IN UNJUST HANDS
   PROLOG
  

The only room on the eighth floor where the lights were still on was Olof Kramer’s. A poky little hole with the desk up against the wall instead of in front of the window, for reasons of space: no views over the tree tops in Cinquantenaire Park for him.
  He worked quickly and doggedly, intent on completing his documentation before going home.
  He’d been plagued by a nagging headache for several hours, but he couldn’t stop, not now when he’d made up his mind to expose the truth. The clicking of his keyboard blended with the hum from the fan in his hard disk. He was so weary, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He’d barely slept the night before. His mind was working overtime, and as dawn broke his sense of justice had asserted itself. He could wait no longer. It had been going on too long already. It wouldn’t be right to give in just because he felt tired.
  Once he’d dropped the bombshell there’d be  plenty of

2

time to catch up on sleep. Maybe he’d be consigned to eternal sleep. He shuddered at the thought, but shook it off. In any case, it was unlikely the Commission would keep him on. Even if they couldn’t contrive to have him dismissed, no doubt he’d be suspended.
  One more hour, and he’d be ready. Then he’d only need to copy his memo to accompany the documentation he’d accumulated, and he could send the discs by EU internal mail tomorrow morning.
  Then all hell would be let loose. All the months Kramer had been wrestling with his conscience he’d had plenty of time to think about the consequences and prepare himself mentally. It would be hard, but he’d made up his mind and knew he was doing the right thing.
  This time the EU parliament wouldn’t be able to ignore his accusations. Sixteen well-documented discs would stir up too much of a storm for the hatches to be battened down.
  When he switched off the computer there wasn’t a sound to be heard. He felt choked by the silence of this gigantic building. The feeling of isolation was worrying. For the first