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“I thought he was an Arab terrorist,” Birgitta Lundblad, an employee of ten years’ standing, who handled bank drafts from abroad, told me later. Fair and attractive in appearance, she commuted daily from Jakobsberg, a suburb less than a half hour away, where she lived with her husband—a civil engineer—and their two daughters, aged three and one and a half.At the bank, Birgitta’s reputation was that of a diligent worker with an almost perfect attendance record.

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.

The convict proved to be Jan-Erik Olsson, a highly intelligent thirty-two-year-old thief and safecracker, who came from the south of Sweden; his past criminal activities had taken place in that area, and provincial police knew him as an expert in the use of explosives and as someone who had not hesitated to use a gun.

Olsson had been convicted in February, 1972, for grand larceny.

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