CHAPTER 4
Saturday, 9.iv – Sunday,
10.iv
By 1.00 on Saturday afternoon, Prosecutor Fransson in
Södertälje had finished her deliberations. The burial
ground in the woods in Nykvarn was a wretched mess, and
the Violent Crimes Division had racked up a vast amount of
overtime since Wednesday, when Paolo Roberto had
fought his boxing match with Niedermann in the warehouse
there. They were dealing with at least three murders with
the bodies found buried on the property, along with the
kidnapping and assault of Salander’s friend Miriam Wu,
and on top of it all, arson.
The incident in Stallarholmen was connected with the
discoveries at Nykvarn, and was actually located within the
discoveries at Nykvarn, and was actually located within the
Strängnäs police district in Södermanland county. Carl-Magnus Lundin of the Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club was a key
player in the whole thing, but he was in hospital in
Södertälje with one foot in a cast and his jaw wired shut.
Accordingly, all of these crimes came under county police
jurisdiction, which meant that Stockholm would have the
last word.
On Friday the court hearing was held. Lundin was formally
charged in connection with Nykvarn. It had eventually been
established that the warehouse was owned by the
Medimport Company, which in turn was owned by one
Anneli Karlsson, a 52-year-old cousin of Lundin who lived
in Puerto Banús, Spain. She had no criminal record.
Fransson closed the folder that held all the preliminary
investigation papers. These were still in the early stages
and there would need to be another hundred pages of
detailed work before they were ready to go to trial. But right
now she had to make decisions on several matters. She
looked up at her police colleagues.
“We have enough evidence to charge Lundin with
participating in the kidnapping of Miriam Wu. Paolo
Roberto has identified him as the man who drove the van.
I’m also going to charge him with probable involvement in
arson. We’ll hold back on charging him with the murders of
the three individuals we dug up on the property, at least
the three individuals we dug up on the property, at least
until each of them has been identified.”
The officers nodded. That was what they had been
expecting.
“What’ll we do about Sonny Nieminen?”
Fransson leafed through to the section on Nieminen in the
papers on her desk.
“This is a man with an impressive criminal history. Robbery,
possession of illegal weapons, assault, G.B.H.,
manslaughter and drug crime. He was arrested with Lundin
at Stallarholmen. I’m convinced that he’s involved, but we
don’t have the evidence to persuade a court.”
“He says he’s never been to the Nykvarn warehouse and
that he just happened to be out with Lundin on a
motorcycle ride,” said the detective responsible for
Stallarholmen on behalf of the Södertälje police. “He claims
he had no idea what Lundin was up to in Stallarholmen.”
Fransson wondered whether she could somehow arrange
to hand the entire business over to Prosecutor Ekström in
Stockholm.
“Nieminen refuses to say anything about what happened,”
the detective went on, “but he vehemently denies being
involved in any crime.”
involved in any crime.”
“You’d think he and Lundin were themselves the victims of
a crime in Stallarholmen,” Fransson said, drumming her
fingertips in annoyance. “Lisbeth Salander,” she added,
her voice scored with scepticism. “We’re talking about a girl
who looks as if she’s barely entered puberty and who’s
only one metre fifty tall. She doesn’t look as though she
has the tonnage to take on either Nieminen or Lundin, let
alone both of them.”
“Unless she was armed. A pistol would compensate for her
physique.”
“But that doesn’t quite fit with our reconstruction of what
happened.”
“No. She used Mace and kicked Lundin in the balls and
face with such aggression that she crushed one of his
testicles and then broke his jaw. The shot in Lundin’s foot
must have happened after she kicked him. But I can’t
swallow the scenario that says she was the one who was
armed.”
“The lab has identified the weapon used on Lundin. It’s a
Polish P-83 Wanad using Makarova ammo. It was found in
Gosseberga outside Göteborg and it has Salander’s prints
on it. We can pretty much assume that she took the pistol
with her to Gosseberga.”
with her to Gosseberga.”
“Sure. But the serial number shows that the pistol was
stolen four years ago in the robbery of a gun shop in
Örebro. The thieves were eventually caught, but they had
ditched the gun. It was a local thug with a drug problem
who hung out around Svavelsjö M.C. I’d much rather place
the pistol with either Lundin or Nieminen.”
“It could be as simple as Lundin carrying the pistol and
Salander disarming him. Then a shot was fired accidentally
that hit him in the foot. I mean, it can’t have been her
intention to kill him, since he’s still alive.”
“Or else she shot him in the foot out of sheer sadism.
Who’s to know? But how did she deal with Nieminen? He
has no visible injuries.”
“He does have one, or rather two, small burn marks on his
chest.”
“What sort of burns?”
“I’m guessing a taser.”
“So Salander was supposedly armed with a taser, a Mace
canister and a pistol. How much would all that stuff weigh?
No, I’m quite sure that either Lundin or Nieminen was
carrying the gun, and she took it from them. We’re not
going to be sure how Lundin came to get himself shot until
going to be sure how Lundin came to get himself shot until
one or other of the parties involved starts talking.”
“Alright.”
“As things now stand, Lundin has been charged for the
reasons I mentioned earlier. But we don’t have a damned
thing on Nieminen. I’m thinking of turning him loose this
afternoon.”
Nieminen was in a vile mood when he left the cells at
Södertälje police station. His mouth was dry so his first stop
was a corner shop where he bought a Pepsi. He guzzled it
down on the spot. He bought a pack of Lucky Strike and a
tin of Göteborg’s Rapé snuff. He flipped open his mobile
and checked the battery, then dialled the number of Hans-Åke Waltari, thirty-three years old and number three in
Svavelsjö M.C.’s hierarchy. It rang four times before Waltari
picked up.
“Nieminen. I’m out.”
“Congrats.”
“Where are you?”
“Nyköping.”
“What the fuck are you doing in Nyköping?”
“We decided to lay low when you and Magge were busted
– until we knew the lay of the land.”
“So now you know the lay of the land. Where is everybody?
”
Waltari told him where the other five members of Svavelsjö
M.C. were located. The news neither pleased Nieminen nor
made him any calmer.
“So who the fuck is minding the store while all of you hide
away like a bunch of girls?”
“That’s not fair. You and Magge take off on some fucking
job we know nothing about, and all of a sudden you’re
mixed up in a shootout with that slut the law are after,
Magge gets shot and you’re busted. Then they start
digging up bodies at our warehouse in Nykvarn.”
“So?”
“So? So we were starting to wonder if maybe you and
Magge were hiding something from the rest of us.”
“And what the fuck would that be? We’re the ones who took
the job for the sake of the club.”
“Well, no-one ever told me that the warehouse was
doubling up as a woodland cemetery. Who were those
doubling up as a woodland cemetery. Who were those
dead bodies?”
Nieminen had a vicious retort on the tip of his tongue, but
he stopped himself. Waltari may be an idiot, but this was no
time to start an argument. The important thing right now
was to consolidate their forces. After stonewalling his way
through five police interrogations, it was not a good idea to
start boasting that he actually knew something on a mobile
less than two hundred metres from a police station.
“Forget the bodies,” he said. “I don’t know anything about
that. But Magge is in deep shit. He’s going to be in the
slammer for a while, and while he’s gone, I’m running the
club.”
“O.K. What happens now?” Waltari said.
“Who’s keeping an eye on the property?”
“Benny stayed at the clubhouse to hold the fort. They
searched the place the day you were arrested. They didn’t
find anything.”
“Benny Karlsson?” Nieminen yelled. “Benny K.’s hardly dry
behind the ears.”
“Take it easy. He’s with that blond fucker you and Magge
always hang out with.”
Sonny froze. He glanced around and walked away from the
door of the corner shop.
“What did you say?” he asked in a low voice.
“That blond monster you and Magge hang out with, he
showed up and needed a place to hide.”
“Goddamnit, Waltari! They’re looking for him all over the
country!”
“Yeah … that’s why he needed somewhere to hide. What
were we supposed to do? He’s your and Magge’s pal.”
Nieminen shut his eyes for ten full seconds. Niedermann
had brought Svavelsjö M.C. a lot of jobs and good money
for several years. But he was absolutely not a friend. He
was a dangerous bastard and a psychopath – a
psychopath that the police were looking for with a
vengeance. Nieminen did not trust Niedermann for one
second. The best thing would be if he was found with a
bullet in his head. Then the manhunt would at least ease
up a bit.
“So what did you do with him?”
“Benny’s taking care of him. He took him out to Viktor’s.”
Viktor Göransson was the club’s treasurer and financial
expert, who lived just outside Järna. He was trained in
expert, who lived just outside Järna. He was trained in
accounting and had begun his career as financial adviser
to a Yugoslav who owned a string of bars, until the whole
gang ended up in the slammer for fraud. He had met
Lundin at Kumla prison in the early nineties. He was the
only member of Svavelsjö M.C. who normally wore a jacket
and tie.
“Waltari, get in your car and meet me in Södertälje. I’ll be
outside the train station in forty-five minutes.”
“Alright. But what’s the rush?”
“I have to get a handle on the situation. Do you want me to
take the bus?”
Waltari sneaked a look at Nieminen sitting quiet as a
mouse as they drove out to Svavelsjö. Unlike Lundin,
Nieminen was never very easy to deal with. He had the
face of a model and looked weak, but he had a short fuse
and was a dangerous man, especially when he had been
drinking. Just then he was sober, but Waltari felt uneasy
about having Nieminen as their leader in the future. Lundin
had somehow always managed to keep Nieminen in line.
He wondered how things would unfold now with Lundin out
of the way.
At the clubhouse, Benny was nowhere to be seen.
Nieminen called him twice on his mobile, but got no answer.
Nieminen called him twice on his mobile, but got no answer.
They drove to Nieminen’s place, about half a mile further
down the road. The police had carried out a search, but
they had evidently found nothing of value to the Nykvarn
investigation. Which was why Nieminen had been released.
He took a shower and changed his clothes while Waltari
waited patiently in the kitchen. Then they walked about a
hundred and fifty metres into the woods behind Nieminen’s
property and scraped away the thin layer of soil that
concealed a chest containing six handguns, including an
AK5, a stack of ammunition, and around two kilos of
explosives. This was Nieminen’s arms cache. Two of the
guns were Polish P-83 Wanads. They came from the same
batch as the weapon that Salander had taken from him at
Stallarholmen.
Nieminen drove away all thought of Salander. It was an
unpleasant subject. In the cell at Södertälje police station
he had played the scene over and over in his head: how
he and Lundin had arrived at Advokat Bjurman’s summer
house and found Salander apparently just leaving.
Events had been rapid and unpredictable. He had ridden
over there with Lundin to burn the damned summer cabin
down. On the instructions of that goddamned blond
monster. And then they had stumbled upon that bitch
Salander – all alone, 1.5 metres tall, thin as a stick.
Salander – all alone, 1.5 metres tall, thin as a stick.
Nieminen wondered how much she actually weighed. And
then everything had gone to hell; had exploded in a brief
orgy of violence neither of them was prepared for.
Objectively, he could describe the chain of events.
Salander had a canister of Mace, which she sprayed in
Lundin’s face. Lundin should have been ready, but he
wasn’t. She kicked him twice, and you don’t need a lot of
muscle to fracture a jaw. She took him by surprise. That
could be explained.
But then she took him too, Sonny Nieminen, a man who
well-trained men would avoid getting into a fight with. She
moved so fast. He hadn’t been able to pull his gun. She
had taken him out easily, as if brushing off a mosquito. It
was humiliating. She had a taser. She had…
He could not remember a thing when he came to. Lundin
had been shot in the foot and then the police showed up.
After some palaver over jurisdiction between Strängnäs
and Södertälje, he fetched up in the cells in Södertälje.
Plus she had stolen Magge’s Harley. She had cut the
badge out of his leather jacket – the very symbol that made
people step aside in the queue at the bar, that gave him a
status that was beyond most people’s wildest dreams. She
had humiliated him.
Nieminen was boiling over. He had kept his mouth shut
through the entire series of police interrogations. He would
never be able to tell anyone what had happened in
Stallarholmen. Until that moment Salander had meant
nothing to him. She was a little side project that Lundin was
messing around with … again commissioned by that bloody
Niedermann. Now he hated her with a fury that astonished
him. Usually he was cool and analytical, but he knew that
some time in the future he would have to pay her back and
erase the shame. But first he had to get a grip on the
chaos that Svavelsjö M.C. had landed in because of
Salander and Niedermann.
Nieminen took the two remaining Polish guns, loaded them,
and handed one to Waltari.
“Have we got a plan?”
“We’re going to drive over and have a talk with
Niedermann. He isn’t one of us, and he doesn’t have a
criminal record. I don’t know how he’s going to react if they
catch him, but if he talks he could send us all to the
slammer. We’d be sent down so fast it’d make your head
spin.”
“You mean we should …”
Nieminen had already decided that Niedermann had to be
got rid of, but he knew that it would be a bad idea to
got rid of, but he knew that it would be a bad idea to
frighten off Waltari before they were in place.
“I don’t know. We’ll see what he has in mind. If he’s
planning to get out of the country as fast as hell then we
could help him on his way. But as long as he risks being
busted, he’s a threat to us.”
The lights were out at Göransson’s place when Nieminen
and Waltari drove up in the twilight. That was not a good
sign. They sat in the car and waited.
“Maybe they’re out,” Waltari said.
“Right. They went to the bar with Niedermann,” Nieminen
said, opening the car door.
The front door was unlocked. Nieminen switched on an
overhead light. They went from room to room. The house
was well kept and neat, which was probably because of
her, whatever-her-name-was, the woman Göransson lived
with.
They found Göransson and his girlfriend in the basement,
stuffed into a laundry room.
Nieminen bent down and looked at the bodies. He reached
out a finger to touch the woman whose name he could not
remember. She was ice-cold and stiff. That meant they had
been dead maybe twenty-four hours.
been dead maybe twenty-four hours.
Nieminen did not need the help of a pathologist to work out
how they had died. Her neck had been broken when her
head was turned 180 degrees. She was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and had no other injuries that Nieminen
could see.
Göransson, on the other hand, wore only his underpants.
He had been beaten, had blood and bruises all over his
body. His arms were bent in impossible directions, like
twisted tree limbs. The battering he had been subjected to
could only be defined as torture. He had been killed, as far
as Nieminen could judge, by a single blow to the neck. His
larynx was rammed deep into his throat.
Nieminen went up the stairs and out of the front door.
Waltari followed him. Nieminen walked the fifty metres to
the barn. He flipped the hasp and opened the door.
He found a dark-blue 1991 Renault.
“What kind of car does Göransson have?” Nieminen said.
“He drove a Saab.”
Nieminen nodded. He fished some keys out of his jacket
pocket and opened a door at the far end of the barn. One
quick look around told him that they were there too late.
The heavy weapons cabinet stood wide open.
The heavy weapons cabinet stood wide open.
Nieminen grimaced. “About 800,000 kronor,” he said.
“What?”
“Svavelsjö M.C. had about 800,000 kronor stashed in this
cabinet. It was our treasury.”
Only three people knew where Svavelsjö M.C. kept the
cash that was waiting to be invested and laundered.
Göransson, Lundin, and Nieminen. Niedermann was on the
run. He needed cash. He knew that Göransson was the
one who handled the money.
Nieminen shut the door and walked slowly away from the
barn. His mind was spinning as he tried to digest the
catastrophe. Part of Svavelsjö M.C.’s assets were in the
form of bonds that he could access, and some of their
investments could be reconstructed with Lundin’s help. But
a large part of them had been listed only in Göransson’s
head, unless he had given clear instructions to Lundin.
Which Nieminen doubted – Lundin had never been clever
with money. Nieminen estimated that Svavelsjö M.C. had
lost upwards of 60 per cent of its assets with Göransson’s
death. It was a devastating blow. Above all they needed the
cash to take care of day-to-day expenses.
“What do we do now?” Waltari said.
“We’ll go and tip off the police about what happened here.”
“Tip off the police?”
“Yes, damn it. My prints are all over the house. I want
Göransson and his bitch to be found as soon as possible,
so that forensics can work out that they died while I was still
locked up.”
“I get it.”
“Good. Go and find Benny. I want to talk to him. If he’s still
alive, that is. And then we’ll track down Niedermann. We’ll
need every contact we have in the clubs all over
Scandinavia to keep their eyes peeled. I want that
bastard’s head on a platter. He’s probably riding around in
Göransson’s Saab. Find out the registration number.”
When Salander woke up it was 2.00 on Saturday afternoon
and a doctor was poking at her.
“Good morning,” he said. “My name is Benny Svantesson.
I’m a doctor. Are you in pain?”
“Yes,” Salander said.
“I’ll make sure you get some painkillers in a minute. But first
I’d like to examine you.”
He squeezed and poked and fingered her lacerated body.
Salander was extremely aggravated by the time he had
finished, but she held back; she was exhausted and
decided it would be better to keep quiet than tarnish her
stay at Sahlgrenska with a fight.
“How am I doing?” she said.
“You’ll pull through,” the doctor said and made some notes
before he stood up. This was not very informative.
After he left, a nurse came in and helped Salander with a
bedpan. Then she was allowed to go back to sleep.
Zalachenko, alias Karl Axel Bodin, was given a liquid lunch.
Even small movements of his facial muscles caused sharp
pains in his jaw and cheekbone, and chewing was out of
the question. During surgery the night before, two titanium
screws had been fixed into his jawbone.
But the pain was manageable. Zalachenko was used to
pain. Nothing could compare with the pain he had
undergone for several weeks, months even, fifteen years
before when he had burned like a torch in his car. The
follow-up care had been a marathon of agony.
The doctors had decided that his life was no longer at risk
but that he was severely injured. In view of his age, he
would stay in the intensive care unit for a few more days
yet.
On Saturday he had four visitors.
At 10.00 a.m. Inspector Erlander returned. This time he
had left that bloody Modig woman behind and instead was
accompanied by Inspector Holmberg, who was much more
agreeable. They asked pretty much the same questions
about Niedermann as they had the night before. He had his
story straight and did not slip up. When they started plying
him with questions about his possible involvement in
trafficking and other criminal activities, he again denied all
knowledge of any such thing. He was living on a disability
pension, and he had no idea what they were talking about.
He blamed Niedermann for everything and offered to help
them in any way he could to find the fugitive.
Unfortunately there was not much he could help with,
practically speaking. He had no knowledge of the circles
Niedermann moved in, or who he might go to for protection.
At around 11.00 he had a brief visit from a representative
of the prosecutor’s office, who formally advised him that he
was a suspect in the grievous bodily harm or attempted
murder of Lisbeth Salander. Zalachenko patiently explained
that, on the contrary, he was the victim of a crime, that in
point of fact it was Salander who had attempted to murder
him. The prosecutor’s office offered him legal assistance in
him. The prosecutor’s office offered him legal assistance in
the form of a public defence lawyer. Zalachenko said that
he would mull over the matter.
Which he had no intention of doing. He already had a
lawyer, and the first thing he needed to do that morning
was call him and tell him to get down there as swiftly as he
could. Martin Thomasson was therefore the third guest of
the day at Zalachenko’s sickbed. He wandered in with a
carefree expression, ran a hand through his thick blond
hair, adjusted his glasses, and shook hands with his client.
He was a chubby and very charming man. True, he was
suspected of running errands for the Yugoslav mafia, a
matter which was still under investigation, but he was also
known for winning his cases.
Zalachenko had been referred to Thomasson through a
business associate five years earlier, when he needed to
restructure certain funds connected to a small financial firm
that he owned in Liechtenstein. They were not dramatic
sums, but Thomasson’s skill had been exceptional, and
Zalachenko had avoided paying taxes on them. He then
engaged Thomasson on a couple of other matters.
Thomasson knew that the money came from criminal
activity, which seemed not to trouble him. Ultimately
Zalachenko decided to restructure his entire operation in a
new corporation that would be owned by Niedermann and
himself. He approached Thomasson and proposed that the
lawyer come in as a third, silent partner to handle the
lawyer come in as a third, silent partner to handle the
financial side of the business. Thomasson accepted at
once.
“So, Herr Bodin, none of this looks like much fun.”
“I have been the victim of grievous bodily harm and
attempted murder,” Zalachenko said.
“I can see as much. A certain Lisbeth Salander, if I
understood correctly.”
Zalachenko lowered his voice: “Our partner Niedermann,
as you know, has really fouled his nest this time.”
“Indeed.”
“The police suspect that I am involved.”
“Which of course you are not. You’re a victim, and it’s
important that we see to it at once that this is the image
presented to the press. Ms Salander has already received
a good deal of negative publicity … Let me deal with the
situation.”
“Thank you.”
“But I have to remind you right from the start that I’m not a
criminal lawyer. You’re going to need a specialist. I’ll
arrange to hire one that you can trust.”
arrange to hire one that you can trust.”
The fourth visitor of the day arrived at 11.00 on Saturday
night, and managed to get past the nurses by showing an
I.D. card and stating that he had urgent business. He was
shown to Zalachenko’s room. The patient was still awake,
and grumbling.
“My name is Jonas Sandberg,” he introduced himself,
holding out a hand that Zalachenko ignored.
He was in his thirties. He had reddish-brown hair and was
casually dressed in jeans, a checked shirt and a leather
jacket. Zalachenko scrutinized him for fifteen seconds.
“I was wondering when one of you was going to show up.”
“I work for S.I.S., Swedish Internal Security,” Sandberg said,
and showed Zalachenko his I.D.
“I doubt that,” said Zalachenko.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You may be employed by S.I.S., but I doubt that’s who
you’re working for.”
Sandberg looked around the room, then he pulled up the
visitor’s chair.
“I came here late so as not to attract attention. We’ve
discussed how we can help you, and now we have to reach
some sort of agreement about what’s going to happen. I’m
just here to have your version of the story and find out
what your intentions are … so that we can work out a
common strategy.”
“What sort of strategy had you in mind?”
“Herr Zalachenko … I’m afraid that a process has been set
in motion in which the deleterious effects are hard to
foresee,” Sandberg said. “We’ve talked it through. It’s
going to be difficult to explain away the grave in
Gosseberga, and the fact that the girl was shot three times.
But let’s not lose hope altogether. The conflict between you
and your daughter can explain your fear of her and why
you took such drastic measures … but I’m afraid we’re
talking about your doing some time in prison.”
Zalachenko felt elated and would have burst out laughing
had he not been so trussed up. He managed a slight curl
of his lips. Anything more would be just too painful.
“So that’s our strategy?”
“Herr Zalachenko, you are aware of the concept of damage
control. We have to arrive at a common strategy. We’ll do
everything in our power to assist you with a lawyer and so
on … but we need your cooperation, as well as certain
guarantees.”
“You’ll get only one guarantee from me. First, you will see
to it that all this disappears.” He waved his hand.
“Niedermann is the scapegoat and I guarantee that no-one
will ever find him.”
“There’s forensic evidence that—”
“Fuck the forensic evidence. It’s a matter of how the
investigation is carried out and how the facts are
presented. My guarantee is this … if you don’t wave your
magic wand and make all this disappear, I’m inviting the
media to a press conference. I know names, dates, events.
I don’t think I need to remind you who I am.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly. You’re an errand boy. So go to
your superior and tell him what I’ve said. He’ll understand.
Tell him that I have copies of … everything. I can take you
all down.”
“We have to come to an agreement.”
“This conversation is over. Get out of here. And tell them
that next time they should send a grown man for me to
discuss things with.”
Zalachenko turned his head away from his visitor.
Sandberg looked at Zalachenko for a moment. Then he
shrugged and got up. He was almost at the door when he
heard Zalachenko’s voice again.
“One more thing.”
Sandberg turned.
“Salander.”
“What about her?”
“She has to disappear.”
“How do you mean?”
Sandberg looked so nervous for a second that Zalachenko
had to smile, although the pain drilled into his jaw.
“I see that you milksops are too sensitive to kill her, and
that you don’t even have the resources to have it done.
Who would do it … you? But she has to disappear. Her
testimony has to be declared invalid. She has to be
committed to a mental institution for life.”
Salander heard footsteps in the corridor. She had never
heard those footsteps before.
Her door had been open all evening and the nurses had
been in to check on her every ten minutes. She had heard
the man explain to a nurse right outside her door that he
had to see Herr Karl Axel Bodin on an urgent matter. She
had heard him offering his I.D., but no words were
exchanged that gave her any clue as to who he was or
what sort of I.D. he had.
The nurse had asked him to wait while she went to see
whether Herr Bodin was awake. Salander concluded that
his I.D., whatever it said, must have been persuasive.
She heard the nurse go down the corridor to the left. It took
her 17 steps to reach the room, and the male visitor took
14 steps to cover the same distance. That gave an
average of 15.5 steps. She estimated the length of a step
at 60 centimetres, which multiplied by 15.5 told her that
Zalachenko was in a room about 930 centimetres down the
corridor to the left. O.K., approximately ten metres. She
estimated that the width of her room was about five metres,
which should mean that Zalachenko’s room was two doors
down from hers.
According to the green numerals on the digital clock on her
bedside cabinet, the visit lasted precisely nine minutes.
*
Zalachenko lay awake for a long time after the man who
called himself Jonas Sandberg had left. He assumed that it
was not his real name; in his experience Swedish amateur
spies had a real obsession with using false names even
when it was not in the least bit necessary. In which case
Sandberg, or whatever the hell his name was, was the first
indication that Zalachenko’s predicament had come to the
attention of the Section. Considering the media attention,
this would have been hard to avoid. But the visit did
confirm that his predicament was a matter of anxiety to
them. As well it might be.
He weighed the pros and cons, lined up the possibilities,
and rejected various options. He was fully aware that
everything had gone about as badly as it could have. In a
well-ordered world he would be at home in Gosseberga
now, Niedermann would be safely out of the country, and
Salander would be buried in a hole in the ground. Despite
the fact that he had a reasonable grasp of what had
happened, for the life of him he could not comprehend how
she had managed to dig herself out of Niedermann’s
trench, make her way to his farm, and damn near destroy
him with two blows of an axe. She was extraordinarily
resourceful.
On the other hand he understood quite well what had
happened to Niedermann, and why he had run for his life
instead of staying to finish Salander off. He knew that
something was not quite right in Niedermann’s head, that
something was not quite right in Niedermann’s head, that
he saw visions – ghosts even. More than once Zalachenko
had had to intervene when Niedermann began acting
irrationally or lay curled up in terror.
This worried Zalachenko. He was convinced that, since
Niedermann had not yet been captured, he must have
been acting rationally during the twenty-four hours since
his flight from Gosseberga. Probably he would go to
Tallinn, where he would seek protection among contacts in
Zalachenko’s criminal empire. What worried him in the
short term was that he could never predict when
Niedermann might be struck by his mental paralysis. If it
happened while he was trying to escape, he would make
mistakes, and if he made mistakes he would end up in
prison. He would never surrender voluntarily, which meant
that policemen would die and Niedermann probably would
as well.
This thought upset Zalachenko. He did not want
Niedermann to die. Niedermann was his son. But
regrettable as it was, Niedermann must not be captured
alive. He had never been arrested, and Zalachenko could
not predict how he would react under interrogation. He
doubted that Niedermann would be able to keep quiet, as
he should. So it would be a good thing if he were killed by
the police. He would grieve for his son, but the alternative
was worse. If Niedermann talked, Zalachenko himself would
have to spend the rest of his life in prison.
have to spend the rest of his life in prison.
But it was now forty-eight hours since Niedermann had fled,
and he had not yet been caught. That was good. It was an
indication that Niedermann was functioning, and a
functioning Niedermann was invincible.
In the long term there was another worry. He wondered how
Niedermann would get along on his own, without his father
there to guide him. Over the years he had noticed that if he
stopped giving instructions or gave Niedermann too much
latitude to make his own decisions, he would slip into an
indolent state of indecision.
Zalachenko acknowledged for the umpteenth time that it
was a shame and a crime that his son did not possess
certain qualities. Ronald Niedermann was without doubt a
very talented person who had physical attributes to make
him a formidable and feared individual. He was also an
excellent and cold-blooded organizer. His problem was that
he utterly lacked the instinct to lead. He always needed
somebody to tell him what he was supposed to be
organizing.
But for the time being all this lay outside Zalachenko’s
control. Right now he had to focus on himself. His situation
was precarious, perhaps more precarious than ever
before.
He did not think that Advokat Thomasson’s visit earlier in
the day had been particularly reassuring. Thomasson was
and remained a corporate lawyer, and no matter how
effective he was in that respect, he would not be a great
support in this other business.
And then there had been the visit of Jonas Sandberg, or
whatever his name was. Sandberg offered a considerably
stronger lifeline. But that lifeline could also be a trap. He
had to play his cards right, and he would have to take
control of the situation. Control was everything.
In the end he had his own resources to fall back on. For
the moment he needed medical attention, but in a couple
of days, maybe a week, he would have regained his
strength. If things came to a head, he might have only
himself to rely on. That meant that he would have to
disappear, from right under the noses of the policemen
circling around him. He would need a hideout, a passport,
and some cash. Thomasson could provide him with all that.
But first he would have to get strong enough to make his
escape.
At 1.00 a.m. the night nurse looked in. He pretended to be
asleep. When she closed the door he arduously sat up and
swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat still for
while, testing his sense of balance. Then he cautiously put
his left foot down on the floor. Luckily the axe blow had
struck his already crippled right leg. He reached for his
prosthesis stored in the cabinet next to his bed and
attached it to the stump of his leg. Then he stood up,
keeping his weight on his uninjured leg before trying to
stand on the other. As he shifted his weight a sharp pain
shot through his right leg.
He gritted his teeth and took a step. He would need
crutches, and he was sure that the hospital would offer him
some soon. He braced himself against the wall and limped
over to the door. It took him several minutes, and he had to
stop after each step to deal with the pain.
He rested on one leg as he pushed open the door a crack
and peered out into the corridor. He did not see anyone, so
he stuck his head out a little further. He heard faint voices
to the left and turned to look. The night nurses were at
their station about twenty metres down on the other side of
the corridor.
He turned his head to the right and saw the exit at the
other end.
Earlier in the day he had enquired about Lisbeth
Salander’s condition. He was, after all, her father. The
nurses obviously had been instructed not to discuss other
patients. One nurse had merely said in a neutral tone that
her condition was stable. But she had unconsciously
glanced to her left.
glanced to her left.
In one of the rooms between his own and the exit was
Lisbeth Salander.
He carefully closed the door, limped back to the bed, and
detached his prosthesis. He was drenched in sweat when
he finally slipped under the covers.
Inspector Holmberg returned to Stockholm at lunchtime on
Sunday. He was hungry and exhausted. He took the
tunnelbana to City Hall, walked to police headquarters on
Bergsgatan, and went up to Inspector Bublanski’s office.
Modig and Andersson had already arrived. Bublanski had
called the meeting on Sunday because he knew that
preliminary investigation leader Richard Ekström was busy
elsewhere.
“Thanks for coming in,” said Bublanski. “I think it’s time we
had a discussion in peace and quiet to try to make sense
of this mess. Jerker, have you got anything new?”
“Nothing I haven’t already told you on the phone.
Zalachenko isn’t budging one millimetre. He’s innocent of
everything and has nothing to say. Just that—”
“Yes?”
“Sonja, you were right. He’s one of the nastiest people I’ve
ever met. It might sound stupid to say that. Policemen
ever met. It might sound stupid to say that. Policemen
aren’t supposed to think in those terms, but there’s
something really scary beneath his calculating facade.”
“O.K.” Bublanski cleared his throat. “What have we got?
Sonja?”
She smiled weakly.
“The private investigators won this round. I can’t find
Zalachenko in any public register, but a Karl Axel Bodin
seems to have been born in 1942 in Uddevalla. His parents
were Marianne and Georg Bodin. They died in an accident
in 1946. Karl Axel Bodin was brought up by an uncle living
in Norway. So there is no record of him until the ’70s, when
he moved back to Sweden. Mikael Blomkvist’s story that
he’s a G.R.U. agent who defected from the Soviet Union
seems impossible to verify, but I’m inclined to think he’s
right.”
“Alright. And what does that mean?”
“The obvious explanation is that he was given a false
identity. It must have been done with the consent of the
authorities.”
“You mean the Security Police, Säpo?”
“That’s what Blomkvist claims. But exactly how it was done I
don’t know. It presupposes that his birth certificate and a
don’t know. It presupposes that his birth certificate and a
number of other documents were falsified and then slipped
into our public records. I don’t dare to comment on the
legal ramifications of such an action. It probably depends
on who made the decision. But for it to be legal, the
decision would have to have been made at senior
government level.”
Silence descended in Bublanski’s office as the four criminal
inspectors considered these implications.
“O.K.,” said Bublanski. “The four of us are just dumb police
officers. If people in government are mixed up in this, I
don’t intend to interrogate them.”
“Hmm,” said Andersson, “this could lead to a constitutional
crisis. In the United States you can cross-examine
members of the government in a normal court of law. In
Sweden you have to do it through a constitutional
committee.”
“But we could ask the boss,” said Holmberg.
“Ask the boss?” said Bublanski.
“Thorbjörn Fälldin. He was Prime Minister at the time.”
“O.K., we’ll just cruise up to wherever he lives and ask the
former Prime Minister if he faked identity documents for a
defecting Russian spy. I don’t think so.”
defecting Russian spy. I don’t think so.”
“Fälldin lives in Ås, in Härnösand. I grew up a few miles
from there. My father’s a member of the Centre Party and
knows Fälldin well. I’ve met him several times, both as a kid
and as an adult. He’s a very approachable person.”
Three inspectors gave Holmberg an astonished look.
“You know Fälldin?” Bublanski said dubiously.
Holmberg nodded. Bublanski pursed his lips.
“To tell the truth,” said Holmberg, “it would solve a number
of issues if we could get the former Prime Minister to give
us a statement – at least we’d know where we stand in all
this. I could go up there and talk to him. If he won’t say
anything, so be it. But if he does, we might save ourselves
a lot of time.”
Bublanski weighed the suggestion. Then he shook his
head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that both Modig
and Andersson were nodding thoughtfully.
“Holmberg … it’s nice of you to offer, but I think we’ll put
that idea on the back burner for now. So, back to the case.
Sonja.”
“According to Blomkvist, Zalachenko came here in 1976. As
far as I can work out, there’s only one person he could
far as I can work out, there’s only one person he could
have got that information from.”
“Gunnar Björck,” said Andersson.
“What has Björck told us?” Holmberg asked.
“Not much. He says it’s all classified and that he can’t
discuss anything without permission from his superiors.”
“And who are his superiors?”
“He won’t say.”
“So what’s going to happen to him?”
“I arrested him for violation of the prostitution laws. We
have excellent documentation in Dag Svensson’s notes.
Ekström was most upset, but since I had already filed a
report, he could get himself into trouble if he closes the
preliminary investigation,” Andersson said.
“I see. Violation of the prostitution laws. That might result in
a fine of ten times his daily income.”
“Probably. But we have him in the system and can call him
in again for questioning.”
“But now we’re getting a little too close to poaching on
Säpo’s preserves. That might cause a bit of turbulence.”
Säpo’s preserves. That might cause a bit of turbulence.”
“The problem is that none of this could have happened if
Säpo weren’t involved somehow. It’s possible that
Zalachenko really was a Russian spy who defected and
was granted political asylum. It’s also possible that he
worked for Säpo as an expert or source or whatever title
you want to give him, and that there was good reason to
offer him a false identity and anonymity. But there are three
problems. First, the investigation carried out in 1991 that
led to Lisbeth Salander being locked away was illegal.
Second, Zalachenko’s activities since then have nothing
whatsoever to do with national security. Zalachenko is an
ordinary gangster who’s probably mixed up in several
murders and other criminal activities. And third, there is no
doubt that Lisbeth Salander was shot and buried alive on
his property in Gosseberga.”
“Speaking of which, I’d really like to read the infamous
report,” said Holmberg.
Bublanski’s face clouded over.
“Jerker … this is how it is: Ekström laid claim to it on Friday,
and when I asked for it back he said he’d make me a copy,
which he never did. Instead he called me and said that he
had spoken with the Prosecutor General and there was a
problem. According to the P.G., the Top Secret
classification means that the report may not be
classification means that the report may not be
disseminated or copied. The P.G. has called in all copies
until the matter is investigated. Which meant that Sonja
had to relinquish the copy she had too.”
“So we no longer have the report?”
“No.”
“Damn,” said Holmberg. “The whole thing stinks.”
“I know,” said Bublanski. “Worst of all, it means that
someone is acting against us, and acting very quickly and
efficiently. The report was what finally put us on the right
track.”
“So we have to work out who’s acting against us,” said
Holmberg.
“Just a moment,” said Modig. “We also have Peter
Teleborian. He contributed to our investigation by profiling
Lisbeth Salander.”
“Exactly,” said Bublanski in a darker tone of voice. “And
what did he say?”
“He was very concerned about her safety and wished her
well. But when the discussion was over, he said that she
was lethally dangerous and might well resist arrest. We
based a lot of our thinking on what he told us.”
based a lot of our thinking on what he told us.”
“And he got Hans Faste all worked up,” said Holmberg.
“Have we heard anything from Faste, by the way?”
“He took some time off,” Bublanski replied curtly. “The
question now is how we should proceed.”
They spent the next two hours discussing their options.
The only practical decision they made was that Modig
should return to Göteborg the next day to see whether
Salander had anything to say. When they finally broke up,
Modig and Andersson walked together down to the garage.
“I was just thinking …” Andersson stopped.
“Yes?”
“It’s just that when we talked to Teleborian, you were the
only one in the group who offered any opposition when he
answered our questions.”
“Yes?”
“Well … er … good instincts,” he said.
Andersson was not known for handing out praise, and it
was definitely the first time he had ever said anything
positive or encouraging to Modig. He left her standing by
her car in astonishment.
her car in astonishment.
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