ministers had the right information. She was the one who sent out stern reminders to colleagues about keeping to deadlines and she was responsible for ensuring that everyone affected was informed and ready to react.
    The last few months had been hectic. The Arab Spring and the Libyan campaign, Kosovo, the Horn of Africa, and more generally the EU’s more or less fulfilled ambition of becoming a military security policy operator meant, in practice, a myriad of meetings and decisions, informal contacts, and thousands of papers with proposals flitting between the capitals of Europe. All this went through the encrypted European communication system, Coreu. There was a database where all member states and the Council of Europe secretariat could post messages—a never-ending noticeboard where thousands of messages, agendas, and minutes were published every day. It was Carina’s responsibility to keep track of this flow of information and make sure that the department didn’t drop any balls. There were those who hated Coreu. When Sweden had joined the EU and connected to the information system, the volume of mail and messages had increased by fifty percent overnight. Carina liked the tempo. She enjoyed having direct contact with other European foreign ministries and the feeling of being a part of real politics. Fifty or sixty hours a week were a prerequisite to do the job, but that was generally okay. This morning, however, the sheer volume of new messages on Coreu made her draw breath. Dealing with the stream of Coreu data was sometimes like playing an unending tennis match against an inexhaustible Agassi.
    She stood up and stretched her arms. Her back creaked. Tiredness washed across her like an anesthetic and made her stagger. She needed coffee.
    Carina looked around. Her room was narrow, a little smaller than the others on the corridor. There had been a possibility that she might get the office next door to the Head of Department, at the top end of the corridor—a light room with a view toward Strömmen. It had been the last EU coordinator’s office. But, instead of Carina, the DPKO desk officer, responsible for contact with New York about Swedish contributions to UN troop activities, had gotten the room. He was of a higher rank. But he was going to Santiago soon, and then perhaps it would be her turn.
    She really ought to tidy up, she realized. It was one of the things she never prioritized. She had never been good at physical order. Deep down, she didn’t quite understand what the point was of constantly tidying up—always gathering things into neat piles, putting them in drawers and boxes—when the order was there in her head all along. She was in full control. She prioritized. She was completely fulfilled by her work—what did it matter if there were a few papers here or an apple core there? Everyone knew that she had a fully equipped intellect, but no one believed her when she said she had a system in her office. People visiting her office would often stop short in the doorway as if confronted by a natural phenomenon. Johan Eriksson called her room “the Batcave.” The deputy Head of Department had started to drop small hints, so sooner or later she would have to tidy up. Why on earth couldn’t she be left in peace in her room as it was? She was one of the best analysts in the department. She knew it, even if no one ever said so in as many words. Johan and others would constantly bombard her with various texts for her consideration, and she