Stieg Larsson - The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest - 2007(page2)

"I need a guarantee of anonymity for both of us."
"I don't even know which colleague you're talking about."
"I'll tell you later. I want you to promise to give him protection as a source."
"You have my word."
She looked at her watch.
"Are you in a hurry?"
"Yes. I have to meet my husband and kids at the Sturegalleria in ten minutes. He thinks I'm still at work."
"And Bublanski knows nothing about this?"
"No."
"Right. You and your colleague are sources and you have complete source protection. Both of you. As long as you live."
"My colleague is Jerker Holmberg. You met him down in Göteborg. His father is a Centre Party member, and Jerker has known Prime Minister Fälldin since he was a child. He seems to be pleasant enough. So Jerker went to see him and asked about Zalachenko."
Blomkvist's heart began to pound.
"Jerker asked what he knew about the defection, but Fälldin didn't reply. When Holmberg told him that we suspect that Salander was locked up by the people who were protecting Zalachenko, well, that really upset him."
"Did he say how much he knew?"
"Fälldin told him that the chief of Säpo at the time and a colleague came to visit him very soon after he became Prime Minister. They told a fantastic story about a Russian defector who had come to Sweden, told him that it was the most sensitive military secret Sweden possessed... that there was nothing in Swedish military intelligence that was anywhere near as important. Fälldin said that he hadn't known how he should handle it, that there was no-one with much experience in government, the Social Democrats having been in power for more than forty years. He was advised that he alone had to make the decisions, and that if he discussed it with his government colleagues then Säpo would wash their hands of it. He remembered the whole thing as having been very unpleasant."
"What did he do?"
"He realized that he had no choice but to do what the gentlemen from Säpo were proposing. He issued a directive putting Säpo in sole charge of the defector. He undertook never to discuss the matter with anyone. Fälldin was never told Zalachenko's name."
"Extraordinary."
"After that he heard almost nothing more during his two terms in office. But he had done something extremely shrewd. He had insisted that an Undersecretary of State be let in on the secret, in case there was a need for a go-between for the government secretariat and those who were protecting Zalachenko."
"Did he remember who it was?"
"It was Bertil K. Janeryd, now Swedish ambassador in the Hague. When it was explained to Fälldin how serious this preliminary investigation was, he sat down and wrote to Janeryd."
Modig pushed an envelope across the table.
Dear Bertil,
The secret we both protected during my administration is now the subject of some very serious questions. The person referred to in the matter is now deceased and can no longer come to harm. On the other hand, other people can.
It is of the utmost importance that answers are provided to certain questions that must be answered.
The person who bears this letter is working unofficially and has my trust. I urge you to listen to his story and answer his questions.
Use your famous good judgement.
T. F.
"This letter is referring to Holmberg?"
"No. Jerker asked Fälldin not to put a name. He said that he couldn't know who would be going to the Hague."
"You mean..."
"Jerker and I have discussed it. We're already out on ice so thin that we'll need paddles rather than ice picks. We have no authority to travel to Holland to interview the ambassador. But you could do it."
Blomkvist folded the letter and was putting it into his jacket pocket when Modig grabbed his hand. Her grip was hard.
"Information for information," she said. "We want to hear everything Janeryd tells you."
Blomkvist nodded. Modig stood up.
"Hang on. You said that Fälldin was visited by two people from Säpo. One was the chief of Säpo. Who was the other?"
"Fälldin met him only on that one occasion and couldn't remember his name. No notes were taken at the meeting. He remembered him as thin with a narrow moustache. But he did recall that the man was introduced as the boss of the Section for Special Analysis, or something like that. Fälldin later looked at an organizational chart of Säpo and couldn't find that department."
The Zalachenko club, Blomkvist thought.
Modig seemed to be weighing her words.
"At risk of ending up shot," she said at last, "there is one record that neither Fälldin nor his visitors thought of."
"What was that?"
"Fälldin's visitors' logbook at Rosenbad. Jerker requisitioned it. It's a public document."
"And?"
Modig hesitated once again. "The book states only that the Prime Minister met with the chief of Säpo along with a colleague to discuss general questions."
"Was there a name?"
"Yes. E. Gullberg."
Blomkvist could feel the blood rush to his head.
"Evert Gullberg," he said.
Blomkvist called from Café Madeleine on his anonymous mobile to book a flight to Amsterdam. The plane would take off from Arlanda at 2.50. He walked to Dressman on Kungsgatan and bought a shirt and a change of underwear, and then he went to a pharmacy to buy a toothbrush and other toiletries. He checked carefully to see that he was not being followed and hurried to catch the Arlanda Express.
The plane landed at Schiphol airport at 4.50, and by 6.30 he was checking into a small hotel about fifteen minutes' walk from the Hague's Centraal Station.
He spent two hours trying to locate the Swedish ambassador and made contact by telephone at around 9.00. He used all his powers of persuasion and explained that he was there on a matter of great urgency. The ambassador finally relented and agreed to meet him at 10.00 on Sunday morning.
Then Blomkvist went out and had a light dinner at a restaurant near his hotel. He was asleep by 11.00.
Ambassador Janeryd was in no mood for small talk when he offered Blomkvist coffee at his residence on Lange Voorhout.
"Well... what is it that's so urgent?"
"Alexander Zalachenko. The Russian defector who came to Sweden in 1976," Blomkvist said, handing him the letter from Fälldin.
Janeryd looked surprised. He read the letter and laid it on the table beside him.
Blomkvist explained the background and why Fälldin had written to him.
"I... I can't discuss this matter," Janeryd said at last.
"I think you can."
"No, I could only speak of it with the constitutional committee."
"There's a great probability that you will have to do just that. But this letter tells you to use your own good judgement."
"Fälldin is an honest man."
"I don't doubt that. And I'm not looking to damage either you or Fälldin. Nor do I ask you to tell me a single military secret that Zalachenko may have revealed."
"I don't know any secrets. I didn't even know that his name was Zalachenko. I only knew him by his cover name. He was known as Ruben. But it's absurd that you should think I would discuss it with a journalist."
"Let me give you one very good reason why you should," Blomkvist said and sat up straight in his chair. "This whole story is going to be published very soon. And when that happens, the media will either tear you to pieces or describe you as an honest civil servant who made the best of an impossible situation. You were the one Fälldin assigned to be the go-between with those who were protecting Zalachenko. I already know that."
Janeryd was silent for almost a minute.
"Listen, I never had any information, not the remotest idea of the background you've described. I was rather young... I didn't know how I should deal with these people. I met them about twice a year during the time I worked for the government. I was told that Ruben... your Zalachenko, was alive and healthy, that he was co-operating, and that the information he provided was invaluable. I was never privy to the details. I had no 'need to know'."
Blomkvist waited.
"The defector had operated in other countries and knew nothing about Sweden, so he was never a major factor for security policy. I informed the Prime Minister on a couple of occasions, but there was never very much to report."
"I see."
"They always said that he was being handled in the customary way and that the information he provided was being processed through the appropriate channels. What could I say? If I asked what it meant, they smiled and said that it was outside my security clearance level. I felt like an idiot."
"You never considered the fact that there might be something wrong with the arrangement?"
"No. There was nothing wrong with the arrangement. I took it for granted that Säpo knew what they were doing and had the appropriate routines and experience. But I can't talk about this."
Janeryd had by this time been talking about it for several minutes.
"O.K.... but all this is beside the point. Only one thing is important right now."
"What?"
"The names of the individuals you had your meetings with."
Janeryd gave Blomkvist a puzzled look.
"The people who were looking after Zalachenko went far beyond their jurisdiction. They've committed serious criminal acts and they'll be the object of a preliminary investigation. That's why Fälldin sent me to see you. He doesn't know who they are. You were the one who met them."
Janeryd blinked and pressed his lips together.
"One was Evert Gullberg... he was the top man."
Janeryd nodded.
"How many times did you meet him?"
"He was at every meeting except one. There were about ten meetings during the time Fälldin was Prime Minister."
"Where did you meet?"
"In the lobby of some hotel. Usually the Sheraton. Once at the Amaranth on Kungsholmen and sometimes at the Continental pub."
"And who else was at the meetings?"
"It was a long time ago... I don't remember."
"Try."
"There was a... Clinton. Like the American president."
"First name?"
"Fredrik. I saw him four or five times."
"Others?"
"Hans von Rottinger. I knew him through my mother."
"Your mother?"
"Yes, my mother knew the von Rottinger family. Hans von Rottinger was always a pleasant chap. Before he turned up out of the blue at a meeting with Gullberg, I had no idea that he worked for Säpo."
"He didn't," Blomkvist said.
Janeryd turned pale.
"He worked for something called the Section for Special Analysis," Blomkvist said. "What were you told about that group?"
"Nothing. I mean, just that they were the ones who took care of the defector."
"Right. But isn't it strange that they don't appear anywhere in Säpo's organizational chart?"
"That's ridiculous."
"It is, isn't it? So how did they set up the meetings? Did they call you, or did you call them?"
"Neither. The time and place for each meeting was set at the preceding one."
"What happened if you needed to get in contact with them? For instance, to change the time of a meeting or something like that?"
"I had a number to call."
"What was the number?"
"I couldn't possibly remember."
"Who answered if you called the number?"
"I don't know. I never used it."
"Next question. Who did you hand everything over to?"
"How do you mean?"
"When Fälldin's term came to an end. Who took your place?"
"I don't know."
"Did you write a report?"
"No. Everything was classified. I couldn't even take notes."
"And you never briefed your successor?"
"No."
"So what happened?"
"Well... Fälldin left office, and Ola Ullsten came in. I was told that we would have to wait until after the next election. Then Fälldin was re-elected and our meetings were resumed. Then came the election in 1985. The Social Democrats won, and I assume that Palme appointed somebody to take over from me. I transferred to the foreign ministry and became a diplomat. I was posted to Egypt, and then to India."
Blomkvist went on asking questions for another few minutes, but he was sure that he already had everything Janeryd could tell him. Three names.
Fredrik Clinton.
Hans von Rottinger.
And Evert Gullberg - the man who had shot Zalachenko.
The Zalachenko club.
He thanked Janeryd for the meeting and walked the short distance along Lange Voorhout to Hotel des Indes, from where he took a taxi to Centraal. It was not until he was in the taxi that he reached into his jacket pocket and stopped the tape recorder.
Berger looked up and scanned the half-empty newsroom beyond the glass cage. Holm was off that day. She saw no-one who showed any interest in her, either openly or covertly. Nor did she have reason to think that anyone on the editorial staff wished her ill.
The email had arrived a minute before. The sender was editorial-@aftonbladet. com>. Why Aftonbladet? The address was another fake.
Today's message contained no text. There was only a jpeg that she opened in Photoshop.
The image was pornographic: a naked woman with exceptionally large breasts, a dog collar around her neck. She was on all fours and being mounted from the rear.
The woman's face had been replaced with Berger's. It was not a skilled collage, but probably that was not the point. The picture was from her old byline at Millennium and could be downloaded off the Net.
At the bottom of the picture was one word, written with the spray function in Photoshop.
Whore.
This was the ninth anonymous message she had received containing the word "whore," sent apparently by someone at a well-known media outlet in Sweden. She had a cyber-stalker on her hands.
The telephone tapping was a more difficult task than the computer monitoring. Trinity had no trouble locating the cable to Prosecutor Ekström's home telephone. The problem was that Ekström seldom or never used it for work-related calls. Trinity did not even consider trying to bug Ekström's work telephone at police H. Q. on Kungsholmen. That would have required extensive access to the Swedish cable network, which he did not have.
But Trinity and Bob the Dog devoted the best part of a week to identifying and separating out Ekström's mobile from the background noise of about 200,000 other mobile telephones within a kilometre of police headquarters.
They used a technique called Random Frequency Tracking System. The technique was not uncommon. It had been developed by the U. S. National Security Agency, and was built into an unknown number of satellites that performed pinpoint monitoring of capitals around the world as well as flashpoints of special interest.
The N. S. A. had enormous resources and used a vast network in order to capture a large number of mobile conversations in a certain region simultaneously. Each individual call was separated and processed digitally by computers programmed to react to certain words, such as terrorist or Kalashnikov. If such a word occurred, the computer automatically sent an alarm, which meant that some operator would go in manually and listen to the conversation to decide whether it was of interest or not.
It was a more complex problem to identify a specific mobile telephone. Each mobile has its own unique signature - a fingerprint - in the form of the telephone number. With exceptionally sensitive equipment the N.S.A. could focus on a specific area to separate out and monitor mobile calls. The technique was simple but not 100 per cent effective. Outgoing calls were particularly hard to identify. Incoming calls were simpler because they were preceded by the fingerprint that would enable the telephone in question to receive the signal.
The difference between Trinity and the N. S. A. attempting to eavesdrop could be measured in economic terms. The N. S. A. had an annual budget of several billion U. S. dollars, close to twelve thousand fulltime agents, and access to cuttingedge technology in I. T. and telecommunications. Trinity had a van with thirty kilos of electronic equipment, much of which was home-made stuff that Bob the Dog had set up. Through its global satellite monitoring the N. S. A. could home in highly sensitive antennae on a specific building anywhere in the world. Trinity had an antenna constructed by Bob the Dog which had an effective range of about five hundred metres.
The relatively limited technology to which Trinity had access meant that he had to park his van on Bergsgatan or one of the nearby streets and laboriously calibrate the equipment until he had identified the fingerprint that represented Ekström's mobile number. Since he did not know Swedish, he had to relay the conversations via another mobile back home to Plague, who did the actual eavesdropping.
For five days Plague, who was looking more and more hollow-eyed, listened in vain to a vast number of calls to and from police headquarters and the surrounding buildings. He had heard fragments of ongoing investigations, uncovered planned lovers' trysts, and taped hours and hours of conversations of no interest whatsoever. Late on the evening of the fifth day, Trinity sent a signal which a digital display instantly identified as Ekström's mobile number. Plague locked the parabolic antenna on to the exact frequency.
The technology of R. F. T. S. worked primarily on incoming calls to Ekström. Trinity's parabolic antenna captured the search for Ekström's mobile number as it was sent through the ether.
Because Trinity could record the calls from Ekström, he also got voiceprints that Plague could process.
Plague ran Ekström's digitized voice through a program called V. P. R. S., Voiceprint Recognition System. He specified a dozen commonly occurring words, such as "O.K." or "Salander". When he had five separate examples of a word, he charted it with respect to the time it took to speak the word, what tone of voice and frequency range it had, whether the end of the word went up or down, and a dozen other markers. The result was a graph. In this way Plague could also monitor outgoing calls from Ekström. His parabolic antenna would be permanently listening out for a call containing Ekström's characteristic graph curve for one of a dozen commonly occurring words. The technology was not perfect, but roughly half of all the calls that Ekström made on his mobile from anywhere near police headquarters were monitored and recorded.
The system had an obvious weakness. As soon as Ekström left police headquarters, it was no longer possible to monitor his mobile, unless Trinity knew where he was and could park his van in the immediate vicinity.
With the authorization from the highest level, Edklinth had been able to set up a legitimate operations department. He picked four colleagues, purposely selecting younger talent who had experience on the regular police force and were only recently recruited to S. I. S. Two had a background in the Fraud Division, one had been with the financial police, and one was from the Violent Crimes Division. They were summoned to Edklinth's office and told of their assignment as
well as the need for absolute secrecy. He made plain that the investigation was being carried out at the express order of the Prime Minister. Inspector Figuerola was named as their chief, and she directed the investigation with a force that matched her physical appearance.
But the investigation proceeded slowly. This was largely due to the fact that no-one was quite sure who or what should be investigated. On more than one occasion Edklinth and Figuerola considered bringing Mårtensson in for questioning. But they decided to wait. Arresting him would reveal the existence of the investigation.
Finally, on Tuesday, eleven days after the meeting with the Prime Minister, Figuerola came to Edklinth's office.
"I think we've got something."
"Sit down."
"Evert Gullberg. One of our investigators had a talk with Marcus Erlander, who's leading the investigation into Zalachenko's murder. According to Erlander, S. I. S. contacted the Göteborg police just two hours after the murder and gave them information about Gullberg's threatening letters."
"That was fast."
"A little too fast. S. I. S. faxed nine letters that Gullberg had supposedly written. There's just one problem."
"What's that?"
"Two of the letters were sent to the justice department - to the Minister of Justice and to the Deputy Minister."
"I know that."
"Yes, but the letter to the Deputy Minister wasn't logged in at the department until the following day. It arrived with a later delivery."
Edklinth stared at Figuerola. He felt very much afraid that his suspicions were going to turn out to be justified. Figuerola went implacably on.
"So we have S. I. S. sending a fax of a threatening letter that hadn't yet reached its addressee."
"Good Lord," Edklinth said.
"It was someone in Personal Protection who faxed them through."
"Who?"
"I don't think he's involved in the case. The letters landed on his desk in the morning, and shortly after the murder he was told to get in touch with the Göteborg police."
"Who gave him the instruction?"
"The chief of Secretariat's assistant."
"Good God, Monica. Do you know what this means? It means that S. I. S. was involved in Zalachenko's murder."
"Not necessarily. But it definitely does mean that some individuals within S. I. S. had knowledge of the murder before it was committed. The only question is: who?"
"The chief of Secretariat..."
"Yes. But I'm beginning to suspect that this Zalachenko club is out of house."
"How do you mean?"
"Mårtensson. He was moved from Personal Protection and is working on his own. We've had him under surveillance round the clock for the past week. He hasn't had contact with anyone within S. I. S. as far as we can tell. He gets calls on a mobile that we cannot monitor. We don't know what number it is, but it's not his normal mobile number. He did meet with the fair-haired man, but we haven't been able to identify him."
Edklinth frowned. At the same instant Anders Berglund knocked on the door. He was one of the new team, the officer who had worked with the financial police.
"I think I've found Evert Gullberg," Berglund said.
"Come in," Edklinth said.
Berglund put a dog-eared, black-and-white photograph on the desk. Edklinth and Figuerola looked at the picture, which showed a man that both of them immediately recognized. He was being led through a doorway by two broad-shouldered plain-clothes police officers. The legendary double agent Colonel Stig Wennerström.*
"This print comes from Åhlens & Åkerlunds Publishers and was used in Se magazine in the spring of 1964. The photograph was taken in the course of the trial. Behind Wennerström you can see three people. On the right, Detective Superintendent Otto Danielsson, the policeman who arrested him."
"Yes..."
"Look at the man on the left behind Danielsson."
They saw a tall man with a narrow moustache who was wearing a hat. He reminded Edklinth vaguely of the writer Dashiell Hammett.
"Compare his face with this passport photograph of Gullberg, taken when he was sixty-six."
Edklinth frowned. "I wouldn't be able to swear it's the same person-"
"But it is," Berglund said. "Turn the print over."
On the reverse was a stamp saying that the picture belonged to Åhlens & Åkerlunds Publishers and that the photographer's name was Julius Estholm. The text was written in pencil. Stig Wennerström flanked by two police officers on his way into Stockholm district court. In the background O. Danielsson, E. Gullberg and H. W. Francke.
"Evert Gullberg," Figuerola said. "He was S. I. S."
"No," Berglund said. "Technically speaking, he wasn't. At least not when this picture was taken."
"Oh?"
"S. I. S. wasn't established until four months later. In this photograph he was still with the Secret State Police."
"Who's H. W. Francke?" Figuerola said.
"Hans Wilhelm Francke," Edklinth said. "Died in the early '90s, but was assistant chief of the Secret State Police in the late '50s and early '60s. He was a bit of a legend, just like Otto Danielsson. I actually met him a couple of times."
"Is that so?" Figuerola said.
"He left S.I.S. in the late '60s. Francke and P.G. Vinge never saw eye to eye, and he was more or less forced to resign at the age of fifty or fifty-five. Then he opened his own shop."
"His own shop?"
"He became a consultant in security for industry. He had an office on Stureplan, but he also gave lectures from time to time at S. I. S. training sessions. That's where I met him."
"What did Vinge and Francke quarrel about?"
"They were just very different. Francke was a bit of a cowboy who saw K. G. B. agents everywhere, and Vinge was a bureaucrat of the old school. Vinge was fired shortly thereafter. A bit ironic, that, because he thought Palme was working for the K. G. B."
Figuerola looked at the photograph of Gullberg and Francke standing side by side.
"I think it's time we had another talk with Justice," Edklinth told her.
"Millennium came out today," Figuerola said.
Edklinth shot her a glance.
"Not a word about the Zalachenko affair," she said.
"So we've got a month before the next issue. Good to know. But we have to deal with Blomkvist. In the midst of all this mess he's like a hand grenade with the pin pulled."
CHAPTER 17
Wednesday, 1.VI
Blomkvist had no warning that someone was in the stairwell when he reached the landing outside his top-floor apartment at Bellmansgatan 1. It was 7.00 in the evening. He stopped short when he saw a woman with short, blonde curly hair sitting on the top step. He recognized her straightaway as Monica Figuerola of S.I.S. from the passport photograph Karim had located.
"Hello, Blomkvist," she said cheerfully, closing the book she had been reading. Blomkvist looked at the book and saw that it was in English, on the idea of God in the ancient world. He studied his unexpected visitor as she stood up. She was wearing a short-sleeved summer dress and had laid a brick-red leather jacket over the top stair.
"We need to talk to you," she said.
She was tall, taller than he was, and that impression was magnified by the fact that she was standing two steps above him. He looked at her arms and then at her legs and saw that she was much more muscular than he was.
"You spend a couple of hours a week at the gym," he said.
She smiled and took out her I. D.
"My name is-"
"Monica Figuerola, born in 1969, living on Pontonjärgatan on Kungsholmen. You came from Borlänge and you've worked with the Uppsala police. For three years you've been working in S.I.S., Constitutional Protection. You're an exercise fanatic and you were once a top-class athlete, almost made it on to the Swedish Olympic team. What do you want with me?"
She was surprised, but she quickly regained her composure.
"Fair enough," she said in a low voice. "You know who I am - so you don't have to be afraid of me."
"I don't?"
"There are some people who need to have a talk with you in peace and quiet. Since your apartment and mobile seem to be bugged and we have reason to be discreet, I've been sent to invite you."
"And why would I go anywhere with somebody who works for Säpo?"
She thought for a moment. "Well... you could just accept a friendly personal invitation, or if you prefer, I could handcuff you and take you with me. " She smiled sweetly. "Look, Blomkvist. I understand that you don't have many reasons to trust anyone who comes from S. I. S. But it's like this: not everyone who works there is your enemy, and my superiors really want to talk to you. So, which do you prefer? Handcuffed or voluntary?"
"I've been handcuffed by the police once already this year. And that was enough. Where are we going?"
She had parked around the corner down on Pryssgränd. When they were settled in her new Saab 9-5, she flipped open her mobile and pressed a speed-dial number.
"We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
She told Blomkvist to fasten his seat belt and drove over Slussen to Östermalm and parked on a side street off Artillerigatan. She sat still for a moment and looked at him.
"This is a friendly invitation, Blomkvist. You're not risking anything."
Blomkvist said nothing. He was reserving judgement until he knew what this was all about. She punched in the code on the street door. They took the lift to the fifth floor, to an apartment with the name Martinsson on the door.
"We've borrowed the place for tonight's meeting," she said, opening the door. "To your right, into the living room."
The first person Blomkvist saw was Torsten Edklinth, which was no surprise since Säpo was deeply involved in what had happened, and Edklinth was Figuerola's boss. The fact that the Director of Constitutional Protection had gone to the trouble of bringing him in said that somebody was nervous.
Then he saw a figure by the window. The Minister of Justice. That was a surprise.
Then he heard a sound to his right and saw the Prime Minister get up from an armchair. This he had not for a moment expected.
"Good evening, Herr Blomkvist," the P. M. said. "Excuse us for summoning you to this meeting at such short notice, but we've discussed the situation and agreed that we need to talk to you. May I offer you some coffee, or something else to drink?"
Blomkvist looked around. He saw a dining-room table of dark wood that was cluttered with glasses, coffee cups and the remnants of sandwiches. They must have been there for a couple of hours already.
"Ramlösa," he said.
Figuerola poured him a mineral water. They sat down on the sofas as she stayed in the background.
"He recognized me and knew my name, where I live, where I work, and the fact that I'm a workout fanatic," Figuerola said to no-one in particular.
The Prime Minister glanced quickly at Edklinth and then at Blomkvist. Blomkvist realized at once that he was in a position of some strength. The Prime Minister needed something from him and presumably had no idea how much Blomkvist knew or did not know.
"How did you know who Inspector Figuerola was?" Edklinth said.
Blomkvist looked at the Director of Constitutional Protection. He could not be sure why the Prime Minister had set up a meeting with him in a borrowed apartment in Östermalm, but he suddenly felt inspired. There were not many ways it could have come about. It was Armansky who had set this in train by giving information to someone he trusted. Which must have been Edklinth, or someone close to him. Blomkvist took a chance.
"A mutual friend spoke with you," he said to Edklinth. "You sent Figuerola to find out what was going on, and she discovered that some Säpo activists are running illegal telephone taps and breaking into my apartment and stealing things. This means that you have confirmed the existence of what I call the Zalachenko club. It made you so nervous that you knew you had to take the matter further, but you sat in your office for a while and didn't know in which direction to go. So you went to the justice minister, and he in turn went to the Prime Minister. And now here we all are. What is it that you want from me?"
Blomkvist spoke with a confidence that suggested that he had a source right at the heart of the affair and had followed every step Edklinth had taken. He knew that his guesswork was on the mark when Edklinth's eyes widened.
"The Zalachenko club spies on me, I spy on them," Blomkvist went on. "And you spy on the Zalachenko club. This situation makes the Prime Minister both angry and uneasy. He knows that at the end of this conversation a scandal awaits that the government might not survive."
Figuerola understood that Blomkvist was bluffing, and she knew how he had been able to surprise her by knowing her name and shoe size.
He saw me in my car on Bellmansgatan. He took the registration number and looked me up. But the rest is guesswork.
She did not say a word.
The Prime Minister certainly looked uneasy now.
"Is that what awaits us?" he said. "A scandal to bring down the government?"
"The survival of the government isn't my concern," Blomkvist said. "My role is to expose shit like the Zalachenko club."
The Prime Minister said: "And my job is to run the country in accordance with the constitution."
"Which means that my problem is definitely the government's problem. But not vice versa."
"Could we stop going round in circles? Why do you think I arranged this meeting?"
"To find out what I know and what I intend to do with it."
"Partly right. But more precisely, we've landed in a constitutional crisis. Let me first say that the government has absolutely no hand in this matter. We have been caught napping, without a doubt. I've never heard mention of this... what you call the Zalachenko club. The minister here has never heard a word about this matter either. Torsten Edklinth, an official high up in S. I. S. who has worked in Säpo for many years, has never heard of it."
"It's still not my problem."
"I appreciate that. What I'd like to know is when you mean to publish your article, and exactly what it is you intend to publish. And this has nothing to do with damage control."
"Does it not?"
"Herr Blomkvist, the worst possible thing I could do in this situation would be to try to influence the shape or content of your story. Instead, I am going to propose a co-operation."
"Please explain."
"Since we have now had confirmation that a conspiracy exists within an exceptionally sensitive part of the administration, I have ordered an investigation. " The P. M. turned to the Minister of Justice. "Please explain what the government has directed."
"It's very simple," said the Minister of Justice. "Torsten Edklinth has been given the task of finding out whether we can confirm this. He is to gather information that can be turned over to the Prosecutor General, who in turn must decide whether charges should be brought. It is a very clear instruction. And this evening Edklinth has been reporting on how the investigation is proceeding. We've had a long discussion about the constitutional implications - obviously we want it to be handled properly."
"Naturally," Blomkvist said in a tone that indicated he had scant trust in the Prime Minister's assurances.
"The investigation has already reached a sensitive stage. We have not yet identified exactly who is involved. That will take time. And that's why we sent Inspector Figuerola to invite you to this meeting."
"It wasn't exactly an invitation."
The Prime Minister frowned and glanced at Figuerola.
"It's not important," Blomkvist said. "Her behaviour was exemplary. Please come to the point."
"We want to know your publication date. This investigation is being conducted in great secrecy. If you publish before Edklinth has completed it, it could be ruined."
"And when would you like me to publish? After the next election, I suppose?"
"You decide that for yourself. It's not something I can influence. Just tell us, so that we know exactly what our deadline is."
"I see. You spoke about co-operation..."
The P. M. said: "Yes, but first let me say that under normal circumstances I would not have dreamed of asking a journalist to come to such a meeting."
"Presumably in normal circumstances you would be doing everything you could to keep journalists away from a meeting like this."
"Quite so. But I've understood that you're driven by several factors. You have a reputation for not pulling your punches when there's corruption involved. In this case there are no differences of opinion to divide us."
"Aren't there?"
"No, not in the least. Or rather... the differences that exist might be of a legal nature, but we share an objective. If this Zalachenko club exists, it is not merely a criminal conspiracy - it is a threat to national security. These activities must be stopped, and those responsible must be held accountable. On that point we would be in agreement, correct?"
Blomkvist nodded.
"I've understood that you know more about this story than anyone else. We suggest that you share your knowledge. If this were a regular police investigation of an ordinary crime, the leader of the preliminary investigation could decide to summon you for an interview. But, as you can appreciate, this is an extreme state of affairs."
Blomkvist weighed the situation for a moment.
"And what do I get in return - if I do co-operate?"
"Nothing. I'm not going to haggle with you. If you want to publish tomorrow morning, then do so. I won't get involved in any horse-trading that might be constitutionally dubious. I'm asking you to cooperate in the interests of the country."
"In this case 'nothing' could be quite a lot," Blomkvist said. "For one thing... I'm very, very angry. I'm furious at the state and the government and Säpo and all these fucking bastards who for no reason at all locked up a twelve-year-old girl in a mental hospital until she could be declared incompetent."
"Lisbeth Salander has become a government matter," the P. M. said, and smiled. "Mikael, I am personally very upset over what happened to her. Please believe me when I say that those responsible will be called to account. But before we can do that, we have to know who they are."
"My priority is that Salander should be acquitted and declared competent."
"I can't help you with that. I'm not above the law, and I can't direct what prosecutors and the courts decide. She has to be acquitted by a court."
"O.K.," Blomkvist said. "You want my co-operation. Then give me some insight into Edklinth's investigation, and I'll tell you when and what I plan to publish."
"I can't give you that insight. That would be placing myself in the same relation to you as the Minister of Justice's predecessor once stood to the journalist Ebbe Carlsson."*
"I'm not Ebbe Carlsson," Blomkvist said calmly.
"I know that. On the other hand, Edklinth can decide for himself what he can share with you within the framework of his assignment."
"Hmm," Blomkvist said. "I want to know who Evert Gullberg was."
Silence fell over the group.
"Gullberg was presumably for many years the chief of that division within S. I. S. which you call the Zalachenko club," Edklinth said.
The Prime Minister gave him a sharp look.
"I think he knows that already," Edklinth said by way of apology.
"That's correct," Blomkvist said. "He started at Säpo in the '50s. In the '60s he became chief of some outfit called the Section for Special Analysis. He was the one in charge of the Zalachenko affair."
The P. M. shook his head. "You know more than you ought to. I would very much like to discover how you came by all this information. But I'm not going to ask."
"There are holes in my story," Blomkvist said. "I need to fill them. Give me information and I won't try to compromise you."
"As Prime Minister I'm not in a position to deliver any such information. And Edklinth is on a very thin ice if he does so."
"Don't pull the wool over my eyes. I know what you want and you know what I want. If you give me information, then you'll be my sources - with all the enduring anonymity that implies. Don't misunderstand me... I'll tell the truth as I see it in what I publish. If you are involved, I will expose you and do everything I can to ensure that you are never re-elected. But as yet I have no reason to believe that is the case."
The Prime Minister glanced at Edklinth. After a moment he nodded. Blomkvist took it as a sign that the Prime Minister had just broken the law - if only of the more academic specie - by giving his consent to the sharing of classified information with a journalist.
"This can all be solved quite simply," Edklinth said. "I have my own investigative team and I decide for myself which colleagues to recruit for the investigation. You can't be employed by the
investigation because that would mean you would be obliged to sign an oath of confidentiality. But I can hire you as an external consultant."
Berger's life had been filled with meetings and work around the clock the minute she had stepped into Morander's shoes.
It was not until Wednesday night, almost two weeks after Blomkvist had given her Cortez's research papers on Borgsjö, that she had time to address the issue. As she opened the folder she realized that her procrastination had also to do with the fact that she did not really want to face up to the problem. She already knew that however she dealt with it, calamity would be inevitable.
She arrived home in Saltsjöbaden at 7.00, unusually early, and it was only when she had to turn off the alarm in the hall that she remembered her husband was not at home. She had given him an especially long kiss that morning because he was flying to Paris to deliver some lectures and would not be back until the weekend. She had no idea where he was giving the lectures, or what they were about.
She went upstairs, ran the bath, and undressed. She took Cortez's folder with her and spent the next half hour reading through the whole story. She could not help but smile. The boy was going to be a formidable reporter. He was twenty-six years old and had been at Millennium for four years, right out of journalism school. She felt a certain pride. The story had Millennium's stamp on it from beginning to end, every t was crossed, every i dotted.
But she also felt tremendously depressed. Borgsjö was a good man, and she liked him. He was soft-spoken, sharp-witted and charming, and he seemed unconcerned with prestige. Besides, he was her employer. How in God's name could he have been so bloody stupid?
She wondered whether there might be an alternative explanation or some mitigating circumstances, but she already knew it would be impossible to explain this away.
She put the folder on the windowsill and stretched out in the bath to ponder the situation.
Millennium was going to publish the story, no question. If she had still been there, she would not have hesitated. That Millennium had leaked the story to her in advance was nothing but a courtesy - they wanted to reduce the damage to her personally. If the situation had been reversed - if S. M. P. had made some damaging discovery about Millennium's chairman of the board (who happened to be herself) - they would not have hesitated either.
Publication would be a serious blow to Borgsjö. The damaging thing was not that his company, Vitavara Inc., had imported goods from a company on the United Nations blacklist of companies using child labour - and in this case slave labour too, in the form of convicts, and undoubtedly some of these convicts were political prisoners. The really damaging thing was that Borgsjö knew about all this and still went on ordering toilets from Fong Soo Industries. It was a mark of the sort of greed that did not go down well with the Swedish people in the wake of the revelations about other criminal capitalists such as Skandia's former president.
Borgsjö would naturally claim that he did not know about the conditions at Fong Soo, but Cortez had solid evidence. If Borgsjö took that tack he would be exposed as a liar. In June 1997
Borgsjö had gone to Vietnam to sign the first contracts. He had spent ten days there on that occasion and been round the company's factories. If he claimed not to have known that many of the workers there were only twelve or thirteen years old, he would look like an idiot.
Cortez had demonstrated that in 1999, the U.N. commission on child labour had added Fong Soo Industries to its list of companies that exploit child labour, and that this had then been the subject of magazine articles. Two organizations against child labour, one of them the globally recognized International Joint Effort Against Child Labour in London, had written letters to companies that had placed orders with Fong Soo. Seven letters had been sent to Vitavara Inc., and two of those were addressed to Borgsjö personally. The organization in London had been very willing to supply the evidence. And Vitavara Inc. had not replied to any of the letters.
Worse still, Borgsjö went to Vietnam twice more, in 2001 and 2004, to renew the contracts. This was the coup de grâce. It would be impossible for Borgsjö to claim ignorance.
The inevitable media storm could lead only to one thing. If Borgsjö was smart, he would apologize and resign from his positions on various boards. If he decided to fight, he would be steadily annihilated.
Berger did not care if Borgsjö was or was not chairman of the board of Vitavara Inc. What mattered to her was that he was the board chairman of S. M. P. At a time when the newspaper was on the edge and a campaign of rejuvenation was under way, S. M. P. could not afford to keep him as chairman.
Berger's decision was made.
She would go to Borgsjö, show him the document, and thereby hope to persuade him to resign before the story was published.
If he dug in his heels, she would call an emergency board meeting, explain the situation, and force the board to dismiss Borgsjö. And if they did not, she would have to resign, effective immediately.
She had been thinking for so long that the bathwater was now cold. She showered and towelled herself and went to the bedroom to put on a dressing gown. Then she picked up her mobile and called Blomkvist. No answer. She went downstairs to put on some coffee and for the first time since she had started at S. M. P., she looked to see whether there was a film on T. V. that she could watch to relax.
As she walked into the living room, she felt a sharp pain in her foot. She looked down and saw blood. She took another step and pain shot through her entire foot, and she had to hop over to an antique chair to sit down. She lifted her foot and saw to her dismay that a shard of glass had pierced her heel. At first she felt faint. Then she steeled herself and took hold of the shard and pulled it out. The pain was appalling, and blood gushed from the wound.
She pulled open a drawer in the hall where she kept scarves, gloves and hats. She found a scarf and wrapped it around her foot and tied it tight. That was not going to be enough, so she reinforced it with another improvised bandage. The bleeding had apparently subsided.
She looked at the bloodied piece of glass in amazement. How did this get here? Then she discovered more glass on the hall floor. Jesus Christ... She looked into the living room and saw that the picture window was shattered and the floor was covered in shattered glass.
She went back to the front door and put on the outdoor shoes she had kicked off as she came home. That is, she put on one shoe and stuck the toes of her injured foot into the other, and hopped into the living room to take stock of the damage.
Then she found the brick in the middle of the living-room floor.
She limped over to the balcony door and went out to the garden. Someone had sprayed in metre-high letters on the back wall: WHORE It was just after 9.00 in the evening when Figuerola held the car door open for Blomkvist. She went around the car and got into the driver's seat.
"Should I drive you home or do you want to be dropped off somewhere?"
Blomkvist stared straight ahead. "I haven't got my bearings yet, to be honest. I've never had a confrontation with a prime minister before."
Figuerola laughed. "You played your cards very well," she said. "I would never have guessed you were such a good poker player."
"I meant every word."
"Of course, but what I meant was that you pretended to know a lot more than you actually do. I realized that when I worked out how you identified me."
Blomkvist turned and looked at her profile.
"You wrote down my car registration when I was parked on the hill outside your building. You made it sound as if you knew what was being discussed at the Prime Minister's secretariat."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Blomkvist said.
She gave him a quick look and turned on to Grev Turegatan. "The rules of the game. I shouldn't have picked that spot, but there wasn't anywhere else to park. You keep a sharp eye on your surroundings, don't you?"
"You were sitting with a map spread out on the front seat, talking on the telephone. I took down your registration and ran a routine check. I check out every car that catches my attention. I usually draw a blank. In your case I discovered that you worked for Säpo."
"I was following Mårtensson."
"Aha. So simple."
"Then I discovered that you were tailing him using Susanne Linder at Milton Security."
"Armansky's detailed her to keep an eye on what goes on around my apartment."
"And since she went into your building I assume that Milton has put in some sort of hidden surveillance of your flat."
"That's right. We have an excellent film of how they break in and go through my papers. Mårtensson carries a portable photocopier with him. Have you identified Mårtensson's sidekick?"
"He's unimportant. A locksmith with a criminal record who's probably being paid to open your door."
"Name?"
"Protected source?"
"Naturally."
"Lars Faulsson. Forty-seven. Alias Falun. Convicted of safe-cracking in the '80s and some other minor stuff. Has a shop at Norrtull."
"Thanks."
"But let's save the secrets till we meet again tomorrow."
The meeting had ended with an agreement that Blomkvist would come to Constitutional Protection the next day to set in train an exchange of information. Blomkvist was thinking. They were just passing Sergels Torg in the city centre.
"You know what? I'm incredibly hungry. I had a late lunch and was going to make a pasta when I got home, but I was waylaid by you. Have you eaten?"
"A while ago."
"Take us to a restaurant where we can get some decent food."
"All food is decent."
He looked at her. "I thought you were a health-food fanatic."
"No, I'm a workout fanatic. If you work out you can eat whatever you want. Within reason."
She braked at the Klaraberg viaduct and considered the options. Instead of turning down towards Södermalm she kept going straight to Kungsholmen.
"I don't know what the restaurants are like in Söder, but I know an excellent Bosnian place at Fridhemsplan. Their burek is fantastic."
"Sounds good," Blomkvist said.
Salander tapped her way, letter by letter, through her report. She had worked an average of five hours each day. She was careful to express herself precisely. She left out all the details that could be used against her.
That she was locked up had turned out to be a blessing. She always had plenty of warning to put away her Palm when she heard the rattling of a key ring or a key being put in the lock.
I was about to lock up Bjurman's cabin outside Stallarholmen when Carl-Magnus Lundin and Sonny Nieminen arrived on motorbikes. Since they had been searching for me in vain for a while on behalf of Zalachenko and Niedermann, they were surprised to see me there. Magge Lundin got off his motorbike and declared, quote, I think the dyke needs some cock, unquote. Both he and Nieminen acted so threateningly that I had no choice but to resort to my right of self-defence. I left the scene on Lundin's motorbike which I then abandoned at the shopping centre in Älvsjö.
There was no reason to volunteer the information that Lundin had called her a whore or that she had bent down and picked up Nieminen's P-83 Wanad and punished Lundin by shooting him in the foot. The police could probably work that out for themselves, but it was up to them to prove it. She did not mean to make their job any easier by confessing to something that would lead to a prison sentence.
The text had grown to thirty-three pages and she was nearing the end. In some sections she was particularly reticent about details and went to a lot of trouble not to supply any evidence that could back up in any way the many claims she was making. She went so far as to obscure some obvious evidence and instead moved on to the next link in the chain of events.
She scrolled back and read through the text of a section where she told how Advokat Bjurman had violently and sadistically raped her. That was the part she had spent the most time on, and one of the few she had rewritten several times before she was satisfied. The section took up nineteen lines in her account. She reported in a matter-of-fact manner how he had hit her, thrown her on to her stomach on the bed, taped her mouth and handcuffed her. She then related how he had repeatedly committed acts of sexual violence against her, including anal penetration. She went on to report how at one point during the rape he had wound a piece of clothing - her own T-shirt - around her neck and strangled her for such a long time that she temporarily lost consciousness. Then there were several lines of text where she identified the implements he had used during the rape, which included a short whip, an anal plug, a rough dildo, and clamps which he attached to her nipples.
She frowned and studied the text. At last she raised the stylus and tapped out a few more lines of text.
On one occasion when I still had my mouth taped shut, Bjurman commented on the fact that I had several tattoos and piercings, including a ring in my left nipple. He asked if I liked being pierced and then left the room. He came back with a needle which he pushed through my right nipple.
The matter-of-fact tone gave the text such a surreal touch that it sounded like an absurd fantasy.
The story simply did not sound credible.
That was her intention.
At that moment she heard the rattle of the guard's key ring. She turned off the Palm at once and put it in the recess in the back of the bedside table. It was Giannini. She frowned. It was 9.00 in the evening and Giannini did not usually appear this late.
"Hello, Lisbeth."
"Hello."
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm not finished yet."
Giannini sighed. "Lisbeth, they've set the trial date for July 13."
"That's O.K."
"No, it's not O.K. Time is running out, and you're not telling me anything. I'm beginning to think that I made a colossal mistake taking on the job. If we're going to have the slightest chance, you have to trust me. We have to work together."
Salander studied her for a long moment. Finally she leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling.
"I know what we're supposed to be doing. I understand Mikael's plan. And he's right."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"But I am."
"The police want to interrogate you again. A detective named Hans Faste from Stockholm."
"Let him interrogate me. I won't say a word."
"You have to hand in a statement."
Salander gave Giannini a sharp look. "I repeat: we won't say a word to the police. When we get to that courtroom the prosecutor won't have a single syllable from any interrogation to fall back on. All they'll have is the statement that I'm composing now, and large parts of it will seem preposterous. And they're going to get it a few days before the trial."
"So when are you actually going to sit down with a pen and paper and write this statement?"
"You'll have it in a few days. But it can't go to the prosecutor until just before the trial."
Giannini looked sceptical. Salander suddenly gave her a cautious smile. "You talk about trust. Can I trust you?"
"Of course you can."
"O.K., could you smuggle me in a hand-held computer so that I can keep in touch with people online?"
"No, of course not. If it were discovered I'd be charged with a crime and lose my licence to practise."
"But if someone else got one in... would you report it to the police?"
Giannini raised her eyebrows. "If I didn't know about it..."
"But if you did know about it, what would you do?"
"I'd shut my eyes. How about that?"
"This hypothetical computer is soon going to send you a hypothetical email. When you've read it I want you to come again."
"Lisbeth-"
"Wait. It's like this. The prosecutor is dealing with a marked deck. I'm at a disadvantage no matter what I do, and the purpose of the trial is to get me committed to a secure psychiatric ward."
"I know."
"If I'm going to survive, I have to fight dirty."
Finally Giannini nodded.
"When you came to see me the first time," Salander said, "you had a message from Blomkvist. He said that he'd told you almost everything, with a few exceptions. One of those exceptions had to do with the skills he discovered I had when we were in Hedestad."
"That's correct."
"He was referring to the fact that I'm extremely good with computers. So good that I can read and copy what's on Ekström's machine."
Giannini went pale.
"You can't be involved in this. And you can't use any of that material at the trial," Salander said.
"Hardly. You're right about that."
"So you know nothing about it."
"O.K."
"But someone else - your brother, let's say - could publish selected excerpts from it. You'll have to think about this possibility when you plan your strategy."
"I understand."
"Annika, this trial is going to turn on who uses the toughest methods."
"I know."
"I'm happy to have you as my lawyer. I trust you and I need your help."
"Hmm."
"But if you get difficult about the fact that I'm going to use unethical methods, then we'll lose the trial."
"Right."
"And if that were the case, I need to know now. I'd have to get myself a new lawyer."
"Lisbeth, I can't break the law."
"You don't have to break any law. But you do have to shut your eyes to the fact that I am. Can you manage that?"
Salander waited patiently for almost a minute before Annika nodded.
"Good. Let me tell you the main points that I'm going to put in my statement."
Figuerola had been right. The burek was fantastic. Blomkvist studied her carefully as she came back from the ladies'. She moved as gracefully as a ballerina, but she had a body like... hmm. Blomkvist could not help being fascinated. He repressed an impulse to reach out and feel her leg muscles.
"How long have you been working out?" he said.
"Since I was a teenager."
"And how many hours a week do you do it?"
"Two hours a day. Sometimes three."
"Why? I mean, I understand why people work out, but..."
"You think it's excessive."
"I'm not sure exactly what I think."
She smiled and did not seem at all irritated by his questions.
"Maybe you're just bothered by seeing a girl with muscles. Do you think it's a turn-off, or unfeminine?"
"No, not at all. It suits you somehow. You're very sexy."
She laughed.
"I'm cutting back on the training now. Ten years ago I was doing rock-hard bodybuilding. It was cool. But now I have to be careful that the muscles don't turn to fat. I don't want to get flabby. So I lift weights once a week and spend the rest of the time doing some cross-training, or running, playing badminton, or swimming, that sort of thing. It's exercise more than hard training."
"I see."
"The reason I work out is that it feels great. That's a normal phenomenon among people who do extreme training. The body produces a pain-suppressing chemical and you become addicted to it. If you don't run every day, you get withdrawal symptoms after a while. You feel an enormous sense of wellbeing when you give something your all. It's almost as powerful as good sex."
Blomkvist laughed.
"You should start working out yourself," she said. "You're getting a little thick in the waist."
"I know," he said. "A constant guilty conscience. Sometimes I start running regularly and lose a couple of kilos. Then I get involved in something and don't get time to do it again for a month or two."
"You've been pretty busy these last few months. I've been reading a lot about you. You beat the police by several lengths when you tracked down Zalachenko and identified Niedermann."
"Lisbeth Salander was faster."
"How did you find out Niedermann was in Gosseberga?"
Blomkvist shrugged. "Routine research. I wasn't the one who found him. It was our assistant editor, well, now our editor-in-chief Malin Eriksson who managed to dig him up through the corporate records. He was on the board of Zalachenko's company, K. A. B Import."
"That simple..."
"And why did you become a Säpo activist?" he said.
"Believe it or not, I'm something as old-fashioned as a democrat. I mean, the police are necessary, and a democracy needs a political safeguard. That's why I'm proud to be working at Constitutional Protection."
"Is it really something to be proud of?" said Blomkvist.
"You don't like the Security Police."
"I don't like institutions that are beyond normal parliamentary scrutiny. It's an invitation to abuse of power, no matter how noble the intentions. Why are you so interested in the religion of antiquity?"
Figuerola looked at Blomkvist.
"You were reading a book about it on my staircase," he said.
"The subject fascinates me."
"I see."
"I'm interested in a lot of things. I've studied law and political science while I've worked for the police. Before that I studied both philosophy and the history of ideas."
"Do you have any weaknesses?"
"I don't read fiction, I never go to the cinema, and I watch only the news on T. V. How about you? Why did you become a journalist?"
"Because there are institutions like Säpo that lack parliamentary oversight and which have to be exposed from time to time. I don't really know. I suppose my answer to that is the same one you gave me: I believe in a constitutional democracy and sometimes it has to be protected."
"The way you did with Hans-Erik Wennerström?"
"Something like that."
"You're not married. Are you and Erika Berger together?"
"Erika Berger's married."
"So all the rumours about you two are nonsense. Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No-one steady."
"So the rumours might be true after all."
Blomkvist smiled.
Eriksson worked at her kitchen table at home in Årsta until the small hours. She sat bent over spreadsheets of Millennium's budget and was so engrossed that Anton, her boyfriend, eventually gave up trying to have a conversation with her. He washed the dishes, made a late snack, and put on some coffee. Then he left her in peace and sat down to watch a repeat of C. S. I.
Malin had never before had to cope with anything more complex than a household budget, but she had worked alongside Berger balancing the monthly books, and she understood the principles. Now she was suddenly editor-in-chief, and with that role came responsibility for the budget. Sometime after midnight she decided that, whatever happened, she was going to have to get an accountant to help her. Ingela Oscarsson, who did the bookkeeping one day a week, had no responsibility for the budget and was not at all helpful when it came to making decisions about how much a freelancer should be paid or whether they could afford to buy a new laser printer that was not already included in the sum earmarked for capital investments or I.T. upgrades. In practice it was a ridiculous situation - Millennium was making a profit, but that was because Berger had always managed to balance an extremely tight budget. Instead of investing in something as fundamental as a new colour laser printer for 45,000 kronor, they would have to settle for a black-and-white printer for 8,000 instead.
For a moment she envied Berger. At S. M. P. she had a budget in which such a cost would be considered pin money.
Millennium's financial situation had been healthy at the last annual general meeting, but the surplus in the budget was primarily made up of the profits from Blomkvist's book about the Wennerström affair. The revenue that had been set aside for investment was shrinking alarmingly fast. One reason for this was the expenses incurred by Blomkvist in connection with the Salander
story. Millennium did not have the resources to keep any employee on an open-ended budget with all sorts of expenses in the form of rental cars, hotel rooms, taxis, purchase of research material, new mobile telephones and the like.
Eriksson signed an invoice from Daniel Olsson in Göteborg. She sighed. Blomkvist had approved a sum of 14,000 kronor for a week's research on a story that was not now going to be published. Payment to an Idris Ghidi went into the budget under fees to sources who could not be named, which meant that the accountant would remonstrate about the lack of an invoice or receipt and insist that the matter have the board's approval. Millennium had paid a fee to Advokat Giannini which was supposed to come out of the general fund, but she had also invoiced Millennium for train tickets and other costs.
She put down her pen and looked at the totals. Blomkvist had blown 150,000 kronor on the Salander story, way beyond their budget. Things could not go on this way.
She was going to have to have a talk with him.
Berger spent the evening not on her sofa watching T. V., but in A. & E. at Nacka hospital. The shard of glass had penetrated so deeply that the bleeding would not stop. It turned out that one piece had broken off and was still in her heel, and would have to be removed. She was given a local anaesthetic and afterwards the wound was sewn up with three stitches.
Berger cursed the whole time she was at the hospital, and she kept trying to call her husband or Blomkvist. Neither chose to answer the telephone. By 10.00 she had her foot wrapped in a thick bandage. She was given crutches and took a taxi home.
She spent a while limping around the living room, sweeping up the floor. She called Emergency Glass to order a new window. She was in luck. It had been a quiet evening and they arrived within twenty minutes. But the living-room window was so big that they did not have the glass in stock. The glazier offered to board up the window with plywood for the time being, and she accepted gratefully.
As the plywood was being put up, she called the duty officer at Nacka Integrated Protection, and asked why the hell their expensive burglar alarm had not gone off when someone threw a brick through her biggest window.
Someone from N. I. P. came out to look at the damage. It turned out that whoever had installed the alarm several years before had neglected to connect the leads from the windows in the living room.
Berger was furious.
The man from N. I. P. said they would fix it first thing in the morning. Berger told him not to bother. Instead she called the duty officer at Milton Security and explained her situation. She said that she wanted to have a complete alarm package installed the next morning. I know I have to sign a contract, but tell Armansky that Erika Berger called and make damn sure someone comes round in the morning.
Then, finally, she called the police. She was told that there was no car available to come and take her statement. She was advised to contact her local station in the morning. Thank you. Fuck off.
Then she sat and fumed for a long time until her adrenaline level dropped and it began to sink in that she was going to have to sleep alone in a house without an alarm while somebody was running around the neighbourhood calling her a whore and smashing her windows.
She wondered whether she ought to go into the city to spend the night at a hotel, but Berger was not the kind of person who liked to be threatened. And she liked giving in to threats even less.
But she did take some elementary safety precautions.
Blomkvist had told her once how Salander had put paid to the serial killer Martin Vanger with a golf club. So she went to the garage and spent several minutes looking for her golf bag, which she had hardly even thought about for fifteen years. She chose an iron that she thought had a certain heft to it and laid it within easy reach of her bed. She left a putter in the hall and an 8-iron in the kitchen. She took a hammer from the tool box in the basement and put that in the master bathroom too.
She put the canister of Mace from her shoulder bag on her bedside table. Finally she found a rubber doorstop and wedged it under the bedroom door. And then she almost hoped that the moron who had called her a whore and destroyed her window would be stupid enough to come back that night.
By the time she felt sufficiently entrenched it was 1.00. She had to be at S.M.P. at 8.00. She checked her diary and saw that she had four meetings, the first at 10.00. Her foot was aching badly. She undressed and crept into bed.
Then, inevitably, she lay awake and worried.
Whore.
She had received nine emails, all of which had contained the word "whore," and they all seemed to come from sources in the media. The first had come from her own newsroom, but the source was a fake.
She got out of bed and took out the new Dell laptop that she had been given when she had started at S. M. P.
The first email - which was also the most crude and intimidating with its suggestion that she would be fucked with a screwdriver - had come on May 16, a couple of weeks ago.
Email number two had arrived two days later, on May 18.
Then a week went by before the emails started coming again, now at intervals of about twenty-four hours. Then the attack on her home. Again, whore.
During that time Carlsson on the culture pages had received an ugly email purportedly sent by Berger. And if Carlsson had received an email like that, it was entirely possible that the emailer
had been busy elsewhere too - that other people had got mail apparently from her that she did not know about.
It was an unpleasant thought.
The most disturbing was the attack on her house.
Someone had taken the trouble to find out where she lived, drive out here, and throw a brick through the window. It was obviously premeditated - the attacker had brought his can of spray paint. The next moment she froze when she realized that she could add another attack to the list. All four of her tyres had been slashed when she spent the night with Blomkvist at the Slussen Hilton.
The conclusion was just as unpleasant as it was obvious. She was being stalked.
Someone, for some unknown reason, had decided to harass her.
The fact that her home had been subject to an attack was understandable - it was where it was and impossible to disguise. But if her car had been damaged on some random street in Södermalm, her stalker must have been somewhere nearby when she parked it. They must have been following her.
CHAPTER 18
Thursday, 2. vi
Berger's mobile was ringing. It was 9.05.
"Good morning, Fru Berger. Dragan Armansky. I understand you called last night."
Berger explained what had happened and asked whether Milton Security could take over the contract from Nacka Integrated Protection.
"We can certainly install an alarm that will work," Armansky said. "The problem is that the closest car we have at night is in Nacka centre. Response time would be about thirty minutes. If we took the job I'd have to subcontract out your house. We have an agreement with a local security company, Adam Security in Fisksätra, which has a response time of ten minutes if all goes as it should."
"That would be an improvement on N. I. P., which doesn't bother to turn up at all."
"It's a family-owned business, a father, two sons, and a couple of cousins. Greeks, good people. I've known the father for many years. They handle coverage about 320 days a year. They tell us in advance the days they aren't available because of holidays or something else, and then our car in Nacka takes over."
"That works for me."
"I'll be sending a man out this morning. His name is David Rosin, and in fact he's already on his way. He's going to do a security assessment. He needs your keys if you're not going to be home, and he needs your authorization to do a thorough examination of your house, from top to bottom. He's going to take pictures of the entire property and the immediate surroundings."
"Alright."
"Rosin has a lot of experience, and we'll make you a proposal. We'll have a complete security plan ready in a few days which will include a personal attack alarm, fire security, evacuation and break-in protection."
"O.K."
"If anything should happen, we also want you to know what to do in the ten minutes before the car arrives from Fisksätra."
"Sounds good."
"We'll install the alarm this afternoon. Then we'll have to sign a contract."
Only after she had finished her conversation with Armansky did Berger realize that she had overslept. She picked up her mobile to call Fredriksson and explained that she had hurt herself. He would have to cancel the 10.00.
"What's happened?" he said.
"I cut my foot," Berger said. "I'll hobble in as soon as I've pulled myself together."
She used the toilet in the master bathroom and then pulled on some black trousers and borrowed one of Greger's slippers for her injured foot. She chose a black blouse and put on a jacket. Before she removed the doorstop from the bedroom door, she armed herself with the canister of Mace.
She made her way cautiously through the house and switched on the coffeemaker. She had her breakfast at the kitchen table, listening out for sounds in the vicinity. She had just poured a second cup of coffee when there was a firm knock on the front door. It was David Rosin from Milton Security.
Figuerola walked to Bergsgatan and summoned her four colleagues for an early morning conference.
"We've got a deadline now," she said. "Our work has to be done by July 13, the day the Salander trial begins. We have just under six weeks. Let's agree on what's most important right now. Who wants to go first?"
Berglund cleared his throat. "The blond man with Mårtensson. Who is he?"
"We have photographs, but no idea how to find him. We can't put out an A. P. B."
"What about Gullberg, then? There must be a story to track down there. We have him in the Secret State Police from the early '50s to 1964, when S.I.S. was founded. Then he vanishes."
Figuerola nodded.
"Should we conclude that the Zalachenko club was an association formed in 1964? That would be some time before Zalachenko even came to Sweden."
"There must have been some other purpose... a secret organization within the organization."
"That was after Stig Wennerström. Everyone was paranoid."
"A sort of secret spy police?"
"There are in fact parallels overseas. In the States a special group of internal spy chasers was created within the C.I.A. in the '60s. It was led by a James Jesus Angleton, and it very nearly sabotaged the entire C.I.A. Angleton's gang were as fanatical as they were paranoid - they suspected everyone in the C.I.A. of being a Russian agent. As a result the agency's effectiveness in large areas was paralysed."
"But that's all speculation..."
"Where are the old personnel files kept?"
"Gullberg isn't in them. I've checked."
"But what about a budget? An operation like this has to be financed."
The discussion went on until lunchtime, when Figuerola excused herself and went to the gym for some peace, to think things over.
Berger did not arrive in the newsroom until lunchtime. Her foot was hurting so badly that she could not put any weight on it. She hobbled over to her glass cage and sank into her chair with relief. Fredriksson looked up from his desk and she waved him in.
"What happened?" he said.
"I trod on a piece of glass and a shard lodged in my heel."
"That... wasn't so good."
"No. It wasn't good. Peter, has anyone received any more weird emails?"
"Not that I've heard."
"O.K. Keep your ears open. I want to know if anything odd happens around S. M. P."
"What sort of odd?"
"I'm afraid some idiot is sending really vile emails and he seems to have targeted me. So I want to know if you hear of anything going on."
"The type of email Eva Carlsson got?"
"Right, but anything strange at all. I've had a whole string of crazy emails accusing me of being all kinds of things - and suggesting various perverse things that ought to be done to me."
Fredriksson's expression darkened. "How long has this been going on?"
"A couple of weeks. Keep your eyes peeled... So tell me, what's going to be in the paper tomorrow?"
"Well..."
"Well, what?"
"Holm and the head of the legal section are on the warpath."
"Why is that?"
"Because of Frisk. You extended his contract and gave him a feature assignment. And he won't tell anybody what it's about."
"He is forbidden to talk about it. My orders."
"That's what he says. Which means that Holm and the legal editor are up in arms."
"I can see that they might be. Set up a meeting with legal at 3.00. I'll explain the situation."
"Holm is not best pleased-"
"I'm not best pleased with Holm, so we're all square."
"He's so upset that he's complained to the board."
Berger looked up. Damn it. I'm going to have to face up to the Borgsjö problem.
"Borgsjö is coming in this afternoon and wants a meeting with you. I suspect it's Holm's doing."
"O.K. What time?"
"2.00," said Fredriksson, and he went back to his desk to write the midday memo.
Jonasson visited Salander during her lunch. She pushed away a plate of the health authority's vegetable stew. As always, he did a brief examination of her, but she noticed that he was no longer putting much effort into it.
"You've recovered nicely," he said.
"Hmm. You'll have to do something about the food at this place."
"What about it?"
"Couldn't you get me a pizza?"
"Sorry. Way beyond the budget."
"I was afraid of that."
"Lisbeth, we're going to have a discussion about the state of your health tomorrow-"
"Understood. And I've recovered nicely."
"You're now well enough to be moved to Kronoberg prison. I might be able to postpone the move for another week, but my colleagues are going to start wondering."
"You don't need to do that."
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. "I'm ready. And it had to happen sooner or later."
"I'll give the go-ahead tomorrow, then," Jonasson said. "You'll probably be transferred pretty soon."
She nodded.
"It might be as early as this weekend. The hospital administration doesn't want you here."
"Who could blame them."
"Er... that device of yours-"
"I'll leave it in the recess behind the table here." She pointed.
"Good idea."
They sat in silence for a moment before Jonasson stood up.
"I have to check on my other patients."
"Thanks for everything. I owe you one."
"Just doing my job."
"No. You've done a great deal more. I won't forget it."
Blomkvist entered police headquarters on Kungsholmen through the entrance on Polhemsgatan. Figuerola accompanied him up to the offices of the Constitutional Protection Unit. They exchanged only silent glances in the lift.
"Do you think it's such a good idea for me to be hanging around at police H. Q.?" Blomkvist said. "Someone might see us together and start to wonder."
"This will be our only meeting here. From now on we'll meet in an office we've rented at Fridhemsplan. We get access tomorrow. But this will be O.K. Constitutional Protection is a small and more or less self-sufficient unit, and nobody else at S. I. S. cares about it. And we're on a different floor from the rest of Säpo."
He greeted Edklinth without shaking hands and said hello to two colleagues who were apparently part of his team. They introduced themselves only as Stefan and Anders. He smiled to himself.
"Where do we start?" he said.
"We could start by having some coffee... Monica?" Edklinth said.
"Thanks, that would be nice," Figuerola said.
Edklinth had probably meant for her to serve the coffee. Blomkvist noticed that the chief of the Constitutional Protection Unit hesitated for only a second before he got up and brought the thermos over to the conference table, where place settings were already laid out. Blomkvist saw that Edklinth was also smiling to himself, which he took to be a good sign. Then Edklinth turned serious.
"I honestly don't know how I should be managing this. It must be the first time a journalist has sat in on a meeting of the Security Police. The issues we'll be discussing now are in very many respects confidential and highly classified."
"I'm not interested in military secrets. I'm only interested in the Zalachenko club."
"But we have to strike a balance. First of all, the names of today's participants must not be mentioned in your articles."
"Agreed."
Edklinth gave Blomkvist a look of surprise.
"Second, you may not speak with anyone but myself and Monica Figuerola. We're the ones who will decide what we can tell you."
"If you have a long list of requirements, you should have mentioned them yesterday."
"Yesterday I hadn't yet thought through the matter."
"Then I have something to tell you too. This is probably the first and only time in my professional career that I will reveal the contents of an unpublished story to a police officer. So, to quote you... I honestly don't know how I should be managing this."
A brief silence settled over the table.
"Maybe we-"
"What if we-"
Edklinth and Figuerola had started talking at the same time before falling silent.
"My target is the Zalachenko club," Blomkvist said. "You want to bring charges against the Zalachenko club. Let's stick to that."
Edklinth nodded.
"So, what have you got?" Blomkvist said.
Edklinth explained what Figuerola and her team had unearthed. He showed Blomkvist the photograph of Evert Gullberg with Colonel Wennerström.
"Good. I'll have a copy of that."
"It's in Åhlen's archive," Figuerola said.
"It's on the table in front of me. With text on the back," Blomkvist said.
"Give him a copy," Edklinth said.
"That means that Zalachenko was murdered by the Section."
"Murder, coupled with the suicide of a man who was dying of cancer. Gullberg's still alive, but the doctors don't give him more than a few weeks. After his suicide attempt he sustained such severe brain damage that he is to all intents and purposes a vegetable."
"And he was the person with primary responsibility for Zalachenko when he defected."
"How do you know that?"
"Gullberg met Prime Minister Fälldin six weeks after Zalachenko's defection."
"Can you prove that?"
"I can. The visitors' log of the government Secretariat. Gullberg arrived together with the then chief of S. I. S."
"And the chief has since died."
"But Fälldin is alive and willing to talk about the matter."
"Have you-"
"No, I haven't. But someone else has. I can't give you the name. Source protection."
Blomkvist explained how Fälldin had reacted to the information about Zalachenko and how he had travelled to the Hague to interview Janeryd.
"So the Zalachenko club is somewhere in this building," Blomkvist said, pointing at the photograph.
"Partly. We think it's an organization inside the organization. What you call the Zalachenko club cannot exist without the support of key people in this building. But we think that the so-called Section for Special Analysis set up shop somewhere outside."
"So that's how it works? A person can be employed by Säpo, have his salary paid by Säpo, and then in fact report to another employer?"
"Something like that."
"So who in the building is working for the Zalachenko club?"
"We don't know yet. But we have several suspects."
"Mårtensson," Blomkvist suggested.
Edklinth nodded.
"Mårtensson works for Säpo, and when he's needed by the Zalachenko club he's released from his regular job," Figuerola said.
"How does that work in practice?"
"That's a very good question," Edklinth said with a faint smile. "Wouldn't you like to come and work for us?"
"Not on your life," Blomkvist said.
"I jest, of course. But it's a good question. We have a suspect, but we're unable to verify our suspicions just yet."
"Let's see... it must be someone with administrative authority."
"We suspect Chief of Secretariat Albert Shenke," Figuerola said.
"And here we are at our first stumbling block," Edklinth said. "We've given you a name, but we have no proof. So how do you intend to proceed?"
"I can't publish a name without proof. If Shenke is innocent he would sue Millennium for libel."
"Good. Then we are agreed. This co-operative effort has to be based on mutual trust. Your turn. What have you got?"
"Three names," Blomkvist said. "The first two were members of the Zalachenko club in the '80s."
Edklinth and Figuerola were instantly alert.
"Hans von Rottinger and Fredrik Clinton. Von Rottinger is dead. Clinton is retired. But both of them were part of the circle closest to Zalachenko."
"And the third name?" Edklinth said.
"Teleborian has a link to a person I know only as Jonas. We don't know his last name, but we do know that he was with the Zalachenko club in 2005... We've actually speculated a bit that he might be the man with Mårtensson in the pictures from Café Copacabana."
"And in what context did the name Jonas crop up?"
Salander hacked Teleborian's computer, and we can follow the correspondence that shows how Teleborian is conspiring with Jonas in the same way he conspired with Björck in 1991.
"He gives Teleborian instructions. And now we come to another stumbling block," Blomkvist said to Edklinth with a smile. "I can prove my assertions, but I can't give you the documentation without revealing a source. You'll have to accept what I'm saying."
Edklinth looked thoughtful.
"Maybe one of Teleborian's colleagues in Uppsala. O.K. Let's start with Clinton and von Rottinger. Tell us what you know."
*
Borgsjö received Berger in his office next to the boardroom. He looked concerned.
"I heard that you hurt yourself," he said, pointing to her foot.
"It'll pass," Berger said, leaning her crutches against his desk as she sat down in the visitor's chair.
"Well... that's good. Erika, you've been here a month and I want us to have a chance to catch up. How do you feel it's going?"
I have to discuss Vitavara with him. But how? When?
"I've begun to get a handle on the situation. There are two sides to it. On the one hand, S. M. P. has financial problems and the budget is strangling the newspaper. On the other, S. M. P. has a huge amount of dead meat in the newsroom."
"Aren't there any positive aspects?"
"Of course there are. A whole bunch of experienced professionals who know how to do their jobs. The problem is the ones who won't let them do their jobs."
"Holm has spoken to me..."
"I know."
Borgsjö looked puzzled. "He has a number of opinions about you. Almost all of them are negative."
"That's O.K. I have a number of opinions about him too."
"Negative too? It's no good if the two of you can't work together-"
"I have no problem working with him. But he does have a problem with me." Berger sighed. "He's driving me nuts. He's very experienced and doubtless one of the most competent news chiefs I've come across. At the same time he's a bastard of exceptional proportions. He enjoys indulging in intrigue and playing people against each other. I've worked in the media for twenty-five years and I have never met a person like him in a management position."
"He has to be tough to handle the job. He's under pressure from every direction."
"Tough... by all means. But that doesn't mean he has to behave like an idiot. Unfortunately Holm is a walking disaster, and he's one of the chief reasons why it's almost impossible to get the staff to work as a team. He takes divide-and-rule as his job description."
"Harsh words."
"I'll give him one month to sort out his attitude. If he hasn't managed it by then, I'm going to remove him as news editor."
"You can't do that. It's not your job to take apart the operational organization."
Berger studied the chairman of the board.
"Forgive me for pointing this out, but that was exactly why you hired me. We also have a contract which explicitly gives me free rein to make the editorial changes I deem necessary. My task here is to rejuvenate the newspaper, and I can do that only by changing the organization and the work routines."
"Holm has devoted his life to S. M. P."
"Right. And he's fifty-eight with six years to go before retirement. I can't afford to keep him on as a dead weight all that time. Don't misunderstand me, Magnus. From the moment I sat down in that glass cage, my life's goal has been to raise S. M. P. 's quality as well as its circulation figures. Holm has a choice: either he can do things my way, or he can do something else. I'm going to bulldoze anyone who is obstructive or who tries to damage S. M. P. in some other way."
Damn... I've got to bring up the Vitavara thing. Borgsjö is going to be fired.
Suddenly Borgsjö smiled. "By God, I think you're pretty tough too."
"Yes, I am, and in this case it's regrettable since it shouldn't be necessary. My job is to produce a good newspaper, and I can do that only if I have a management that functions and colleagues who enjoy their work."
After the meeting with Borgsjö, Berger limped back to the glass cage. She felt depressed. She had been with Borgsjö for forty-five minutes without mentioning one syllable about Vitavara. She had not, in other words, been particularly straight or honest with him.
When she sat at her computer she found a message from MikBlom@millennium. nu>. She knew perfectly well that no such address existed at Millennium. She opened the email: YOU THINK THAT BORGSJÖ CAN SAVE YOU, YOU LITTLE WHORE. HOW DOES YOUR FOOT FEEL?
She raised her eyes involuntarily and looked out across the newsroom. Her gaze fell on Holm. He looked back at her. Then he smiled.
It can only be someone at S. M. P.
The meeting at the Constitutional Protection Unit lasted until after 5.00, and they agreed to have another meeting the following week. Blomkvist could contact Figuerola if he needed to be in touch with S.I.S. before then. He packed away his laptop and stood up.
"How do I get out of here?" he asked.
"You certainly can't go running around on your own," Edklinth said.
"I'll show him out," Figuerola said. "Give me a couple of minutes, I just have to pick up a few things from my office." They walked together through Kronoberg park towards Fridhemsplan.
"So what happens now?" Blomkvist said.
"We stay in touch," Figuerola said.
"I'm beginning to like my contact with Säpo."
"Do you feel like having dinner later?"
"Bosnian again?"
"No, I can't afford to eat out every night. I was thinking of something simple at my place."
She stopped and smiled at him.
"Do you know what I'd like to do now?" she said.
"No."
"I'd like to take you home and undress you."
"This could get a bit awkward."
"I know. But I hadn't thought of telling my boss."
"We don't know how this story's going to turn out. We could end up on opposite sides of the barricades."
"I'll take my chances. Now, are you going to come quietly or do I have to handcuff you?"
The consultant from Milton Security was waiting for Berger when she got home at around 7.00. Her foot was throbbing painfully, and she limped into the kitchen and sank on to the nearest chair. He had made coffee and he poured her some.
"Thanks. Is making coffee part of Milton's service agreement?"
He gave her a polite smile. David Rosin was a short, plump man in his fifties with a reddish goatee. "Thanks for letting me borrow your kitchen today."
"It's the least I could do. What's the situation?"
"Our technicians were here and installed a proper alarm. I'll show you how it works in a minute. I've also gone over every inch of your house from the basement to the attic and studied the area around it. I'll review your situation with my colleagues at Milton, and in a few days we'll present an assessment that we'll go over with you. But before that there are one or two things we ought to discuss."
"Go ahead."
"First of all, we have to take care of a few formalities. We'll work out the final contract later - it depends what services we agree on - but this is an agreement saying that you've commissioned Milton Security to install the alarm we put in today. It's a standard document saying that we at Milton require certain things of you and that we commit to certain things, client confidentiality and so forth."
"You require things of me?"
"Yes. An alarm is an alarm and is completely pointless if some nutcase is standing in your living room with an automatic weapon. For the security to work, we want you and your husband to be aware of certain things and to take certain routine measures. I'll go over the details with you."
"O.K."
"I'm jumping ahead and anticipating the final assessment, but this is how I view the general situation. You and your husband live in a detached house. You have a beach at the back of the house and a few large houses in the immediate vicinity. Your neighbours do not have an unobstructed view of your house. It's relatively isolated."
"That's correct."
"Therefore an intruder would have a good chance of approaching your house without being observed."
"The neighbours on the right are away for long periods, and on the left is an elderly couple who go to bed quite early."
"Precisely. In addition, the houses are positioned with their gables facing each other. There are few windows, and so on. Once an intruder comes on to your property - and it takes only five seconds to turn off the road and arrive at the rear of the house - then the view is completely blocked. The rear is screened by your hedge, the garage, and that large freestanding building."
"That's my husband's studio."
"He's an artist, I take it?"
"That's right. Then what?"
"Whoever smashed your window and sprayed your outside wall was able to do so undisturbed. There might have been some risk that the sound of the breaking window would be
heard and someone might have reacted... but your house sits at an angle and the sound was deflected by the facade."
"I see."
"The second thing is that you have a large property here with a living area of approximately 250 square metres, not counting the attic and basement. That's eleven rooms on two floors."
"The house is a monster. It's my husband's old family home."
"There are also a number of different ways to get into the house. Via the front door, the balcony at the back, the porch on the upper floor, and the garage. There are also windows on the ground floor and six basement windows that were left without alarms by our predecessors. Finally, I could break in by using the fire escape at the back of the house and entering through the roof hatch leading to the attic. The trapdoor is secured by nothing more than a latch."
"It sounds as if there are revolving doors into the place. What do we have to do?"
"The alarm we installed today is temporary. We'll come back next week and do the proper installation with alarms on every window on the ground floor and in the basement. That's your protection against intruders in the event that you and your husband are away."
"That's good."
"But the present situation has arisen because you have been subject to a direct threat from a specific individual. That's much more serious. We don't know who this person is, what his motives are, or how far he's willing to go, but we can make a few assumptions. If it were just a matter of anonymous hate mail we would make a decreased threat assessment, but in this case a person has actually taken the trouble to drive to your house - and it's pretty far to Saltsjöbaden - to carry out an attack. That is worrisome."
"I agree with you there."
"I talked with Dragan today, and we're of the same mind: until we know more about the person making the threat, we have to play it safe."
"Which means-"
"First of all, the alarm we installed today contains two components. On the one hand it's an ordinary burglar alarm which is on when you're not at home, but it's also a sensor for the ground floor that you'll have to turn on when you're upstairs at night."
"Hmm."
"It's an inconvenience because you have to turn off the alarm every time you come downstairs."
"I've got you."
"Second, we changed your bedroom door today."
"You changed the whole door?"
"Yes. We installed a steel safety door. Don't worry... it's painted white and looks just like a normal bedroom door. The difference is that it locks automatically when you close it. To open the door from the inside you just have to press down the handle as on any normal door. But to open the door from the outside, you have to enter a three-digit code on a plate on the door handle."
"And you've done all this today..."
"If you're threatened in your home then you have a safe room into which you can barricade yourself. The walls are sturdy and it would take quite a while to break down that door even if your assailant had tools at hand."
"That's a comfort."
"Third, we're going to install surveillance cameras, so that you'll be able to see what's going on in the garden and on the ground floor when you're in the bedroom. That will be done later this week, at the same time as we install the movement detectors outside the house."
"It sounds like the bedroom won't be such a romantic place in the future."
"It's a small monitor. We can put it inside a wardrobe or a cabinet so that it isn't in full view."
"Thank you."
"Later in the week I'll change the doors in your study and in a downstairs room too. If anything happens you should quickly seek shelter and lock the door while you wait for assistance."
"Alright."
"If you trip the burglar alarm by mistake, then you'll have to call Milton's alarm centre immediately to cancel the emergency vehicle. To cancel it you'll have to give a password that will be registered with us. If you forget the password, the emergency vehicle will come out anyway and you'll be charged a fee."
"Understood."
"Fourth, there are now attack alarms in four places inside the house. Here in the kitchen, in the hall, in your study upstairs, and in your bedroom. The attack alarm consists of two buttons that you press simultaneously and hold down for three seconds. You can do it with one hand, but you can't do it by mistake. If the attack alarm is sounded, three things will happen. First, Milton will send cars out here. The closest car will come from Adam Security in Fisksätra. Two strong men will be here in ten to twelve minutes. Second, a car from Milton will come down from Nacka. For that the response time is at best twenty minutes but more likely twenty-five. Third, the police will be alerted automatically. In other words, several cars will arrive at the scene within a short time, a matter of minutes."
"O.K."
"An attack alarm can't be cancelled the same way you would cancel the burglar alarm. You can't call and say that it was a mistake. Even if you meet us in the driveway and say it was a mistake, the police will enter the house. We want to be sure that nobody's holding a gun to your husband's head or anything like that. So you use the attack alarm, obviously, only when there is real danger."
"I understand."
"It doesn't have to be a physical attack. It could be if someone is trying to break in or turns up in the garden or something like that. If you feel threatened in any way, you should set off the alarm, but use your good judgement."
"I promise."
"I notice that you have golf clubs planted here and there around the house."
"Yes. I slept here alone last night."
"I myself would have checked into a hotel. I have no problem with you taking safety precautions on your own. But you ought to know that you could easily kill an intruder with a golf club."
"Hmm."
"And if you did that, you would most probably be charged with manslaughter. If you admitted that you put golf clubs around the place with the intent of arming yourself, it could also be classified as murder."
"If someone attacks me then the chances are that I do intend to bash in that person's skull."
"I understand you. But the point of hiring Milton Security is so that you have an alternative to doing that. You should be able to call for help, and above all you shouldn't end up in a situation where you have to bash in someone's skull."
"I'm only too happy to hear it."
"And, by the way, what would you do with the golf clubs if an intruder had a gun? The key to good security is all about staying one step ahead of anyone who means you harm."
"Tell me how I'm supposed to do that if I have a stalker after me?"
"You see to it that he never has a chance to get close to you. Now, we won't be finished with the installations here for a couple of days, and then we'll also have to have a talk with your husband. He'll have to be as safety-conscious as you are."
"He will be."
"Until then I'd rather you didn't stay here."
"I can't move anywhere else. My husband will be home in a couple of days. But both he and I travel fairly often, and one or other of us has to be here alone from time to time."
"I understand. But I'm only talking about a couple of days until we have all the installations ready. Isn't there a friend you could stay with?"
Berger thought for a moment about Blomkvist's apartment but remembered that just now it was not such a good idea.
"Thanks, but I'd rather stay here."
"I was afraid of that. In that case, I'd like you to have company here for the rest of the week."
"Well..."
"Do you have a friend who could come and stay with you?"
"Sure. But not at 7.30 in the evening if there's a nutcase on the prowl outside."
Rosin thought for a moment. "Do you have anything against a Milton employee staying here? I could call and find out if my colleague Susanne Linder is free tonight. She certainly wouldn't mind earning a few hundred kronor on the side."
"What would it cost exactly?"
"You'd have to negotiate that with her. It would be outside all our formal agreements. But I really don't want you to stay here alone."
"I'm not afraid of the dark."
"I didn't think you were or you wouldn't have slept here last night. Susanne Linder is also a former policewoman. And it's only temporary. If we had to arrange for bodyguard protection that would be a different matter - and it would be rather expensive."
Rosin's seriousness was having an effect. It dawned on her that here he was calmly talking of the possibility of there being a threat to her life. Was he exaggerating? Should she dismiss his professional caution? In that case, why had she telephoned Milton Security in the first place and asked them to install an alarm?
"O.K. Call her. I'll get the spare room ready."
It was not until after 10.00 p.m. that Figuerola and Blomkvist wrapped sheets around themselves and went to her kitchen to make a cold pasta salad with tuna and bacon from the leftovers in her fridge. They drank water with their dinner.
Figuerola giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"I'm thinking that Edklinth would be a little bit disturbed if he saw us right now. I don't believe he intended for me to go to bed with you when he told me to keep a close eye on you."
"You started it. I had the choice of being handcuffed or coming quietly," Blomkvist said.
"True, but you weren't very hard to convince."
"Maybe you aren't aware of this - though I doubt that - but you give off the most incredible sexual vibrations. Who on earth do you think can resist that?"
"You're very kind, but I'm not that sexy. And I don't have sex quite that often either."
"You amaze me."
"I don't, and I don't end up in bed with that many men. I was going out with a guy this spring. But it ended."
"Why was that?"
"He was sweet, but it turned into a wearisome sort of arm-wrestling contest. I was stronger than he was and he couldn't bear it. Are you the kind of man who'll want to arm-wrestle me?"
"You mean, am I someone who has a problem with the fact that you're fitter and physically stronger than I am? No, I'm not."
"Thanks for being honest. I've noticed that quite a few men get interested, but then they start challenging me and looking for ways to dominate me. Especially if they discover I'm a policewoman."
"I'm not going to compete with you. I'm better than you are at what I do. And you're better than I am at what you do."
"I can live with that attitude."
"Why did you pick me up?"
"I give in to impulses. And you were one of them!"
"But you're an officer in Säpo, of all places, and we're in the middle of an investigation in which I'm involved..."
"You mean it was unprofessional of me. You're right. I shouldn't have done it. And I'd have a serious problem if it became known. Edklinth would go through the roof."
"I won't tell him."
"Very chivalrous."
They were silent for a moment.
"I don't know what this is going to turn into. You're a man who gets more than his fair share of action, as I gather. Is that accurate?"
"Yes, unfortunately. And I may not be looking for a steady girlfriend."
"Fair warning. I'm probably not looking for a steady boyfriend either. Can we keep it on a friendly level?"
"I think that would be best. Monica, I'm not going to tell anybody that we got together. But if we aren't careful I could end up in one hell of a conflict with your colleagues."
"I don't think so. Edklinth is as straight as a die. And we share the same objective, you and my people."
"We'll see how it goes."
"You had a thing with Lisbeth Salander too."
Blomkvist looked at her. "Listen... I'm not an open book for everyone to read. My relationship with Lisbeth is none of anyone's business."
"She's Zalachenko's daughter."
"Yes, and she has to live with that. But she isn't Zalachenko. There's the world of difference."
"I didn't mean it that way. I was wondering about your involvement in this story."
"Lisbeth is my friend. That should be enough of an explanation."
*
Linder from Milton Security was dressed in jeans, a black leather jacket and running shoes. She arrived in Saltsjöbaden at 9.00 in the evening and Rosin showed her around the house. She had brought a green military bag containing her laptop, a spring baton, a Mace canister, handcuffs and a toothbrush, which she unpacked in Berger's spare room.
Berger made coffee.
"Thanks for the coffee. You're probably thinking of me as a guest you have to entertain. The fact is, I'm not a guest at all. I'm a necessary evil that's suddenly appeared in your life, albeit just for a couple of days. I was in the police for six years and I've worked at Milton for four. I'm a trained bodyguard."
"I see."
"There's a threat against you and I'm here to be a gatekeeper so that you can sleep in peace or work or read a book or do whatever you feel like doing. If you need to talk, I'm happy to listen. Otherwise, I brought my own book."
"Understood."
"What I mean is that you should go on with your life and not feel as though you need to entertain me. Then I'd just be in the way. The best thing would be for you to think of me as a temporary work colleague."
"Well, I'm certainly not used to this kind of situation. I've had threats before, when I was editor-in-chief at Millennium, but then it was to do with my work. Right now it's some seriously unpleasant individual-"
"Who's got a hang-up about you in particular."
"Something along those lines."
"If we have to arrange full bodyguard protection, it'll cost a lot of money. And for it to be worth the cost, there has to be a very clear and specific threat. This is just an extra job for me. I'll ask you for 500 kronor a night to sleep here the rest of the week. It's cheap and far below what I would charge if I took the job for Milton. Is that O.K. with you?"
"It's completely O.K."
"If anything happens, I want you to lock yourself in your bedroom and let me handle the situation. Your job is to press the attack alarm. That's all. I don't want you underfoot if there's any trouble."
*
Berger went to bed at 11.00. She heard the click of the lock as she closed her bedroom door. Deep in thought, she undressed and climbed into bed.
She had been told not to feel obliged to entertain her "guest," but she had spent two hours with Linder at the kitchen table. She discovered that they got along famously. They had discussed the psychology that causes certain men to stalk women. Linder told her that she did not hold with psychological mumbo-jumbo. She thought the most important thing was simply to stop the bastards, and she enjoyed her job at Milton Security a great deal, since her assignments were largely to act as a counter-force to raging lunatics.
"So why did you resign from the police force?" Berger said.
"A better question would be why did I become a police officer in the first place."
"Why did you become a police officer?"
"Because when I was seventeen a close friend of mine was mugged and raped in a car by three utter bastards. I became a police officer because I thought, rather idealistically, that the police existed to prevent crimes like that."
"Well-"
"I couldn't prevent shit. As a policewoman I invariably arrived on the scene after a crime had been committed. I couldn't cope with the arrogant lingo on the squad. And I soon found out that some crimes are never even investigated. You're a typical example. Did you try to call the police about what happened?"
"Yes."
"And did they bother to come out here?"
"Not really. I was told to file a report at the local station."
"So now you know. I work for Armansky, and I come into the picture before a crime is committed."
"Mostly to do with women who are threatened?"
"I work with all kinds of things. Security assessments, bodyguard protection, surveillance and so on. But the work is often to do with people who have been threatened. I get on considerably better at Milton than on the force, although there's a drawback."
"What's that?"
"We are only there for clients who can pay."
As she lay in bed Berger thought about what Linder had said. Not everyone can afford security. She herself had accepted Rosin's proposal for several new doors, engineers, back-up alarm systems and everything else without blinking. The cost of all that work would be almost 50,000 kronor. But she could afford it.
She pondered for a moment her suspicion that the person threatening her had something to do with S. M. P. Whoever it was had known that she had hurt her foot. She thought of Holm. She did not like him, which added to her mistrust of him, but the news that she had been injured had spread fast from the second she appeared in the newsroom on crutches.
And she had the Borgsjö problem.
She suddenly sat up in bed and frowned, looking around the bedroom. She wondered where she had put Cortez's file on Borgsjö and Vitavara Inc.
She got up, put on her dressing gown and leaned on a crutch. She went to her study and turned on the light. No, she had not been in her study since... since she had read through the file in the bath the night before. She had put it on the windowsill.
She looked in the bathroom. It was not on the windowsill.
She stood there for a while, worrying.
She had no memory of seeing the folder that morning. She had not moved it anywhere else.
She turned ice-cold and spent the next five minutes searching the bathroom and going through the stacks of papers and newspapers in the kitchen and bedroom. In the end she had to admit that the folder was gone.
Between the time when she had stepped on the shard of glass and Rosin's arrival that morning, somebody had gone into her bathroom and taken Millennium's material about Vitavara Inc.
Then it occurred to her that she had other secrets in the house. She limped back to the bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of the chest by her bed. Her heart sank like a stone. Everyone has secrets. She kept hers in the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Berger did not regularly write a diary, but there were periods when she had. There were also old love letters which she had kept from her teenage years.
There was an envelope with photographs that had been cool at the time, but... When Berger was twenty-five she had been involved in Club Xtreme, which arranged private dating parties for people who were into leather. There were photographs from various parties, and if she had been sober at the time, she would have recognized that she looked completely demented.
And - most disastrous of all - there was a video taken on holiday in the early '90s when she and Greger had been guests of the glass artist Torkel Bollinger at his villa on the Costa del Sol. During the holiday Berger had discovered that her husband had a definite bisexual tendency, and they had both ended up in bed with Torkel. It had been a pretty wonderful holiday. Video cameras were still a relatively new phenomenon. The movie they had playfully made was definitely not for general release.
The drawer was empty.
How could I have been so bloody stupid?
On the bottom of the drawer someone had spray-painted the familiar five-letter word.
CHAPTER 19
Friday, 3.vi - Saturday 4.vi
Salander finished her autobiography at 4.00 on Friday morning and sent a copy to Blomkvist via the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]. Then she lay quite still in bed and stared at the ceiling.
She knew that on Walpurgis Night she had had her twenty-seventh birthday, but she had not even reflected on the fact at the time. She was imprisoned. She had experienced the same thing at St Stefan's. If things did not go right for her there was a risk that she would spend many more birthdays in some form of confinement.
She was not going to accept a situation like that.
The last time she had been locked up she was scarcely into her teens. She was grown-up now, and had more knowledge and skills. She wondered how long it would take for her to escape and settle down safely in some other country to create a new identity and a new life for herself.
She got up from the bed and went to the bathroom where she looked in the mirror. She was no longer limping. She ran her fingers over her hip where the wound had healed to a scar. She twisted her arms and stretched her left shoulder back and forth. It was tight, but she was more or less healed. She tapped herself on the head. She supposed that her brain had not been too greatly damaged after being perforated by a bullet with a full-metal jacket.
She had been extraordinarily lucky.
Until she had access to a computer, she had spent her time trying to work out how to escape from this locked room at Sahlgrenska.
Then Dr Jonasson and Blomkvist had upset her plans by smuggling in her Palm. She had read Blomkvist's articles and brooded over what he had to say. She had done a risk assessment and pondered his plan, weighing her chances. She had decided that for once she was going to do as he advised. She would test the system. Blomkvist had convinced her that she had nothing to lose, and he was offering her a chance to escape in a very different way. If the plan failed, she would simply have to plan her escape from St Stefan's or whichever other nuthouse.
What actually convinced her to decide to play the game Blomkvist's way was her desire for revenge.
She forgave nothing.
Zalachenko, Björck and Bjurman were dead.
Teleborian, on the other hand, was alive.
So too was her brother, the so-called Ronald Niedermann, even though in reality he was not her problem. Certainly, he had helped in the attempt to murder and bury her, but he seemed peripheral. If I run into him sometime, we'll see, but until such time he's the police's problem.
Yet Blomkvist was right: behind the conspiracy there had to be others not known to her who had contributed to the shaping of her life. She had to put names and social security numbers to these people.
So she had decided to go along with Blomkvist's plan. That was why she had written the plain, unvarnished truth about her life in a cracklingly terse autobiography of forty pages. She had been quite precise. Everything she had written was true. She had accepted Blomkvist's reasoning that she had already been so savaged in the Swedish media by such grotesque libels that a little sheer nonsense could not possibly further damage her reputation.
The autobiography was a fiction in the sense that she had not, of course, told the whole truth. She had no intention of doing that.
She went back to bed and pulled the covers over her.
She felt a niggling irritation that she could not identify. She reached for a notebook, given to her by Giannini and hardly used. She turned to the first page, where she had written: She had spent several weeks in the Caribbean last winter working herself into a frenzy over Fermat's theorem. When she came back to Sweden, before she got mixed up in the hunt for Zalachenko, she had kept on playing with the equations. What was maddening was that she had the feeling she had seen a solution... that she had discovered a solution.
But she could not remember what it was.
Not being able to remember something was a phenomenon unknown to Salander. She had tested herself by going on the Net and picking out random H. T. M. L. codes that she glanced at, memorized, and reproduced exactly.
She had not lost her photographic memory, which she had always considered a curse.
Everything was running as usual in her head.
Save for the fact that she thought she recalled seeing a solution to Fermat's theorem, but she could not remember how, when, or where.
The worst thing was that she did not have the least interest in it. Fermat's theorem no longer fascinated her. That was ominous. That was just the way she usually functioned. She would be fascinated by a problem, but as soon as she had solved it, she lost interest.
That was how she felt about Fermat. He was no longer a demon riding on her shoulder, demanding her attention and vexing her intellect. It was an ordinary formula, some squiggles on a piece of paper, and she felt no desire at all to engage with it.
This bothered her. She put down the notebook.
She should get some sleep.
Instead she took out her Palm again and went on the Net. She thought for a moment and then went into Armansky's hard drive, which she had not done since she got the hand-held. Armansky was working with Blomkvist, but she had not had any particular need to read what he was up to.
Absentmindedly she read his email.
She found the assessment Rosin had carried out of Berger's house. She could scarcely believe what she was reading.
Erika Berger has a stalker.
She found a message from Susanne Linder, who had evidently stayed at Berger's house the night before and who had emailed a report late that night. She looked at the time of the message. It had been sent just before 3.00 in the morning and reported Berger's discovery that diaries, letters and photographs, along with a video of a personal nature, had been stolen from a chest of drawers in her bedroom.
After discussing the matter with Fru Berger, we determined that the theft must have occurred during the time she was at Nacka hospital. That left a period of c .2.5 hours when the house was empty, and the defective alarm from N.I.P. was not switched on. At all other times either Berger or David were in the house until the theft was discovered.
Conclusion: Berger's stalker remained in her area and was able to observe that she was picked up by a taxi, also possibly that she was injured. The stalker then took the opportunity to get into the house.
Salander updated her download of Armansky's hard drive and then switched off the Palm, lost in thought. She had mixed feelings.
She had no reason to love Berger. She remembered still the humiliation she had felt when she saw her walk off down Hornsgatan with Blomkvist the day before New Year's Eve a year and a half ago.
It had been the stupidest moment of her life and she would never again allow herself those sorts of feelings.
She remembered the terrible hatred she had felt, and her desire to run after them and hurt Berger.
Embarrassing.
She was cured.
But she had no reason to sympathize with Berger.
She wondered what the video "of a personal nature" contained. She had her own film of a personal nature which showed how Advokat Bastard Bjurman had raped her. And it was now in Blomkvist's keeping. She wondered how she would have reacted if someone had broken into her place and stolen the D. V. D. Which Blomkvist by definition had actually done, even though his motives were not to harm her.
Hmm. An awkward situation.
Berger had not been able to sleep on Thursday night. She hobbled restlessly back and forth while Linder kept a watchful eye on her. Her anxiety lay like a heavy fog over the house.
At 2.30 Linder managed to talk Berger into getting into bed to rest, even if she did not sleep. She heaved a sigh of relief when Berger closed her bedroom door. She opened her laptop and summarized the situation in an email to Armansky. She had scarcely sent the message before she heard that Berger was up and moving about again.
At 7.30 she made Berger call S.M.P. and take the day off sick. Berger had reluctantly agreed and then fallen asleep on the living-room sofa in front of the boarded-up picture window. Linder spread a blanket over her. Then she made some coffee and called Armansky, explaining her presence at the house and that she had been called in by Rosin.
"Stay there with Berger," Armansky told her, "and get a couple of hours' sleep yourself."
"I don't know how we're going to bill this-"
"We'll work that out later."
Berger slept until 2.30. She woke up to find Linder sleeping in a recliner on the other side of the living room.
Figuerola slept late on Friday morning; she did not have time for her morning run. She blamed Blomkvist for this state of affairs as she showered and then rousted him out of bed.
Blomkvist drove to Millennium, where everyone was surprised to see him up so early. He mumbled something, made some coffee, and called Eriksson and Cortez into his office. They spent three hours going over the articles for the themed issue and keeping track of the book's progress.
"Dag's book went to the printer yesterday," Eriksson said. "We're going down the perfect-bound trade paperback route."
"The special issue is going to be called The Lisbeth Salander Story," Cortez said. "They're bound to move the date of the trial, but at the moment it's set for Wednesday, July 13. The magazine will be printed by then, but we haven't fixed on a distribution date yet. You can decide nearer the time."
"Good. That leaves the Zalachenko book, which right now is a nightmare. I'm calling it The Section. The first half is basically what's in the magazine. It begins with the murders of Dag and Mia, and then follows the hunt for Salander first, then Zalachenko, and then Niedermann. The second half will be everything that we know about the Section."
"Mikael, even if the printer breaks every record for us, we're going to have to send them the camera-ready copy by the end of this month - at the latest," Eriksson said. "Christer will need a couple of days for the layout, the typesetter, say, a week. So we have about two weeks left for the text. I don't know how we're going to make it."
"We won't have time to dig up the whole story," Blomkvist conceded. "But I don't think we could manage that even if we had a whole year. What we're going to do in this book is to state what happened. If we don't have a source for something, then I'll say so. If we're flying kites, we'll make that clear. So, we're going to write about what happened, what we can document, and what we believe to have happened."
"That's pretty vague," Cortez said.
Blomkvist shook his head. "If I say that a Säpo agent broke into my apartment and I can document it - and him - with a video, then it's documented. If I say that he did it on behalf of the Section, then that's speculation, but in the light of all the facts we're setting out, it's a reasonable speculation. Does that make sense?"
"It does."
"I won't have time to write all the missing pieces myself. I have a list of articles here that you, Henry, will have to cobble together. It corresponds to about fifty pages of book text. Malin,
you're back-up for Henry, just as when we were editing Dag's book. All three of our names will be on the cover and title page. Is that alright with you two?"
"That's fine," Eriksson said. "But we have other urgent problems."
"Such as?"
"While you were concentrating on the Zalachenko story, we had a hell of a lot of work to do here-"
"You're saying I wasn't available?"
Eriksson nodded.
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"No need to apologize. We all know that when you're in the throes of a story, nothing else matters. But that won't work for the rest of us, and it definitely doesn't work for me. Erika had me to lean on. I have Henry, and he's an ace, but he's putting in an equal amount of time on your story. Even if we count you in, we're still two people short in editorial."
"Two?"
"And I'm not Erika. She had a routine that I can't compete with. I'm still learning this job. Monika is working her backside off. And so is Lottie. Nobody has a moment to stop and think."
"This is all temporary. As soon as the trial begins-"
"No, Mikael. It won't be over then. When the trial begins, it'll be sheer hell. Remember what it was like during the Wennerström affair. We won't see you for three months while you hop from one T. V. interview sofa to another."
Blomkvist sighed. "What do you suggest?"
"If we're going to run Millennium effectively during the autumn, we're going to need new blood. Two people at least, maybe three. We just don't have the editorial capacity for what we're trying to do, and..."
"And?"
"And I'm not sure that I'm ready to do it."
"I hear you, Malin."
"I mean it. I'm a damn good assistant editor - it's a piece of cake with Erika as your boss. We said that we were going to try this over the summer... well, we've tried it. I'm not a good editor-in-chief."
"Stuff and nonsense," Cortez said.
Eriksson shook her head.
"I hear what you're saying," Blomkvist said, "But remember that it's been an extreme situation."
Eriksson smiled at him sadly. "You could take this as a complaint from the staff," she said.
The operations unit of Constitutional Protection spent Friday trying to get a handle on the information they had received from Blomkvist. Two of their team had moved into a temporary office at Fridhemsplan, where all the documentation was being assembled. It was inconvenient because the police intranet was at headquarters, which meant that they had to walk back and forth between the two buildings several times a day. Even if it was only a ten-minute walk, it was tiresome. By lunchtime they already had extensive documentation of the fact that both Fredrik Clinton and Hans von Rottinger had been associated with the Security Police in the '60s and early '70s.
Von Rottinger came originally from the military intelligence service and worked for several years in the office that coordinated military defence with the Security Police. Clinton's background was in the air force and he began working for the Personal Protection Unit of the Security Police in 1967.
They had both left S.I.S.: Clinton in 1971 and von Rottinger in 1973. Clinton had gone into business as a management consultant, and von Rottinger had entered the civil service to do investigations for the Swedish Atomic Energy Agency. He was based in London.
It was late afternoon by the time Figuerola was able to convey to Edklinth with some certainty the discovery that Clinton's and von Rottinger's careers after they left S. I. S. were falsifications. Clinton's career was hard to follow. Being a consultant for industry can mean almost anything at all, and a person in that role is under no obligation to report his activities to the government. From his tax returns it was clear that he made good money, but his clients were for the most part corporations with head offices in Switzerland or Liechtenstein, so it was not easy to prove that his work was a fabrication.
Von Rottinger, on the other hand, had never set foot in the office in London where he supposedly worked. In 1973 the office building where he had claimed to be working was in fact torn down and replaced by an extension to King's Cross Station. No doubt someone made a blunder when the cover story was devised. In the course of the day Figuerola's team had interviewed a number of people now retired from the Swedish Atomic Energy Agency. Not one of them had heard of Hans von Rottinger.
"Now we know," Edklinth said. "We just have to discover what it was they really were doing."
Figuerola said: "What do we do about Blomkvist?"
"In what sense?"
"We promised to give him feedback if we uncovered anything about Clinton and von Rottinger."
Edklinth thought about it. "He's going to be digging up that stuff himself if he keeps at it for a while. It's better that we stay on good terms with him. You can give him what you've found. But use your judgement."
Figuerola promised that she would. They spent a few minutes making arrangements for the weekend. Two of Figuerola's team were going to keep working. She would be taking the weekend off.
Then she clocked out and went to the gym at St Eriksplan, where she spent two hours driving herself hard to catch up on lost training time. She was home by 7.00. She showered, made a simple dinner, and turned on the T. V. to listen to the news. But then she got restless and put on her running kit. She paused at the front door to think. Bloody Blomkvist. She flipped open her mobile and called his Ericsson.
"We found out a certain amount about von Rottinger and Clinton."
"Tell me."
"I will if you come over."
"Sounds like blackmail," Blomkvist said.
"I've just changed into jogging things to work off a little of my surplus energy," Figuerola said. "Should I go now or should I wait for you?"
"Would it be O.K. if I came after 9.00?"
"That'll be fine."
At 8.00 on Friday evening Salander had a visit from Dr Jonasson. He sat in the visitor's chair and leaned back.
"Are you going to examine me?" Salander said.
"No. Not tonight."
"O.K."
"We studied all your notes today and we've informed the prosecutor that we're prepared to discharge you."
"I understand."
"They want to take you over to the prison in Göteborg tonight."
"So soon?"
He nodded. "Stockholm is making noises. I said I had a number of final tests to run on you tomorrow and that I couldn't discharge you until Sunday."
"Why's that?"
"Don't know. I was just annoyed they were being so pushy."
Salander actually smiled. Given a few years she would probably be able to make a good anarchist out of Dr Anders Jonasson. In any case he had a penchant for civil disobedience on a private level.
"Fredrik Clinton," Blomkvist said, staring at the ceiling above Figuerola's bed.
"If you light that cigarette I'll stub it out in your navel," Figuerola said.
Blomkvist looked in surprise at the cigarette he had extracted from his jacket.
"Sorry," he said. "Could I borrow your balcony?"
"As long as you brush your teeth afterwards."
He tied a sheet around his waist. She followed him to the kitchen and filled a large glass with cold water. Then she leaned against the door frame by the balcony.
"Clinton first?"
"If he's still alive, he's the link to the past."
"He's dying, he needs a new kidney and spends a lot of his time in dialysis or some other treatment."
"But he's alive. We should contact him and put the question to him directly. Maybe he'll talk."
"No," Figuerola said. "First of all, this is a preliminary investigation and the police are handling it. In that sense, there is no 'we' about it. Second, you're receiving this information in accordance with your agreement with Edklinth, but you've given your word not to take any initiatives that could interfere with the investigation."
Blomkvist smiled at her. "Ouch," he said. "The Security Police are pulling on my leash." He stubbed out his cigarette.
"Mikael, this is not a joke."
Berger drove to the office on Saturday morning still feeling queasy. She had thought that she was beginning to get to grips with the actual process of producing a newspaper and had planned to reward herself with a weekend off - the first since she started at S. M. P. - but the discovery that her most personal and intimate possessions had been stolen, and the Borgsjö report too, made it impossible for her to relax.
During a sleepless night spent mostly in the kitchen with Linder, Berger had expected the "Poison Pen" to strike, disseminating pictures of her that would be deplorably damaging. What an excellent tool the Internet was for freaks. Good grief... a video of me shagging my husband and another man - I'm going to end up on half the websites in the world.
Panic and terror had dogged her through the night.
It took all of Linder's powers of persuasion to send her to bed.
At 8.00 she got up and drove to S.M.P. She could not stay away. If a storm was brewing, then she wanted to face it first before anyone else got wind of it.
But in the half-staffed Saturday newsroom everything was normal. People greeted her as she limped past the central desk. Holm was off today. Fredriksson was the acting news editor.
"Morning. I thought you were taking today off," he said.
"Me too. But I wasn't feeling well yesterday and I've got things I have to do. Anything happening?"
"No, it's pretty slow today. The hottest thing we've got is that the timber industry in Dalarna is reporting a boom, and there was a robbery in Norrköping in which one person was injured."
"Right. I'll be in the cage for a while."
She sat down, leaned her crutches against the bookshelves, and logged on. First she checked her email. She had several messages, but nothing from Poison Pen. She frowned. It had been two days now since the break-in, and he had not yet acted on what had to be a treasure trove of opportunities. Why not? Maybe he's going to change tactics. Blackmail? Maybe he just wants to keep me guessing.
She had nothing specific to work on, so she clicked on the strategy document she was writing for S. M. P. She stared at the screen for fifteen minutes without seeing the words.
She tried to call Greger, but with no success. She did not even know if his mobile worked in other countries. Of course she could have tracked him down with a bit of effort, but she felt lazy to the core. Wrong, she felt helpless and paralysed.
She tried to call Blomkvist to tell him that the Borgsjö folder had been stolen, but he did not answer.
By 10.00 she had accomplished nothing and decided to go home. She was just reaching out to shut down her computer when her I.C.Q. account pinged. She looked in astonishment at the icon bar. She knew what I.C.Q. was but she seldom chatted, and she had not used the program since starting at S.M.P.
She clicked hesitantly on Answer.
A trick? Poison Pen?
Berger stared at the screen. It took her a few seconds to make the connection. Lisbeth Salander. Impossible.
Berger swallowed. Only four people in the world knew how he had come by that scar. Salander was one of them.
Salander is a devil with computers. But how the hell is she managing to communicate from Sahlgrenska, where she's been isolated since April?
She doesn't want the police to know she has access to the Net. Of course not. Which is why she's chatting with the editor-in-chief of one of the biggest newspapers in Sweden.
Berger's heart beat furiously.
Berger could not believe she was asking this question. It was absurd. Salander was in rehabilitation at Sahlgrenska and was up to her neck in her own problems. She was the most unlikely person Berger could turn to with any hope of getting help.
Berger thought for while before she replied.
Berger stared at the screen as she tried to work out what Salander was getting at.
Why am I not surprised?
Berger hesitated for ten seconds. Open up S. M. P. to... what? A complete loony? Salander might be innocent of murder, but she was definitely not normal.
But what did she have to lose?
Berger followed the instruction.
It took three minutes.
Berger stared in fascination at the screen as her computer slowly rebooted. She wondered whether she was mad. Then her I. C. Q. pinged.
Figuerola woke at 8.00 on Saturday morning, about two hours later than usual. She sat up in bed and looked at the man beside her. He was snoring. Well, nobody's perfect.
She wondered where this affair with Blomkvist was going to lead. He was obviously not the faithful type, so no point in looking forward to a long-term relationship. She knew that much from his biography. Anyway, she was not so sure she wanted a stable relationship herself - with a partner and a mortgage and kids. After a dozen failed relationships since her teens, she was tending towards the theory that stability was overrated. Her longest had been with a colleague in Uppsala - they had shared an apartment for two years.
But she was not someone who went in for one-night stands, although she did think that sex was an underrated therapy for just about all ailments. And sex with Blomkvist, out of shape as he was, was just fine. More than just fine, actually. Plus, he was a good person. He made her want more.
A summer romance? A love affair? Was she in love?
She went to the bathroom and washed her face and brushed her teeth. Then she put on her shorts and a thin jacket and quietly left the apartment. She stretched and went on a 45-minute run out past Rålambshov hospital and around Fredhäll and back via Smedsudden. She was home by 9.00
and discovered Blomkvist still asleep. She bent down and bit him on the ear. He opened his eyes in bewilderment.
"Good morning, darling. I need somebody to scrub my back."
He looked at her and mumbled something.
"What did you say?"
"You don't need to take a shower. You're soaked to the skin already."
"I've been running. You should come along."
"If I tried to go at your pace, I'd have a heart attack on Norr Mälarstrand."
"Nonsense. Come on, time to get up."
He scrubbed her back and soaped her shoulders. And her hips. And her stomach. And her breasts. And after a while she had completely lost interest in her shower and pulled him back to bed.
They had their coffee at the pavement café beside Norr Mälarstrand.
"You could turn out to be a bad habit," she said. "And we've only known each other a few days."
"I find you incredibly attractive. But you know that already."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Sorry, can't answer that question. I've never understood why I'm attracted to one woman and totally uninterested in another."
She smiled thoughtfully. "I have today off," she said.
"But not me. I have a mountain of work before the trial begins, and I've spent the last three evenings with you instead of getting on with it."
"What a shame."
He stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She took hold of his shirtsleeve.
"Blomkvist, I'd like to spend some more time with you."
"Same here. But it's going to be a little up and down until we put this story to bed."
He walked away down Hantverkargatan.
Berger got some coffee and watched the screen. For fifty-three minutes absolutely nothing happened except that her screen saver started up from time to time. Then her I. C. Q. pinged again.
But Salander was gone from her I. C. Q. Berger stared at the screen in frustration. Finally she turned off the computer and went out to find a café where she could sit and think.
CHAPTER 20
Saturday, 4.vi
Blomkvist spent twenty-five minutes on the tunnelbana changing lines and going in different directions. He finally got off a bus at Slussen, jumped on the Katarina lift up to Mosebacke and took a circuitous route to Fiskargatan 9. He had bought bread, milk and cheese at the mini supermarket next to the County Council building and he put the groceries straight into the fridge. Then he turned on Salander's computer.
After a moment's thought he also turned on his Ericsson T10. He ignored his normal mobile because he did not want to talk to anyone who was not involved in the Zalachenko story. He saw that he had missed six calls in the past twenty-four hours: three from Cortez, two from Eriksson, and one from Berger.
First he called Cortez who was in a café in Vasastad and had a few details to discuss, nothing urgent.
Eriksson had only called, she told him, to keep in touch.
Then he called Berger, who was engaged.
He opened the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] and found the final version of Salander's autobiographical statement. He smiled, printed out the document and began to read it at once.
Salander switched on her Palm Tungsten T3. She had spent an hour infiltrating and charting the intranet at S.M.P. with the help of Berger's account. She had not tackled the Peter Fleming account because she did not need to have full administrator rights. What she was interested in was access to S.M.P.'s personnel files. And Berger's account had complete access to those.
She fervently wished that Blomkvist had been kind enough to smuggle in her PowerBook with a real keyboard and a 17" screen instead of only the hand-held. She downloaded a list of everyone who worked at S.M.P. and began to check them off. There were 223 employees, 82 of whom were women.
She began by crossing off all the women. She did not exclude women on the grounds of their being incapable of such folly, but statistics showed that the absolute majority of people who harassed women were men. That left 141 individuals.
Statistics also argued that the majority of poison pen artists were either teenagers or middle-aged. Since S.M.P. did not have any teenagers on its staff, she drew an age curve and deleted everyone over fifty-five and under twenty-five. That left 103.
She thought for a moment. She did not have much time. Maybe not even twenty-four hours. She made a snap decision. At a stroke she eliminated all employees in distribution, advertising, the picture department, maintenance and I. T. She focused on a group of journalists and editorial staff, forty-eight men between the ages of twenty-six and fifty-four.
Then she heard the rattle of a set of keys. She turned off the Palm and put it under the covers between her thighs. This would be her last Saturday lunch at Sahlgrenska. She took stock of the cabbage stew with resignation. After lunch she would not, she knew, be able to work undisturbed for a while. She put the Palm in the recess behind the bedside table and waited while two Eritrean women vacuumed the room and changed her bedlinen.
One of the women was named Sara. She had regularly smuggled in a few Marlboro Lights for Salander during the past month. She had also given her a lighter, now hidden behind the bedside table. Salander gratefully accepted two cigarettes, which she planned to smoke by the vent window during the night.
Not until 2.00 p.m. was everything quiet again in her room. She took out the Palm and connected to the Net. She had intended to go straight back to S.M.P.'s administration, but she had also to deal with her own problems. She made her daily sweep, starting with the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]. She saw that Blomkvist had not uploaded anything new for three days and wondered what he was working on. The son-of-a-bitch is probably out screwing around with some bimbo with big boobs.
She then proceeded to the Yahoo group [The_Knights] and checked whether Plague had added anything. He had not.
Then she checked the hard drives of Ekström (some routine correspondence about the trial) and Teleborian.
Every time she accessed Teleborian's hard drive she felt as if her body temperature dropped a few degrees.
She found that he had already written her forensic psychiatric report, even though he was obviously not supposed to write it until after he had been given the opportunity to examine her. He had brushed up his prose, but there was nothing much new. She downloaded the report and sent it off to [Idiotic_Table]. She checked Teleborian's emails from the past twenty-four hours, clicking through one after another. She almost missed the terse message: Saturday, 3.00 at the Ring in Central Station. Jonas Shit. Jonas. He was mentioned in a lot of correspondence with Teleborian. Used a hotmail account. Not identified.
Salander glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table .2.28. She immediately pinged Blomkvist's I.C.Q. No response.
Blomkvist printed out the 220 pages of the manuscript that were finished. Then he shut off the computer and sat down at Salander's kitchen table with an editing pencil.
He was pleased with the text. But there was still a gigantic gaping hole. How could he find the remainder of the Section? Eriksson might be right: it might be impossible. He was running out of time.
Salander swore in frustration and pinged Plague. He did not answer either. She looked again at the clock .2.30.
She sat on the edge of the bed and tried Cortez next and then Eriksson. Saturday. Everybody's off work .2.32.
Then she tried to reach Berger. No luck. I told her to go home. Shit .2.33.
She should be able to send a text message to Blomkvist's mobile... but it was tapped. She tugged her lip.
Finally in desperation she rang for the nurse.
It was 2.35 when she heard the key in the lock and Nurse Agneta looked in on her.
"Hello. Are you O.K.?"
"Is Dr Jonasson on duty?"
"Aren't you feeling well?"
"I feel fine. But I need to have a few words with him. If possible."
"I saw him a little while ago. What's it about?"
"I just have to talk to him."
Nurse Agneta frowned. Lisbeth Salander had seldom rung for a nurse if she did not have a severe headache or some other equally serious problem. She never pestered them for anything and had never before asked to speak to a specific doctor. But Nurse Agneta had noticed that Dr Jonasson had spent time with the patient who was under arrest and otherwise seemed withdrawn from the world. It was possible that he had established some sort of rapport.
"I'll find out if he has time," Nurse Agneta said gently, and closed the door. And then locked it. It was 2.36, and then the clock clicked over to 2.37.
Salander got up from the edge of the bed and went to the window. She kept an eye on the clock .2.39 .2.40.
At 2.44 she heard steps in the corridor and the rattle of the Securitas guard's key ring. Jonasson gave her an inquisitive glance and stopped in his tracks when he saw her desperate look.
"Has something happened?"
"Something is happening right now. Have you got a mobile on you?"
"A what?"
"A mobile. I have to make a call."
Jonasson looked over his shoulder at the door.
"Anders - I need a mobile. Now!"
When he heard the desperation in her voice he dug into his inside pocket and handed her his Motorola. Salander grabbed it from him. She could not call Blomkvist because he had not given her the number of his Ericsson T10. It had never come up, and he had never supposed that she would be able to call him from her isolation. She hesitated a tenth of a second and punched in Berger's number. It rang three times before Berger answered.
Berger was in her B. M. W. half a mile from home in Saltsjöbaden when her mobile rang.
"Berger."
"Salander. No time to explain. Have you got the number of Mikael's second mobile? The one that's not tapped."
"Yes."
Salander had already surprised her once today.
"Call him. Now! Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00."
"What's-"
"Just hurry. Teleborian. Jonas. The Ring in Central Station .3.00. He has fifteen minutes."
Salander flipped the mobile shut so that Berger would not be tempted to waste precious seconds with unnecessary questions.
Berger pulled over to the curb. She reached for the address book in her bag and found the number Blomkvist had given her the night they met at Samir's Cauldron.
Blomkvist heard his mobile beeping. He got up from the kitchen table, went to Salander's office and picked up the telephone from the desk.
"Yes?"
"Erika."
"Hi."
"Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00. You've only got a few minutes."
"What? What? What?"
"Teleborian-"
"I heard you. How do you know about that?"
"Stop arguing and make it snappy."
Mikael glanced at the clock .2.47. "Thanks. Bye."
He grabbed his laptop case and took the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. As he ran he called Cortez on his T10.
"Cortez."
"Where are you now?"
"At the Academy bookshop."
"Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00. I'm on my way, but you're closer."
"Oh, boy. I'm on my way."
Blomkvist jogged down to Götgatan and sped up towards Slussen. When he reached Slussplan he was badly out of breath. Maybe Figuerola had a point. He was not going to make it. He looked about for a taxi.
*
Salander handed back the mobile to Dr Jonasson.
"Thanks," she said.
"Teleborian?" Jonasson could not help overhearing the name.
She met his gaze. "Teleborian is a really, really bad bastard. You have no idea."
"No, but I could see that something happened just now that got you more agitated than I've seen you in all the time you've been in my care. I hope you know what you're doing."
Salander gave Jonasson a lopsided smile.
"You should have the answer to that question quite soon," she said.
Cortez left the Academy bookshop running like a madman. He crossed Sveavägen on the viaduct at Mäster Samuelsgatan and went straight down to Klara Norra, where he turned up the Klaraberg viaduct and across Vasagatan. He flew across Klarabergsgatan between a bus and two cars, one of whose drivers punched his windscreen in fury, and through the doors of Central Station as the station clock ticked over to 3.00 sharp.
He took the escalator three steps at a time down to the main ticket hall, and jogged past the Pocket bookshop before slowing down so as not to attract attention. He scanned every face of every person standing or walking near the Ring.
He did not see Teleborian or the man Malm had photographed outside Café Copacabana, whom they believed to be Jonas. He looked back at the clock .3.01. He was gasping as if he had just run a marathon.
He took a chance and hurried across the hall and out through the doors on to Vasagatan. He stopped and looked about him, checking one face after another, as far as his eyes could see. No Teleborian. No Jonas.
He turned back into the station .3.03. The Ring area was almost deserted.
Then he looked up and got a split second's glimpse of Teleborian's dishevelled profile and goatee as he came out of Pressbyrån on the other side of the ticket hall. A second later the man from Malm's photograph materialized at Teleborian's side. Jonas. They crossed the concourse and went out on to Vasagatan by the north door.
Cortez exhaled in relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and set off in pursuit of the two men.
Blomkvist's taxi got to Central Station at 3.07. He walked rapidly into the ticket hall, but he could see neither Teleborian nor anyone looking like they might be Jonas. Nor Cortez for that matter.
He was about to call Cortez when the T10 rang in his hand.
"I've got them. They're sitting in the Tre Remmare pub on Vasagatan by the stairs down to the Akalla line."
"Thanks, Henry. Where are you?"
"I'm at the bar. Having my afternoon beer. I earned it."
"Very good. They know what I look like, so I'll stay out of it. I don't suppose you have any chance of hearing what they're saying."
"Not a hope. I can only see Jonas' back and that bloody psychoanalyst mumbles when he speaks, so I can't even see his lips move."
"I get it."
"But we may have a problem."
"What's that?"
"Jonas has put his wallet and mobile on the table. And he put his car keys on top of the wallet."
"O.K. I'll handle it."
Figuerola's mobile played out the theme tune from Once Upon a Time in the West. She put down her book about God in antiquity. It did not seem as though she would ever be able to finish it "Hi. It's Mikael. What are you up to?"
"I'm sitting at home sorting through my collection of photographs of old lovers. I was ignominiously ditched earlier today."
"Do you have your car nearby?"
"The last time I checked it was in the parking space outside."
"Good. Do you feel like an afternoon on the town?"
"Not particularly. What's going on?"
"A psychiatrist called Teleborian is having a beer with an undercover agent - code name Jonas - down on Vasagatan. And since I'm co-operating with your Stasi-style bureaucracy, I thought you might be amused to tag along."
Figuerola was on her feet and reaching for her car keys.
"This is not your little joke, is it?"
"Hardly. And Jonas has his car keys on the table in front of him."
"I'm on my way."
Eriksson did not answer the telephone, but Blomkvist got lucky and caught Karim, who had been at Åhlens department store buying a birthday present for her husband. He asked her to please - on overtime - hurry over to the pub as back-up for Cortez. Then he called Cortez.
"Here's the plan. I'll have a car in place in five minutes. It'll be on Järnvägsgatan, down the street from the pub. Lottie is going to join you in a few minutes as back-up."
"Good."
"When they leave the pub, you tail Jonas. Keep me posted by mobile. As soon as you see him approach a car, we have to know. Lottie will follow Teleborian. If we don't get there in time, make a note of his registration number."
"O.K."
Figuerola parked beside the Nordic Light Hotel next to the Arlanda Express platforms. Blomkvist opened the driver's door a minute later.
"Which pub are they in?"
Blomkvist told her.
"I have to call for support."
"I'd rather you didn't. We've got them covered. Too many cooks might wreck the whole dish."
Figuerola gave him a sceptical look. "And how did you know that this meeting was going to take place?"
"I have to protect my source. Sorry."
"Do you have your own bloody intelligence service at Millennium?" she burst out.
Blomkvist looked pleased. It was cool to outdo Säpo in their own field of expertise.
In fact he did not have the slightest idea how Berger came to call him out of the blue to tell him of the meeting. She had not had access to ongoing editorial work at Millennium since early April. She knew about Teleborian, to be sure, but Jonas had not come into the picture until May. As far as he knew, Berger had not even known of his existence, let alone that he was the focus of intense speculation both at Säpo and Millennium.
He needed to talk to Berger.
Salander pressed her lips together and looked at the screen of her handheld. After using Jonasson's mobile, she had pushed all thoughts of the Section to one side and concentrated on Berger's problem. She had next, after careful consideration, eliminated all the men in the twenty-six to fifty-four age group who were married. She was working with a broad brush, of that she was perfectly aware. The selection was scarcely based on any statistical, sociological or scientific rationale. Poison Pen might easily be a married man with five children and a dog. He might also be a man who worked in maintenance. "He" could even be a woman.
She simply needed to prune the number of names on the list, and her group was now down from forty-eight to eighteen since her latest cut. The list was made up largely of the better-known reporters, managers or middle managers aged thirty-five or older. If she did not find anything of interest in that group, she could always widen the net again.
At 4.00 she logged on to Hacker Republic and uploaded the list to Plague. He pinged her a few minutes later.
She outlined the Poison Pen situation.
She sent him the access codes for S. M. P. 's newsroom and then logged off from I. C. Q.
It was 4.20 before Cortez called.
"They're showing signs of leaving."
"We're ready."
Silence.
"They're going their separate ways outside the pub. Jonas heading north. Teleborian to the south. Lottie's going after him."
Blomkvist raised a finger and pointed as Jonas flashed past them on Vasagatan. Figuerola nodded and started the engine. Seconds later Blomkvist could also see Cortez.
"He's crossing Vasagatan, heading towards Kungsgatan," Cortez said into his mobile.
"Keep your distance so he doesn't spot you."
"Quite a few people out."
Silence.
"He's turning north on Kungsgatan."
"North on Kungsgatan," Blomkvist said.
Figuerola changed gear and turned up Vasagatan. They were stopped by a red light.
"Where is he now?" Blomkvist said as they turned on to Kungsgatan.
"Opposite P. U. B. department store. He's walking fast. Whoops, he's turned up Drottninggatan heading north."
"Drottninggatan heading north," Blomkvist said.
"Right," Figuerola said, making an illegal turn on to Klara Norra and heading towards Olof Palmes Gata. She turned and braked outside the S. I. F. building. Jonas crossed Olof Palmes Gata and turned up towards Sveavägen. Cortez stayed on the other side of the street.
"He turned east-"
"We can see you both."
"He's turning down Holländargatan. Hello... Car. Red Audi."
"Car," Blomkvist said, writing down the registration number Cortez read off to him.
"Which way is he facing?" Figuerola said.
"Facing south," Cortez reported. "He's pulling out in front of you on Olof Palmes Gata... now."
Monica was already on her way and passing Drottninggatan. She signalled and headed off a couple of pedestrians who tried to sneak across even though their light was red.
"Thanks, Henry. We'll take him from here."
The red Audi turned south on Sveavägen. As Figuerola followed she flipped open her mobile with her left hand and punched in a number.
"Could I get an owner of a red Audi?" she said, rattling off the number.
"Jonas Sandberg, born 1971. What did you say? Helsingörsgatan, Kista. Thanks."
Blomkvist wrote down the information.
They followed the red Audi via Hamngatan to Strandvägen and then straight up to Artillerigatan. Jonas parked a block away from the Armémuseum. He walked across the street and through the front door of an 1890s building.
"Interesting," Figuerola said, turning to Blomkvist.
Jonas Sandberg had entered a building that was only a block away from the apartment the Prime Minister had borrowed for their private meeting.
"Nicely done," Figuerola said.
Just then Karim called and told them that Teleborian had gone up on to Klarabergsgatan via the escalators in Central Station and from there to police headquarters on Kungsholmen.
"Police headquarters at 5.00 on a Saturday afternoon?"
Figuerola and Blomkvist exchanged a sceptical look. Monica pondered this turn of events for a few seconds. Then she picked up her mobile and called Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski.
"Hello, it's Monica from S. I. S. We met on Norr Mälarstrand a while back."
"What do you want?" Bublanski said.
"Have you got anybody on duty this weekend?"
"Modig," Bublanski said.
"I need a favour. Do you know if she's at headquarters?"
"I doubt it. It's beautiful weather and Saturday afternoon."
"Could you possibly reach her or anyone else on the investigative team who might be able to take a look in Prosecutor Ekström's corridor... to see if there's a meeting going on in his office at the moment."
"What sort of meeting?"
"I can't explain just yet. I just need to know if he has a meeting with anybody right now. And if so, who."
"You want me to spy on a prosecutor who happens to be my superior?"
Figuerola raised her eyebrows. Then she shrugged. "Yes, I do."
"I'll do what I can," he said and hung up.
Sonja Modig was closer to police headquarters than Bublanski had thought. She was having coffee with her husband on the balcony of a friend's place in Vasastaden. Their children were away with her parents who had taken them on a week's holiday, and they planned to do something as old-fashioned as have a bite to eat and go to the movies.
Bublanski explained why he was calling.
"And what sort of excuse would I have to barge in on Ekström?" Modig asked.
"I promised to give him an update on Niedermann yesterday, but in fact I forgot to deliver it to his office before I left. It's on my desk."
"O.K.," said Modig. She looked at her husband and her friend. "I have to go in to H. Q. I'll take the car and with a little luck I'll be back in an hour."
Her husband sighed. Her friend sighed.
"I'm on call this weekend," Modig said in apology.
She parked on Bergsgatan, took the lift up to Bublanski's office, and picked up the three A4 pages that comprised the meagre results of their search for Niedermann. Not much to hang on the Christmas tree, she thought.
She took the stairs up to the next floor and stopped at the door to the corridor. Headquarters was almost deserted on this summer afternoon. She was not exactly sneaking around. She was just walking very quietly. She stopped outside Ekström's closed door. She heard voices and all of a sudden her courage deserted her. She felt a fool. In any normal situation she would have knocked on the door, pushed it open and exclaimed, "Hello! So you're still here?" and then sailed right in. Now it seemed all wrong.
She looked around.
Why had Bublanski called her? What was this meeting about?
She glanced across the corridor. Opposite Ekström's office was a conference room big enough for ten people. She had sat through a number of presentations there herself. She went into the room and closed the door. The blinds were down, and the glass partition to the corridor was covered by curtains. It was dark. She pulled up a chair and sat down, then opened the curtains a crack so that she would have a view of the corridor.
She felt uneasy. If anyone opened the door she would have quite a problem explaining what she was doing there. She took out her mobile and looked at the time display. Just before 6.00. She changed the ring to silent and leaned back in her chair, watching the door of Ekström's office.
At 7.00 Plague pinged Salander.
He sent over a U. R. L.
She logged out and went to the U. R. L. where Plague had uploaded all the administrator rights for S. M. P. She started by checking whether Fleming was online and at work. He was not. So she borrowed his identity and went into S. M. P.'s mail server. That way she could look at all the activity in the email system, even messages that had long since been deleted from individual accounts.
She started with Ernst Teodor Billing, one of the night editors at S. M. P., forty-three years old. She opened his mail and began to click back in time. She spent about two seconds on each message, just long enough to get an idea of who sent it and what it was about. After a few minutes she had worked out what was routine mail in the form of daily memos, schedules and other uninteresting stuff. She started to scroll past these.
She went through three months' worth of messages one by one. Then she skipped month to month and read only the subject lines, opening the message only if it was something that caught her attention. She learned that Billing was going out with a woman named Sofia and that he used an unpleasant tone with her. She saw that this was nothing unusual, since Billing took an unpleasant tone with most of the people to whom he wrote messages - reporters, layout artists and others. Even so, she thought it odd that a man would consistently address his girlfriend with the words fucking fatty, fucking airhead or fucking cunt.
After an hour of searching, she shut down Billing and crossed him off the list. She moved on to Lars Örjan Wollberg, a veteran reporter at fifty-one who was on the legal desk.
Edklinth walked into police headquarters at 7.30 on Saturday evening. Figuerola and Blomkvist were waiting for him. They were sitting at the same conference table at which Blomkvist had sat the day before.
Edklinth reminded himself that he was on very thin ice and that a host of regulations had been violated when he gave Blomkvist access to the corridor. Figuerola most definitely had no right to invite him here on her own authority. Even the spouses of his colleagues were not permitted in the corridors of S. I. S., but were asked instead to wait on the landings if they were meeting their partner. And to cap it all, Blomkvist was a journalist. From now on Blomkvist would be allowed only into the temporary office at Fridhemsplan.
But outsiders were allowed into the corridors by special invitation. Foreign guests, researchers, academics, freelance consultants... he put Blomkvist into the category of freelance consultant. All this nonsense about security classification was little more than words anyway. Someone decides that a certain person should be given a particular level of clearance. And Edklinth had decided that if criticism were raised, he would say that he personally had given Blomkvist clearance.
If something went wrong, that is. He sat down and looked at Figuerola.
"How did you find out about the meeting?"
"Blomkvist called me at around 4.00," she said with a satisfied smile.
Edklinth turned to Blomkvist. "And how did you find out about the meeting?"
"Tipped off by a source."
"Am I to conclude that you're running some sort of surveillance on Teleborian?"
Figuerola shook her head. "That was my first thought too," she said in a cheerful voice, as if Blomkvist were not in the room. "But it doesn't add up. Even if somebody were following Teleborian for Blomkvist, that person could not have known in advance that he was on his way to meet Jonas Sandberg."
"So... what else? Illegal tapping or something?" Edklinth said.
"I can assure you," Blomkvist said to remind them that he was there in the room, "that I'm not conducting illegal eavesdropping on anyone. Be realistic. Illegal tapping is the domain of government authorities."
Edklinth frowned. "So you aren't going to tell us how you heard about the meeting?"
"I've already told you that I won't. I was tipped off by a source. The source is protected. Why don't we concentrate on what we've discovered?"
"I don't like loose ends," Edklinth said. "But O.K. What have you found out?"
"His name is Jonas Sandberg," Figuerola said. "Trained as a navy frogman and then attended the police academy in the early '90s. Worked first in Uppsala and then in Södertälje."
"You're from Uppsala."
"Yes, but we missed each other by about a year. He was recruited by S.I.S. Counter-Espionage in 1998. Reassigned to a secret post abroad in 2000. According to our documents, he's at the embassy in Madrid. I checked with the embassy. They have no record of a Jonas Sandberg on their staff."
"Just like Mårtensson. Officially moved to a place where he doesn't exist."
"The chief of Secretariat is the only person who could make this sort of arrangement."
"And in normal circumstances everything would be dismissed as muddled red tape. We've noticed it only because we're specifically looking for it. And if anyone starts asking awkward questions, they'll say it's confidential or that it has something to do with terrorism."
"There's quite a bit of budget work to check up on."
"The chief of Budget?"
"Maybe."
"Anything else?"
"Sandberg lives in Sollentuna. He's not married, but he has a child with a teacher in Södertälje. No black marks on his record. Licence for two handguns. Conscientious and a teetotaller. The only thing that doesn't quite fit is that he seems to be an evangelical and was a member of the Word of Life in the '90s."
"Where did you find that out?"
"I had a word with my old chief in Uppsala. He remembers Sandberg quite well."
"A Christian frogman with two weapons and offspring in Södertälje. More?"
"We only I. D.'d him about three hours ago. This is pretty fast work, you have to admit."
"Fair enough. What do we know about the building on Artillerigatan?"
"Not a lot yet. Stefan went to chase someone up from the city building office. We have blueprints of the building. A housing association block since the 1890s. Six floors with a total of twenty-two apartments, plus eight apartments in a small building in the courtyard. I looked up the tenants, but didn't find anything that stood out. Two of the people living in the building have police records."
"Who are they?"
"Lindström on the second floor, sixty-three. Convicted of insurance fraud in the '70s. Wittfelt on the fourth floor, forty-seven. Twice convicted for beating his ex-wife. Otherwise what sounds like a cross-section of middle-class Sweden. There's one apartment that raises a question mark though."
"What?"
"It's on the top floor. Eleven rooms and apparently a bit of a snazzy joint. It's owned by a company called Bellona Inc."
"And what's their stated business?"
"God only knows. They do marketing analyses and have annual sales of around thirty million kronor. All the owners live abroad."
"Aha."
"Aha what?"
"Nothing. Just 'aha'. Do some more checks on Bellona."
At that moment the officer Blomkvist knew only as Stefan entered the room.
"Hi, chief," he greeted Edklinth. "This is really cool. I checked out the story behind the Bellona apartment."
"And?" Figuerola said.
"Bellona Inc. was founded in the '70s. They bought the apartment from the estate of the former owner, a woman by the name of Kristina Cederholm, born in 1917, married to Hans Wilhelm Francke, the loose cannon who quarrelled with P.G. Vinge at the time S.I.S. was founded."
"Good," Edklinth said. "Very good. Monica, we want surveillance on that apartment around the clock. Find out what telephones they have. I want to know who goes in and who comes out, and what vehicles drop anyone off at that address. The usual."
Edklinth turned to Blomkvist. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but he restrained himself. Blomkvist looked at him expectantly.
"Are you satisfied with the information flow?" Edklinth said at last.
"Very satisfied. Are you satisfied with Millennium's contribution?"
Edklinth nodded reluctantly. "You do know that I could get into very deep water for this."
"Not because of me. I regard the information that I receive here as source-protected. I'll report the facts, but I won't mention how or where I got them. Before I go to press I'm going to do a formal interview with you. If you don't want to give me an answer to something, you just say 'No comment'. Or else you could expound on what you think about the Section for Special Analysis. It's up to you."
"Indeed," Edklinth nodded.
Blomkvist was happy. Within a few hours the Section had taken on tangible form. A real breakthrough.
To Modig's great frustration the meeting in Ekström's office was lasting a long time. Mercifully someone had left a full bottle of mineral water on the conference table. She had twice texted her husband to tell him that she was still held up, promising to make it up to him as soon as she could get home. She was starting to get restless and felt like an intruder.
The meeting did not end until 7.30. She was taken completely by surprise when the door opened and Faste came out. And then Dr Teleborian. Behind them came an older, grey-haired man Modig had never seen before. Finally Prosecutor Ekström, putting on a jacket as he switched off the lights and locked the door to his office.
Modig held up her mobile to the gap in the curtains and took two low-res photographs of the group outside Ekström's door. Seconds later they had set off down the corridor.
She held her breath until they were some distance from the conference room in which she was trapped. She was in a cold sweat by the time she heard the door to the stairwell close. She stood up, weak at the knees.
Bublanski called Figuerola just after 8.00.
"You wanted to know if Ekström had a meeting."
"Correct," Figuerola said.
"It just ended. Ekström met with Dr Peter Teleborian and my former colleague Criminal Inspector Faste, and an older gentleman we didn't recognize."
"Just a moment," Figuerola said. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the others. "Teleborian went straight to Ekström."
"Hello, are you still there?"
"Sorry. Do we have a description of the third man?"
"Even better. I'm sending you a picture."
"A picture? I'm in your debt."
"It would help if you'd tell me what's going on."
"I'll get back to you."
They sat in silence around the conference table for a moment.
"So," Edklinth said at last. "Teleborian meets with the Section and then goes directly to see Prosecutor Ekström. I'd give a lot of money to find out what they talked about."
"Or you could just ask me," Blomkvist said.
Edklinth and Figuerola looked at him.
"They met to finalize their strategy for nailing Salander at her trial."
Figuerola gave him a look. Then she nodded slowly.
"That's a guess," Edklinth said. "Unless you happen to have paranormal abilities."
"It's no guess," said Mikael. "They met to discuss the forensic psychiatric report on Salander. Teleborian has just finished writing it."
"Nonsense. Salander hasn't even been examined."
Blomkvist shrugged and opened his laptop case. "That hasn't stopped Teleborian in the past. Here's the latest version. It's dated, as you can see, the week the trial is scheduled to begin."
Edklinth and Figuerola read through at the text before them. At last they exchanged glances and then looked at Blomkvist.
"And where the devil did you get hold of this?" Edklinth said.
"That's from a source I have to protect," said Blomkvist.
"Blomkvist... we have to be able to trust each other. You're withholding information. Have you got any more surprises up your sleeve?"
"Yes. I do have secrets, of course. Just as I'm persuaded that you haven't given me carte blanche to look at everything you have here at Säpo."
"It's not the same thing."
"It's precisely the same thing. This arrangement involves cooperation. You said it yourself: we have to trust each other. I'm not holding back anything that could be useful to your investigation of the Section or throw light on the various crimes that have been committed. I've already handed over evidence that Teleborian committed crimes with Björck in 1991, and I told you that he would be hired to do the same thing again now. And this is the document that proves me right."
"But you're still withholding key material."
"Naturally, and you can either suspend our co-operation or you can live with that."
Figuerola held up a diplomatic finger. "Excuse me, but does this mean that Ekström is working for the Section?"
Blomkvist frowned. "That I don't know. My sense is that he's more a useful fool being used by the Section. He's ambitious, but I think he's honest, if a little stupid. One source did tell me that he swallowed most of what Teleborian fed him about Salander at a presentation of reports when the hunt for her was still on."
"So you don't think it takes much to manipulate him?"
"Exactly. And Criminal Inspector Faste is an unadulterated idiot who believes that Salander is a lesbian Satanist."
Berger was at home. She felt paralysed and unable to concentrate on any real work. All the time she expected someone to call and tell her that pictures of her were posted on some website.
She caught herself thinking over and over about Salander, although she realized that her hopes of getting help from her were most likely in vain. Salander was locked up at Sahlgrenska. She was not allowed visitors and could not even read the newspapers. But she was an oddly resourceful young woman. Despite her isolation she had managed to contact Berger on I. C. Q. and then by telephone. And two years ago she had single-handedly destroyed Wennerström's financial empire and saved Millennium.
At 8.00 Linder arrived and knocked on the door. Berger jumped as though someone had fired a shot in her living room.
"Hello, Erika. You're sitting here in the dark looking glum."
Berger nodded and turned on a light. "Hi. I'll put on some coffee-"
"No. Let me do it. Anything new?"
You can say that again. Lisbeth Salander got in touch with me and took control of my computer. And then she called to say that Teleborian and somebody called Jonas were meeting at Central Station this afternoon.
"No. Nothing new," she said. "But I have something I'd like to try on you."
"Try it."
"What do you think the chances are that this isn't a stalker but somebody I know who wants to fuck with me?"
"What's the difference?"
"To me a stalker is someone I don't know who's become fixated on me. The alternative is a person who wants to take some sort of revenge and sabotage my life for personal reasons."
"Interesting thought. Why did this come up?"
"I was... discussing the situation with someone today. I can't give you her name, but she suggested that threats from a real stalker would be different. She said a stalker would never have written the email to the girl on the culture desk. It seems completely beside the point."
Linder said: "There is something to that. You know, I never read the emails. Could I see them?"
Berger set up her laptop on the kitchen table.
Figuerola escorted Blomkvist out of police headquarters at 10.00 p.m. They stopped at the same place in Kronoberg park as the day before.
"Here we are again. Are you going to disappear to work or do you want to come to my place and come to bed with me?"
"Well..."
"You don't have to feel pressured, Mikael. If you have to work, then do it."
"Listen, Figuerola, you're worryingly habit-forming."
"And you don't want to be dependent on anything. Is that what you're saying?"
"No. That's not what I'm saying. But there's someone I have to talk to tonight and it'll take a while. You'll be asleep before I'm done."
She shrugged.
"See you."
He kissed her cheek and headed for the bus stop on Fridhemsplan.
"Blomkvist," she called.
"What?"
"I'm free tomorrow morning as well. Come and have breakfast if you can make it."
CHAPTER 21
Saturday, 4.vi - Monday, 6.vi
Salander picked up a number of ominous vibrations as she browsed the emails of the news editor, Holm. He was fifty-eight and thus fell outside the group, but Salander had included him anyway
because he and Berger had been at each other's throats. He was a schemer who wrote messages to various people telling them how someone had done a rotten job.
It was obvious to Salander that Holm did not like Berger, and he certainly wasted a lot of space talking about how the bitch had said this or done that. He used the Net exclusively for work-related sites. If he had other interests, he must google them in his own time on some other machine.
She kept him as a candidate for the title of Poison Pen, but he was not a favourite. Salander spent some time thinking about why she did not believe he was the one, and arrived at the conclusion that he was so damned arrogant he did not have to go to the trouble of using anonymous email. If he wanted to call Berger a whore, he would do it openly. And he did not seem the type to go sneaking into Berger's home in the middle of the night.
At 10.00 in the evening she took a break and went into [Idiotic_Table]. She saw that Blomkvist had not come back yet. She felt slightly peeved and wondered what he was up to, and whether he had made it in time to Teleborian's meeting.
Then she went back into S. M. P.'s server.
She moved to the next name on the list, assistant sports editor Claes Lundin, twenty-nine. She had just opened his email when she stopped and bit her lip. She closed it again and went instead to Berger's.
She scrolled back in time. There was relatively little in her inbox, since her email account had been opened only on May 2. The very first message was a midday memo from Peter Fredriksson. In the course of Berger's first day several people had emailed her to welcome her to S.M.P.
Salander carefully read each message in Berger's inbox. She could see how even from day one there had been a hostile undertone in her correspondence with Holm. They seemed unable to agree on anything, and Salander saw that Holm was already trying to exasperate Berger by sending several emails about complete trivialities.
She skipped over ads, spam and news memos. She focused on any kind of personal correspondence. She read budget calculations, advertising and marketing projections, an exchange with C. F. O. Sellberg that went on for a week and was virtually a brawl over staff layoffs. Berger had received irritated messages from the head of the legal department about some temp. by the name of Johannes Frisk. She had apparently detailed him to work on some story and this had not been appreciated. Apart from the first welcome emails, it seemed as if no-one at management level could see anything positive in any of Berger's arguments or proposals.
After a while Salander scrolled back to the beginning and did a statistical calculation in her head. Of all the upper-level managers at S. M. P., only four did not engage in sniping. They were the chairman of the board Magnus Borgsjö, assistant editor Fredriksson, front-page editor Magnusson, and culture editor Sebastian Strandlund.
Had they never heard of women at S. M. P.? All the heads of department were men.
Of these, the one that Berger had least to do with was Strandlund. She had exchanged only two emails with the culture editor. The friendliest and most engaging messages came from front-page editor Gunnar Magnusson. Borgsjö's were terse and to the point.
Why the hell had this group of boys hired Berger at all, if all they did was tear her limb from limb?
The colleague Berger seemed to have the most to do with was Fredriksson. His role was to act as a kind of shadow, to sit in on her meetings as an observer. He prepared memos, briefed Berger on various articles and issues, and got the jobs moving.
He emailed Berger a dozen times a day.
Salander sorted all of Fredriksson's emails to Berger and read them through. In a number of instances he had objected to some decision Berger had made and presented counter-proposals. Berger seemed to have confidence in him since she would then often change her decision or accept his argument. He was never hostile. But there was not a hint of any personal relationship to her.
Salander closed Berger's email and thought for a moment.
She opened Fredriksson's account.
Plague had been fooling around with the home computers of various employees of S.M.P. all evening without much success. He had managed to get into Holm's machine because it had an open line to his desk at work; any time of the day or night he could go in and access whatever he was working on. Holm's P.C. was one of the most boring Plague had ever hacked. He had no luck with the other eighteen names on Salander's list. One reason was that none of the people he tried to hack was online on a Saturday night. He was beginning to tire of this impossible task when Salander pinged him at 10.30.
Plague sighed. This girl who had once been his student now had a better handle on things than he did.
Blomkvist was back at Salander's apartment on Mosebacke just before midnight. He was tired. He took a shower and put on some coffee, and then he booted up Salander's computer and pinged her I. C. Q.
Linder woke with a start when her earpiece beeped. Someone had just tripped the motion detector she had placed in the hall on the ground floor. She propped herself up on her elbow. It was 5.23 on Sunday morning. She slipped silently out of bed and pulled on her jeans, a T-shirt and trainers. She stuffed the Mace in her back pocket and picked up her spring-loaded baton.
She passed the door to Berger's bedroom without a sound, noticing that it was closed and therefore locked.
She stopped at the top of the stairs and listened. She heard a faint clinking sound and movement from the ground floor. Slowly she went down the stairs and paused in the hall to listen again.
A chair scraped in the kitchen. She held the baton in a firm grip and crept to the kitchen door. She saw a bald, unshaven man sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice, reading S. M. P. He sensed her presence and looked up.
"And who the hell are you?"
Linder relaxed and leaned against the door jamb. "Greger Beckman, I presume. Hello. I'm Susanne Linder."
"I see. Are you going to hit me over the head or would you like a glass of juice?"
"Yes, please," Linder said, putting down her baton. "Juice, that is."
Beckman reached for a glass from the draining board and poured some for her.
"I work for Milton Security," Linder said. "I think it's probably best if your wife explains what I'm doing here."
Beckman stood up. "Has something happened to Erika?"
"Your wife is fine. But there's been some trouble. We tried to get hold of you in Paris."
"Paris? Why Paris? I've been in Helsinki, for God's sake."
"Alright. I'm sorry, but your wife thought you were in Paris."
"That's next month," said Beckman on his way out of the door.
"The bedroom is locked. You need a code to open the door," Linder said.
"I beg your pardon... what code?"
She told him the three numbers he had to punch in to open the bedroom door. He ran up the stairs.
At 10.00 on Sunday morning Jonasson came into Salander's room.
"Hello, Lisbeth."
"Hello."
"Just thought I'd warn you: the police are coming at lunchtime."
"Fine."
"You don't seem worried."
"I'm not."
"I have a present for you."
"A present? What for?"
"You've been one of my most interesting patients in a long time."
"You don't say," Salander said sceptically.
"I heard that you're fascinated by D. N. A. and genetics."
"Who's been gossiping? That psychologist lady, I bet."
Jonasson nodded. "If you get bored in prison... this is the latest thing on D. N. A. research."
He handed her a brick of a book entitled Spirals - Mysteries of DNA, by Professor Yoshito Takamura of Tokyo University. Salander opened it and studied the table of contents.
"Beautiful," she said.
"Someday I'd be interested to hear how it is that you can read academic texts that even I can't understand."
As soon as Jonasson had left the room, she took out her Palm. Last chance. From S.M.P.'s personnel department Salander had learned that Fredriksson had worked at the paper for six years. During that time he had been off sick for two extended periods: two months in 2003 and three months in 2004. From the personnel files she concluded that the reason in both instances was burnout. Berger's predecessor Morander had on one occasion questioned whether Fredriksson should indeed stay on as assistant editor.
Yak, yak, yak. Nothing concrete to go on.
At 11.45 Plague pinged her.
Salander logged off from I. C. Q. She glanced at the clock and realized that it would soon be lunchtime. She rapidly composed a message that she addressed to the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]: Mikael. Important. Call Berger right away and tell her Fredriksson is Poison Pen.
The instant she sent the message she heard movement in the corridor. She polished the screen of her Palm Tungsten T3 and then switched it off and placed it in the recess behind the bedside table.
"Hello, Lisbeth." It was Giannini in the doorway.
"Hello."
"The police are coming for you in a while. I've brought you some clothes. I hope they're the right size."
Salander looked distrustfully at the selection of neat, dark-coloured linen trousers and pastel-coloured blouses.
Two uniformed Göteborg policewomen came to get her. Giannini was to go with them to the prison.
As they walked from her room down the corridor, Salander noticed that several of the staff were watching her with curiosity. She gave them a friendly nod, and some of them waved back. As if by chance, Jonasson was standing by the reception desk. They looked at each other and nodded. Even before they had turned the corner Salander noticed that he was heading for her room.
During the entire procedure of transporting her to the prison, Salander did not say a word to the police.
Blomkvist had closed his iBook at 7.00 on Sunday morning. He sat for a moment at Salander's desk listless, staring into space.
Then he went to her bedroom and looked at her gigantic, king-size bed. After a while he went back to her office and flipped open his mobile to call Figuerola.
"Hi. It's Mikael."
"Hello there. Are you already up?"
"I've just finished working and I'm on my way to bed. I just wanted to call and say hello."
"Men who just want to call and say hello generally have ulterior motives."
He laughed.
"Blomkvist... you could come here and sleep if you like."
"I'd be wretched company."
"I'll get used to it."
He took a taxi to Pontonjärgatan.
Berger spent Sunday in bed with her husband. They lay there talking and dozing. In the afternoon they got dressed and went for a walk down to the steamship dock.
"S. M. P. was a mistake," Berger said when they got home.
"Don't say that. Right now it's tough, but you knew it would be. Things will calm down after you've been there a while."
"It's not the job. I can handle that. It's the atmosphere."
"I see."
"I don't like it there, but on the other hand I can't walk out after a few weeks."
She sat at the kitchen table and stared morosely into space. Beckman had never seen his wife so stymied.
Inspector Faste met Salander for the first time at 11.30 on Sunday morning when a woman police officer brought her into Erlander's office at Göteborg police headquarters.
"You were difficult enough to catch," Faste said.
Salander gave him a long look, satisfied herself that he was an idiot, and decided that she would not waste too many seconds concerning herself with his existence.
"Inspector Gunilla Wäring will accompany you to Stockholm," Erlander said.
"Alright," Faste said. "Then we'll leave at once. There are quite a few people who want to have a serious talk with you, Salander."
Erlander said goodbye to her. She ignored him.
They had decided for simplicity's sake to do the prisoner transfer to Stockholm by car. Wäring drove. At the start of the journey Hans Faste sat in the front passenger seat with his head turned towards the back as he tried to have some exchange with Salander. By the time they reached Alingsås his neck was aching and he gave up.
Salander looked at the countryside. In her mind Faste did not exist.
Teleborian was right. She's fucking retarded, Faste thought. We'll see about changing that attitude when we get to Stockholm.
Every so often he glanced at Salander and tried to form an opinion of the woman he had been desperate to track down for such a long time. Even he had some doubts when he saw the skinny girl. He wondered how much she could weigh. He reminded himself that she was a lesbian and consequently not a real woman.
But it was possible that the bit about Satanism was an exaggeration. She did not look the type.
The irony was that he would have preferred to arrest her for the three murders that she was originally suspected of, but reality had caught up with his investigation. Even a skinny girl can handle a weapon. Instead she had been taken in for assaulting the top leadership of Svavelsjö M. C., and she was guilty of that crime, no question. There was forensic evidence related to the incident which she no doubt intended to refute.
Figuerola woke Blomkvist at 1.00 in the afternoon. She had been sitting on her balcony and had finished reading her book about the idea of God in antiquity, listening all the while to Blomkvist's snores from the bedroom. It had been peaceful. When she went in to look at him it came to her, acutely, that she was more attracted to him than she had been to any other man in years.
It was a pleasant yet unsettling feeling. There he was, but he was not a stable element in her life.
They went down to Norr Mälarstrand for a coffee. Then she took him home and to bed for the rest of the afternoon. He left her at 7.00. She felt a vague sense of loss a moment after he kissed her cheek and was gone.
At 8.00 on Sunday evening Linder knocked on Berger's door. She would not be sleeping there now that Beckman was home, and this visit was not connected with her job. But during the
time she had spent at Berger's house they had both grown to enjoy the long conversations they had in the kitchen. She had discovered a great liking for Berger. She recognized in her a desperate woman who succeeded in concealing her true nature. She went to work apparently calm, but in reality she was a bundle of nerves.
Linder suspected that her anxiety was due not solely to Poison Pen. But Berger's life and problems were none of her business. It was a friendly visit. She had come out here just to see Berger and to be sure that everything was alright. The couple were in the kitchen in a solemn mood. It seemed as though they had spent their Sunday working their way through one or two serious issues.
Beckman put on some coffee. Linder had been there only a few minutes when Berger's mobile rang.
Berger had answered every call that day with a feeling of impending doom.
"Berger," she said.
"Hello, Ricky."
Blomkvist. Shit. I haven't told him the Borgsjö file has disappeared.
"Hi, Micke."
"Salander was moved to the prison in Göteborg this evening, to wait for transport to Stockholm tomorrow."
"O.K."
"She sent you a... well, a message."
"Oh?"
"It's pretty cryptic."
"What did she say?"
"She says: 'Poison Pen is Peter Fredriksson.'"
Erika sat for ten seconds in silence while thoughts rushed through her head. Impossible. Peter isn't like that. Salander has to be wrong.
"Was that all?"
"That's the whole message. Do you know what it's about?"
"Yes."
"Ricky... what are you and that girl up to? She rang you to tip me off about Teleborian and-"
"Thanks, Micke. We'll talk later."
She turned off her mobile and looked at Linder with an expression of absolute astonishment.
"Tell me," Linder said.
Linder was in two minds. Berger had been told that her assistant editor was the one sending the vicious emails. She talked non-stop. Then Linder had asked her how she knew Fredriksson was her stalker. Then Berger was silent. Linder noticed her eyes and saw that something had changed in her attitude. She was all of a sudden totally confused.
"I can't tell you..."
"What do you mean you can't tell me?"
"Susanne, I just know that Fredriksson is responsible. But I can't tell you how I got that information. What can I do?"
"If I'm going to help you, you have to tell me."
"I... I can't. You don't understand."
Berger got up and stood at the kitchen window with her back to Linder. Finally she turned.
"I'm going to his house."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You're not going anywhere, least of all to the home of somebody who obviously hates you."
Berger looked torn.
"Sit down. Tell me what happened. It was Blomkvist calling you, right?"
Berger nodded.
"I... today I asked a hacker to go through the home computers of the staff."
"Aha. So you've probably by extension committed a serious computer crime. And you don't want to tell me who your hacker is?"
"I promised I would never tell anyone... Other people are involved. Something that Mikael is working on."
"Does Blomkvist know about the emails and the break-in here?"
"No, he was just passing on a message."
Linder cocked her head to one side, and all of a sudden a chain of associations formed in her mind.
Erika Berger. Mikael Blomkvist. Millennium. Rogue policemen who broke in and bugged Blomkvist's apartment. Linder watching the watchers. Blomkvist working like a madman on a story about Lisbeth Salander.
The fact that Salander was a wizard at computers was widely known at Milton Security. No-one knew how she had come by her skills, and Linder had never heard any rumours that Salander
might be a hacker. But Armansky had once said something about Salander delivering quite incredible reports when she was doing personal investigations. A hacker...
But Salander is under guard on a ward in Göteborg.
It was absurd.
"Is it Salander we're talking about?" Linder said.
Berger looked as though she had touched a live wire.
"I can't discuss where the information came from. Not one word."
Linder laughed aloud.
It was Salander. Berger's confirmation of it could not have been clearer. She was completely off balance.
Yet it's impossible.
Under guard as she was, Salander had nevertheless taken on the job of finding out who Poison Pen was. Sheer madness.
Linder thought hard.
She could not understand the whole Salander story. She had met her maybe five times during the years she had worked at Milton Security and had never had so much as a single conversation with her. She regarded Salander as a sullen and asocial individual with a skin like a rhino. She had heard that Armansky himself had taken Salander on and since she respected Armansky she assumed that he had good reason for his endless patience towards the sullen girl.
Poison Pen is Peter Fredriksson.
Could she be right? What was the proof?
Linder then spent a long time questioning Erika on everything she knew about Fredriksson, what his role was at S. M. P., and how their relationship had been. The answers did not help her at all.
Berger had displayed a frustrating indecision. She had wavered between a determination to drive out to Fredriksson's place and confront him, and an unwillingness to believe that it could really be true. Finally Linder convinced her that she could not storm into Fredriksson's apartment and launch into an accusation - if he was innocent, she would make an utter fool of herself.
So Linder had promised to look into the matter. It was a promise she regretted as soon as she made it, because she did not have the faintest idea how she was going to proceed.
She parked her Fiat Strada as close to Fredriksson's apartment building in Fisksätra as she could. She locked the car and looked about her. She was not sure what she was going to do, but she supposed she would have to knock on his door and somehow get him to answer a number of
questions. She was acutely aware that this was a job that lay well outside her remit at Milton, and she knew Armansky would be furious if he found out what she was doing.
It was not a good plan, and in any case it fell apart before she had managed to put it into practice. She had reached the courtyard and was approaching Fredriksson's apartment when the door opened. Linder recognized him at once from the photograph in his personnel file which she had studied on Berger's computer. She kept walking and they passed each other. He disappeared in the direction of the garage. It was just before 11.00 and Fredriksson was on his way somewhere. Linder turned and ran back to her car.
Blomkvist sat for a long time looking at his mobile after Berger hung up. He wondered what was going on. In frustration he looked at Salander's computer. By now she had been moved to the prison in Göteborg, and he had no chance of asking her anything.
He opened his Ericsson T10 and called Idris Ghidi in Angered.
"Hello. Mikael Blomkvist."
"Hello," Ghidi said.
"Just to tell you that you can stop that job you were doing for me."
Ghidi had already worked out that Blomkvist would call since Salander had been taken from the hospital.
"I understand," he said.
"You can keep the mobile as we agreed. I'll send you the final payment this week."
"Thanks."
"I'm the one who should thank you for your help."
Blomkvist opened his iBook. The events of the past twenty-four hours meant that a significant part of the manuscript had to be revised and that in all probability a whole new section would have to be added.
He sighed and got to work.
At 11.15 Fredriksson parked three streets away from Berger's house. Linder had already guessed where he was going and had stopped trying to keep him in sight. She drove past his car fully two minutes after he parked. The car was empty. She went on a short distance past Berger's house and stopped well out of sight. Her palms were sweating.
She opened her tin of Catch Dry snuff and tucked a teenage-sized portion inside her upper lip.
Then she opened her car door and looked around. As soon as she could tell that Fredriksson was on his way to Saltsjöbaden, she knew that Salander's information must be correct. And
obviously he had not come all this way for fun. Trouble was brewing. Which was fine by her, so long as she could catch him red-handed.
She took her telescopic baton from the side pocket of her car door and weighed it in her hand for a moment. She pressed the lock in the handle and out shot a heavy, spring-loaded steel cable. She clenched her teeth.
That was why she had left the Södermalm force.
She had had one mad outbreak of rage when for the third time in as many days the squad car had driven to an address in Hägersten after the same woman had called the police and screamed for help because her husband had abused her. And just as on the first two occasions, the situation had resolved itself before they arrived.
They had detained the husband on the staircase while the woman was questioned. No, she did not want to file a police report. No, it was all a mistake. No, he was fine... it was actually all her fault. She had provoked him...
And the whole time the bastard had stood there grinning, looking Linder straight in the eye.
She could not explain why she did it. But suddenly something had snapped in her, and she took out her baton and slammed it across his face. The first blow had lacked power. She had only given him a fat lip and forced him on to his knees. In the next ten seconds - until her colleagues grabbed her and half dragged, half carried her out of the halfway - she had let the blows rain down on his back, kidneys, hips and shoulders.
Charges were never filed. She had resigned the same evening and went home and cried for a week. Then she pulled herself together and went to see Dragan Armansky. She explained what she had done and why she had left the force. She was looking for a job. Armansky had been sceptical and said he would need some time to think it over. She had given up hope by the time he called six weeks later and told her he was ready to take her on trial.
Linder frowned and stuck the baton into her belt at the small of her back. She checked that she had the Mace canister in her right-hand pocket and that the laces of her trainers were securely tied. She walked back to Berger's house and slipped into the garden.
She knew that the outside motion detector had not yet been installed, and she moved soundlessly across the lawn, along the hedge at the border of the property. She could not see him. She went around the house and stood still. Then she spotted him as a shadow in the darkness near Beckman's studio.
He can't know how stupid it is for him to come back here.
He was squatting down, trying to see through a gap in a curtain in the room next to the living room. Then he moved up on to the veranda and looked through the cracks in the drawn blinds at the big picture window.
Linder suddenly smiled.
She crossed the lawn to the corner of the house while he still had his back to her. She crouched behind some currant bushes by the gable end and waited. She could see him through the branches. From his position Fredriksson would be able to look down the hall and into part of the kitchen. Apparently he had found something interesting to look at, and it was ten minutes before he moved again. This time he came closer to Linder.
As he rounded the corner and passed her, she stood up and spoke in a low voice: "Hello there, Fredriksson."
He stopped short and spun towards her.
She saw his eyes glistening in the dark. She could not see his expression, but she could hear that he was holding his breath and she could sense his shock.
"We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way," she said. "We're going to walk to your car and-"
He turned and made to run away.
Linder raised her baton and directed a devastatingly painful blow to his left kneecap.
He fell with a moan.
She raised the baton a second time, but then caught herself. She thought she could feel Armansky's eyes on the back of her neck.
She bent down, flipped him over on to his stomach and put her knee in the small of his back. She took hold of his right hand and twisted it round on to his back and handcuffed him. He was frail and he put up no resistance.
*
Berger turned off the lamp in the living room and limped upstairs. She no longer needed the crutches, but the sole of her foot still hurt when she put any weight on it. Beckman turned off the light in the kitchen and followed his wife upstairs. He had never before seen her so unhappy. Nothing he said could soothe her or alleviate the anxiety she was feeling.
She got undressed, crept into bed and turned her back to him.
"It's not your fault, Greger," she said when she heard him get in beside her.
"You're not well," he said. "I want you to stay at home for a few days."
He put an arm around her shoulders. She did not to push him away, but she was completely passive. He bent over, kissed her cautiously on the neck, and held her.
"There's nothing you can say or do to make the situation any better. I know I need to take a break. I feel as though I've climbed on to an express train and discovered that I'm on the wrong track."
"We could go sailing for a few days. Get away from it all."
"No. I can't get away from it all."
She turned to him. "The worst thing I could do now would be to run away. I have to sort things out first. Then we can go."
"O. K," Beckman said. "I'm not being much help."
She smiled wanly. "No, you're not. But thanks for being here. I love you insanely - you know that."
He mumbled something inaudible.
"I simply can't believe it's Fredriksson," Berger said. "I've never felt the least bit of hostility from him."
Linder was just wondering whether she should ring Berger's doorbell when she saw the lights go off on the ground floor. She looked down at Fredriksson. He had not said a word. He was quite still. She thought for a long time before she made up her mind.
She bent down and grabbed the handcuffs, pulled him to his feet, and leaned him against the wall.
"Can you stand by yourself?" she said.
He did not answer.
"Right, we'll make this easy. You struggle in any way and you'll get the same treatment on your right leg. You struggle even more and I'll break your arms. Do you understand?"
She could hear him breathing heavily. Fear?
She pushed him along in front of her out on to the street all the way to his car. He was limping badly so she held him up. Just as they reached the car they met a man out walking his dog. The man stopped and looked at Fredriksson in his handcuffs.
"This is a police matter," Linder said in a firm voice. "You go home." The man turned and walked away in the direction he had come.
She put Fredriksson in the back seat and drove him home to Fisksätra. It was 12.30 and they saw no-one as they walked into his building. Linder fished out his keys and followed him up the stairs to his apartment on the fourth floor.
"You can't go into my apartment," said Fredriksson.
It was the first thing he had said since she cuffed him. She opened the apartment door and shoved him inside.
"You have no right. You have to have a search warrant-"
"I'm not a police officer," she said in a low voice.
He stared at her suspiciously.
She took hold of his shirt and dragged him into the living room, pushing him down on to a sofa. He had a neatly kept two-bedroom apartment. Bedroom to the left of the living room, kitchen across the hall, a small office off the living room.
She looked in the office and heaved a sigh of relief. The smoking gun. Straightaway she saw photographs from Berger's album spread out on a desk next to a computer. He had pinned up thirty or so pictures on the wall behind the computer. She regarded the exhibition with raised eyebrows. Berger was a fine-looking woman. And her sex life was more active than Linder's own.
She heard Fredriksson moving and went back to the living room, rapped him once across his lower back and then dragged him into the office and sat him down on the floor.
"You stay there," she said.
She went into the kitchen and found a paper carrier bag from Konsum. She took down one picture after another and then found the stripped album and Berger's diaries.
"Where's the video?" she said.
Fredriksson did not answer. Linder went into the living room and turned on the T. V. There was a tape in the V. C. R., but it took a while before she found the video channel on the remote so she could check it. She popped out the video and looked around to ensure he had not made any copies.
She found Berger's teenage love letters and the Borgsjö folder. Then she turned her attentions to Fredriksson's computer. She saw that he had a Microtek scanner hooked up to his P.C., and when she lifted the lid she found a photograph of Berger at a Club Xtreme party, New Year's Eve 1986 according to a banner on the wall.
She booted up the computer and discovered that it was password-protected.
"What's your password," she asked.
Fredriksson sat obstinately silent and refused to answer.
Linder suddenly felt utterly calm. She knew that technically she had committed one crime after another this evening, including unlawful restraint and even aggravated kidnapping. She did not care. On the contrary, she felt almost exhilarated.
After a while she shrugged and dug in her pocket for her Swiss Army knife. She unplugged all the cables from the computer, turned it round and used the screwdriver to open the back. It took her fifteen minutes to take it apart and remove the hard drive.
She had taken everything, but for safety's sake she did a thorough search of the desk drawers, the stacks of paper and the shelves. Suddenly her gaze fell on an old school yearbook lying on the windowsill. She saw that it was from Djurholm Gymnasium 1978. Did Berger not come from Djurholm's upper class? She opened the yearbook and began to look through that year's school leavers.
She found Erika Berger, eighteen years old, with student cap and a sunny smile with dimples. She wore a thin, white cotton dress and held a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She looked the epitome of an innocent teenager with top grades.
Linder almost missed the connection, but there it was on the next page. She would never have recognized him but for the caption. Peter Fredriksson. He was in a different class from Berger. Linder studied the photograph of a thin boy in a student cap who looked into the camera with a serious expression.
Her eyes met Fredriksson's.
"Even then she was a whore."
"Fascinating," Linder said.
"She fucked every guy in the school."
"I doubt that."
"She was a fucking-"
"Don't say it. So what happened? Couldn't you get into her knickers?"
"She treated me as though I didn't exist. She laughed at me. And when she started at S. M. P. she didn't even recognize me."
"Right," said Linder wearily. "I'm sure you had a terrible childhood. How about we have a serious talk?"
"What do you want?"
"I'm not a police officer," Linder said. "I'm someone who takes care of people like you."
She paused and let his imagination do the work.
"I want to know if you put photographs of her anywhere on the Internet."
He shook his head.
"Are you quite sure about that?"
He nodded.
"Berger will have to decide for herself whether she wants to make a formal complaint against you for harassment, threats, and breaking and entering, or whether she wants to settle things amicably."
He said nothing.
"If she decides to ignore you - and I think that's about what you're worth - then I'll be keeping an eye on you."
She held up her baton.
"If you ever go near her house again, or send her email or otherwise molest her, I'll be back. I'll beat you so hard so that even your own mother won't recognize you. Do I make myself clear?"
Still he said nothing.
"So you have the opportunity to influence how this story ends. Are you interested?"
He nodded slowly.
"In that case, I'm going to recommend to Fru Berger that she lets you off, but don't think about coming into work again. As of right now you're fired."
He nodded.
"You will disappear from her life and move out of Stockholm. I don't give a shit what you do with your life or where you end up. Find a job in Göteborg or Malmö. Go on sick leave again. Do whatever you like. But leave Berger in peace. Are we agreed?"
Fredriksson began to sob.
"I didn't mean any harm," he said. "I just wanted-"
"You just wanted to make her life a living hell and you certainly succeeded. Do I or do I not have your word?"
He nodded.
She bent over, turned him on to his stomach and unlocked the handcuffs. She took the Konsum bag containing Berger's life and left him there on the floor.
It was 2.30 a.m. on Monday when Linder left Fredriksson's building. She considered letting the matter rest until the next day, but then it occurred to her that if she had been the one involved, she would have wanted to know straightaway. Besides, her car was still parked out in Saltsjöbaden. She called a taxi.
Beckman opened the door even before she managed to ring the bell. He was wearing jeans and did not look as if he had just got out of bed.
"Is Erika awake?" Linder asked.
He nodded.
"Has something else happened?" he said.
She smiled at him.
"Come in. We're just talking in the kitchen."
They went in.
"Hello, Erika," Linder said. "You need to learn to get some sleep once in a while."
"What's happened?"
Linder held out the Konsum bag.
"Fredriksson promises to leave you alone from now on. God knows if we can trust him, but if he keeps his word it'll be less painful than hassling with a police report and a trial. It's up to you."
"So it was him?"
Linder nodded. Beckman poured a coffee, but she did not want one. She had drunk much too much coffee over the past few days. She sat down and told them what had happened outside their house that night.
Berger sat in silence for a moment. Then she went upstairs, and came back with her copy of the school yearbook. She looked at Fredriksson's face for a long time.
"I do remember him," she said at last. "But I had no idea it was the same Peter Fredriksson. I wouldn't even have remembered his name if it weren't written here."
"What happened?" Linder asked.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was a quiet and totally uninteresting boy in another class. I think we might have had some subjects together. French, if I remember correctly."
"He said that you treated him as though he didn't exist."
"I probably did. He wasn't somebody I knew and he wasn't in our group."
"I know how cliques work. Did you bully him or anything like that?"
"No... no, for God's sake. I hated bullying. We had campaigns against bullying in the school, and I was president of the student council. I don't remember that he ever spoke to me."
"O. K," Linder said. "But he obviously had a grudge against you. He was off sick for two long periods, suffering from stress and overwork. Maybe there were other reasons for his being off sick that we don't know about."
She got up and put on her leather jacket.
"I've got his hard drive. Technically it's stolen goods so I shouldn't leave it with you. You don't have to worry - I'll destroy it as soon as I get home."
"Wait, Susanne. How can I ever thank you?"
"Well, you can back me up when Armansky's wrath hits me like a bolt of lightning."
Berger gave her a concerned look.
"Will you get into trouble for this?"
"I don't know. I really don't know."
"Can we pay you for-"
"No. But Armansky may bill you for tonight. I hope he does, because that would mean he approves of what I did and probably won't decide to fire me."
"I'll make sure he sends us a bill."
Berger stood up and gave Linder a long hug.
"Thanks, Susanne. If you ever need a friend, you've got one in me. If there's anything I can do for you..."
"Thanks. Don't leave those pictures lying around. And while we're on the subject, Milton could install a much better safe for you."
Berger smiled as Beckman walked Linder back to her car.
CHAPTER 22
Monday, 6.vi
Berger woke up at 6.00 on Monday morning. She had not slept for more than an hour, but she felt strangely rested. She supposed that it was a physical reaction of some sort. For the first time in several months she put on her jogging things and went for a furious and excruciatingly painful sprint down to the steamboat wharf. But after a hundred metres or so her heel hurt so much that she had to slow down and go on at a more leisurely pace, relishing the pain in her foot with each step she took.
She felt reborn. It was as though the Grim Reaper had passed by her door and at the last moment changed his mind and moved on to the next house. She could still not take in how fortunate she was that Fredriksson had had her pictures in his possession for four days and done nothing with them. The scanning he had done indicated that he had something planned, but he had simply not got around to whatever it was.
She decided to give Susanne Linder a very expensive Christmas present this year. She would think of something really special.
She left her husband asleep and at 7.30 drove to S.M.P.'s office at Norrtull. She parked in the garage, took the lift to the newsroom, and settled down in the glass cage. Before she did anything else, she called someone from maintenance.
"Peter Fredriksson has left the paper. He won't be back," she said. "Please bring as many boxes as you need to empty his desk of personal items and have them delivered to his apartment this morning."
She looked over towards the news desk. Holm had just arrived. He met her gaze and nodded to her.
She nodded back.
Holm was a bloody-minded bastard, but after their altercation a few weeks earlier he had stopped trying to cause trouble. If he continued to show the same positive attitude, he might possibly survive as news editor. Possibly.
She should, she felt, be able to turn things around.
At 8.45 she saw Borgsjö come out of the lift and disappear up the internal staircase to his office on the floor above. I have to talk to him today.
She got some coffee and spent a while on the morning memo. It looked like it was going to be a slow news day. The only item of interest was an agency report, to the effect that Lisbeth Salander had been moved to the prison in Stockholm the day before. She O.K.'d the story and forwarded it to Holm.
At 8.59 Borgsjö called.
"Berger, come up to my office right away." He hung up.
He was white in the face when Berger found him at his desk. He stood up and slammed a thick wad of papers on to his desk.
"What the hell is this?" he roared.
Berger's heart sank like a stone. She only had to glance at the cover to see what Borgsjö had found in the morning post.
Fredriksson hadn't managed to do anything with her photographs. But he had posted Cortez's article and research to Borgsjö.
Calmly she sat down opposite him.
"That's an article written by a reporter called Henry Cortez. Millennium had planned to run it in last week's issue."
Borgsjö looked desperate.
"How the hell do you dare? I brought you into S. M. P. and the first thing you do is to start digging up dirt. What kind of a media whore are you?"
Berger's eyes narrowed. She turned ice-cold. She had had enough of the word "whore".
"Do you really think anyone is going to care about this? Do you think you can trap me with this crap? And why the hell did you send it to me anonymously?"
"That's not what happened, Magnus."
"Then tell me what did happen."
"The person who sent that article to you anonymously was Fredriksson. He was fired from S. M. P. yesterday."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"It's a long story. But I've had a copy of the article for more than two weeks, trying to work out a way of raising the subject with you."
"You're behind this article?"
"No, I am not. Cortez researched and wrote the article entirely off his own bat. I didn't know anything about it."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"As soon as my old colleagues at Millennium saw how you were implicated in the story, Blomkvist stopped its publication. He called me and gave me a copy, out of concern for my position. It was then stolen from me, and now it's ended up with you. Millennium wanted me to have a chance to talk with you before they printed it. Which they mean to do in the August issue."
"I've never met a more unscrupulous media whore in my whole life. It defies belief."
"Now that you've read the story, perhaps you have also considered the research behind it. Cortez has a cast-iron story. You know that."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"If you're still here when Millennium goes to press, that will hurt S. M. P. I've worried myself sick and tried to find a way out... but there isn't one."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll have to go."
"Don't be absurd. I haven't done anything illegal."
"Magnus, don't you understand the impact of this exposé? I don't want to have to call a board meeting. It would be too embarrassing."
"You're not going to call anything at all. You're finished at S. M. P."
"Wrong. Only the board can sack me. Presumably you're allowed to call them in for an extraordinary meeting. I would suggest you do that for this afternoon."
Borgsjö came round the desk and stood so close to Berger that she could feel his breath.
"Berger, you have one chance to survive this. You have to go to your damned colleagues at Millennium and get them to kill this story. If you do a good job I might even forget what you've done."
Berger sighed.
"Magnus, you aren't understanding how serious this is. I have no influence whatsoever on what Millennium is going to publish. This story is going to come out no matter what I say. The only thing I care about is how it affects S. M. P. That's why you have to resign."
Borgsjö put his hands on the back of her chair.
"Berger, your cronies at Millennium might change their minds if they knew that you would be fired the instant they leak this bullshit."
He straightened up.
"I'll be at a meeting in Norrköping today." He looked at her, furious and arrogant. "At Svea Construction."
"I see."
"When I'm back tomorrow you will report to me that this matter has been taken care of. Understood?"
He put on his jacket. Berger watched him with her eyes half closed.
"Maybe then you'll survive at S. M. P. Now get out of my office."
She went back to the glass cage and sat quite still in her chair for twenty minutes. Then she picked up the telephone and asked Holm to come to her office. This time he was there within a minute.
"Sit down."
Holm raised an eyebrow and sat down.
"What did I do wrong this time?" he said sarcastically.
"Anders, this is my last day at S. M. P. I'm resigning here and now. I'm calling in the deputy chairman and as many of the board as I can find for a meeting over lunch."
He stared at her with undisguised shock.
"I'm going to recommend that you be made acting editor-in-chief."
"What?"
"Are you O.K. with that?"
Holm leaned back in his chair and looked at her.
"I've never wanted to be editor-in-chief," he said.
"I know that. But you're tough enough to do the job. And you'll walk over corpses to be able to publish a good story. I just wish you had more common sense."
"So what happened?"
"I have a different style to you. You and I have always argued about what angle to take, and we'll never agree."
"No," he said. "We never will. But it's possible that my style is old-fashioned."
"I don't know if old-fashioned is the right word. You're a very good newspaperman, but you behave like a bastard. That's totally unnecessary. But what we were most at odds about was that you claimed that as news editor you couldn't allow personal considerations to affect how the news was assessed."
Berger suddenly gave Holm a sly smile. She opened her bag and took out her original text of the Borgsjö story.
"Let's test your sense of news assessment. I have a story here that came to us from a reporter at Millennium. This morning I'm thinking that we should run this article as today's top story." She tossed the folder into Holm's lap. "You're the news editor. I'd be interested to hear whether you share my assessment."
Holm opened the folder and began to read. Even the introduction made his eyes widen. He sat up straight in his chair and stared at Berger. Then he lowered his eyes and read through the article to the end. He studied the source material for ten more minutes before he slowly put the folder aside.
"This is going to cause one hell of an uproar."
"I know. That's why I'm leaving. Millennium was planning to run the story in their July issue, but Mikael Blomkvist stopped publication. He gave me the article so that I could talk with Borgsjö before they run it."
"And?"
"Borgsjö ordered me to suppress it."
"I see. So you're planning to run it in S. M. P. out of spite?"
"Not out of spite, no. There's no other way. If S. M. P. runs the story, we have a chance of getting out of this mess with our honour intact. Borgsjö has no choice but to go. But it also means that I can't stay here any longer."
Holm sat in silence for two minutes.
"Damn it, Berger... I didn't think you were that tough. I never thought I'd ever say this, but if you're that thick-skinned, I'm actually sorry you're leaving."
"You could stop publication, but if both you and I O.K. it... Do you think you'll run the story?"
"Too right we'll run it. It would leak anyway."
"Exactly."
Holm got up and stood uncertainly by her desk.
"Get to work," said Berger.
After Holm left her office she waited five minutes before she picked up the telephone and rang Eriksson.
"Hello, Malin. Is Henry there?"
"Yes, he's at his desk."
"Could you call him into your office and put on the speakerphone? We have to have a conference."
Cortez was there within fifteen seconds.
"What's up?"
"Henry, I did something immoral today."
"Oh, you did?"
"I gave your story about Vitavara to the news editor here at S. M. P."
"You what?"
"I told him to run the story in S. M. P. tomorrow. Your byline. And you'll be paid, of course. In fact, you can name your price."
"Erika... what the hell is going on?"
She gave him a brisk summary of what had happened during the last weeks, and how Fredriksson had almost destroyed her.
"Jesus Christ," Cortez said.
"I know that this is your story, Henry. But equally I have no choice. Can you agree to this?"
Cortez was silent for a long while.
"Thanks for asking. " he said. "It's O.K. to run the story with my byline. If it's O.K. with Malin, I should say."
"It's O.K. with me," Eriksson said.
"Thank you both," Berger said. "Can you tell Mikael? I don't suppose he's in yet."
"I'll talk to Mikael," Eriksson said. "But Erika, does this mean that you're out of work from today?"
Berger laughed. "I've decided to take the rest of the year off. Believe me, a few weeks at S. M. P. was enough."
"I don't think you ought to start thinking in terms of a holiday yet," Eriksson said.
"Why not?"
"Could you come here this afternoon?"
"What for?"
"I need help. If you want to come back to being editor-in-chief here, you could start tomorrow morning."
"Malin, you're the editor-in-chief. Anything else is out of the question."
"Then you could start as assistant editor," Eriksson laughed.
"Are you serious?"
"Oh, Erika, I miss you so much that I'm ready to die. One reason I took the job here was so that I'd have a chance to work with you. And now you're somewhere else."
Berger said nothing for a minute. She had not even thought about the possibility of making a comeback at Millennium.
"Do you think I'd really be welcome?" she said hesitantly.
"What do you think? I reckon we'd begin with a huge celebration which I would arrange myself. And you'd be back just in time for us to publish you-know-what."
Berger checked the clock on her desk .10.55. In a couple of hours her whole world had been turned upside down. She realized what a longing she had to walk up the stairs at Millennium again.
"I have a few things to take care of here over the next few hours. Is it O.K. if I pop in at around 4.00?"
Linder looked Armansky directly in the eye as she told him exactly what had happened during the night. The only thing she left out was her sudden intuition that the hacking of Fredriksson's computer had something to do with Salander. She kept that to herself for two reasons. First, she thought it sounded too implausible. Second, she knew that Armansky was somehow up to his neck in the Salander affair along with Blomkvist.
Armansky listened intently. When Linder finished her account, he said: "Beckman called about an hour ago."
"Oh?"
"He and Berger are coming in later this week to sign a contract. He wants to thank us for what Milton has done and above all for what you have done."
"I see. It's nice to have a satisfied client."
"He also wants to order a safe for the house. We'll install it and finish up the alarm package before this weekend."
"That's good."
"He says he wants us to invoice him for your work over the weekend. That'll make it quite a sizable bill we'll be sending them." Armansky sighed. "Susanne, you do know that Fredriksson could go to the police and get you into very deep water on a number of counts."
She nodded.
"Mind you, he'd end up in prison so fast it would make his head spin, but he might think it was worth it."
"I doubt he has the balls to go to the police."
"You may be right, but what you did far exceeded instructions."
"I know."
"So how do you think I should react?"
"Only you can decide that."
"How did you think I would to react?"
"What I think has nothing to do with it. You could always sack me."
"Hardly. I can't afford to lose a professional of your calibre."
"Thanks."
"But if you do anything like this again, I'm going to get very angry."
Linder nodded.
"What did you do with the hard drive?"
"It's destroyed. I put it in a vice this morning and crushed it."
"Then we can forget about all this."
Berger spent the rest of the morning calling the board members of S. M. P. She reached the deputy chairman at his summer house near Vaxholm and persuaded him to drive to the city as quickly as he could. A rather makeshift board assembled over lunch. Berger began by explaining how the Cortez folder had come to her, and what consequences it had already had.
When she finished it was proposed, as she had anticipated, that they try to find another solution. Berger told them that S. M. P. was going to run the story the next day. She also told them that this would be her last day of work and that her decision was final.
She got the board to approve two decisions and enter them in the minutes. Magnus Borgsjö would be asked to vacate his position as chairman, effective immediately, and Anders Holm would be appointed acting editor-in-chief. Then she excused herself and left the board members to discuss the situation among themselves.
At 2.00 she went down to the personnel department and had a contract drawn up. Then she went to speak to Sebastian Strandlund, the culture editor, and the reporter Eva Karlsson.
"As far as I can tell, you consider Eva to be a talented reporter."
"That's true," said Strandlund.
"And in your budget requests over the past two years you've asked that your staff be increased by at least two."
"Correct."
"Eva, in view of the email to which you were subjected, there might be ugly rumours if I were to hire you full-time. But are you still interested?"
"Of course."
"In that case my last act here at S. M. P. will be to sign this employment contract."
"Your last act?"
"It's a long story. I'm leaving today. Could you two be so kind as to keep quiet about it for an hour or so?"
"What..."
"There'll be a memo coming around soon."
Berger signed the contract and pushed it across the desk towards Karlsson.
"Good luck," she said, smiling.
"The older man who participated in the meeting with Ekström on Saturday is Georg Nyström, a police superintendent," Figuerola said as she put the surveillance photographs from Modig's mobile on Edklinth's desk.
"Superintendent," Edklinth muttered.
"Stefan identified him last night. He went to the apartment on Artillerigatan."
"What do we know about him?"
"He comes from the regular police and has worked for S.I.S. since 1983. Since 1996 he's been serving as an investigator with his own area of responsibility. He does internal checks and examines cases that S.I.S. has completed."
"O.K."
"Since Saturday morning six persons of interest have been to the building. Besides Sandberg and Nyström, Clinton is definitely operating from there. This morning he was taken by ambulance to have dialysis."
"Who are the other three?"
"A man named Otto Hallberg. He was in S.I.S. in the '80s but he's actually connected to the Defence General Staff. He works for the navy and the military intelligence service."
"I see. Why am I not surprised?"
Figuerola laid down one more photograph. "This man we haven't identified yet. He went to lunch with Hallberg. We'll have to see if we can get a better picture when he goes home tonight. But the most interesting one is this man." She laid another photograph on the desk.
"I recognize him," Edklinth said.
"His name is Wadensjöö."
"Precisely. He worked on the terrorist detail around fifteen years ago. A desk man. He was one of the candidates for the post of top boss here at the Firm. I don't know what became of him."
"He resigned in 1991. Guess who he had lunch with an hour or so ago."
She put her last photograph on the desk.
"Chief of Secretariat Shenke and Chief of Budget Gustav Atterbom. I want to have surveillance on these gentlemen around the clock. I want to know exactly who they meet."
"That's not practical," Edklinth said. "I have only four men available."
Edklinth pinched his lower lip as he thought. Then he looked up at Figuerola.
"We need more people," he said. "Do you think you could reach Inspector Bublanski discreetly and ask him if he might like to have dinner with me today? Around 7.00, say?"
Edklinth then reached for his telephone and dialled a number from memory.
"Hello, Armansky. It's Edklinth. Might I reciprocate for that wonderful dinner? No, I insist. Shall we say 7.00?"
Salander had spent the night in Kronoberg prison in a two-by-four-metre cell. The furnishings were pretty basic, but she had fallen asleep within minutes of the key being turned in the lock. Early on Monday morning she was up and obediently doing the stretching exercises prescribed
for her by the physio at Sahlgrenska. Breakfast was then brought to her, and she sat on her cot and stared into space.
At 9.30 she was led to an interrogation cell at the end of the corridor. The guard was a short, bald, old man with a round face and hornrimmed glasses. He was polite and cheerful.
Giannini greeted her affectionately. Salander ignored Faste. She was meeting Prosecutor Ekström for the first time, and she spent the next half hour sitting on a chair staring stonily at a spot on the wall just above Ekström's head. She said nothing and she did not move a muscle.
At 10.00 Ekström broke off the fruitless interrogation. He was annoyed not to be able to get the slightest response out of her. For the first time he felt uncertain as he observed the thin, doll-like young woman. How was it possible that she could have beaten up those two thugs Lundin and Nieminen in Stallarholmen? Would the court really believe that story, even if he did have convincing evidence?
Salander was brought a simple lunch at noon and spent the next hour solving equations in her head. She focused on an area of spherical astronomy from a book she had read two years earlier.
At 2.30 she was led back to the interrogation cell. This time her guard was a young woman. Salander sat on a chair in the empty cell and pondered a particularly intricate equation.
After ten minutes the door opened.
"Hello, Lisbeth." A friendly tone. It was Teleborian.
He smiled at her, and she froze. The components of the equation she had constructed in the air before her came tumbling to the ground. She could hear the numbers and mathematical symbols bouncing and clattering as if they had physical form.
Teleborian stood still for a minute and looked at her before he sat down on the other side of the table. She continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.
After a while she met his eyes.
"I'm sorry that you've ended up in this situation," Teleborian said. "I'm going to try to help you in every way I can. I hope we can establish some level of mutual trust."
Salander examined every inch of him. The dishevelled hair. The beard. The little gap between his front teeth. The thin lips. The brand-new brown jacket. The shirt open at the neck. She listened to his smooth and treacherously friendly voice.
"I also hope that I can be of more help to you than the last time we met."
He placed a small notebook and pen on the table. Salander lowered her eyes and looked at the pen. It was a pointed, silver-coloured tube.
Risk assessment.
She suppressed an impulse to reach out and grab the pen.
Her eyes sought the little finger of his left hand. She saw a faint white mark where fifteen years earlier she had sunk in her teeth and locked her jaws so hard that she almost bit his finger off. It had taken three guards to hold her down and prise open her jaws.
I was a scared little girl barely into my teens then. Now I'm a grown woman. I can kill you whenever I want.
Again she fixed her eyes on the spot on the wall, and gathered up the scattered numbers and symbols and began to reassemble the equation.
Teleborian studied Salander with a neutral expression. He had not become an internationally respected psychiatrist for nothing. He had a gift for reading emotions and moods. He could sense a cold shadow passing through the room, and interpreted this as a sign that the patient felt fear and shame beneath her imperturbable exterior. He assumed that she was reacting to his presence, and was pleased that her attitude towards him had not changed over the years. She's going to hang herself in the district court.
Berger's final act at S. M. P. was to write a memo to the staff. To begin with her mood was angry, and she filled two pages explaining why she was resigning, including her opinion of various colleagues. Then she deleted the whole text and started again in a calmer tone.
She did not refer to Fredriksson. If she had done, all interest would have focused on him, and her real reasons would be drowned out by the sensation a case of sexual harassment would inevitably cause.
She gave two reasons. The principal one was that she had met implacable resistance from management to her proposal that managers and owners should reduce their salaries and bonuses. Which meant that she would have had to start her tenure at S. M. P. with damaging cutbacks in staff. This was not only a breach of the promise she had been given when she accepted the job, but it would undercut her every attempt to bring about long-term change in order to strengthen the newspaper.
The second reason she gave was the revelation about Borgsjö. She wrote that she had been instructed to cover up the story, and this flew in the face of all she believed to be her job. It meant that she had no choice but to resign her position as editor. She concluded by saying that S. M. P.'s dire situation was not a personnel problem, but a management problem.
She read through the memo, corrected the typos, and emailed it to all the paper's employees. She sent a copy to Pressens Tidning, a media journal, and also to the trade magazine Journalisten. Then she packed away her laptop and went to see Holm at his desk.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye, Berger. It was hellish working with you."
They smiled at each other.
"One last thing," she said.
"Tell me?"
"Frisk has been working on a story I commissioned."
"Right, and nobody has any idea what it's about."
"Give him some support. He's come a long way, and I'll be staying in touch with him. Let him finish the job. I guarantee you'll be pleased with the result."
He looked wary. Then he nodded.
They did not shake hands. She left her card key on his desk and took the lift down to the garage. She parked her B.M.W. near the Millennium offices at a little after 4.00.
PART 4
REBOOTING SYSTEM
I.vii - 7.x
Despite the rich variety of Amazon legends from ancient Greece, South America, Africa and elsewhere, there is only one historically documented example of female warriors. This is the women's army that existed among the Fon of Dahomey in West Africa, now Benin.
These female warriors have never been mentioned in the published military histories; no romanticized films have been made about them, and today they exist as no more than footnotes to history. Only one scholarly work has been written about these women, Amazons of Black Sparta by Stanley B. Alpern (C. Hurst & Co., London, 1998), and yet they made up a force that was the equal of every contemporary body of male elite soldiers from among the colonial powers.
It is not clear exactly when Fon's female army was founded, but some sources date it to the 1600s. It was originally a royal guard, but it developed into a military collective of six thousand soldiers with a semi-divine status. They were not merely window-dressing. For almost two hundred years they constituted the vanguard of the Fon against European colonizers. They were feared by
the French forces, who lost several battles against them. This army of women was not defeated until 1892, when France sent troops with artillery, the Foreign Legion, a marine infantry regiment and cavalry.
It is not known how many of these female warriors fell in battle. For many years survivors continued to wage guerrilla warfare, and veterans of the army were interviewed and photographed as late as the 1940s.
CHAPTER 23
Friday, 1.vii - Sunday, 10.vii
Two weeks before the trial of Lisbeth Salander began, Malm finished the layout of the 352-page book tersely entitled The Section. The cover was blue with yellow type. Malm had positioned seven postage-stamp-sized black-and-white images of Swedish Prime Ministers along the bottom. Over the top of them hovered a photograph of Zalachenko. He had used Zalachenko's passport photograph as an illustration, increasing the contrast so that only the darkest areas stood out like a shadow across the whole cover. It was not a particularly sophisticated design, but it was effective. Blomkvist, Cortez and Eriksson were named as the authors.
It was 5.00 in the morning and he had been working all night. He felt slightly sick and had badly wanted to go home and sleep. Eriksson had sat up with him doing final corrections page by page as Malm O.K.'d them and printed them out. By now she was asleep on the sofa.
Malm put the entire text plus illustrations into a folder. He started up the Toast program and burned two C.D.s. One he put in the safe. The other was collected by a sleepy Blomkvist just before 7.00.
"Go and get some rest," Blomkvist said.
"I'm on my way."
They left Eriksson asleep and turned on the door alarm. Cortez would be in at 8.00 to take over.
Blomkvist walked to Lundagatan, where he again borrowed Salander's abandoned Honda without permission. He drove to Hallvigs Reklam, the printers near the railway tracks in Morgongåva, west of Uppsala. This was a job he would not entrust to the post.
He drove slowly, refusing to acknowledge the stress he felt, and then waited until the printers had checked that they could read the C. D. He made sure that the book would indeed be ready to distribute on the first day of the trial. The problem was not the printing but the binding, which could take time. But Jan Köbin, Hallvigs' manager, promised to deliver at least five hundred copies of the first printing of ten thousand by that day. The book would be a trade paperback.
Finally, Blomkvist made sure that everyone understood the need for the greatest secrecy, although this reminder was probably unnecessary. Two years earlier Hallvigs had printed Blomkvist's book about Hans-Erik Wennerström under very similar circumstances. They knew that books from this peculiar publisher Millennium always promised something extra.
Blomkvist drove back to Stockholm in no particular hurry. He parked outside Bellmansgatan 1 and went to his apartment to pack a change of clothes and a wash bag. He drove on to Stavsnäs wharf in Värmdö, where he parked the Honda and took the ferry out to Sandhamn.
It was the first time since Christmas that he had been to the cabin. He unfastened the window shutters to let in the air and drank a Ramlösa. As always when a job was finished and at the printer, and nothing could be changed, he felt empty.
He spent an hour sweeping and dusting, scouring the shower tray, switching on the fridge, checking the water pipes and changing the bedclothes up in the sleeping loft. He went to the grocery and bought everything he would need for the weekend. Then he started up the coffeemaker and sat outside on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and not thinking about anything in particular.
Just before 5.00 he went down to the steamboat wharf and met Figuerola.
"I thought you said you couldn't take time off," he said, kissing her on the cheek.
"That's what I thought too. But I told Edklinth I've been working every waking minute for the past few weeks and I'm starting to burn out. I said I needed two days off to recharge my batteries."
"In Sandhamn?"
"I didn't tell him where I was going," she said with a smile.
Figuerola ferreted around in Blomkvist's 25-square-metre cabin. She subjected the kitchen area, the bathroom and the loft to a critical inspection before she nodded in approval. She washed and changed into a thin summer dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce and set the table on the veranda. They ate in silence as they watched the parade of sailing boats on their way to or from the marina. They shared the rest of the bottle of wine.
"It's a wonderful cabin. Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?" Figuerola said.
"Just the important ones."
"Has Erika Berger been here?"
"Many times."
"And Salander?"
"She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the book about Wennerström. And we spent Christmas here two years ago."
"So both Berger and Salander are important in your life?"
"Erika is my best friend. We've been friends for twenty-five years. Lisbeth is a whole different story. She's certainly unique, and she the most antisocial person I've ever known. You could say that she made a big impression on me when we first met. I like her. She's a friend."
"You don't feel sorry for her?"
"No. She has herself to blame for a lot of the crap that's happened to her. But I do feel enormous sympathy and solidarity with her."
"But you aren't in love either with her or with Berger?"
He shrugged. Figuerola watched an Amigo 23 coming in late with its navigation lights glowing as it chugged past a motorboat on the way to the marina.
"If love is liking someone an awful lot, then I suppose I'm in love with several people," Blomkvist said.
"And now with me?"
Blomkvist nodded. Figuerola frowned and looked at him.
"Does it bother you?"
"That you've brought other women here? No. But it does bother me that I don't really know what's happening between us. And I don't think I can have a relationship with a man who screws around whenever he feels like it..."
"I'm not going to apologize for the way I've led my life."
"And I guess that in some way I'm falling for you because you are who you are. It's easy to sleep with you because there's no bullshit and you make me feel safe. But this all started because I gave in to a crazy impulse. It doesn't happen very often, and I hadn't planned it. And now we've got to the stage where I've become just another one of the girls you invite out here."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"You didn't have to come."
"Yes, I did. Oh, Mikael..."
"I know."
"I'm unhappy. I don't want to fall in love with you. It'll hurt far too much when it's over."
"Listen, I've had this cabin for twenty-five years, since my father died and my mother moved back to Norrland. We shared out the property so that my sister got our apartment and I got the cabin. Apart from some casual acquaintances in the early years, there are five women who have
been here before you: Erika, Lisbeth and my ex-wife, who I was together with in the '80s, a woman I was in a serious relationship with in the late '90s, and someone I met two years ago, whom I still see occasionally. It's sort of special circumstances..."
"I bet it is."
"I keep this cabin so that I can get away from the city and have some quiet time. I'm mostly here on my own. I read books, I write, and I relax and sit on the wharf and look at the boats. It's not a secret love nest."
He stood up to get the bottle of wine he had put in the shade.
"I won't make any promises. My marriage broke up because Erika and I couldn't keep away from each other," he said, and then he added in English, "Been there, done that, got the T-shirt."
He filled their glasses.
"But you're the most interesting person I've met in a long time. It's as if our relationship took off at full speed from a standing start. I think I fell for you the moment you picked me up outside my apartment. The few times I've slept at my place since then, I've woken up in the middle of the night needing you. I don't know if I want a steady relationship, but I'm terrified of losing you." He looked at her. "So what do you think we should do?"
"Let's think about things," Figuerola said. "I'm badly attracted to you too."
"This is starting to get serious," Blomkvist said.
She suddenly felt a great sadness. They did not say much for a long time. When it got dark they cleared the table, went inside and closed the door.
On the Friday before the week of the trial, Blomkvist stopped at the Pressbyrån news-stand at Slussen and read the billboards for the morning papers. Svenska Morgon-Posten's C. E. O. and chairman of the board Magnus Borgsjö had capitulated and tendered his resignation. Blomkvist bought the papers and walked to Java on Hornsgatan to have a late breakfast. Borgsjö cited family reasons as the explanation for his unexpected resignation. He would not comment on claims that Berger had also resigned after he ordered her to cover up a story about his involvement in the wholesale enterprise Vitavara Inc. But in a sidebar it was reported that the chair of Svenskt Näringsliv, the confederation of Swedish enterprise, had decided to set up an ethics committee to investigate the dealings of Swedish companies with businesses in South East Asia known to exploit child labour.
Blomkvist burst out laughing, and then he folded the morning papers and flipped open his Ericsson to call the woman who presented She on T.V.4, who was in the middle of a lunchtime sandwich.
"Hello, darling," Blomkvist said. "I'm assuming you'd still like dinner sometime."
"Hi, Mikael," she laughed. "Sorry, but you couldn't be further from my type."
"Still, how about coming out with me this evening to discuss a job?"
"What have you got going?"
"Erika Berger made a deal with you two years ago about the Wennerström affair. I want to make a similar deal that will work just as well."
"I'm all ears."
"I can't tell you about it until we've agreed on the terms. I've got a story in the works. We're going to publish a book and a themed issue of the magazine, and it's going to be huge. I'm offering you an exclusive look at all the material, provided you don't leak anything before we publish. This time the publication is extra complicated because it has to happen on a specific day."
"How big is the story?"
"Bigger than Wennerström," Blomkvist said. "Are you interested?"
"Are you serious? Where shall we meet?"
"How about Samir's Cauldron? Erika's going to sit in on the meeting."
"What's going with on her? Is she back at Millennium now that she's been thrown out of S. M. P.?"
"She didn't get thrown out. She resigned because of differences of opinion with Magnus Borgsjö."
"He seems to be a real creep."
"You're not wrong there," Blomkvist said.
*
Clinton was listening to Verdi through his earphones. Music was pretty much the only thing left in life that could take him away from dialysis machines and the growing pain in the small of his back. He did not hum to the music. He closed his eyes and followed the notes with his right hand, which hovered and seemed to have a life of its own alongside his disintegrating body.
That is how it goes. We are born. We live. We grow old. We die. He had played his part. All that remained was the disintegration.
He felt strangely satisfied with life.
He was playing for his friend Evert Gullberg.
It was Saturday, July 9. Only four days until the trial, and the Section could set about putting this whole wretched story behind them. He had had the message that morning. Gullberg had been tougher than almost anyone he had known. When you fire a 9 mm full-metal-jacketed bullet into your own temple you expect to die. Yet it was three months before Gullberg's body gave up at last. That was probably due as much to chance as to the stubbornness with which the doctors had waged the battle for Gullberg's life. And it was the cancer, not the bullet, that had finally determined his end.
Gullberg's death had been painful, and that saddened Clinton. Although incapable of communicating with the outside world, he had at times been in a semi-conscious state, smiling when the hospital staff stroked his cheek or grunting when he seemed to be in pain. Sometimes he had tried to form words and even sentences, but nobody was able to understand anything he said.
He had no family, and none of his friends came to his sickbed. His last contact with life was an Eritrean night nurse by the name of Sara Kitama, who kept watch at his bedside and held his hand as he died.
Clinton realized that he would soon be following his former comrade-in-arms. No doubt about that. The likelihood of his surviving a transplant operation decreased each day. His liver and intestinal functions appeared to have declined at each examination.
He hoped to live past Christmas.
Yet he was contented. He felt an almost spiritual, giddy satisfaction that his final days had involved such a sudden and surprising return to service.
It was a boon he could not have anticipated.
The last notes of Verdi faded away just somebody opened the door to the small room in which he was resting at the Section's headquarters on Artillerigatan.
Clinton opened his eyes. It was Wadensjöö.
He had come to the conclusion that Wadensjöö was a dead weight. He was entirely unsuitable as director of the most important vanguard of Swedish national defence. He could not conceive how he and von Rottinger could ever have made such a fundamental miscalculation as to imagine that Wadensjöö was the appropriate successor.
Wadensjöö was a warrior who needed a fair wind. In a crisis he was feeble and incapable of making a decision. A timid encumbrance lacking steel in his backbone who would most likely have remained in paralysis, incapable of action, and let the Section go under.
It was this simple. Some had it. Others would always falter when it came to the crunch.
"You wanted a word?"
"Sit down," Clinton said.
Wadensjöö sat.
"I'm at a stage in my life when I can no longer waste time. I'll get straight to the point. When all this is over, I want you to resign from the management of the Section."
"You do?"
Clinton tempered his tone.
"You're a good man, Wadensjöö. But unfortunately you're completely unsuited to shouldering the responsibility after Gullberg. You should not have been given that responsibility. Von Rottinger and I were at fault when we failed to deal properly with the succession after I got sick."
"You've never liked me."
"You're wrong about that. You were an excellent administrator when von Rottinger and I were in charge of the Section. We would have been helpless without you, and I have great admiration for your patriotism. It's your inability to make decisions that lets you down."
Wadensjöö smiled bitterly. "After this, I don't know if I even want to stay in the Section."
"Now that Gullberg and von Rottinger are gone, I've had to make the crucial decisions myself," Clinton said. "And you've obstructed every decision I've made during the past few months."
"And I maintain that the decisions you've made are absurd. It's going to end in disaster."
"That's possible. But your indecision would have guaranteed our collapse. Now at least we have a chance, and it seems to be working. Millennium don't know which way to turn. They may suspect that we're somewhere out here, but they lack documentation and they have no way of finding it - or us. And we know at least as much as they do."
Wadensjöö looked out of the window and across the rooftops.
"The only thing we still have to do is to get rid of Zalachenko's daughter," Clinton said. "If anyone starts burrowing about in her past and listening to what she has to say, there's no knowing what might happen. But the trial starts in a few days and then it'll be over. This time we have to bury her so deep that she'll never come back to haunt us."
Wadensjöö shook his head.
"I don't understand your attitude," Clinton said.
"I can see that. You're sixty-eight years old. You're dying. Your decisions are not rational, and yet you seem to have bewitched Nyström and Sandberg. They obey you as if you were God the Father."
"I am God the Father in everything that has to do with the Section. We're working according to a plan. Our decision to act has given the Section a chance. And it is with the utmost conviction that I say that the Section will never find itself in such an exposed position again. When all this is over, we're going to put in hand a complete overhaul of our activities."
"I see."
"Nyström will be the new director. He's really too old, but he's the only choice we have, and he's promised to stay on for six years at least. Sandberg is too young and - as a direct result of your management policies - too inexperienced. He should have been fully trained by now."
"Clinton, don't you see what you've done? You've murdered a man. Björck worked for the Section for thirty-five years, and you ordered his death. Do you not understand-"
"You know quite well that it was necessary. He betrayed us, and he would never have withstood the pressure when the police closed in."
Wadensjöö stood up.
"I'm not finished."
"Then we'll have to take it up later. I have a job to do while you lie here fantasizing that you're the Almighty."
"If you're so morally indignant, why don't you go to Bublanski and confess your crimes?"
"Believe me, I've considered it. But whatever you may think, I'm doing everything in my power to protect the Section."
He opened the door and met Nyström and Sandberg on their way in.
"Hello, Fredrik," Nyström said. "We have to talk."
"Wadensjöö was just leaving."
Nyström waited until the door had closed. "Fredrik, I'm seriously worried."
"What's going on?"
"Sandberg and I have been thinking. Things are happening that we don't understand. This morning Salander's lawyer lodged her autobiographical statement with the prosecutor."
"What?"
Inspector Faste scrutinized Advokat Giannini as Ekström poured coffee from a thermos jug. The document Ekström had been handed when he arrived at work that morning had taken both of them by surprise. He and Faste had read the forty pages of Salander's story and discussed the extraordinary document at length. Finally he felt compelled to ask Giannini to come in for an informal chat.
They were sitting at the small conference table in Ekström's office.
"Thank you for agreeing to come in," Ekström said. "I have read this... hmm, account that arrived this morning, and there are a few matters I'd like to clarify."
"I'll do what I can to help" Giannini said.
"I don't know exactly where to start. Let me say from the outset that both Inspector Faste and I are profoundly astonished."
"Indeed?"
"I'm trying to understand what your objective is."
"How do you mean?"
"This autobiography, or whatever you want to call it... What's the point of it?"
"The point is perfectly clear. My client wants to set down her version of what has happened to her."
Ekström gave a good-natured laugh. He stroked his goatee, an oft-repeated gesture that was beginning to irritate Giannini.
"Yes, but your client has had several months to explain herself. She hasn't said a word in all her interviews with Faste."
"As far as I know there is no law that forces my client to talk simply when it suits Inspector Faste."
"No, but I mean... Salander's trial will begin in four days' time, and at the eleventh hour she comes up with this. To tell the truth, I feel a responsibility here which is beyond my duties as prosecutor."
"You do?"
"I do not in the very least wish to sound offensive. That is not my intention. But we have a procedure for trials in this country. You, Fru Giannini, are a lawyer specialising in women's rights, and you have never before represented a client in a criminal case. I did not charge Lisbeth Salander because she is a woman, but on a charge of grievous bodily harm. Even you, I believe, must have realized that she suffers from a serious mental illness and needs the protection and assistance of the state."
"You're afraid that I won't be able to provide Lisbeth Salander with an adequate defence," Giannini said in a friendly tone.
"I do not wish to be judgemental," Ekström said, "and I don't question your competence. I'm simply making the point that you lack experience."
"I do understand, and I completely agree with you. I am woefully inexperienced when it comes to criminal cases."
"And yet you have all along refused the help that has been offered by lawyers with considerably more experience-"
"At the express wish of my client. Lisbeth Salander wants me to be her lawyer, and accordingly I will be representing her in court." She gave him a polite smile.
"Very well, but I do wonder whether in all seriousness you intend to offer the content of this statement to the court."
"Of course. It's her story."
Ekström and Faste glanced at one another. Faste raised his eyebrows. He could not see what Ekström was fussing about. If Giannini did not understand that she was on her way to sinking her
client, then that certainly was not the prosecutor's fault. All they needed to do was to say thank you, accept the document, and put the issue aside.
As far as he was concerned, Salander was off her rocker. He had employed all his skills to persuade her to tell them, at the very least, where she lived. But in interview after interview that damn girl had just sat there, silent as a stone, staring at the wall behind him. She had refused the cigarettes he offered, and had never so much as accepted a coffee or a cold drink. Nor had she registered the least reaction when he pleaded with her, or when he raised his voice in moments of extreme annoyance. Faste had never conducted a more frustrating set of interviews.
"Fru Giannini," Ekström said at last, "I believe that your client ought to be spared this trial. She is not well. I have a psychiatric report from a highly qualified doctor to fall back on. She should be given the psychiatric care that for so many years she has badly needed."
"I take it that you will be presenting this recommendation to the district court."
"That's exactly what I'll be doing. It's not my business to tell you how to conduct her defence. But if this is the line you seriously intend to take, then the situation is, quite frankly, absurd. This statement contains wild and unsubstantiated accusations against a number of people... in particular against her guardian, Advokat Bjurman, and Dr Peter Teleborian. I hope you do not in all seriousness believe that the court will accept an account that casts suspicion on Dr Teleborian without offering a single shred of evidence. This document is going to be the final nail in your client's coffin, if you'll pardon the metaphor."
"I hear what you're saying."
"In the course of the trial you may claim that she is not ill and request a supplementary psychiatric assessment, and then the matter can be submitted to the medical board. But to be honest her statement leaves me in very little doubt that every other forensic psychiatrist will come to the same conclusion as Dr Teleborian. Its very existence confirms all documentary evidence that she is a paranoid schizophrenic."
Giannini smiled politely. "There is an alternative view," she said.
"What's that?"
"That her account is in every detail true and that the court will elect to believe it."
Ekström looked bewildered by the notion. Then he smiled and stroked his goatee.
Clinton was sitting at the little side table by the window in his office. He listened attentively to Nyström and Sandberg. His face was furrowed, but his peppercorn eyes were focused and alert.
"We've been monitoring the telephone and email traffic of Millennium's key employees since April," Clinton said. "We've confirmed that Blomkvist and Eriksson and this Cortez fellow are pretty downcast on the whole. We've read the outline version of the next issue. It seems that even Blomkvist has reversed his position and is now of the view that Salander is mentally unstable after all. There is a socially linked defence for her - he's claiming that society let her down, and that as a result it's somehow not her fault that she tried to murder her father. But that's hardly an argument.
There isn't one word about the break-in at his apartment or the fact that his sister was attacked in Göteborg, and there's no mention of the missing reports. He knows he can't prove anything."
"That is precisely the problem," Sandberg said. "Blomkvist must know that someone has their eye on him. But he seems to be completely ignoring his suspicions. Forgive me, but that isn't Millennium's style. Besides, Erika Berger is back in editorial and yet this whole issue is so bland and devoid of substance that it seems like a joke."
"What are you saying? That it's a decoy?"
Sandberg nodded. "The summer issue should have come out in the last week of June. According to one of Malin Eriksson's emails, it's being printed by a company in Södertälje, but when I rang them this morning, they told me they hadn't even got the C. R. C. All they'd had was a request for a quote about a month ago."
"Where have they printed before?" Clinton said.
"At a place called Hallvigs in Morgongåva. I called to ask how far they had got with the printing - I said I was calling from Millennium. The manager wouldn't tell me a thing. I thought I'd drive up there this evening and take a look."
"Makes sense. Georg?"
"I've reviewed all the telephone traffic from the past week," Nyström said. "It's bizarre, but the Millennium staff never discuss anything to do with the trial or Zalachenko."
"Nothing at all?"
"No. They mention it only when they're talking with someone outside Millennium. Listen to this, for instance. Blomkvist gets a call from a reporter at Aftonbladet asking whether he has any comment to make on the upcoming trial."
He put a tape recorder on the table.
"Sorry, but I have no comment."
"You've been involved with the story from the start. You were the one who found Salander down in Gosseberga. And you haven't published a single word since. When do you intend to publish?"
"When the time is right. Provided I have anything to say."
"Do you?"
"Well, you can buy a copy of Millennium and see for yourself."
He turned off the recorder.
"We didn't think about this before, but I went back and listened to bits at random. It's been like this the entire time. He hardly discusses the Zalachenko business except in the most general terms. He doesn't even discuss it with his sister, and she's Salander's lawyer."
"Maybe he really doesn't have anything to say."
"He consistently refuses to speculate about anything. He seems to live at the offices round the clock; he's hardly ever at his apartment. If he's working night and day, then he ought to have come up with something more substantial than whatever's going to be in the next issue of Millennium."
"And we still haven't been able to tap the phones at their offices?"
"No," Sandberg said. "There's been somebody there twenty-four hours a day - and that's significant - ever since we went into Blomkvist's apartment the first time. The office lights are always on, and if it's not Blomkvist it's Cortez or Eriksson, or that faggot... er, Christer Malm."
Clinton stroked his chin and thought for a moment.
"Conclusions?"
Nyström said: "If I didn't know better, I'd think they were putting on an act for us."
Clinton felt a cold shiver run down the back of his neck. "Why hasn't this occurred to us before?"
"We've been listening to what they've been saying, not to what they haven't been saying. We've been gratified when we've heard their confusion or noticed it in an email. Blomkvist knows damn well that someone stole copies of the 1991 Salander report from him and his sister. But what the hell is he doing about it?"
"And they didn't report her mugging to the police?"
Nyström shook his head. "Giannini was present at the interviews with Salander. She's polite, but she never says anything of any weight. And Salander herself never says anything at all."
"But that will work in our favour. The more she keeps her mouth shut, the better. What does Ekström say?"
"I saw him a couple of hours ago. He'd just been given Salander's statement." He pointed to the pages in Clinton's lap.
"Ekström is confused. It's fortunate that Salander is no good at expressing herself in writing. To an outsider this would look like a totally insane conspiracy theory with added pornographic elements. But she still shoots very close to the mark. She describes exactly how she came to be locked up at St Stefan's, and she claims that Zalachenko worked for Säpo and so on. She says she thinks everything is connected with a little club inside Säpo, pointing to the existence of something corresponding to the Section. All in all it's fairly accurate. But as I said, it's not plausible. Ekström is in a dither because this also seems to be the line of defence Giannini is going to use at the trial."
"Shit," Clinton said. He bowed his head and thought intently for several minutes. Finally he looked up.
"Jonas, drive up to Morgongåva this evening and find out if anything is going on. If they're printing Millennium, I want a copy."
"I'll take Falun with me."
"Good. Georg, I want you to see Ekström this afternoon and take his pulse. Everything has gone smoothly until now, but I can't ignore what you two are telling me."
Clinton sat in silence for a moment more.
"The best thing would be if there wasn't any trial..." he said at last.
He raised his eyes and looked at Nyström. Nyström nodded. Sandberg nodded.
"Nyström, can you investigate our options?"
Sandberg and the locksmith known as Falun parked a short distance from the railway tracks and walked through Morgongåva. It was 8.30 in the evening. It was too light and too early to do anything, but they wanted to reconnoitre and get a look at the place.
"If the building is alarmed, I'm not doing it," Falun said. "It would be better to have a look through the window. If there's anything lying around, you can just chuck a rock through, jump in, grab what you need and run like hell."
"That'll work," Sandberg said.
"If you only need one copy of the magazine, we can check the dustbins round the back. There must be overruns and test printings and things like that."
Hallvigs Reklam printing factory was in a low, brick building. They approached from the south on the other side of the street. Sandberg was about to cross when Falun took hold of his elbow.
"Keep going straight," he said.
"What?"
"Keep going straight, as if we're out for an evening stroll."
They passed Hallvigs and made a tour of the neighbourhood.
"What was all that about?" Sandberg said.
"You've got to keep your eyes peeled. The place isn't just alarmed. There was a car parked alongside the building."
"You mean somebody's there?"
"It was a car from Milton Security. The factory is under surveillance, for Christ's sake."
"Milton Security?" Clinton felt the shock hit him in the gut.
"If it hadn't been for Falun, I would have walked right into their arms," Sandberg said.
"There's something fishy going on," Nyström said. "There is no rationale for a small out-of-town printer to hire Milton Security for 24-hour surveillance."
Clinton's lips were pressed tight. It was after 11.00 and he needed to rest.
"And that means Millennium really is up to something," Sandberg said.
"I can see that," Clinton said. "O.K. Let's analyse the situation. What's the worst-case scenario? What could they know?" He gave Nyström an urgent look.
"It has to be the Salander report," he said. "They beefed up their security after we lifted the copies. They must have guessed that they're under surveillance. The worst case is that they still have a copy of the report."
"But Blomkvist was at his wits' end when it went missing."
"I know. But we may have been duped. We can't shut our eyes to that possibility."
"We'll work on that assumption," Clinton said. "Sandberg?"
"We do know what Salander's defence will be. She's going to tell the truth as she sees it. I've read this autobiography of hers. In fact it plays right into our hands. It's full of such outrageous accusations of rape and violation of her civil rights that it will come across as the ravings of a paranoid personality."
Nyström said: "Besides, she can't prove a single one of her claims. Ekström will use the account against her. He'll annihilate her credibility."
"O.K. Teleborian's new report is excellent. There is, of course, the possibility that Giannini will call in her own expert who'll say that Salander isn't crazy, and the whole thing will end up before the medical board. But again - unless Salander changes tactics, she's going to refuse to talk to them too, and then they'll conclude that Teleborian is right. She's her own worst enemy."
"The best thing would still be if there was no trial," Clinton said.
Nyström shook his head. "That's virtually impossible. She's in Kronoberg prison and she has no contact with other prisoners. She gets an hour's exercise each day in the little area on the roof, but we can't get to her up there. And we have no contacts among the prison staff."
"There may still be time."
"If we'd wanted to dispose of her, we should have done it when she was at Sahlgrenska. The likelihood that a hit man would do time is almost 100 per cent. And where would we find a gun who'd agree to that? And at such short notice it would be impossible to arrange a suicide or an accident."
"I was afraid of that. And unexpected deaths have a tendency to invite questions. O.K., we'll have to see how the trial goes. In reality, nothing has changed. We've always anticipated that they would make some sort of counter-move, and it seems to be this so-called autobiography."
"The problem is Millennium," Sandberg said.
"Millennium and Milton Security," Clinton said pensively. "Salander has worked for Armansky, and Blomkvist once had a thing with her. Should we assume that they've joined forces?"
"It doesn't seem unreasonable that Milton Security is watching the factory where Millennium is being printed. And it can't be a coincidence."
"When are they going to publish? Sandberg, you said that they're almost two weeks behind schedule. If we assume that Milton is keeping an eye on the printer's to make sure that nobody gets hold of a copy, that means either that they're publishing something that they don't want to leak, or that the magazine has already been printed."
"To coincide with the opening of the trial," Sandberg said. "That's the only reasonable explanation."
Clinton nodded. "O.K. What's going to be in the magazine?"
They thought for a while, until Nyström broke the silence.
"In the worst case they have a copy of the 1991 report, as we said."
Clinton and Sandberg had reached the same conclusion.
"But what can they do with it?" Sandberg said. "The report implicates Björck and Teleborian. Björck is dead. They can press hard with Teleborian, but he'll claim that he was doing a routine forensic psychiatric examination. It'll be their word against his."
"And what can we do if they publish the report?" Nyström said.
"I think we're holding the trump card," Clinton said. "If there's a ruckus over the report, the focus will be on Säpo, not the Section. And when reporters start asking questions, Säpo will just pull it out of the archive..."
"And it won't be the same report," Sandberg said.
"Shenke has put the modified version in the archive, that is, the version Ekström was given to read. It was assigned a case number. So we could swiftly present a lot of disinformation to the media... We have the original, which Bjurman got hold of, and Millennium only has a copy. We could even spread information to suggest that it was Blomkvist himself who falsified the original."
"Good. What else could Millennium know?"
"They can't know anything about the Section. That wouldn't be possible. They'll have to focus on Säpo, and that would mean Blomkvist being cast as a conspiracy theorist."
"By now he's rather well known," Clinton said slowly. "Since the resolution of the Wennerström affair he's been taken pretty seriously."
"Could we somehow reduce his credibility?" Sandberg said.
Nyström and Clinton exchanged glances. Clinton looked at Nyström.
"Do you think you could put your hands on... let's say, fifty grams of cocaine?"
"Maybe from the Yugos."
"Give it a try. And get a move-on. The trial starts in three days."
"I don't get it," Sandberg said.
"It's a trick as old as the profession. But still extremely effective."
"Morgongåva?" Edklinth said with a frown. He was sitting in his dressing gown on the sofa at home, reading through Salander's autobiography for the third time, when Figuerola called. Since it was after midnight, he assumed that something was up.
"Morgongåva," Figuerola repeated. "Sandberg and Lars Faulsson were there at 8.30 this evening. They were tailed by Inspector Andersson from Bublanski's gang, and we had a radio transmitter planted in Sandberg's car. They parked near the old railway station, walked around for a while, and then returned to the car and drove back to Stockholm."
"I see. Did they meet anyone, or-"
"No. That was the strange thing. They just got out of the car and walked around a little, then drove straight back to Stockholm, so Andersson told me."
"I see. And why are you calling me at 12.30 at night to tell me this?"
"It took a little while to work it out. They walked past Hallvigs printers. I talked to Blomkvist about it. That's where Millennium's being printed."
"Oh shit," Edklinth said. He saw the implications immediately.
"Since Falun was along, I have to suppose that they were intending to pay the printer's a late-night visit, but they abandoned the expedition," Figuerola said.
"Why?"
"Because Blomkvist asked Armansky to keep an eye on the factory until the magazine was distributed. They probably saw the car from Milton Security. I thought you'd want to know straightaway."
"You're right. It means that they've begun to smell a rat."
"Alarm bells must have gone off in their heads when they saw the car. Sandberg dropped Faulsson off in town and then went back to Artillerigatan. We know that Clinton is there. Nyström arrived at about the same time. The question is, what are they going to do?"
"The trial starts on Wednesday... Can you reach Blomkvist and urge him to double up on security at Millennium? Just in case."
"They already have good security. And they blew smoke rings round their tapped telephones - like old pros. Blomkvist is so paranoid already that he's using diversionary tactics we could learn from."
"I'm happy to hear it, but call him anyway."
Figuerola closed her mobile and put it on the bedside table. She looked up and studied Blomkvist as he lay naked with his head against the foot of the bed.
"I'm to call you and tell you to beef up security at Millennium," she said.
"Thanks for the suggestion," he said wryly.
"I'm serious. If they start to smell a rat, there's a danger that they'll go and do something without thinking. They might break in."
"Henry's sleeping there tonight. And we have a burglar alarm that goes straight to Milton Security, three minutes away."
He lay in silence with his eyes shut.
"Paranoid," he muttered.
CHAPTER 24
Monday, 11.vii
It was 6.00 on Monday morning when Linder from Milton Security called Blomkvist on his T10.
"Don't you people ever rest?" Blomkvist said, drunk with sleep.
He glanced at Figuerola. She was up already and had changed into jogging shorts, but had not yet put on her T-shirt.
"Sure. But the night duty officer woke me. The silent alarm we installed at your apartment went off at 3.00."
"Did it?"
"I drove down to see what was going on. This is a bit tricky. Could you come to Milton this morning? As soon as possible, that is."
"This is serious," Armansky said.
It was just after 8.00 when Armansky, Blomkvist and Linder were gathered in front of a T. V. monitor in a conference room at Milton Security. Armansky had also called in Johan Fräklund, a retired criminal inspector in the Solna police, now chief of Milton's operations unit, and the former inspector Sonny Bohman, who had been involved in the Salander affair from the start. They were pondering the surveillance video that Linder had just shown them.
"What we see here is Säpo officer Jonas Sandberg opening the door to Mikael's apartment at 3.17. He has his own keys. You will recall that Faulsson the locksmith made copies of the spare set when he and Göran Mårtensson broke in several weeks ago."
Armansky nodded sternly.
"Sandberg is in the apartment for approximately eight minutes. During that time he does the following things. First, he takes a small plastic bag from the kitchen, which he fills. Then he unscrews the back plate of a loudspeaker which you have in the living room, Mikael. That's where he places the bag. The fact that he takes a bag from your kitchen is significant."
"It's a Konsum bag," Blomkvist said. "I save them to put cheese and stuff in."
"I do the same. What matters, of course, is that the bag has your fingerprints on it. Then he takes a copy of S. M. P. from the recycling bin in the hall. He tears off a page to wrap up an object which he puts on the top shelf of your wardrobe. Same thing there: the paper has your fingerprints on it."
"I get you," Blomkvist said.
"I drive to your apartment at around 5.00," Linder said. "I find the following items: in your loudspeaker there are now approximately 180 grams of cocaine. I've taken a sample which I have here."
She put a small evidence bag on the conference table.
"What's in the wardrobe?" Blomkvist said.
"About 120,000 kronor in cash."
Armansky motioned to Linder to turn off the T. V. He turned to Fräklund.
"So Mikael Blomkvist is involved in cocaine dealing," Fräklund said good-naturedly. "Apparently they've started to get a little worried about what Blomkvist is working on."
"This is a counter-move," Blomkvist said.
"A counter-move to what?"
"They ran into Milton's security patrol in Morgongåva last night."
He told them what he had heard from Figuerola about Sandberg's expedition to the printing factory.
"That busy little rascal," Bohman said.
"But why now?"
"They must be nervous about what Millennium might publish when the trial starts," Fräklund said. "If Blomkvist is arrested for dealing cocaine, his credibility will drop dramatically."
Linder nodded. Blomkvist looked sceptical.
"How are we going to handle this?" Armansky said.
"We should do nothing," Fräklund said. "We hold all the cards. We have crystal-clear evidence of Sandberg planting the stuff in your apartment. Let them spring the trap. We can prove your innocence in a second, and besides, this will be further proof of the Section's criminal activities. I would so love to be prosecutor when those guys are brought to trial."
"I don't know," Blomkvist said slowly. "The trial starts the day after tomorrow. The magazine is on the stands on Friday, day three of the trial. If they plan to frame me for dealing cocaine, I'll never have the time to explain how it happened before the magazine comes out. I risk sitting in prison and missing the beginning of the trial."
"So, all the more reason for you to stay out of sight this week," Armansky said.
"Well... I have to work with T.V.4 and I've got a number of other things to do. It would be enormously inconvenient-"
"Why right now?" Linder said suddenly.
"How do you mean?" Armansky said.
"They've had three months to smear Blomkvist. Why do it right now? Whatever happens they're not going to be able to prevent publication."
They all sat in silence for a moment.
"It might be because they don't have a clue what you're going to publish, Mikael," Armansky said. "They have to suppose that you have something in the offing... but they might think all you have is Björck's report. They have no reason to know that you're planning on rolling up the whole Section. If it's only about Björck's report, then it's certainly enough to blacken your reputation. Any revelations you might come up with would be drowned out when you're arrested and charged. Big scandal. The famous Mikael Blomkvist arrested on a drugs charge. Six to eight years in prison."
"Could I have two copies of the video?" Blomkvist said.
"What are you going to do with them?"
"Lodge one copy with Edklinth. And in three hours I'm going to be at T.V.4. I think it would be prudent to have this ready to run on T. V. if or when all hell breaks loose."
Figuerola turned off the D. V. D. player and put the remote on the table. They were meeting in the temporary office on Fridhemsplan.
"Cocaine," Edklinth said. "They're playing a very dirty game here."
Figuerola looked thoughtful. She glanced at Blomkvist.
"I thought it best to keep all of you up to date," he said with a shrug.
"I don't like this," Figuerola said. "It implies a recklessness. Someone hasn't really thought this through. They must realize that you wouldn't go quietly and let yourself be thrown into Kumla bunker under arrest on a drugs charge."
"I agree," Blomkvist said.
"Even if you were convicted, there's still a strong likelihood that people would believe what you have to say. And your colleagues at Millennium wouldn't keep quiet either."
"Furthermore, this is costing them a great deal," Edklinth said. "They have a budget that allows them to distribute 120,000 kronor here and there without blinking, plus whatever the cocaine costs them."
"I know, but the plan is actually not bad," Blomkvist said. "They're counting on Salander landing back in the asylum while I disappear in a cloud of suspicion. They're also assuming that any attention would be focused on Säpo - not on the Section."
"But how are they going to convince the drug squad to search your apartment? I mean, an anonymous tip will hardly be enough for someone to kick in the door of a star journalist. And if this is going to work, suspicion would have to be cast on you within forty-eight hours."
"Well, we don't really know anything about their schedule," Blomkvist said.
He felt exhausted and longed for all this to be over. He got up.
"Where are you off to?" Figuerola said. "I'd like to know where you're going to be for the next few days."
"I have a meeting with T.V.4 at lunchtime. And at 6.00 I'm going to catch up with Erika Berger over a lamb stew at Samir's. We're going to fine-tune the press release. The rest of the afternoon and evening I'll be at Millennium, I imagine."
Figuerola's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Berger.
"I need you to stay in touch during the day. I'd prefer it if you stayed in close contact until the trial starts."
"Maybe I could move in with you for a few days," Blomkvist said with a playful smile.
Figuerola's face darkened. She cast a hasty glance at Edklinth.
"Monica's right," Edklinth said. "I think it would be best if you stay more or less out of sight for the time being."
"You take care of your end," Blomkvist said, "and I'll take care of mine."
The presenter of She on T.V.4 could hardly conceal her excitement over the video material that Blomkvist had delivered. Blomkvist was amused at her undisguised glee. For a week they had worked like dogs to put together coherent material about the Section that they could use on T. V. Her producer and the news editor at T.V.4 were in no doubt as to what a scoop the story would be. It was being produced in the utmost secrecy, with only a very few people involved. They had agreed to Blomkvist's insistence that the story be the lead on the evening of the third day of the trial. They had decided to do an hour-long news special.
Blomkvist had given her a quantity of still photographs to work with, but on television nothing compares to the moving image. She was simply delighted when he showed her the video - in razor-sharp definition - of an identifiable police officer planting cocaine in his apartment.
"This is great T. V.," she said. "Camera shot: Here is Säpo planting cocaine in the reporter's apartment."
"Not Säpo... the Section," Blomkvist corrected her. "Don't make the mistake of muddling the two."
"Sandberg works for Säpo, for God's sake," she said.
"Sure, but in practice he should be regarded as an infiltrator. Keep the boundary line very clear."
"Understood. It's the Section that's the story here. Not Säpo. Mikael, can you explain to me how it is that you keep getting mixed up in these sensational stories? And you're right. This is going to be bigger than the Wennerström affair."
"Sheer talent, I guess. Ironically enough this story also begins with a Wennerström. The spy scandal of the '60s, that is."
Berger called at 4.00. She was in a meeting with the newspaper publishers' association sharing her views on the planned cutbacks at S.M.P., which had given rise to a major conflict in the industry after she had resigned. She would not be able to make it to their dinner before 6.30.
Sandberg helped Clinton move from the wheelchair to the daybed in the room that was his command centre in the Section's headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton had just returned from a whole morning spent in dialysis. He felt ancient, infinitely weary. He had hardly slept the past few days and wished that all this would soon come to an end. He had managed to make himself comfortable, sitting up in the bed, when Nyström appeared.
Clinton concentrated his energy. "Is it ready?"
"I've just come from a meeting with the Nikolich brothers," Nyström said. "It's going to cost 50,000."
"We can afford it," Clinton said.
Christ, if only I were young again.
He turned his head and studied Nyström and Sandberg in turn.
"No qualms of conscience?" he said.
They shook their heads.
"When?" Clinton said.
"Within twenty-four hours," Nyström said. "It's difficult to pin down where Blomkvist is staying, but if the worst comes to the worst they'll do it outside Millennium's offices."
"We have a possible opportunity tonight, two hours from now," said Sandberg.
"Oh, really?"
"Erika Berger called him a while ago. They're going to have dinner at Samir's Cauldron. It's a restaurant near Bellmansgatan."
"Berger..." Clinton said hesitantly.
"I hope for God's sake that she doesn't-" Nyström said.
"That wouldn't be the end of the world," Sandberg said.
Clinton and Nyström both stared at him.
"We're agreed that Blomkvist is our greatest threat, and that he's going to publish something damaging in the next issue of Millennium. We can't prevent publication, so we have to destroy his credibility. If he's killed in what appears to be a typical underworld hit and the police then find drugs and cash in his apartment, the investigators will draw certain conclusions. They won't initially be looking for conspiracies involving the Security Police."
"Go on," Clinton said.
"Erika Berger is actually Blomkvist's lover," Sandberg said with some force. "She's unfaithful to her husband. If she too were to be a victim, that would lead to further speculation."
Clinton and Nyström exchanged glances. Sandberg had a natural talent when it came to creating smokescreens. He learned fast. But Clinton and Nyström felt a surge of anxiety. Sandberg was too cavalier about life-and-death decisions. That was not good. Extreme measures were not to be employed just because an opportunity had presented itself. Murder was no easy solution; it should be resorted to only when there was no alternative.
Clinton shook his head.
Collateral damage, he thought. He suddenly felt disgust for the whole operation.
After a lifetime in service to the nation, here we sit like primitive mercenaries. Zalachenko was necessary. Björck was... regrettable, but Gullberg was right: Björck would have caved in. Blomkvist is... possibly necessary. But Erika Berger could only be an innocent bystander.
He looked steadily at Sandberg. He hoped that the young man would not develop into a psychopath.
"How much do the Nikolich brothers know?"
"Nothing. About us, that is. I'm the only one they've met. I used another identity and they can't trace me. They think the killing has to do with trafficking."
"What happens to them after the hit?"
"They leave Sweden at once," Nyström said. "Just like after Björck. If the murder investigation yields no results, they can very cautiously return after a few weeks."
"And the method?"
"Sicilian style. They walk up to Blomkvist, empty a magazine into him, and walk away."
"Weapon?"
"They have an automatic. I don't know what type."
"I do hope they won't spray the whole restaurant-"
"No danger of that. They're cold-blooded, they know what they have to do. But if Berger is sitting at the same table-"
Collateral damage.
"Look here," Clinton said. "It's important that Wadensjöö doesn't get wind of this. Especially not if Berger becomes a victim. He's stressed to breaking point as it is. I'm afraid we're going to have to put him out to pasture when this is over."
Nyström nodded.
"Which means that when we get word that Blomkvist has been shot, we're going to have to put on a good show. We'll call a crisis meeting and act thunderstruck by the development. We can speculate who might be behind the murder, but we'll say nothing about the drugs until the police find the evidence."
Blomkvist took leave of the presenter of She just before 5.00. They had spent the afternoon filling in the gaps in the material. Then Blomkvist had gone to make-up and subjected himself to a long interview on film.
One question had been put to him which he struggled to answer in a coherent way, and they had to film that section several times.
How is it possible that civil servants in the Swedish government will go so far as to commit murder?
Blomkvist had brooded over the question long before She's presenter had asked it. The Section must have considered Zalachenko an unacceptable threat, but it was still not a satisfactory answer. The reply he eventually gave was not satisfactory either: "The only reasonable explanation I can give is that over the years the Section developed into a cult in the true sense of the word. They became like Knutby, or the pastor Jim Jones or something like that. They write their own laws, within which concepts like right and wrong have ceased to be relevant. And through these laws they imagine themselves isolated from normal society."
"It sounds like some sort of mental illness, don't you think?"
"That wouldn't be an inaccurate description."
Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Slussen. It was too early to go to Samir's Cauldron. He stood on Södermalmstorg for a while. He was worried still, yet all of a sudden life felt right again. It was not until Berger came back to Millennium that he realized how terribly he had missed her. Besides, her retaking of the helm had not led to any internal strife; Eriksson had reverted happily to the position of assistant editor, indeed was almost ecstatic - as she put it - that life would now return to normal.
Berger's coming back had also meant that everyone discovered how incredibly understaffed they had been during the past three months. Berger had had to resume her duties at Millennium at a run, and she and Eriksson managed to tackle together some of the organizational issues that had been piling up.
Blomkvist decided to buy the evening papers and have coffee at Java on Hornsgatan to kill time before he was to meet Berger.
*
Prosecutor Ragnhild Gustavsson of the National Prosecutors' Office set her reading glasses on the conference table and studied the group. She had a lined but apple-cheeked face and short, greying hair. She had been a prosecutor for twenty-five years and had worked at the N.P.O. since the early '90s. She was fifty-eight Only three weeks had passed since she had been without warning summoned to the N.P.O. to meet Superintendent Edklinth, Director of Constitutional Protection. That day she had been busily finishing up one or two routine matters so she could begin her six-week leave at her cabin on the island of Husarö with a clear conscience. Instead she had been assigned to lead the investigation of a group of civil servants who went by the name of "the Section". Her holiday plans had quickly to be shelved. She had been advised that this would be her priority for the foreseeable future, and she had been given a more or less free hand to shape her operational team and take the necessary decisions.
"This may prove one of the most sensational criminal investigations this country has witnessed," the Prosecutor General had told her.
She was beginning to think he was right.
She had listened with increasing amazement to Edklinth's summary of the situation and the investigation he had undertaken at the instruction of the Prime Minister. The investigation was not yet complete, but he believed that his team had come far enough to be able to present the case to a prosecutor.
First of all Gustavsson had reviewed all the material that Edklinth had delivered. When the sheer scope of the criminal activity began to emerge, she realized that every decision she made would some day be pored over by historians and their readers. Since then she had spent every waking minute trying to get to grips with the numerous crimes. The case was unique in Swedish law, and since it involved charting criminal activity that had gone on for at least thirty years, she recognized the need for a very particular kind of operational team. She was reminded of the Italian government's anti-Mafia investigators who had been forced in the '70s and '80s to work almost underground in order to survive. She knew why Edklinth himself had been bound to work in secret. He did not know whom he could trust.
Her first action was to call in three colleagues from the N. P. O. She selected people she had known for many years. Then she hired a renowned historian who had worked on the Crime Prevention Council to help with an analysis of the growth of Security Police responsibilities and powers over the decades. She formally appointed Inspector Figuerola head of the investigation.
At this point the investigation of the Section had taken on a constitutionally valid form. It could now be viewed like any other police investigation, even though its operation would be conducted in absolute secrecy.
Over the past two weeks Prosecutor Gustavsson had summoned a large number of individuals to official but extremely discreet interviews. As well as with Edklinth and Figuerola, interviews had been conducted with Criminal Inspectors Bublanski, Modig, Andersson and Holmberg. She had called in Mikael Blomkvist, Malin Eriksson, Henry Cortez, Christer Malm, Advokat Giannini, Dragan Armansky and Susanne Linder, and she had herself gone to visit Lisbeth Salander's former guardian, Holger Palmgren. Apart from the members of Millennium's staff who on principle did not answer questions that might reveal the identity of their sources, all had readily provided detailed answers, and in some cases supporting documentation as well.
Prosecutor Gustavsson had not been at all pleased to have been presented with a timetable that had been determined by Millennium. It meant that she would have to order the arrest of a number of individuals on a specific date. She knew that ideally she would have had several months of preparation before the investigation reached its present stage, but she had no choice. Blomkvist had been adamant. Millennium was not subject to any governmental ordinances or regulations, and he intended to publish the story on day three of Salander's trial. Gustavsson was thus compelled to adjust her own schedule to strike at the same time, so that those individuals who were under suspicion would not be given a chance to disappear along with the evidence. Blomkvist received a surprising degree of support from Edklinth and Figuerola, and the prosecutor came to see that Blomkvist's plan had certain clear advantages. As prosecutor she would get just the kind of fully focused media back-up she needed to push forward the prosecution. In addition, the whole process would move ahead so quickly that this complex investigation would not have time to leak into the corridors of the bureaucracy and thus risk being unearthed by the Section.
"Blomkvist's first priority is to achieve justice for Salander. Nailing the Section is merely a by-product," Figuerola said.
The trial of Lisbeth Salander was to commence on Wednesday, in two days' time. The meeting on Monday involved doing a review of the latest material available to them and dividing up the work assignments.
Thirteen people participated in the meeting. From N. P. O., Ragnhild Gustavsson had brought her two closest colleagues. From Constitutional Protection, Inspector Monica Figuerola had come with Bladh and Berglund. Edklinth, as Director of Constitutional Protection, was sitting in as an observer.
But Gustavsson had decided that a matter of this importance could not credibly be restricted to S. I. S. She had therefore called in Inspector Bublanski and his team, consisting of Modig, Holmberg and Andersson from the regular police force. They had, after all, been working on the Salander case since Easter and were familiar with all the details. Gustavsson had also called in Prosecutor Jervas and Inspector Erlander from the Göteborg police. The investigation of the Section had a direct connection to the investigation of the murder of Alexander Zalachenko.
When Figuerola mentioned that former Prime Minister Thorbjörn Fälldin might have to take the stand as a witness, Holmberg and Modig were scarcely able to conceal their discomfort.
For five hours they examined one individual after another who had been identified as an activist in the Section. After that they established the various crimes that could be linked to the apartment on Artillerigatan. A further nine people had been identified as being connected to the Section, although they never visited Artillerigatan. They worked primarily at S. I. S. on Kungsholmen, but had met with some of the Section's activists.
"It is still impossible to say how widespread the conspiracy is. We do not know under what circumstances these people meet with Wadensjöö or with anyone else. They could be informers, or they may have been given the impression that they're working for internal affairs or something similar. So there is some uncertainty about the degree of their involvement, and that can be resolved only after we've had a chance to interview them. Furthermore, these are merely those individuals we have observed during the weeks the surveillance has been in effect; there could be more that we do not yet know about."
"But the chief of Secretariat and the chief of Budget-"
"We have to assume that they're working for the Section."
It was 6.00 on Monday when Gustavsson gave everyone an hour's break for dinner, after which they would reconvene.
It was just as everyone had stood up and begun to move about that Jesper Thoms, Figuerola's colleague from C. P.'s operations unit, drew her aside to report on what had developed during the last few hours of surveillance.
"Clinton has been in dialysis for most of the day and got back to Artillerigatan at 3.00. The only one who did anything of interest was Nyström, although we aren't quite sure what it was he did."
"Tell me," said Figuerola.
"At 1.30 he drove to Central Station and met up with two men. They walked across to the Sheraton and had coffee in the bar. The meeting lasted for about twenty minutes, after which Nyström returned to Artillerigatan."
"O.K. So who were they?"
"They're new faces. Two men in their mid-thirties who seem to be of eastern European origin. Unfortunately our observer lost them when they went into the tunnelbana."
"I see," Figuerola said wearily.
"Here are the pictures," Thoms said. He handed her a series of surveillance photographs.
She glanced at the enlargements of two faces she had never set eyes on before.
"Thanks," she said, laying out the photographs on the conference table. She picked up her handbag to go and find something to eat.
Andersson, who was standing nearby, bent to look more closely at the pictures.
"Oh shit," he said. "Are the Nikolich brothers involved in this?"
Figuerola stopped in her tracks. "Who did you say?"
"These two are seriously rotten apples," Andersson said. "Tomi and Miro Nikolich."
"Have you had dealings with them?"
"Sure. Two brothers from Huddinge. Serbs. We had them under observation several times when they were in their twenties and I was in the gangs unit. Miro is the dangerous one. He's been wanted for about a year for G. B. H. I thought they'd both gone back to Serbia to become politicians or something."
"Politicians?"
"Right. They went down to Yugoslavia in the early '90s and helped carry out ethnic cleansing. They worked for a Mafia leader, Arkan, who was running some sort of private fascist militia. They got a reputation for being shooters."
"Shooters?"
"Hit men. They've been flitting back and forth between Belgrade and Stockholm. Their uncle has a restaurant in Norrmalm, and they've apparently worked there once in a while. We've had reports that they were mixed up in at least two of the killings in what was known as the 'cigarette war', but we never got close to charging them with anything."
Figuerola gazed mutely at the photographs. Then suddenly she turned pale as a ghost. She stared at Edklinth.
"Blomkvist," she cried with panic in her voice. "They're not just planning to involve him in a scandal, they're planning to murder him. Then the police will find the cocaine during the investigation and draw their own conclusions."
Edklinth stared back at her.
"He's supposed to be meeting Erika Berger at Samir's Cauldron," Figuerola said. She grabbed Andersson by the shoulder. "Are you armed?"
"Yes..."
"Come with me."
Figuerola rushed out of the conference room. Her office was three doors down. She ran in and took her service weapon from the desk drawer. Against all regulations she left the door to her office unlocked and wide open as she raced off towards the lifts. Andersson hesitated for a second.
"Go," Bublanski told him. "Sonja, you go with them too."
Blomkvist got to Samir's Cauldron at 6.20. Berger had just arrived and found a table near the bar, not far from the entrance. He kissed her on the cheek. They both ordered lamb stew and strong beers from the waiter.
"How was the She woman?" Berger said.
"Cool, as usual."
Berger laughed. "If you don't watch out you're going to become obsessed by her. Imagine, a woman who can resist the famous Blomkvist charm."
"There are in fact several women who haven't fallen for me over the years," Blomkvist said. "How has your day been?"
"Wasted. But I accepted an invitation to be on a panel to debate the whole S. M. P. business at the Publicists' Club. That will be my final contribution."
"Great."
"It's just such a relief to be back at Millennium."
"You have no idea how good it is that you're back. I'm still elated."
"It's fun to be at work again."
"Mmm."
"I'm happy."
"And I have to go to the gents'," Blomkvist said, getting up.
He almost collided with a man who had just walked in. Blomkvist noticed that he looked vaguely eastern European and was staring at him. Then he saw the sub-machine gun.
As they passed Riddarholmen, Edklinth called to tell them that neither Blomkvist nor Berger were answering their mobiles. They had presumably turned them off for dinner.
Figuerola swore and passed Södermalmstorg at a speed of close to eighty kilometres an hour. She kept her horn pressed down and made a sharp turn on to Hornsgatan. Andersson had to brace himself against the door. He had taken out his gun and checked the magazine. Modig did the same in the back seat.
"We have to call for back-up," Andersson said. "You don't play games with the Nikolich boys."
Figuerola ground her teeth.
"This is what we'll do," she said. "Sonja and I will go straight into the restaurant and hope they're sitting inside. Curt, you know what these guys look like, so you stay outside and keep watch."
"Right."
"If all goes well, we'll take Blomkvist and Berger straight out to the car and drive them down to Kungsholmen. If we suspect anything's wrong, we stay inside the restaurant and call for back-up."
"O.K.," Modig said.
Figuerola was nearly at the restaurant when the police radio crackled beneath the dashboard.
All units. Shots fired on Tavastgatan on Södermalm. Samir's Cauldron restaurant.
Figuerola felt a sudden lurch in her chest.
Berger saw Blomkvist bump into a man as he was heading past the entrance towards the gents'. She frowned without really knowing why. She saw the other man stare at Blomkvist with a surprised expression. She wondered if it was somebody he knew.
Then she saw the man take a step back and drop a bag to the floor. At first she did not know what she was seeing. She sat paralysed as he raised some kind of gun and aimed it at Blomkvist Blomkvist reacted without stopping to think. He flung out his left hand, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and twisted it up towards the ceiling. For a microsecond the muzzle passed in front of his face.
The burst of fire from the sub-machine gun was deafening in the small room. Mortar and glass from the overhead lights rained down on Blomkvist as Miro Nikolich squeezed off eleven shots. For a moment Blomkvist looked directly into the eyes of his attacker.
Then Nikolich took a step back and yanked the gun towards him. Blomkvist was unprepared and lost his grip on the barrel. He knew at once that he was in mortal danger. Instinctively he threw himself at the attacker instead of crouching down or trying to take cover. Later he realized that if he had ducked or backed away, he would have been shot on the spot. He got a new grip on the barrel
of the sub-machine gun and used his entire weight to drive the man against the wall. He heard another six or seven shots go off and tore desperately at the gun to direct the muzzle at the floor.
Berger instinctively took cover when the second series of shots was fired. She stumbled and fell, hitting her head on a chair. As she lay on the floor she looked up and saw that three holes had appeared in the wall just behind where she had been sitting.
In shock she turned her head and saw Blomkvist struggling with the man by the door. He had fallen to his knees and was gripping the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it loose. She saw the attacker struggling to get free. He kept smashing his fist over and over into Blomkvist's face and temple.
Figuerola braked hard opposite Samir's Cauldron, flung open the car door and ran across the road towards the restaurant. She had her Sig Sauer in her hand with the safety off when she noticed the car parked right outside the restaurant.
She saw one of the Nikolich brothers behind the wheel and pointed her weapon at his face behind the driver's door "Police. Hands up," she screamed.
Tomi Nikolich held up his hands.
"Get out of the car and lie face down on the pavement," she roared, fury in her voice. She turned and glanced at Andersson and Modig beside her. "The restaurant," she said.
Modig was thinking of her children. It was against all police protocol to gallop into a building with her weapon drawn without first having back-up in place and without knowing the exact situation.
Then she heard the sound of more shots from inside.
Blomkvist had his middle finger between the trigger and the trigger guard as Miro Nikolich tried to keep shooting. He heard glass shattering behind him. He felt a searing pain as the attacker squeezed the trigger again and again, crushing his finger. As long as his finger was in place the gun could not be fired. But as Nikolich's fist pummelled again and again on the side of his head, it suddenly occurred to him that he was too old for this sort of thing.
Have to end it, he thought.
That was his first rational thought since he had become aware of the man with the sub-machine gun.
He clenched his teeth and shoved his finger further into the space behind the trigger.
Then he braced himself, rammed his shoulder into the attacker's body and forced himself back on to his feet. He let go of the gun with his right hand and raised elbow up to protect his face from the pummelling. Nikolich switched to hitting him in the armpit and ribs. For a second they stood eye to eye again.
The next moment Blomkvist felt the attacker being pulled away from him. He felt one last devastating pain in his finger and became aware of Andersson's huge form. The police officer literally picked up Nikolich with a firm grip on his neck and slammed his head into the wall by the door. Nikolich collapsed to the ground.
"Get down! This is the police. Stay very still," he heard Modig yell.
He turned his head and saw her standing with her legs apart and her gun held in both hands as she surveyed the chaos. At last she raised her gun to point it at the ceiling and looked at Blomkvist.
"Are you hurt?" she said.
In a daze Blomkvist looked back at her. He was bleeding from his eyebrows and nose.
"I think I broke a finger," he said, sitting down on the floor.
Figuerola received back-up from the Södermalm armed response team less than a minute after she forced Tomi Nikolich on to the pavement at gunpoint. She showed her I. D. and left the officers to take charge of the prisoner. Then she ran inside. She stopped in the entrance to take stock of the situation.
Blomkvist and Berger were sitting side by side. His face was bloodied and he seemed to be in shock. She sighed in relief. He was alive. Then she frowned as Berger put her arm around his shoulders. At least her face was bruised.
Modig was squatting down next to them, examining Blomkvist's hand. Andersson was handcuffing Nikolich, who looked as though he had been hit by a truck. She saw a Swedish Army model M/45 submachine gun on the floor.
Figuerola looked up and saw shocked restaurant staff and terrorstricken patrons, along with shattered china, overturned chairs and tables, and debris from the rounds that had been fired. She smelled cordite. But she was not aware of anyone dead or wounded in the restaurant. Officers from the armed response team began to squeeze into the room with their weapons drawn. She reached out and touched Andersson's shoulder. He stood up.
"You said that Miro Nikolich was on our wanted list?"
"Correct. G. B. H. About a year ago. A street fight down in Hallunda."
"O.K. Here's what we'll do," Figuerola said. "I'll take off as fast as I can with Blomkvist and Berger. You stay here. The story is that you and Modig came here to have dinner and you recognized Nikolich from your time in the gangs unit. When you tried to arrest him he pulled a weapon and started shooting. So you sorted him out."
Andersson looked completely astonished. "That's not going to hold up. There are witnesses."
"The witnesses will say that somebody was fighting and shots were fired. It only has to hold up until tomorrow's evening papers. The story is that the Nikolich brothers were apprehended by sheer chance because you recognized them."
Andersson surveyed the shambles all around him.
Figuerola pushed her way through the knot of police officers out on the street and put Blomkvist and Berger in the back seat of her car. She turned to the armed response team leader and spoke in a low voice with him for half a minute. She gestured towards the car in which Blomkvist and Berger were now sitting. The leader looked puzzled but at last he nodded. She drove to Zinkensdamm, parked, and turned around to her passengers.
"How badly are you hurt?"
"I took a few punches. I've still got all my teeth, but my middle finger's hurt."
"I'll take you to A. & E. at St Göran's."
"What happened?" Berger said. "And who are you?"
"I'm sorry," Blomkvist said. "Erika, this is Inspector Monica Figuerola. She works for Säpo. Monica, this is Erika Berger."
"I worked that out all by myself," Figuerola said in a neutral tone. She did not spare Berger a glance.
"Monica and I met during the investigation. She's my contact at S. I. S."
"I understand," Berger said, and she began to shake as suddenly the shock set in.
Figuerola stared hard at Berger.
"What went wrong?" Blomkvist said.
"We misinterpreted the reason for the cocaine," Figuerola said. "We thought they were setting a trap for you, to create a scandal. Now we know they wanted to kill you. They were going to let the police find the cocaine when they went through your apartment."
"What cocaine?" Berger said.
Blomkvist closed his eyes for a moment.
"Take me to St Göran's," he said.
"Arrested?" Clinton barked. He felt a butterfly-light pressure around his heart.
"We think it's alright," Nyström said. "It seems to have been sheer bad luck."
"Bad luck?"
"Miro Nikolich was wanted on some old assault story. A policeman from the gangs unit happened to recognize him when he went into Samir's Cauldron and wanted to arrest him. Nikolich panicked and tried to shoot his way out."
"And Blomkvist?"
"He wasn't involved. We don't even know if he was in the restaurant at the time."
"This cannot be fucking true," Clinton said. "What do the Nikolich brothers know?"
"About us? Nothing. They think Björck and Blomkvist were both hits that had to do with trafficking."
"But they know that Blomkvist was the target?"
"Sure, but they're hardly going to start blabbing about being hired to do a hit. They'll keep their mouths shut all the way to district court. They'll do time for possession of illegal weapons and, as like as not, for resisting arrest."
"Those damned fuck-ups," Clinton said.
"Well, they seriously screwed up. We've had to let Blomkvist give us the slip for the moment, but no harm was actually done."
It was 11.00 by the time Linder and two hefty bodyguards from Milton Security's personal protection unit collected Blomkvist and Berger from Kungsholmen.
"You really do get around," Linder said.
"Sorry," Berger said gloomily.
Berger had been in a state of shock as they drove to St Göran's. It had dawned on her all of a sudden that both she and Blomkvist had very nearly been killed.
Blomkvist had spent an hour in A. & E. having his head X-rayed and his face bandaged. His left middle finger was put in a splint. The end joint of his finger was badly bruised and he would lose the fingernail. Ironically the main injury was caused when Andersson came to his rescue and pulled Nikolich off him. Blomkvist's middle finger had been caught in the trigger guard of the M/45 and had snapped straight across. It hurt a lot but was hardly life-threatening.
For Blomkvist the shock did not set in until two hours later, when he had arrived at Constitutional Protection at S. I. S. and reported to Inspector Bublanski and Prosecutor Gustavsson. He began to shiver and felt so tired that he almost fell asleep between questions. At that point a certain amount of palavering ensued.
"We don't know what they're planning and we have no idea whether Mikael was the only intended victim," Figuerola said. "Or whether Erika here was supposed to die too. We don't know if they will try again or if anyone else at Millennium is being targeted. And why not kill Salander? After all, she's the truly serious threat to the Section."
"I've already rung my colleagues at Millennium while Mikael was being patched up," Berger said. "Everyone's going to lie extremely low until the magazine comes out. The office will be left unstaffed."
Edklinth's immediate reaction had been to order bodyguard protection for Blomkvist and Berger. But on reflection he and Figuerola decided that it would not be the smartest move to contact
S. I. S.'s Personal Protection unit. Berger solved the problem by declining police protection. She called Armansky to explain what had happened, which was why, later that night, Linder was called in for duty.
Blomkvist and Berger were lodged on the top floor of a safe house just beyond Drottningholm on the road to Ekerö. It was a large '30s villa overlooking Lake Mälaren. It had an impressive garden, outbuildings and extensive grounds. The estate was owned by Milton Security, but Martina Sjögren lived there. She was the widow of their colleague of many years, Hans Sjögren, who had died in an accident on assignment fifteen years earlier. After the funeral, Armansky had talked with Fru Sjögren and then hired her as housekeeper and general caretaker of the property. She lived rent-free in a wing of the ground floor and kept the top floor ready for those occasions, a few times each year, when Milton Security at short notice needed to hide away individuals who for real or imagined reasons feared for their safety.
Figuerola went with them. She sank on to a chair in the kitchen and allowed Fru Sjögren to serve her coffee, while Berger and Blomkvist installed themselves upstairs and Linder checked the alarm and electronic surveillance equipment around the property.
"There are toothbrushes and so on in the chest of drawers outside the bathroom," Sjögren called up the stairs.
Linder and Milton's bodyguards installed themselves in rooms on the ground floor.
"I've been on the go ever since I was woken at 4.00," Linder said. "You can put together a watch rota, but let me sleep till at least 5.00."
"You can sleep all night. We'll take care of this," one of the bodyguards said.
"Thanks," Linder said, and she went straight to bed.
Figuerola listened absent-mindedly as the bodyguards switched on the motion detector in the courtyard and drew straws to see who would take the first watch. The one who lost made himself a sandwich and went into the T. V. room next to the kitchen. Figuerola studied the flowery coffee cups. She too had been on the go since early morning and was feeling fairly exhausted. She was just thinking about driving home when Berger came downstairs and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat down opposite Figuerola.
"Mikael went out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow."
"Reaction to the adrenaline," Figuerola said.
"What happens now?"
"You'll have to lie low for a few days. Within a week this will all be over, whichever way it ends. How are you feeling?"
"So-so. A bit shaky still. It's not every day something like this happens. I just called my husband to explain why I wouldn't be coming home."
"Hmm."
"I'm married to-"
"I know who you're married to."
Silence. Figuerola rubbed her eyes and yawned.
"I have to go home and get some sleep," she said.
"Oh, for God's sake, stop talking rubbish and go and lie down with Mikael," Berger said.
Figuerola looked at her.
"Is it that obvious?" she said.
Berger nodded.
"Did Mikael say anything-"
"Not a word. He's generally rather discreet when it comes to his lady friends. But sometimes he's an open book. And you're clearly hostile every time you even look at me. The pair of you obviously have something to hide."
"It's my boss," Figuerola said.
"Where does he come into it?"
"He'd fly off the handle if he knew that Mikael and I were-"
"I can quite see that."
Silence.
"I don't know what's going on between you two, but I'm not your rival," Berger said.
"You're not?"
"Mikael and I sleep together now and then. But I'm not married to him."
"I heard that you two had a special relationship. He told me about you when we were out at Sandhamn."
"So you've been to Sandhamn? Then it is serious."
"Don't make fun of me."
"Monica, I hope that you and Mikael... I'll try to stay out of your way."
"And if you can't?"
Berger shrugged. "His ex-wife flipped out big time when Mikael was unfaithful with me. She threw him out. It was my fault. As long as Mikael is single and available, I would have no compunction. But I promised myself that if he was ever serious about someone, then I'd keep my distance."
"I don't know if I dare count on him."
"Mikael is special. Are you in love with him?"
"I think so."
"Alright, then. Just don't tell him too soon. Now go to bed."
Figuerola thought about it for a moment. Then she went upstairs, undressed and crawled into bed next to Blomkvist. He mumbled something and put his arm around her waist.
Berger sat alone in the kitchen for a long time. She felt deeply unhappy.
CHAPTER 25
Wednesday, 13.vii - Thursday, 14.vii
Blomkvist had always wondered why the loudspeakers in the district court were so faint, discreet almost. He could hardly make out the words of the announcement that the trial vs Lisbeth Salander would begin in courtroom 5 at 10.00. But he had arrived in plenty of time and positioned himself to wait right by the entrance to the courtroom. He was one of the first to be let in. He chose a seat in the public gallery on the left-hand side of the room, where he would have the best view of the defence table. The seats filled up fast. Media interest had steadily increased in the weeks leading up to the trial, and over the past week Prosecutor Ekström had been interviewed daily.
Lisbeth Salander was charged with assault and grievous bodily harm in the case of Carl-Magnus Lundin; with unlawful threats, attempted murder and grievous bodily harm in the case of Karl Axel Bodin, alias Alexander Zalachenko, now deceased; with two counts of breaking and entering - the first at the summer cabin of the deceased lawyer Nils Erik Bjurman in Stallarholmen, the second at Bjurman's home on Odenplan; with the theft of a vehicle - a Harley-Davidson owned by one Sonny Nieminen of Svavelsjö M.C.; with three counts of possession of illegal weapons - a canister of Mace, a taser and a Polish P-83 Wanad, all found in Gosseberga; with the theft of or withholding of evidence - the formulation was imprecise but it referred to the documentation she had found in Bjurman's summer cabin; and with a number of further misdemeanours. In all, sixteen charges had been filed against Lisbeth Salander.
Ekström had been busy.
He had also leaked information indicating that Salander's mental state was cause for alarm. He cited first the forensic psychiatric report by Dr Jesper H. Löderman that had been compiled at the time of her eighteenth birthday, and second, a report which, in accordance with a decision by the district court at a preliminary hearing, had been written by Dr Peter Teleborian. Since the mentally ill girl had, true to form, refused categorically to speak to psychiatrists, the analysis was made on the basis of "observations" carried out while she was detained at Kronoberg prison in Stockholm during the month before her trial. Teleborian, who had many years of experience with the patient, had determined that Salander was suffering from a serious mental disturbance and employed words such as psychopathy, pathological narcissism, paranoid schizophrenia, and similar.
The press had also reported that seven police interviews had been conducted with Salander. At each of these interviews the defendant had declined even to say good morning to those who were leading the interrogation. The first few interviews had been conducted by the Göteborg police, the remainder had taken place at police headquarters in Stockholm. The tape recordings of the interview protocol revealed that the police had used every means of persuasion and repeated questioning, but had not received the favour of a single reply.
She had not even bothered to clear her throat.
Occasionally Advokat Giannini's voice could be heard on the tapes, at such points as she realized that her client evidently was not going to answer any questions. The charges against Salander were accordingly based exclusively on forensic evidence and on whatever facts the police investigation had been able to determine.
Salander's silence had at times placed her defence lawyer in an awkward position, since she was compelled to be almost as silent as her client. What Giannini and Salander discussed in private was confidential.
Ekström made no secret of the fact that his primary objective was secure psychiatric care for the defendant; of secondary interest to him was a substantial prison sentence. The normal process was the reverse, but he believed that in her case there were such transparent mental disturbances and such an unequivocal forensic psychiatric assessment that he was left with no alternative. It was highly unusual for a court to decide against a forensic psychiatric assessment.
He also believed that Salander's declaration of incompetence should be rescinded. In an interview he had explained with a concerned expression that in Sweden there were a number of sociopaths with such grave mental disturbances that they presented a danger to themselves as well as to others, and modern medicine could offer no alternative to keeping these individuals safely locked up. He cited the case of a violent girl, Anette, who in the '70s had been a frequent focus of attention in the media, and who thirty years on was still in a secure psychiatric institution. Every endeavour to ease the restrictions had resulted in her launching reckless and violent attacks on relatives and carers, or in attempts to injure herself. Ekström was of the view that Salander suffered from a similar form of psychopathic disturbance.
Media interest had also increased for the simple reason that Salander's defence lawyer, Advokat Giannini, had made not a single statement to the press. She had refused all requests to be interviewed so that the media were, as they many times put it, "unable to have an opportunity to
present the views of the other side of the case". Journalists were therefore in a difficult situation: the prosecution kept on shovelling out information while the defence, uncharacteristically, gave not the slightest hint of Salander's reaction to the charges against her, nor of what strategy the defence might employ.
This state of affairs was commented on by the legal expert engaged to follow the trial in one of the evening newspapers. The expert had stated in his column that Advokat Giannini was a respected women's rights lawyer, but that she had absolutely no experience in criminal law outside this case. He concluded that she was unsuitable for the purpose of defending Salander. From his sister Blomkvist had also learned that several distinguished lawyers had offered their services. Giannini had, on behalf of her client, courteously turned down every such proposal.
As he waited for the trial to begin, Blomkvist glanced around at the other spectators. He caught sight of Armansky sitting near the exit and their eyes met for a moment.
Ekström had a large stack of papers on his table. He greeted several journalists.
Giannini sat at her table opposite Ekström. She had her head down and was sorting through her papers. Blomkvist thought that his sister looked a bit tense. Stage fright, he supposed.
Then the judge, assessor and lay assessors entered the courtroom. Judge Jörgen Iversen was a white-haired, 57-year-old man with a gaunt face and a spring in his step. Blomkvist had researched Iversen's background and found that he was an exacting judge of long experience who had presided over many high-profile cases.
Finally Salander was brought into the courtroom.
Even though Blomkvist was used to Salander's penchant for shocking clothing, he was amazed that his sister had allowed her to turn up to the courtroom in a black leather miniskirt with frayed seams and a black top - with the legend I am annoyed - which barely covered her many tattoos. She had ten piercings in her ears and rings through her lower lip and left eyebrow. Her head was covered in three months' worth of uneven stubble after her surgery. She wore grey lipstick and heavily darkened eyebrows, and had applied more black mascara than Blomkvist had ever seen her wear. In the days when he and Salander had spent time together, she had shown almost no interest in make-up.
She looked a bit vulgar, to put it mildly. It was almost a Goth look. She reminded him of a vampire in some pop-art movie from the '60s. Blomkvist was aware of some of the reporters in the press gallery catching their breath in astonishment or smiling broadly. They were at last getting a look at the scandal-ridden young woman they had written so much about, and she was certainly living up to all their expectations.
Then he realized that Salander was in costume. Usually her style was sloppy and rather tasteless. Blomkvist had assumed that she was not really interested in fashion, but that she tried instead to accentuate her own individuality. Salander always seemed to mark her private space as hostile territory, and he had thought of the rivets in her leather jacket as a defence mechanism, like the quills of a hedgehog. To everyone around her it was as good a signal as any: Don't try to touch me - it will hurt.
But here in the district court she had exaggerated her style to the point of parody.
It was no accident, it was part of Giannini's strategy.
If Salander had come in with her hair smoothed down and wearing a twin-set and pearls and sensible shoes, she would have came across as a con artist trying to sell a story to the court. It was a question of credibility. She had come as herself and no-one else. Way over the top - for clarity. She was not pretending to be someone she was not. Her message to the court was that she had no reason to be ashamed or to put on a show. If the court had a problem with her appearance, it was no concern of hers. The state had accused her of a multitude of things, and the prosecutor had dragged her into court. With her very appearance she had already indicated that she intended to brush aside the prosecutor's accusations as nonsense.
She moved with confidence and sat down next to her lawyer. She surveyed the spectators. There was no curiosity in her gaze. She seemed instead defiantly to be observing and registering those who had already convicted her in the press.
It was the first time Blomkvist had seen her since she lay like a bloody rag doll on the bench in that kitchen in Gosseberga, and a year and a half or more since he had last seen her under normal circumstances. If the term "normal circumstances" could ever be used in connection with Salander. For a matter of seconds their eyes met. Hers lingered on him, but she betrayed no sign of recognition. Yet she did seem to study the bruises that covered Blomkvist's cheek and temple and the surgical tape over his right eyebrow. Blomkvist thought he discerned the merest hint of a smile in her eyes but could not be sure he had not imagined it. Then Judge Iversen pounded his gavel and called the court to order.
The spectators were allowed to be present in the courtroom for all of thirty minutes. They listened to Ekström's introductory presentation of the case.
Every reporter except Blomkvist was busily taking notes even though by now all of them knew the charges Ekström intended to bring. Blomkvist had already written his story.
Ekström's introductory remarks went on for twenty-two minutes. Then it was Giannini's turn. Her presentation took thirty seconds. Her voice was firm.
"The defence rejects all the charges brought against her except one. My client admits to possession of an illegal weapon, that is, one spray canister of Mace. To all other counts, my client pleads not guilty of criminal intent. We will show that the prosecutor's assertions are flawed and that my client has been subjected to grievous encroachment of her civil rights. I will demand that my client be acquitted of all charges, that her declaration of incompetence be revoked, and that she be released."
There was a murmuring from the press gallery. Advokat Giannini's strategy had at last been revealed. It was obviously not what the reporters had been expecting. Most had speculated that Giannini would in some way exploit her client's mental illness to her advantage. Blomkvist smiled.
"I see," Judge Iversen said, making a swift note. He looked at Giannini. "Are you finished?"
"That is my presentation."
"Does the prosecutor have anything to add?" Judge Iversen said.
It was at this point that Ekström requested a private meeting in the judge's chambers. There he argued that the case hinged upon one vulnerable individual's mental state and welfare, and that it also involved matters which, if explored before the public in court, could be detrimental to national security.
"I assume that you are referring to what may be termed the Zalachenko affair," Judge Iversen said.
"That is correct. Alexander Zalachenko came to Sweden as a political refugee and sought asylum from a terrible dictatorship. There are elements in the handling of his situation, personal connections and the like, that are still classified, even though Herr Zalachenko is now deceased. I therefore request that the deliberations be held behind closed doors and that a rule of confidentiality be applied to those sections of the deliberations that are particularly sensitive."
"I believe I understand your point," Judge Iversen said, knitting his brows.
"In addition, a large part of the deliberations will deal with the defendant's guardianship. This touches on matters which in all normal cases become classified almost automatically, and it is out of respect for the defendant that I am requesting a closed court."
"How does Advokat Giannini respond to the prosecutor's request?"
"For our part it makes no difference."
Judge Iversen consulted his assessor and then announced, to the annoyance of the reporters present, that he had accepted the prosecutor's request. So Blomkvist left the courtroom.
Armansky waited for Blomkvist at the bottom of the stairs in the courthouse. It was sweltering in the July heat and Blomkvist could feel sweat in his armpits. His two bodyguards joined him as he emerged from the courthouse. Both nodded to Armansky and then they busied themselves studying the surroundings.
"It feels strange to be walking around with bodyguards," Blomkvist said. "What's all this going to cost?"
"It's on the firm. I have a personal interest in keeping you alive. But, since you ask, we've spent roughly 250,000 kronor on pro bono work in the past few months."
"Coffee?" Blomkvist said, pointing to the Italian café on Bergsgatan.
Blomkvist ordered a latte and Armansky a double espresso with a teaspoon of milk. They sat in the shade on the pavement outside. The bodyguards sat at the next table drinking Cokes.
"Closed court," Armansky said.
"That was expected. And it's O.K., since it means that we can control the news flow better."
"You're right, it doesn't matter to us, but my opinion of Prosecutor Ekström is sinking fast," Armansky said.
They drank their coffee and contemplated the courthouse in which Salander's future would be decided.
"Custer's last stand," Blomkvist said.
"She's well prepared," Armansky said. "And I must say I'm impressed with your sister. When she began planning her strategy I thought it made no sense, but the more I think about it, the more effective it seems."
"This trial won't be decided in there," Blomkvist said. He had been repeating these words like a mantra for several months.
"You're going to be called as a witness," Armansky said.
"I know. I'm ready. But it won't happen before the day after tomorrow. At least that's what we're counting on."
Ekström had left his reading glasses at home and had to push his glasses up on to his forehead and squint to be able to read the last-minute handwritten additions to his text. He stroked his blond goatee before once more he readjusted his glasses and surveyed the room.
Salander sat with her back ramrod straight and gave the prosecutor an unfathomable look. Her face and eyes were impassive and she did not appear to be wholly present. It was time for the prosecutor to begin questioning her.
"I would like to remind Fröken Salander that she is speaking under oath," Ekström said at last.
Salander did not move a muscle. Prosecutor Ekström seemed to be anticipating some sort of response and waited for a few seconds. He looked at her expectantly.
"You are speaking under oath," he said.
Salander tilted her head very slightly. Giannini was busy reading something in the preliminary investigation protocol and seemed unconcerned by whatever Prosecutor Ekström was saying. Ekström shuffled his papers. After an uncomfortable silence he cleared his throat.
"Very well then," Ekström said. "Let us proceed directly to the events at the late Advokat Bjurman's summer cabin outside Stallarholmen on April 6 of this year, which was the starting point of my presentation of the case this morning. We shall attempt to bring clarity to how it happened that you drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin."
Ekström gave Salander a challenging look. Still she did not move a muscle. The prosecutor suddenly seemed resigned. He threw up his hands and looked pleadingly at the judge. Judge Iversen seemed wary. He glanced at Giannini who was still engrossed in some papers, apparently unaware of her surroundings.
Judge Iversen cleared his throat. He looked at Salander. "Are we to interpret your silence to mean that you don't want to answer any questions?" he asked.
Salander turned her head and met Judge Iversen's eyes.
"I will gladly answer questions," she said.
Judge Iversen nodded.
"Then perhaps you can answer the question," Ekström put in.
Salander looked at Ekström and said nothing.
"Could you please answer the question?" Judge Iversen urged her.
Salander looked back at the judge and raised her eyebrows. Her voice was clear and distinct.
"Which question? Until now that man there" - she nodded towards Ekström - "has made a number of unverified statements. I haven't yet heard a question."
Giannini looked up. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand with an interested expression.
Ekström lost his train of thought for few seconds.
"Could you please repeat the question?" Judge Iversen said.
"I asked whether... you drove down to Advokat Bjurman's summer cabin in Stallarholmen with the intention of shooting Carl-Magnus Lundin."
"No. You said that you were going to try to bring clarity to how it happened that I drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin. That was not a question. It was a general assertion in which you anticipated my answer. I'm not responsible for the assertions you are making."
"Don't quibble. Answer the question."
"No."
Silence.
"No what?"
"No is my answer to the question."
Prosecutor Ekström sighed. This was going to be a long day. Salander watched him expectantly.
"It might be best to take this from the beginning," he said. "Were you at the late Advokat Bjurman's summer cabin in Stallarholmen on the afternoon of April 6 this year?"
"Yes."
"How did you get there?"
"I went by shuttle train to Södertälje and took the Strängnäs bus."
"What was your reason for going to Stallarholmen? Had you arranged a meeting there with Carl-Magnus Lundin and his friend Sonny Nieminen?"
"No."
"How was it that they showed up there?"
"You'll have to ask them that."
"I'm asking you."
Salander did not reply.
Judge Iversen cleared his throat. "I presume that Fröken Salander is not answering because - purely semantically - you have once again made an assertion," the judge said helpfully.
Giannini suddenly sniggered just loud enough to be heard. She pulled herself together at once and studied her papers again. Ekström gave her an irritated glance.
"Why do you think Lundin and Nieminen went to Bjurman's summer cabin?"
"I don't know. I suspect that they went there to commit arson. Lundin had a litre of petrol in a plastic bottle in the saddlebag of his Harley-Davidson."
Ekström pursed his lips. "Why did you go to Advokat Bjurman's summer cabin?"
"I was looking for information."
"What sort of information?"
"The information that I suspect Lundin and Nieminen were there to destroy, and which could contribute to clarifying who murdered the bastard."
"Is it your opinion that Advokat Bjurman was a bastard? Is that correctly construed?"
"Yes."
"And why do you think that?"
"He was a sadistic pig, a pervert, and a rapist - and therefore a bastard."
She was quoting the text that had been tattooed on the late Advokat Bjurman's stomach and thus indirectly admitting that she was responsible for it. This affray, however, was not included in the charges against Salander. Bjurman had never filed a report of assault, and it would be impossible now to prove whether he had allowed himself to be tattooed or whether it had been done against his will.
"In other words, you are alleging that your guardian forced himself on you. Can you tell the court when these assaults are supposed to have taken place?"
"They took place on Tuesday, February 18, 2003 and again on Friday, March 7 of the same year."
"You have refused to answer every question asked by the police in their attempts to interview you. Why?"
"I had nothing to say to them."
"I have read the so-called 'autobiography' that your lawyer delivered without warning a few days ago. I must say it is a strange document, and we'll come back to it in more detail later. But in it you claim that Advokat Bjurman allegedly forced you to perform oral sex on the first occasion, and on the second subjected you to an entire night of repeated and consummated rape and severe torture."
Lisbeth did not reply.
"Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Did you report the rapes to the police?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"The police never listened before when I tried to tell them something. So there seemed no point in reporting anything to them then."
"Did you discuss these assaults with any of your acquaintances? A girlfriend?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's none of their business."
"Did you try to contact a lawyer?"
"No."
"Did you go to a doctor to be treated for the injuries you claim to have sustained?"
"No."
"And you didn't go to any women's crisis centre either."
"Now you're making an assertion again."
"Excuse me. Did you go to any women's crisis centre?"
"No."
Ekström turned to the judge. "I want to make the court aware that the defendant has stated that she was subjected to sexual assaults on two occasions, the second of which should be considered exceptionally severe. The person she claims committed these rapes was her guardian, the late Advokat Nils Bjurman. The following facts should be taken into account at this juncture..." Ekström pointed at the text in front of him. "In the investigation carried out by the Violent Crimes Division, there was nothing in Advokat Bjurman's past to support the credibility of Lisbeth Salander's account. Bjurman was never convicted of any crime. He has never been reported to the police or been the subject of an investigation. He had previously been a guardian or trustee to several other young people, none of whom have claimed that they were subjected to any sort of attack. On the contrary, they assert that Bjurman invariably behaved correctly and kindly towards them."
Ekström turned a page.
"It is also my duty to remind the court that Lisbeth Salander has been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. This is a young woman with a documented violent tendency, who since her early teens has had serious problems in her interactions with society. She spent several years in a children's psychiatric institution and has been under guardianship since the age of eighteen. However regrettable this may be, there are reasons for it. Lisbeth Salander is a danger to herself and to those around her. It is my conviction that she does not need a prison sentence. She needs psychiatric care."
He paused for effect.
"Discussing a young person's mental state is an innately disagreeable task. So much is an invasion of privacy, and her mental state becomes the subject of interpretation. In this case, however, we have Lisbeth Salander's own confused world view on which to base our decision. It becomes manifestly clear in what she has termed her 'autobiography'. Nowhere is her want of a foothold in reality as evident as it is here. In this instance we need no witnesses or interpretations to invariably contradict one another. We have her own words. We can judge for ourselves the credibility of her assertions."
His gaze fell on Salander. Their eyes met. She smiled. She looked malicious. Ekström frowned.
"Does Advokat Giannini have anything to say?" Judge Iversen said.
"No," Giannini said. "Other than that Prosecutor Ekström's conclusions are nonsensical."
The afternoon session began with the cross-questioning of witnesses. The first was Ulrika von Liebenstaahl from the guardianship agency. Ekström had called her to the stand to establish whether complaints had ever been lodged against Advokat Bjurman. This was strongly denied by von Liebenstaahl. Such assertions were defamatory.
"There exists a rigorous supervision of guardianship cases. Advokat Bjurman had been active on behalf of the guardianship agency for almost twenty years before he was so shockingly murdered."
She gave Salander a withering look, despite the fact that Salander was not accused of murder; it had already been established that Bjurman was murdered by Ronald Niedermann.
"In all these years there has not been a single complaint against Advokat Bjurman. He was a conscientious person who evidenced a deep commitment to his wards."
"So you don't think it's plausible that he would have subjected Lisbeth Salander to aggravated sexual assault?"
"I think that statement is ridiculous. We have monthly reports from Advokat Bjurman, and I personally met him on several occasions to go over the assignment."
"Advokat Giannini has presented a request that Lisbeth Salander's guardianship be rescinded, effective immediately."
"No-one is happier than we who work at the agency when a guardianship can be rescinded. Unfortunately we have a responsibility, which means that we have to follow the appropriate regulations. For the agency's part, we are required in accordance with normal protocol to see to it that Lisbeth Salander is declared fit by a psychiatric expert before there can be any talk of changes to her legal status."
"I understand."
"This means that she has to submit to a psychiatric examination. Which, as everyone knows, she has refused to do."
The questioning of Ulrika von Liebenstaahl lasted for about forty minutes, during which time Bjurman's monthly reports were examined.
Giannini asked only one question before Ulrika von Liebenstaahl was dismissed.
"Were you in Advokat Bjurman's bedroom on the night of 7 to 8 March, 2003?"
"Of course not."
"In other words, you haven't the faintest idea whether my client's statement is true or not?"
"The accusation against Advokat Bjurman is preposterous."
"That is your opinion. Can you give him an alibi or in any other way document that he did not assault my client?"
"That's impossible, naturally. But the probability-"
"Thank you. That will be all," Giannini said.
Blomkvist met his sister at Milton's offices near Slussen at around 7.00 to go through the day's proceedings.
"It was pretty much as expected," Giannini said. "Ekström has bought Salander's autobiography."
"Good. How's she holding up?"
Giannini laughed.
"She's holding up very well, coming across as a complete psychopath. She's merely being herself."
"Wonderful."
"Today has mostly been about what happened at the cabin in Stallarholmen. Tomorrow it'll be about Gosseberga, interrogations of people from forensics and so forth. Ekström is going to try to prove that Salander went down there intending to murder her father."
"Well..."
"But we may have a technical problem. This afternoon Ekström called Ulrika von Liebenstaahl from the guardianship agency. She started going on about how I had no right to represent Lisbeth."
"Why so?"
"She says that Lisbeth is under guardianship and therefore isn't entitled to choose her own lawyer. So, technically, I may not be her lawyer if the guardianship agency hasn't rubber-stamped it."
"And?"
"Judge Iversen is to decide tomorrow morning. I had a brief word with him after today's proceedings. I think he'll decide that I can continue to represent her. My point was that the agency has had three whole months to raise the objection - to show up with that kind of objection after proceedings have started is an unwarranted provocation."
"Teleborian will testify on Friday, I gather. You have to be the one who cross-examines him."
On Thursday Prosecutor Ekström explained to the court that after studying maps and photographs and listening to extensive technical conclusions about what had taken place in Gosseberga, he had determined that the evidence indicated that Salander had gone to her father's farmhouse at Gosseberga with the intention of killing him. The strongest link in the chain of evidence was that she had taken a weapon with her, a Polish P-83 Wanad.
The fact that Alexander Zalachenko (according to Salander's account) or possibly the police murderer Ronald Niedermann (according to testimony that Zalachenko had given before he was murdered at Sahlgrenska) had in turn attempted to kill Salander and bury her in a trench in woods nearby could in no way be held in mitigation of the fact that she had tracked down her father to Gosseberga with the express intention of killing him. Moreover, she had all but succeeded in that objective when she struck him in the face with an axe. Ekström demanded that Salander be convicted of attempted murder or premeditation with the intent to kill and, in that case, grievous bodily harm.
Salander's own account stated that she had gone to Gosseberga to confront her father, to persuade him to confess to the murders of Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson. This statement was of dramatic significance in the matter of establishing intent.
When Ekström had finished questioning the witness Melker Hansson from the technical unit of the Göteborg police, Advokat Giannini had asked some succinct questions.
"Herr Hansson, is there anything at all in your investigation or in all the technical documentation that you have compiled which could in any way establish that Lisbeth Salander is lying about her intent regarding the visit to Gosseberga? Can you prove that she went there with the intention of murdering her father?"
Hansson thought for a moment.
"No," he said at last.
"Do you have anything to say about her intent?"
"No."
"Prosecutor Ekström's conclusion, eloquent and extensive as it is, is therefore speculation?"
"I believe so."
"Is there anything in the forensic evidence that contradicts Lisbeth Salander's statement that she took with her the Polish weapon, a P-83 Wanad, by chance simply because it was in her bag, and she didn't know what she should do with the weapon having taken it the day before from Sonny Nieminen in Stallarholmen?"
"No."
"Thank you," Giannini said and sat down. Those were her only words throughout Hansson's testimony, which had lasted one hour.
Wadensjöö left the Section's apartment on Artillerigatan at 6.00 on Thursday evening with a feeling that he was hedged about by ominous clouds of turmoil, of imminent ruin. For several weeks he had known that his title as director, that is, the chief of the Section for Special Analysis, was but a meaningless label. His opinions, protests and entreaties carried no weight. Clinton had taken over all decision-making. If the Section had been an open and public institution, this would not have been a problem - he would merely have gone to his superior and lodged his protests.
As things stood now, there was no-one he could protest to. He was alone and subject to the mercy or disfavour of a man whom he regarded as insane. And the worst of it was that Clinton's authority was absolute. Snot-nosed kids like Sandberg and faithful retainers like Nyström... they all seemed to jump into line at once and obey the fatally ill lunatic's every whim.
No question that Clinton was a soft-spoken authority who was not working for his own gain. He would even acknowledge that Clinton was working in the best interests of the Section, or at least in what he regarded as its best interests. The whole organization seemed to be in free fall, indulging
in a collective fantasy in which experienced colleagues refused to admit that every movement they made, every decision that was taken and implemented, only led them one step closer to the abyss.
Wadensjöö felt a pressure in his chest as he turned on to Linnégatan, where he had found a parking spot earlier that day. He disabled the alarm and was about to open the car door when he heard a movement behind him. He turned around, squinting against the sun. It was a few seconds before he recognized the stately man on the pavement before him.
"Good evening, Herr Wadensjöö," Edklinth said. "I haven't been out in the field in ten years, but today I felt that my presence might be appropriate."
Wadensjöö looked in confusion at the two plain-clothes policemen flanking Edklinth. Bublanski he knew, but not the other man.
Suddenly he guessed what was going to happen.
"It is my unenviable duty to inform you that the Prosecutor General has decided that you are to be arrested for such a long string of crimes that it will surely take weeks to compile a comprehensive catalogue of them."
"What's going on here?" Wadensjöö said indignantly.
"What is going on at this moment is that you are being arrested, suspected of being an accessory to murder. You are also suspected of extortion, bribery, illegal telephone tapping, several counts of criminal forgery, criminal embezzlement of funds, participation in breaking and entering, misuse of authority, espionage and a long list of other lesser but that's not to say insignificant offences. The two of us are going to Kungsholmen to have a very serious talk in peace and quiet."
"I haven't committed murder," Wadensjöö said breathlessly.
"That will have to be established by the investigation."
"It was Clinton. It was always Clinton," Wadensjöö said.
Edklinth nodded in satisfaction.
Every police officer knows that there are two classic ways to conduct the interrogation of a suspect. The bad cop and the good cop. The bad cop threatens, swears, slams his fist on the table and generally behaves aggressively with the intent of scaring the suspect into submission and confession. The good cop, often a small, grey-haired, elderly man, offers cigarettes and coffee, nods sympathetically, and speaks in a reasonable tone.
Many policemen - though not all - also know that the good cop's interrogation technique is by far a superior way of getting results. The tough-as-nails veteran thief will be least impressed by the bad cop. And the uncertain amateur, who might be frightened into a confession by a bad cop, would in all likelihood have confessed everything anyway, regardless of the technique used.
Blomkvist listened to the questioning of Birger Wadensjöö from an adjoining room. His presence had been the topic of a good deal of internal argument before Edklinth decided that he would probably have use for Blomkvist's observation.
Blomkvist noticed that Edklinth was using a third variant on the police interrogator, the uninterested cop, which in this particular case seemed to be working even better. Edklinth strolled into the interrogation room, served coffee in china cups, turned on the tape recorder and leaned back in his chair.
"This is how it is: we already have every conceivable forensic evidence against you. We have, accordingly, no interest whatsoever in hearing your story save as confirmation of what we already know. But the question we might want an answer to is: why? Or how could you be so idiotic as to decide to begin liquidating individuals in Sweden just as we saw happen in Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship? The tape is rolling. If you have anything to say, now is the time. If you don't want to talk, I'll turn off the tape recorder and then we'll remove your tie and shoelaces and accommodate you in a cell upstairs while we wait for a lawyer, a trial, and in due course, sentencing."
Edklinth then took a sip of coffee and sat in silence. When nothing was said for two minutes, he reached out and turned off the tape recorder. He stood up.
"I'll see that you're taken upstairs in a few minutes. Good evening."
"I didn't murder anyone," Wadensjöö said when Edklinth had already opened the door. Edklinth paused on the threshold.
"I'm not interested in having a general discussion with you. If you want to explain yourself, then I'll sit down and turn the tape recorder back on. All of Swedish officialdom - and the Prime Minister in particular - is eagerly waiting to hear what you have to say. If you tell me, then I can go and see the Prime Minister tonight to give him your version of events. If you don't tell me, you will be charged and convicted anyway."
"Please sit down," Wadensjöö said.
It was evident to everyone that he was resigned to it already. Blomkvist exhaled. He was there with Figuerola, Prosecutor Gustavsson, the otherwise anonymous Säpo officer Stefan, and two other altogether nameless individuals. Blomkvist suspected that one of them at least was there to represent the Minister of Justice.
"I had nothing to do with the murders," Wadensjöö said when Edklinth started the tape recorder again.
"Murders?" Blomkvist whispered to Figuerola.
"Ssshh," she said.
"It was Clinton and Gullberg. I had no idea what they intended. I swear it. I was utterly shocked when I heard that Gullberg had shot Zalachenko. I couldn't believe it... I simply couldn't believe it. And when I heard about Björck I thought I was going to have a heart attack."
"Tell me about Björck's murder," Edklinth said without altering his tone. "How was it carried out?"
"Clinton hired some people. I don't even know how it happened, but it was two Yugoslavs. Serbs, if I'm not mistaken. Georg Nyström gave them the contract and paid them afterwards. When I found out, I knew it would end in disaster."
"Should we take this from the beginning?" Edklinth said. "When did you first start working for the Section?"
Once Wadensjöö had begun to talk he could not be stopped. The interview lasted for almost five hours.
CHAPTER 26
Friday, 15.vii
Teleborian's appearance inspired confidence as he sat in the witness box in the courtroom on Friday morning. He was questioned by Prosecutor Ekström for some ninety minutes and he replied with calm authority to every question. The expression on his face was sometimes concerned and sometimes amused.
"To sum up..." Ekström said, leafing through his sheaf of papers. "It is your judgement as a psychiatrist of long standing that Lisbeth Salander suffers from paranoid schizophrenia?"
"I have said that it is unusually difficult to make a precise evaluation of her condition. The patient is, as you know, almost autistic in her relation to doctors and other figures of authority. My assessment is that she suffers from a serious mental disorder, but that at the present time I cannot give an exact diagnosis. Nor can I determine what stage of the psychosis she is in without more extensive study."
"At any rate, you don't consider her to be sane."
"Indeed her entire history presents most compelling proof that she is not sane."
"You have been allowed to read what Lisbeth Salander has termed her 'autobiography', which she has presented to the district court. What are your comments on this?"
Teleborian threw up his hands and shrugged.
"How would you judge the credibility of her account?"
"There is no credibility. It is a series of assertions about various individuals, one story more fantastical than the other. Taken as a whole, her written explanation confirms our suspicions that she suffers from paranoid schizophrenia."
"Could you give an instance?"
"The most obvious is of course the description of the alleged rape by her guardian Advokat Bjurman."
"Could you expand on that?"
"The description is extremely detailed. It is a classic example of the sort of grotesque fantasy that children are capable of. There are plenty of parallel examples from familial incest cases in which the child gives an account which falls through due to its utter improbability, and for which there is no forensic evidence. These are erotic fantasies which even children of a very young age can have... Almost as if they were watching a horror film on television."
"But Lisbeth Salander is not a child, she is a grown woman," Ekström said.
"That is correct. Although it remains to be seen exactly what her mental level may be. But basically you are correct. She is a grown woman, and presumably she believes in the account she has presented."
"So you're saying it is all lies."
"No. If she believes what she says, then it is not a lie. It's a story which shows that she cannot distinguish fantasy from reality."
"So she was not raped by Advokat Bjurman?"
"No. There is no likelihood of that at all. She needs expert care."
"You yourself appear in Lisbeth Salander's account-"
"Yes, and that is rather intriguing. But once again, it's a figment of her imagination. If we are to believe the poor girl, then I'm something approximate to a paedophile..." He smiled and continued. "But this is all just another expression of what I was speaking of before. In Salander's autobiography we are told that she was abused by being placed in restraints for long spells at St Stefan's. And that I came to her room at night... This is a classic manifestation of her inability to interpret reality, or rather, she is giving reality her own interpretation."
"Thank you. I leave it to the defence, if Fru Giannini has any questions."
Since Giannini had not had any questions or objections on the first two days of the trial, those in the courtroom expected that she would once again ask some obligatory questions and then bring the questioning to an end. This really is an embarrassingly deficient effort by the defence, Ekström thought.
"Yes, I do," Giannini said. "I do in fact have a number of questions, and they may take some time. It's 11.30 now. May I propose that we break for lunch, and that I be allowed to carry out my cross-examination of the witness after lunch without interval?"
Judge Iversen agreed that the court should adjourn for lunch.
*
Andersson was accompanied by two uniformed officers when he placed his huge hand on Superintendent Nyström's shoulder outside the Mäster Anders restaurant on Hantverkargatan at noon precisely. Nyström looked up in amazement at the man who was shoving his police I. D. right under his nose.
"Hello. You're under arrest, suspected of being an accessory to murder and attempted murder. The charges will be explained to you by the Prosecutor General at a hearing this afternoon. I suggest that you come along peacefully," he said.
Nyström did not seem to comprehend the language Andersson was speaking in, but he could see that he was a man you went along with without protest.
Inspector Bublanski was accompanied by Modig and seven uniformed officers when Stefan Bladh of the Constitutional Protection Unit admitted them at noon precisely into the locked section that comprised the domain of the Security Police at Kungsholmen. They walked through the corridors behind Bladh until he stopped and pointed at an office door. The chief of Secretariat's assistant looked up and was utterly perplexed when Bublanski held up his I. D.
"Kindly remain where you are. This is a police action."
He strode to the inner door. Chief of Secretariat Albert was on the telephone.
"What is this interruption?" Shenke said.
"I am Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski. You are under arrest for violation of the Swedish constitution. There is a long list of specific points in the charge, all of which will be explained to you this afternoon."
"This is outrageous," Shenke said.
"It most certainly is," Bublanski said.
He had Shenke's office sealed and then placed two officers on guard outside the door, with instructions to let no-one cross the threshold. They had permission to use their batons and even draw their service weapons if anyone tried to enter the sealed office by force.
They continued their procession down the corridor until Bladh pointed to another door, and the procedure was repeated with chief of Budget, Gustav Atterbom.
*
Inspector Holmberg had the Södermalm armed response team as backup when at exactly noon he knocked on the door of an office rented temporarily on the fourth floor just across the street from Millennium's offices on Götgatan.
Since no-one opened the door, Holmberg ordered the Södermalm police to force the lock, but the door was opened a crack before the crowbar was used.
"Police," Holmberg said. "Come out with your hands up."
"I'm a policeman myself," Inspector Mårtensson said.
"I know. And you have licences for a great many guns."
"Yes, well... I'm an officer on assignment."
"I think not," Holmberg said.
He accepted the assistance of his colleagues in propping Mårtensson against the wall so he could confiscate his service weapon.
"You are under arrest for illegal telephone tapping, gross dereliction of duty, repeated break-ins at Mikael Blomkvist's apartment on Bellmansgatan, and additional counts. Handcuff him."
Holmberg took a swift look around the room and saw that there was enough electronic equipment to furnish a recording studio. He detailed an officer to guard the premises, but told him to sit still on a chair so he would not leave any fingerprints.
As Mårtensson was being led through the front door of the building, Cortez took a series of twenty-two photographs with his Nikon. He was, of course, no professional photographer, and the quality left something to be desired. But the best images were sold the next day to an evening newspaper for an obscene sum of money.
Figuerola was the only police officer participating in the day's raids who encountered an unexpected incident. She had back-up from the Norrmalm team and three colleagues from S. I. S. when at noon she walked through the front door of the building on Artillerigatan and went up the stairs to the top-floor apartment, registered in the name of Bellona Inc.
The operation had been planned at short notice. As soon as the group was assembled outside the door of the apartment, she gave the go-ahead. Two burly officers from the Norrmalm team raised a forty-kilo steel battering ram and opened the door with two well-aimed blows. The team, equipped with bulletproof vests and assault rifles, took control of the apartment within ten seconds of the door being forced.
According to surveillance carried out at dawn that morning, five individuals identified as members of the Section had arrived at the apartment that morning. All five were apprehended and put in handcuffs.
Figuerola was wearing a protective vest. She went through the apartment, which had been the headquarters of the Section since the '60s, and flung open one door after another. She was going to need an archaeologist to sort through the reams and reams of paper that filled the rooms.
A few seconds after she entered the apartment, she opened the door to a small room towards the back and discovered that it was used for overnight stays. She found herself eye to eye with Jonas Sandberg. He had been a question mark during that morning's assignment of tasks, as the surveillance officer detailed to watch him had lost track of him the evening before. His car had been parked on Kungsholmen and he had not been home to his apartment during the night. This morning they had not expected to locate and apprehend him.
They man the place at night for security reasons. Of course. And Sandberg sleeps over after the night shift.
Sandberg had on only his underpants and seemed to be dazed with sleep. He reached for his service weapon on the bedside table, but Figuerola bent over and swept the weapon away from him on to the floor.
"Jonas Sandberg... you are under arrest as a suspect and accessory to the murders of Gunnar Björck and Alexander Zalachenko, and as an accomplice in the attempted murders of Mikael Blomkvist and Erika Berger. Now get your trousers on."
Sandberg threw a punch at Figuerola. She blocked it instinctively.
"You must be joking," she said. She took hold of his arm and twisted his wrist so hard that he was forced backwards to the floor. She flipped him over on to his stomach and put her knee in the small of his back. She handcuffed him herself. It was the first time she had used handcuffs on an assignment since she began at S. I. S.
She handed Sandberg over to one of the back-up team and continued her passage through the apartment until she opened the last door at the very back. According to the blueprints, this was a small cubbyhole looking out on to the courtyard. She stopped in the doorway and looked at the most emaciated figure she had ever seen. She did not for one second doubt that here was a person who was mortally ill.
"Fredrik Clinton, you are under arrest as an accomplice to murder, attempted murder, and for a long list of further crimes," she said. "Stay where you are in bed. We've called an ambulance to take you to Kungsholmen."
Malm was stationed immediately outside the building on Artillerigatan. Unlike Cortez, he knew how to handle his digital Nikon. He used a short telephoto lens and the pictures he took were of excellent quality.
They showed the members of the Section, one by one, being led out through the front door and down to the police cars. And finally the ambulance that arrived to pick up Clinton. His eyes were fixed on the lens as the shutter clicked. Clinton looked nervous and confused.
The photograph later won the Picture of the Year award.
CHAPTER 27
Friday, 15.vii
Judge Iversen banged his gavel at 12.30 and decreed that district court proceedings were thereby resumed. He noticed that a third person had appeared at Advokat Giannini's table. It was Holger Palmgren in a wheelchair.
"Hello, Holger," Judge Iversen said. "I haven't seen you in a courtroom in quite a while."
"Good day to you, Judge Iversen. Some cases are so complicated that these younger lawyers need a little assistance."
"I thought you had retired."
"I've been ill. But Advokat Giannini engaged me as assistant counsel in this case."
"I see."
Giannini cleared her throat.
"It is germane to the case that Advokat Palmgren was until his illness Lisbeth Salander's guardian."
"I have no intention of commenting on that matter," Judge Iversen said.
He nodded to Giannini to begin and she stood up. She had always disliked the Swedish tradition of carrying on court proceedings informally while sitting around a table, almost as though the occasion were a dinner party. She felt better when she could speak standing up.
"I think we should begin with the concluding comments from this morning. Dr Teleborian, what leads you so consistently to dismiss as untrue everything that Lisbeth Salander says?"
"Because her statements so obviously are untrue," replied Teleborian.
He was relaxed. Giannini turned to the judge.
"Judge Iverson, Dr Teleborian claims that Lisbeth Salander tells lies and that she fantasizes. The defence will now demonstrate that every word in her autobiography is true. We will present copious documentation, both visual and written, as well as the testimony of witnesses. We have now reached the point in this trial when the prosecutor has presented the principal elements of his case... We have listened and we now know the exact nature of the accusations against Lisbeth Salander."
Giannini's mouth was suddenly dry and she felt her hands shake. She took a deep breath and sipped her mineral water. Then she placed her hands in a firm grip on the back of the chair so that they would not betray her nervousness.
"From the prosecutor's presentation we may conclude that he has a great many opinions but a woeful shortage of evidence. He believes that Lisbeth Salander shot Carl-Magnus Lundin in Stallarholmen. He claims that she went to Gosseberga to kill her father. He assumes that my client is a paranoid schizophrenic and mentally ill in every sense. And he bases this assumption on information from a single source, to wit, Dr Peter Teleborian."
She paused to catch her breath and forced herself to speak slowly.
"As it now stands, the case presented by the prosecutor rests on the testimony of Dr Teleborian. If he is right, then my client would be best served by receiving the expert psychiatric care that both he and the prosecutor are seeking."
Pause.
"But if Dr Teleborian is wrong, this prosecution case must be seen in a different light. Furthermore, if he is lying, then my client is now, here in this courtroom, being subjected to a violation of her civil rights, a violation that has gone on for many years."
She turned to face Ekström.
"What we shall do this afternoon is to show that your witness is a false witness, and that you as prosecutor have been deceived into accepting these false testimonies."
Teleborian flashed a smile. He held out his hands and nodded to Giannini, as if applauding her presentation. Giannini now turned to the judge.
"Your honour. I will show that Dr Teleborian's so-called forensic psychiatric investigation is nothing but a deception from start to finish. I will show that he is lying about Lisbeth Salander. I will show that my client has in the past been subjected to a gross violation of her rights. And I will show that she is just as sane and intelligent as anyone in this room."
"Excuse me, but-" Ekström began.
"Just a moment." She raised a finger. "I have for two days allowed you to talk uninterrupted. Now it's my turn."
She turned back to Judge Iversen.
"I would not make so serious an accusation before the court if I did not have ample evidence to support it."
"By all means, continue," the judge said. "But I don't want to hear any long-winded conspiracy theories. Bear in mind that you can be charged with slander for statements that are made before a court."
"Thank you. I will bear that in mind."
She turned to Teleborian. He still seemed entertained by the situation.
"The defence has repeatedly asked to be allowed to examine Lisbeth Salander's medical records from the time when she, in her early teens, was committed to your care at St Stefan's. Why have we not been shown those records?"
"Because a district court decreed that they were classified. That decision was made out of solicitude for Lisbeth Salander, but if a higher court were to rescind that decision, I would naturally hand them over."
"Thank you. For how many nights during the two years that Lisbeth Salander spent at St Stefan's was she kept in restraints?"
"I couldn't recall that offhand."
"She herself claims that it was 380 out of the total of 786 days and nights she spent at St Stefan's."
"I can't possibly answer as to the exact number of days, but that is a fantastic exaggeration. Where do those figures come from?"
"From her autobiography."
"And you believe that today she is able to remember accurately each night she was kept in restraints? That's preposterous."
"Is it? How many nights do you recall?"
"Lisbeth Salander was an extremely aggressive and violence-prone patient, and undoubtedly she was placed in a stimulus-free room on a number of occasions. Perhaps I should explain the purpose of a stimulus-free room-"
"Thank you, that won't be necessary. According to theory, it is a room in which a patient is denied any sensory input that might provoke agitation. For how many days and nights did thirteen-year-old Lisbeth Salander lie strapped down in such a room?"
"It would be... I would estimate perhaps on thirty occasions during the time she was at the hospital."
"Thirty. Now that's only a fraction of the 380 that she claims."
"Undeniably."
"Not even 10 per cent of her figure."
"Yes..."
"Would her medical records perhaps give us more accurate information?"
"It's possible."
"Excellent," Giannini said, taking out a large sheaf of paper from her briefcase. "Then I ask to be allowed to hand over to the court a copy of Lisbeth Salander's medical records from St Stefan's. I have counted the number of notes about the restraining straps and find that the figure is 381, one more than my client claims."
Teleborian's eyes widened.
"Stop... this is classified information. Where did you get that from?"
"I got it from a reporter at Millennium magazine. It can hardly be classified if it's lying around a newspaper's offices. Perhaps I should add that extracts from these medical records were published today in Millennium. I believe, therefore, that even this district court should have the opportunity to look at the records themselves."
"This is illegal-"
"No, it isn't. Lisbeth Salander has given her permission for the extracts to be published. My client has nothing to hide."
"Your client has been declared incompetent and has no right to make any such decision for herself."
"We'll come back to her declaration of incompetence. But first we need to examine what happened to her at St Stefan's."
Judge Iversen frowned as he accepted the papers that Giannini handed to him.
"I haven't made a copy for the prosecutor. On the other hand, he received a copy of this privacy-invading document more than a month ago."
"How did that happen?" the judge said.
"Prosecutor Ekström got a copy of these classified records from Teleborian at a meeting which took place in his office at 5.00 p.m. on Saturday, June 4 this year."
"Is that correct?" Judge Iversen said.
Ekström's first impulse was to deny it. Then he realized that Giannini might somehow have evidence.
"I requested permission to read parts of the records if I signed a confidentiality agreement," Ekström said. "I had to make sure that Salander had the history she was alleged to have."
"Thank you," Giannini said. "This means that we now have confirmation that Dr Teleborian not only tells lies but also broke the law by disseminating records that he himself claims are classified."
"Duly noted," said the judge.
Judge Iversen was suddenly very alert. In a most unorthodox way, Giannini had launched a serious attack on a witness, and she already made mincemeat of an important part of his testimony. And she claims that she can document everything she says. Judge Iversen adjusted his glasses.
"Dr Teleborian, based on these records which you yourself wrote... could you now tell me how many days Lisbeth Salander was kept in restraints?"
"I have no recollection that it could have been so extensive, but if that's what the records say, then I have to believe it."
"A total of 381 days and nights. Does that not strike you as excessive?"
"It is unusually long... yes."
"How would you perceive it if you were thirteen years old and someone strapped you to a steel-framed bed for more than a year? Would it feel like torture?"
"You have to understand that the patient was dangerous to herself as well as to others-"
"O.K. Let's look at dangerous to herself. Has Lisbeth Salander ever injured herself?"
"There were such misgivings-"
"I'll repeat the question: has Lisbeth Salander ever injured herself? Yes or no?"
"As psychiatrists we must teach ourselves to interpret the overall picture. With regard to Lisbeth Salander, you can see on her body, for example, a multitude of tattoos and piercings, which are also a form of self-destructive behaviour and a way of damaging one's own body. We can interpret that as a manifestation of self-hate."
Giannini turned to Salander.
"Are your tattoos a manifestation of self-hate?" she said.
"No," Salander said.
Giannini turned back to Teleborian. "So you believe that I am also dangerous to myself because I wear earrings and actually have a tattoo in a private place?"
Palmgren sniggered, but he managed to transform the snigger into a clearing of his throat.
"No, not at all... tattoos can also be part of a social ritual."
"Are you saying that Lisbeth Salander is not part of this social ritual?"
"You can see for yourself that her tattoos are grotesque and extend over large parts of her body. That is no normal measure of fetishism or body decoration."
"What percentage?"
"Excuse me?"
"At what percentage of tattooed body surface does it stop being fetishism and become a mental illness?"
"You're distorting my words."
"Am I? How is it that, in your opinion, it is part of a wholly acceptable social ritual when it applies to me or to other young people, but it becomes dangerous when it's a matter of evaluating my client's mental state?"
"As a psychiatrist I have to look at the whole picture. The tattoos are merely an indicator. As I have already said, it is one of many indicators which need to be taken into account when I evaluate her condition."
Giannini was silent for a few seconds as she fixed Teleborian with her gaze. She now spoke very slowly.
"But Dr Teleborian, you began strapping down my client when she was twelve years old, going on thirteen. At that time she did not have a single tattoo, did she?"
Teleborian hesitated and Giannini went on.
"I presume that you did not strap her down because you predicted that she would begin tattooing herself sometime in the future."
"Of course not. Her tattoos had nothing to do with her condition in 1991."
"With that we are back to my original question. Did Lisbeth Salander ever injure herself in a way that would justify keeping her bound to a bed for a whole year? For example, did she cut herself with a knife or a razor blade or anything like that?"
Teleborian looked unsure for a second.
"No... I used the tattoos as an example of self-destructive behaviour."
"And we have just agreed that tattoos are a legitimate part of a social ritual. I asked why you restrained her for a year and you replied that it was because she was a danger to herself."
"We had reason to believe that she was a danger to herself."
"Reason to believe. So you're saying that you restrained her because you guessed something?"
"We carried out assessments."
"I have now been asking the same question for about five minutes. You claim that my client's self-destructive behaviour was one reason why she was strapped down for a total of more than a year out of the two years she was in your care. Can you please finally give me some examples of the self-destructive behaviour she evidenced at the age of twelve?"
"The girl was extremely undernourished, for example. This was partially due to the fact that she refused food. We suspected anorexia."
"I see. Was she anorexic? As you can see, my client is even today uncommonly thin and fine-boned."
"Well, it's difficult to answer that question. I would have to observe her eating habits for quite a long time."
"You did observe her eating habits - for two years. And now you're suggesting that you confused anorexia with the fact that my client is small and thin. You say that she refused food."
"We were compelled to force-feed her on several occasions."
"And why was that?"
"Because she refused to eat, of course."
Giannini turned to her client.
"Lisbeth, is it true that you refused to eat at St Stefan's?"
"Yes."
"And why was that?"
"Because that bastard was mixing psychoactive drugs into my food."
"I see. So Dr Teleborian wanted to give you medicine. Why didn't you want to take it?"
"I didn't like the medicine I was being given. It made me sluggish. I couldn't think and I was sedated for most of the time I was awake. And the bastard refused to tell me what the drugs contained."
"So you refused to take the medicine?"
"Yes. Then he began putting the crap in my food instead. So I stopped eating. Every time something had been put in my food, I stopped eating for five days."
"So you had to go hungry."
"Not always. Several of the attendants smuggled sandwiches in to me on various occasions. One in particular gave me food late at night. That happened quite often."
"So you think that the nursing staff at St Stefan's saw that you were hungry and gave you food so that you would not have to starve?"
"That was during the period when I was battling with this bastard over psychoactive drugs."
"Tell us what happened."
"He tried to drug me. I refused to take his medicine. He started putting it in my food. I refused to eat. He started force-feeding me. I began vomiting up the food."
"So there was a completely rational reason why you refused the food."
"Yes."
"It was not because you didn't want food?"
"No. I was often hungry."
"And since you left St Stefan's... do you eat regularly?"
"I eat when I'm hungry."
"Would it be correct to say that a conflict arose between you and Dr Teleborian?"
"You could say that."
"You were sent to St Stefan's because you had thrown petrol at your father and set him on fire."
"Yes."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because he abused my mother."
"Did you ever explain that to anyone?"
"Yes."
"And who was that?"
"I told the police who interviewed me, the social workers, the children's care workers, the doctors, a pastor, and that bastard."
"By 'that bastard' you are referring to...?"
"That man." She pointed at Dr Teleborian.
"Why do you call him a bastard?"
"When I first arrived at St Stefan's I tried to explain to him what had happened."
"And what did Dr Teleborian say?"
"He didn't want to listen to me. He claimed that I was fantasizing. And as punishment I was to be strapped down until I stopped fantasizing. And then he tried to force-feed me psychoactive drugs."
"This is nonsense," Teleborian said.
"Is that why you won't speak to him?"
"I haven't said a word to the bastard since the night I turned thirteen. I was strapped to the bed. It was my birthday present to myself."
Giannini turned to Teleborian. "This sounds as if the reason my client refused to eat was that she did want the psychoactive drugs you were forcing upon her."
"It's possible that she views it that way."
"And how do you view it?"
"I had a patient who was abnormally difficult. I maintain that her behaviour showed that she was a danger to herself, but this might be a question of interpretation. However, she was violent and exhibited psychotic behaviour. There is no doubt that she was dangerous to others. She came to St Stefan's after she tried to murder her father."
"We'll get to that later. For 381 of those days you kept her in restraints. Could it have been that you used strapping as a way to punish my client when she didn't do as you said?"
"That is utter nonsense."
"Is it? I notice that according to the records the majority of the strapping occurred during the first year.. .320 of 381 instances. Why was the strapping discontinued?"
"I suppose the patient changed her behaviour and became less agitated."
"Is it not true that your measures were considered unnecessarily brutal by other members of staff?"
"How do you mean?"
"Is it not true that the staff lodged complaints against the forcefeeding of Lisbeth Salander, among other things?"
"Inevitably people will arrive at differing evaluations. This is nothing unusual. But it became a burden to force-feed her because she resisted so violently-"
"Because she refused to take psychoactive drugs which made her listless and passive. She had no problem eating when she was not being drugged. Wouldn't that have been a more reasonable method of treatment than resorting to forcible measures?"
"If you don't mind my saying so, Fru Giannini, I am actually a physician. I suspect that my medical expertise is rather more extensive than yours. It is my job to determine what medical treatments should be employed."
"It's true, I'm not a physician, Doctor Teleborian. However, I am not entirely lacking in expertise. Besides my qualifications as lawyer I was also trained as a psychologist at Stockholm University. This is necessary background training in my profession."
You could have heard a pin drop in the courtroom. Both Ekström and Teleborian stared in astonishment at Giannini. She continued inexorably.
"Is it not correct that your methods of treating my client eventually resulted in serious disagreements between you and your superior, Dr Johannes Caldin, head physician at the time?"
"No, that is not correct."
"Dr Caldin passed away several years ago and cannot give testimony. But here in the court we have someone who met Dr Caldin on several occasions. Namely my assistant counsel, Holger Palmgren."
She turned to him.
"Can you tell us how that came about?"
Palmgren cleared his throat. He still suffered from the after-effects of his stroke and had to concentrate to pronounce the words.
"I was appointed as trustee for Lisbeth Salander after her mother was so severely beaten by Lisbeth's father that she was disabled and could no longer take care of her daughter. She suffered permanent brain damage and repeated brain haemorrhages."
"You're speaking of Alexander Zalachenko, I presume." Ekström was leaning forward attentively.
"That's correct," Palmgren said.
Ekström said: "I would ask you to remember that we are now into a subject which is highly classified."
"It's hardly a secret that Alexander Zalachenko persistently abused Lisbeth's mother," Giannini said.
Teleborian raised his hand.
"The matter is probably not quite as self-evident as Fru Giannini is presenting it."
"What do you mean by that?" Giannini said.
"There is no doubt that Lisbeth Salander witnessed a family tragedy... that something triggered a serious beating in 1991. But there is no documentation to suggest that this was a situation that went on for many years, as Fru Giannini claims. It could have been an isolated incident or a quarrel that got out of hand. If truth be told, there is not even any documentation to point towards Herr Zalachenko as Lisbeth's mother's aggressor. We have been informed that she was a prostitute, so there could have been a number of other possible perpetrators."
Giannini looked in astonishment at Teleborian. She seemed to be speechless for a moment. Then her eyes bored into him.
"Could you expand on that?" she said.
"What I mean is that in practice we have only Lisbeth Salander's assertions to go on."
"And?"
"First of all, there were two sisters, twins in fact. Camilla Salander has never made any such claims, indeed she has denied that such a thing occurred. And if there was abuse to the extent your client maintains, then it would naturally have been noted in social welfare reports and so forth."
"Is there an interview with Camilla Salander that we might examine?"
"Interview?"
"Do you have any documentation to show that Camilla Salander was even asked about what occurred at their home?"
Salander squirmed in her seat at the mention of her sister. She glanced at Giannini.
"I presume that the social welfare agency filed a report-"
"You have just stated that Camilla Salander never made any assertions that Alexander Zalachenko abused their mother, that on the contrary she denied it. That was a categorical statement. Where did you get that information?"
Teleborian sat in silence for several seconds. Giannini could see that his eyes changed when he realized that he had made a mistake. He could anticipate what it was that she wanted to introduce, but there was no way to avoid the question.
"I seem to remember that it appeared in the police report," he said at last.
"You seem to remember... I myself have searched high and low for police reports about the incident on Lundagatan during which Alexander Zalachenko was severely burned. The only ones available are the brief reports written by the officers at the scene."
"That's possible-"
"So I would very much like to know how it is that you were able to read a police report that is not available to the defence."
"I can't answer that," Teleborian said. "I was shown the report in 1991 when I wrote a forensic psychiatric report on your client after the attempted murder of her father."
"Was Prosecutor Ekström shown this report?"
Ekström squirmed. He stroked his goatee. By now he knew that he had underestimated Advokat Giannini. However, he had no reason to lie.
"Yes, I've seen it."
"Why wasn't the defence given access to this material?"
"I didn't consider it of interest to the trial."
"Could you please tell me how you were allowed to see this report? When I asked the police, I was told only that no such report exists."
"The report was written by the Security Police. It's classified."
"So Säpo wrote a report on a case involving grievous bodily harm on a woman and decided to make the report classified."
"It's because of the perpetrator... Alexander Zalachenko. He was a political refugee."
"Who wrote the report?"
Silence.
"I don't hear anything. What name was on the title page?"
"It was written by Gunnar Björck from the Immigration Division of S. I. S."
"Thank you. Is that the same Gunnar Björck who my client claims worked with Doctor Teleborian to fabricate the forensic psychiatric report about her in 1991?"
"I assume it is."
Giannini turned her attention back to Teleborian.
"In 1991 you committed Lisbeth Salander to the secure ward of St Stefan's children's psychiatric clinic-"
"That's not correct."
"Is it not?"
"No. Lisbeth Salander was sentenced to the secure psychiatric ward. This was the outcome of an entirely routine legal action in a district court. We're talking about a seriously disturbed minor. That was not my own decision-"
"In 1991 a district court decided to lock up Lisbeth Salander in a children's psychiatric clinic. Why did the district court make that decision?"
"The district court made a careful assessment of your client's actions and mental condition - she had tried to murder her father with a petrol bomb, after all. This is not an activity that a normal teenager would engage in, whether they are tattooed or not." Teleborian gave her a polite smile.
"And what did the district court base their judgement on? If I've understood correctly, they had only one forensic medical assessment to go on. It was written by yourself and a policeman by the name of Gunnar Björck."
"This is about Fröken Salander's conspiracy theories, Fru Giannini. Here I would have to-"
"Excuse me, but I haven't asked a question yet," Giannini said and turned once again to Palmgren. "Holger, we were talking about your meeting Dr Teleborian's superior, Dr Caldin."
"Yes. In my capacity as trustee for Lisbeth Salander. At that stage I had met her only very briefly. Like everyone else, I got the impression that she had a serious mental illness. But since it was my job, I undertook to research her general state of health."
"And what did Dr Caldin say?"
"She was Dr Teleborian's patient, and Dr Caldin had not paid her any particular attention except in routine assessments and the like. It wasn't until she had been there for more than a year that I began to discuss how she could be rehabilitated back into society. I suggested a foster family. I don't know exactly what went on internally at St Stefan's, but after about a year Dr Caldin began to take an interest in her."
"How did that manifest itself?"
"I discovered that he had arrived at an opinion that differed from Dr Teleborian's," Palmgren said. "He told me once that he had decided to change the type of care she was receiving. I did not understand until later that he was referring to the strap restraints. Dr Caldin had decided that she should not be restrained. He didn't think there was any reason for it."
"So he went against Dr Teleborian's directives?"
Ekström interrupted. "Objection. That's hearsay."
"No," Palmgren said. "Not entirely. I asked for a report on how Lisbeth Salander was supposed to re-enter society. Dr Caldin wrote that report. I still have it today."
He handed a document to Giannini.
"Can you tell us what it says?"
"It's a letter from Dr Caldin to me dated October 1992, which is when Lisbeth had been at St Stefan's for twenty months. Here Dr Caldin expressly writes that, I quote, My decision for the patient not to be restrained or force-fed has also produced the noticeable effect that she is now calm. There is no need for psychoactive drugs. However, the patient is extremely withdrawn and uncommunicative and needs continued supportive therapies. End quote."
"So he expressly writes that it was his decision," Giannini said.
"That is correct. It was also Dr Caldin himself who decided that Lisbeth should be able to re-enter society by being placed with a foster family."
Salander nodded. She remembered Dr Caldin the same way she remembered every detail of her stay at St Stefan's. She had refused to talk to Dr Caldin... He was a "crazy-doctor," another man in a white coat who wanted to rootle around in her emotions. But he had been friendly and good-natured. She had sat in his office and listened to him when he explained things to her.
He had seemed hurt when she did not want to speak to him. Finally she had looked him in the eye and explained her decision: I will never ever talk to you or any other crazy-doctor. None of you listen to what I have to say. You can keep me locked up here until I die. That won't change a thing. I won't talk to any of you. He had looked at her with surprise and hurt in his eyes. Then he had nodded as if he understood.
"Dr Teleborian," Giannini said, "we have established that you had Lisbeth Salander committed to a children's psychiatric clinic. You were the one who furnished the district court with
the report, and this report constituted the only basis for the decisions that were made. Is this correct?"
"That is essentially correct. But I think-"
"You'll have plenty of time to explain what you think. When Lisbeth Salander was about to turn eighteen, you once again interfered in her life and tried to have her locked up in a clinic."
"This time I wasn't the one who wrote the forensic medical report-"
"No, it was written by Dr Jesper H. Löderman. And he just happened to be a doctoral candidate at that time. You were his supervisor. So it was your assessments that caused the report to be approved."
"There's nothing unethical or incorrect in these reports. They were done according to the proper regulations of my profession."
"Now Lisbeth Salander is twenty-seven years old, and for the third time we are in a situation in which you are trying to convince a district court that she is mentally ill and must be committed to a secure psychiatric ward."
Teleborian took a deep breath. Giannini was well prepared. She had surprised him with a number of tricky questions and she had succeeded in distorting his replies. She had not fallen for his charms, and she completely ignored his authority. He was used to having people nod in agreement when he spoke.
How much does she know?
He glanced at Prosecutor Ekström but realized that he could expect no help from that quarter. He had to ride out the storm alone.
He reminded himself that, in spite of everything, he was an authority.
It doesn't matter what she says. It's my assessment that counts.
Giannini picked up his forensic psychiatric report.
"Let's take a closer look at your latest report. You expend a great deal of energy analysing Lisbeth Salander's emotional life. A large part deals with your interpretation of her personality, her behaviour and her sexual habits."
"In this report I have attempted to give a complete picture."
"Good. And based on this complete picture you came to the conclusion that Lisbeth suffers from paranoid schizophrenia."
"I prefer not to restrict myself to a precise diagnosis."
"But you have not reached this conclusion through conversations with my client, have you?"
"You know very well that your client resolutely refuses to answer questions that I or any other person in authority might put to her. This behaviour is in itself particularly telling. One can conclude that the patient's paranoid traits have progressed to such an extent that she is literally incapable of having a simple conversation with anyone in authority. She believes that everyone is out to harm her and feels so threatened that she shuts herself inside an impenetrable shell and goes mute."
"I notice that you're expressing yourself very carefully. You say, for example, that one can conclude..."
"Yes, that's right. I am expressing myself carefully. Psychiatry is not an exact science, and I must be careful with my conclusions. At the same time it is not true that we psychiatrists sit around making assumptions that have no basis in fact."
"What you are being very precise about is protecting yourself. The literal fact is that you have not exchanged one single word with my client since the night of her thirteenth birthday because she has refused to talk to you."
"Not only to me. She appears unable to have a conversation with any psychiatrist."
"This means that, as you write here, your conclusions are based on experience and on observations of my client."
"That's right."
"What can you learn by studying a girl who sits on a chair with her arms crossed and refuses to talk to you?"
Teleborian sighed as though he thought it was irksome to have to explain the obvious. He smiled.
"From a patient who sits and says nothing, you can learn only that this is a patient who is good at sitting and saying nothing. Even this is disturbed behaviour, but that's not what I'm basing my conclusions upon."
"Later this afternoon I will call upon another psychiatrist. His name is Svante Brandén and he's senior physician at the Institute of Forensic Medicine and a specialist in forensic psychiatry. Do you know him?"
Teleborian felt confident again. He had expected Giannini to call upon another psychiatrist to question his own conclusions. It was a situation for which he was ready, and in which he would be able to dismiss every objection without difficulty. Indeed, it would be easier to handle an academic colleague in a friendly debate than someone like Advokat Giannini who had no inhibitions and was bent on distorting his words. He smiled.
"He is a highly respected and skilled forensic psychiatrist. But you must understand, Fru Giannini, that producing a report of this type is an academic and scientific process. You yourself may disagree with my conclusions, and another psychiatrist may interpret an action or an event in a different way. You may have dissimilar points of view, or perhaps it would be a question purely of
how well one doctor or another knows the patient. He might arrive at a very different conclusion about Lisbeth Salander. That is not at all unusual in psychiatry."
"That's not why I'm calling him. He has not met or examined Lisbeth Salander, and he will not be making any evaluations about her mental condition."
"Oh, is that so?"
"I have asked him to read your report and all the documentation you have produced on Lisbeth Salander and to look at her medical records from St Stefan's. I have asked him to make an assessment, not about the state of my client's health, but about whether, from a purely scientific point of view, there is adequate foundation for your conclusions in the material you recorded."
Teleborian shrugged.
"With all due respect, I think I have a better understanding of Lisbeth Salander than any other psychiatrist in the country. I have followed her development since she was twelve, and regrettably my conclusions were always confirmed by her actions."
"Very well," Giannini said. "Then we'll take a look at your conclusions. In your statement you write that her treatment was interrupted when she was placed with a foster family at the age of fifteen."
"That's correct. It was a serious mistake. If we had been allowed to complete the treatment we might not be here in this courtroom today."
"You mean that if you had had the opportunity to keep her in restraints for another year she might have become more tractable?"
"That is unworthy."
"I do beg your pardon. You cite extensively the report that your doctoral candidate Jesper Löderman put together when she was about to turn eighteen. You write that, quote, Lisbeth Salander's self-destructive and antisocial behaviour is confirmed by drug abuse and the promiscuity which she has exhibited since she was discharged from St Stefan's, unquote. What did you mean by this statement?"
Teleborian sat in silence for several seconds.
"Well... now I'll have to go back a bit. After Lisbeth Salander was discharged from St Stefan's she developed, as I had predicted, problems with alcohol and drug abuse. She was repeatedly arrested by the police. A social welfare report also determined that she had had profligate sexual relations with older men and that she was very probably involved in prostitution."
"Let's analyse this. You say that she abused alcohol. How often was she intoxicated?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Was she drunk every day from when she was released until she turned eighteen? Was she drunk once a week?"
"Naturally I can't answer that."
"But you have just stated that she had problems with alcohol abuse."
"She was a minor and arrested repeatedly by the police for drunkenness."
"That's the second time you have said that she was arrested repeatedly. How often did this occur? Was it once a week or once every other week?"
"No, it's not a matter of so many individual occasions..."
"Lisbeth Salander was arrested on two occasions for drunkenness, once when she was sixteen, once when she was seventeen. On one of those occasions she was so blind drunk that she was taken to hospital. These are the repeatedly you refer to. Was she intoxicated on more than these occasions?"
"I don't know, but one might fear that her behaviour was-"
"Excuse me, did I hear you correctly? You do not know whether she was intoxicated on more than two occasions during her teenage years, but you fear that this was the case. And yet you write reports maintaining that Lisbeth Salander was engaged in repeated alcohol and drug abuse?"
"That is the social service's information, not mine. It has to do with Lisbeth Salander's whole lifestyle. Not surprisingly her prognosis was dismal after her treatment was interrupted, and her life became a round of alcohol abuse, police intervention, and uncontrolled promiscuity."
"You say 'uncontrolled promiscuity'."
"Yes. That's a term which indicates that she had no control over her own life. She had sexual relations with older men."
"That's not against the law."
"No, but it's abnormal behaviour for a sixteen-year-old girl. The question might be asked as to whether she participated in such encounters of her own free will or whether she was in a situation of uncontrollable compulsion."
"But you said that she was very probably a prostitute."
"That may have been a natural consequence of the fact that she lacked education, was incapable of completing school or continuing to higher education, and therefore could not get a job. It's possible that she viewed older men as father figures and that financial remuneration for sexual favours was simply a convenient spin-off. In which case I perceive it as neurotic behaviour."
"So you think that a sixteen-year-old girl who has sex is neurotic?"
"You're twisting my words."
"But you do not know whether she ever took money for sexual favours."
"She was never arrested for prostitution."
"And she could hardly be arrested for it since prostitution is not a crime in our country."
"Well, yes, that's right. In her case this has to do with compulsive neurotic behaviour."
"And you did not hesitate to conclude that Lisbeth Salander is mentally ill based on these unverifiable assumptions? When I was sixteen years old, I drank myself silly on half a bottle of vodka which I stole from my father. Do you think that makes me mentally ill?"
"No, of course not."
"If I may be so bold, is it not a fact that when you were seventeen you went to a party and got so drunk that you all went out on the town and smashed the windows around the square in Uppsala? You were arrested by the police, detained until you were sober, and then let off with a fine."
Teleborian looked shocked.
"Is that not a fact, Dr Teleborian?"
"Well, yes. People do so many stupid things when they're seventeen. But-"
"But that doesn't lead you - or anyone else - to believe that you have a serious mental illness?"
Teleborian was angry. That infernal lawyer kept twisting his words and homing in on details. She refused to see the larger picture. And his own childish escapade... How the hell had she got hold of that information?
He cleared his throat and spoke in a raised voice.
"The reports from social services were unequivocal. They confirmed that Lisbeth Salander had a lifestyle that revolved around alcohol, drugs and promiscuity. Social services also said that she was a prostitute."
"No, social services never said that she was a prostitute."
"She was arrested at-"
"No. She was not arrested," Giannini said. "She was searched in Tantolunden at the age of seventeen when she was in the company of a much older man. That same year she was arrested for drunkenness. Also in the company of a much older man. Social services feared that she might be engaged in prostitution. But no evidence was ever presented."
"She had very loose sexual relations with a large number of individuals, both male and female."
"In your own report, you dwell on my client's sexual habits. You claim that her relationship with her friend Miriam Wu confirms the misgivings about a sexual psychopathy. Why does it confirm any such thing?"
Teleborian made no answer.
"I sincerely hope that you are not thinking of claiming that homosexuality is a mental illness," Giannini said. "That might even be an illegal statement."
"No, of course not. I'm alluding to the elements of sexual sadism in the relationship."
"You think that she's a sadist?"
"I-"
"We have Miriam Wu's statement here. There was, it says, no violence in their relationship."
"They engaged in S. & M. sex and-"
"Now I'm beginning to think you've been reading too many evening newspapers. Lisbeth Salander and her friend Miriam Wu engaged in sexual games on some occasions which involved Miriam Wu tying up my client and giving her sexual satisfaction. That is neither especially unusual nor is it against the law. Is that why you want to lock up my client?"
Teleborian waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.
"When I was sixteen and still at school I was intoxicated on a good many occasions. I have tried drugs. I have smoked marijuana, and I even tried cocaine on one occasion about twenty years ago. I had my first sexual experience with a schoolfriend when I was fifteen, and I had a relationship with a boy who tied my hands to the bedstead when I was twenty. When I was twenty-two I had a relationship with a man who was forty-seven that lasted several months. Am I, in your view, mentally ill?"
"Fru Giannini, you joke about this, but your sexual experiences are irrelevant in this case."
"Why is that? When I read your so-called psychiatric assessment of Lisbeth Salander, I find point after point which, taken out of context, would apply to myself. Why am I healthy and sound while Lisbeth Salander is considered a dangerous sadist?"
"These are not the details that are relevant. You didn't twice try to murder your father-"
"Dr Teleborian, the reality is that it's none of your business who Lisbeth Salander wants to have sex with. It's none of your business which gender her partner is or how they conduct their sexual relations. And yet in her case you pluck out details from her life and use them as the basis for saying that she is sick."
"Lisbeth Salander's whole life - from the time she was in junior school - is a document of unprovoked and violent outbursts of anger against teachers and other pupils."
"Just a moment." Giannini's voice was suddenly like an ice scraper on a car window. "Look at my client."
Everyone looked at Salander.
"My client grew up in abominable family circumstances. Over a period of years her father persistently abused her mother."
"That's-"
"Let me finish. Lisbeth Salander's mother was mortally afraid of Alexander Zalachenko. She did not dare to protest. She did not dare to go to a doctor. She did not dare to go to a women's crisis centre. She was ground down and eventually beaten so badly that she suffered irreversible brain damage. The person who had to take responsibility, the only person who tried to take responsibility for the family long before she reached her teens even, was Lisbeth Salander. She had to shoulder that burden all by herself, since Zalachenko the spy was more important to the state and its social services than Lisbeth's mother."
"I cannot-"
"The result, excuse me, was a situation in which society abandoned Lisbeth's mother and her two children. Are you surprised that Lisbeth had problems at school? Look at her. She's small and skinny. She has always been the smallest girl in her class. She was introverted and eccentric and she had no friends. Do you know how children tend to treat fellow pupils who are different?"
Teleborian sighed.
Giannini continued. "I can go back to her school records and examine one situation after another in which Lisbeth turned violent. They were always preceded by some kind of provocation. I can easily recognize the signs of bullying. Let me tell you something."
"What?"
"I admire Lisbeth Salander. She's tougher than I am. If I had been strapped down for a year when I was thirteen, I would probably have broken down altogether. She fought back with the only weapon she had available - her contempt for you."
Her nervousness was long gone. She felt that she was in control.
"In your testimony this morning you spoke a great deal about fantasies. You stated, for instance, that Lisbeth's Salander's account of her rape by Advokat Bjurman is a fantasy."
"That's correct."
"On what do you base your conclusion?"
"On my experience of the way she usually fantasizes."
"On your experience of the way she usually fantasizes? How do you decide when she is fantasizing? When she says that she was strapped to a bed for 380 days and nights, then in your opinion it's a fantasy, despite the fact that your very own records tell us that this was indeed the case."
"This is something entirely different. There is not a shred of evidence that Bjurman committed rape against Lisbeth Salander. I mean, needles through her nipples and such gross violence that she unquestionably should have been taken by ambulance to hospital? It's obvious that this could not have taken place."
Giannini turned to Judge Iversen. "I asked to have a projector available today..."
"It's in place," the judge said.
"Could we close the curtains, please?"
Giannini opened her PowerBook and plugged in the cables to the projector. She turned to her client.
"Lisbeth. We're going to look at the film. Are you ready for this?"
"I've lived through it," Salander said dryly.
"And I have your approval to show it here?"
Salander nodded. She fixed her eyes on Teleborian.
"Can you tell us when the film was made?"
"On 7 March, 2003."
"Who shot the film?"
"I did. I used a hidden camera, standard equipment at Milton Security."
"Just one moment," Prosecutor Ekström shouted. "This is beginning to resemble a circus act."
"What is it we are about to see?" Judge Iversen said with a sharp edge to his voice.
"Dr Teleborian claims that Lisbeth Salander's account of her rape by Advokat Bjurman is a fantasy. I am going to show you evidence to the contrary. The film is ninety minutes long, but I will only show a few short excerpts. I warn you that it contains some very unpleasant scenes."
"Is this some sort of trick?" Ekström said.
"There's a good way to find out," said Giannini and started the D. V. D. in her laptop.
"Haven't you even learned to tell the time?" Advokat Bjurman greets her gruffly. The camera enters his apartment.
After nine minutes Judge Iversen banged his gavel. Advokat Bjurman was being shown violently shoving a dildo into Lisbeth Salander's anus. Giannini had turned up the volume. Salander's half-stifled screams through the duct tape that covered her mouth were heard throughout the courtroom.
"Turn off the film," Judge Iversen said in a very loud and commanding voice.
Giannini pressed stop and the ceiling lights were turned back on. Judge Iversen was red in the face. Prosecutor Ekström sat as if turned to stone. Teleborian was as pale as a corpse.
"Advokat Giannini... How long is this film, did you say?"
"Ninety minutes. The rape itself went on in stages for about five or six hours, but my client only has a vague sense of the violence inflicted upon her in the last few hours." Giannini turned to Teleborian. "There is a scene, however, in which Bjurman pushes a needle through my client's nipple, something that Doctor Teleborian maintains is an expression of Lisbeth Salander's wild imagination. It takes place in minute seventy-two, and I'm offering to show the episode here and now."
"Thank you, that won't be necessary," the judge said. "Fröken Salander..."
For a second he lost his train of thought and did not know how to proceed.
"Fröken Salander, why did you record this film?"
"Bjurman had already subjected me to one rape and was demanding more. The first time he made me suck him off, the old creep. I thought it was going to be a repeat. I thought I'd be able to get such good evidence of what he did that I could then blackmail him into staying away from me. I misjudged him."
"But why did you go not to the police when you have such... irrefutable evidence?"
"I don't talk to policemen," Salander said flatly.
Palmgren stood up from his wheelchair. He supported himself by leaning on the edge of the table. His voice was very clear.
"Our client on principle does not speak to the police or to other persons of authority, and least of all to psychiatrists. The reason is simple. From the time she was a child she tried time and again to talk to police and social workers to explain that her mother was being abused by Alexander Zalachenko. The result in every instance was that she was punished because government civil servants had decided that Zalachenko was more important than she was."
He cleared his throat and continued.
"And when she eventually concluded that nobody was listening to her, her only means of protecting her mother was to fight Zalachenko with violence. And then this bastard who calls himself a doctor" - he pointed at Teleborian - "wrote a fabricated psychiatric diagnosis which described her as mentally ill, and it gave him the opportunity to keep her in restraints at St Stefan's for 380 days. What a bastard."
Palmgren sat down. Judge Iversen was surprised by this outburst. He turned to Salander.
"Would you perhaps like to take a break..."
"Why?" Salander said.
"Alright, then we'll continue. Advokat Giannini, the recording will be examined, and I will require a technical opinion to verify its authenticity. But I cannot tolerate seeing any more of these appalling scenes at present. Let's proceed."
"Gladly. I too find them appalling," said Giannini. "My client has been subjected to multiple instances of physical and mental abuse and legal misconduct. And the person most to blame for this is Dr Peter Teleborian. He betrayed his oath as a physician and he betrayed his patient. Together with a member of an illegal group within the Security Police, Gunnar Björck, he patched together a forensic psychiatric assessment for the purpose of locking up an inconvenient witness. I believe that this case must be unique in Swedish jurisprudence."
"These are outrageous accusations," Teleborian said. "I have done my best to help Lisbeth Salander. She tried to murder her father. It's perfectly obvious that there's something wrong with her-"
Giannini interrupted him.
"I would now like to bring to the attention of the court Dr Teleborian's second forensic psychiatric assessment of my client, presented at this trial today. I maintain that it is a lie, just as the report from 1991 was a lie."
"Well, this is simply-" Teleborian spluttered.
"Judge Iversen, could you please ask the witness to stop interrupting me?"
"Herr Teleborian..."
"I will be quiet. But these are outrageous accusations. It's not surprising that I'm upset-"
"Herr Teleborian, please be quiet until a question is directed at you. Do go on, Advokat Giannini."
"This is the forensic psychiatric assessment that Dr Teleborian has presented to the court. It is based on what he has termed 'observations' of my client which were supposed to have taken place after she was moved to Kronoberg prison on June 5. The examination was supposed to have been concluded on July 5."
"Yes, so I have understood," Judge Iversen said.
"Dr Teleborian, is it the case that you did not have the opportunity to examine or observe my client before June 6? Before that she was at Sahlgrenska hospital in Göteborg, where she was being kept in isolation, as we know."
"Yes."
"You made attempts on two separate occasions to gain access to my client at Sahlgrenska. Both times you were denied admittance."
Giannini opened her briefcase and took out a document. She walked around her table and handed it to Judge Iversen.
"I see," the judge said. "This appears to be a copy of Dr Teleborian's report. What is your point?"
"I would like to call upon two witnesses. They are waiting outside the courtroom now."
"Who are these witnesses?"
"They are Mikael Blomkvist from Millennium magazine, and Superintendent Torsten Edklinth, Director of the Constitutional Protection Unit of the Security Police."
"And they are outside?"
"Yes."
"Show them in," Judge Iversen said.
"This is highly irregular," Prosecutor Ekström said.
Ekström had watched in extreme discomfort as Giannini shredded his key witness. The film had been devastating evidence. The judge ignored Ekström and gestured to the bailiff to open the door to admit Blomkvist and Edklinth.
"I would first like to call upon Mikael Blomkvist."
"Then I would ask that Herr Teleborian stand down for a while," Judge Iverson said.
"Are you finished with me?" Teleborian said.
"No, not by any means," Giannini said.
Blomkvist replaced Teleborian in the witness box. Judge Iversen swiftly dealt with the formalities, and Blomkvist took the oath.
"Mikael," Giannini said, and then she smiled. "I would find it difficult, if your honour will forgive me, to call my brother Herr Blomkvist, so I will settle for his first name."
She went to Judge Iversen's bench and asked for the forensic psychiatric report which she had just handed to him. She then gave it to Blomkvist.
"Have you seen this document before?"
"Yes, I have. I have three versions in my possession. The first I acquired on May 12, the second on May 19, and the third - this one - on June 3."
"Can you tell us how you acquired the copies?"
"I received them in my capacity as a journalist from a source I do not intend to name."
Salander stared at Teleborian. He was once more deathly pale.
"What did you do with the report?"
"I gave it to Torsten Edklinth at Constitutional Protection."
"Thank you, Mikael. Now I'd like to call Torsten Edklinth," Giannini said, taking back the report. She handed it to Judge Iversen and the procedure with the oath was repeated.
"Superintendent Edklinth, is it correct that you received a forensic psychiatric report on Lisbeth Salander from Mikael Blomkvist?"
"Yes, it is."
"When did you receive it?"
"It was logged in at S.I.S. on June 4."
"And this is the same report I have just handed to Judge Iversen?"
"If my signature is on the back, then it's the same one."
The judge turned over the document and saw Edklinth's signature there.
"Superintendent Edklinth, could you explain how you happened to have a forensic psychiatric report in your possession which claims have analysed a patient who was still in isolation at Sahlgrenska?"
"Yes, I can. Herr Teleborian's report is a sham. It was put together with the help of a person by the name of Jonas Sandberg, just as he produced a similar document in 1991 with Gunnar Björck."
"That's a lie," Teleborian said in a weak voice.
"Is it a lie?" Giannini said.
"No, not at all," Edklinth said. "I should perhaps mention that Jonas Sandberg is one of a dozen or so individuals who were arrested today by order of the Prosecutor General. Sandberg is being held as an accomplice to the murder of Gunnar Björck. He is part of a criminal unit operating within the Security Police which has been protecting Alexander Zalachenko since the '70s. This same group of officers was responsible for the decision to lock up Lisbeth Salander in 1991. We have incontrovertible evidence, as well as a confession from the unit's director."
The courtroom was hushed, transfixed.
"Would Herr Teleborian like to comment on what has just been said?" Judge Iversen said.
Teleborian shook his head.
"In that case it is my duty tell you that you risk being charged with perjury and possibly other counts in addition," Judge Iversen said.
"If you'll excuse me, your honour," Blomkvist said.
"Yes?"
"Herr Teleborian has bigger problems than this. Outside the courtroom are two police officers who would like to bring him for questioning."
"I see," the judge said. "Is it a matter which concerns this court?"
"I believe it is, your honour."
Judge Iversen gestured to the bailiff, who admitted Inspector Modig and a woman Prosecutor Ekström did not immediately recognize. Her name was Lisa Collsjö, criminal inspector for the Special Investigations Division, the unit within the National Police Board responsible for investigating cases of child pornography and sexual assault on children.
"And what is your business here?" Judge Iversen said.
"We are here to arrest Peter Teleborian with your permission, and without wishing to disturb the court's proceedings."
Judge Iversen looked at Advokat Giannini.
"I'm not quite finished with him... but the court may have heard enough of Herr Teleborian."
"You have my permission," Judge Iversen said to the police officers.
Collsjö walked across to the witness box. "Peter Teleborian, you are under arrest for violation of the law on child pornography."
Teleborian sat still, hardly breathing. Giannini saw that all light seemed to have been extinguished in his eyes.
"Specifically, for possession of approximately eight thousand pornographic photographs of children found on your computer."
She bent down to pick up his laptop case, which he had brought with him.
"This is confiscated as evidence," she said.
As he was being led from the courtroom, Salander's blazing eyes bored into Teleborian's back.
CHAPTER 28
Friday, 15.vii - Saturday, 16.vii
Judge Iversen tapped his pen on the edge of his table to quell the murmuring that had arisen in the wake of Teleborian's departure. He seemed unsure how to proceed. Then he turned to Prosecutor Ekström.
"Do you have any comment to make to the court on what has been seen and heard in the past hour?"
Ekström stood up and looked at Judge Iversen and then at Edklinth before he turned his head and met Salander's unwavering gaze. He understood that the battle was lost. He glanced over at Blomkvist and realized with sudden terror that he too risked being exposed to Millennium's investigators... Which could ruin his career.
He was at a loss to comprehend how this had happened. He had come to the trial convinced that he knew everything about the case.
He had understood the delicate balance sought by national security after his many candid talks with Superintendent Nyström. It had been explained to him that the Salander report from 1991 had been fabricated. He had received the inside information he needed. He had asked questions - hundreds of questions - and received answers to all of them. A deception in the national interest. And now Nyström had been arrested, according to Edklinth. He had believed in Teleborian, who had, after all, seemed so... so competent. So convincing.
Good Lord. What sort of a mess have I landed in?
And then, How the hell am I going to get out of it?
He stroked his goatee. He cleared his throat. Slowly he removed his glasses.
"I regret to say that it seems I have been misinformed on a number of essential points in this investigation."
He wondered if he could shift the blame on to the police investigators. Then he had a vision of Inspector Bublanski. Bublanski would never back him up. If Ekström made one wrong move, Bublanski would call a press conference and sink him.
Ekström met Salander's gaze. She was sitting there patiently, and in her eyes he read both curiosity and vengeance.
No compromises.
He could still get her convicted of grievous bodily harm in Stallarholmen. And he could probably get her convicted for the attempted murder of her father in Gosseberga. That would mean changing his strategy immediately; he would drop everything that had anything to do with Teleborian. All claims that she was a psychopath had to go, but that meant that her story would be strengthened all the way back to 1991. The whole declaration of incompetence was bogus, and with that...
Plus she had that blasted film...
Then it struck him.
Good God. She's a victim, pure and simple.
"Judge Iverson... I believe I can no longer rely on the documents I have here in my hand."
"I suppose not," Judge Iversen said.
"I'm going to have to ask for a recess, or that the trial be suspended until I am able to make certain adjustments to my case."
"Advokat Giannini?" the judge said.
"I request that my client be at once acquitted on all counts and be released immediately. I also request that the district court take a definite position on the question of Fröken Salander's declaration of incompetence. Moreover, I believe that she should adequately be compensated for the violations of her rights that have occurred."
Lisbeth Salander turned towards Judge Iversen.
No compromises.
Judge Iversen looked at Salander's autobiography. He then looked over at Prosecutor Ekström.
"I too believe we would be wise to investigate exactly what has happened that brings us to this sorry pass. I fear that you are probably not the right person to conduct that investigation. In all my years as a jurist and judge, I have never been party to anything even approaching the legal dilemma in this case. I confess that I am at a loss for words. I have never even heard of a case in which the prosecutor's chief witness is arrested during a court in session, or of a quite convincing argument turning out to be an utter fabrication. I honestly do not see what is left of the prosecutor's case."
Palmgren cleared his throat.
"Yes?" Iversen said.
"As a representative for the defence, I can only share your feelings. Sometimes one must step back and allow common sense to guide the formal procedures. I'd like to state that you, in your capacity as judge, have seen only the first stage of a scandal that is going to rock the whole establishment. Today ten police officers from within Säpo have been arrested. They will be charged with murder and a list of crimes so long that it will take quite some time to draw up the report."
"I presume that I must decide on a suspension of this trial."
"If you'll excuse me for saying so, I think that would be an unfortunate decision."
"I'm listening."
"Lisbeth Salander is innocent. Her 'fantastical' autobiography, as Herr Ekström so contemptuously dismissed it, is in fact true. And it can all be proven. She has suffered an outrageous violation of her rights. As a court we could now stick with formal procedure and continue with the
trial until finally we arrive at an acquittal, but there is an obvious alternative: to let a new investigation take over everything concerning Lisbeth Salander. An investigation is already underway to sort out an integral part of this mess."
"I see what you mean."
"As the judge of this case you have a choice. The wise thing to do would be to reject the prosecutor's entire preliminary investigation and request that he does his homework."
Judge Iversen looked long and hard at Ekström.
"The just thing to do would be to acquit our client at once. She deserves in addition an apology, but the redress will take time and will depend upon the rest of the investigation."
"I understand the points you're making, Advokat Palmgren. But before I can declare your client innocent I will have to have the whole story clear in my mind. That will probably take a while..."
He hesitated and looked at Giannini.
"If I decide that the court will adjourn until Monday and accommodate your wishes insofar as I see no reason to keep your client in custody any longer - which would mean that you could expect that, no matter what else happens, she will not be given a prison sentence - can you guarantee that she will appear for continued proceedings when summoned?"
"Of course," Palmgren said quickly.
"No," Salander said in a sharp voice.
Everyone's eyes turned to the person who was at the heart of the entire drama.
"What do you mean by that?" Judge Iversen said.
"The moment you release me I'm going to leave the country. I do not intend to spend one more minute of my time on this trial."
"You would refuse to appear?"
"That is correct. If you want me to answer more questions, then you'll have to keep me in prison. The moment you release me, this story is settled as far as I'm concerned. And that does not include being available for an indefinite time to you, to Ekström, or to any police officers."
Judge Iversen sighed. Palmgren looked bewildered.
"I agree with my client," Giannini said. "It is the government and the authorities who have committed crimes against Lisbeth Salander, not the other way around. At the very least she deserves to be able to walk out of that door with an acquittal and the chance to put this whole story behind her."
No compromises.
Judge Iversen glanced at his watch.
"It is 3.00. That means that you're going to force me to keep your client in custody."
"If that's your decision, then we accept it. As Fröken Salander's representative I request that she be acquitted of the charges brought by Prosecutor Ekström. I request that you release my client without restrictions, and without delay. And I request that her previous declaration of incompetence be rescinded and that her civil rights be immediately restored."
"The matter of the declaration of incompetence is a significantly longer process. I would have to get statements from psychiatric experts after she has been examined. I cannot simply make a snap decision about that."
"No," Giannini said. "We do not accept that."
"Why not?"
"Lisbeth Salander must have the same civil rights as any other citizen of Sweden. She has been the victim of a crime. She was falsely declared incompetent. We have heard evidence of that falsification. The decision to place her under guardianship therefore lacks a legal basis and must be unconditionally rescinded. There is no reason whatsoever for my client to submit to a psychiatric examination. No-one else has to prove that they are not mentally ill if they are the victim of a crime." Judge Iversen considered the matter for a moment. "Advokat Giannini, I realize that this is an exceptional situation. I'm calling a recess of fifteen minutes so that we can stretch our legs and gather our thoughts. I have no wish that your client be kept in custody tonight if she is innocent, but that means that this trial will have to continue today until we are done."
"That sounds good to me," said Giannini.
Blomkvist hugged his sister. "How did it go?"
"Mikael, I was brilliant against Teleborian. I annihilated him."
"I told you you'd be unbeatable. When it comes down to it, this story is not primarily about spies and secret government agencies; it's about violence against women, and the men who enable it. From what little I heard and saw, you were phenomenal. She's going to be acquitted."
"You're right. There's no longer any doubt"
Judge Iversen banged his gavel.
"Could you please sum up the facts from beginning to end, so that I can get a clear picture of what actually happened?"
"Let's begin," Giannini said, "with the astounding story of a group within the Security Police who call themselves 'the Section', and who got hold of a Soviet defector in the mid-'70s. The story is published today in Millennium magazine. I imagine it will be the lead story on all the news broadcasts this evening..."
At 6.00 that evening Judge Iversen decided to release Salander and to revoke her declaration of incompetence.
But the decision was made on one condition: Judge Iversen demanded that Salander submit to an interview in which she would formally testify to her knowledge of the Zalachenko affair. At first she refused. This refusal brought about a moment's wrangling until Judge Iversen raised his voice. He leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Salander.
"Fröken Salander, if I rescind your declaration of incompetence, that will mean that you have exactly the same rights as all other citizens. It also means that you have the same obligations. It is therefore your duty to manage your finances, pay taxes, obey the law, and assist the police in investigations of serious crimes. So I am summoning you to be questioned like any other citizen who has information that might be vital to an investigation."
The force of this logic seemed to sink in. She pouted and looked cross, but she stopped arguing.
"When the police have interviewed you, the leader of the preliminary investigation - in this case the Prosecutor General - will decide whether you will be summoned as a witness in any future legal proceedings. Like any other Swedish citizen, you can refuse to obey such a summons. How you act is none of my concern, but you do not have carte blanche. If you refuse to appear, then like any other adult you may be charged with obstruction of justice or perjury. There are no exceptions."
Salander's expression darkened yet more.
"So, what is your decision?" Judge Iversen said.
After thinking it over for a minute, Salander gave a curt nod.
O.K. A little compromise.
During her summary of the Zalachenko affair that evening, Giannini launched a savage attack on Prosecutor Ekström. Eventually Ekström admitted that the course of events had proceeded more or less as Giannini had described them. He had been helped during the preliminary investigation by Superintendent Nyström, and had received his information from Dr Teleborian. In Ekström's case there was no conspiracy. He had gone along with the Section in good faith in his capacity as leader of the preliminary investigation. When the whole extent of the conspiracy finally dawned on him, he decided to withdraw all charges against Salander, and that decision meant that a raft of bureaucratic formalities could be set aside. Judge Iversen looked relieved.
Palmgren was exhausted after his day in court, the first in many years. He needed to go back to the Ersta rehabilitation home and go to bed. He was driven there by a uniformed guard from Milton Security. As he was leaving, he put a hand on Salander's shoulder. They looked at each other, saying nothing. After a moment she nodded.
Giannini called Blomkvist at 7.00 to tell him that Salander had been acquitted of all charges, but that she was going to have to stay at police headquarters for what might be another couple of hours for her interview.
The news came as the entire staff of Millennium were gathered at the office. The telephones had been ringing incessantly since the first copies of the magazine had been distributed by messenger that lunchtime to other newsrooms across the city. In the early evening T.V.4 had broadcast its first special program on Zalachenko and the Section. The media were having a field day.
Blomkvist walked into the main office, stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.
"Great news. Salander has been acquitted on all counts."
Spontaneous applause broke out. Then everyone went back to talking on their telephones as if nothing had happened.
Blomkvist looked up at the television that had been turned on in the editorial office. The news on T.V.4 was just starting. The trailer was a brief clip of the film showing Sandberg planting cocaine in his apartment on Bellmansgatan.
"Here we can clearly see a Säpo officer planting what we later learn is cocaine at the apartment of Mikael Blomkvist, journalist at Millennium magazine."
Then the anchorman came on the screen.
"Twelve officers of the Security Police were today arrested on a range of criminal charges, including murder. Welcome to this extended news broadcast."
Blomkvist turned off the sound when She came on, and he saw himself sitting in a studio armchair. He already knew what he had said. He looked over at the desk where Svensson had sat. All his research documents on the sex-trafficking industry were gone, and the desk was once more home to stacks of newspapers and piles of unsorted paper that nobody had time to deal with.
For Blomkvist, it was at that desk that the Zalachenko affair had begun. He wished that Svensson had been able to see the conclusion of it. A pile of copies of his just-published book was on the table next to Blomkvist's own about the Section.
You would have loved this moment, Dag.
He heard the telephone in his office ringing, but he could not face picking it up. He pulled the door shut and went into Berger's office and sank into a comfortable chair by the window. Berger was on the telephone. He looked about. She had been back a month, but had not yet got around to putting up the paintings and photographs that she had taken away when she left in April. The bookshelves were still bare.
"How does it feel?" she said when she hung up.
"I think I'm happy," he said.
She laughed. "The Section is going to be a sensation. Every newsroom is going crazy for it. Do you feel like appearing on Aktuellt at 9.00 for an interview?"
"I think not."
"I suspected as much."
"We're going to be talking about this for several months. There's no rush."
She nodded.
"What are you doing later this evening?" Berger said.
"I don't know." He bit his lip. "Erika... I..."
"Figuerola," Berger said with a smile.
He nodded.
"So it's serious?"
"I don't know."
"She's terribly in love with you."
"I think I'm in love with her too," he said.
"I promise I'll keep my distance until, you know... well, maybe," she said.
At 8.00 Armansky and Linder appeared at Millennium's offices. They thought the occasion called for champagne, so they had brought over a crate from the state liquor store. Berger hugged Linder and introduced her to everyone. Armansky took a seat in Blomkvist's office.
They drank their champagne. Neither of them said anything for quite a while. It was Armansky who broke the silence.
"You know what, Blomkvist? The first time we met, on that job in Hedestad, I didn't much care for you."
"You don't say."
"You came over to sign a contract when you hired Lisbeth as a researcher."
"I remember."
"I think I was jealous of you. You'd known her only for a couple of hours, yet she was laughing with you. For some years I'd tried to be Lisbeth's friend, but I have never once made her smile."
"Well... I haven't really been that successful either."
They sat in silence once again.
"Great that all this is over," Armansky said.
"Amen to that," Blomkvist said, and they raised their glasses in salute.
Inspectors Bublanski and Modig conducted the formal interview with Salander. They had both been at home with their families after a particularly taxing day but were immediately summoned to return to police headquarters.
Salander was accompanied by Giannini. She gave precise responses to all the questions that Bublanski and Modig asked, and Giannini had little occasion to comment or intervene.
Salander lied consistently on two points. In her description of what had happened in Stallarholmen, she stubbornly maintained that it was Nieminen who had accidentally shot "Magge" Lundin in the foot at the instant that she nailed him with the taser. Where had she got the taser? She had confiscated it from Lundin, she explained.
Bublanski and Modig were both sceptical, but there was no evidence and no witnesses to contradict her story. Nieminen was no doubt in a position to protest, but he refused to say anything about the incident; in fact he had no notion of what had happened in the seconds after he was stunned with the taser.
As far as Salander's journey to Gosseberga was concerned, she claimed that her only objective had been to convince her father to turn himself in to the police.
Salander looked completely guileless; it was impossible to say whether she was telling the truth or not. Giannini had no reason to arrive at an opinion on the matter.
The only person who knew for certain that Salander had gone to Gosseberga with the intention of terminating any relationship she had with her father once and for all was Blomkvist. But he had been sent out of the courtroom shortly after the proceedings were resumed. No-one knew that he and Salander had carried on long conversations online by night while she was confined to Sahlgrenska.
*
The media missed altogether her release from custody. If the time of it had been known, a huge contingent would have descended on police headquarters. But many of the reporters were exhausted after the chaos and excitement that had ensued when Millennium reached the news-stands and certain members of the Security Police were arrested by other Security Police officers.
The presenter of She at T.V.4 was the only journalist who knew what the story was all about. Her hour-long broadcast became a classic, and some months later she won the award for Best T. V. News Story of the Year.
Modig got Salander away from police headquarters by very simply taking her and Giannini down to the garage and driving them to Giannini's office on Kungholm's Kyrkoplan. There they switched to Giannini's car. When Modig had driven away, Giannini headed for Södermalm. As they passed the parliament building she broke the silence.
"Where to?" she said.
Salander thought for a few seconds.
"You can drop me somewhere on Lundagatan."
"Miriam isn't there."
Salander looked at her.
"She went to France quite soon after she came out of hospital. She's staying with her parents if you want to get hold of her."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked. She said she needed some space. This morning Mikael gave me these and said you'd probably like to have them back."
She handed her a set of keys. Salander took it and said: "Thanks. Could you drop me somewhere on Folkungagatan instead?"
"You don't even want to tell me where you live?"
"Later. Right now I want to be left in peace."
"O.K."
Giannini had switched on her mobile when they left police headquarters. It started beeping as they were passing Slussen. She looked at the display.
"It's Mikael. He's called every ten minutes for the past couple of hours."
"I don't want to talk to him."
"Tell me... Could I ask you a personal question?"
"Yes."
"What did Mikael do to you that you hate him so much? I mean, if it weren't for him, you'd probably be back on a secure ward tonight."
"I don't hate Mikael. He hasn't done anything to me. I just don't want to see him right now."
Giannini glanced across at her client. "I don't mean to pry, but you fell for him, didn't you?"
Salander looked out of the window and did not answer.
"My brother is completely irresponsible when it comes to relationships. He screws his way through life and doesn't seem to grasp how much it can hurt those women who think of him as more than a casual affair."
Salander met her gaze. "I don't want to discuss Mikael with you."
"Right," Giannini said. She pulled into the kerb just before the junction with Erstagatan. "Is this O.K.?"
"Yes."
They sat in silence for a moment. Salander made no move to open the door. Then Giannini turned off the engine.
"What happens now?" Salander said at last.
"What happens now is that as from today you are no longer under guardianship. You can live your life however you want. Even though we won in the district court, there's still a whole mass of red tape to get through. There will be reports on accountability within the guardianship agency and the question of compensation and things like that. And the criminal investigation will continue."
"I don't want any compensation. I want to be left in peace."
"I understand. But what you want won't play much of a role here. This process is beyond your control. I suggest that you get yourself a lawyer to represent you."
"Don't you want to go on being my lawyer?"
Giannini rubbed her eyes. After all the stress of the day she felt utterly drained. She wanted to go home and have a shower. She wanted her husband to massage her back.
"I don't know. You don't trust me. And I don't trust you. I have no desire to be drawn into a long process during which I encounter nothing but frustrating silence when I make a suggestion or want to discuss something."
Salander said nothing for a long moment. "I... I'm not good at relationships. But I do trust you."
It sounded almost like an apology.
"That may be. And it needn't be my problem if you're bad at relationships. But it does become my problem if I have to represent you."
Silence.
"Would you want me to go on being your lawyer?"
Salander nodded. Giannini sighed.
"I live at Fiskargatan 9. Above Mosebacke Torg. Could you drive me there?"
Giannini looked at her client and then she started the engine. She let Salander direct her to the address. They stopped short of the building.
"O.K.," Giannini said. "We'll give it a try. Here are my conditions. I agree to represent you. When I need to get hold of you I want you to answer. When I need to know what you want me to do, I want clear answers. If I call you and tell you that you have to talk to a policeman or a prosecutor or anything else that has to do with the criminal investigation, then I have already decided that it's necessary. You will have to turn up at the appointed place, on time, and not make a fuss about it. Can you live with that?"
"I can."
"And if you start playing up, I stop being your lawyer. Understood?"
Salander nodded.
"One more thing. I don't want to get involved in a big drama between you and my brother. If you have a problem with him, you'll have to work it out. But, for the record, he's not your enemy."
"I know. I'll deal with it. But I need some time."
"What do you plan to do now?"
"I don't know. You can reach me on email. I promise to reply as soon as I can, but I might not be checking it every day-"
"You won't become a slave just because you have a lawyer. O.K., that's enough for the time being. Out you get. I'm dead tired and I want to go home and sleep."
Salander opened the door and got out. She paused as she was about to close the car door. She looked as though she wanted to say something but could not find the words. For a moment she appeared to Giannini almost vulnerable.
"That's alright, Lisbeth," Giannini said. "Go and get some sleep. And stay out of trouble for a while."
Salander stood at the curb and watched Giannini drive away until her tail lights disappeared around the corner.
"Thanks," she said at last.
CHAPTER 29
Saturday, 16.vii - Friday, 7.x
Salander found her Palm Tungsten T3 on the hall table. Next to it were her car keys and the shoulder bag she had lost when Lundin attacked her outside the door to her apartment building on Lundagatan. She also found both opened and unopened post that had been collected from her P.O. Box on Hornsgatan. Mikael Blomkvist.
She took a slow tour through the furnished part of her apartment. She found traces of him everywhere. He had slept in her bed and worked at her desk. He had used her printer, and in the wastepaper basket she found drafts of the manuscript of The Section along with discarded notes.
He had bought a litre of milk, bread, cheese, caviar and a jumbo pack of Billy's Pan Pizza and put them in the fridge.
On the kitchen table she found a small white envelope with her name on it. It was a note from him. The message was brief. His mobile number. That was all.
She knew that the ball was in her court. He was not going to get in touch with her. He had finished the story, given back the keys to her apartment, and he would not call her. If she wanted something then she could call him. Bloody pig-headed bastard.
She put on a pot of coffee, made four open sandwiches, and went to sit in her window seat to look out towards Djurgården. She lit a cigarette and brooded.
It was all over, and yet now her life felt more claustrophobic than ever.
Miriam Wu had gone to France. It was my fault that you almost died. She had shuddered at the thought of having to see Mimmi, but had decided that that would be her first stop when she was released. But she had gone to France.
All of a sudden she was in debt to people.
Palmgren. Armansky. She ought to contact them to say thank you. Paolo Roberto. And Plague and Trinity. Even those damned police officers, Bublanski and Modig, who had so obviously been in her corner. She did not like feeling beholden to anyone. She felt like a chess piece in a game she could not control.
Kalle Bloody Blomkvist. And maybe even Erika Bloody Berger with the dimples and the expensive clothes and all that self-assurance.
But it was over, Giannini had said as they left police headquarters. Right. The trial was over. It was over for Giannini. And it was over for Blomkvist. He had published his book and would end up on T. V. and probably win some bloody prize too.
But it was not over for Lisbeth Salander. This was only the first day of the rest of her life.
At 4.00 in the morning she stopped thinking. She discarded her punk outfit on the floor of her bedroom and went to the bathroom and took a shower. She cleaned off all the make-up she had worn in court, put on loose, dark linen trousers, a white top and a thin jacket. She packed an overnight bag with a change of underwear and a couple of tops and put on some simple walking shoes.
She picked up her Palm and called a taxi to collect her from Mosebacke Torg. She drove out to Arlanda Airport and arrived just before 6.00. She studied the departure board and booked a ticket to the first place that took her fancy. She used her own passport in her own name. She was surprised
that nobody at the ticket desk or at the check-in counter seemed to recognize her or react to her name.
She had a seat on the morning flight to Málaga and landed in the blazing midday heat. She stood inside the terminal building for a moment, feeling uncertain. At last she went and looked at a map and thought about what she might do now that she was in Spain. A minute later she decided. She did not waste time trying to figure out bus routes or other means of transportation. She bought a pair of sunglasses at an airport shop, went out to the taxi stand and climbed into the back seat of the first taxi.
"Gibraltar. I'm paying with a credit card."
The trip took three hours via the new motorway along the coast. The taxi dropped her off at British passport control and she walked across the border and over to the Rock Hotel on Europa Road, partway up the slope of the 425-metre monolith. She asked if they had a room and was told there was a double room available. She booked it for two weeks and handed over her credit card.
She showered and sat on the balcony wrapped up in a bath towel, looking out over the Straits of Gibraltar. She could see freighters and a few yachts. She could just make out Morocco in the haze on the other side of the straits. It was peaceful.
After a while she went in and lay down and slept.
The next morning Salander woke at 5.00. She got up, showered and had a coffee in the hotel bar on the ground floor. At 7.00 she left the hotel and set out to buy mangos and apples. She took a taxi to the Peak and walked over to the apes. She was so early that few tourists had yet appeared, and she was practically alone with the animals.
She liked Gibraltar. It was her third visit to the strange rock that housed an absurdly densely populated English town on the Mediterranean. Gibraltar was a place that was not like anywhere else. The town had been isolated for decades, a colony that obstinately refused to be incorporated into Spain. The Spaniards protested the occupation, of course. (But Salander thought that the Spaniards should keep their mouths shut on that score so long as they occupied the enclave of Ceuta on Moroccan territory across the straits.) It was a place that was comically shielded from the rest of the world, consisting of a bizarre rock, about three quarters of a square mile of town and an airport that began and ended in the sea. The colony was so small that every square inch of it was used, and any expansion had to be over the sea. Even to get into the town, visitors had to walk across the landing strip at the airport.
Gibraltar gave the concept of "compact living" a whole new meaning.
Salander watched a big male ape climb up on to a wall next to the path. He glowered at her. He was a Barbary ape. She knew better than to try to stroke any of the animals.
"Hello, friend," she said. "I'm back."
The first time she visited Gibraltar she had not even heard about these apes. She had gone up to the top just to look at the view, and she was surprised when she followed some tourists and found herself in the midst of a group of apes climbing and scrambling on both sides of the pathway.
It was a peculiar feeling to be walking along a path and suddenly have two dozen apes around you. She looked at them with great wariness. They were not dangerous or aggressive, but they were certainly capable of giving you a bad bite if they got agitated or felt threatened.
She found one of the guards and showed him her bag of fruit and asked if she could give it to the apes. He said that it was O.K.
She took out a mango and put it on the wall a little way away from the male ape.
"Breakfast," she said, leaning against the wall and taking a bite of an apple.
The male ape stared at her, bared his teeth, and contentedly picked up the mango.
In the middle of the afternoon five days later, Salander fell off her stool in Harry's Bar on a side street off Main Street, two blocks from her hotel. She had been drunk almost continuously since she left the apes on the rock, and most of her drinking had been done with Harry O'Connell, who owned the bar and spoke with a phoney Irish accent, having never in his life set foot in Ireland. He had been watching her anxiously.
When she had ordered her first drink several days earlier, he had asked to see her I. D. Her name was Lisbeth, he knew, and he called her Liz. She would come in after lunch and sit on a high stool at the far end of the bar with her back leant against the wall. Then she would drink an impressive number of beers or shots of whisky.
When she drank beer she did not care about what brand or type it was; she accepted whatever he served her. When she ordered whisky she always chose Tullamore Dew, except on one occasion when she studied the bottles behind the bar and asked for Lagavulin. When the glass was brought to her, she sniffed at it, stared at it for a moment, and then took a tiny sip. She set down her glass and stared at it for a minute with an expression that seemed to indicate that she considered its contents to be a mortal enemy.
Finally she pushed the glass aside and asked Harry to give her something that could not be used to tar a boat. He poured her another Tullamore Dew and she went back to her drinking. Over the past four days she had consumed almost a whole bottle. He had not kept track of the beers. Harry was surprised that a young woman with her slender build could hold so much, but he took the view that if she wanted alcohol she was going to get it, whether in his bar or somewhere else.
She drank slowly, did not talk to any of the other customers, and did not make any trouble. Her only activity apart from the consumption of alcohol seemed to be to play with a hand-held computer which she connected to a mobile now and then. He had several times tried to start a conversation but was met with a sullen silence. She seemed to avoid company. Sometimes, when there were too many people in the bar, she had moved outside to a table on the pavement, and at other times she had gone two doors down to an Italian restaurant and had dinner. Then she would come back to Harry's and order another Tullamore Dew. She usually left the bar at around 10.00 and made her way unsteadily off, always to the north.
Today she had drunk more and at a faster rate than on the other days, and Harry had kept a watchful eye on her. When she had put away seven glasses of Tullamore Dew in a little over two
hours, he decided not to give her any more. It was then that he heard the crash as she fell off the bar stool.
He put down the glass he was drying and went around the counter to pick her up. She seemed offended.
"I think you've had enough, Liz," he said.
She looked at him, bleary-eyed.
"I believe you're right," she said in a surprisingly lucid voice.
She held on to the bar with one hand as she dug some notes out of her top pocket and then wobbled off towards the door. He took her gently by the shoulder.
"Hold on a minute. Why don't you go to the toilet and throw up the last of that whisky and then sit at the bar for a while? I don't want to let you go in this condition."
She did not object when he led her to the toilet. She stuck her fingers down her throat. When she came back out to the bar he had poured her a large glass of club soda. She drank the whole glass and burped. He poured her another.
"You're going to feel like death in the morning," Harry said.
She nodded.
"It's none of my business, but if I were you I'd sober up for a couple of days."
She nodded. Then she went back to the toilet and threw up again.
She stayed at Harry's Bar for another hour until she looked sober enough to be turned loose. She left the bar on unsteady legs, walked down to the airport and followed the shoreline around the marina. She walked until after 8.00, when the ground at last stopped swaying under her feet. Then she went back to the hotel. She took the lift to her room, brushed her teeth and washed her face, changed her clothes, and went back down to the hotel bar to order a cup of black coffee and a bottle of mineral water.
She sat there, silent and unnoticed next to a pillar, studying the people in the bar. She saw a couple in their thirties engaged in quiet conversation. The woman was wearing a light-coloured summer dress, and the man was holding her hand under the table. Two tables away sat a black family, the man with the beginnings of grey at his temples, the woman wearing a lovely, colourful dress in yellow, black and red. They had two young children with them. She studied a group of businessmen in white shirts and ties, their jackets hung over the backs of their chairs. They were drinking beer. She saw a group of elderly people, without a doubt American tourists. The men wore baseball caps, polo shirts and loose-fitting trousers. She watched a man in a light-coloured linen jacket, grey shirt and dark tie come in from the street and pick up his room key at the front desk before he headed over to the bar and ordered a beer. He sat down three metres away from her. She gave him an expectant look as he took out his mobile and began to speak in German.
"Hello, is that you?... Is everything alright?... It's going fine, we're having our next meeting tomorrow afternoon... No, I think it'll work out... I'll be staying here five or six days at least, and then I go to Madrid... No, I won't be home before the end of next week... Me too. I love you... Sure... I'll call you later in the week... Kiss kiss."
He was a little over one metre eighty-five tall, about fifty years old maybe fifty-five, blond hair that was turning grey and was a bit on the long side, a weak chin, and too much weight around the middle. But still reasonably well preserved. He was reading the Financial Times. When he finished his beer and headed for the lift, Salander got up and followed him.
He pushed the button for the sixth floor. Salander stood next to him and leaned her head against the side of the lift.
"I'm drunk," she said.
He smiled down at her. "Oh, really?"
"It's been one of those weeks. Let me guess. You're a businessman of some sort, from Hanover or somewhere in northern Germany. You're married. You love your wife. And you have to stay here in Gibraltar for another few days. I gathered that much from your telephone call in the bar."
The man looked at her, astonished.
"I'm from Sweden myself. I'm feeling an irresistible urge to have sex with somebody. I don't care if you're married and I don't want your phone number."
He looked startled.
"I'm in room 711, the floor above yours. I'm going to go up to my room, take a bath and get into bed. If you want to keep me company, knock on the door within half an hour. Otherwise I'll be asleep."
"Is this some kind of joke?" he said as the lift stopped.
"No. It's just that I can't be bothered to go out to some pick-up bar. Either you knock on my door or you don't."
Twenty-five minutes later there was a knock on the door of Salander's room. She had a bath towel around her when she opened the door.
"Come in," she said.
He stepped inside and looked around the room suspiciously.
"I'm alone here," she said.
"How old are you, actually?"
She reached for her passport on top of a chest of drawers and handed it to him.
"You look younger."
"I know," she said, taking off the bath towel and throwing it on to a chair. She went over to the bed and pulled off the bedspread.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was staring at her tattoos.
"This isn't a trap. I'm a woman, I'm single, and I'll be here for a few days. I haven't had sex for months."
"Why did you choose me?"
"Because you were the only man in the bar who looked as if you were here alone."
"I'm married-"
"And I don't want to know who she is or even who you are. And I don't want to discuss sociology. I want to fuck. Take off your clothes or go back down to your room."
"Just like that?"
"Yes. Why not? You're a grown man - you know what you're supposed to do."
He thought about it for all of thirty seconds. He looked as if he was going to leave. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited. He bit his lip. Then he took off his trousers and shirt and stood hesitantly in his boxer shorts.
"Take it all off," Salander said. "I don't intend to fuck somebody in his underwear. And you have to use a condom. I know where I've been, but I don't know where you've been."
He took off his shorts and went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. Salander closed her eyes when he bent down to kiss her. He tasted good. She let him tip her back on to the bed. He was heavy on top of her.
Jeremy Stuart MacMillan, solicitor, felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as soon as he tried to unlock the door to his office at Buchanan House on Queensway Quay above the marina. It was already unlocked. He opened it and smelled tobacco smoke and heard a chair creak. It was just before 7.00, and his first thought was that he had surprised a burglar.
Then he smelled the coffee from the machine in the kitchenette. After a couple of seconds he stepped hesitantly over the threshold and walked down the corridor to look into his spacious and elegantly furnished office. Salander was sitting in his desk chair with her back to him and her feet on the windowsill. His P. C. was turned on. Obviously she had not had any problem cracking his password. Nor had she had any problem opening his safe. She had a folder with his most private correspondence and bookkeeping on her lap.
"Good morning, Miss Salander," he said at last.
"Ah, there you are," she said. "There's freshly brewed coffee and croissants in the kitchen."
"Thanks," he said, sighing in resignation.
He had, after all, bought the office with her money and at her request, but he had not expected her to turn up without warning. What is more, she had found and apparently read a gay porn magazine that he had kept hidden in a desk drawer.
So embarrassing.
Or maybe not.
When it came to Salander, he felt that she was the most judgemental person he had ever met. But she never once raised an eyebrow at people's weaknesses. She knew that he was officially heterosexual, but his dark secret was that he was attracted to men; since his divorce fifteen years ago he had been making his most private fantasies a reality. It's funny, but I feel safe with her.
Since she was in Gibraltar anyway, Salander had decided to visit MacMillan, the man who handled her finances. She had not been in touch with him since just after New Year, and she wanted to know if he had been busy ruining her ever since.
But there had not been any great hurry, and it was not for him that she had gone straight to Gibraltar after her release. She did it because she felt a burning desire to get away from everything, and in that respect Gibraltar was an excellent choice. She had spent almost a week getting drunk, and then a few days having sex with the German businessman, who eventually introduced himself as Dieter. She doubted it was his real name but had not bothered to check. He spent the days sitting in meetings and the evenings having dinner with her before they went back to his or her room.
He was not at all bad in bed, Salander thought, although he was a bit out of practice and sometimes needlessly rough.
Dieter seemed genuinely astonished that on sheer impulse she had picked up an overweight German businessman who was not even looking for it. He was indeed married, and he was not in the habit of being unfaithful or seeking female company on his business trips. But when the opportunity was presented on a platter in the form of a thin, tattooed young woman, he could not resist the temptation. Or so he said.
Salander did not care much what he said. She had not been looking for anything more than recreational sex, but she was gratified that he actually made an effort to satisfy her. It was not until the fourth night, their last together, that he had a panic attack and started going on about what his wife would say. Salander thought he should keep his mouth shut and not tell his wife a thing.
But she did not tell him what she thought.
He was a grown man and could have said no to her invitation. It was not her problem if he was now attacked by feelings of guilt, or if he confessed anything to his wife. She had lain with her back to him and listened for fifteen minutes, until finally she rolled her eyes in exasperation, turned over and straddled him.
"Do you think you could take a break from the worryguts stuff and get me off again?" she said.
Jeremy MacMillan was a very different story. He held zero erotic attraction for her. He was a crook. Amusingly enough, he looked a lot like Dieter. He was forty-eight, a bit overweight, with greying, dark-blond curly hair that he combed straight back from a high forehead. He wore thin gold-rimmed glasses.
He had once been a Cambridgeeducated business lawyer and stockbroker in London. He had had a promising future and was a partner in a law firm that was engaged by big corporations and wealthy yuppies interested in real estate and tax planning. He had spent the go-go '80s hanging out with nouveau riche celebrities. He had drunk hard and snorted coke with people that he really did not want to wake up with the next morning. He had never been charged with anything, but he did lose his wife and two kids along with his job when he mismanaged several transactions and tottered drunk into a mediation hearing.
Without thinking too much about it, he sobered up and fled London with his tail between his legs. Why he picked Gibraltar he did not know, but in 1991 he went into partnership with a local solicitor and opened a modest back-street law office which officially dealt with much less glamorous matters: estate planning, wills and such like. Unofficially, MacMillan & Marks also helped to set up P.O. Box companies and acted as gatekeepers for a number of shady figures in Europe. The firm was barely making ends meet when Salander selected Jeremy MacMillan to administer the $2.4 billion she had stolen from the collapsing empire of the Swedish financier Hans-Erik Wennerström.
MacMillan was a crook, no doubt about it, but she regarded him as her crook, and he had surprised himself by being impeccably honest in his dealings with her. She had first hired him for a simple task. For a modest fee he had set up a string of P.O. Box companies for her to use; she put a million dollars into each of them. She had contacted him by telephone and had been nothing more than a voice from afar. He never tried to discover where the money came from. He had done what she asked and took 5 per cent commission. A little while later she had transferred a large sum of money that he was to use to set up a corporation, Wasp Enterprises, which then acquired a substantial apartment in Stockholm. His dealings with Salander were becoming quite lucrative, even if it was still only quite modest pickings.
Two months later she had paid a visit to Gibraltar. She had called him and suggested dinner in her room at the Rock Hotel, which was, if not the biggest hotel in Gibraltar, then certainly the most famous. He was not sure what he had expected, but he could not believe that his client was this doll-like girl who looked as if she were in her early teens. He thought he was the butt of some outlandish practical joke.
He soon changed his mind. The strange young woman talked with him impersonally, without ever smiling or showing any warmth. Or coolness, for that matter. He had sat paralysed as, over the course of a few minutes, she obliterated the professional facade of sophisticated respectability that he was always so careful to maintain.
"What is it that you want?" he had asked.
"I've stolen a sum of money," she replied with great seriousness. "I need a crook who can administer it."
He had stared at her, wondering whether she was deranged, but politely he played along. She might be a possible mark for a con game that could bring in a small income. Then he had sat as if struck by lightning when she explained who she had stolen the money from, how she did it, and what the amount was. The Wennerström affair was the hottest topic of conversation in the world of international finance.
"I see."
The possibilities flew through his head.
"You're a skilled business lawyer and stockbroker. If you were an idiot you would never have got the jobs you did in the '80s. However, you behaved like an idiot and managed to get yourself fired."
He winced.
"In the future I will be your only client."
She had looked at him with the most ingenuous expression he had ever seen.
"I have two conditions. The first is that you never ever commit a crime or get mixed up in anything that could create problems for us and focus the authorities' attention on my companies and accounts. The second is that you never lie to me. Never ever. Not a single time. And not for any reason. If you lie to me, our business relationship will terminate instantly, and if you make me cross enough I will ruin you."
She poured him a glass of wine.
"There's no reason to lie to me. I already know everything worth knowing about your life. I know how much you make in a good month and a bad month. I know how much you spend. I know that you never really have enough money. I know that you owe £120,000 in both long-term and short-term debts, and that you always have to take risks and skim some money to make the loan payments. You wear expensive clothes and try to keep up appearances, but in reality you've gone to the dogs and haven't bought a new sports jacket in several months. But you did take an old jacket in to have the lining mended two weeks ago. You used to collect rare books but have been gradually selling them off. Last month you sold an early edition of Oliver Twist for £760."
She stopped talking and fixed him with her gaze. He swallowed hard.
"Last week you actually made a killing. A quite clever fraud perpetrated against that widow you represent. You ripped her off £6,000, which she'll probably never miss."
"How the hell do you know that?"
"I know that you were married, that you have two children in England who don't want to see you, and that you've taken the big leap since your divorce and now have primarily homosexual relationships. You're probably ashamed of that and avoid the gay clubs, and you avoid being seen in town with any of your male friends. You regularly cross the border into Spain to meet men."
MacMillan was shaken to the core. And he was suddenly terrified. He had no idea how she had come by all this information, but she knew enough to destroy him.
"And I'm only going to say this one time. I don't give a shit who you have sex with. It's none of my business. I want to know who you are, but I will never use what I know. I won't threaten you or blackmail you."
MacMillan was no fool. He was perfectly aware, of course, that her knowledge of all that information about him constituted a threat. She was in control. For a moment he had considered picking her up and throwing her over the edge of the terrace, but he restrained himself. He had never in his life been so scared.
"What do you want?" he managed to say.
"I want to have a partnership with you. You will bring to a close all the other business you're working on and will work exclusively for me. You will make more money from my company than you could ever dream of making any other way."
She explained what she required him to do, and how she wanted the arrangements to be made.
"I want to be invisible," she said. "And I want you to take care of my affairs. Everything has to be legitimate. Whatever money I make on my own will not have any connection to our business together."
"I understand."
"You have one week to phase out your other clients and put a stop to all your little schemes."
He also realized that he had been given an offer that would never come round again. He thought about it for sixty seconds and then accepted. He had only one question.
"How do you know that I won't swindle you?"
"Don't even think about it. You'd regret it for the rest of your miserable life."
He had no reason to cook the books. Salander had made him an offer that had the potential of such a silver lining that it would have been idiotic to risk it for bits of change on the side. As long as he was relatively discreet and did not get involved in any financial chicanery, his future would be assured.
Accordingly he had no thought of swindling Ms Salander.
So he went straight, or as straight as a burned-out lawyer could go who was administering an astronomical sum of stolen money.
Salander was simply not interested in the management of her finances. MacMillan's job was to invest her money and see to it that there were funds to cover the credit cards she used. She told him how she wanted her finances to be handled. His job was to make sure it was done.
A large part of the money had been invested in giltedged funds that would provide her with economic independence for the rest of her life, even if she chose to live it recklessly and dissolutely. It was from these funds that her credit card bills were paid.
The rest of the money he could play with and invest as he saw fit, provided that he did not invest in anything that might cause problems with the police in any way. She forbade him to engage in stupid petty crimes and cheap con games which - if he was unlucky - might prompt investigations which in turn could put her under scrutiny.
All that remained was to agree on how much he would make on the transactions.
"I'll pay you £500,000 as a retainer. With that you can pay off all your debts and have a good deal left over. After that you'll earn money for yourself. You will start a company with the two of us as partners. You get 20 per cent of all the profits generated. I want you to be rich enough that you won't be tempted to try it on, but not so rich that you won't make an effort."
He had started his new job on February 1 the year before. By the end of March he had paid off all his debts and stabilized his personal finances. Salander had insisted that he make cleaning up his own affairs a priority so that he would be solvent. In May he dissolved the partnership with his alcoholic colleague George Marks. He felt a twinge of conscience towards his former partner, but getting Marks mixed up in Salander's business was out of the question.
He discussed the matter with Salander when she returned to Gibraltar on another unheralded visit in early July and discovered that MacMillan was working out of his apartment instead of from the office he had previously occupied.
"My partner's an alcoholic and wouldn't be able to handle this. And he would be an enormous risk factor. At the same time, fifteen years ago he saved my life when he took me into his business."
She pondered this a while as she studied MacMillan's face.
"I see. You're a crook who's loyal. That could be a commendable quality. I suggest you set up a small account that he can play around with. See to it that he makes a couple of thousand a month so he gets by."
"Is that O.K. with you?"
She nodded and looked around his bachelor pad. He lived in a studio apartment with a kitchen nook on one of the alleys near the hospital. The only pleasant thing about the place was the view. On the other hand, it was a view that was hard to avoid in Gibraltar.
"You need an office and a nicer place to live," she said.
"I haven't had time," he said.
Then she went out and found an office for him, choosing a 130-square-metre place with a little balcony facing the sea in Buchanan House on Queensway Quay, which was definitely upmarket in Gibraltar. She hired an interior decorator to renovate and furnish it.
MacMillan recalled that while he had been busy shuffling papers, Salander had personally supervised the installation of an alarm system, computer equipment, and the safe that she had already rummaged through by the time he entered the office that morning.
"Am I in trouble?" he said.
She put down the folder with the correspondence she had been perusing.
"No, Jeremy. You're not in trouble."
"That's good," he said as he poured himself some coffee. "You have a way of popping up when I least expect it."
"I've been busy lately. I just wanted to get an update on what's been happening."
"I believe you were suspected of killing three people, you got shot in the head, and you were charged with a whole assortment of crimes. I was pretty worried for a while. I thought you were still in prison. Did you break out?"
"No. I was acquitted of all the charges and released. How much have you heard?"
He hesitated a moment. "Well, when I heard that you were in trouble, I hired a translation agency to comb the Swedish press and give me regular updates. I'm au fait with the details."
"If you're basing your knowledge on what you read in the papers, then you're not au fait at all. But I dare say you discovered a number of secrets about me."
He nodded.
"What's going to happen now?" he said.
She gave him a surprised look. "Nothing. We keep on exactly as before. Our relationship has nothing to do with my problems in Sweden. Tell me what's been happening since I've been away. Have you been doing alright?"
"I'm not drinking, if that's what you mean."
"No. Your private life doesn't concern me so long as it doesn't encroach on our business. I mean, am I richer or poorer than I was a year ago?"
He pulled out the visitor's chair and sat down. Somehow it did not matter to him that she was sitting in his chair.
"You turned over $2.4 billion to me. We put $200 million into personal funds for you. You gave me the rest to play with."
"And?"
"Your personal funds haven't grown by much more than the amount of interest. I could increase the profit if-"
"I'm not interested in increasing the profit."
"O.K. You've spent a negligible amount. The principal expenses have been the apartment I bought for you and the fund you started for that lawyer Palmgren. Otherwise you've just had normal expenses. The interest rate has been favourable. You're running about even."
"Good."
"The rest I invested. Last year we didn't make very much. I was a little rusty and spent the time learning the market again. We've had expenses. We didn't really start generating income until this year. Since the start of the year we've taken about 7 million. Dollars, that is."
"Of which 20 per cent goes to you."
"Of which 20 per cent goes to me."
"Are you satisfied with that?"
"I've made more than a million dollars in six months. Yes, I'm satisfied."
"You know... you shouldn't get too greedy. You can cut back on your hours when you're satisfied. Just make sure you spend a few hours on my affairs every so often."
"Ten million dollars," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"When I get ten million together I'll pack it in. It was good that you turned up in my life. We have a lot to discuss."
"Fire away."
He threw up his hands.
"This is so much money that it scares the shit out of me. I don't know how to handle it. I don't know the purpose of the company besides making more money. What's all the money going to be used for?"
"I don't know."
"Me neither. But money can become an end in itself. It's crazy. That's why I've decided to call it quits when I've earned ten million for myself. I don't want the responsibility any longer."
"Fair enough."
"But before I call it a day I want you to decide how this fortune is to be administered in the future. There has to be a purpose and guidelines and some kind of organization that can take over."
"Mmm."
"It's impossible to conduct business this way. I've divided up the sum into long-term fixed investments - real estate, securities and so forth. There's a complete list on the computer."
"I've read it."
"The other half I've put into speculation, but it's so much money to keep track of that I can't keep up. So I set up an investment company on Jersey. At present you have six employees in London. Two talented young brokers and some clerical staff."
"Yellow Ballroom Ltd? I was wondering what that could be."
"Our company. Here in Gibraltar I've hired a secretary and a promising young lawyer. They'll be here in half an hour, by the way."
"I know. Molly Flint, forty-one, and Brian Delaney, twenty-six."
"Do you want to meet them?"
"No. Is Brian your lover?"
"What? No." He looked shocked. "I don't mix-"
"Good."
"By the way, I'm not interested in young guys... inexperienced ones, I mean."
"No... you're more attracted to men with a tough attitude than to some snot-nosed kid. But it's still none of my business. But Jeremy..."
"Yes?"
"Be careful."
Salander had not planned to stay in Gibraltar for more than two weeks, just long enough, she thought, to get her bearings. But she suddenly discovered that she had no idea what she was going to do or where she should go. She stayed for three months. She checked her email once a day and replied promptly to messages from Giannini on the few occasions her lawyer got in touch. She did not tell her where she was. She did not answer any other email.
She still went to Harry's Bar, but now she came in only for a beer or two in the evenings. She spent large parts of her days at the Rock Hotel, either on her balcony or in bed. She got together with a thirty-year-old Royal Navy officer, but it was a one-night stand and all in all an uninteresting experience.
She was bored.
Early in October she had dinner with MacMillan. They had met up only a few times during her stay. It was dark and they drank a fruity white wine and discussed what they should use her billions for. And then he surprised her by asking what was upsetting her.
She studied his face for a long time and pondered the matter. Then she had, just as surprisingly, told him about her relationship with Miriam Wu, and how Mimmi had been beaten and almost killed. And she, Lisbeth, was to blame. Apart from one greeting sent by way of Giannini, Salander had not heard a word from Mimmi. And now she was in France.
MacMillan listened in silence.
"Are you in love with her?" he said at last.
Salander shook her head.
"No. I don't think I'm the type who falls in love. She was a friend. And we had good sex."
"Nobody can avoid falling in love," he said. "They might want to deny it, but friendship is probably the most common form of love."
She looked at him in astonishment.
"Will you get cross if I say something personal?"
"No."
"Go to Paris, for God's sake," he said.
She landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at 2.30 in the afternoon, took the airport bus to the Arc de Triomphe and spent two hours wandering around the nearby neighbourhoods trying to find a hotel room. She walked south towards the Seine and finally found a room at a small hotel, the Victor Hugo on rue Copernic.
She took a shower and called Miriam Wu. They met that evening at a bar near Notre Dame. Mimmi was dressed in a white shirt and jacket. She looked fabulous. Salander instantly felt shy. They kissed each other on the cheek.
"I'm sorry I haven't called, and that I didn't come to the trial," Mimmi said.
"That's O.K. The trial was behind closed doors anyway."
"I was in hospital for three weeks, and then it was chaos when I got home to Lundagatan. I couldn't sleep. I had nightmares about that bastard Niedermann. I called my mother and told her I wanted to come here, to Paris."
Salander said she understood.
"Forgive me," Mimmi said.
"Don't be such an idiot. I'm the one who's come here to ask you to forgive me."
"For what?"
"I wasn't thinking. It never occurred to me that I was putting you in such danger by turning over my old apartment to you. It was my fault that you were almost murdered. You'd have every right to hate me."
Mimmi looked shocked. "Lisbeth, I never even gave it a thought. It was Ronald Niedermann who tried to murder me, not you."
They sat in silence for a while.
"Alright," Salander said finally.
"Right," Mimmi said.
"I didn't follow you here because I'm in love with you," Salander said.
Mimmi nodded.
"We had great sex, but I'm not in love with you."
"Lisbeth, I think..."
"What I wanted to say was that I hope you... damn."
"What?"
"I don't have many friends..."
Mimmi nodded. "I'm going to be in Paris for a while. My studies at home were a mess so I signed up at the university here instead. I'll probably stay at least one academic year. After that I don't know. But I'm going to come back to Stockholm. I'm still paying the service charges on Lundagatan and I mean to keep the apartment. If that's O.K. with you."
"It's your apartment. Do what you want with it."
"Lisbeth, you're a very special person," Mimmi said. "I'd still like to be your friend."
They talked for two hours. Salander did not have any reason to hide her past from Miriam Wu. The Zalachenko business was familiar to everyone who had access to a Swedish newspaper, and Mimmi had followed the story with great interest. She gave Salander a detailed account of what had happened in Nykvarn the night Paolo Roberto saved her life.
Then they went back to Mimmi's student lodgings near the university.
EPILOGUE
INVENTORY OF ESTATE
Friday, 2.xii - Sunday, 18.xii
Giannini met Salander in the bar of the Södra theatre at 9.00. Salander was drinking beer and was already coming to the end of her second glass.
"Sorry I'm late," Giannini said, glancing at her watch. "I had to deal with another client."
"That's O.K.," said Lisbeth.
"What are you celebrating?"
"Nothing. I just feel like getting drunk."
Giannini looked at her sceptically and took a seat.
"Do you often feel that way?"
"I drank myself stupid after I was released, but I have no tendency to alcoholism. It just occurred to me that for the first time in my life I have a legal right to get drunk here in Sweden."
Giannini ordered a Campari.
"O.K. Do you want to drink alone," she said, "or would you like some company?"
"Preferably alone. But if you don't talk too much you can sit with me. I take it you don't feel like coming home with me and having sex."
"I beg your pardon?" Giannini said.
"No, I didn't think so. You're one of those insanely heterosexual people."
Giannini suddenly looked amused.
"That's the first time in my life that one of my clients has proposed sex."
"Are you interested?"
"No, not in the least, sorry. But thanks for the offer."
"So what was it you wanted, counsellor?"
"Two things. Either I quit as your lawyer here and now or you start answering your telephone when I call. We've already had this discussion, when you were released."
Salander looked at Giannini.
"I've been trying to get hold of you for a week. I've called, I've sent letters, I've emailed."
"I've been away."
"In fact you've been impossible to get hold of for most of the autumn. This just isn't working. I said I would represent you in all negotiations with the government. There are formalities that have to be taken care of. Papers to be signed. Questions to be answered. I have to be able to reach you, and I have no wish to be made to feel like an idiot because I don't know where the hell you are."
"I was away again for two weeks. I came home yesterday and called you as soon as I knew you were looking for me."
"That's not good enough. You have to keep me informed of where you are and get in touch at least once a week until all the issues about compensation and such are resolved."
"I don't give a shit about compensation. I just want the government to leave me alone."
"But the government isn't going to leave you alone, no matter how much you may want it to. Your acquittal has set in motion a long chain of consequences. It's not just about you. Teleborian is going to be charged for what he did to you. You're going to have to testify. Ekström is the subject of an investigation for dereliction of duty, and he may even be charged too if it turns out that he deliberately disregarded his duty at the behest of the Section."
Salander raised her eyebrows. For a moment she looked interested.
"I don't think it's going to come to an indictment. He was led up the garden path by the Section and in fact he had nothing to do with them. But as recently as last week a prosecutor initiated a preliminary investigation against the guardianship agency. It involves several reports being sent to the Parliamentary Ombudsman, as well as a report to the Ministry of Justice."
"I didn't report anyone."
"No. But it's obvious that there has been gross dereliction of duty. You're not the only person affected."
Salander shrugged. "This has nothing to do with me. But I promise to be in closer contact with you. These last two weeks have been an exception. I've been working."
Giannini did not look as though she believed her. "What are you working on?"
"Consulting."
"I see," she said. "The other thing is that the inventory of the estate is now ready."
"Inventory of what estate?"
"Your father's. The state's legal representative contacted me since nobody seemed to know how to get in touch with you. You and your sister are the sole heirs."
Salander looked at Giannini blankly. Then she caught the waitress's eye and pointed at her glass.
"I don't want any inheritance from my father. Do whatever the hell you want with it."
"Wrong. You can do what you want with the inheritance. My job is to see to it that you have the opportunity to do so."
"I don't want a single öre from that pig."
"Then give the money to Greenpeace or something."
"I don't give a shit about whales."
Giannini's voice suddenly softened. "Lisbeth, if you're going to be a legally responsible citizen, then you're going to have to start behaving like one. I don't give a damn what you do with your money. Just sign here that you received it, and then you can get drunk in peace."
Salander glanced at her and then looked down at the table. Annika assumed this was some kind of conciliatory gesture that perhaps corresponded to an apology in Salander's limited register of expressions.
"What kind of figures are we talking about?"
"They're not insignificant. Your father had about 300,000 kronor in shares. The property in Gosseberga would sell for around 1.5 million - there's a little woodland included. And there are three other properties."
"What sort of properties?"
"It seems that he invested a significant amount of money. There's nothing of enormous value, but he owns a small building in Udderalla with six apartments, and they bring in some income. But the property is not in good shape. He didn't bother with upkeep and the apartments have even been up before the rental board. You won't get rich, but you'd get a good price if you sold it. He also owns a summer cabin in Småland that's worth around 250,000 kronor. Plus he owns a dilapidated industrial site outside Norrtälje."
"Why in the world did he buy all this shit?"
"I have no idea. But the estate could bring in over four million kronor after taxes etc., but..."
"But what?"
"The inheritance has to be divided equally between you and your sister. The problem is that nobody knows where your sister is."
Salander looked at Giannini in silence.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Where is your sister?"
"I have no idea. I haven't seen her for ten years."
"Her file is classified, but I found out that she is listed as out of the country."
"I see," Salander said, showing little interest.
Giannini sighed in exasperation.
"I would suggest that we liquidate all the assets and deposit half the proceeds in the bank until your sister can be found. I can initiate the negotiations if you give me the go-ahead."
Salander shrugged. "I don't want anything to do with his money."
"I understand that. But the balance sheet still has to be sorted out. It's part of your responsibility as a citizen."
"Sell the crap, then. Put half in the bank and send the rest to whoever you like."
Giannini stared at her. She had understood that Salander had money stashed away, but she had not realized that her client was so well off that she could ignore an inheritance that might amount to a million kronor or more. What is more, she had no idea where Salander had got her money, or how much was involved. On the other hand she was keen to finalize the bureaucratic procedure.
"Lisbeth, please... could you read through the estate inventory and give me the green light so that we can get this matter resolved?"
Salander grumbled for a moment, but finally she acquiesced and stuffed the folder into her shoulder bag. She promised to read through it and send instructions as to what she wanted Giannini to do. Then she went back to her beer. Giannini kept her company for an hour, drinking mostly mineral water.
It was not until several days later, when Giannini telephoned to remind her about the estate inventory, that Salander took out the crumpled papers. She sat at the kitchen table, smoothed out the documents, and read through them.
The inventory covered several pages. There was a detailed list of all kinds of junk - the china in the kitchen cupboards in Gosseberga, clothing, cameras and other personal effects. Zalachenko had not left behind much of real value, and not one of the objects had the slightest sentimental value for Salander. She decided that her attitude had not changed since she met with Giannini at the theatre bar. Sell the crap and give the money away. Or something. She was positive that she did not want a single öre of her father's wealth, but she also was pretty sure that Zalachenko's real assets were hidden where no tax inspector would look for them.
Then she opened the title deeds for the property in Norrtälje.
It was an industrial site of three buildings totalling twenty thousand square metres in the vicinity of Skederid, between Norrtälje and Rimbo.
The estate assessor had apparently paid a cursory visit, and noted that it was an old brickworks that had been more or less empty and abandoned since it was shut down in the '60s, apart from a period in the '70s when it had been used to store timber. He noted that the buildings were in "extremely poor condition" and could not in all likelihood be renovated for any other activity. The term "poor condition" was also used to describe the "north building," which had in fact been destroyed by fire and collapsed. Some repairs, he wrote, had been made to the "main building".
What gave Salander a jolt was the site's history. Zalachenko had acquired the property for a song on 12 March, 1984, but the signatory on the purchase documents was Agneta Sofia Salander.
So Salander's mother had in fact been the owner of the property. Yet in 1987 her ownership had ceased. Zalachenko had bought her out for 2,000 kronor. After that the property had stood unused for fifteen years. The inventory showed that on 17 September, 2003, K.A.B. Import A.B. had hired the builders NorrBygg Inc. to do renovations which included repairs to the floor and roof, as well as improvements to the water and electrical systems. Repair work had gone on for two months, until the end of November, and then discontinued. NorrBygg had sent an invoice which had been paid.
Of all the assets in her father's estate, this was the only surprising entry. Salander was puzzled. Ownership of the industrial site made sense if her father had wanted to give the impression that K. A. B. Import was carrying on legitimate activities or owned certain assets. It also made sense that he had used her mother as a front in the purchase and had then for a pittance bought back the property.
But why in heaven's name would he spend almost 440,000 kronor to renovate a ramshackle building, which according to the assessor was still not being used for anything in 2005?
She could not understand it, but was not going to waste time wondering. She closed the folder and called Giannini.
"I've read the inventory. What I said still holds. Sell the shit and do whatever you like with the money. I want nothing from him."
"Very well. I'll see to it that half the revenue is deposited in an account for your sister, and I'll suggest some suitable recipients for the rest."
"Right," Salander said and hung up without further discussion.
She sat in her window seat, lit a cigarette, and looked out towards Saltsjön.
Salander spent the next week helping Armansky with an urgent matter. She had to help track down and identify a person suspected of being hired to kidnap a child in a custody battle resulting from a Swedish woman divorcing her Lebanese husband. Salander's job amounted to checking the email of the person who was presumed to have hired the kidnapper. Milton Security's role was discontinued when the parties reached a legal solution.
On December 18, the Sunday before Christmas, Salander woke at 6.00 and remembered that she had to buy a Christmas present for Palmgren. For a moment she wondered whether there was anyone else she should buy presents for - Giannini perhaps. She got up and took a shower in no particular hurry, and ate a breakfast of toast with cheese and marmalade and a coffee.
She had nothing special planned for the day and spent a while clearing papers and magazines from her desk. Then her gaze fell on the folder with the estate inventory. She opened it and reread the page about the title registration for the site in Norrtälje. She sighed. O.K. I have to find out what the hell he had going on there.
She put on warm clothes and boots. It was 8.30 when she drove her burgundy Honda out of the garage beneath Fiskargatan 9. It was icy cold but beautiful, sunshine and a pastel-blue sky. She took the road via Slussen and Klarabergsleden and wound her way on to the E18 going north,
heading for Norrtälje. She was in no hurry. At 10.00 she turned into an O.K. petrol station and shop a few miles outside Skederid to ask the way to the old brickworks. No sooner had she parked than she realized that she did not even need to ask.
She was on a hillside with a good view across the valley on the other side of the road. To the left towards Norrtälje she could see a paint warehouse, some sort of builder's yard, and another yard with bulldozers. To the right, at the edge of the industrial area, about four hundred metres from the road was a dismal brick building with a crumbling chimney-stack. The factory stood like a last outpost of the industrial area, somewhat isolated beyond a road and a narrow stream. She surveyed the building thoughtfully and asked herself what on earth had possessed her to drive all the way up to Norrtälje.
She turned and glanced at the O.K. station, where a long-distance truck and trailer with the emblem of the International Road Transport Union had just pulled in. She remembered that she was on the main road from the ferry terminal at Kapellskär, through which a good deal of the freight traffic between Sweden and the Baltic countries passed.
She started the car and drove out on to the road towards the old brickworks. She parked in the middle of the yard and got out. It was below freezing outside, and she put on a black knitted cap and leather gloves.
The main building was on two floors. On the ground floor all the windows had been boarded up with plywood, and she could see that on the floor above many of them had been broken. The factory was a much bigger building than she had imagined, and it was incredibly dilapidated. She could see no evidence of repairs. There was no trace of a living soul, but she saw that someone had discarded a used condom in the yard, and that graffiti artists had attacked part of the facade.
Why had Zalachenko owned this building?
She walked around the factory and found the ramshackle north building to the rear. She saw that the doors to the main building were locked. In frustration she studied a door at one end of the building. All the other doors had padlocks attached with iron bolts and galvanized security strips, but the lock on the gable end seemed weaker and was in fact attached only with rough spikes. Damn it, it's my building. She looked about and found a narrow iron pipe in a pile of rubbish. She used it to lever open the fastening of the padlock.
She entered a stairwell with a doorway on to the ground floor area. The boarded-up windows meant that it was pitch black inside, except for a few shafts of light seeping in at the edges of the boards. She stood still for several minutes until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She saw a sea of junk, wooden pallets, old machine parts and timber in a workshop that was forty-five metres long and about twenty metres wide, supported by massive pillars. The old brick ovens seemed to have been disassembled, and in their place were big pools of water and patches of mould on the floor. There was a stale, foul smell from all the debris. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
She turned back and went up the stairs. The top floor was dry and consisted of two similar rooms, each about twenty by twenty metres square, and at least eight metres high. There were tall, inaccessible windows close to the ceiling which provided no view but let in plenty of light. The upper floor, just like the workshop downstairs, was full of junk. There were dozens of one-metre-high
packing cases stacked on top of one another. She gripped one of them but could not move it. The text on the crate read: Machine parts 0-A77, with an apparently corresponding text in Russian underneath. She noticed an open goods lift halfway down one wall of the first room.
A machine warehouse of some sort, but that would hardly generate income so long as the machinery stood there rusting.
She went into the inner room and discovered that this was where the repair work must have been carried out. The room was again full of rubbish, boxes and old office furniture arranged in some sort of labyrinthine order. A section of the floor was exposed where new floor planks had been laid. Salander guessed that the renovation work had been stopped abruptly. Tools, a crosscut saw and a circular saw, a nail gun, a crowbar, an iron rod and tool boxes were still there. She frowned. Even if the work had been discontinued, the joiners should have collected up their tools. But this question too was answered when she held a screwdriver up to the light and saw that the writing on the handle was Russian. Zalachenko had imported the tools and probably the workers as well.
She switched on the circular saw and a green light went on. There was power. She turned it off.
At the far end of the room were three doors to smaller rooms, perhaps the old offices. She tried the handle of the door on the north side of the building. Locked. She went back to the tools and got a crowbar. It took her a while to break open the door.
It was pitch black inside the room and smelled musty. She ran her hand along the wall and found a switch that lit a bare bulb in the ceiling. Salander looked around in astonishment.
The furniture in the room consisted of three beds with soiled mattresses and another three mattresses on the floor. Filthy bedlinen was strewn around. To the right was a two-ring electric hob and some pots next to a rusty water tap. In a corner stood a tin bucket and a roll of toilet paper.
Somebody had lived here. Several people.
Then she saw that there was no handle on the inside of the door. She felt an ice-cold shiver run down her back.
There was a large linen cupboard at the far end of the room. She opened it and found two suitcases. Inside the one on top were some clothes. She rummaged through them and held up a dress with a Russian label. She found a handbag and emptied the contents on the floor. From among the cosmetics and other bits and pieces she retrieved a passport belonging to a young, dark-haired woman. It was a Russian passport, and she spelled out the name as Valentina.
Salander walked slowly from the room. She had a feeling of déjà vu. She had done the same kind of crime scene examination in a basement in Hedeby two and a half years earlier. Women's clothes. A prison. She stood there for a long time, thinking. It bothered her that the passport and clothes had been left behind. It did not feel right.
Then she went back to the assortment of tools and rummaged about until she found a powerful torch. She checked that there was life in the batteries and went downstairs into the larger workshop. The water from the puddles on the floor seeped into her boots.
The nauseating stench of rotting matter grew stronger the further into the workshop she went, and seemed to be worst when she was in the middle of the room. She stopped next to the foundations of one of the old brick furnaces, which was filled with water almost to the brim. She shone her torch on to the coal-black surface of the water but could not make anything out. The surface was partly covered by algae that had formed a green slime. Nearby she found a long steel rod which she stuck into the pool and stirred around. The water was only about fifty centimetres deep. Almost immediately the rod bumped into something. She manipulated it this way and that for several seconds before a body rose to the surface, face first, a grinning mask of death and decomposition. Breathing through her mouth, Salander looked at the face in the beam of the torch and saw that it was a woman, possibly the woman from the passport photograph. She knew nothing about the speed of decay in cold, stagnant water, but the body seemed to have been in the pool for a long time.
There was something moving on the surface of the water. Larvae of some sort.
She let the body sink back beneath the surface and poked around more with the rod. At the edge of the pool she came across something that might have been another body. She left it there and pulled out the rod, letting it fall to the floor as she stood thinking next to the pool.
Salander went back up the stairs. She used the crowbar to break open the middle door. The room was empty.
She went to the last door and slotted the crowbar in place, but before she began to force it, the door swung open a crack. It was not locked. She nudged it open with the crowbar and looked around.
The room was about thirty metres square. It had windows at a normal height with a view of the yard in front of the brickworks. She could see the O.K. petrol station on the hill. There was a bed, a table, and a sink with dishes. Then she saw a bag lying open on the floor. There were banknotes in it. In surprise she took two steps forward before she noticed that it was warm and saw an electric heater in the middle of the room. Then she saw that the red light was on on the coffee machine.
Someone was living here. She was not alone in the building.
She spun around and ran through the inner room, out of the doors and towards the exit in the outer workshop. She stopped five steps short of the stairwell when she saw that the exit had been closed and padlocked. She was locked in. Slowly she turned and looked around, but there was no-one.
"Hello, little sister," came a cheerful voice from somewhere to her right.
She turned to see Niedermann's vast form materialize from behind some packing crates.
In his hand was a large knife.
"I was hoping I'd have a chance to see you again," Niedermann said. "Everything happened so fast the last time."
Salander looked about her.
"Don't bother," Niedermann said. "It's just you and me, and there's no way out except through the locked door behind you."
Salander turned her eyes to her half-brother.
"How's the hand?" she said.
Niedermann was smiling at her. He raised his right hand and showed her. His little finger was missing.
"It got infected. I had to chop it off."
Niedermann could not feel pain. Salander had sliced his hand open with a spade at Gosseberga only seconds before Zalachenko had shot her in the head.
"I should have aimed for your skull," Salander said in a neutral tone. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you'd left the country months ago."
He smiled at her again.
If Niedermann had tried to answer Salander's question as to what he was doing in the dilapidated brickworks, he probably would not have been able to explain. He could not explain it to himself.
He had left Gosseberga with a feeling of liberation. He was counting on the fact that Zalachenko was dead and that he would take over the business. He knew he was an excellent organizer.
He had changed cars in Alingsås, put the terror-stricken dental nurse Anita Kaspersson in the boot, and driven towards Borås. He had no plan. He improvised as he went. He had not reflected on Kaspersson's fate. It made no difference to him whether she lived or died, and he assumed that he would be forced to do away with a bothersome witness. Somewhere on the outskirts of Borås it came to him that he could use her in a different way. He turned south and found a desolate forest outside Seglora. He tied her up in a barn and left her there. He reckoned that she would be able to work her way loose within a few hours and then lead the police south in their hunt for him. And if she did not manage to free herself, and starved or froze to death in the barn, it did not matter, it was no concern of his.
Then he drove back to Borås and from there east towards Stockholm. He had driven straight to Svavelsjö, but he avoided the clubhouse itself. It was a drag that Lundin was in prison. He went instead to the home of the club's sergeant-at-arms, Hans-Åke Waltari. He said he was looking for a place to hide, which Waltari sorted out by sending him to Göransson, the club's treasurer. But he had stayed there only a few hours.
Niedermann had, theoretically, no money worries. He had left behind almost 200,000 kronor in Gosseberga, but he had access to considerably larger sums that had been deposited abroad. His problem was that he was short of actual cash. Göransson was responsible for Svavelsjö M.C.'s finances, and it had not been difficult for Niedermann to persuade him to take him to the cabinet in
the barn where the cash was kept. Niedermann was in luck. He had been able to help himself to 800,000 kronor.
He seemed to remember that there had been a woman in the house too, but he had forgotten what he had done with her.
Göransson had also provided a car that the police were not yet looking for. Niedermann went north. He had a vague plan to make it on to one of the ferries at Kapellskär that would take him to Tallinn.
When he got to Kapellskär he sat in the car park for half an hour, studying the area. It was crawling with policemen.
He drove on aimlessly. He needed a place where he could lie low for a while. When he passed Norrtälje he remembered the old brickworks. He had not even thought about the place in more than a year, since the time when repairs had been under way. The brothers Harry and Atho Ranta were using the brickworks as a depot for goods moving to and from the Baltic ports, but they had both been out of the country for several weeks, ever since that journalist Svensson had started snooping around the whore trade. The brickworks would be empty.
He had driven Göransson's Saab into a shed behind the factory and gone inside. He had had to break open a door on the ground floor, and one of the first things he did was to create an emergency exit through a loose plywood board at one end of the ground floor. He later replaced the broken padlock. Then he had made himself at home in a cosy room on the upper floor.
A whole afternoon had passed before he heard the sounds coming through the walls. At first he thought these were his familiar phantoms. He sat alert and listened for almost an hour before he got up and went out to the workshop to listen more closely. At first he heard nothing, but he stood there patiently until he heard more scraping noises.
He found the key next to the sink.
Niedermann had seldom been as amazed as when he opened the door and found the two Russian whores. They were skin and bones. They seemed to have had no food for several weeks and had been living on tea and water since the last packet of rice had run out.
One of the girls was so exhausted that she could not get up from the bed. The other was in better shape. She spoke only Russian, but he knew enough of the language to understand that she was thanking God and him for saving them. She fell on her knees and threw her arms around his legs. He pushed her away, then left the room and locked the door behind him.
He had not known what to do with the whores. He heated up some soup from the cans he found in the kitchen and gave it to them while he thought. The weaker woman on the bed seemed to be getting some of her strength back. He spent the evening questioning them. It was a while before he understood that the two women were not whores at all, but students who had paid the Ranta brothers to get them into Sweden. They had been promised visas and work permits. They had come from Kapellskär in February and were taken straight to the warehouse, and there they were locked up.
Niedermann's face had darkened with anger. Those bastard Ranta brothers were collecting an income that they had not told Zalachenko about. Then they had completely forgotten about the women, or maybe had knowingly left them to their fate when they fled Sweden in such a hurry.
The question was: what was he supposed to do with them? He had no reason to harm them, and yet he could not really let them go, considering that they would probably lead the police to the brickworks. It was that simple. He could not send them back to Russia, because that would mean he would have to drive them down to Kapellskär. That seemed too difficult. The dark-haired woman, whose name was Valentina, had offered him sex if he helped them. He was not the least bit interested in having sex with the girls, but the offer had turned her into a whore too. All women were whores. It was that simple.
After three days he had tired of their incessant pleading, nagging and knocking on the wall. He could see no other way out. So he unlocked the door one last time and swiftly solved the problem. He asked Valentina to forgive him before he reached out and in one movement broke her neck between the second and third cervical vertebrae. Then he went over to the blonde girl on the bed whose name he did not know. She lay there passively, did not put up any resistance. He carried the bodies downstairs and put them in one of the flooded pits. At last he could feel some sort of peace.
Niedermann had not intended to stay long at the brickworks. He thought he would have to lie low only until the initial police manhunt had died down. He shaved his head and let his beard grow to half an inch, and that altered his appearance. He found a pair of overalls belonging to one of the workers from NorrBygg which were almost big enough to fit him. He put on a Becker's Paint baseball cap and stuffed a folding ruler into a leg pocket. At dusk he drove to the O.K. shop on the hill and bought supplies. He had all the cash he needed from Svavelsjö M. C. 's piggy bank. He looked like any workman stopping on his way home, and nobody seemed to pay him any attention. He shopped once or twice a week at the same time of day. At the O.K. shop they were always perfectly friendly to him.
From the very first day he had spent a considerable amount of time fending off the creatures that inhabited the building. They lived in the walls and came out at night. He could hear them wandering around the workshop.
He barricaded himself in his room. After several days he had had enough. He armed himself with a large knife which he had found in a kitchen drawer and went out to confront the monsters. It had to end.
All of a sudden he discovered that they were retreating. For the first time in his life he had been able to dominate his phantoms. They shrank back when he approached. He could see their deformed bodies and their tails slinking off behind the packing crates and cabinets. He howled at them. They fled.
Relieved, he went back to his warm room and sat up all night, waiting for them to return. They mounted a renewed attack at dawn and he faced them down once more. They fled.
He was teetering between panic and euphoria.
All of his life he had been haunted by these creatures in the dark, and for the very first time he felt that he was in control of the situation. He did nothing. He slept. He ate. He thought. It was peaceful.
The days turned to weeks and spring turned to summer. From his transistor radio and the evening papers he could tell that the hunt for the killer Ronald Niedermann was winding down. He read with interest the reports of the murder of Zalachenko. What a laugh. A psycho had put an end to Zalachenko. In July his interest was again aroused when he followed the reports of Salander's trial. He was appalled when she was acquitted and released. It did not feel right. She was free while he was forced to hide.
He bought the Millennium special issue at the O.K. shop and read all about Salander and Zalachenko and Niedermann. A journalist named Blomkvist had described Niedermann as a pathological murderer and a psychopath. He frowned.
Autumn came suddenly and still he had not made a move. When it got colder he bought an electric heater at the O.K. shop. He did not know what kept him from leaving the brickworks.
Occasionally some young people had driven into the yard and parked there, but no-one had disturbed him or tried to break into the building. In September a car drove up and a man in a blue windcheater had tried the doors and snooped around the property. Niedermann had watched him from the window on the upper floor. The man kept writing in his notebook. He had stayed for twenty minutes before he looked around one last time and got into his car and drove away. Niedermann breathed a sigh of relief. He had no idea who the man was or what business had brought him there, but he appeared to be doing a survey of the property. It did not occur to Niedermann that Zalachenko's death had prompted an inventory of his estate.
He thought a lot about Salander. He had never expected to see her again, but she fascinated and frightened him. He was not afraid of any living person. But his sister - his half-sister - had made a particular impression on him. No-one else had ever defeated him the way she had done. She had come back to life, even though he had buried her. She had come back and hunted him down. He dreamed about her every night. He would wake up in a cold sweat, and he recognized that she had replaced his usual phantoms.
In October he made a decision. He was not going to leave Sweden before he had found his sister and destroyed her. He did not have a plan, but at least his life now had a purpose. He did not know where she was or how he would trace her. He just sat in his room on the upper floor of the brickworks, staring out of the window, day after day, week after week.
Until one day a burgundy Honda parked outside the building and, to his complete astonishment, he saw Salander get out of the car. God is merciful, he thought. Salander would join the two women whose names he no longer remembered in the pool downstairs. His wait was over, and he could at last get on with his life.
Salander assessed the situation and saw that it was anything but under control. Her brain was working at high speed. Click, click, click. She still held the crowbar in her hand but she knew that it was a feeble weapon against a man who could not feel pain. She was locked inside an area of about a thousand square metres with a murderous robot from hell.
When Niedermann suddenly moved towards her she threw the crowbar at him. He dodged it easily. Salander moved fast. She stepped on to a pallet, swung herself up on to a packing crate and kept climbing, like a monkey, up two more crates. She stopped and looked down at Niedermann, now four metres below her. He was looking up at her and waiting.
"Come down," he said patiently. "You can't escape. The end is inevitable."
She wondered if he had a gun of some sort. Now that would be a problem.
He bent down and picked up a chair and threw it at her. She ducked.
Niedermann was getting annoyed. He put his foot on the pallet and started climbing up after her. She waited until he was almost at the top before she took a running start of two quick steps and jumped across an aisle to land on top of another crate. She swung down to the floor and grabbed the crowbar.
Niedermann was not actually clumsy, but he knew that he could not risk jumping from the stack of crates and perhaps breaking a bone in his foot. He had to climb down carefully and set his feet on the floor. He always had to move slowly and methodically, and he had spent a lifetime mastering his body. He had almost reached the floor when he heard footsteps behind him and turned just in time to block a blow from the crowbar with his shoulder. He lost his grip on the knife.
Salander dropped the crowbar just as she had delivered the blow. She did not have time to pick up the knife, but kicked it away from him along the pallets, dodging a backhand blow from his huge fist and retreating back up on to the packing crates on the other side of the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Niedermann reach for her. Quick as lightning she pulled up her feet. The crates stood in two rows, stacked up three high next to the centre aisle and two high along the outside. She swung down on to the two crates and braced herself, using all the strength in her legs and pushing her back against the crate next to her. It must have weighed two hundred kilos. She felt it begin to move and then tumble down towards the centre aisle.
Niedermann saw the crate coming and threw himself to one side. A corner of the crate struck him on the chest, but he seemed not to have been injured. He picked himself up. She was resisting. He started climbing up after her. His head was just appearing over the third crate when she kicked at him. Her boot struck him with full force in the forehead. He grunted and heaved himself up on top of the packing crates. Salander fled, leaping back to the crates on the other side of the aisle. She dropped over the edge and vanished immediately from his sight. He could hear her footsteps and caught a glimpse of her as she passed through the doorway to the inner workshop.
Salander took an appraising look around. Click. She knew that she did not have a chance. She could survive for as long as she could avoid Niedermann's enormous fists and keep her distance. But when she made a mistake - which would happen sooner or later - she was dead. She had to evade him. He would only have to grab hold of her once, and the fight would be over.
She needed a weapon.
A pistol. A sub-machine gun. A rocket-propelled grenade. A personnel mine.
Any bloody thing at all.
But there was nothing like that to hand.
She looked everywhere.
No weapons.
Only tools. Click. Her eyes fell on the circular saw, but he was hardly going to lie down on the saw bench. Click. Click. She saw an iron rod that could be used as a spear, but it was probably too heavy for her to handle effectively. Click. She glanced through the door and saw that Niedermann was down from the crates and no more than fifteen metres away. He was coming towards her again. She started to move away from the door. She had maybe five seconds left before Niedermann was upon her. She glanced one last time at the tools.
A weapon... or a hiding place.
Niedermann was in no hurry. He knew that there was no way out and that sooner or later he would catch his sister. But she was dangerous, no doubt about it. She was, after all, Zalachenko's daughter. And he did not want to be injured. It was better to let her run around and wear herself out.
He stopped in the doorway to the inner room and looked around at the jumble of tools, furniture and half-finished floorboards. She was nowhere to be seen.
"I know you're in here. And I'm going to find you."
Niedermann stood still and listened. All he could hear was his own breathing. She was hiding. He smiled. She was challenging him. Her visit had suddenly turned into a game between brother and sister.
Then he heard a clumsy rustling noise from somewhere in the centre of the room. He turned his head but at first could not tell where the sound was coming from. Then he smiled again. In the middle of the floor set slightly apart from the other debris stood a five-metre-long wooden workbench with a row of drawers and sliding cabinet doors beneath it.
He approached the workbench from the side and glanced behind it to make sure that she was not trying to fool him. Nothing there.
She was hiding inside the cabinet. So stupid.
He slid open the first door on the far left.
He instantly heard movement inside the cabinet, from the middle section. He took two quick steps and opened the middle door with a triumphant expression on his face.
Empty.
Then he heard a series of sharp cracks that sounded like pistol shots. The sound was so close that at first he could not tell where it was coming from. He turned to look. Then he felt a strange pressure against his left foot. He felt no pain, but he looked down at the floor just in time to see Salander's hand moving the nail gun over to his right foot.
She was underneath the cabinet.
He stood as if paralysed for the seconds it took her to put the mouth of the nail gun against his boot and fire another five seven-inch nails straight through his foot.
He tried to move.
It took him precious seconds to realize that his feet were nailed solidly to the newly laid plank floor. Salander's hand moved the nail gun back to his left foot. It sounded like an automatic weapon getting shots off in bursts. She managed to shoot in another four nails as reinforcement before he was able to react.
He reached down to grab her hand, but immediately lost his balance and regained it only by bracing himself against the workbench as he heard the nail gun being fired again and again, ka-blam, ka-blam, ka-blam. She was back to his right foot. He saw that she was firing the nails diagonally through his heel and into the floor.
Niedermann howled in sudden rage. He lunged again for Salander's hand.
From her position under the cabinet Salander saw his trouser leg slide up, a sign that he was trying to bend down. She let go of the nail gun. Niedermann saw her hand disappear quick as a lizard beneath the cabinet just before he reached her.
He reached for the nail gun, but the instant he touched it with the tips of his fingers she drew it under the cabinet.
The gap between the floor and the cabinet was about twenty centimetres. With all the strength he could muster he toppled the cabinet on to its back. Salander looked up at him with big eyes and an offended expression. She aimed the nail gun and fired it from a distance of fifty centimetres. The nail hit him in the middle of his shin.
The next instant she dropped the nail gun, rolled fast as lightning away from him and got to her feet beyond his reach. She backed up several feet and stopped.
Niedermann tried to move and again lost his balance, swaying backwards and forwards with his arms flailing. He steadied himself and bent down in rage.
This time he managed to grab hold of the nail gun. He pointed it at Salander and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. He looked in dismay at the nail gun and then at Salander again. She looked back at him blankly and held up the plug. In fury he threw the nail gun at her. She dodged to the side.
Then she plugged in the cord again and hauled in the nail gun.
He met Salander's expressionless eyes and was amazed. She had defeated him. She's supernatural. Instinctively he tried to pull one foot from the floor. She's a monster. He could lift his foot only a few millimetres before his boot hit the heads of the nails. They had been driven into his feet at different angles, and to free himself he would have to rip his feet to shreds. Even with his
almost superhuman strength he was unable to pull himself loose. For several seconds he swayed back and forth as if he were swimming. He saw a pool of blood slowly forming between his shoes.
Salander sat down on a stool and watched for signs that he might be able to tear his feet loose. Since he could not feel pain, it was a matter of whether he was strong enough to pull the heads of the nails straight through his feet. She sat stock still and observed his struggle for ten minutes. The whole time her eyes were frozen blank After a while she stood up and walked behind him and held the nail gun to his spine, just below the nape of his neck.
Salander was thinking hard. This man had transported, drugged, abused and sold women both retail and wholesale. He had murdered at least eight people, including a policeman in Gosseberga and a member of Svavelsjö M. C. and his wife. She had no idea how many other lives her half-brother might have on his account, if not his conscience, but thanks to him she had been hunted all over Sweden like a mad dog, suspected of three of the murders he had committed.
Her finger rested heavily on the trigger.
He had murdered the journalist Dag Svensson and his partner Mia Johansson.
With Zalachenko he had also murdered her and buried her in Gosseberga. And now he had resurfaced to murder her again.
You could get pretty angry with less provocation.
She saw no reason to let him live any longer. He hated her with a passion that she could not even fathom. What would happen if she turned him over to the police? A trial? A life sentence? When would he be granted parole? How soon would he escape? And now that her father was finally gone - how many years would she have to look over her shoulder, waiting for the day when her brother would suddenly turn up again? She felt the heft of the nail gun. She could end this thing once and for all.
Risk assessment.
She bit her lip.
Salander was afraid of no-one and nothing. She realized that she lacked the necessary imagination - and that was evidence enough that there was something wrong with her brain.
Niedermann hated her and she responded with an equally implacable hatred towards him. He joined the ranks of men like Magge Lundin and Martin Vanger and Zalachenko and dozens of other creeps who in her estimation had absolutely no claim to be among the living. If she could put them all on a desert island and set off an atomic bomb, then she would be satisfied.
But murder? Was it worth it? What would happen to her if she killed him? What were the odds that she would avoid discovery? What would she be ready to sacrifice for the satisfaction of firing the nail gun one last time?
She could claim self-defence... no, not with his feet nailed to the floorboards.
She suddenly thought of Harriet Fucking Vanger, who had also been tormented by her father and her brother. She recalled the exchange she had had with Mikael Bastard Blomkvist in which she cursed Harriet Vanger in the harshest possible terms. It was Harriet Vanger's fault that her brother Martin had been allowed to go on murdering women year after year.
"What would you do?" Blomkvist had said.
"I'd kill the fucker," she had said with a conviction that came from the depths of her cold soul.
And now she was standing in exactly the same position in which Harriet Vanger had found herself. How many more women would Niedermann kill if she let him go? She had the legal right of a citizen and was socially responsible for her actions. How many years of her life did she want to sacrifice? How many years had Harriet Vanger been willing to sacrifice?
Suddenly the nail gun felt too heavy for her to hold against his spine, even with both hands.
She lowered the weapon and felt as though she had come back to reality. She was aware of Niedermann muttering something incoherent. He was speaking German. He was talking about a devil that had come to get him.
She knew that he was not talking to her. He seemed to see somebody at the other end of the room. She turned her head and followed his gaze. There was nothing there. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
She turned on her heel, grabbed the iron rod, and went to the outer room to find her shoulder bag. As she bent to retrieve it she caught sight of the knife. She still had her gloves on, and she picked up the weapon.
She hesitated a moment and then placed it in full view in the centre aisle between the stacks of packing crates. With the iron rod she spent three minutes prising loose the padlock so that she could get outside.
She sat in her car and thought for a long time. Finally she flipped open her mobile. It took her two minutes to locate the number for Svavelsjö M. C.'s clubhouse.
"Yeah?"
"Nieminen," she said.
"Wait."
She waited for three minutes before Sonny Nieminen came to the telephone.
"Who's this?"
"None of your bloody business," Salander said in such a low voice that he could hardly make out the words. He could not even tell whether it was a man or a woman.
"Alright, so what do you want?"
"You want a tip about Niedermann?"
"Do I?"
"Don't give me shit. Want to know where he is or not?"
"I'm listening."
Salander gave him directions to the brickworks outside Norrtälje. She said that he would be there long enough for Nieminen to find him if he hurried.
She closed her mobile, started the car and drove up to the O.K. petrol station across the road. She parked so that she had a clear view of the brickworks.
She had to wait for more than two hours. It was just before 1.30 in the afternoon when she saw a van drive slowly past on the road below her. It stopped at the turning off the main road, stood there for five minutes, and then drove down to the brickworks. On this December day, twilight was setting in.
She opened the glove box and took out a pair of Minolta 16 × 50 binoculars and watched as the van parked. She identified Nieminen and Waltari with three men she did not recognize. New blood. They had to rebuild their operation.
When Nieminen and his pals had found the open door at the end of the building, she opened her mobile again. She composed a message and sent it to the police station in Norrtälje.
POLICE MURDERER R. NIEDERMANN IN OLD BRICKWORKS BY THE O.K. STATION OUTSIDE SKEDERID. ABOUT TO BE MURDERED BY S. NIEMINEN AND MEMBERS OF SVAVELSJÖ M. C. WOMEN DEAD IN PIT ON GROUND FLOOR.
She could not see any movement from the factory.
She bided her time.
As she waited she removed the S.I.M. card from her telephone and cut it up with some nail scissors. She rolled down the window and tossed out the pieces. Then she took a new S.I.M. card from her wallet and inserted it in her mobile. She was using a Comviq cash card, which was virtually impossible to track. She called Comviq and credited 500 kronor to the new card.
Eleven minutes after her message was sent, two police vans with their sirens off but with blue lights flashing drove at speed up to the factory from the direction of Norrtälje. They parked in the yard next to Nieminen's van. A minute later two squad cars arrived. The officers conferred and then moved together towards the brickworks. Salander raised her binoculars. She saw one of the policemen radio through the registration number of Nieminen's van. The officers stood around waiting. Salander watched as another team approached at high speed two minutes later.
Finally it was all over.
The story that had begun on the day she was born had ended at the brickworks.
She was free.
When the policemen officers took out assault rifles from their vehicles, put on Kevlar vests and started to fan out around the factory site, Salander went inside the shop and bought a coffee and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane. She ate standing at a counter in the café.
It was dark by the time she got back to her car. Just as she opened the door she heard two distant reports from what she assumed were handguns on the other side of the road. She saw several black figures, presumably policemen, pressed against the wall near the entrance at one end of the building. She heard sirens as another squad car approached from the direction of Uppsala. A few cars had stopped at the side of the road below her to watch the drama.
She started the Honda, turned on to the E18, and drove home.
It was 7.00 that evening when Salander, to her great annoyance, heard the doorbell ring. She was in the bath and the water was still steaming. There was really only one person who could be at her front door.
At first she thought she would ignore it, but at the third ring she sighed, got out of the bath, and wrapped a towel around her. With her lower lip pouting, she trailed water down the hall floor. She opened the door a crack.
"Hello," Blomkvist said.
She did not answer.
"Did you hear the evening news?"
She shook her head.
"I thought you might like to know that Ronald Niedermann is dead. He was murdered today in Norrtälje by a gang from Svavelsjö M. C."
"Really?" Salander said.
"I talked to the duty officer in Norrtälje. It seems to have been some sort of internal dispute. Apparently Niedermann had been tortured and slit open with a knife. They found a bag at the factory with several hundred thousand kronor."
"Jesus."
"The Svavelsjö mob was arrested, but they put up quite a fight. There was a shoot-out and the police had to send for a back-up team from Stockholm. The bikers surrendered at around 6.00."
"Is that so?"
"Your old friend Sonny Nieminen bit the dust. He went completely nuts and tried to shoot his way out."
"That's nice."
Blomkvist stood there in silence. They looked at each other through the crack in the door.
"Am I interrupting something?" he said.
She shrugged. "I was in the bath."
"I can see that. Do you want some company?"
She gave him an acid look.
"I didn't mean in the bath. I've brought some bagels," he said, holding up a bag. "And some espresso coffee. Since you own a Jura Impressa X7, you should at least learn how to use it."
She raised her eyebrows. She did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
"Just company?"
"Just company," he confirmed. "I'm a good friend who's visiting a good friend. If I'm welcome, that is."
She hesitated. For two years she had kept as far away from Mikael Blomkvist as she could. And yet he kept sticking to her life like gum on the sole of her shoe, either on the Net or in real life. On the Net it was O.K. There he was no more than electrons and words. In real life, standing on her doorstep, he was still fucking attractive. And he knew her secrets just as she knew all of his.
She looked at him for a moment and realized that she now had no feelings for him. At least not those kinds of feelings.
He had in fact been a good friend to her over the past year.
She trusted him. Maybe. It was troubling that one of the few people she trusted was a man she spent so much time avoiding.
Then she made up her mind. It was absurd to pretend that he did not exist. It no longer hurt her to see him.
She opened the door wide and let him into her life again.
The End
NOTES
Olof Palme was the leader of the Social Democratic Party and Prime Minister of Sweden at the time of his assassination on 28 February 1986. He was an outspoken politician, popular on the left and detested by the right. Two years after his death a petty criminal and drug addict was convicted of his murder, but later acquitted on appeal. Although a number of alternative theories as to who carried out the murder have since been proposed, to this day the crime remains unsolved.
Prompted by Olof Palme's assassination, Prime Minister Ingvar Carlsson called an investigation into the procedures of the Swedish security police (Säpo) in the autumn of 1987. Carl Lidbom, then Swedish ambassador to France, was given the task of leading the investigation. One of his old acquaintances, the publisher Ebbe Carlsson, firmly believed that the Kurdish organization PKK was involved in the murder and was given resources to start a private investigation. The Ebbe Carlsson affair exploded as a major political scandal in 1988, when it was revealed that the publisher had been secretly supported by the then Minister of Justice, Anna-Greta Leijon. She was subsequently forced to resign.
Informationsbyrån (IB) was a secret intelligence agency without official status within the Swedish armed forces. Its main purpose was to gather information about communists and other individuals who were perceived to be a threat to the nation. It was thought that these findings were passed on to key politicians at cabinet level, most likely the defence minister at the time, Sven Andersson, and Prime Minister Olof Palme. The exposure of the agency's operations by journalists Jan Guillou and Peter Bratt in the magazine Folket i Bild/Kulturfront in 1973 became known as the IB affair.
Carl Bildt was Prime Minister of Sweden between 1991 and 1994 and leader of the liberal conservative Moderate Party from 1986 to 1999.
Anna Lindh was a Swedish Social Democratic politician who served as foreign minister from 1998 until her assassination in 2003. She was considered by many as one of the leading candidates to succeed Göran Persson as leader of the Social Democrats and Prime Minister of Sweden. In the final weeks of her life she was intensely involved in the pro-euro campaign preceding the Swedish referendum on the euro.
Colonel Stig Wennerström of the Swedish air force was convicted of treason in 1964. During the '50s he was suspected of leaking air defence plans to the Soviets and in 1963 was informed upon by his maid, who had been recruited by Säpo. Initially sentenced to life imprisonment, his sentence was commuted to twenty years in 1973, of which he served only ten. He died in 2006. Not to be confused with Hans-Erik Wennerström, the crooked financier who appears in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played with Fire.
The Sjöbo debate - In the late '80s and early '90s there was an immigration crisis in Sweden. The number of asylum seekers increased, and the resulting unemployment and backlash from local government prompted the city of Sjöbo to hold a referendum 1998, where the population voted against accepting immigrants. The subsequent political debate led to a combined immigration and integration system in the Aliens Act of 1989.