SUNDAY, 1.v – MONDAY, 2.v Berger took a deep breath as the lift door opened and she walked into the editorial offices of Svenska Morgon-Posten. It was 10.15 in the morning. She was dressed for the office in black trousers, a red jumper and a dark jacket. It was glorious May 1 weather, and on her way through the city she noticed that the workers’ groups had begun to gather. It dawned on her that she had not been part of such a parade in more than twenty years. For a moment she stood, alone and invisible, next to the lift doors. First day on the job. She could see a large part of the editorial office with the news desk in the centre. She saw the glass doors of the editor-in-chief’s office, which was now hers. She was not at all sure right now that she was the person to lead the sprawling1 organization that comprised S.M.P. It was a gigantic step up from Millennium2 with a staff of five to a daily newspaper with eighty reporters and another ninety people in administration, with I.T. personnel, layout artists, photographers, advertising3 reps, and all else it takes to publish a newspaper. Add to that a publishing house, a production company and a management company. More than 230 people. As she stood there she asked herself whether the whole thing was not a hideous4 mistake. Then the older of the two receptionists noticed who had just come into the office. She got up and came out from behind the counter and extended her hand. “Fru Berger, welcome to S.M.P.” “Call me Erika. Hello.” “Beatrice. Welcome. Shall I show you where to find Editor-in-Chief Morander? I should say ‘outgoing editor-in-chief’?” “Thank you, I see him sitting in the glass cage over there,” said Berger with a smile. “I can find my way, but thanks for the offer.” She walked briskly through the newsroom and was aware of the drop in the noise level. She felt everyone’s eyes upon her. She stopped at the half-empty news desk and gave a friendly nod. “We’ll introduce ourselves properly in a while,” she said, and then walked over to knock on the door of the glass cubicle5. The departing editor-in-chief, H?kan Morander, had spent twelve years in the glass cage. Just like Berger, he had been head-hunted from outside the company – so he had once taken that very same first walk to his office. He looked up at her, puzzled, and then stood up. “Hello, Erika,” he said. “I thought you were starting Monday.” “I couldn’t stand sitting at home one more day. So here I am.” Morander held out his hand. “Welcome. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re taking over.” “How are you feeling?” Berger said. He shrugged6 just as Beatrice the receptionist came in with coffee and milk. “It feels as though I’m already operating at half speed. Actually I don’t want to talk about it. You walk around feeling like a teenager and immortal7 your whole life, and suddenly there isn’t much time left. But one thing is for sure – I don’t mean to spend the rest of it in this glass cage.” He rubbed his chest. He had heart and artery8 problems, which was the reason for his going and why Berger was to start several months earlier than originally announced. Berger turned and looked out over the landscape of the newsroom. She saw a reporter and a photographer heading for the lift, perhaps on their way to cover the May Day parade. “H?kan … if I’m being a nuisance or if you’re busy today, I’ll come back tomorrow or the day after.” “Today’s task is to write an editorial on the demonstrations9. I could do it in my sleep. If the pinkos want to start a war with Denmark, then I have to explain why they’re wrong. If the pinkos want to avoid a war with Denmark, I have to explain why they’re wrong.” “Denmark?” “Correct. The message on May Day has to touch on the immigrant integration10 question. The pinkos, of course, no matter what they say, are wrong.” He burst out laughing. “Always so cynical11?” “Welcome to S.M.P.” Erika had never had an opinion about Morander. He was an anonymous12 power figure among the elite13 of editors-in-chief. In his editorials he came across as boring and conservative. Expert in complaining about taxes, and a typical libertarian when it came to freedom of the press. But she had never met him in person. “Do you have time to tell me about the job?” “I’m gone at the end of June. We’ll work side by side for two months. You’ll discover positive things and negative things. I’m a cynic, so mostly I see the negative things.” He got up and stood next to her to look through the glass at the newsroom. “You’ll discover that – it comes with the job – you’re going to have a number of adversaries14 out there – daily editors and veterans among the editors who have created their own little empires. They have their own club that you can’t join. They’ll try to stretch the boundaries, to push through their own headlines and angles. You’ll have to fight hard to hold your own.” Berger nodded. “Your night editors are Billinger and Karlsson … they’re a whole chapter unto themselves. They hate each other and, importantly, they don’t work the same shift, but they both act as if they’re publishers and editors-in-chief. Then there’s Anders Holm, the news editor – you’ll be working with him a lot. You’ll have your share of clashes with him. In point of fact, he’s the one who gets S.M.P. out every day. Some of the reporters are prize primadonnas, and some of them should really be put out to grass.” “Have you got any good colleagues?” Morander laughed again. “Oh yes, but you’re going to have to decide for yourself which ones you can get along with. Some of the reporters out there are seriously good.” “How about management?” “Magnus Borgsj? is chairman of the board. He was the one who recruited you. He’s charming. A bit old school and yet at the same time a bit of a reformer, but he’s above all the one who makes the decisions. Some of the board members, including several from the family which owns the paper, mostly seem to sit and kill time, while others flutter around, professional board-member types.” “You don’t seem to be exactly enamoured of your board.” “There’s a division of labour. We put out the paper. They take care of the finances. They’re not supposed to interfere15 with the content, but situations do crop up. To be honest, Erika, between the two of us, this is going to be tough.” “Why’s that?” “Circulation has dropped by nearly 150,000 copies since the glory days of the ’60s, and there may soon come a time when S.M.P. is no longer profitable. We’ve reorganized, cut more than 180 jobs since 1980. We went over to tabloid16 format17 – which we should have done twenty years sooner. S.M.P. is still one of the big papers, but it wouldn’t take much for us to be regarded as a second-class paper. If it hasn’t already happened.” “Why did they pick me then?” Berger said. “Because the median age of our readers is fifty-plus, and the growth in readers in their twenties is almost zero. The paper has to be rejuvenated18. And the reasoning among the board was to bring in the most improbable editor-in-chief they could think of.” “A woman?” “Not just any woman. The woman who crushed Wennerstr?m’s empire, who is considered the queen of investigative journalism20, and who has a reputation for being the toughest. Picture it. It’s irresistible21. If you can’t rejuvenate19 this paper, nobody can. S.M.P. isn’t just hiring Erika Berger, we’re hiring the whole mystique that goes with your name.” When Blomkvist left Café Copacabana next to the Kvarter cinema at Hornstull, it was just past 2.00 p.m. He put on his dark glasses and turned up Bergsundsstrand on his way to the tunnelbana. He noticed the grey Volvo at once, parked at the corner. He passed it without slowing down. Same registration22, and the car was empty. It was the seventh time he had seen the same car in four days. He had no idea how long the car had been in his neighbourhood. It was pure chance that he had noticed it at all. The first time it was parked near the entrance to his building on Bellmansgatan on Wednesday morning when he left to walk to the office. He happened to read the registration number, which began with KAB, and he paid attention because those were the initials of Zalachenko’s holding company, Karl Axel Bodin Inc. He would not have thought any more about it except that he spotted23 the same car a few hours later when he was having lunch with Cortez and Eriksson at Medborgarplatsen. That time the Volvo was parked on a side street near the Millennium offices. He wondered whether he was becoming paranoid, but when he visited Palmgren the same afternoon at the rehabilitation24 home in Ersta, the car was in the visitors’ car park. That could not have been chance. Blomkvist began to keep an eye on everything around him. And when he saw the car again the next morning he was not surprised. Not once had he seen its driver. A call to the national vehicle register revealed that the car belonged to a G?ran M?rtensson of Vittangigaten in V?llingby. An hour’s research turned up the information that M?rtensson held the title of business consultant25 and owned a private company whose address was a P.O. box on Fleminggatan in Kungsholmen. M?rtensson’s C.V. was an interesting one. In 1983, at eighteen, he had done his military service with the coast guard, and then enrolled26 in the army. By 1989 he had advanced to lieutenant27, and then he switched to study at the police academy in Solna. Between 1991 and 1996 he worked for the Stockholm police. In 1997 he was no longer on the official roster28 of the external service, and in 1999 he had registered his own company. So – S?po. An industrious29 investigative journalist could get paranoid on less than this. Blomkvist concluded that he was under surveillance, but it was being carried out so clumsily that he could hardly have helped but notice. Or was it clumsy? The only reason he first noticed the car was the registration number, which just happened to mean something to him. But for the KAB, he would not have given the car a second glance. On Friday KAB was conspicuous30 by its absence. Blomkvist could not be absolutely sure, but he thought he had been tailed by a red Audi that day. He had not managed to catch the registration number. On Friday the Volvo was back. Exactly twenty seconds after Blomkvist left Café Copacabana, Malm raised his Nikon in the shadows of Café Rosso’s awning31 across the street and took a series of twelve photographs of the two men who followed Blomkvist out of the café and past the Kvarter cinema. One of the men looked to be in his late thirties or early forties and had blond hair. The other seemed a bit older, with thinning reddish-blond hair and sunglasses. Both were dressed in jeans and leather jackets. They parted company at the grey Volvo. The older man got in, and the younger one followed Blomkvist towards Hornstull tunnelbana station. Malm lowered the camera. Blomkvist had given him no good reason for insisting that he patrol the neighbourhood near the Copacabana on Sunday afternoon looking for a grey Volvo with a registration beginning KAB. Blomkvist told him to position himself where he could photograph whoever got into the car, probably just after 3.00. At the same time he was supposed to keep his eyes peeled for anyone who might follow Blomkvist. It sounded like the prelude33 to a typical Blomkvist adventure. Malm was never quite sure whether Blomkvist was paranoid by nature or if he had paranormal gifts. Since the events in Gosseberga his colleague had certainly become withdrawn34 and hard to communicate with. Nothing unusual about this, though. But when Blomkvist was working on a complicated story – Malm had observed the same obsessive35 and secretive behaviour in the weeks before the Wennerstr?m story broke – it became more pronounced. On the other hand, Malm could see for himself that Blomkvist was indeed being tailed. He wondered vaguely36 what new nightmare was in the offing. Whatever it was, it would soak up all of Millennium’s time, energy and resources. Malm did not think it was a great idea for Blomkvist to set off on some wild scheme just when the magazine’s editor-in-chief had deserted37 to the Big Daily, and now Millennium’s laboriously38 reconstructed stability was suddenly hanging once again in the balance. But Malm had not participated in any parade – apart from Gay Pride – in at least ten years. He had nothing better to do on this May Day Sunday than humour his wayward publisher. He sauntered after the man tailing Blomkvist even though he had not been instructed to do so, but he lost sight him on L?ngholmsgatan. One of the first things Blomkvist did when he realized that his mobile was bugged39 was to send Cortez out to buy some used handsets. Cortez bought a job lot of Ericsson T10s for a song. Blomkvist then opened some anonymous cash-card accounts on Comviq and distributed the mobiles to Eriksson, Cortez, Giannini, Malm and Armansky, also keeping one for himself. They were to be used only for conversations that absolutely must not be overheard. Day-to-day stuff they could and should do on their own mobiles. Which meant that they all had to carry two mobiles with them. Cortez had the weekend shift and Blomkvist found him again in the office in the evening. Since the murder of Zalachenko, Blomkvist had devised a 24/7 roster, so that Millennium’s office was always staffed and someone slept there every night. The roster included himself, Cortez, Eriksson and Malm. Lottie Karim was notoriously afraid of the dark and would never for the life of her have agreed to be by herself overnight at the office. Nilsson was not afraid of the dark, but she worked so furiously on her projects that she was encouraged to go home when the day was done. Magnusson was getting on in years and as advertising manager had nothing to do with the editorial side. He was also about to go on holiday. “Anything new?” “Nothing special,” Cortez said. “Today is all about May 1, naturally enough.” “I’m going to be here for a couple of hours,” Blomkvist told him. “Take a break and come back around 9.00.” After Cortez left, Blomkvist got out his anonymous mobile and called Daniel Olsson, a freelance journalist in G?teborg. Over the years Millennium had published several of his articles and Blomkvist had great faith in his ability to gather background material. “Hi, Daniel. Mikael Blomkvist here. Can you talk?” “Sure.” “I need someone for a research job. You can bill us for five days, and you don’t have to produce an article at the end of it. Well, you can write an article on the subject if you want and we’ll publish it, but it’s the research we’re after.” “Fine. Tell me.” “It’s sensitive. You can’t discuss this with anyone except me, and you can communicate with me only via hotmail. You must not even mention that you’re doing research for Millennium.” “This sounds fun. What are you looking for?” “I want you to do a workplace report on Sahlgrenska hospital. We’re calling the report ‘E.R.’, and it’s to look at the differences between reality and the T. V. series. I want you to go to the hospital and observe the work in the emergency ward32 and the intensive care unit for a couple of days. Talk with doctors, nurses and cleaners – everybody who works there in fact. What are their working conditions like? What do they actually do? That sort of stuff. Photographs too, of course.” “Intensive care?” Olsson said. “Exactly. I want you to focus on the follow-up care given to severely40 injured patients in corridor 11C. I want to know the whole layout of the corridor, who works there, what they look like, and what sort of background they have.” “Unless I’m mistaken, a certain Lisbeth Salander is a patient on 11C.” Olsson was not born yesterday. “How interesting,” Blomkvist said. “Find out which room she’s in, who’s in the neighbouring rooms, and what the routines are in that section.” “I have a feeling that this story is going to be about something altogether different,” Olsson said. “As I said … all I want is the research you come up with.” They exchanged hotmail addresses. Salander was lying on her back on the floor when Nurse Marianne came in. “Hmm,” she said, thereby41 indicating her doubts about the wisdom of this style of conduct in the intensive care unit. But it was, she accepted, her patient’s only exercise space. Salander was sweating. She had spent thirty minutes trying to do arm lifts, stretches and sit-ups on the recommendation of her physiotherapist. She had a long list of the movements she was to perform each day to strengthen the muscles in her shoulder and hip42 in the wake of her operation three weeks earlier. She was breathing hard and felt wretchedly out of shape. She tired easily and her left shoulder was tight and hurt at the very least effort. But she was on the path to recovery. The headaches that had tormented43 her after surgery had subsided44 and came back only sporadically45. She realized that she was sufficiently46 recovered now that she could have walked out of the hospital, or at any rate hobbled out, if that had been possible, but it was not. First of all, the doctors had not yet declared her fit, and second, the door to her room was always locked and guarded by a fucking hit-man from Securitas, who sat on his chair in the corridor. She was healthy enough to be moved to a normal rehabilitation ward, but after going back and forth47 about this, the police and hospital administration had agreed that Salander should remain in room eighteen for the time being. The room was easier to guard, there was round-the-clock staff close by, and the room was at the end of an L-shaped corridor. And in corridor 11C the staff were security-conscious after the killing48 of Zalachenko; they were familiar with her situation. Better not to move her to a new ward with new routines. Her stay at Sahlgrenska was in any case going to come to an end in a few more weeks. As soon as the doctors discharged her, she would be transferred to Kronoberg prison in Stockholm to await trial. And the person who would decide when it was time for that was Dr Jonasson. It was ten days after the shooting in Gosseberga before Dr Jonasson gave permission for the police to conduct their first real interview, which Giannini viewed as being to Salander’s advantage. Unfortunately Dr Jonasson had made it difficult even for Giannini to have access to her client, and that was annoying. After the tumult49 of Zalachenko’s murder and Gullberg’s attempted suicide, he had done an evaluation50 of Salander’s condition. He took into account that Salander must be under a great deal of stress for having been suspected of three murders plus a damn-near fatal assault on her late father. Jonasson had no idea whether she was guilty or innocent, and as a doctor he was not the least bit interested in the answer to that question. He simply concluded that Salander was suffering from stress, that she had been shot three times, and that one bullet had entered her brain and almost killed her. She had a fever that would not abate51, and she had severe headaches. He had played it safe. Murder suspect or not, she was his patient, and his job was to make sure she got well. So he filled out a “no visitors” form that had no connection whatsoever52 to the one that was set in place by the prosecutor53. He prescribed various medications and complete bedrest. But Jonasson also realized that isolation54 was an inhumane way of punishing people; in fact it bordered on torture. No-one felt good when they were separated from all their friends, so he decided55 that Salander’s lawyer should serve as a proxy56 friend. He had a serious talk with Giannini and explained that she could have access to Salander for one hour a day. During this hour she could talk with her or just sit quietly and keep her company, but their conversations should not deal with Salander’s problems or impending57 legal battles. “Lisbeth Salander was shot in the head and was very seriously injured,” he explained. “I think she’s out of danger, but there is always a risk of bleeding or some other complication. She needs to rest and she has to have time to heal. Only when that has happened can she begin to confront her legal problems.” Giannini understood Dr Jonasson’s reasoning. She had some general conversations with Salander and hinted at the outline of the strategy that she and Blomkvist had planned, but Salander was simply so drugged and exhausted58 that she would fall asleep while Giannini was speaking. Armansky studied Malm’s photographs of the men who had followed Blomkvist from the Copacabana. They were in sharp focus. “No,” he said. “Never seen them before.” Blomkvist nodded. They were in Armansky’s office on Monday morning. Blomkvist had come into the building via the garage. “The older one is G?ran M?rtensson, who owns the Volvo. He followed me like a guilty conscience for at least a week, but it could have been longer.” “And you reckon that he’s S?po.” Blomkvist referred to M?rtensson’s C.V. Armansky hesitated. You could take it for granted that the Security Police invariably made fools of themselves. That was the natural order of things, not for S?po alone but probably for intelligence services all over the world. The French secret police had sent frogmen to New Zealand to blow up the Greenpeace ship Rainbow Warrior59, for God’s sake. That had to be the most idiotic60 intelligence operation in the history of the world. With the possible exception of President Nixon’s lunatic break-in at Watergate. With such cretinous leadership it was no wonder that scandals occurred. Their successes were never reported. But the media jumped all over the Security Police whenever anything improper61 or foolish came to light, and with all the wisdom of hindsight. On the one hand, the media regarded S?po as an excellent news source, and almost any political blunder gave rise to headlines: “S?po suspects that …” A S?po statement carried a lot of weight in a headline. On the other hand, politicians of various affiliations62, along with the media, were particularly diligent63 in condemning64 exposed S?po agents if they had spied on Swedish citizens. Armansky found this entirely65 contradictory66. He did not have anything against the existence of S?po. Someone had to take responsibility for seeing to it that national-Bolshevist crackpots – who had read too much Bakunin or whoever the hell these neo-Nazis read – did not patch together a bomb made of fertilizer and oil and park it in a van outside Rosenbad. S?po was necessary, and Armansky did not think a little discreet67 surveillance was such a bad thing, so long as its objective was to safeguard the security of the nation. The problem, of course, was that an organization assigned to spy on citizens must remain under strict public scrutiny68. There had to be a high level of constitutional oversight69. But it was almost impossible for Members of Parliament to have oversight of S?po, even when the Prime Minister appointed a special investigator70 who, on paper at least, was supposed to have access to everything. Armansky had Blomkvist’s copy of Lidbom’s book An Assignment, and he was reading it with gathering71 astonishment72. If this were the United States a dozen or so senior S?po hands would have been arrested for obstruction73 of justice and forced to appear before a public committee in Congress. In Sweden apparently74 they were untouchable. The Salander case demonstrated that something was out of joint75 inside the organization. But when Blomkvist came over to give him a secure mobile, Armansky’s first thought was that the man was paranoid. It was only when he heard the details and studied Malm’s photographs that he reluctantly admitted that Blomkvist had good reason to be suspicious. It did not bode76 well, but rather indicated that the conspiracy77 that had tried to eliminate Salander fifteen years earlier was not a thing of the past. There were simply too many incidents for this to be coincidence. Never mind that Zalachenko had supposedly been murdered by a nutter78. It had happened at the same time that both Blomkvist and Giannini were robbed of the document that was the cornerstone in the burden of proof. That was a shattering misfortune. And then the key witness, Gunnar Bj?rck, had gone and hanged himself. “Are we agreed that I pass this on to my contact?” Armansky said, gathering up Blomkvist’s documentation. “And this is a person that you say you can trust?” “An individual of the highest moral standing79.” “Inside S?po?” Blomkvist said with undisguised scepticism. “We have to be of one mind. Both Holger and I have accepted your plan and are co-operating with you. But we can’t clear this matter up all by ourselves. We have to find allies within the bureaucracy if this is not going to end in calamity80.” “O.K.” Blomkvist nodded reluctantly. “I’ve never had to give out information on a story before it’s published.” “But in this case you already have. You’ve told me, your sister, and Holger.” “True enough.” “And you did it because even you recognize that this is far more than just a scoop81 in your magazine. For once you’re not an objective reporter, but a participant in unfolding events. And as such you need help. You’re not going to win on your own.” Blomkvist gave in. He had not, in any case, told the whole truth either to Armansky or to his sister. He still had one or two secrets that he shared only with Salander. He shook hands with Armansky
收听单词发音 |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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integration
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| n.一体化，联合，结合 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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tabloid
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| adj.轰动性的，庸俗的；n.小报，文摘 | |
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format
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| n.设计，版式；[计算机]格式，DOS命令:格式化(磁盘)，用于空盘或使用过的磁盘建立新空盘来存储数据；v.使格式化，设计，安排 | |
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rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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rejuvenate
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| v.(使)返老还童；(使)恢复活力 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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rehabilitation
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| n.康复，悔过自新，修复，复兴，复职，复位 | |
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consultant
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| n.顾问；会诊医师，专科医生 | |
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enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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roster
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| n.值勤表，花名册 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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obsessive
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| adj. 着迷的, 强迫性的, 分神的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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bugged
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| vt.在…装窃听器（bug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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sporadically
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| adv.偶发地，零星地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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evaluation
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| n.估价，评价；赋值 | |
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abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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affiliations
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| n.联系( affiliation的名词复数 )；附属机构；亲和性；接纳 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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bode
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| v.预示 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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nutter
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| n.疯子 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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