CHAPTER 21
Maundy Thursday,March 24–Monday, April 4
Salander spent the first week of the police hunt far from the drama. She remained
in peace and quiet in her apartment on Fiskargatan. Her mobile was turned off and
the SIM card taken out. She did not intend to use that phone again. Her eyes grew
wide with astonishment as she followed the stories in the online editions of the
newspapers and on the TV news programmes.
She was irritated by the passport photograph that appeared everywhere. She looked
stupid.
Despite her years of striving for anonymity, she had been transformed overnight
into one of the most notorious and talked-about individuals in Sweden. She began
to realize that a nationwide alert for a short girl suspected of three murders was
one of the year’s biggest news stories. She followed the commentary and
speculation in the media with amazement, fascinated that confidential documents
about her medical history seemed to be accessible to any newsroom that wanted to
publish them. One headline in particular awakened buried memories:
ARRESTED FORASSAULT IN GAMLA STAN
A court reporter at TT wire service had scooped his competitors by digging up a
medical report that had been written when Salander was arrested for kicking a
passenger in the face at Gamla Stan tunnelbana station.
She had been at Odenplan and was on her way back to her foster home in
Hägersten. At Rådmansgatan an apparently sober stranger got on the train and
immediately focused his attention on her. Later she discovered that he was Karl
Evert Norgren, an unemployed former athlete from Gävle. Despite the fact that the
carriage was half empty, he sat down next to her and began to bother her. He put
his hand on her knee and tried to start a conversation along the lines of “I’ll give
you two hundred if you come home with me.” When she ignored him he got pushy
and called her a sour old cunt. The fact that she refused to talk to him and had
changed seats at T-Centralen had no effect.
As they were approaching Gamla Stan he put his arms around her from behind and
pushed them up inside her sweater, whispering in her ear that she was a whore.
She replied with an elbow to his eye and then grabbed one of the upright poles,
lifted herself up, and kicked him with both heels across the bridge of his nose,
which prompted heavy bleeding.
She was dressed as a punk and had blue-dyed hair, so she had little chance to melt
into the crowd when the train stopped at the platform. A friend of law and order
had grappled with her and held her down on the ground until the police arrived.
She cursed her gender. Nobody would have dared attack her if she had been a man.
She hardly made any attempt to explain why she had kicked Karl Evert Norgren in
the face. She didn’t think it was worth trying to explain anything to uniformed
authorities. She refused on principle to respond when psychiatrists tried to
determine her mental state. As luck would have it, several other passengers had
observed the whole course of events, including a persistent woman from
Härnösand who happened to be a member of parliament for the Centre Party. The
woman testified that Norgren had assaulted Salander before the violence broke out.
When it later turned out that Norgren had been convicted for sexual offences twice
before, the prosecutor decided to drop the case. But that did not mean that the
social welfare report on Salander was set aside. Not long afterwards the district
court declared her incompetent, and she ended up under the guardianship of
Holger Palmgren, and later Nils Bjurman.
Now all of these intimate and confidential details were on the Net for public
consumption. Her personal record was supplemented with colourful descriptions of
how she had come into conflict with people around her since elementary school,
and how she spent her early teens in a children’s psychiatric clinic.
• • •
The diagnoses of Salander in the press varied depending on which edition and
which newspaper was doing the reporting. Sometimes she was described as
psychotic and sometimes as schizophrenic or paranoid. All the papers subscribed to
the view that she was mentally handicapped—after all, she hadn’t been able to
finish school. The public should have no doubt that she was unbalanced and
inclined to violence.
When it was discovered that Salander was friends with the lesbian Miriam Wu, a
frenzy broke out in certain papers. Wu had appeared in Benita Costa’s show at the
Gay Pride Festival, a provocative performance in which she was photographed
topless wearing leather chaps with suspenders and high-heeled patent-leather
boots. She had also written articles for a gay newspaper that were widely quoted,
as were the interviews she had given in connection with her appearance in various
shows. The combination of mass murder and titillating S&M sex was evidently
doing wonders for circulation figures.
Since Wu hadn’t surfaced during that first dramatic week, there was speculation
that she too might have fallen victim to Salander’s violence or that she could have
been an accomplice. These speculations, however, were restricted for the most part
to the unsophisticated Internet chat room “Exile.” On the other hand, several
newspapers floated the theory that since Mia Johansson’s thesis dealt with the sex
trade, this might be Salander’s motive for the murders, on the grounds that—
according to the social welfare agency—she was a prostitute.
At the end of the week the media discovered that Salander also had connections to
a group of young women who flirted with Satanism. They called themselves Evil
Fingers, and this caused an older male cultural columnist to write about the
rootlessness of youth and the dangers that lurk in everything from skinhead culture
to hip-hop.
When all the media assertions were put together, the police appeared to be hunting
for a psychotic lesbian who had joined a cult of Satanists that propagandized for
S&M sex and hated society in general and men in particular. Because Salander had
been abroad for the past year, there might be international connections too.
• • •
In only one case did Salander react with any great emotion to the media uproar:
“WE WERE SCARED OF HER”She threatened to kill us,say teacher and schoolmates
The person making this statement was a former teacher, now a textile artist,
named Birgitta Miåås.
Salander had been eleven on the occasion in question. She remembered Miåås as an
unpleasant substitute math teacher who time after time had tried to get her to
answer a question that she’d already answered correctly, even though the answer
key in the textbook said she was wrong. In fact, the textbook was wrong, and as far
as Salander was concerned that should have been obvious to everyone. But Miåås
had grown more and more obstinate, and Salander became less and less willing to
discuss the matter. She sat there pouting until Miåås, out of sheer frustration,
grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her to get her attention. Lisbeth responded
by throwing the textbook at Miåås’ head, which started a big hullabaloo. She spat
and hissed and kicked when her classmates tried to hold on to her.
The article ran as a feature in an evening paper, and allowed space for a sidebar
with some quotes and a photograph of a former classmate posing in front of the
entrance to her old school. This was David Gustavsson, who now called himself a
financial assistant. He claimed that the students were afraid of Salander because
“she threatened to kill somebody once.” Salander remembered Gustavsson as one of
the biggest bullies in school, a powerful brute with the IQ of a stump, who seldom
passed up an opportunity to dish out insults and punches in the hallway. Once he
had attacked her behind the gym during lunch break, and as usual she had fought
back. From a purely physical standpoint she didn’t have a chance, but her attitude
was that death was better than capitulation. The incident deteriorated when a
large number of her schoolmates gathered in a circle to watch Gustavsson knock
her to the ground over and over again. It had been amusing up to a point, but the
stupid girl did not seem to understand what was good for her and refused to back
down. She didn’t even cry or beg for mercy. Finally he gave Salander two serious
punches that split her lip and knocked the wind out of her. Her schoolmates left
her in a miserable heap behind the gym and ran away laughing.
Salander had gone home and licked her wounds. Two days later she came back
carrying a bat. In the middle of the playground she slugged Gustavsson in the ear.
As he lay there in shock she bent down, pressed the bat to his throat, and
whispered in his ear that if he ever touched her again she would kill him. When the
teachers discovered what had happened, Gustavsson was taken to the school nurse
while Salander was sent to the head teacher for punishment, further comments in
her record, and more social welfare reports.
Salander had not thought about either Miåås or Gustavsson for at least fifteen
years. She made a mental note to check out what they were up to these days when
she had some spare time.
The result of all this press attention was that Salander had become both famous
and infamous to the entire Swedish population. Her background was charted,
scrutinized, and published down to the most minute detail, from her outbursts in
elementary school to her being committed to St. Stefan’s Psychiatric Clinic for
Children, outside Uppsala, where she spent more than two years.
She pricked up her ears when chief of staff Dr. Peter Teleborian was interviewed on
TV. Salander had last seen him eight years earlier, in connection with the district
court hearing regarding her declaration of incompetence. His brow was deeply
furrowed and he scratched at a thin beard when he turned to the studio reporter
with concern and explained that he was bound by confidentiality and thus could
not discuss an individual patient. All he could say was that Salander’s was an
extremely complex case, that she required expert care, and that the district court,
against his recommendation, had decided to place her under guardianship in
society rather than give her the institutional care she needed. It was a scandal,
Teleborian claimed. He regretted that three people had now paid with their lives as
a result of this misjudgment, and he made sure to get in a few jabs at the cutbacks
in psychiatric care that the government had forced through in recent decades.
Salander noted that no newspaper revealed that the most common form of care in
the secure ward of the children’s psychiatric hospital, for which Dr. Teleborian was
responsible, was to place “unruly and unmanageable patients” in a room that was
“free of stimuli.” The room contained only a bed with a restraining belt. The
textbook explanation was that unruly children could not receive any “stimuli” that
might trigger an outburst.
When she grew older she discovered that there was another term for the same
thing. Sensory deprivation. According to the Geneva Conventions, subjecting
prisoners to sensory deprivation was classified as inhumane. It was a commonly
used element in experiments with brainwashing conducted by various dictatorial
regimes, and there was evidence that the political prisoners who confessed to all
sorts of crimes during the Moscow trials in the 1930s had been subjected to such
treatment.
As Salander watched Teleborian’s face on TV, her heart became a little lump of ice.
She wondered whether he still used the same disgusting aftershave. He had been
responsible for what was defined as her care. Salander had rapidly come to the
realization that an “unruly and unmanageable patient” was equivalent to one who
questioned Teleborian’s reasoning and expertise.
She had spent about half of her time at St. Stefan’s strapped to the bed in the
“stimulus-free” room.
Teleborian had never touched her sexually. He had never touched her at all, other
than in the most innocent situations. On one occasion he had placed a hand on her
shoulder as a warning when she lay strapped down in isolation.
She wondered if her teeth marks were still visible on the knuckle of his little finger.
The whole thing had developed into a vicious game, in which Teleborian held all
the cards. Her defence had been to ignore him completely whenever he was in the
room.
She was twelve when she was transported by two policewomen to St. Stefan’s. It
was a few weeks after “All The Evil” had occurred. She remembered every detail.
First she had thought that everything would work out somehow. She had tried to
explain her version to police officers, social workers, hospital personnel, nurses,
doctors, psychiatrists, and even a pastor, who wanted her to pray with him. As she
sat in the backseat of the police car and they passed the Wenner-Gren Centre on
the way north to Uppsala, she still did not know where they were heading. Nobody
told her. That was when she began to sense that nothing would ever work out.
She had tried to explain to Teleborian.
The result of her efforts was that on the night she turned thirteen, she lay strapped
to the bed.
Teleborian was the most loathsome and disgusting sadist Salander had ever met in
her life, bar none. He outclassed Bjurman by a mile. Bjurman had been unspeakably
brutal, but she could handle him. Teleborian, on the other hand, was shielded
behind a curtain of documents, assessments, academic honours, and psychiatric
mumbo jumbo. Not a single one of his actions could ever be reported or criticized.
He had a state-endorsed mandate to tie down disobedient little girls with leather
straps.
And every time Salander lay shackled on her back and he tightened the straps and
she met his gaze, she could read his excitement. She knew. And he knew that she
knew.
The night she turned thirteen she decided never again to exchange a word with
Teleborian or any other psychiatrist or shrink. That was her birthday present to
herself. And she had kept her promise. She knew that it infuriated Teleborian and
perhaps contributed more than anything else to her being strapped down so tightly
night after night. But that was a price she was willing to pay.
She taught herself everything about self-control. She had no more outbursts, nor
did she throw things on the days she was released from isolation.
But she refused to talk to doctors.
On the other hand, she spoke politely to the nurses, the kitchen staff, and the
cleaning women. This was noted. A friendly nurse whose name was Carolina, and
whom Salander trusted up to a point, asked her one day why she acted the way she
did. Salander gave her a quizzical look.
Why won’t you talk to the doctors?
Because they don’t listen to what I say.
She was aware that all such comments were entered into her record, documenting
that her silence was a completely rational decision.
During her last year at St. Stefan’s, Salander was placed in the isolation cell less
often. When it did happen it was always because she had irritated Dr. Teleborian in
some way, which she seemed to do as soon as he laid eyes on her. He tried over
and over again to break through her obstinate silence and force her to
acknowledge his existence.
For a time he prescribed Salander a type of psychiatric drug that made it hard for
her to breathe or think, which in turn brought on anxiety. From then on she
refused to take her medicine, and this resulted in the decision to force-feed her
three tablets a day.
Her resistance was so strong that the staff had to hold her down, pry open her
mouth, and then force her to swallow. The first time, Salander immediately stuck
her fingers down her throat and vomited her lunch onto the nearest orderly. After
that she was given the tablets when she was strapped down, so she learned to
throw up without having to stick her fingers down her throat. Her obstinate
resistance and the extra work this made for the staff led to a suspension of the
medication.
She had just turned fifteen when she was without warning moved back to
Stockholm to live once more with a foster family. The change came as a shock to
her. At that time Teleborian was not yet running St. Stefan’s. Salander was sure that
this was the only reason she had been released. If Teleborian had been given
responsibility for the decision, she would still be strapped to the bed in the
isolation cell.
Now she was watching him on TV. She wondered if he fantasized about her ending
up in his care again, or if she was now too old to arouse him. His reference to the
district court’s decision not to institutionalize her provoked the indignation of the
interviewer, although apparently he had no idea what questions to ask. There was
nobody to contradict Teleborian. The former chief of staff at St. Stefan’s had since
died. The district court judge who had presided over Salander’s case, and who now
had in part to accept the role as the villain in the drama, had retired and was
refusing to comment to the press.
Salander found one of the most astonishing articles in the online edition of a
newspaper published in central Sweden. She read it three times before she turned
off her computer and lit a cigarette. She sat on her IKEA pillow in the window seat
and dejectedly watched the lights outside.
“SHE’S BISEXUAL,”SAYS CHILDHOOD FRIEND
The 26-year-old woman sought in connection with three murders is described as an
introverted eccentric who had great difficulties adjusting to school. Despite many
attempts to include her in the group, she remained an outsider.
“She obviously had problems with her sexual identity,” recalls Johanna, one of her
few close friends at school.
“It was clear early on that she was different and that she was bisexual. We were
very concerned about her.”
The article went on to describe some episodes that this Johanna remembered.
Salander frowned. She could remember neither the episodes nor that she’d had a
close friend named Johanna. In fact, she could not recall ever knowing anyone who
could be described as a close friend or who tried to draw her into a group at
school.
The article did not specify when these episodes were supposed to have taken place,
but she had left school when she was twelve. This meant that her concerned
childhood friend must have discovered Salander’s bisexuality when she was ten,
maybe eleven.
Among the flood of ridiculous articles over the past week, the one quoting Johanna
hit her hardest. It was so obviously fabricated. Either the reporter had run across a
mythomaniac or he had made up the story himself. She memorized the reporter’s
name and added him to the list of subjects for future research.
Not even the more positive reports, ones that criticized society with headlines such
as SOCIETY FAILS or SHE NEVER GOT THE HELP SHE NEEDED, could dilute her
standing as public enemy number one—a mass murderer who in one fit of insanity
had executed three honourable citizens.
Salander read these interpretations of her life with a certain fascination and noted
an obvious hole in the public knowledge. Despite apparently unlimited access to
the most classified details of her life, the media had completely missed “All The
Evil,” which had happened just before her thirteenth birthday. The published
information ranged from kindergarten to the age of eleven, and was taken up again
when, at the age of fifteen, she was released from the psychiatric clinic.
Somebody within the police investigation must be providing the media with
information, but for reasons unknown to Salander, the source had decided to cover
up “All The Evil.” This surprised her. If the police wanted to emphasize her
penchant for vicious behaviour, then that report in her file would have been the
most damning by far. It was the very reason that she was sent to St. Stefan’s.
On Easter Sunday Salander began to follow the police investigation more closely.
From what she culled from the media she built a picture of its participants.
Prosecutor Richard Ekström was the leader of the preliminary investigation and
usually the spokesman at press conferences. The actual investigation was headed by
Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski, a somewhat overweight man in an ill-fitting suit
who flanked Ekström when they were speaking to the press.
After a few days she had identified Sonja Modig as the team’s only female detective
and the person who had found Bjurman. She noted the names Hans Faste and Curt
Andersson, but she missed Jerker Holmberg altogether, as his name was not
mentioned in any of the articles. She created a file on her computer for each person
on the team and began to fill them with information.
Naturally, information about how the police investigation was proceeding was kept
on the computers used by the investigating detectives, and their databases were
stored on the server at police headquarters. Salander knew that it would be
exceptionally hard to hack into the police intranet, but it was by no means
impossible. She had done it before.
When working on an assignment for Armansky several years earlier, she had
plotted the structure of the police intranet and assessed the possibility of hacking
into the criminal register to make her own entries. She had failed miserably in her
attempts to hack in from outside—the police firewalls were too sophisticated and
mined with all sorts of traps that might result in unwelcome attention.
The internal police network was a state-of-the-art design with its own cabling,
shielded from external connections and the Internet itself. In other words, what she
needed was either a police officer who had authorization to access the network or
the next best thing—to make the police intranet believe that she was an authorized
person. In this respect, fortunately, the police security experts had left a gaping
hole. Police stations all around the country had uplinks to the network, and several
of them were small local units that were unstaffed at night and often had no
burglar alarms or security patrols. The police station in Långvik outside Västerås
was one of these. It occupied about 1,400 square feet in the same building that
housed the public library and the regional social security office, and it was manned
in the daytime by three officers.
At the time Salander had failed in her efforts to hack into the network for the
research she was working on, but she had decided it might be worthwhile to spend
a little time and energy acquiring access for future research. She had thought over
the possibilities and then applied for a summer job at the library in Långvik. In a
break from her cleaning duties, it took her about ten minutes to get detailed
blueprints of the whole building. She had keys to the building but, understandably,
not to the police offices. She had discovered, however, that without much difficulty
she could climb through a bathroom window on the third floor that was left open
at night in the summer heat. The police station was patrolled by a freelance
security firm, and the officer on duty made rounds only once a night. Ridiculous.
It took her about five minutes to find the username and password underneath the
police chief’s desk blotter, and one night of experimenting to understand the
structure of the network and identify what sort of access he had and what access
had been classified as beyond the realm of the local authorities. As a bonus she also
got the usernames and passwords of the two local police officers. One of them was
thirty-two-year-old Maria Ottosson, and in her computer Salander found out that
she had recently applied and been accepted for service as a detective in the fraud
division of the Stockholm police. Salander got full administrator rights for Ottosson,
who also had left her Dell PC laptop in an unlocked desk drawer. Brilliant. Salander
booted up the machine and inserted her CD with the programme Asphyxia 1.0, the
very first version of her spy-ware. She downloaded the software in two locations, as
an active, integrated part of Microsoft Internet Explorer and as backup in Ottosson’s
address book. Salander figured that even if Ottosson bought a new computer, she
would copy over her address book, and chances were that she would transfer it to
the computer at the fraud division in Stockholm when she reported for duty a few
weeks later.
Salander also placed software in the officers’ desktop computers, making it possible
for her to gather data from outside and, by simply stealing their identities, to make
adjustments to the criminal register. However, she had to proceed with the utmost
caution. The police security division had an automatic alarm if any local officer
logged on to the network outside working hours or if the number of modifications
increased too dramatically. If she fished for information from investigations in
which the local police would not normally be involved, it would trigger the alarm.
Over the past year she had worked together with her hacker associate Plague to
take control of the police IT network. This proved to be fraught with such difficulty
that eventually they gave up the project, but in the process they had accumulated
almost a hundred existing police identities that they could borrow at will.
Plague had a breakthrough when he succeeded in hacking into the home computer
of the head of the police data security division. He was a civil service economist
with no in-depth IT knowledge but with a wealth of information on his laptop.
Salander and Plague thereafter had the opportunity, if not to hack into, at least to
devastatingly disrupt the police intranet with viruses of various types—an activity in
which neither of them had the slightest interest. They were hackers, not saboteurs.
They wanted access to functioning networks, not to destroy them.
Salander now checked her list and saw that none of the individuals whose identity
she had stolen was working on the investigation into the three murders—that
would have been too much to hope for. But she was able to get in without much
trouble and read details of the nationwide alert, including updated APBs on herself.
She discovered that she had been sighted and pursued in Uppsala, Norrköping,
Göteborg, Malmö, Hässleholm, and Kalmar, and that a classified computer image
giving a better idea of what she looked like had been circulated.
One of Salander’s few advantages in all the media attention was that not many
photographs of her existed. Apart from a four-year-old passport photograph, which
was also used on her driver’s licence, and a police mug shot taken when she was
eighteen (which did not look anything like her today), there were only pictures
from old school yearbooks and photographs taken by a teacher on a field trip to
the Nacka nature reserve when she was twelve. The pictures from the field trip
showed a blurry figure sitting a little apart from the others.
The passport photograph showed her with staring eyes, her mouth compressed to a
thin line, and her head leaning a bit forward. It fitted the image of a retarded,
asocial killer, and the media published millions of copies of it. But she now looked
so different that very few people would recognize her from it.
She read with interest the profiles of the three murder victims. On Tuesday the
media began to tread water, and with the lack of any new or dramatic revelations
in the hunt for Salander, interest focused on the victims. Dag Svensson, Mia
Johansson, and Nils Bjurman were portrayed in a long article in one of the evening
papers.
Nils Bjurman came across as a respected and socially involved lawyer who belonged
to Greenpeace and had a “commitment to young people.” A column was devoted to
his close friend and colleague Jan Håkansson, who had an office in the same
building. Håkansson confirmed the image of Bjurman as a man who fought for the
rights of the little people. A civil servant at the Guardianship Agency described him
as genuinely committed to his ward.
Salander smiled her first lopsided smile of the day.
Johansson, the female victim in the drama, elicited great interest in the media. She
was described as a sweet and enormously intelligent young woman with an already
impressive record of achievement and a brilliant career ahead of her. Shocked
friends, colleagues at the university, and a tutor had given comments, and the
question they had all asked was “why?” Pictures showed flowers and lighted
candles outside the door of the apartment building in Enskede.
By comparison, very little space was devoted to Svensson. He was described as a
sharp, fearless reporter. But the main interest was in his partner.
Salander noted with mild surprise that it took till Easter Sunday before anyone
seemed to realize that Svensson had been working on a big report for Millennium
magazine. And even then, there was no mention in the articles about what
specifically he was working on.
She never read the quote Blomkvist had sent to Aftonbladet. It was not until late
Tuesday, when it was mentioned on the TV news, that she realized Blomkvist was
purposely putting out misleading information. He claimed that Svensson had been
involved in writing a report on computer security and illegal hacking.
Salander frowned. She knew that was false, and wondered what game Millennium
was playing. Then she understood the message and smiled her second lopsided
smile of the day. She connected to the server in Holland and double-clicked on the
MikBlom/laptop icon. She found the folder and the document [To Sally] prominently
displayed in the middle of the desktop. She double-clicked and read it.
Then she sat for a long time staring at Blomkvist’s letter. She wrestled with
contradictory feelings. Up until then it had been her against the rest of Sweden,
which in its simplicity was quite an elegant and lucid equation. Now suddenly she
had an ally, or at least a potential ally, who claimed to believe she was innocent.
And of course it would be the only man in Sweden that she never wanted to see
again under any circumstances. She sighed. Blomkvist was, as always, a naive do-gooder. Salander hadn’t been innocent since the age of ten.
There are no innocents. There are, however, different degrees of responsibility.
Bjurman was dead because he had chosen not to play according to the rules she
had stipulated. He had had every chance, but still he had hired some fucking alpha
male to do her harm. That was not her responsibility.
But Kalle Blomkvist’s involvement should not be underrated. He could be useful.
He was good at riddles and he was unmatchably stubborn. She had found that out
in Hedestad. When he sank his teeth into something he simply would not let go. He
really was naive. But he could move in places where she couldn’t. He might be
useful until she could get safely out of the country. Which was what she assumed
she would soon be forced to do.
Unfortunately, Blomkvist could not be controlled. He needed a reason of his own to
act. And he needed a moral excuse as well.
In other words, he was quite predictable. She thought for a while and then created
a new document called [To MikBlom] and wrote a single word.
Zala.
That would give him something to think about.
She was still sitting there thinking when she noticed that Blomkvist had booted up
his computer. His reply came shortly after he read her message:
Lisbeth,
You damn troublesome person. Who the hell is Zala? Is he the link? Do you know
who murdered Dag & Mia? If so, tell me so we can solve this mess and go to sleep.
Mikael.
OK. Time to hook him.
She created another document and called it [Kalle Blomkvist]. She knew that would
upset him. Then she wrote a brief message:
You’re the journalist. Find out.
As expected, he replied at once with an appeal for her to listen to reason, and he
tried to play on her feelings. She smiled and closed her connection to his hard
drive.
• • •
Now that she had started snooping around, she moved on and opened Armansky’s
hard drive. She read the report about herself that he had written the day after
Easter. It was not clear to whom the report was addressed, but she assumed that
the only reasonable explanation was that Armansky was working with the police to
help bring her in.
She spent a while going through Armansky’s email, but found nothing of interest.
Just as she was about to disconnect, she lit upon a message to the technical chief at
Milton Security with instructions for the installation of a hidden surveillance
camera in his office.
Bingo.
She looked at the date and saw that the message was sent about an hour after her
social call in February.
That meant she would have to adjust certain routines in the automatic surveillance
system before she paid another visit to Armansky’s office.
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