CHAPTER 14
Wednesday, 18.v
Figuerola got up at 5.00 on Wednesday morning and went
for an unusually short run before she showered and
for an unusually short run before she showered and
dressed in black jeans, a white top, and a lightweight grey
linen jacket. She made coffee and poured it into a thermos
and then made sandwiches. She also strapped on a
shoulder holster and took her Sig Sauer from the gun
cabinet. Just after 6.00 she drove her white Saab 9-5 to
Vittangigatan in Vällingby.
Mårtensson’s apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building in the suburbs. The day before, she had
assembled everything that could be found out about him in
the public archives. He was unmarried, but that did not
mean that he might not be living with someone. He had no
black marks in police records, no great fortune, and did not
seem to lead a fast life. He very seldom called in sick.
The one conspicuous thing about him was that he had
licences for no fewer than sixteen weapons. Three of them
were hunting rifles, the others were handguns of various
types. As long as he had a licence, of course, there was no
crime, but Figuerola harboured a deep scepticism about
anyone who collected weapons on such a scale.
The Volvo with the registration beginning KAB was in the
car park about thirty metres from where Figuerola herself
parked. She poured black coffee into a paper cup and ate
a lettuce and cheese baguette. Then she peeled an
orange and sucked each segment to extinction.
At morning rounds, Salander was out of sorts and had a
bad headache. She asked for a Tylenol, which she was
immediately given.
After an hour the headache had grown worse. She rang for
the nurse and asked for another Tylenol. That did not help
either. By lunchtime she had such a headache that the
nurse called Dr Endrin, who examined her patient briskly
and prescribed a powerful painkiller.
Salander held the tablets under her tongue and spat them
out as soon as she was alone.
At 2.00 in the afternoon she threw up. This recurred at
around 3.00.
At 4.00 Jonasson came up to the ward just as Dr Endrin
was about to go home. They conferred briefly.
“She feels sick and she has a strong headache. I gave her
Dexofen. I don’t understand what’s going on with her. She’s
been doing so well lately. It might be some sort of flu …”
“Does she have a fever?” asked Jonasson.
“No. She had 37.2 an hour ago.”
“I’m going to keep an eye on her overnight.”
“I’ll be going on holiday for three weeks,” Endrin said.
“Either you or Svantesson will have to take over her case.
But Svantesson hasn’t had much to do with her …”
“I’ll arrange to be her primary care doctor while you’re on
holiday.”
“Good. If there’s a crisis and you need help, do call.”
They paid a short visit to Salander’s sickbed. She was lying
with the sheet pulled up to the tip of her nose, and she
looked miserable. Jonasson put his hand on her forehead
and felt that it was damp.
“I think we’ll have to do a quick examination.”
He thanked Dr Endrin, and she left.
At 5.00 Jonasson discovered that Salander had developed
a temperature of 37.8, which was noted on her chart. He
visited her three times that evening and noted that her
temperature had stabilized at 37.8 – too high, certainly, but
not so high as to present a real problem. At 8.00 he
ordered a cranial X-ray.
When the X-rays came through he studied them intently.
He could not see anything remarkable, but he did observe
that there was a barely visible darker area immediately
adjacent to the bullet hole. He wrote a carefully worded and
noncommittal comment on her chart: Radiological
noncommittal comment on her chart: Radiological
examination gives a basis for definitive conclusions but the
condition of the patient has deteriorated steadily during the
day. It cannot be ruled out that there is a minor bleed that
is not visible on the images. The patient should be confined
to bedrest and kept under strict observation until further
notice.
Berger had received twenty-three emails by the time she
arrived at S.M.P. at 6.30 on Wednesday morning.
One of them had the address editorial-sr@swedishradio.com>. The text was short. A single word.
WHORE
She raised her index finger to delete the message. At the
last moment she changed her mind. She went back to her
inbox and opened the message that had arrived two days
before. The sender was centraled@smpost.se>. So … two
emails with the word “whore” and a phoney sender from the
world of mass media. She created a new folder called
[MediaFool] and saved both messages. Then she got busy
on the morning memo.
Mårtensson left home at 7.40 that morning. He got into his
Volvo and drove towards the city but turned off to go
across Stora Essingen and Gröndal into Södermalm. He
drove down Hornsgatan and across to Bellmansgatan via
drove down Hornsgatan and across to Bellmansgatan via
Brännkyrkagatan. He turned left on to Tavastgatan at the
Bishop’s Arms pub and parked at the corner.
Just as Figuerola reached the Bishop’s Arms, a van pulled
out and left a parking space on Bellmansgatan at the
corner with Tavastgatan. From her ideal location at the top
of the hill she had an unobstructed view. She could just see
the back window of Mårtensson’s Volvo. Straight ahead of
her, on the steep slope down towards Pryssgränd, was
Bellmansgatan 1. She was looking at the building from the
side, so she could not see the front door itself, but as soon
as anyone came out on to the street, she would see them.
She had no doubt that this particular address was the
reason for Mårtensson’s being there. It was Blomkvist’s
front door.
Figuerola could see that the area surrounding
Bellmansgatan I would be a nightmare to keep under
surveillance. The only spot from which the entrance door to
the building could be observed directly was from the
promenade and footbridge on upper Bellmansgatan near
the Maria lift and the Laurinska building. There was
nowhere there to park a car, and the watcher would stand
exposed on the footbridge like a swallow perched on an old
telephone wire in the country. The crossroads of
Bellmansgatan and Tavastgatan, where Figuerola had
parked, was basically the only place where she could sit in
her car and have a view of the whole. She had been
her car and have a view of the whole. She had been
incredibly lucky. Yet it was not a particularly good place
because any alert observer would see her in her car. But
she did not want to leave the car and start walking around
the area. She was too easily noticeable. In her role as
undercover officer her looks worked against her.
Blomkvist emerged at 9.10. Figuerola noted the time. She
saw him look up at the footbridge on upper Bellmansgatan.
He started up the hill straight towards her.
She opened her handbag and unfolded a map of
Stockholm which she placed on the passenger seat. Then
she opened a notebook and took a pen from her jacket
pocket. She pulled out her mobile and pretended to be
talking, keeping her head bent so that the hand holding
her telephone hid part of her face.
She saw Blomkvist glance down Tavastgatan. He knew he
was being watched and he must have seen Mårtensson’s
Volvo, but he kept walking without showing any interest in
the car. Acts calm and cool. Somebody should have
opened the car door and scared the shit out of him.
The next moment he passed Figuerola’s car. She was
obviously trying to find an address on the map while she
talked on the telephone, but she could sense Blomkvist
looking at her as he passed. Suspicious of everything
around him. She saw him in the wing mirror on the
around him. She saw him in the wing mirror on the
passenger side as he went on down towards Hornsgatan.
She had seen him on T. V. a couple of times, but this was
the first time she had seen him in person. He was wearing
blue jeans, a T-shirt and a grey jacket. He carried a
shoulder bag and he walked with a long, loose stride. A
nice-looking man.
Mårtensson appeared at the corner by the Bishop’s Arms
and watched Blomkvist go. He had a large sports bag over
his shoulder and was just finishing a call on his mobile.
Figuerola expected him to follow his quarry, but to her
surprise he crossed the street right in front of her car and
turned down the hill towards Blomkvist’s building. A second
later a man in blue overalls passed her car and caught up
with Mårtensson. Hello, where did you spring from?
They stopped outside the door to Blomkvist’s building.
Mårtensson punched in the code and they disappeared
into the stairwell. They’re checking the apartment. Amateur
night. What the hell does he think he’s doing?
Then Figuerola raised her eyes to the rear-view mirror and
gave a start when she saw Blomkvist again. He was
standing about ten metres behind her, close enough that
he could keep an eye on Mårtensson and his buddy by
looking over the crest of the steep hill down towards
Bellmansgatan 1. She watched his face. He was not looking
at her. But he had seen Mårtensson go in through the front
at her. But he had seen Mårtensson go in through the front
door of his building. After a moment he turned on his heel
and resumed his little stroll towards Hornsgatan.
Figuerola sat motionless for thirty seconds. He knows he’s
being watched. He’s keeping track of what goes on around
him. But why doesn’t he react? A normal person would
react, and pretty strongly at that … He must have
something up his sleeve.
Blomkvist hung up and rested his gaze on the notebook on
his desk. The national vehicle register had just informed
him that the car he had seen at the top of Bellmansgatan
with the blonde woman inside was owned by Monica
Figuerola, born in 1969, and living on Pontonjärgatan in
Kungsholmen. Since it was a woman in the car, Blomkvist
assumed it was Figuerola herself.
She had been talking on her mobile and looking at a map
that was unfolded on the passenger seat. Blomkvist had no
reason to believe that she had anything to do with the
Zalachenko club, but he made a note of every deviation
from the norm in his working day, and especially around his
neighbourhood.
He called Karim in.
“Who is this woman, Lottie? Dig up her passport picture,
where she works … and anything else you can find.”
where she works … and anything else you can find.”
Sellberg looked rather startled. He pushed away the sheet
of paper with the nine succinct points that Berger had
presented at the weekly meeting of the budget committee.
Flodin looked similarly concerned. Chairman Borgsjö
appeared neutral, as always.
“This is impossible,” Sellberg said with a polite smile.
“Why so?” Berger said.
“The board will never go along with this. It defies all rhyme
or reason.”
“Shall we take it from the top?” Berger said. “I was hired to
make S.M.P. profitable again. To do that I have to have
something to work with, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I can’t wave a magic wand and conjure up the contents of
a daily newspaper by sitting in my glass cage and just
wishing for things.”
“You don’t quite understand the hard economic facts.”
“That’s quite possible. But I understand making
newspapers. And the reality is that over the past fifteen
years, S.M.P.’s personnel has been reduced by 118. Half
years, S.M.P.’s personnel has been reduced by 118. Half
were graphic artists and so on, replaced by new
technology … but the number of reporters contributing to
copy was reduced by 48 during that period.”
“Those were necessary cuts. If the staff hadn’t been cut,
the paper would have folded long since. At least Morander
understood the necessity of the reductions.”
“Well, let’s wait and see what’s necessary and what isn’t. In
three years, nineteen reporter jobs have disappeared. In
addition, we now have a situation in which nine positions at
S.M.P. are vacant and are being to some extent covered
by temps. The sports desk is dangerously understaffed.
There should be nine employees there, and for more than
a year two positions have remained unfilled.”
“It’s a question of saving money we’re not going to have.
It’s that simple.”
“The culture section has three unfilled positions. The
business section has one. The legal desk does not even in
practice exist … there we have a chief editor who borrows
reporters from the news desk for each of his features. And
so on. S.M.P. hasn’t done any serious coverage of the civil
service and government agencies for at least eight years.
We depend for that on freelancers and the material from
the T. T. wire service. And as you know, T. T. shut down its
civil service desk some years ago. In other words, there
civil service desk some years ago. In other words, there
isn’t a single news desk in Sweden covering the civil
service and the government agencies.”
“The newspaper business is in a vulnerable position—”
“The reality is that S.M.P. should either be shut down
immediately, or the board should find a way to take an
aggressive stance. Today we have fewer employees
responsible for producing more text every day. The articles
they turn out are terrible, superficial, and they lack
credibility. That’s why S.M.P. is losing its readers.”
“You don’t understand the situation—”
“I’m tired of hearing that I don’t understand the situation.
I’m not some temp. who’s just here for the bus fare.”
“But your proposal is off the wall.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re proposing that the newspaper should not be
profitable.”
“Listen, Sellberg, this year you will be paying out a huge
amount of money in dividends to the paper’s twenty-three
shareholders. Add to this the unforgivably absurd bonuses
that will cost S.M.P. almost ten million kronor for nine
individuals who sit on S.M.P.’s board.
individuals who sit on S.M.P.’s board.
You’ve awarded yourself a bonus of 400,000 kronor for
administering cutbacks. Of course it’s a long way from
being a bonus as huge as the ones that some of the
directors of Skandia grabbed. But in my eyes you’re not
worth a bonus of so much as one single öre. Bonuses
should be paid to people who do something to strengthen
S.M.P. The plain truth is that your cutbacks have
weakened S.M.P. and deepened the crisis we now find
ourselves in.”
“That is grossly unfair. The board approved every measure
I proposed.”
“The board approved your measures, of course they did,
because you guaranteed a dividend each year. That’s what
has to stop, and now.”
“So you’re suggesting in all seriousness that the board
should decide to abolish dividends and bonuses. What
makes you think the shareholders would agree to that?”
“I’m proposing a zero-profit operating budget this year.
That would mean savings of almost 21 million kronor and
the chance to beef up S.M.P.’s staff and finances. I’m also
proposing wage cuts for management. I’m being paid a
monthly salary of 88,000 kronor, which is utter insanity for
a newspaper that can’t add a job to its sports desk.”
a newspaper that can’t add a job to its sports desk.”
“So you want to cut your own salary? Is this some sort of
wage-communism you’re advocating?”
“Don’t bullshit me. You make 112,000 kronor a month, if
you add in your annual bonus. That’s off the wall. If the
newspaper were stable and bringing in a tremendous
profit, then pay out as much as you want in bonuses. But
this is no time for you to be increasing your own bonus. I
propose cutting all management salaries by half.”
“What you don’t understand is that our shareholders
bought stock in the paper because they want to make
money. That’s called capitalism. If you arrange that they’re
going to lose money, then they won’t want to be
shareholders any longer.”
“I’m not suggesting that they should lose money, though it
might come to that. Ownership implies responsibility. As you
yourself have pointed out, capitalism is what matters here.
S.M.P.’s owners want to make a profit. But it’s the market
decides whether you make a profit or take a loss. By your
reasoning, you want the rules of cap italism to apply solely
to the employees of S.M.P., while you and the
shareholders will be exempt.”
Sellberg rolled his eyes and sighed. He cast an entreating
glance at Borgsjö, but the chairman of the board was
glance at Borgsjö, but the chairman of the board was
intently studying Berger’s nine-point program.
Figuerola waited for forty-nine minutes before Mårtensson
and his companion in overalls came out of Bellmansgatan
1. As they started up the hill towards her, she very steadily
raised her Nikon with its 300mm telephoto lens and took
two pictures. She put the camera in the space under her
seat and was just about to fiddle with her map when she
happened to glance towards the Maria lift. Her eyes
opened wide. At the end of upper Bellmansgatan, right next
to the gate to the Maria lift, stood a dark-haired woman with
a digital camera filming Mårtensson and his companion.
What the hell? Is there some sort of spy convention on
Bellmansgatan today?
The two men parted at the top of the hill without
exchanging a word. Mårtensson went back to his car on
Tavastgatan. He pulled away from the curb and
disappeared from view.
Figuerola looked into her rear-view mirror, where she could
still see the back of the man in the blue overalls. She then
saw that the woman with the camera had stopped filming
and was heading past the Laurinska building in her
direction.
Heads or tails? She already knew who Mårtensson was
and what he was up to. The man in the blue overalls and
and what he was up to. The man in the blue overalls and
the woman with the camera were unknown entities. But if
she left her car, she risked being seen by the woman.
She sat still. In her rear-view mirror she saw the man in the
blue overalls turn into Brännkyrkagatan. She waited until
the woman reached the crossing in front of her, but instead
of following the man in the overalls, the woman turned 180
degrees and went down the steep hill towards
Bellmansgatan 1. Figuerola reckoned that she was in her
mid-thirties. She had short dark hair and was dressed in
dark jeans and a black jacket. As soon as she was a little
way down the hill, Figuerola pushed open her car door and
ran towards Brännkyrkagatan. She could not see the blue
overalls. The next second a Toyota van pulled away from
the kerb. Figuerola saw the man in half-profile and
memorized the registration number. But if she got the
registration wrong she would be able to trace him anyway.
The sides of the van advertised Lars Faulsson Lock and
Key Service – with a telephone number.
There was no need to follow the van. She walked calmly
back to the top of the hill just in time to see the woman
disappear through the entrance door of Blomkvist’s
building.
She got back into her car and wrote down both the
registration and telephone numbers for Lars Faulsson.
There was a lot of mysterious traffic around Blomkvist’s
There was a lot of mysterious traffic around Blomkvist’s
address that morning. She looked up towards the roof of
Bellmansgatan 1. She knew that Blomkvist’s apartment was
on the top floor, but on the blueprints from the city
construction office she knew that it was on the other side of
the building, with dormer windows looking out on Gamla
Stan and the waters of Riddarfjärden. An exclusive address
in a fine old cultural quarter. She wondered whether he was
an ostentatious nouveau riche.
Ten minutes later the woman with the camera came out of
the building again. Instead of going back up the hill to
Tavastgatan, she continued down the hill and turned right
at the corner of Pryssgränd. Hmm. If she had a car parked
down on Pryssgränd, Figuerola was out of luck. But if she
was walking, there was only one way out of the dead end –
up to Brännkyrkagatan via Pustegränd and towards
Slussen.
Figuerola decided to leave her car behind and turned left
in the direction of Slussen on Brännkyrkagatan. She had
almost reached Pustegränd when the woman appeared,
coming up towards her. Bingo. She followed her past the
Hilton on Södermalmstorg and past the Stadsmuseum at
Slussen. The woman walked quickly and purposefully
without once looking round. Figuerola gave her a lead of
about thirty metres. When she went into Slussen
tunnelbana Figuerola picked up her pace, but stopped
when she saw the woman head for the Pressbyrån kiosk
when she saw the woman head for the Pressbyrån kiosk
instead of through the turnstiles.
She watched the woman as she stood in the queue at the
kiosk. She was about one metre seventy and looked to be
in pretty good shape. She was wearing running shoes.
Seeing her with both feet planted firmly as she stood by the
window of the kiosk, Figuerola suddenly had the feeling
that she was a policewoman. She bought a tin of Catch Dry
snuff and went back out on to Södermalmstorg and turned
right across Katarinavägen.
Figuerola followed her. She was almost certain the woman
had not seen her. The woman turned the corner at
McDonald’s and Figuerola hurried after her, but when she
got to the corner, the woman had vanished without a trace.
Figuerola stopped short in consternation. Shit. She walked
slowly past the entrances to the buildings. Then she
caught sight of a brass plate that read Milton Security.
Figuerola walked back to Bellmansgatan.
She drove to Götgatan where the offices of Millennium
were and spent the next half hour walking around the
streets in the area. She did not see Mårtensson’s car. At
lunchtime she returned to police headquarters in
Kungsholmen and spent two hours thinking as she pumped
iron in the gym.
“We’ve got a problem,” Cortez said.
Eriksson and Blomkvist looked up from the typescript of the
book about the Zalachenko case. It was 1.30 in the
afternoon.
“Take a seat,” Eriksson said.
“It’s about Vitavara Inc., the company that makes the 1700
kronor toilets in Vietnam.”
“Alright. What’s the problem?” Blomkvist said.
“Vitavara Inc. is a wholly owned subsidiary of Svea
Construction Inc.”
“I see. That’s a very large firm.”
“Yes, it is. The chairman of the board is Magnus Borgsjö, a
professional board member. He’s also the chairman of the
board of Svenska Morgon-Posten and owns about 10 per
cent of it.”
Blomkvist gave Cortez a sharp look. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. Berger’s boss is a bloody crook, a man who exploits
child labour in Vietnam.”
Assistant Editor Fredriksson looked to be in a bad mood as
he knocked on the door of Berger’s glass cage at 2.00 in
the afternoon.
“What is it?”
“Well, this is a little embarrassing, but somebody in the
newsroom got an email from you.”
“From me? So? What does it say?
He handed her some printouts of emails addressed to Eva
Carlsson, a 26-year-old temp on the culture pages.
According to the headers the sender was
erika.berger@smpost.se>:
Darling Eva. I want to caress you and kiss
your breasts. I’m hot with excitement and can’t
control myself. I beg you to reciprocate my
feelings. Could we meet? Erika
And then two emails on the following days:
Dearest, darling Eva. I beg you not to reject
me. I’m crazy with desire. I want to have you
naked. I have to have you. I’m going to make
you so happy. You’ll never regret it. I’m going
to kiss every inch of your naked skin, your
lovely breasts, and your delicious grotto. Erika
lovely breasts, and your delicious grotto. Erika
Eva. Why don’t you reply? Don’t be afraid of
me. Don’t push me away. You’re no innocent.
You know what it’s all about. I want to have sex
with you and I’m going to reward you
handsomely. If you’re nice to me then I’ll be
nice to you. You’ve asked for an extension of
your temporary job. I have the power to extend
it and even make it a full-time position. Let’s
meet tonight at 9.00 by my car in the garage.
Your Erika
“Alright,” Berger said. “And now she’s wondering if it was
me that wrote to her, is that it?”
“Not exactly … I mean … geez.”
“Peter, please speak up.”
“She sort of halfway believed the first email although she
was quite surprised by it. But then she realized that this
isn’t exactly your style and then …”
“Then?”
“Well, she thinks it’s embarrassing and doesn’t quite know
what to do. Part of it is probably that she’s very impressed
by you and likes you a lot … as a boss, I mean. So she
came to me and asked for my advice.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I said that someone had faked your address and is
obviously harassing her. Or possibly both of you. And I said
I’d talk to you about it.”
“Thank you. Could you please ask her to come to my office
in ten minutes?”
In the meantime Berger composed her own email.
It has come to my attention that an employee
of S.M.P. has received a number of emails that
appear to come from me. The emails contain
vulgar sexual innuendos. I have also received
similar emails from a sender who purports to
be “centraled” at S.M.P. No such address
exists.
I have consulted the head of the I.T.
department, who informs me that it is very
easy to fake a sender’s address. I don’t
understand how it’s done, but there are sites
on the Internet where such things can be
arranged. I have to draw the conclusion that
some sick individual is doing this.
I want to know if any other colleagues have
received strange emails. If so, I would like
them to inform Fredriksson of this immediately.
If these very unpleasant pranks continue we
will have to consider reporting them to the
police.
Erika Berger, Editor-in-Chief
She printed a copy of the email and then pressed send so
that the message went out to all employees in the
company. At that moment, Eva Carlsson knocked on the
door.
“Hello, have a seat,” Berger said. “Peter told me that you
got an email from me.”
“Well, I didn’t really think it came from you.”
“Thirty seconds ago you did get an email from me. I wrote it
all by myself and sent it to everyone in the company.”
She handed Carlsson the printout.
“O.K. I get it,” the girl said.
“I’m really sorry that somebody decided to target you for
this ugly campaign.”
“You don’t have to apologize for the actions of some idiot.”
“I just want to make sure that you don’t have one lingering
grain of a suspicion that I had anything to do with these
emails.”
“I never believed you sent them.”
“Thanks,” Berger said with a smile.
Figuerola spent the afternoon gathering information. She
started by ordering passport photographs of Faulsson.
Then she ran a check in the criminal records and got a hit
at once.
Lars Faulsson, forty-seven years old and known by the
nickname Falun, had begun his criminal career stealing
cars at seventeen. In the ’70s and ’80s he was twice
arrested and charged with breaking and entering, burglary
and receiving stolen goods. The first time he was given a
light prison sentence; the second time he got three years.
At that time he was regarded as “up and coming” in
criminal circles and had been questioned as a suspect in
three other burglaries, one of which was a relatively
complicated and widely reported safecracking heist at a
department store in Västerås. When he got out of prison in
1984 he kept his nose clean – or at least he did not pull
any jobs that got him arrested and convicted again. But he
had retrained himself to be a locksmith (of all professions),
and in 1987 he started his own company, the Lock and Key
Service, with an address near Norrtull in Stockholm.
Identifying the woman who had filmed Mårtensson and
Faulsson proved to be easier than she had anticipated.
She simply called Milton Security and explained that she
was looking for a female employee she had met a while
ago and whose name she had forgotten. She could give a
good description of the woman. The switchboard told her
that it sounded like Susanne Linder, and put her through.
When Linder answered the telephone, Figuerola
apologized and said she must have dialled the wrong
number.
The public register listed eighteen Susanne Linders in
Stockholm county, three of them around thirty-five years
old. One lived in Norrtälje, one in Stockholm, and one in
Nacka. She requisitioned their passport photographs and
identified at once the woman she had followed from
Bellmansgatan as the Susanne Linder who lived in Nacka.
She set out her day’s work in a memo and went in to see
Edklinth.
Edklinth.
Blomkvist closed Cortez’s research folder and pushed it
away with distaste. Malm put down the printout of his
article, which he had read four times. Cortez sat on the
sofa in Eriksson’s office looking guilty.
“Coffee,” Eriksson said, getting up. She came back with
four mugs and the coffee pot.
“This is a great sleazy story,” Blomkvist said. “First-class
research. Documentation to the hilt. Perfect dramaturgy
with a bad guy who swindles Swedish tenants through the
system – which is legal – but who is so greedy and so
bloody stupid that he outsources to this company in
Vietnam.”
“Very well written too,” Malm said. “The day after we publish
this, Borgsjö is going to be persona non grata. T. V. is
going to pick this up. He’s going to be right up there with
the directors of Skandia. A genuine scoop for Millennium.
Well done, Henry.”
“But this thing with Erika is a real fly in the ointment,”
Blomkvist said.
“Why should that be a problem?” Eriksson said. “Erika isn’t
the villain. We have to be free to examine any chairman of
the board, even if he happens to be her boss.”
“It’s a hell of a dilemma,” Blomkvist said.
“Erika hasn’t altogether left here,” Malm said. “She owns 30
per cent of Millennium and sits on our board. In fact, she’s
chairman of the board until we can elect Harriet Vanger at
the next board meeting, and that won’t be until August. Plus
Erika is working at S.M.P., where she also sits on the
board, and you’re about to expose her chairman.”
Glum silence.
“So what the hell are we going to do?” Cortez said. “Do we
kill the article?”
Blomkvist looked Cortez straight in the eye. “No, Henry.
We’re not going to kill the article. That’s not the way we do
things at Millennium.
But this is going to take some legwork. We can’t just dump
it on Erika’s desk as a newspaper billboard.”
Malm waved a finger in the air. “We’re really putting Erika
on the spot. She’ll have to choose between selling her
share of Millennium and leaving our board … or in the
worst case, she could get fired by S.M.P. Either way she
would have a fearful conflict of interest. Honestly, Henry … I
agree with Mikael that we should publish the story, but we
may have to postpone it for a month.”
“Because we’re facing a conflict of loyalties too,” Blomkvist
said.
“Should I call her?”
“No, Christer,” Blomkvist said. “I’ll call her and arrange to
meet. Say for tonight.”
Figuerola gave a summary of the circus that had sprung up
around Blomkvist’s building on Bellmansgatan. Edklinth felt
the floor sway slightly beneath his chair.
“An employee of S.I.S. goes into Blomkvist’s building with
an ex-safebreaker, now retrained as a locksmith.”
“Correct.”
“What do you think they did in the stairwell?”
“I don’t know. But they were in there for forty-nine minutes.
My guess is that Faulsson opened the door and
Mårtensson spent the time in Blomkvist’s apartment.”
“And what did they do there?”
“It couldn’t have been to plant bugs, because that takes
only a minute or so. Mårtensson must have been looking
through Blomkvist’s papers or whatever else he keeps at
his place.”
his place.”
“But Blomkvist has already been warned … they stole
Björck’s report from there.”
“Quite right. He knows he’s being watched, and he’s
watching the ones who are watching him. He’s calculating.”
“Calculating what?”
“I mean, he has a plan. He’s gathering information and is
going to expose Mårtensson. That’s the only reasonable
explanation.”
“And then this Linder woman?”
“Susanne Linder, former police officer.”
“Police officer?”
“She graduated from the police academy and worked for
six years on the Södermalm crime team. She resigned
abruptly. There’s nothing in her file that says why. She was
out of a job for several months before she was hired by
Milton Security.”
“Armansky,” Edklinth said thoughtfully. “How long was she
in the building?”
“Nine minutes.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m guessing – since she was filming Mårtensson and
Faulsson on the street – that she’s documenting their
activities. That means that Milton Security is working with
Blomkvist and has placed surveillance cameras in his
apartment or in the stairwell. She probably went in to
collect the film.”
Edklinth sighed. The Zalachenko story was beginning to
get tremendously complicated.
“Thank you. You go home. I have to think about this.”
Figuerola went to the gym at St Eriksplan.
Blomkvist used his second mobile when he punched in
Berger’s number at S.M.P. He interrupted a discussion she
was having with her editors about what angle to give an
article on international terrorism.
“Oh, hello, it’s you … wait a second.”
Berger put her hand over the mouthpiece.
“I think we’re done,” she said, and gave them one last
instruction. When she was alone she said: “Hello, Mikael.
Sorry not to have been in touch. I’m just so swamped here.
There are a thousand things I’ve got to learn. How’s the
Salander stuff going?”
“Good. But that’s not why I called. I have to see you.
Tonight.”
“I wish I could, but I have to be here until 8.00. And I’m
dead tired. I’ve been at it since dawn. What’s it about?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. But it’s not good.”
“I’ll come to your place at 8.30.”
“No. Not at mine. It’s a long story, but my apartment is
unsuitable for the time being. Let’s meet at Samir’s
Cauldron for a beer.”
“I’m driving.”
“Then we’ll have a light beer.”
*
Berger was slightly annoyed when she walked into Samir’s
Cauldron. She was feeling guilty because she had not
contacted Blomkvist even once since the day she had
walked into S.M.P.
Blomkvist waved from a corner table. She stopped in the
doorway. For a second he seemed a stranger. Who’s that
over there? God, I’m so tired. Then he stood and kissed
over there? God, I’m so tired. Then he stood and kissed
her on the cheek, and she realized to her dismay that she
had not even thought about him for several weeks and that
she missed him terribly. It was as though her time at S.M.P.
had been a dream and she might suddenly wake up on the
sofa at Millennium. It felt unreal.
“Hello, Mikael.”
“Hello, editor-in-chief. Have you eaten?”
“It’s 8.30. I don’t have your disgusting eating habits.”
Samir came over with the menu and, she realised she was
hungry. She ordered a beer and a small plate of calamari
with Greek potatoes. Blomkvist ordered couscous and a
beer.
“How are you?” she said.
“These are interesting times we’re living in. I’m swamped
too.”
“And Salander?”
“She’s part of what makes it so interesting.”
“Micke, I’m not going to steal your story.”
“I’m not trying to evade your question. The truth is that
right now everything is a little confused. I’d love to tell you
the whole thing, but it would take half the night. How do you
like being editor-inchief?”
“It’s not exactly Millennium. I fall asleep like a blown-out
candle as soon as I get home, and when I wake up, I see
spreadsheets before my eyes. I’ve missed you. Can’t we go
back to your place and sleep? I don’t have the energy for
sex, but I’d love to curl up and sleep next to you.”
“I’m sorry, Ricky. The apartment isn’t a good place right
now.”
“Why not? Has something happened?”
“Well, some spooks have bugged the place and they listen,
presumably, to every word I say. I’ve had cameras installed
to record what happens when I’m not home. I don’t think we
should let the state archives have footage of your naked
self.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. But that wasn’t why I had to see you tonight.”
“What is it? Tell me.”
“Well, I’ll be very direct. We’ve come across a story that will
sink your chairman. It’s about using child labour and
sink your chairman. It’s about using child labour and
exploiting political prisoners in Vietnam. We’re looking at a
conflict of interest.”
Berger put down her fork and stared at him. She saw at
once that he was not being funny.
“This is how things stand,” he said. “Borgsjö is chairman
and majority shareholder of a company called Svea
Construction, which in turn is sole owner of a subsidiary
called Vitavara Inc. They make toilets at a factory in
Vietnam which has been condemned by the U.N. for using
child labour.”
“Run that by me again.”
Blomkvist told her the details of the story that Cortez had
compiled. He opened his laptop bag and took out a copy of
the documentation. Berger read slowly through the article.
Finally she looked up and met Blomkvist’s eyes. She felt
unreasoning panic mixed with disbelief.
“Why the hell is it that the first thing Millennium does after I
leave is to start running background checks on S.M.P.’s
board members?”
“That’s not what happened, Ricky.” He explained how the
story had developed.
“And how long have you known about this?”
“Since today, since this afternoon. I feel deeply
uncomfortable about how this has unfolded.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. We have to publish. We can’t make an
exception just because it deals with your boss. But not one
of us wants to hurt you.” He threw up his hands. “We are all
extremely unhappy about the situation. Henry especially.”
“I’m still a member of Millennium’s board. I’m a part-owner
… it’s going to be viewed as—”
“I know exactly how it’s going to be viewed. You’re going to
land in a shitload of trouble at S.M.P.”
Berger felt weariness settling over her. She clenched her
teeth and stifled an impulse to ask Blomkvist to sit on the
story.
“God damn it,” she said. “And there’s no doubt in your
mind …”
Blomkvist shook his head. “I spent the whole afternoon
going over Henry’s documentation. We have Borgsjö ready
for the slaughter.”
“So what are you planning, and when?”
“What would you have done if we’d uncovered this story
two months ago?”
Berger looked intently at her friend, who had also been her
lover over the past twenty years. Then she lowered her
eyes.
“You know what I would have done.”
“This is a disastrous coincidence. None of it is directed at
you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. That’s why I insisted on
seeing you at once. We have to decide what to do.”
“We?”
“Listen … the story was slated to run in the July issue. I’ve
killed that idea. The earliest it could come out is August,
and it can be postponed for longer if you need more time.”
“I understand.” Her voice took on a bitter tone.
“I suggest we don’t decide anything now. Take the
documentation and go home and think it over. Don’t do
anything until we can agree a strategy. We’ve got time.”
“A common strategy?”
“You either have to resign from Millennium’s board before
we publish, or resign from S.M.P. You can’t wear both hats.
”
She nodded. “I’m so linked to Millennium that no-one will
believe I didn’t have a finger in this, whether I resign or not.
”
“There is an alternative. You could take the story to S.M.P.
and confront Borgsjö and demand his resignation. I’m quite
sure Henry would agree to that. But don’t do anything until
we all agree.”
“So I start by getting the person who recruited me fired.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He isn’t a bad person.”
“I believe you. But he’s greedy.”
Berger got up. “I’m going home.”
“Ricky, I—”
She interrupted him. “I’m just dead tired. Thanks for
warning me. I’ll let you know.”
She left without kissing him, and he had to pay the bill.
Berger had parked two hundred metres from the restaurant
and was halfway to her car when she felt such strong heart
palpitations that she had to stop and lean against a wall.
She felt sick.
She stood for a long time breathing in the mild May air. She
had been working fifteen hours a day since May 1. That
was almost three weeks. How would she feel after three
years? Was that how Morander had felt before he dropped
dead in the newsroom?
After ten minutes she went back to Samir’s Cauldron and
ran into Blomkvist as he was coming out of the door. He
stopped in surprise.
“Erika …”
“Mikael, don’t say a word. We’ve been friends so long –
nothing can destroy that. You’re my best friend, and this
feels exactly like the time you disappeared to Hedestad two
years ago, only vice versa. I feel stressed out and
unhappy.”
He put his arms around her. She felt tears in her eyes.
“Three weeks at S.M.P. have already done me in,” she
said.
“Now now. It takes more than that to do in Erika Berger.”
“Your apartment is compromised. And I’m too tired to drive
home. I’d fall asleep at the wheel and die in a crash. I’ve
decided. I’m going to walk to the Scandic Crown and book
a room. Come with me.”
“It’s called the Hilton now.”
“Same difference.”
They walked the short distance without talking. Blomkvist
had his arm around her shoulders. Berger glanced at him
and saw that he was just as tired as she was.
They went straight to the front desk, took a double room,
and paid with Berger’s credit card. When they got to the
room they undressed, showered, and crawled into bed.
Berger’s muscles ached as though she had just run the
Stockholm marathon. They cuddled for a while and then
both fell asleep in seconds.
Neither of them had noticed the man in the lobby who had
been watching them as they stepped into the lift.
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