CHAPTER 29
Wednesday, April 6–Thursday, April 7
Salander was shaking with rage. That morning she had gone to Bjurman’s summer
cabin in peace and quiet. She hadn’t opened her computer since the night before,
and during the day she had been too busy to listen to the news. She was half
expecting the incident in Stallarholmen to get a mention, but she was completely
unprepared for the storm that she now encountered on the TV news.
Miriam Wu was in Söder hospital, attacked and badly wounded by a gigantic
assailant who had kidnapped her outside the apartment building on Lundagatan.
Her condition was described as serious.
She’d been rescued by the former professional boxer Paolo Roberto. How he had
come to be in a warehouse in Nykvarn was not explained. He was mobbed by
reporters when he came out of the hospital, but he didn’t want to make any
comments. His face looked as if he had gone ten rounds with his hands tied behind
his back.
Two bodies had been found buried in the woods close to where Miriam Wu had
been assaulted. It was reported that the police had designated a third site to be
excavated as well, and that this might not be the last of it.
And then there was the search for the fugitive Lisbeth Salander.
The net, so they said, was tightening. That day the police had surrounded the
neighbourhood of Stallarholmen. She was armed and dangerous. She had shot and
wounded a Hell’s Angels biker, possibly two. The shoot-out had taken place at the
summer cabin of the murdered lawyer Nils Bjurman. By evening the police were
ready to concede that she might have managed to elude the cordon.
Ekström had called a press conference. His responses were evasive. No, he could not
say whether Salander had dealings with the Hell’s Angels. No, he could not confirm
the rumour that Salander had been seen at the warehouse in Nykvarn. No, there
was nothing to indicate that this was an underworld gang war. No, it could not be
confirmed that Salander alone was responsible for the Enskede murders. They were
now searching for her solely to question her about the circumstances of the
murders.
Salander frowned. Something had shifted within the police investigation.
She went online and first read the newspapers’ reports, then accessed the hard
drives of Ekström, Armansky, and Blomkvist, one by one.
Ekström’s email contained several messages of interest, in particular a memo sent
by Jan Bublanski at 5:22 p.m. The email was brisk and devastatingly critical of
Ekström’s management of the preliminary investigation. It ended with what was
effectively an ultimatum. He demanded (a) that Inspector Modig be reinstated,
effective immediately; (b) that the focus of the investigation be redirected so as to
explore alternative solutions to the Enskede murders; and (c) that research be
started without delay on the figure known only as Zala.
The accusations against Salander are based on a single direct piece of evidence—her
fingerprints on the murder weapon. Which, I remind you, is proof that she handled
the weapon but no proof that she fired it, and even less that she fired it at the
murder victims.
We now know there are other players involved. The Södertälje police have found
(so far) two bodies in shallow graves close to a warehouse owned by a cousin of
Carl-Magnus Lundin. It should be obvious that Salander, however violent and
whatever her psychological profile, had nothing to do with those deaths.
Bublanski finished by saying that if his demands were not met he would leave the
investigative team, which he did not intend to do quietly. Ekström had replied that
Bublanski should do what he thought was best. Salander obtained even more
surprising information from Armansky’s hard drive. A brief exchange of emails with
Milton’s payroll office established that Niklas Hedström had left the company,
effective immediately. He would get vacation pay and three months’ severance. An
email to the manager on duty stated that if Hedström came back to the building he
could be escorted to his desk to remove personal effects and then escorted from
the premises. An email to the technical department advised them that Hedström’s
card key was to be devalidated.
But most interesting was an exchange between Armansky and Milton Security’s
lawyer, Frank Alenius. Armansky asked how Salander could best be represented in
the event that she was taken into custody. Alenius replied that there was no reason
for Milton to become concerned with a former employee who had committed
murder—it would not reflect well upon Milton Security were the company to be so
involved. Armansky replied brusquely that Salander’s involvement in any murder
was still an open question, and that his concern was to provide support for a
former employee whom he considered innocent.
Blomkvist had not, Salander discovered, been on his computer since early the
previous day. So no news.
Bohman laid the folder on the table in Armansky’s office. He sat down heavily.
Fräklund opened it and began to read. Armansky stood by the window looking out
at Gamla Stan.
“This is the last report I can deliver. I’ve been kicked off the investigation,” Bohman
said.
“Not your fault,” Fräklund said.
“No, not your fault,” Armansky said and sat down. He had collected all the material
that Bohman had provided over the course of two weeks in a pile on the
conference table.
“I talked to Bublanski. You’ve done a good job, Sonny. He is sorry to lose you, but he
had no choice because of Hedström.”
“That’s OK. I discovered that I get along much better here at Milton than down at
Kungsholmen.”
“Can you give us a summary?”
“Well, if the objective was to find Lisbeth Salander, then obviously we failed. It was
a very messy investigation with a number of competing personalities, and Bublanski
may not have had ultimate control over the search.”
“Hans Faste—”
“Faste is a real fuckup. But the problem is not just Faste and a sloppy investigation.
Bublanski saw to it that all the leads were followed as far as they could be. The fact
is, Salander has been damn good at covering her tracks.”
“But your job wasn’t only to pin down Salander,” Armansky said.
“No, and I’m thankful that we didn’t tell Hedström about my other assignment to
act as your mole and see to it that Salander wasn’t falsely accused.”
“And what do you think today?”
“When we started I was positive that she was guilty. Today I’m not sure one way or
the other. So many things don’t fit…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I would no longer consider her the prime suspect. I’m leaning more and
more towards thinking there’s something to Mikael Blomkvist’s reasoning.”
“Which means that we have to identify and find the killers. Shall we take the
investigation from the beginning?” Armansky said, pouring coffee.
Salander had one of the worst evenings of her life. She was thinking about when
she had thrown the firebomb into Zalachenko’s car. In that instant the nightmares
stopped and she had felt a great inner peace. She had had other problems, but they
had always been about her, and she could handle them. Now it was about Mimmi.
Mimmi had been beaten up and was in the hospital. She was innocent. She’d had
nothing to do with any of this. Her only crime was that she knew Salander.
She cursed herself. She was riddled with feelings of guilt. The blame was all hers.
Her address was secret; she was safe. And then she had persuaded Mimmi to live in
her apartment, at the address that anyone could find.
How could she have been so thoughtless? She might as well have beaten her up
herself.
She felt so wretched that tears came to her eyes. But Salander never cried. She
wiped them away.
At 10:30 she was so restless that she could not stay in the apartment. She put on
her coat and boots and set off into the night. She walked down side streets until
she reached Ringvägen and stood at the end of the driveway to Söder hospital. She
wanted to go to Mimmi’s room and wake her up and tell her that everything was
going to be all right. Then she saw blue lights from a police car near Zinken and
stepped into an alleyway to avoid being seen.
She was home again just after midnight. She was freezing, so she undressed and
crawled into bed. She could not sleep. At 1:00 a.m. she was up again, walking naked
through the unlit apartment. She went into the guest bedroom, where there was a
bed and a desk. She had never set foot in it before. She sat on the floor with her
back to the wall and stared into the night.
Lisbeth Salander has a guest bedroom. What a joke.
She sat there until after 2:00, and by then she was so cold that she was shivering.
Then she started to cry again.
Some time before dawn, Salander took a shower and dressed. She put on the
coffeemaker and made breakfast and turned on her computer. She went into
Blomkvist’s hard drive. She was surprised to discover that he had not updated his
research journal, and instead she opened the folder . There was a new document
titled [Lisbeth-IMPORTANT]. She looked at the document properties. It had been
created at 12:52 a.m. She double-clicked.
Lisbeth, contact me right away. This story is worse than I could have dreamed. I
know who Zalachenko is and I think I know what happened. I’ve talked to Holger
Palmgren. I understand Teleborian’s role and why they locked you up at the clinic. I
think I know who murdered Dag and Mia. I also think I know why, but I’m missing
some crucial pieces of information. I don’t understand Bjurman’s role. CALL ME.
CONTACT ME AT ONCE. WE CAN SOLVE THIS. Mikael
Salander read the document slowly again. Kalle Blomkvist had been busy. Practical
Pig. Practical Fucking Pig. He still thought there was something to solve.
He meant well. He wanted to help.
He didn’t understand that whatever happened, her life was over.
It had ended before she even turned thirteen.
There was only one solution.
She created a new document and tried to write a reply, but the thoughts were
whirling around in her head and there were so many things she wanted to say to
him.
Salander in love. What a fucking joke.
He would never find out. She would never give him the satisfaction.
She deleted the document and stared at the empty screen. But no answer at all was
less than he deserved. He had stood faithfully in her corner like a steadfast tin
soldier. She created a new document and wrote:
Thanks for being my friend.
First she had a number of logistical decisions to take. She needed a means of
transport. Using the burgundy Honda, still on Lundagatan, was tempting but out of
the question. There was nothing in Prosecutor Ekström’s laptop to indicate that
anyone in the police investigation had discovered that she had bought a car, which
might be because she had not yet managed to send in the registration documents
and insurance papers. But Mimmi might have talked about the car when she was
questioned by the police, and obviously Lundagatan was under sporadic
surveillance.
The police knew that she had a motorcycle, and it would be even more obtrusive to
take it out of storage from the apartment building on Lundagatan. Besides, after a
number of summer-like days, a change in the weather was forecast, and she had no
great desire to venture out on a bike on rain-slick highways.
One alternative, of course, would be to rent a car in Irene Nesser’s name, but there
were risks involved with that too. Someone might recognize her, and the fake
identity would then be lost to her. That would be a catastrophe; it was her escape
route out of the country.
Then she gave a lopsided smile. There was one other possibility. She booted up her
computer, logged on to Milton Security’s network and navigated to the car pool,
which was administered by a secretary in Milton’s reception area. Milton Security
had close to forty cars at its disposal, some of which carried the company logo and
were used on business trips. The majority were unmarked surveillance cars, and
these were kept in the garage at Milton’s HQ near Slussen. Practically around the
corner.
She studied the personnel files and chose employee Marcus Collander, who had just
gone on vacation for two weeks. He had left the telephone number of a hotel in
the Canary Islands. She changed the hotel name and scrambled the digits of the
phone number where he could be reached. Then she entered a note that Collander’s
last action while on duty had been to drop off one of the cars for servicing. She
picked a Toyota Corolla automatic, which she had driven before, and recorded that
it would be back a week later.
Finally she went into the surveillance system and reprogrammed the cameras she
would have to walk past. Between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m. they would show a repeat of
the previous half hour, but with an altered time code.
At 4:15 she packed her backpack. She had two changes of clothes, two Mace
canisters, and the fully charged Taser. She looked at the two guns she had acquired.
She rejected Sandström’s Colt 1911 Government and chose Nieminen’s Polish P-83
Wanad, which had one round missing from the magazine. It was slimmer and fit
her hand better. She put it into her jacket pocket.
Salander closed the lid of her PowerBook but left the computer on the desk. She
had transferred the contents of her hard drive to an encrypted backup on the Net
and then erased her whole hard drive with a programme she had written herself,
which guaranteed that not even she could reconstruct the contents. She did not
want to rely on her Power-Book, which would just be cumbersome to drag around.
Instead she took her Palm Tungsten PDA with her.
She looked around her office. She had a feeling that she would not be coming back
to the apartment in Mosebacke and knew that she was leaving secrets behind that
she should probably destroy. But glancing at her watch she realized that she did
not have much time. She turned off the desk lamp.
She walked to Milton Security, went into the garage, and took the elevator up to
the administrative offices. She met no-one in the empty corridors and taking the
car keys out of the unlocked cabinet in reception presented no difficulty.
She was in the garage thirty seconds later, and blipped open the door lock on the
Corolla. She dumped her backpack in the passenger seat and adjusted the driver’s
seat and the rearview mirror. She used her old card key to open the garage door.
Just before 5:00 she turned up from Söder Mälarstrand at Västerbron. It was
starting to get light.
Blomkvist woke up at 6:30. He had not set his alarm clock and had slept for only
three hours. He got up and switched on his iBook and opened the folder to look for
her reply.
Thanks for being my friend.
Blomkvist felt a chill run down his spine. Hardly the answer he had hoped for. It
felt like a farewell letter. Salander alone against the world. He went to the kitchen
and started the coffeemaker and then had a shower. He put on a pair of worn jeans
and realized that he had not had time to do laundry for weeks. He had no clean
shirts. He put on a wine-red sweatshirt under his grey jacket.
As he made breakfast in the kitchen, a glint of metal on the counter behind the
microwave caught his eye. With a fork he fished out a key ring.
Salander’s keys. He had found them after the attack on Lundagatan and put them
on top of the microwave with her shoulder bag. He had forgotten to give them to
Inspector Modig with the bag, and they must have fallen down in back.
He stared at the bunch of keys. Three large ones and three small. The three large
keys were presumably to an entrance door, an apartment, and a dead bolt. Her
apartment. Obviously not the apartment on Lundagatan. So where the hell did she
live?
He examined the three small keys more closely. One was probably for her Kawasaki.
One looked like it was for a safety-deposit box or storage cabinet. He held up the
third key. The number 24914 was stamped on it. The realization hit him.
A P.O. box. Lisbeth Salander has a P.O. box.
He looked up the post offices in Södermalm in the phone book. She had lived on
Lundagatan. Ringvägen was too far away. Maybe Hornsgatan. Or Rosenlundsgatan.
He turned off the coffeemaker, abandoned his breakfast, and drove Berger’s BMW
to Rosenlundsgatan. The key did not fit. He drove on to Hornsgatan. The key fit
perfectly in box 24914. He opened it and found twenty-two items of post, which he
stuffed into the outside pocket of his laptop case.
He drove on to Hornsgatan, parked by the Kvarter cinema, and had breakfast at
Copacabana on Bergsundsstrand. As he waited for his caffè latte he examined the
letters one by one. All were addressed to Wasp Enterprises. Nine letters had been
sent from Switzerland, eight from the Cayman Islands, one from the Channel
Islands, and four from Gibraltar.
With no pang of conscience he slit open the envelopes. The first twenty-one
contained bank statements and reports on various accounts and funds. Salander
was as rich as a troll.
The twenty-second letter was thicker. The address was handwritten. The envelope
had a printed logo and the return address of Buchanan House, Queensway Quay,
Gibraltar. The enclosed letter was on the stationery of a Jeremy S. MacMillan,
Solicitor. He had neat handwriting.
Dear Ms. Salander,
This is to confirm that the final payment on your property was concluded as of
January 20. As agreed, I am enclosing copies of all documentation, but I will keep
the original set. I trust this will meet with your satisfaction.
Let me add that I hope everything is well with you. I very much enjoyed your
surprise visit of last summer, and must tell you that I found your company
refreshing. I look forward to being of further service as necessary.
Yours sincerely,
J.S.M.
The letter was dated January 24. Salander apparently did not pick up her mail very
often. Blomkvist looked at the attached documentation for the purchase of an
apartment in a building at Fiskargatan 9 in Mosebacke.
Then he almost choked on his coffee. The price paid was twenty-five million kronor,
and the deal was concluded with two payments a year apart.
Salander watched a solid, dark-haired man unlock the side door of Auto-Expert in
Eskilstuna. It was a garage, a repair shop, and a car rental agency. A typical
franchise. It was 6:50, and according to a handwritten sign on the front door, the
shop did not open until 7:30. She went across the street and followed the man
through the side door into the shop. The man heard her and turned round.
“Refik Alba?” she said.
“Yes. Who are you? I’m not open yet.”
She raised Nieminen’s P-83 Wanad and held the weapon with two hands aimed at
his face.
“I don’t want to haggle with you. I just want to see your list of cars rented out. I
want to see it now. You have ten seconds to produce it.”
Refik Alba was forty-two years old, a Kurd born in Diyarbakir, and he had seen his
fill of guns. He stood as if paralyzed. Then he concluded that if this crazy woman
came into his garage with a pistol in her hand, there was not going to be much to
discuss.
“It’s on the computer,” he said.
“Turn it on.”
He did as she told him.
“What’s behind that door?” she asked as the computer booted up and the screen
began to flicker.
“It’s just a closet.”
“Open it.”
It contained some overalls.
“OK. Go into the closet, stay calm, and I won’t have to hurt you.”
He obeyed her without protest.
“Take out your mobile, put it on the floor, and kick it over to me.”
He did as she said.
“Good. Now close the door behind you.”
It was an antique PC with Windows 95 and a 280 MB hard drive. It took an eternity
to open the Excel document with the car rental listing. The white Volvo had been
rented on two occasions. First for two weeks in January, and then from March 1. It
had not yet been returned. He was paying a weekly fee for a long-term rental.
The name was Ronald Niedermann.
She looked through the folders on the shelf above the computer. One of them had
the label IDENTIFICATION printed neatly on it. She took the folder down and paged
through to Ronald Niedermann. When he rented the car in January he had given his
passport as ID, and Refik Alba had made a photocopy. She recognized the blond
hulk at once. According to the passport he was German, thirty-five years old, born
in Hamburg. The fact that Alba had made a copy from the passport showed that
Niedermann was just a customer, not a friend.
At the bottom of the page Alba had written a mobile number and a P.O. box address
in Göteborg.
Salander replaced the folder and turned off the computer. She looked around and
found a rubber doorstop next to the front door. She picked it up and went back to
the closet and knocked on the door with the barrel of her gun.
“Can you hear me in there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who I am?”
Silence.
He’d have to be blind not to recognize me.
“OK. You know who I am. Are you afraid of me?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be afraid of me, Herr Alba. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m almost finished
here. I’m sorry for putting you to this trouble.”
“Uh … OK.”
“Have you got enough air to breathe in there?”
“Yes … what do you want, anyway?”
“I wanted to see whether a certain woman had hired a car from you two years
ago,” she lied. “I didn’t find what I wanted, but it’s not your fault. I’ll be leaving in a
few minutes. I’m going to put the doorstop under the closet door here. The door is
thin enough for you to break your way out, but it will take a while. You don’t have
to call the police. You’ll never see me again, and you can open up as usual today
and pretend that this never happened.”
The chances of him not calling the police were pretty remote, but it did not hurt to
give him the option to think about. She left the garage and walked to the Toyota
Corolla around the corner, where she swiftly changed into Irene Nesser.
She was annoyed not to have found a street address for Ronald Niedermann in the
Stockholm area, just a P.O. box address on the other side of Sweden. But it was the
only lead she had. So, to Göteborg.
She made for the E20 and turned west towards Arboga. She turned on the radio,
but she had just missed the news and got some commercial station. She listened to
David Bowie singing “putting out fire with gasoline.” She didn’t know the name of
the song, but she took the words as prophetic.
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