CHAPTER 31
Thursday, April 7
Salander got into the barn through the outside hatch to an old manure drain. There
were no livestock. She saw that the barn contained three cars—the white Volvo
from Auto-Expert, an old Ford, and a somewhat newer Saab. Further in was a rusty
harrow and other tools from the days when this had been a working farm.
She lingered in the darkness of the barn and watched the house. It was dusk and
the lights were on in all the rooms on the ground floor. She couldn’t see any
movement, but she thought she saw the flickering glow of a television set. She
glanced at her watch. 7:30. Time for Rapport.
She was surprised that Zalachenko would have chosen to live in such an isolated
place. It was not like the man she remembered. She would never have expected to
find him out in the country in a little white farmhouse. In some anonymous villa
community, maybe, or in a vacation spot abroad. He must have made more
enemies even than Salander herself. She was troubled that the place looked so
undefended. But she had no doubt that he had weapons in the house.
After lingering for a long time, she slipped out of the barn into the twilight. She
hurried across the yard, keeping her step light and her back to the facade of the
house. Then she heard the faint sound of music. She walked noiselessly around the
house and tried to peer through the windows, but they were too high.
Salander was instinctively uneasy. For the first half of her life she had lived in fear
of the man inside that house. During the second half, ever since she had failed in
her attempt to kill him, she had waited for the moment when he would come back
into her life. This time she wasn’t going to make any mistakes.
Zalachenko might be an old cripple, but he was a trained assassin who had survived
on more than one field of battle. Besides, there was Ronald Niedermann to take
into account. She would have much preferred to surprise Zalachenko outdoors,
where he would be unprotected. She had no wish to talk to him and would have
been satisfied with a rifle and a telescopic lens. But she had no rifle, and it was
unlikely that he’d be taking an evening stroll. If she wanted to wait for a better
opportunity, she would have to withdraw and spend the night in the woods. She
had no sleeping bag, and even though the evening was mild, the night would be
cold. Now that she had him within reach, she didn’t want to risk letting him slip
away again. She thought about Miriam Wu and about her mother.
She would have to get inside the house, but that was the worst possible scenario.
Sure, she could knock on the door and fire her gun as soon as the door opened, and
then go in to find the other bastard. But whoever was left would be alerted, and he
would probably be armed. Time for a risk assessment. What were the options?
She caught sight of Niedermann’s profile as he walked past a window only a few
yards from her. He was saying something over his shoulder to someone.
Both of them were in the room to the left of the front door.
Salander made up her mind. She took the pistol out of her jacket pocket, clicked off
the safety, and moved silently onto the porch. She held the gun in her left hand as
she pressed the front door handle down with excruciating caution. It was unlocked.
She frowned and hesitated. The door had double dead bolts.
Zalachenko should not have left the door unlocked. It was giving her goose bumps
on the back of her neck.
It felt wrong.
The hallway was black as pitch. To the right she glimpsed the stairs to the upper
floor. There were two doors straight ahead and one to the left. Light was seeping
through a crack above the door. She stood still and listened. Then she heard a voice
and the scraping of a chair in the room to the left.
She took two swift steps and threw open the door and aimed her gun at… the
room was empty.
She heard the rustle of clothing behind her and spun around like a lizard. As she
tried to raise the gun to firing position, one of Niedermann’s enormous hands
closed like an iron vise around her neck and the other clamped around her gun
hand. He held her by the neck and lifted her straight up in the air as if she were a
doll.
For a moment she kicked her feet in midair. Then she twisted around and kicked at
Niedermann’s crotch. She hit his hip instead. It felt like kicking a tree trunk. Her
vision was going black as he squeezed her neck and she felt herself drop the gun.
Fuckers.
Then Niedermann threw her across the room. She landed on a sofa with a crash
and slid to the floor. She felt blood rushing to her head and staggered to her feet.
She saw a heavy glass ashtray on a table and grabbed it and tried to fling it
backhand. Niedermann caught her arm in mid-swing. She reached into her left
pants pocket with her free hand and pulled out the Taser, twisting around to shove
it into Niedermann’s crotch.
She felt a hefty jolt from the electric shock come through the arm Niedermann was
holding her with. She had expected him to collapse in pain. Instead he looked down
at her with a surprised expression. Salander’s eyes widened in alarm. He seemed to
experience some unpleasantness, but if he felt any pain he ignored it. This man is
not normal.
Niedermann bent and took the Taser from her and examined it with a puzzled look.
Then he slapped her across the head. It was like being hit with a club. She tumbled
to the floor next to the sofa. She looked up and saw that Niedermann was
watching her curiously, as if wondering what her next move would be. Like a cat
getting ready to play with its prey.
Then she sensed a movement in the doorway. She turned her head.
He came slowly into the light.
He was leaning on a forearm crutch and she could see a prosthesis sticking out
from his pants leg. There were two fingers missing from his left hand.
She raised her eyes to his face. The left half was a patchwork of scar tissue. His ear
was a little stump and he had no eyebrows. He was bald. She remembered him as a
virile and athletic man with wavy black hair. Now he was about five foot four, and
emaciated.
“Hello, Pappa,” she said tonelessly.
Alexander Zalachenko regarded his daughter without expression.
Niedermann turned on the ceiling light. He checked that she had no more weapons
by running his hands over her clothes and then clicked the safety on the P-83
Wanad and released the magazine. Zalachenko shuffled past them, sat in an
armchair, and picked up a remote control.
Salander’s eyes fell on the TV behind him. Zalachenko pressed the remote, and she
saw a green flickering image of the area behind the barn and part of the driveway
to the house. Infrared camera. They had known she was coming.
“I was beginning to think that you wouldn’t dare to make an approach,”
Zalachenko said. “We’ve been watching you since 4:00. You tripped just about every
alarm around the farm.”
“Motion detectors,” Salander said.
“Two by the road and four in the clearing on the other side of the field. You set up
your observation post on precisely the spot where we’d positioned alarms. It’s the
best view of the farm. Usually it’s moose or deer, and sometimes berry-pickers who
come too close. But we don’t often get to see somebody sneak up to the front door
with a gun in their hand.” He paused for a moment. “Did you really think
Zalachenko would sit in his little house in the country completely unprotected?”
Salander massaged the back of her neck and began to get up.
“Stay there on the floor,” Zalachenko said.
Niedermann stopped fiddling with the gun and watched her quietly. He raised an
eyebrow and smiled at her. Salander remembered Paolo Roberto’s battered face on
TV and decided it would be a good idea to stay on the floor. She breathed out and
leaned back against the sofa.
Zalachenko held out his intact right hand. Niedermann pulled a weapon out of his
waistband, cocked it, and gave it to him. Salander noticed that it was a Sig Sauer,
standard police issue. Zalachenko nodded, and Niedermann turned away and put on
a jacket. He left the room and Salander heard the front door open and close.
“In case you get any stupid ideas, if you even try to get up I’ll shoot you right in the
gut.”
Salander relaxed. He might manage to get off two, maybe three shots before she
could reach him, and he was probably using ammo that would make her bleed to
death in a few minutes.
“You look like shit,” Zalachenko said. “Like a fucking whore. But you’ve got my
eyes.”
“Does it hurt?” she asked, nodding at his prosthesis.
Zalachenko looked at her for a long time. “No. Not anymore.”
Salander stared at him.
“You’d really like to kill me, wouldn’t you?” he said.
She said nothing. He laughed.
“I’ve thought about you over the years. In fact almost every time I look in the
mirror.”
“You should have left my mother alone.”
“Your mother was a whore.”
Salander’s eyes turned black as coal. “She was no whore. She worked as a cashier in
a supermarket and tried to make ends meet.”
Zalachenko laughed again. “You can have whatever fantasies you want about her.
But I know that she was a whore. And she made sure to get pregnant right away
and then tried to get me to marry her. As if I’d marry a whore.”
Salander looked down the barrel of the gun and hoped he would relax his
concentration for an instant.
“The firebomb was sneaky. I hated you for that. But in time it didn’t matter. You
weren’t worth the energy. If you’d only let things be.”
“Bullshit. Bjurman asked you to fix me.”
“That was another thing entirely. He needed a film that you have, so I made a little
business deal.”
“And you thought I’d give the film to you.”
“Yes, my dear daughter. I’m convinced that you would have. You have no idea how
cooperative people can be when Ronald asks for something. And especially when he
starts up a chain saw and saws off one of your feet. In this case it would have been
appropriate compensation—a foot for a foot.”
Salander thought about Miriam at the hands of Niedermann in the warehouse.
Zalachenko misinterpreted her expression.
“You don’t have to worry. We don’t intend to cut you up. But tell me: did Bjurman
rape you?”
She said nothing.
“Damn, what appalling taste he must have had. I read in the paper that you’re some
sort of fucking dyke. That’s no surprise. There can’t be a man who’d want you.”
Salander still said nothing.
“Maybe I should ask Niedermann to screw you. You look as if you need it.” He
thought about it. “Although Ronald doesn’t have sex with girls. He’s not a fairy. He
just doesn’t have sex.”
“Then maybe you should screw me,” Salander said to provoke him.
Come closer. Make a mistake.
“No, thanks all the same. That would be perverse.”
They were silent for a moment.
“What are we waiting for?” Salander asked.
“My companion is coming right back. He just had to move his car and run a little
errand. Where’s your sister?”
Salander shrugged.
“Answer me.”
“I don’t know and I honestly don’t give a shit.”
He laughed again. “Sisterly love, eh? Camilla was always the one with the brains—
you were just worthless filth. But I have to admit it’s quite satisfying to see you
again up close.”
“Zalachenko,” she said, “you’re a tiresome fuck. Was it Niedermann who shot
Bjurman?”
“Naturally. Ronald is the perfect soldier. He not only obeys orders, he also takes his
own initiative when necessary.”
“Where did you dig him up?”
Zalachenko gave his daughter a peculiar look. He opened his mouth as if to say
something, but decided against it. He glanced at the front door and then smiled at
Salander.
“You mean you haven’t worked it out yet?” he said. “According to Bjurman you’re
supposed to be a good researcher.” Then Zalachenko roared with laughter. “We
used to hang out together in Spain in the early nineties when I was convalescing
from your little firebomb. He was twenty-two and became my arms and legs. He
isn’t an employee … it’s a partnership. We have a flourishing business.”
“Sex trafficking.”
“You could say that we’ve diversified and deal with many different goods and
services. Our business model is to stay in the background and never be seen. But
you must have worked out who Ronald is.”
Salander did not know what he was getting at.
“He’s your brother,” Zalachenko said.
“No,” Salander said, breathless.
Zalachenko laughed again. But the barrel of the pistol was still pointed unnervingly
at her.
“Well, I should say he’s your half brother,” Zalachenko said. “The result of a brief
diversion during an assignment I had in Germany in 1969.”
“You’ve turned your son into a murderer.”
“Oh no, I’ve only helped him realize his potential. He had the ability to kill long
before I took over his training. And he’s going to run the family business long after
I’m gone.”
“Does he know that we’re half siblings?”
“Of course. But if you think you can appeal to his brotherly love, forget it. I’m his
family. You’re just a buzz on the horizon. And he isn’t your only sibling. You have at
least four more brothers and three sisters in various countries. One of your other
brothers is an idiot, but another actually has potential. He runs the Tallinn arm of
the business. But Ronald is the only one who really lives up to the Zalachenko
genes.”
“I don’t suppose my sisters will get a role in the family business.”
Zalachenko looked startled at the suggestion.
“Zalachenko … you’re just an ordinary asshole who hates women. Why did you kill
Bjurman?”
“Bjurman was a moron. He couldn’t believe it when he learned you were my
daughter. He was one of the few people in this country who knew about my
background. I have to admit that it made me nervous when he contacted me out of
the blue, but then everything turned out for the best. He died and you got the
blame.”
“But why shoot him?”
“Well, it wasn’t really planned. It’s always useful to have a back door into Säpo.
Even if I haven’t needed one for years. And even if he’s a moron. But that journalist
in Enskede had somehow found a connection between him and me and called him
just as Ronald was at his apartment. Bjurman panicked, went berserk. Ronald had
to make a decision on the spot. He acted quite correctly.”
Salander’s heart sank like a stone when her father confirmed what she had already
suspected. Svensson had found a connection. She had talked to Svensson and
Johansson for more than an hour. She’d liked the woman immediately but was a
little cooler towards the journalist. He reminded her too much of Blomkvist—an
insufferable do-gooder who thought he could change everything with a book. But
she had recognized his honest intentions.
It turned out that her visit had been a waste of time. They couldn’t point her to
Zalachenko. Svensson had found his name and started digging, but he wasn’t able
to identify him.
Instead, she had made a devastating mistake. She knew that there had to be a
connection between Bjurman and Zalachenko, and she asked questions about
Bjurman in an attempt to ascertain whether Svensson had come across his name.
He hadn’t, but his suspicions were instantly aroused. He zeroed right in on Bjurman
and plied her with questions.
She gave him very little, but he had understood that Salander was a player in the
drama. He also realized that he had information she wanted. They had agreed to
meet again for further discussions after Easter. Then Salander had gone home to
bed. When she woke up the next morning, she was greeted by the news that two
people had been murdered in an apartment in Enskede.
She had given Svensson only one piece of usable information: the name Nils
Bjurman. He must have called Bjurman the minute she left the apartment.
And she was the link. If she hadn’t visited Svensson, he and Johansson would still
be alive.
Zalachenko said: “You have no idea how surprised we were when the police started
hunting you for the murders.”
Salander bit her lip.
Zalachenko scrutinized her. “How did you find me?” he said.
She shrugged.
“Lisbeth … Ronald is coming back soon. I can tell him to break the bones in your
body one by one until you answer. Save us the trouble.”
“The P.O. box. I traced Niedermann’s car from the rental agency and waited until
that pimply shit showed up and emptied the box.”
“Aha. So simple. Thanks. I’ll remember that.”
The muzzle of the pistol was still pointing at her chest.
“Do you really think this is going to blow over?” Salander said. “You’ve made too
many mistakes. The police are going to identify you.”
“I know. Björck called yesterday and told me that a journalist from Millennium has
been sniffing around and that it was just a matter of time. It’s possible that we’ll
have to do something about that.”
“It’ll be a long list,” Salander said. “Mikael Blomkvist and Erika Berger, the editor in
chief, the managing editor, and half a dozen others at Millennium alone. And then
you have Dragan Armansky and some of his staff at Milton Security. And Detective
Inspector Bublanski and everyone involved in the investigation. How many people
would you have to kill to cover this up? No, they’re going to get to you.”
Zalachenko gave her a horrible twisted smile.
“So what? I haven’t shot anybody, and there isn’t one shred of forensic evidence
against me. They can identify whoever the hell they want. Believe me … they can
search this house from top to bottom and they won’t find so much as a speck of
dust that could connect me to any criminal activity. It was Säpo who locked you up
in the asylum, not me, and it won’t take much for them to put all the papers on
the table.”
“Niedermann,” Lisbeth reminded him.
“Early tomorrow morning Ronald is going on vacation abroad for a while and he’ll
wait out whatever develops.”
Zalachenko gave Salander a triumphant look.
“You’re still going to be the prime suspect. So it’s best if you just disappear.”
It was almost an hour before Niedermann returned. He was wearing boots.
Salander glanced at the man who according to her father was her half brother. She
couldn’t see the slightest resemblance. In fact, he was her diametrical opposite. But
she felt very strongly that there was something wrong with Niedermann. His build,
the weak face, and the voice that hadn’t really broken—they all seemed like genetic
defects of some sort. He had evidently been insensitive to the Taser, and his hands
were enormous. Nothing about Ronald Niedermann seemed quite normal.
There are all sorts of genetic defects in the Zalachenko family, she thought bitterly.
“Ready?” Zalachenko asked.
Niedermann nodded. He held out his hand for the Sig Sauer.
“I’ll come with you,” Zalachenko said.
Niedermann hesitated. “It’s quite a walk.”
“I’ll come anyway. Get my jacket.”
Niedermann shrugged and did as he was told. Zalachenko put on his jacket and
vanished into the next room for a while. Salander watched as Niedermann screwed
what appeared to be a homemade silencer onto the gun.
“All right, let’s go,” Zalachenko said from the door.
Niedermann bent and pulled Salander to her feet. She looked him in the eye.
“I’m going to kill you too,” she said.
“You’re very sure of yourself. I’ll say that for you,” her father said.
Niedermann smiled mildly and then pushed her towards the front door and out
into the yard. He kept a firm grip on the back of her neck His fingers could reach
almost all the way around it. He steered her towards the woods beyond the barn.
They moved slowly and Niedermann stopped occasionally to let Zalachenko catch
up. They both had powerful flashlights. When they reached the edge of the woods
Niedermann let go of Salander’s neck. He kept the pistol trained on her back.
They followed a difficult path for about four hundred yards. Salander stumbled
twice, but each time was lifted to her feet.
“Turn right here,” Niedermann said.
After about fifty feet they came into a clearing. Lisbeth saw a hole in the ground. In
the beam of Niedermann’s flashlight she saw a spade stuck in a mound of soil. Then
she understood Niedermann’s assignment. He pushed her towards the hole and she
tripped and went down on all fours with her hands buried deep in the sandy earth.
She got up and gave him an expressionless look. Zalachenko was taking his time,
and Niedermann waited patiently. The muzzle of the pistol was unswervingly
aimed at her chest.
Zalachenko was out of breath. It was more than a minute before he could speak.
“I ought to say something, but I don’t think I have anything to say to you,” he said.
“That’s fine by me,” Salander said. “I don’t have much to say to you either.” She
gave him a lopsided smile.
“Let’s get it over with,” Zalachenko said.
“I’m glad that my very last act was to have you locked away forever,” Salander said.
“The police will be here tonight.”
“Bullshit. I was expecting you to try a bluff. You came here to kill me and nothing
else. You didn’t say anything to anybody.”
Salander’s smile broadened. She suddenly looked malevolent.
“May I show you something, Pappa?”
Slowly she reached into her left-hand pants pocket and took out a rectangular
object. Niedermann watched her every move.
“Every word you’ve said in the past hour has been broadcast over Internet radio.”
She held up her Palm Tungsten T3 computer.
Zalachenko’s brow furrowed where his eyebrows should have been.
“Let’s see that,” he said, holding out his good hand.
Salander lobbed the PDA to him. He caught it in midair.“Bullshit,” Zalachenko said.
“This is an ordinary Palm.”
As Niedermann bent to look at her computer, Salander flung a fistful of sand right
into his eyes. He was blinded, but instinctively fired a round from his pistol.
Salander had already moved two steps to one side and the bullet only tore a hole
through the air where she had been standing. She grabbed the spade and swung it
at his gun hand. She hit him with the sharp edge full force across the knuckles and
saw his Sig Sauer fly in a wide arc away from them and into some bushes. Blood
spurted from a gash above his index finger.
He should be screaming with pain.
Niedermann fumbled with his wounded hand as he desperately tried to rub his
eyes with the other. Her only chance to win this fight was to cause him massive
damage, and as quickly as possible. If it came down to a physical contest she was
hopelessly lost. She needed five seconds to make it into the woods. She swung the
spade back over her shoulder and tried to twist the handle so that the edge would
hit first, but she was in the wrong position. The flat side of the spade smacked into
Niedermann’s face.
Niedermann grunted as his nose broke for the second time in a matter of days. He
was still blinded by the sand, but he swung his right arm and managed to shove
Salander away from him. She stumbled over a tree root. For a second she was down
on the ground but sprang instantly to her feet. Niedermann was briefly out of
action.
I’m going to make it.
She took two steps towards the undergrowth when out of the corner of her eye—
click—she saw Zalachenko raise his arm.
The fucking old man has a gun too.
The realization cracked like a whip through her mind.
She changed direction in the same instant the shot was fired. The bullet struck the
outside of her hip and made her spin off balance.
She felt no pain.
The second bullet hit her in the back and stopped against her left shoulder blade. A
paralyzing pain sliced through her body.
She went down on her knees. For a few seconds she could not move. She was
conscious that Zalachenko was behind her, about twenty feet away. With one last
surge of energy she stubbornly hurled herself to her feet and took a wobbly step
towards the cover of the bushes.
Zalachenko had time to aim.
The third bullet caught her about an inch below the top of her left ear. It
penetrated her skull and caused a spiderweb of radial cracks in her cranium. The
lead came to rest in the grey matter about two inches beneath the cerebral cortex,
by the cerebrum.
For Salander the medical detail was academic. The bullet caused immediate massive
trauma. Her last sensation was a glowing red shock that turned into a white light.
Then darkness.
Click.
Zalachenko tried to fire one more round, but his hands were shaking so hard that
he couldn’t aim. She almost got away. And then he realized that she was dead and
he lowered his weapon, shivering as the adrenaline flowed through his body. He
looked down at his gun. He had considered leaving it behind, but had gone to get it
and put it in his jacket pocket as though he needed a mascot. A monster. They were
two fully grown men, and one of them was Ronald Niedermann, who had been
armed with his Sig Sauer. And that fucking whore almost got away.
He glanced at his daughter’s body. In the beam from his flashlight she looked like a
bloody rag doll. He clicked the safety catch on and stuffed the pistol into his jacket
pocket and went over to Niedermann, who was standing helpless, tears running
from his dirt-filled eyes and blood from his hand and nose. “I think I broke my nose
again,” he said.
“Idiot,” Zalachenko said. “She almost got away.”
Niedermann kept rubbing his eyes. They didn’t hurt, but the tears were flowing and
he could scarcely see.
“Stand up straight, damn it.” Zalachenko shook his head in contempt. “What the
hell would you do without me?”
Niedermann blinked in despair. Zalachenko limped over to his daughter’s body and
grabbed her jacket by the collar. He dragged her to the grave that was only a hole
in the ground, too small even for Salander to lie stretched out. He lifted the body so
that her feet were over the opening and let her tumble in. She landed facedown in
a fetal position, her legs bent under her.
“Fill it in so we can go home,” Zalachenko commanded.
It took the half-blind Niedermann a while to shovel the soil in around her. What
was left over he spread out around the clearing with powerful jabs of the spade.
Zalachenko smoked a cigarette as he watched Niedermann work. He was still
shivering, but the adrenaline had begun to subside. He felt a sudden relief that she
was gone. He could still picture her eyes as she threw the firebomb all those many
years ago.
It was 9:30 when Zalachenko shone his flashlight around and declared himself
satisfied. It took a while longer to find the Sig Sauer in the undergrowth. Then they
went back to the house. Zalachenko was feeling wonderfully gratified. He tended to
Niedermann’s hand. The spade had cut deep and he had to find a needle and thread
to sew up the wound—a skill he had learned in military school in Novosibirsk as a
fifteen-year-old. At least he didn’t need to administer an anaesthetic. But it was
possible that the wound was sufficiently serious for Niedermann to have to go to
the hospital. He put a splint on the finger and bandaged it. They would decide in
the morning.
When he was finished he got himself a beer as Niedermann rinsed his eyes over
and over in the bathroom.
0 comments:
Post a Comment