CHAPTER 23
Friday, 1.vii – Sunday, 10.vii
Two weeks before the trial of Lisbeth Salander began,
Malm finished the layout of the 352-page book tersely
entitled The Section. The cover was blue with yellow type.
Malm had positioned seven postage-stamp-sized black-and-white images of Swedish Prime Ministers along the
bottom. Over the top of them hovered a photograph of
Zalachenko. He had used Zalachenko’s passport
photograph as an illustration, increasing the contrast so
that only the darkest areas stood out like a shadow across
that only the darkest areas stood out like a shadow across
the whole cover. It was not a particularly sophisticated
design, but it was effective. Blomkvist, Cortez and Eriksson
were named as the authors.
It was 5.00 in the morning and he had been working all
night. He felt slightly sick and had badly wanted to go home
and sleep. Eriksson had sat up with him doing final
corrections page by page as Malm O.K.’d them and printed
them out. By now she was asleep on the sofa.
Malm put the entire text plus illustrations into a folder. He
started up the Toast program and burned two C.D.s. One
he put in the safe. The other was collected by a sleepy
Blomkvist just before 7.00.
“Go and get some rest,” Blomkvist said.
“I’m on my way.”
They left Eriksson asleep and turned on the door alarm.
Cortez would be in at 8.00 to take over.
Blomkvist walked to Lundagatan, where he again borrowed
Salander’s abandoned Honda without permission. He
drove to Hallvigs Reklam, the printers near the railway
tracks in Morgongåva, west of Uppsala. This was a job he
would not entrust to the post.
He drove slowly, refusing to acknowledge the stress he felt,
and then waited until the printers had checked that they
could read the C.D. He made sure that the book would
indeed be ready to distribute on the first day of the trial.
The problem was not the printing but the binding, which
could take time. But Jan Köbin, Hallvigs’ manager,
promised to deliver at least five hundred copies of the first
printing of ten thousand by that day. The book would be a
trade paperback.
Finally, Blomkvist made sure that everyone understood the
need for the greatest secrecy, although this reminder was
probably unnecessary. Two years earlier Hallvigs had
printed Blomkvist’s book about Hans-Erik Wennerström
under very similar circumstances. They knew that books
from this peculiar publisher Millennium always promised
something extra.
Blomkvist drove back to Stockholm in no particular hurry.
He parked outside Bellmansgatan 1 and went to his
apartment to pack a change of clothes and a wash bag. He
drove on to Stavsnäs wharf in Värmdö, where he parked
the Honda and took the ferry out to Sandhamn.
It was the first time since Christmas that he had been to the
cabin. He unfastened the window shutters to let in the air
and drank a Ramlösa. As always when a job was finished
and at the printer, and nothing could be changed, he felt
empty.
empty.
He spent an hour sweeping and dusting, scouring the
shower tray, switching on the fridge, checking the water
pipes and changing the bedclothes up in the sleeping loft.
He went to the grocery and bought everything he would
need for the weekend. Then he started up the coffeemaker
and sat outside on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and
not thinking about anything in particular.
Just before 5.00 he went down to the steamboat wharf and
met Figuerola.
“I thought you said you couldn’t take time off,” he said,
kissing her on the cheek.
“That’s what I thought too. But I told Edklinth I’ve been
working every waking minute for the past few weeks and I’m
starting to burn out. I said I needed two days off to
recharge my batteries.”
“In Sandhamn?”
“I didn’t tell him where I was going,” she said with a smile.
Figuerola ferreted around in Blomkvist’s 25-square-metre
cabin. She subjected the kitchen area, the bathroom and
the loft to a critical inspection before she nodded in
approval. She washed and changed into a thin summer
dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce
dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce
and set the table on the veranda. They ate in silence as
they watched the parade of sailing boats on their way to or
from the marina. They shared the rest of the bottle of wine.
“It’s a wonderful cabin. Is this where you bring all your
girlfriends?” Figuerola said.
“Just the important ones.”
“Has Erika Berger been here?”
“Many times.”
“And Salander?”
“She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the
book about Wennerström. And we spent Christmas here
two years ago.”
“So both Berger and Salander are important in your life?”
“Erika is my best friend. We’ve been friends for twenty-five
years. Lisbeth is a whole different story. She’s certainly
unique, and she the most antisocial person I’ve ever
known. You could say that she made a big impression on
me when we first met. I like her. She’s a friend.”
“You don’t feel sorry for her?”
“No. She has herself to blame for a lot of the crap that’s
happened to her. But I do feel enormous sympathy and
solidarity with her.”
“But you aren’t in love either with her or with Berger?”
He shrugged. Figuerola watched an Amigo 23 coming in
late with its navigation lights glowing as it chugged past a
motorboat on the way to the marina.
“If love is liking someone an awful lot, then I suppose I’m in
love with several people,” Blomkvist said.
“And now with me?”
Blomkvist nodded. Figuerola frowned and looked at him.
“Does it bother you?”
“That you’ve brought other women here? No. But it does
bother me that I don’t really know what’s happening
between us. And I don’t think I can have a relationship with
a man who screws around whenever he feels like it …”
“I’m not going to apologize for the way I’ve led my life.”
“And I guess that in some way I’m falling for you because
you are who you are. It’s easy to sleep with you because
there’s no bullshit and you make me feel safe. But this all
started because I gave in to a crazy impulse. It doesn’t
happen very often, and I hadn’t planned it. And now we’ve
got to the stage where I’ve become just another one of the
girls you invite out here.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, I did. Oh, Mikael …”
“I know.”
“I’m unhappy. I don’t want to fall in love with you. It’ll hurt far
too much when it’s over.”
“Listen, I’ve had this cabin for twenty-five years, since my
father died and my mother moved back to Norrland. We
shared out the property so that my sister got our apartment
and I got the cabin. Apart from some casual acquaintances
in the early years, there are five women who have been
here before you: Erika, Lisbeth and my ex-wife, who I was
together with in the ’80s, a woman I was in a serious
relationship with in the late ’90s, and someone I met two
years ago, whom I still see occasionally. It’s sort of special
circumstances …”
“I bet it is.”
“I keep this cabin so that I can get away from the city and
have some quiet time. I’m mostly here on my own. I read
books, I write, and I relax and sit on the wharf and look at
the boats. It’s not a secret love nest.”
He stood up to get the bottle of wine he had put in the
shade.
“I won’t make any promises. My marriage broke up
because Erika and I couldn’t keep away from each other,”
he said, and then he added in English, “Been there, done
that, got the T-shirt.”
He filled their glasses.
“But you’re the most interesting person I’ve met in a long
time. It’s as if our relationship took off at full speed from a
standing start. I think I fell for you the moment you picked
me up outside my apartment. The few times I’ve slept at my
place since then, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night
needing you. I don’t know if I want a steady relationship,
but I’m terrified of losing you.” He looked at her. “So what
do you think we should do?”
“Let’s think about things,” Figuerola said. “I’m badly
attracted to you too.”
“This is starting to get serious,” Blomkvist said.
She suddenly felt a great sadness. They did not say much
for a long time. When it got dark they cleared the table,
went inside and closed the door.
On the Friday before the week of the trial, Blomkvist
stopped at the Pressbyrån news-stand at Slussen and
read the billboards for the morning papers. Svenska
Morgon-Posten’s C.E.O. and chairman of the board
Magnus Borgsjö had capitulated and tendered his
resignation. Blomkvist bought the papers and walked to
Java on Hornsgatan to have a late breakfast. Borgsjö cited
family reasons as the explanation for his unexpected
resignation. He would not comment on claims that Berger
had also resigned after he ordered her to cover up a story
about his involvement in the wholesale enterprise Vitavara
Inc. But in a sidebar it was reported that the chair of
Svenskt Näringsliv, the confederation of Swedish
enterprise, had decided to set up an ethics committee to
investigate the dealings of Swedish companies with
businesses in South East Asia known to exploit child labour.
Blomkvist burst out laughing, and then he folded the
morning papers and flipped open his Ericsson to call the
woman who presented She on T.V.4, who was in the middle
of a lunchtime sandwich.
“Hello, darling,” Blomkvist said. “I’m assuming you’d still like
dinner sometime.”
“Hi, Mikael,” she laughed. “Sorry, but you couldn’t be
further from my type.”
“Still, how about coming out with me this evening to discuss
a job?”
“What have you got going?”
“Erika Berger made a deal with you two years ago about
the Wennerström affair. I want to make a similar deal that
will work just as well.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I can’t tell you about it until we’ve agreed on the terms. I’ve
got a story in the works. We’re going to publish a book and
a themed issue of the magazine, and it’s going to be huge.
I’m offering you an exclusive look at all the material,
provided you don’t leak anything before we publish. This
time the publication is extra complicated because it has to
happen on a specific day.”
“How big is the story?”
“Bigger than Wennerström,” Blomkvist said. “Are you
interested?”
“Are you serious? Where shall we meet?”
“How about Samir’s Cauldron? Erika’s going to sit in on the
meeting.”
“What’s going with on her? Is she back at Millennium now
that she’s been thrown out of S.M.P.?”
“She didn’t get thrown out. She resigned because of
differences of opinion with Magnus Borgsjö.”
“He seems to be a real creep.”
“You’re not wrong there,” Blomkvist said.
*
Clinton was listening to Verdi through his earphones. Music
was pretty much the only thing left in life that could take
him away from dialysis machines and the growing pain in
the small of his back. He did not hum to the music. He
closed his eyes and followed the notes with his right hand,
which hovered and seemed to have a life of its own
alongside his disintegrating body.
That is how it goes. We are born. We live. We grow old.
We die. He had played his part. All that remained was the
disintegration.
He felt strangely satisfied with life.
He was playing for his friend Evert Gullberg.
It was Saturday, July 9. Only four days until the trial, and
the Section could set about putting this whole wretched
story behind them. He had had the message that morning.
Gullberg had been tougher than almost anyone he had
known. When you fire a 9 mm full-metal-jacketed bullet into
your own temple you expect to die. Yet it was three months
before Gullberg’s body gave up at last. That was probably
due as much to chance as to the stubbornness with which
the doctors had waged the battle for Gullberg’s life. And it
was the cancer, not the bullet, that had finally determined
his end.
Gullberg’s death had been painful, and that saddened
Clinton. Although incapable of communicating with the
outside world, he had at times been in a semi-conscious
state, smiling when the hospital staff stroked his cheek or
grunting when he seemed to be in pain. Sometimes he had
tried to form words and even sentences, but nobody was
able to understand anything he said.
He had no family, and none of his friends came to his
sickbed. His last contact with life was an Eritrean night
nurse by the name of Sara Kitama, who kept watch at his
bedside and held his hand as he died.
Clinton realized that he would soon be following his former
comrade-in-arms. No doubt about that. The likelihood of
comrade-in-arms. No doubt about that. The likelihood of
his surviving a transplant operation decreased each day.
His liver and intestinal functions appeared to have declined
at each examination.
He hoped to live past Christmas.
Yet he was contented. He felt an almost spiritual, giddy
satisfaction that his final days had involved such a sudden
and surprising return to service.
It was a boon he could not have anticipated.
The last notes of Verdi faded away just somebody opened
the door to the small room in which he was resting at the
Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan.
Clinton opened his eyes. It was Wadensjöö.
He had come to the conclusion that Wadensjöö was a dead
weight. He was entirely unsuitable as director of the most
important vanguard of Swedish national defence. He could
not conceive how he and von Rottinger could ever have
made such a fundamental miscalculation as to imagine that
Wadensjöö was the appropriate successor.
Wadensjöö was a warrior who needed a fair wind. In a crisis
he was feeble and incapable of making a decision. A timid
encumbrance lacking steel in his backbone who would
most likely have remained in paralysis, incapable of action,
most likely have remained in paralysis, incapable of action,
and let the Section go under.
It was this simple. Some had it. Others would always falter
when it came to the crunch.
“You wanted a word?”
“Sit down,” Clinton said.
Wadensjöö sat.
“I’m at a stage in my life when I can no longer waste time. I’ll
get straight to the point. When all this is over, I want you to
resign from the management of the Section.”
“You do?”
Clinton tempered his tone.
“You’re a good man, Wadensjöö. But unfortunately you’re
completely unsuited to shouldering the responsibility after
Gullberg. You should not have been given that
responsibility. Von Rottinger and I were at fault when we
failed to deal properly with the succession after I got sick.”
“You’ve never liked me.”
“You’re wrong about that. You were an excellent
administrator when von Rottinger and I were in charge of
administrator when von Rottinger and I were in charge of
the Section. We would have been helpless without you,
and I have great admiration for your patriotism. It’s your
inability to make decisions that lets you down.”
Wadensjöö smiled bitterly. “After this, I don’t know if I even
want to stay in the Section.”
“Now that Gullberg and von Rottinger are gone, I’ve had to
make the crucial decisions myself,” Clinton said. “And
you’ve obstructed every decision I’ve made during the past
few months.”
“And I maintain that the decisions you’ve made are absurd.
It’s going to end in disaster.”
“That’s possible. But your indecision would have
guaranteed our collapse. Now at least we have a chance,
and it seems to be working. Millennium don’t know which
way to turn. They may suspect that we’re somewhere out
here, but they lack documentation and they have no way of
finding it – or us. And we know at least as much as they do.
”
Wadensjöö looked out of the window and across the
rooftops.
“The only thing we still have to do is to get rid of
Zalachenko’s daughter,” Clinton said. “If anyone starts
burrowing about in her past and listening to what she has
burrowing about in her past and listening to what she has
to say, there’s no knowing what might happen. But the trial
starts in a few days and then it’ll be over. This time we have
to bury her so deep that she’ll never come back to haunt
us.”
Wadensjöö shook his head.
“I don’t understand your attitude,” Clinton said.
“I can see that. You’re sixty-eight years old. You’re dying.
Your decisions are not rational, and yet you seem to have
bewitched Nyström and Sandberg. They obey you as if you
were God the Father.”
“I am God the Father in everything that has to do with the
Section. We’re working according to a plan. Our decision to
act has given the Section a chance. And it is with the
utmost conviction that I say that the Section will never find
itself in such an exposed position again. When all this is
over, we’re going to put in hand a complete overhaul of our
activities.”
“I see.”
“Nyström will be the new director. He’s really too old, but
he’s the only choice we have, and he’s promised to stay on
for six years at least. Sandberg is too young and – as a
direct result of your management policies – too
inexperienced. He should have been fully trained by now.”
inexperienced. He should have been fully trained by now.”
“Clinton, don’t you see what you’ve done? You’ve
murdered a man. Björck worked for the Section for thirty-five years, and you ordered his death. Do you not
understand—”
“You know quite well that it was necessary. He betrayed us,
and he would never have withstood the pressure when the
police closed in.”
Wadensjöö stood up.
“I’m not finished.”
“Then we’ll have to take it up later. I have a job to do while
you lie here fantasizing that you’re the Almighty.”
“If you’re so morally indignant, why don’t you go to
Bublanski and confess your crimes?”
“Believe me, I’ve considered it. But whatever you may think,
I’m doing everything in my power to protect the Section.”
He opened the door and met Nyström and Sandberg on
their way in.
“Hello, Fredrik,” Nyström said. “We have to talk.”
“Wadensjöö was just leaving.”
Nyström waited until the door had closed. “Fredrik, I’m
seriously worried.”
“What’s going on?”
“Sandberg and I have been thinking. Things are happening
that we don’t understand. This morning Salander’s lawyer
lodged her autobiographical statement with the prosecutor.
”
“What?”
Inspector Faste scrutinized Advokat Giannini as Ekström
poured coffee from a thermos jug. The document Ekström
had been handed when he arrived at work that morning
had taken both of them by surprise. He and Faste had
read the forty pages of Salander’s story and discussed the
extraordinary document at length. Finally he felt compelled
to ask Giannini to come in for an informal chat.
They were sitting at the small conference table in Ekström’s
office.
“Thank you for agreeing to come in,” Ekström said. “I have
read this … hmm, account that arrived this morning, and
there are a few matters I’d like to clarify.”
“I’ll do what I can to help” Giannini said.
“I don’t know exactly where to start. Let me say from the
outset that both Inspector Faste and I are profoundly
astonished.”
“Indeed?”
“I’m trying to understand what your objective is.”
“How do you mean?”
“This autobiography, or whatever you want to call it …
What’s the point of it?”
“The point is perfectly clear. My client wants to set down
her version of what has happened to her.”
Ekström gave a good-natured laugh. He stroked his
goatee, an oft-repeated gesture that was beginning to
irritate Giannini.
“Yes, but your client has had several months to explain
herself. She hasn’t said a word in all her interviews with
Faste.”
“As far as I know there is no law that forces my client to talk
simply when it suits Inspector Faste.”
“No, but I mean … Salander’s trial will begin in four days’
time, and at the eleventh hour she comes up with this. To
tell the truth, I feel a responsibility here which is beyond my
duties as prosecutor.”
“You do?”
“I do not in the very least wish to sound offensive. That is
not my intention. But we have a procedure for trials in this
country. You, Fru Giannini, are a lawyer specialising in
women’s rights, and you have never before represented a
client in a criminal case. I did not charge Lisbeth Salander
because she is a woman, but on a charge of grievous
bodily harm. Even you, I believe, must have realized that
she suffers from a serious mental illness and needs the
protection and assistance of the state.”
“You’re afraid that I won’t be able to provide Lisbeth
Salander with an adequate defence,” Giannini said in a
friendly tone.
“I do not wish to be judgemental,” Ekström said, “and I don’t
question your competence. I’m simply making the point that
you lack experience.”
“I do understand, and I completely agree with you. I am
woefully inexperienced when it comes to criminal cases.”
“And yet you have all along refused the help that has been
offered by lawyers with considerably more experience—”
offered by lawyers with considerably more experience—”
“At the express wish of my client. Lisbeth Salander wants
me to be her lawyer, and accordingly I will be representing
her in court.” She gave him a polite smile.
“Very well, but I do wonder whether in all seriousness you
intend to offer the content of this statement to the court.”
“Of course. It’s her story.”
Ekström and Faste glanced at one another. Faste raised
his eyebrows. He could not see what Ekström was fussing
about. If Giannini did not understand that she was on her
way to sinking her client, then that certainly was not the
prosecutor’s fault. All they needed to do was to say thank
you, accept the document, and put the issue aside.
As far as he was concerned, Salander was off her rocker.
He had employed all his skills to persuade her to tell them,
at the very least, where she lived. But in interview after
interview that damn girl had just sat there, silent as a
stone, staring at the wall behind him. She had refused the
cigarettes he offered, and had never so much as accepted
a coffee or a cold drink. Nor had she registered the least
reaction when he pleaded with her, or when he raised his
voice in moments of extreme annoyance. Faste had never
conducted a more frustrating set of interviews.
“Fru Giannini,” Ekström said at last, “I believe that your
client ought to be spared this trial. She is not well. I have a
psychiatric report from a highly qualified doctor to fall back
on. She should be given the psychiatric care that for so
many years she has badly needed.”
“I take it that you will be presenting this recommendation to
the district court.”
“That’s exactly what I’ll be doing. It’s not my business to tell
you how to conduct her defence. But if this is the line you
seriously intend to take, then the situation is, quite frankly,
absurd. This statement contains wild and unsubstantiated
accusations against a number of people … in particular
against her guardian, Advokat Bjurman, and Dr Peter
Teleborian. I hope you do not in all seriousness believe
that the court will accept an account that casts suspicion
on Dr Teleborian without offering a single shred of
evidence. This document is going to be the final nail in
your client’s coffin, if you’ll pardon the metaphor.”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
“In the course of the trial you may claim that she is not ill
and request a supplementary psychiatric assessment, and
then the matter can be submitted to the medical board. But
to be honest her statement leaves me in very little doubt
that every other forensic psychiatrist will come to the same
conclusion as Dr Teleborian. Its very existence confirms all
documentary evidence that she is a paranoid
schizophrenic.”
Giannini smiled politely. “There is an alternative view,” she
said.
“What’s that?”
“That her account is in every detail true and that the court
will elect to believe it.”
Ekström looked bewildered by the notion. Then he smiled
and stroked his goatee.
Clinton was sitting at the little side table by the window in
his office. He listened attentively to Nyström and Sandberg.
His face was furrowed, but his peppercorn eyes were
focused and alert.
“We’ve been monitoring the telephone and email traffic of
Millennium’s key employees since April,” Clinton said.
“We’ve confirmed that Blomkvist and Eriksson and this
Cortez fellow are pretty downcast on the whole. We’ve read
the outline version of the next issue. It seems that even
Blomkvist has reversed his position and is now of the view
that Salander is mentally unstable after all. There is a
socially linked defence for her – he’s claiming that society
let her down, and that as a result it’s somehow not her fault
that she tried to murder her father. But that’s hardly an
that she tried to murder her father. But that’s hardly an
argument. There isn’t one word about the break-in at his
apartment or the fact that his sister was attacked in
Göteborg, and there’s no mention of the missing reports.
He knows he can’t prove anything.”
“That is precisely the problem,” Sandberg said. “Blomkvist
must know that someone has their eye on him. But he
seems to be completely ignoring his suspicions. Forgive
me, but that isn’t Millennium’s style. Besides, Erika Berger
is back in editorial and yet this whole issue is so bland and
devoid of substance that it seems like a joke.”
“What are you saying? That it’s a decoy?”
Sandberg nodded. “The summer issue should have come
out in the last week of June. According to one of Malin
Eriksson’s emails, it’s being printed by a company in
Södertälje, but when I rang them this morning, they told me
they hadn’t even got the C.R.C. All they’d had was a
request for a quote about a month ago.”
“Where have they printed before?” Clinton said.
“At a place called Hallvigs in Morgongåva. I called to ask
how far they had got with the printing – I said I was calling
from Millennium. The manager wouldn’t tell me a thing. I
thought I’d drive up there this evening and take a look.”
“Makes sense. Georg?”
“I’ve reviewed all the telephone traffic from the past week,”
Nyström said. “It’s bizarre, but the Millennium staff never
discuss anything to do with the trial or Zalachenko.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No. They mention it only when they’re talking with
someone outside Millennium. Listen to this, for instance.
Blomkvist gets a call from a reporter at Aftonbladet asking
whether he has any comment to make on the upcoming
trial.”
He put a tape recorder on the table.
“Sorry, but I have no comment.”
“You’ve been involved with the story from the
start. You were the one who found Salander
down in Gosseberga. And you haven’t
published a single word since. When do you
intend to publish?”
“When the time is right. Provided I have
anything to say.”
“Do you?”
“Well, you can buy a copy of Millennium and
see for yourself.”
He turned off the recorder.
“We didn’t think about this before, but I went back and
listened to bits at random. It’s been like this the entire time.
He hardly discusses the Zalachenko business except in the
most general terms. He doesn’t even discuss it with his
sister, and she’s Salander’s lawyer.”
“Maybe he really doesn’t have anything to say.”
“He consistently refuses to speculate about anything. He
seems to live at the offices round the clock; he’s hardly
ever at his apartment. If he’s working night and day, then
he ought to have come up with something more substantial
than whatever’s going to be in the next issue of Millennium.
”
“And we still haven’t been able to tap the phones at their
offices?”
“No,” Sandberg said. “There’s been somebody there
twenty-four hours a day – and that’s significant – ever
since we went into Blomkvist’s apartment the first time. The
office lights are always on, and if it’s not Blomkvist it’s
Cortez or Eriksson, or that faggot … er, Christer Malm.”
Clinton stroked his chin and thought for a moment.
“Conclusions?”
Nyström said: “If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were
putting on an act for us.”
Clinton felt a cold shiver run down the back of his neck.
“Why hasn’t this occurred to us before?”
“We’ve been listening to what they’ve been saying, not to
what they haven’t been saying. We’ve been gratified when
we’ve heard their confusion or noticed it in an email.
Blomkvist knows damn well that someone stole copies of
the 1991 Salander report from him and his sister. But what
the hell is he doing about it?”
“And they didn’t report her mugging to the police?”
Nyström shook his head. “Giannini was present at the
interviews with Salander. She’s polite, but she never says
anything of any weight. And Salander herself never says
anything at all.”
“But that will work in our favour. The more she keeps her
mouth shut, the better. What does Ekström say?”
“I saw him a couple of hours ago. He’d just been given
Salander’s statement.” He pointed to the pages in Clinton’s
lap.
lap.
“Ekström is confused. It’s fortunate that Salander is no
good at expressing herself in writing. To an outsider this
would look like a totally insane conspiracy theory with
added pornographic elements. But she still shoots very
close to the mark. She describes exactly how she came to
be locked up at St Stefan’s, and she claims that
Zalachenko worked for Säpo and so on. She says she
thinks everything is connected with a little club inside Säpo,
pointing to the existence of something corresponding to the
Section. All in all it’s fairly accurate. But as I said, it’s not
plausible. Ekström is in a dither because this also seems to
be the line of defence Giannini is going to use at the trial.”
“Shit,” Clinton said. He bowed his head and thought intently
for several minutes. Finally he looked up.
“Jonas, drive up to Morgongåva this evening and find out if
anything is going on. If they’re printing Millennium, I want a
copy.”
“I’ll take Falun with me.”
“Good. Georg, I want you to see Ekström this afternoon
and take his pulse. Everything has gone smoothly until
now, but I can’t ignore what you two are telling me.”
Clinton sat in silence for a moment more.
“The best thing would be if there wasn’t any trial …” he
said at last.
He raised his eyes and looked at Nyström. Nyström
nodded. Sandberg nodded.
“Nyström, can you investigate our options?”
Sandberg and the locksmith known as Falun parked a
short distance from the railway tracks and walked through
Morgongåva. It was 8.30 in the evening. It was too light and
too early to do anything, but they wanted to reconnoitre
and get a look at the place.
“If the building is alarmed, I’m not doing it,” Falun said. “It
would be better to have a look through the window. If
there’s anything lying around, you can just chuck a rock
through, jump in, grab what you need and run like hell.”
“That’ll work,” Sandberg said.
“If you only need one copy of the magazine, we can check
the dustbins round the back. There must be overruns and
test printings and things like that.”
Hallvigs Reklam printing factory was in a low, brick building.
They approached from the south on the other side of the
street. Sandberg was about to cross when Falun took hold
of his elbow.
“Keep going straight,” he said.
“What?”
“Keep going straight, as if we’re out for an evening stroll.”
They passed Hallvigs and made a tour of the
neighbourhood.
“What was all that about?” Sandberg said.
“You’ve got to keep your eyes peeled. The place isn’t just
alarmed. There was a car parked alongside the building.”
“You mean somebody’s there?”
“It was a car from Milton Security. The factory is under
surveillance, for Christ’s sake.”
“Milton Security?” Clinton felt the shock hit him in the gut.
“If it hadn’t been for Falun, I would have walked right into
their arms,” Sandberg said.
“There’s something fishy going on,” Nyström said. “There is
no rationale for a small out-of-town printer to hire Milton
Security for 24-hour surveillance.”
Clinton’s lips were pressed tight. It was after 11.00 and he
needed to rest.
“And that means Millennium really is up to something,”
Sandberg said.
“I can see that,” Clinton said. “O.K. Let’s analyse the
situation. What’s the worst-case scenario? What could they
know?” He gave Nyström an urgent look.
“It has to be the Salander report,” he said. “They beefed
up their security after we lifted the copies. They must have
guessed that they’re under surveillance. The worst case is
that they still have a copy of the report.”
“But Blomkvist was at his wits’ end when it went missing.”
“I know. But we may have been duped. We can’t shut our
eyes to that possibility.”
“We’ll work on that assumption,” Clinton said. “Sandberg?”
“We do know what Salander’s defence will be. She’s going
to tell the truth as she sees it. I’ve read this autobiography
of hers. In fact it plays right into our hands. It’s full of such
outrageous accusations of rape and violation of her civil
rights that it will come across as the ravings of a paranoid
personality.”
Nyström said: “Besides, she can’t prove a single one of her
claims. Ekström will use the account against her. He’ll
annihilate her credibility.”
“O.K. Teleborian’s new report is excellent. There is, of
course, the possibility that Giannini will call in her own
expert who’ll say that Salander isn’t crazy, and the whole
thing will end up before the medical board. But again –
unless Salander changes tactics, she’s going to refuse to
talk to them too, and then they’ll conclude that Teleborian
is right. She’s her own worst enemy.”
“The best thing would still be if there was no trial,” Clinton
said.
Nyström shook his head. “That’s virtually impossible. She’s
in Kronoberg prison and she has no contact with other
prisoners. She gets an hour’s exercise each day in the little
area on the roof, but we can’t get to her up there. And we
have no contacts among the prison staff.”
“There may still be time.”
“If we’d wanted to dispose of her, we should have done it
when she was at Sahlgrenska. The likelihood that a hit man
would do time is almost 100 per cent. And where would we
find a gun who’d agree to that? And at such short notice it
would be impossible to arrange a suicide or an accident.”
“I was afraid of that. And unexpected deaths have a
tendency to invite questions. O.K., we’ll have to see how
the trial goes. In reality, nothing has changed. We’ve
always anticipated that they would make some sort of
counter-move, and it seems to be this so-called
autobiography.”
“The problem is Millennium,” Sandberg said.
“Millennium and Milton Security,” Clinton said pensively.
“Salander has worked for Armansky, and Blomkvist once
had a thing with her. Should we assume that they’ve joined
forces?”
“It doesn’t seem unreasonable that Milton Security is
watching the factory where Millennium is being printed. And
it can’t be a coincidence.”
“When are they going to publish? Sandberg, you said that
they’re almost two weeks behind schedule. If we assume
that Milton is keeping an eye on the printer’s to make sure
that nobody gets hold of a copy, that means either that
they’re publishing something that they don’t want to leak,
or that the magazine has already been printed.”
“To coincide with the opening of the trial,” Sandberg said.
“That’s the only reasonable explanation.”
Clinton nodded. “O.K. What’s going to be in the magazine?
”
”
They thought for a while, until Nyström broke the silence.
“In the worst case they have a copy of the 1991 report, as
we said.”
Clinton and Sandberg had reached the same conclusion.
“But what can they do with it?” Sandberg said. “The report
implicates Björck and Teleborian. Björck is dead. They can
press hard with Teleborian, but he’ll claim that he was
doing a routine forensic psychiatric examination. It’ll be
their word against his.”
“And what can we do if they publish the report?” Nyström
said.
“I think we’re holding the trump card,” Clinton said. “If
there’s a ruckus over the report, the focus will be on Säpo,
not the Section. And when reporters start asking questions,
Säpo will just pull it out of the archive …”
“And it won’t be the same report,” Sandberg said.
“Shenke has put the modified version in the archive, that
is, the version Ekström was given to read. It was assigned
a case number. So we could swiftly present a lot of
disinformation to the media … We have the original, which
Bjurman got hold of, and Millennium only has a copy. We
could even spread information to suggest that it was
Blomkvist himself who falsified the original.”
“Good. What else could Millennium know?”
“They can’t know anything about the Section. That wouldn’t
be possible. They’ll have to focus on Säpo, and that would
mean Blomkvist being cast as a conspiracy theorist.”
“By now he’s rather well known,” Clinton said slowly. “Since
the resolution of the Wennerström affair he’s been taken
pretty seriously.”
“Could we somehow reduce his credibility?” Sandberg said.
Nyström and Clinton exchanged glances. Clinton looked at
Nyström.
“Do you think you could put your hands on … let’s say, fifty
grams of cocaine?”
“Maybe from the Yugos.”
“Give it a try. And get a move-on. The trial starts in three
days.”
“I don’t get it,” Sandberg said.
“It’s a trick as old as the profession. But still extremely
effective.”
“Morgongåva?” Edklinth said with a frown. He was sitting in
his dressing gown on the sofa at home, reading through
Salander’s autobiography for the third time, when
Figuerola called. Since it was after midnight, he assumed
that something was up.
“Morgongåva,” Figuerola repeated. “Sandberg and Lars
Faulsson were there at 8.30 this evening. They were tailed
by Inspector Andersson from Bublanski’s gang, and we had
a radio transmitter planted in Sandberg’s car. They parked
near the old railway station, walked around for a while, and
then returned to the car and drove back to Stockholm.”
“I see. Did they meet anyone, or—”
“No. That was the strange thing. They just got out of the
car and walked around a little, then drove straight back to
Stockholm, so Andersson told me.”
“I see. And why are you calling me at 12.30 at night to tell
me this?”
“It took a little while to work it out. They walked past Hallvigs
printers. I talked to Blomkvist about it. That’s where
Millennium’s being printed.”
“Oh shit,” Edklinth said. He saw the implications
immediately.
“Since Falun was along, I have to suppose that they were
intending to pay the printer’s a late-night visit, but they
abandoned the expedition,” Figuerola said.
“Why?”
“Because Blomkvist asked Armansky to keep an eye on the
factory until the magazine was distributed. They probably
saw the car from Milton Security. I thought you’d want to
know straightaway.”
“You’re right. It means that they’ve begun to smell a rat.”
“Alarm bells must have gone off in their heads when they
saw the car. Sandberg dropped Faulsson off in town and
then went back to Artillerigatan. We know that Clinton is
there. Nyström arrived at about the same time. The
question is, what are they going to do?”
“The trial starts on Wednesday … Can you reach Blomkvist
and urge him to double up on security at Millennium? Just
in case.”
“They already have good security. And they blew smoke
rings round their tapped telephones – like old pros.
Blomkvist is so paranoid already that he’s using
diversionary tactics we could learn from.” “I’m happy to
diversionary tactics we could learn from.” “I’m happy to
hear it, but call him anyway.”
Figuerola closed her mobile and put it on the bedside
table. She looked up and studied Blomkvist as he lay
naked with his head against the foot of the bed.
“I’m to call you and tell you to beef up security at
Millennium,” she said.
“Thanks for the suggestion,” he said wryly.
“I’m serious. If they start to smell a rat, there’s a danger
that they’ll go and do something without thinking. They
might break in.”
“Henry’s sleeping there tonight. And we have a burglar
alarm that goes straight to Milton Security, three minutes
away.”
He lay in silence with his eyes shut.
“Paranoid,” he muttered.
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