CHAPTER 6
Monday, 11.iv
Blomkvist got up just after 9.00 and called Eriksson at
Millennium.
“Good morning, editor-in-chief,” he said.
“I’m still in shock that Erika is gone and you want me to
take her place. I can’t believe she’s gone already. Her
office is empty.”
“Then it would probably be a good idea to spend the day
moving in there.”
“I feel extremely self-conscious.”
“Don’t be. Everyone agrees that you’re the best choice.
And if need be you can always come to me or Christer.”
“Thank you for your trust in me.”
“You’ve earned it,” Blomkvist said. “Just keep working the
way you always do. We’ll deal with any problems as and
when they crop up.”
He told her he was going to be at home all day writing.
Eriksson realized that he was reporting in to her the way he
had with Berger.
“O.K. Is there anything you want us to do?”
“No. On the contrary … if you have any instructions for me,
just call. I’m still on the Salander story, trying to find out
what’s happening there, but for everything else to do with
the magazine, the ball’s in your court. You make the
decisions. You’ll have my support if you need it.”
“And what if I make a wrong decision?”
“If I see or hear anything out of the ordinary, we’ll talk it
through. But it would have to be something very unusual.
Generally there aren’t any decisions that are 100 per cent
right or wrong. You’ll make your decisions, and they might
not be the same ones Erika would have made. If I were to
make the decisions they would be different again, but your
decisions are the ones that count.”
“Alright.”
“If you’re a good leader then you’ll discuss any concerns
with the others. First with Henry and Christer, then with me,
and we’ll raise any awkward problems at the editorial
meetings.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good luck.”
He sat down on the sofa in the living room with his iBook on
his lap and worked without any breaks all day. When he
was finished, he had a rough draft of two articles totalling
twenty-one pages. That part of the story focused on the
deaths of Svensson and Johansson – what they were
working on, why they were killed, and who the killer was. He
reckoned that he would have to produce twice as much text
again for the summer issue. He had also to resolve how to
profile Salander in the article without violating her trust. He
knew things about her that she would never want
published.
published.
Gullberg had a single slice of bread and a cup of black
coffee in Frey’s café. Then he took a taxi to Artillerigatan in
Östermalm. At 9.15 he introduced himself on the entry
phone and was buzzed inside. He took the lift to the
seventh floor, where he was received by Birger Wadensjöö,
the new chief of the Section.
Wadensjöö had been one of the latest recruits to the
Section around the time Gullberg retired. He wished that
the decisive Fredrik was still there. Clinton had succeeded
Gullberg and was the chief of the Section until 2002, when
diabetes and coronary artery disease had forced him into
retirement. Gullberg did not have a clear sense of what
Wadensjöö was made of.
“Welcome, Evert,” Wadensjöö said, shaking hands with his
former chief. “It’s good of you to take the time to come in.”
“Time is more or less all I have,” Gullberg said.
“You know how it goes. I wish we had the leisure to stay in
touch with faithful old colleagues.”
Gullberg ignored the insinuation. He turned left into his old
office and sat at the round conference table by the window.
He assumed it was Wadensjöö who was responsible for the
Chagall and Mondrian reproductions. In his day plans of
Kronan and Wasa had hung on the walls. He had always
Kronan and Wasa had hung on the walls. He had always
dreamed about the sea, and he was in fact a naval officer,
although he had spent only a few brief months at sea
during his military service. There were computers now, but
otherwise the room looked almost exactly as when he had
left. Wadensjöö poured coffee.
“The others are on their way,” he said. “I thought we could
have a few words first.”
“How many in the Section are still here from my day?”
“Apart from me … only Otto Hallberg and Georg Nyström
are still here. Hallberg is retiring this year, and Nyström is
turning sixty. Otherwise it’s new recruits. You’ve probably
met some of them before.”
“How many are working for the Section today?”
“We’ve reorganized a bit.”
“And?”
“There are seven full-timers. So we’ve cut back. But there’s
a total of thirty-one employees of the Section within S.I.S.
Most of them never come here. They take care of their
normal jobs and do some discreet moonlighting for us
should the need or opportunity arise.”
“Thirty-one employees.”
“Plus the seven here. You were the one who created the
system, after all. We’ve just fine-tuned it. Today we have
what’s called an internal and an external organization.
When we recruit somebody, they’re given a leave of
absence for a time to go to our school. Hallberg is in
charge of training, which is six weeks for the basics. We do
it out at the Naval School. Then they go back to their
regular jobs in S.I.S., but now they’re working for us.”
“I see.”
“It’s an excellent system. Most of our employees have no
idea of the others’ existence. And here in the Section we
function principally as report recipients. The same rules
apply as in your day. We have to be a single-level
organization.”
“Have you an operations unit?”
Wadensjöö frowned. In Gullberg’s day the Section had a
small operations unit consisting of four people under the
command of the shrewd Hans von Rottinger.
“Well, not exactly. Von Rottinger died five years ago. We
have a younger talent who does some field work, but
usually we use someone from the external organization if
necessary. But of course things have become more
complicated technically, for example when we need to
complicated technically, for example when we need to
arrange a telephone tap or enter an apartment. Nowadays
there are alarms and other devices everywhere.”
Gullberg nodded. “Budget?”
“We have about eleven million a year total. A third goes to
salaries, a third to overheads, and a third to operations.”
“So the budget has shrunk.”
“A little. But we have fewer people, which means that the
operations budget has actually increased.”
“Tell me about our relationship to S.I.S.”
Wadensjöö shook his head. “The chief of Secretariat and
the chief of Budget belong to us. Formally, of course, the
chief of Secretariat is the only one who has insight into our
activities. We’re so secret that we don’t exist. But in
practice two assistant chiefs know of our existence. They
do their best to ignore anything they hear about us.”
“Which means that if problems arise, the present S.I.S.
leadership will have an unpleasant surprise. What about
the defence leadership and the government?”
“We cut off the defence leadership some ten years ago.
And governments come and go.”
“So if the balloon goes up, we’re on our own?”
Wadensjöö nodded. “That’s the drawback with this
arrangement. The advantages are obvious. But our
assignments have also changed. There’s a new realpolitik
in Europe since the Soviet Union collapsed. Our work is
less and less about identifying spies. It’s about terrorism,
and about evaluating the political suitability of individuals in
sensitive positions.”
“That’s what it was always about.”
There was a knock at the door. Gullberg looked up to see
a smartly dressed man of about sixty and a younger man in
jeans and a tweed jacket.
“Come in … Evert Gullberg, this is Jonas Sandberg. He’s
been working here for four years and is in charge of
operations. He’s the one I told you about. And Georg
Nyström you know.”
“Hello, Georg,” Gullberg said.
They all shook hands. Then Gullberg turned to Sandberg.
“So where do you come from?”
“Most recently from Göteborg,” Sandberg said lightly. “I
went to see him.”
went to see him.”
“Zalachenko?”
Sandberg nodded.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Wadensjöö said.
“Björck,” Gullberg said, frowning when Wadensjöö lit a
cigarillo. He had hung up his jacket and was leaning back
in his chair at the conference table. Wadensjöö glanced at
Gullberg and was struck by how thin the old man had
become.
“He was arrested for violation of the prostitution laws last
Friday,” Nyström said. “The matter has gone to court, but in
effect he confessed and slunk home with his tail between
his legs. He lives out in Smådalarö, but he’s on disability
leave. The press haven’t picked up on it yet.”
“He was once one of the very best we had here in the
Section,” Gullberg said. “He played a key role in the
Zalachenko affair. What’s happened to him since I retired?”
“Björck is probably one of the very few internal colleagues
who left the Section and went back to external operations.
He was out flitting around even in your day.”
“Well, I do recall that he needed a little rest and wanted to
expand his horizons. He was on leave of absence from the
Section for two years in the ’80s when he worked as
intelligence attaché. He had worked like a fiend with
Zalachenko, practically around the clock from 1976 on, and
I thought that he needed a break. He was gone from 1985
to 1987, when he came back here.”
“You could say that he quit the Section in 1994 when he
went over to the external organization. In 1996 he became
assistant chief of the Immigration Division and ended up in
a stressful position. His official duties took up a great deal
of his time. Naturally he has stayed in contact with the
Section throughout, and I can also say that we had
conversations with him about once a month until recently.”
“So he’s ill?”
“It’s nothing serious, but very painful. He has a slipped
disc. He’s had recurring trouble with it over the past few
years. Two years ago he was on sick leave for four months.
And then he was taken ill again in August last year. He was
supposed to start work again at new year, but his sick
leave was extended and now it’s a question of waiting for
an operation.”
“And he spent his sick leave running around with
prostitutes?” Gullberg said.
“Yes. He’s not married, and his dealings with whores
appear to have been going on for many years, if I’ve
appear to have been going on for many years, if I’ve
understood correctly,” said Sandberg, who had been silent
for almost half an hour. “I’ve read Dag Svensson’s
manuscript.”
“I see. But can anyone explain to me what actually
happened?”
“As far as we can tell, it was Björck who set this whole mess
rolling. How else can we explain the report from 1991
ending up in the hands of Advokat Bjurman?”
“Another man who spends his time with prostitutes?”
Gullberg said.
“Not as far as we know, and he wasn’t mentioned in
Svensson’s material. He was, however, Lisbeth Salander’s
guardian.”
Wadensjöö sighed. “You could say it was my fault. You and
Björck arrested Salander in 1991, when she was sent to
the psychiatric hospital. We expected her to be away for
much longer, but she became acquainted with a lawyer,
Advokat Palmgren, who managed to spring her loose. She
was then placed with a foster family. By that time you had
retired.”
“And then what happened?”
“We kept an eye on her. In the meantime her twin sister,
Camilla, was placed in a foster home in Uppsala. When
they were seventeen, Lisbeth started digging into her past.
She was looking for Zalachenko, and she went through
every public register she could find. Somehow – we’re not
sure how it happened – she found out that her sister knew
where Zalachenko was.”
“Was it true?”
Wadensjöö shrugged. “I have no idea. The sisters had not
seen each other for several years when Lisbeth Salander
ran Camilla to ground and tried to persuade her to tell her
what she knew. It ended in a violent argument and a
spectacular fight between the sisters.”
“Then what?”
“We kept close track of Lisbeth during those months. We
had also informed Camilla that her sister was violent and
mentally ill. She was the one who got in touch with us after
Lisbeth’s unexpected visit, and thereafter we increased our
surveillance of her.”
“So the sister was your informant?”
“Camilla was mortally afraid of her sister. Lisbeth had
aroused attention in other quarters as well. She had
several run-ins with people from the social welfare agency,
and in our estimation she still represented a threat to
and in our estimation she still represented a threat to
Zalachenko’s anonymity. Then there was the incident in the
tunnelbana.”
“She attacked a paedophile—”
“Precisely. She was obviously prone to violence and
mentally disturbed. We thought that it would be best for all
concerned if she disappeared into some institution again
and availed herself of the opportunities there, so to speak.
Clinton and von Rottinger were the ones who took the lead.
They engaged the psychiatrist Teleborian again and
through a representative filed a request in the district court
to get her institutionalized for a second time. Palmgren
stood up for Salander, and against all odds the court
decided to follow his recommendation – so long as she was
placed under guardianship.”
“But how did Bjurman get involved?”
“Palmgren had a stroke in the autumn of 2002. We still flag
Salander for monitoring whenever she turns up in any
database, and I saw to it that Bjurman became her new
guardian. Bear in mind that he had no clue she was
Zalachenko’s daughter. The brief was simply for Bjurman to
sound the alarm if she started blabbing about Zalachenko.”
“Bjurman was an idiot. He should never have been allowed
to have anything to do with Zalachenko, even less with his
daughter.” Gullberg looked at Wadensjöö. “That was a
serious mistake.”
“I know,” Wadensjöö said. “But he seemed the right choice
at the time. I never would have dreamed that—”
“Where’s the sister today? Camilla Salander.”
“We don’t know. When she was nineteen she packed her
bag and ran away from her foster family. We haven’t found
hide nor hair of her since.”
“O.K., go on …”
“I have a man in the regular police who has spoken with
Prosecutor Ekström,” Sandberg said. “The officer running
the investigation, Inspector Bublanski, thinks that Bjurman
raped Salander.”
Gullberg looked at Sandberg with blank astonishment.
“Raped?” he said.
“Bjurman had a tattoo across his belly which read I am a
sadistic pig, a pervert, and a rapist.”
Sandberg put a colour photograph from the autopsy on the
table. Gullberg stared at it with distaste.
“Zalachenko’s daughter is supposed to have given him
that?”
“It’s hard to find another explanation. And she’s not known
for being a shrinking violet. She spectacularly kicked the
shit out of two complete thugs from Svavelsjö M.C.”
“Zalachenko’s daughter,” Gullberg repeated. He turned to
Wadensjöö. “You know what? I think you ought to recruit
her for the Section.”
Wadensjöö looked so startled that Gullberg quickly
explained that he was joking.
“O.K. Let’s take it as a working hypothesis that Bjurman
raped her and that she somehow took her revenge. What
else?”
“The only one who could tell us exactly what happened, of
course, is Bjurman, and he’s dead. But the thing is, he
shouldn’t have had a clue that she was Zalachenko’s
daughter; it’s not in any public records. But somehow,
somewhere along the way, Bjurman discovered the
connection.”
“But, Goddamnit Wadensjöö! She knew who her father was
and could have told Bjurman at any time.”
“I know. We … that is, I simply wasn’t thinking straight.”
“I know. We … that is, I simply wasn’t thinking straight.”
“That is unforgivably incompetent,” Gullberg said.
“I’ve kicked myself a hundred times about it. But Bjurman
was one of the very few people who knew of Zalachenko’s
existence and my thought was that it would be better if he
discovered that she was Zalachenko’s daughter rather
than some other unknown guardian. She could have told
anyone at all.”
Gullberg pulled on his earlobe. “Alright … go on.”
“It’s all hypothetical,” Nyström said. “But our supposition is
that Bjurman assaulted Salander and that she struck back
and did that …” He pointed at the tattoo in the autopsy
photograph.
“Her father’s daughter,” Gullberg said. There was more
than a trace of admiration in his voice.
“With the result that Bjurman made contact with
Zalachenko, hoping to get rid of the daughter. As we know,
Zalachenko had good reason to hate the girl. And he gave
the contract to Svavelsjö M.C. and this Niedermann that he
hangs out with.”
“But how did Bjurman get in touch—” Gullberg fell silent.
The answer was obvious.
“Björck,” Wadensjöö said. “Björck gave him the contact.”
“Damn,” Gullberg said.
In the morning two nurses had come to change her
bedlinen. They had found the pencil.
“Oops. How did this get here?” one of them said, putting
the pencil in her pocket. Salander looked at her with
murder in her eyes.
She was once more without a weapon, but she was too
weak to protest.
Her headache was unbearable and she was given strong
painkillers. Her left shoulder stabbed like a knife if she
moved carelessly or tried to shift her weight. She lay on her
back with the brace around her neck. It was supposed to
be left on for a few more days until the wound in her head
began to heal. On Sunday she had a temperature of 102.
Dr Endrin could tell that there was infection in her body.
Salander did not need a thermometer to work that out.
She realized that once again she was confined to an
institutional bed, even though this time there was no strap
holding her down. That would have been unnecessary. She
could not sit up even, let alone leave the room.
At lunchtime on Monday she had a visit from Dr Jonasson.
“Hello. Do you remember me?”
She shook her head.
“I was the one who woke you after surgery. I operated on
you. I just wanted to hear how you’re doing and if
everything is going well.”
Salander looked at him, her eyes wide. It should have been
obvious that everything was not going well.
“I heard you took off your neck brace last night.”
She acknowledged as much with her eyes.
“We put the neck brace on for a reason – you have to
keep your head still for the healing process to get started.”
He looked at the silent girl. “O.K.,” he said at last. “I just
wanted to check on you.”
He was at the door when he heard her voice.
“It’s Jonasson, right?”
He turned and smiled at her in surprise. “That’s right. If you
remember my name then you must have been more alert
than I thought.”
“And you were the one who operated to remove the bullet?
”
“That’s right.”
“Please tell me how I’m doing. I can’t get a sensible answer
from anyone.”
He went back to her bedside and looked her in the eye.
“You were lucky. You were shot in the head, but the bullet
did not, I believe, injure any vital areas. The risk you are
running is that you could have bleeding in your brain.
That’s why we want you to stay still. You have an infection
in your body. The wound in your shoulder seems to be the
cause. It’s possible that you’ll need another operation – on
your shoulder – if we can’t arrest the infection with
antibiotics. You are going to have some painful times
ahead while your body heals. But as things look now, I’m
optimistic that you’ll make a full recovery.”
“Can this cause brain damage?”
He hesitated before nodding. “Yes, there is that possibility.
But all the signs indicate that you made it through fine.
There’s also a possibility that you’ll develop scar tissue in
your brain, and that might cause trouble … for instance,
you might develop epilepsy or some other problem. But to
be honest, it’s all speculation. Right now, things look good.
You’re healing. And if problems crop up along the way, we’ll
deal with them. Is that a clear enough answer?”
deal with them. Is that a clear enough answer?”
She shut her eyes to say yes. “How long do I have to lie
here like this?”
“You mean in the hospital? It will be at the least a couple of
weeks before we can let you go.”
“No, I mean how long before I can get up and start walking
and moving around?”
“That depends on how the healing progresses. But count
on two weeks before we can start you on some sort of
physical therapy.”
She gave him a long look. “You wouldn’t happen to have a
cigarette, would you?” she said.
Dr Jonasson burst out laughing and shook his head.
“Sorry. There’s no smoking allowed in the hospital. But I
can see to it that you get a nicotine patch or some gum.”
She thought for a moment before she looked at him again.
“How’s the old bastard doing?”
“Who? You mean—”
“The one who came in the same time as I did.”
“No friend of yours, I presume. Well, he’s going to survive
and he’s been up walking around on crutches. He’s
actually in worse shape than you are, and he has a very
painful facial wound. As I understood it, you slammed an
axe into his head.”
“He tried to kill me,” Salander said in a low voice.
“That doesn’t sound good. I have to go. Do you want me to
come back and look in on you again?”
Salander thought for a moment, then she signalled yes.
When he was gone she stared at the ceiling. Zalachenko
has been given crutches. That was the sound I heard last
night.
Sandberg, the youngest person at the meeting, was sent
out to get some food. He came back with sushi and light
beer and passed the food around the conference table.
Gullberg felt a thrill of nostalgia. This is just the way it was
in his day, when some operation went into a critical phase
and they had to work around the clock.
The difference, he observed, was possibly that in his day
there was nobody who would have come up with the wild
idea of ordering raw fish. He wished Sandberg had ordered
Swedish meatballs with mashed potatoes and
lingonberries. On the other hand he was not really hungry,
so he pushed the sushi aside. He ate a piece of bread and
so he pushed the sushi aside. He ate a piece of bread and
drank some mineral water.
They continued the discussion over their meal. They had
to decide what to do. The situation was urgent.
“I never knew Zalachenko,” Wadensjöö said. “What was he
like?”
“Much as he is today, I assume,” Gullberg said.
“Phenomenally intelligent, with a damn near photographic
memory. But in my opinion he’s a pig. And not quite right in
the head, I should think.”
“Jonas, you talked to him yesterday. What’s your take on
this?” Wadensjöö said.
Sandberg put down his chopsticks.
“He’s got us over a barrel. I’ve already told you about his
ultimatum. Either we make the whole thing disappear, or he
cracks the Section wide open.”
“How the hell do we make something disappear that’s been
plastered all over the media?” Nyström said.
“It’s not a question of what we can or can’t do. It’s a
question of his need to control us,” Gullberg said.
“Would he, in your opinion, talk to the press?” Wadensjöö
said.
Gullberg hesitated. “It’s almost impossible to answer that
question. Zalachenko doesn’t make empty threats, and
he’s going to do what’s best for him. In that respect he’s
predictable. If it benefits him to talk to the media … if he
thought he could get an amnesty or a reduced sentence,
then he’d do it. Or if he felt betrayed and wanted to get
even.”
“Regardless of the consequences?”
“Especially regardless of the consequences. For him the
point is to be seen to be tougher than all of us.”
“If Zalachenko were to talk, it’s not certain that anyone
would believe him. And to prove anything they’d have to
get hold of our archives.”
“Do you want to take the chance? Let’s say Zalachenko
talks. Who’s going to talk next? What do we do if Björck
signs an affidavit confirming his story? And Clinton, sitting
at his dialysis machine … what would happen if he turned
religious and felt bitter about everything and everyone?
What if he wanted to make a confession? Believe me, if
anyone starts talking, it’s the end of the Section.”
“So … what should we do?”
Silence settled over the table. It was Gullberg who took up
the thread.
“There are several parts to this problem. First of all, we can
agree on what the consequences would be if Zalachenko
talked. The entire legal system would come crashing down
on our heads. We would be demolished. My guess is that
several employees of the Section would go to prison.”
“Our activity is completely legal … we’re actually working
under the auspices of the government.”
“Spare me the bullshit,” Gullberg said. “You know as well as
I do that a loosely formulated document that was written in
the mid-’60s isn’t worth a damn today. I don’t think any one
of us could even imagine what would happen if Zalachenko
talked.”
Silence descended once again.
“So our starting point has to be to persuade Zalachenko to
keep his mouth shut,” Nyström said at last.
“And to be able to persuade him to keep his mouth shut,
we have to be able to offer him something substantial. The
problem is that he’s unpredictable. He would scorch us out
of sheer malice. We have to think about how we can keep
him in check.”
“And what about his demand …,” Sandberg said, “that we
make the whole thing disappear and put Salander back in
an asylum?”
“Salander we can handle. It’s Zalachenko who’s the
problem. But that leads us to the second part – damage
control. Teleborian’s report from 1991 has been leaked,
and it’s potentially as serious a threat as Zalachenko.”
Nyström cleared his throat. “As soon as we realized that
the report was out and in the hands of the police, I took
certain measures. I went through Forelius, our lawyer in
S.I.S., and he got hold of the Prosecutor General. The P.G.
ordered the report confiscated from the police – it’s not to
be disseminated or copied.”
“How much does the P.G. know?” Gullberg said.
“Not a thing. He’s acting on an official request from S.I.S.
It’s classified material and the P.G. has no alternative.”
“Who in the police has read the report?”
“There were two copies which were read by Bublanski, his
colleague Inspector Modig, and finally the preliminary
investigation leader, Richard Ekström. We can assume that
another two police officers …,” Nyström leafed through his
notes, “… that Curt Andersson and Jerker Holmberg at
least, are aware of the contents.”
“So, four police officers and one prosecutor. What do we
know about them?”
“Prosecutor Ekström, forty-two, regarded as a rising star.
He’s been an investigator at Justice and has handled a
number of cases that got a fair bit of attention. Zealous.
P.R.-savvy. Careerist.”
“Social Democrat?” Gullberg said.
“Probably. But not active.”
“So Bublanski is leading the investigation. I saw him in a
press conference on T. V. He didn’t seem comfortable in
front of the cameras.”
“He’s older and has an exceptional record, but he also has
a reputation for being crusty and obstinate. He’s Jewish
and quite conservative.”
“And the woman … who’s she?”
“Sonja Modig. Married, thirty-nine, two kids. Has advanced
rather quickly in her career. I talked to Teleborian, who
described her as emotional. She asks questions non-stop.”
“Next.”
“Andersson is a tough customer. He’s thirty-eight and
comes from the gangs unit in Söder. He landed in the
spotlight when he shot dead some hooligan a couple of
years ago. Acquitted of all charges, according to the
report. He was the one Bublanski sent to arrest Björck.”
“I see. Keep in mind that he shot someone dead. If there’s
any reason to cast doubt on Bublanski’s group, we can
always single him out as a rogue policeman. I assume we
still have relevant media contacts. And the last guy?”
“Holmberg, fifty-five. Comes from Norrland and is in fact a
specialist in crime scene investigation. He was offered
supervisory training a few years ago but turned it down. He
seems to like his job.”
“Are any of them politically active?”
“No. Holmberg’s father was a city councillor for the Centre
Party in the ’70s.”
“It seems to be a modest group. We can assume they’re
fairly tight-knit. Could we isolate them somehow?”
“There’s a fifth officer involved,” Nyström said. “Hans
Faste, forty-seven. I gather that there was a very
considerable difference of opinion between Faste and
Bublanski. So much so that Faste took sick leave.”
“What do we know about him?”
“I get mixed reactions when I ask. He has an exemplary
record with no real criticisms. A pro. But he’s tricky to deal
with. The disagreement with Bublanski seems to have been
about Salander.”
“In what way?”
“Faste appears to have become obsessed by one
newspaper story about a lesbian Satanist gang. He really
doesn’t like Salander and seems to regard her existence
as a personal insult. He may himself be behind half of the
rumours. I was told by a former colleague that he has
difficulty working with women.”
“Interesting,” Gullberg said slowly. “Since the newspapers
have already written about a lesbian gang, it would make
sense to continue promoting that story. It won’t exactly
bolster Salander’s credibility.”
“But the officers who’ve read Björck’s report are a big
problem,” Sandberg said. “Is there any way we can isolate
them?”
Wadensjöö lit another cigarillo. “Well, Ekström is the head
of the preliminary investigation …”
“But Bublanski’s leading it,” Nyström said.
“Yes, but he can’t go against an administrative decision.”
Wadensjöö turned to Gullberg. “You have more experience
than I do, but this whole story has so many different
threads and connections … It seems to me that it would be
wise to get Bublanski and Modig away from Salander.”
“That’s good, Wadensjöö,” Gullberg said. “And that’s
exactly what we’re going to do. Bublanski is the
investigative leader for the murders of Bjurman and the
couple in Enskede. Salander is no longer a suspect. Now
it’s all about this German, Ronald Niedermann. Bublanski
and his team have to focus on Niedermann. Salander is not
their assignment any more. Then there’s the investigation
at Nykvarn … three cold-case killings. And there’s a
connection to Niedermann there too. That investigation is
presently allocated to Södertälje, but it ought to be brought
into a single investigation. That way Bublanski would have
his hands full for a while. And who knows? Maybe he’ll
catch Niedermann. Meanwhile, Hans Faste … do you think
he might come back on duty? He sounds like the right man
to investigate the allegations against Salander.”
“I see what you’re thinking,” Wadensjöö said. “It’s all about
getting Ekström to split the two cases. But that’s only if we
can control Ekström.”
“That shouldn’t be such a big problem,” Gullberg said. He
glanced at Nyström, who nodded.
“I can take care of Ekström,” he said. “I’m guessing that
he’s sitting there wishing he’d never heard of Zalachenko.
He turned over Björck’s report as soon as S.I.S. asked him
for it, and he’s agreed to comply with every request that
may have a bearing on national security.”
“What do you have in mind?” Wadensjöö said.
“Allow me to manufacture a scenario,” Nyström said. “I
assume that we’re going to tell him in a subtle way what he
has to do to avoid an abrupt end to his career.”
“The most serious problem is going to be the third part,”
Gullberg said. “The police didn’t get hold of Björck’s report
by themselves … they got it from a journalist. And the
press, as you are all aware, is a real problem here.
Millennium.”
Nyström turned a page his notebook. “Mikael Blomkvist.”
Everyone around the table had heard of the Wennerström
affair and knew the name.
“Svensson, the journalist who was murdered, was
freelancing at Millennium. He was working on a story about
sex trafficking. That was how he lit upon Zalachenko. It was
Blomkvist who found Svensson and his girlfriend’s bodies.
In addition, Blomkvist knows Salander and has always
In addition, Blomkvist knows Salander and has always
believed in her innocence.”
“How the hell can he know Zalachenko’s daughter … that
sounds like too big a coincidence.”
“We don’t think it is a coincidence,” Wadensjöö said. “We
believe that Salander is in some way the link between all of
them, but we don’t yet know how.”
Gullberg drew a series of concentric circles on his notepad.
At last he looked up.
“I have to think about this for a while. I’m going for a walk.
We’ll meet again in an hour.”
Gullberg’s excursion lasted nearly three hours. He had
walked for only about ten minutes before he found a café
that served many unfamiliar types of coffee. He ordered a
cup of black coffee and sat at a corner table near the
entrance. He spent a long time thinking things over, trying
to dissect the various aspects of their dilemma.
Occasionally he would jot down notes in a pocket diary.
After an hour and a half a plan had begun to take shape.
It was not a perfect plan, but after weighing all the options
he concluded that the problem called for a drastic solution.
As luck would have it, the human resources were available.
It was doable.
He got up to find a telephone booth and called Wadensjöö.
“We’ll have to postpone the meeting a bit longer,” he said.
“There’s something I have to do. Can we meet again at
2.00 p.m.?”
Gullberg went down to Stureplan and hailed a taxi. He gave
the driver an address in the suburb of Bromma. When he
was dropped off, he walked south one street and rang the
doorbell of a small, semidetached house. A woman in her
forties opened the door.
“Good afternoon. I’m looking for Fredrik Clinton.”
“Who should I say is here?”
“An old colleague.”
The woman nodded and showed him into the living room,
where Clinton rose slowly from the sofa. He was only sixty-eight, but he looked much older. His ill health had taken a
heavy toll.
“Gullberg,” Clinton said in surprise.
For a long moment they stood looking at each other. Then
the two old agents embraced.
the two old agents embraced.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” Clinton said. He
pointed to the front page of the evening paper, which had a
photograph of Niedermann and the headline POLICE
KILLER HUNTED IN DENMARK. “I assume that’s what’s
brought you out here.”
“How are you?”
“I’m sick,” Clinton said.
“I can see that.”
“If I don’t get a new kidney I’m not long for this world. And
the likelihood of my getting one in this people’s republic is
pretty slim.”
The woman came to the living-room doorway and asked if
Gullberg would like anything.
“A cup of coffee, thank you,” he said. When she was gone
he turned to Clinton. “Who’s that?”
“My daughter.”
It was fascinating that despite the collegial atmosphere
they had shared for so many years at the Section, hardly
anyone socialized with each other in their free time.
Gullberg knew the most minute character traits, strengths
Gullberg knew the most minute character traits, strengths
and weaknesses of all his colleagues, but he had only a
vague notion of their family lives. Clinton had probably
been Gullberg’s closest colleague for twenty years. He
knew that he had been married and had children, but he
did not know the daughter’s name, his late wife’s name, or
even where Clinton usually spent his holidays. It was as if
everything outside the Section were sacred, not to be
discussed.
“What can I do for you?” asked Clinton.
“Can I ask you what you think of Wadensjöö.”
Clinton shook his head. “I don’t want to get into it.”
“That’s not what I asked. You know him. He worked with you
for ten years.”
Clinton shook his head again. “He’s the one running the
Section today. What I think is no longer of any interest.”
“Can he handle it?”
“He’s no idiot.”
“But?”
“He’s an analyst. Extremely good at puzzles. Instinctual. A
brilliant administrator who balanced the budget, and did it
brilliant administrator who balanced the budget, and did it
in a way we didn’t think was possible.”
Gullberg nodded. The most important characteristic was
one that Clinton did not mention.
“Are you ready to come back to work?”
Clinton looked up. He hesitated for a long time.
“Evert … I spend nine hours every other day on a dialysis
machine at the hospital. I can’t go up stairs without gasping
for breath. I simply have no energy. No energy at all.”
“I need you. One last operation.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. And you can still spend nine hours every
other day on dialysis. You can take the lift instead of going
up the stairs. I’ll even arrange for somebody to carry you
back and forth on a stretcher if necessary. It’s your mind I
need.”
Clinton sighed. “Tell me.”
“Right now we’re confronted with an exceptionally
complicated situation that requires operational expertise.
Wadensjöö has a young kid, still wet behind the ears,
called Jonas Sandberg. He’s the entire operations
called Jonas Sandberg. He’s the entire operations
department and I don’t think Wadensjöö has the drive to do
what needs to be done. He might be a genius at finessing
the budget, but he’s afraid to make operational decisions,
and he’s afraid to get the Section involved in the necessary
field work.”
Clinton gave him a feeble smile.
“The operation has to be carried out on two separate
fronts. One part concerns Zalachenko. I have to get him to
listen to reason, and I think I know how I’m going to do it.
The second part has to be handled from here, in
Stockholm. The problem is that there isn’t anyone in the
Section who can actually run it. I need you to take
command. One last job. Sandberg and Nyström will do the
legwork, you control the operation.”
“You don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do. But you’re going to have to make up your mind
whether to take on the assignment or not. Either we
ancients step in and do our bit, or the Section will cease to
exist a few weeks from now.”
Clinton propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa and
rested his head on his hand. He thought about it for two
minutes.
“Tell me your plan,” he said at last.
Gullberg and Clinton talked for a long time.
Wadensjöö stared in disbelief when Gullberg returned at
2.57 with Clinton in tow. Clinton looked like … a skeleton.
He seemed to have difficulty breathing; he kept one hand
on Gullberg’s shoulder.
“What in the world …” Wadensjöö said.
“Let’s get the meeting moving again,” Gullberg said, briskly.
They settled themselves again around the table in
Wadensjöö’s office. Clinton sank silently on to the chair
that was offered.
“You all know Fredrik Clinton,” Gullberg said.
“Indeed,” Wadensjöö said. “The question is, what’s he
doing here?”
“Clinton has decided to return to active duty. He’ll be
leading the Section’s operations department until the
present crisis is over.” Gullberg raised a hand to forestall
Wadensjöö’s objections. “Clinton is tired. He’s going to
need assistance. He has to go regularly to the hospital for
dialysis. Wadensjöö, assign two personal assistants to help
him with all the practical matters. But let me make this quite
clear … with regards to this affair it’s Clinton who will be
making the operational decisions.”
He paused for a moment. No-one voiced any objections.
“I have a plan. I think we can handle this matter
successfully, but we’re going to have to act fast so that we
don’t squander the opportunity,” he said. “It depends on
how decisive you can be in the Section these days.”
“Let’s hear it.” Wadensjöö said.
“First of all, we’ve already discussed the police. This is
what we’re going to do. We’ll try to isolate them in a lengthy
investigation, sidetracking them into the search for
Niedermann. That will be Nyström’s task. Whatever
happens, Niedermann is of no importance. We’ll arrange
for Faste to be assigned to investigate Salander.”
“That may not be such a bright idea,” Nyström said. “Why
don’t I just go and have a discreet talk with Prosecutor
Ekström?”
“And if he gets difficult—”
“I don’t think he will. He’s ambitious and on the lookout for
anything that will benefit his career. I might be able to use
some leverage if I need to. He would hate to be dragged
into any sort of scandal.”
“Good. Stage two is Millennium and Mikael Blomkvist.
That’s why Clinton has returned to duty. This will require
extraordinary measures.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” Wadensjöö said.
“Probably not. But Millennium can’t be manipulated in the
same straightforward way. On the other hand, the
magazine is a threat because of one thing only: Björck’s
1991 police report. I presume that the report now exists in
two places, possibly three. Salander found the report, but
Blomkvist somehow got hold of it. Which means that there
was some degree of contact between the two of them while
Salander was on the run.”
Clinton held up a finger and uttered his first words since he
had arrived.
“It also tells us something about the character of our
adversary. Blomkvist is not afraid to take risks. Remember
the Wennerström affair.”
Gullberg nodded. “Blomkvist gave the report to his editor-in-chief, Erika Berger, who in turn messengered it to
Bublanski. So she’s read it too. We have to assume that
they made a copy for safekeeping. I’m guessing that
Blomkvist has a copy and that there’s one at the editorial
offices.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Wadensjöö said.
“Millennium is a monthly, so they won’t be publishing it
tomorrow. We’ve got a little time – find out exactly how long
before the next issue is published – but we have to
confiscate both those copies. And here we can’t go through
the Prosecutor General.”
“I understand.”
“So we’re talking about an operation, getting into
Blomkvist’s apartment and Millennium’s offices. Can you
handle that, Jonas?”
Sandberg glanced at Wadensjöö.
“Evert … you have to understand that … we don’t do
things like that any more,” Wadensjöö said. “It’s a new era.
We deal more with computer hacking and electronic
surveillance and such like. We don’t have the resources for
what you’d think of as an operations unit.”
Gullberg leaned forward. “Wadensjöö, you’re going to have
to sort out some resources pretty damn fast. Hire some
people. Hire a bunch of skinheads from the Yugo mafia
who can whack Blomkvist over the head if necessary. But
those two copies have to be recovered. If they don’t have
the copies, they don’t have the evidence. If you can’t
manage a simple job like that then you might as well sit
here with your thumb up your backside until the
constitutional committee comes knocking on your door.”
Gullberg and Wadensjöö glared at each other for a long
moment.
“I can handle it,” Sandberg said suddenly.
“Are you sure?”
Sandberg nodded.
“Good. Starting now, Clinton is your boss. He’s the one you
take your orders from.”
Sandberg nodded his agreement.
“It’s going to involve a lot of surveillance,” Nyström said. “I
can suggest a few names. We have a man in the external
organization, Mårtensson – he works as a bodyguard in
S.I.S. He’s fearless and shows promise. I’ve been
considering bringing him in here. I’ve even thought that he
could take my place one day.”
“That sounds good,” Gullberg said. “Clinton can decide.”
“I’m afraid there might be a third copy,” Nyström said.
“Where?”
“This afternoon I found out that Salander has taken on a
lawyer. Her name is Annika Giannini. She’s Blomkvist’s
sister.”
Gullberg pondered this news. “You’re right. Blomkvist will
have given his sister a copy. He must have. In other words,
we have to keep tabs on all three of them – Berger,
Blomkvist and Giannini – until further notice.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about Berger. There was a
report today that she’s going to be the new editor-in-chief
at Svenska Morgon-Posten. She’s finished with Millennium.
”
“Check her out anyway. As far as Millennium is concerned,
we’re going to need telephone taps and bugs in everyone’s
homes, and at the offices. We have to check their email.
We have to know who they meet and who they talk to. And
we would very much like to know what strategy they’re
planning. Above all we have to get those copies of the
report. A whole lot of stuff, in other words.”
Wadensjöö sounded doubtful. “Evert, you’re asking us to
run an operation against an influential magazine and the
editor-in-chief of S.M.P. That’s just about the riskiest thing
we could do.”
“Understand this: you have no choice. Either you roll up
your sleeves or it’s time for somebody else to take over
here.”
The challenge hung like a cloud over the table.
“I think I can handle Millennium,” Sandberg said at last.
“But none of this solves the basic problem. What do we do
with Zalachenko? If he talks, anything else we pull off is
useless.”
“I know. That’s my part of the operation,” Gullberg said. “I
think I have an argument that will persuade Zalachenko to
keep his mouth shut. But it’s going to take some
preparation. I’m leaving for Göteborg later this afternoon.”
He paused and looked around the room. Then he fixed his
eyes on Wadensjöö.
“Clinton will make the operational decisions while I’m gone,”
he said.
Not until Monday evening did Dr Endrin decide, in
consultation with her colleague Dr Jonasson, that
Salander’s condition was stable enough for her to have
visitors. First, two police inspectors were given fifteen
minutes to ask her questions. She looked at the officers in
sullen silence as they came into her room and pulled up
chairs.
“Hello. My name is Marcus Erlander, Criminal Inspector. I
work in the Violent Crimes Division here in Göteborg. This
is my colleague Inspector Modig from the Stockholm police.
”
Salander said nothing. Her expression did not change. She
recognized Modig as one of the officers in Bublanski’s
team. Erlander gave her a cool smile.
“I’ve been told that you don’t generally communicate much
with the authorities. Let me put it on record that you do not
have to say anything at all. But I would be grateful if you
would listen to what we have to say. We have a number of
things to discuss with you, but we don’t have time to go into
them all today. There’ll be opportunities later.”
Salander still said nothing.
“First of all, I’d like to let you know that your friend Mikael
Blomkvist has told us that a lawyer by the name of Annika
Giannini is willing to represent you, and that she knows
about the case. He says that he already mentioned her
name to you in connection with something else. I need you
to confirm that this would be your intention. I’d also like to
know if you want Giannini to come here to Göteborg, the
better to represent you.”
Annika Giannini. Blomkvist’s sister. He had mentioned her
in an email. Salander had not thought about the fact that
in an email. Salander had not thought about the fact that
she would need a lawyer.
“I’m sorry, but I have to insist that you answer the question.
A yes or no will be fine. If you say yes, the prosecutor here
in Göteborg will contact Advokat Giannini. If you say no, the
court will appoint a defence lawyer on your behalf. Which
do you prefer?”
Salander considered the choice. She assumed that she
really would need a lawyer, but having Kalle Bastard
Blomkvist’s sister working for her was hard to stomach. On
the other hand, some unknown lawyer appointed by the
court would probably be worse. She rasped out a single
word:
“Giannini.”
“Good. Thank you. Now I have a question for you. You
don’t have to say anything before your lawyer gets here,
but this question does not, as far as I can see, affect you
or your welfare. The police are looking for a German citizen
by the name of Ronald Niedermann, wanted for the murder
of a policeman.”
Salander frowned. She had no clue as to what had
happened after she had swung the axe at Zalachenko’s
head.
“As far as the Göteborg police are concerned, they are
anxious to arrest him as soon as possible. My colleague
here would like to question him also in connection with the
three recent murders in Stockholm. You should know that
you are no longer a suspect in those cases. So we are
asking for your help. Do you have any idea … can you give
us any help at all in finding this man?”
Salander flicked her eyes suspiciously from Erlander to
Modig and back.
They don’t know that he’s my brother.
Then she considered whether she wanted Niedermann
caught or not. Most of all she wanted to take him to a hole
in the ground in Gosseberga and bury him. Finally she
shrugged. Which she should not have done, because pain
flew through her left shoulder.
“What day is it today?” she said.
“Monday.”
She thought about that. “The first time I heard the name
Ronald Niedermann was last Thursday. I tracked him to
Gosseberga. I have no idea where he is or where he might
go, but he’ll try to get out of the country as soon as he can.
”
“Why would he flee abroad?”
Salander thought about it. “Because while Niedermann was
out digging a grave for me, Zalachenko told me that things
were getting too hot and that it had already been decided
that Niedermann should leave the country for a while.”
Salander had not exchanged this many words with a police
officer since she was twelve.
“Zalachenko … so that’s your father?”
Well, at least they had worked that one out. Probably
thanks to Kalle Bastard Blomkvist.
“I have to tell you that your father has made a formal
accusation to the police stating that you tried to murder
him. The case is now at the prosecutor’s office, and he has
to decide whether to bring charges. But you have already
been placed under arrest on a charge of grievous bodily
harm, for having struck Zalachenko on the head with an
axe.”
There was a long silence. Then Modig leaned forward and
said in a low voice, “I just want to say that we on the police
force don’t put much faith in Zalachenko’s story. Do have a
serious discussion with your lawyer so we can come back
later and have another talk.”
The detectives stood up.
“Thanks for the help with Niedermann,” Erlander said.
Salander was surprised that the officers had treated her in
such a correct, almost friendly manner. She thought about
what the Modig woman had said. There would be some
ulterior motive, she decided.
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