CHAPTER 24
Monday, 11.vii
It was 6.00 on Monday morning when Linder from Milton
Security called Blomkvist on his T10.
“Don’t you people ever rest?” Blomkvist said, drunk with
sleep.
He glanced at Figuerola. She was up already and had
changed into jogging shorts, but had not yet put on her T-shirt.
“Sure. But the night duty officer woke me. The silent alarm
we installed at your apartment went off at 3.00.”
“Did it?”
“I drove down to see what was going on. This is a bit tricky.
Could you come to Milton this morning? As soon as
possible, that is.”
“This is serious,” Armansky said.
It was just after 8.00 when Armansky, Blomkvist and Linder
were gathered in front of a T. V. monitor in a conference
room at Milton Security. Armansky had also called in Johan
Fräklund, a retired criminal inspector in the Solna police,
now chief of Milton’s operations unit, and the former
inspector Sonny Bohman, who had been involved in the
Salander affair from the start. They were pondering the
surveillance video that Linder had just shown them.
“What we see here is Säpo officer Jonas Sandberg
opening the door to Mikael’s apartment at 3.17. He has his
own keys. You will recall that Faulsson the locksmith made
copies of the spare set when he and Göran Mårtensson
broke in several weeks ago.”
Armansky nodded sternly.
“Sandberg is in the apartment for approximately eight
minutes. During that time he does the following things.
First, he takes a small plastic bag from the kitchen, which
he fills. Then he unscrews the back plate of a loudspeaker
which you have in the living room, Mikael. That’s where he
places the bag. The fact that he takes a bag from your
kitchen is significant.”
“It’s a Konsum bag,” Blomkvist said. “I save them to put
cheese and stuff in.”
“I do the same. What matters, of course, is that the bag
has your fingerprints on it. Then he takes a copy of S.M.P.
from the recycling bin in the hall. He tears off a page to
wrap up an object which he puts on the top shelf of your
wardrobe. Same thing there: the paper has your
fingerprints on it.”
“I get you,” Blomkvist said.
“I drive to your apartment at around 5.00,” Linder said. “I
find the following items: in your loudspeaker there are now
approximately 180 grams of cocaine. I’ve taken a sample
which I have here.”
She put a small evidence bag on the conference table.
“What’s in the wardrobe?” Blomkvist said.
“About 120,000 kronor in cash.”
Armansky motioned to Linder to turn off the T. V. He turned
to Fräklund.
“So Mikael Blomkvist is involved in cocaine dealing,”
Fräklund said good-naturedly. “Apparently they’ve started
to get a little worried about what Blomkvist is working on.”
“This is a counter-move,” Blomkvist said.
“A counter-move to what?”
“They ran into Milton’s security patrol in Morgongåva last
night.”
He told them what he had heard from Figuerola about
Sandberg’s expedition to the printing factory.
“That busy little rascal,” Bohman said.
“That busy little rascal,” Bohman said.
“But why now?”
“They must be nervous about what Millennium might
publish when the trial starts,” Fräklund said. “If Blomkvist is
arrested for dealing cocaine, his credibility will drop
dramatically.”
Linder nodded. Blomkvist looked sceptical.
“How are we going to handle this?” Armansky said.
“We should do nothing,” Fräklund said. “We hold all the
cards. We have crystal-clear evidence of Sandberg
planting the stuff in your apartment. Let them spring the
trap. We can prove your innocence in a second, and
besides, this will be further proof of the Section’s criminal
activities. I would so love to be prosecutor when those guys
are brought to trial.”
“I don’t know,” Blomkvist said slowly. “The trial starts the
day after tomorrow. The magazine is on the stands on
Friday, day three of the trial. If they plan to frame me for
dealing cocaine, I’ll never have the time to explain how it
happened before the magazine comes out. I risk sitting in
prison and missing the beginning of the trial.”
“So, all the more reason for you to stay out of sight this
week,” Armansky said.
“Well … I have to work with T.V.4 and I’ve got a number of
other things to do. It would be enormously inconvenient—”
“Why right now?” Linder said suddenly.
“How do you mean?” Armansky said.
“They’ve had three months to smear Blomkvist. Why do it
right now? Whatever happens they’re not going to be able
to prevent publication.”
They all sat in silence for a moment.
“It might be because they don’t have a clue what you’re
going to publish, Mikael,” Armansky said. “They have to
suppose that you have something in the offing … but they
might think all you have is Björck’s report. They have no
reason to know that you’re planning on rolling up the whole
Section. If it’s only about Björck’s report, then it’s certainly
enough to blacken your reputation. Any revelations you
might come up with would be drowned out when you’re
arrested and charged. Big scandal. The famous Mikael
Blomkvist arrested on a drugs charge. Six to eight years in
prison.”
“Could I have two copies of the video?” Blomkvist said.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Lodge one copy with Edklinth. And in three hours I’m going
to be at T.V.4. I think it would be prudent to have this ready
to run on T. V. if or when all hell breaks loose.”
Figuerola turned off the D.V.D. player and put the remote
on the table. They were meeting in the temporary office on
Fridhemsplan.
“Cocaine,” Edklinth said. “They’re playing a very dirty game
here.”
Figuerola looked thoughtful. She glanced at Blomkvist.
“I thought it best to keep all of you up to date,” he said with
a shrug.
“I don’t like this,” Figuerola said. “It implies a recklessness.
Someone hasn’t really thought this through. They must
realize that you wouldn’t go quietly and let yourself be
thrown into Kumla bunker under arrest on a drugs charge.”
“I agree,” Blomkvist said.
“Even if you were convicted, there’s still a strong likelihood
that people would believe what you have to say. And your
colleagues at Millennium wouldn’t keep quiet either.”
“Furthermore, this is costing them a great deal,” Edklinth
said. “They have a budget that allows them to distribute
120,000 kronor here and there without blinking, plus
120,000 kronor here and there without blinking, plus
whatever the cocaine costs them.”
“I know, but the plan is actually not bad,” Blomkvist said.
“They’re counting on Salander landing back in the asylum
while I disappear in a cloud of suspicion. They’re also
assuming that any attention would be focused on Säpo –
not on the Section.”
“But how are they going to convince the drug squad to
search your apartment? I mean, an anonymous tip will
hardly be enough for someone to kick in the door of a star
journalist. And if this is going to work, suspicion would have
to be cast on you within forty-eight hours.”
“Well, we don’t really know anything about their schedule,”
Blomkvist said.
He felt exhausted and longed for all this to be over. He got
up.
“Where are you off to?” Figuerola said. “I’d like to know
where you’re going to be for the next few days.”
“I have a meeting with T.V.4 at lunchtime. And at 6.00 I’m
going to catch up with Erika Berger over a lamb stew at
Samir’s. We’re going to fine-tune the press release. The
rest of the afternoon and evening I’ll be at Millennium, I
imagine.”
Figuerola’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of
Berger.
“I need you to stay in touch during the day. I’d prefer it if
you stayed in close contact until the trial starts.”
“Maybe I could move in with you for a few days,” Blomkvist
said with a playful smile.
Figuerola’s face darkened. She cast a hasty glance at
Edklinth.
“Monica’s right,” Edklinth said. “I think it would be best if
you stay more or less out of sight for the time being.”
“You take care of your end,” Blomkvist said, “and I’ll take
care of mine.”
The presenter of She on T.V.4 could hardly conceal her
excitement over the video material that Blomkvist had
delivered. Blomkvist was amused at her undisguised glee.
For a week they had worked like dogs to put together
coherent material about the Section that they could use on
T. V. Her producer and the news editor at T.V.4 were in no
doubt as to what a scoop the story would be. It was being
produced in the utmost secrecy, with only a very few
people involved. They had agreed to Blomkvist’s insistence
that the story be the lead on the evening of the third day of
the trial. They had decided to do an hour-long news
special.
Blomkvist had given her a quantity of still photographs to
work with, but on television nothing compares to the
moving image. She was simply delighted when he showed
her the video – in razor-sharp definition – of an identifiable
police officer planting cocaine in his apartment.
“This is great T.V.,” she said. “Camera shot: Here is Säpo
planting cocaine in the reporter’s apartment.”
“Not Säpo … the Section,” Blomkvist corrected her. “Don’t
make the mistake of muddling the two.”
“Sandberg works for Säpo, for God’s sake,” she said.
“Sure, but in practice he should be regarded as an
infiltrator. Keep the boundary line very clear.”
“Understood. It’s the Section that’s the story here. Not
Säpo. Mikael, can you explain to me how it is that you keep
getting mixed up in these sensational stories? And you’re
right. This is going to be bigger than the Wennerström
affair.”
“Sheer talent, I guess. Ironically enough this story also
begins with a Wennerström. The spy scandal of the ’60s,
that is.”
Berger called at 4.00. She was in a meeting with the
newspaper publishers’ association sharing her views on
the planned cutbacks at S.M.P., which had given rise to a
major conflict in the industry after she had resigned. She
would not be able to make it to their dinner before 6.30.
Sandberg helped Clinton move from the wheelchair to the
daybed in the room that was his command centre in the
Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton had just
returned from a whole morning spent in dialysis. He felt
ancient, infinitely weary. He had hardly slept the past few
days and wished that all this would soon come to an end.
He had managed to make himself comfortable, sitting up in
the bed, when Nyström appeared.
Clinton concentrated his energy. “Is it ready?”
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Nikolich brothers,”
Nyström said. “It’s going to cost 50,000.”
“We can afford it,” Clinton said.
Christ, if only I were young again.
He turned his head and studied Nyström and Sandberg in
turn.
“No qualms of conscience?” he said.
They shook their heads.
“When?” Clinton said.
“Within twenty-four hours,” Nyström said. “It’s difficult to pin
down where Blomkvist is staying, but if the worst comes to
the worst they’ll do it outside Millennium’s offices.”
“We have a possible opportunity tonight, two hours from
now,” said Sandberg.
“Oh, really?”
“Erika Berger called him a while ago. They’re going to have
dinner at Samir’s Cauldron. It’s a restaurant near
Bellmansgatan.”
“Berger …” Clinton said hesitantly.
“I hope for God’s sake that she doesn’t—” Nyström said.
“That wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Sandberg said.
Clinton and Nyström both stared at him.
“We’re agreed that Blomkvist is our greatest threat, and
that he’s going to publish something damaging in the next
issue of Millennium. We can’t prevent publication, so we
have to destroy his credibility. If he’s killed in what appears
to be a typical underworld hit and the police then find drugs
and cash in his apartment, the investigators will draw
certain conclusions. They won’t initially be looking for
conspiracies involving the Security Police.”
“Go on,” Clinton said.
“Erika Berger is actually Blomkvist’s lover,” Sandberg said
with some force. “She’s unfaithful to her husband. If she
too were to be a victim, that would lead to further
speculation.”
Clinton and Nyström exchanged glances. Sandberg had a
natural talent when it came to creating smokescreens. He
learned fast. But Clinton and Nyström felt a surge of
anxiety. Sandberg was too cavalier about life-and-death
decisions. That was not good. Extreme measures were not
to be employed just because an opportunity had presented
itself. Murder was no easy solution; it should be resorted to
only when there was no alternative.
Clinton shook his head.
Collateral damage, he thought. He suddenly felt disgust for
the whole operation.
After a lifetime in service to the nation, here we sit like
primitive mercenaries. Zalachenko was necessary. Björck
was … regrettable, but Gullberg was right: Björck would
have caved in. Blomkvist is … possibly necessary. But
have caved in. Blomkvist is … possibly necessary. But
Erika Berger could only be an innocent bystander.
He looked steadily at Sandberg. He hoped that the young
man would not develop into a psychopath.
“How much do the Nikolich brothers know?”
“Nothing. About us, that is. I’m the only one they’ve met. I
used another identity and they can’t trace me. They think
the killing has to do with trafficking.”
“What happens to them after the hit?”
“They leave Sweden at once,” Nyström said. “Just like after
Björck. If the murder investigation yields no results, they
can very cautiously return after a few weeks.”
“And the method?”
“Sicilian style. They walk up to Blomkvist, empty a
magazine into him, and walk away.”
“Weapon?”
“They have an automatic. I don’t know what type.”
“I do hope they won’t spray the whole restaurant—”
“No danger of that. They’re cold-blooded, they know what
“No danger of that. They’re cold-blooded, they know what
they have to do. But if Berger is sitting at the same table—”
Collateral damage.
“Look here,” Clinton said. “It’s important that Wadensjöö
doesn’t get wind of this. Especially not if Berger becomes a
victim. He’s stressed to breaking point as it is. I’m afraid
we’re going to have to put him out to pasture when this is
over.”
Nyström nodded.
“Which means that when we get word that Blomkvist has
been shot, we’re going to have to put on a good show.
We’ll call a crisis meeting and act thunderstruck by the
development. We can speculate who might be behind the
murder, but we’ll say nothing about the drugs until the
police find the evidence.”
Blomkvist took leave of the presenter of She just before
5.00. They had spent the afternoon filling in the gaps in the
material. Then Blomkvist had gone to make-up and
subjected himself to a long interview on film.
One question had been put to him which he struggled to
answer in a coherent way, and they had to film that section
several times.
How is it possible that civil servants in the Swedish
government will go so far as to commit murder?
Blomkvist had brooded over the question long before She’s
presenter had asked it. The Section must have considered
Zalachenko an unacceptable threat, but it was still not a
satisfactory answer. The reply he eventually gave was not
satisfactory either:
“The only reasonable explanation I can give is
that over the years the Section developed into
a cult in the true sense of the word. They
became like Knutby, or the pastor Jim Jones
or something like that. They write their own
laws, within which concepts like right and
wrong have ceased to be relevant. And
through these laws they imagine themselves
isolated from normal society.”
“It sounds like some sort of mental illness,
don’t you think?”
“That wouldn’t be an inaccurate description.”
Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Slussen. It was too early
to go to Samir’s Cauldron. He stood on Södermalmstorg for
a while. He was worried still, yet all of a sudden life felt right
again. It was not until Berger came back to Millennium that
he realized how terribly he had missed her. Besides, her
retaking of the helm had not led to any internal strife;
retaking of the helm had not led to any internal strife;
Eriksson had reverted happily to the position of assistant
editor, indeed was almost ecstatic – as she put it – that life
would now return to normal.
Berger’s coming back had also meant that everyone
discovered how incredibly understaffed they had been
during the past three months. Berger had had to resume
her duties at Millennium at a run, and she and Eriksson
managed to tackle together some of the organizational
issues that had been piling up.
Blomkvist decided to buy the evening papers and have
coffee at Java on Hornsgatan to kill time before he was to
meet Berger.
*
Prosecutor Ragnhild Gustavsson of the National
Prosecutors’ Office set her reading glasses on the
conference table and studied the group. She had a lined
but apple-cheeked face and short, greying hair. She had
been a prosecutor for twenty-five years and had worked at
the N.P.O. since the early ’90s. She was fifty-eight Only
three weeks had passed since she had been without
warning summoned to the N.P.O. to meet Superintendent
Edklinth, Director of Constitutional Protection. That day she
had been busily finishing up one or two routine matters so
she could begin her six-week leave at her cabin on the
she could begin her six-week leave at her cabin on the
island of Husarö with a clear conscience. Instead she had
been assigned to lead the investigation of a group of civil
servants who went by the name of “the Section”. Her
holiday plans had quickly to be shelved. She had been
advised that this would be her priority for the foreseeable
future, and she had been given a more or less free hand to
shape her operational team and take the necessary
decisions.
“This may prove one of the most sensational criminal
investigations this country has witnessed,” the Prosecutor
General had told her.
She was beginning to think he was right.
She had listened with increasing amazement to Edklinth’s
summary of the situation and the investigation he had
undertaken at the instruction of the Prime Minister. The
investigation was not yet complete, but he believed that his
team had come far enough to be able to present the case
to a prosecutor.
First of all Gustavsson had reviewed all the material that
Edklinth had delivered. When the sheer scope of the
criminal activity began to emerge, she realized that every
decision she made would some day be pored over by
historians and their readers. Since then she had spent
every waking minute trying to get to grips with the
every waking minute trying to get to grips with the
numerous crimes. The case was unique in Swedish law,
and since it involved charting criminal activity that had
gone on for at least thirty years, she recognized the need
for a very particular kind of operational team. She was
reminded of the Italian government’s anti-Mafia
investigators who had been forced in the ’70s and ’80s to
work almost underground in order to survive. She knew
why Edklinth himself had been bound to work in secret. He
did not know whom he could trust.
Her first action was to call in three colleagues from the
N.P.O. She selected people she had known for many years.
Then she hired a renowned historian who had worked on
the Crime Prevention Council to help with an analysis of
the growth of Security Police responsibilities and powers
over the decades. She formally appointed Inspector
Figuerola head of the investigation.
At this point the investigation of the Section had taken on a
constitutionally valid form. It could now be viewed like any
other police investigation, even though its operation would
be conducted in absolute secrecy.
Over the past two weeks Prosecutor Gustavsson had
summoned a large number of individuals to official but
extremely discreet interviews. As well as with Edklinth and
Figuerola, interviews had been conducted with Criminal
Inspectors Bublanski, Modig, Andersson and Holmberg.
Inspectors Bublanski, Modig, Andersson and Holmberg.
She had called in Mikael Blomkvist, Malin Eriksson, Henry
Cortez, Christer Malm, Advokat Giannini, Dragan Armansky
and Susanne Linder, and she had herself gone to visit
Lisbeth Salander’s former guardian, Holger Palmgren.
Apart from the members of Millennium’s staff who on
principle did not answer questions that might reveal the
identity of their sources, all had readily provided detailed
answers, and in some cases supporting documentation as
well.
Prosecutor Gustavsson had not been at all pleased to
have been presented with a timetable that had been
determined by Millennium. It meant that she would have to
order the arrest of a number of individuals on a specific
date. She knew that ideally she would have had several
months of preparation before the investigation reached its
present stage, but she had no choice. Blomkvist had been
adamant. Millennium was not subject to any governmental
ordinances or regulations, and he intended to publish the
story on day three of Salander’s trial. Gustavsson was thus
compelled to adjust her own schedule to strike at the same
time, so that those individuals who were under suspicion
would not be given a chance to disappear along with the
evidence. Blomkvist received a surprising degree of
support from Edklinth and Figuerola, and the prosecutor
came to see that Blomkvist’s plan had certain clear
advantages. As prosecutor she would get just the kind of
fully focused media back-up she needed to push forward
fully focused media back-up she needed to push forward
the prosecution. In addition, the whole process would move
ahead so quickly that this complex investigation would not
have time to leak into the corridors of the bureaucracy and
thus risk being unearthed by the Section.
“Blomkvist’s first priority is to achieve justice for Salander.
Nailing the Section is merely a by-product,” Figuerola said.
The trial of Lisbeth Salander was to commence on
Wednesday, in two days’ time. The meeting on Monday
involved doing a review of the latest material available to
them and dividing up the work assignments.
Thirteen people participated in the meeting. From N.P.O.,
Ragnhild Gustavsson had brought her two closest
colleagues. From Constitutional Protection, Inspector
Monica Figuerola had come with Bladh and Berglund.
Edklinth, as Director of Constitutional Protection, was
sitting in as an observer.
But Gustavsson had decided that a matter of this
importance could not credibly be restricted to S.I.S. She
had therefore called in Inspector Bublanski and his team,
consisting of Modig, Holmberg and Andersson from the
regular police force. They had, after all, been working on
the Salander case since Easter and were familiar with all
the details. Gustavsson had also called in Prosecutor
Jervas and Inspector Erlander from the Göteborg police.
Jervas and Inspector Erlander from the Göteborg police.
The investigation of the Section had a direct connection to
the investigation of the murder of Alexander Zalachenko.
When Figuerola mentioned that former Prime Minister
Thorbjörn Fälldin might have to take the stand as a
witness, Holmberg and Modig were scarcely able to
conceal their discomfort.
For five hours they examined one individual after another
who had been identified as an activist in the Section. After
that they established the various crimes that could be
linked to the apartment on Artillerigatan. A further nine
people had been identified as being connected to the
Section, although they never visited Artillerigatan. They
worked primarily at S.I.S. on Kungsholmen, but had met
with some of the Section’s activists.
“It is still impossible to say how widespread the conspiracy
is. We do not know under what circumstances these people
meet with Wadensjöö or with anyone else. They could be
informers, or they may have been given the impression
that they’re working for internal affairs or something similar.
So there is some uncertainty about the degree of their
involvement, and that can be resolved only after we’ve had
a chance to interview them. Furthermore, these are merely
those individuals we have observed during the weeks the
surveillance has been in effect; there could be more that
we do not yet know about.”
we do not yet know about.”
“But the chief of Secretariat and the chief of Budget—”
“We have to assume that they’re working for the Section.”
It was 6.00 on Monday when Gustavsson gave everyone
an hour’s break for dinner, after which they would
reconvene.
It was just as everyone had stood up and begun to move
about that Jesper Thoms, Figuerola’s colleague from C.P.’s
operations unit, drew her aside to report on what had
developed during the last few hours of surveillance.
“Clinton has been in dialysis for most of the day and got
back to Artillerigatan at 3.00. The only one who did
anything of interest was Nyström, although we aren’t quite
sure what it was he did.”
“Tell me,” said Figuerola.
“At 1.30 he drove to Central Station and met up with two
men. They walked across to the Sheraton and had coffee
in the bar. The meeting lasted for about twenty minutes,
after which Nyström returned to Artillerigatan.”
“O.K. So who were they?”
“They’re new faces. Two men in their mid-thirties who seem
to be of eastern European origin. Unfortunately our
observer lost them when they went into the tunnelbana.”
“I see,” Figuerola said wearily.
“Here are the pictures,” Thoms said. He handed her a
series of surveillance photographs.
She glanced at the enlargements of two faces she had
never set eyes on before.
“Thanks,” she said, laying out the photographs on the
conference table. She picked up her handbag to go and
find something to eat.
Andersson, who was standing nearby, bent to look more
closely at the pictures.
“Oh shit,” he said. “Are the Nikolich brothers involved in
this?”
Figuerola stopped in her tracks. “Who did you say?”
“These two are seriously rotten apples,” Andersson said.
“Tomi and Miro Nikolich.”
“Have you had dealings with them?”
“Sure. Two brothers from Huddinge. Serbs. We had them
under observation several times when they were in their
twenties and I was in the gangs unit. Miro is the dangerous
one. He’s been wanted for about a year for G.B.H. I
thought they’d both gone back to Serbia to become
politicians or something.”
“Politicians?”
“Right. They went down to Yugoslavia in the early ’90s and
helped carry out ethnic cleansing. They worked for a Mafia
leader, Arkan, who was running some sort of private fascist
militia. They got a reputation for being shooters.”
“Shooters?”
“Hit men. They’ve been flitting back and forth between
Belgrade and Stockholm. Their uncle has a restaurant in
Norrmalm, and they’ve apparently worked there once in a
while. We’ve had reports that they were mixed up in at least
two of the killings in what was known as the ‘cigarette war’,
but we never got close to charging them with anything.”
Figuerola gazed mutely at the photographs. Then suddenly
she turned pale as a ghost. She stared at Edklinth.
“Blomkvist,” she cried with panic in her voice. “They’re not
just planning to involve him in a scandal, they’re planning
to murder him. Then the police will find the cocaine during
the investigation and draw their own conclusions.”
the investigation and draw their own conclusions.”
Edklinth stared back at her.
“He’s supposed to be meeting Erika Berger at Samir’s
Cauldron,” Figuerola said. She grabbed Andersson by the
shoulder. “Are you armed?”
“Yes …”
“Come with me.”
Figuerola rushed out of the conference room. Her office
was three doors down. She ran in and took her service
weapon from the desk drawer. Against all regulations she
left the door to her office unlocked and wide open as she
raced off towards the lifts. Andersson hesitated for a
second.
“Go,” Bublanski told him. “Sonja, you go with them too.”
Blomkvist got to Samir’s Cauldron at 6.20. Berger had just
arrived and found a table near the bar, not far from the
entrance. He kissed her on the cheek. They both ordered
lamb stew and strong beers from the waiter.
“How was the She woman?” Berger said.
“Cool, as usual.”
Berger laughed. “If you don’t watch out you’re going to
become obsessed by her. Imagine, a woman who can resist
the famous Blomkvist charm.”
“There are in fact several women who haven’t fallen for me
over the years,” Blomkvist said. “How has your day been?”
“Wasted. But I accepted an invitation to be on a panel to
debate the whole S.M.P. business at the Publicists’ Club.
That will be my final contribution.”
“Great.”
“It’s just such a relief to be back at Millennium.”
“You have no idea how good it is that you’re back. I’m still
elated.”
“It’s fun to be at work again.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m happy.”
“And I have to go to the gents’,” Blomkvist said, getting up.
He almost collided with a man who had just walked in.
Blomkvist noticed that he looked vaguely eastern
European and was staring at him. Then he saw the sub-
machine gun.
As they passed Riddarholmen, Edklinth called to tell them
that neither Blomkvist nor Berger were answering their
mobiles. They had presumably turned them off for dinner.
Figuerola swore and passed Södermalmstorg at a speed of
close to eighty kilometres an hour. She kept her horn
pressed down and made a sharp turn on to Hornsgatan.
Andersson had to brace himself against the door. He had
taken out his gun and checked the magazine. Modig did
the same in the back seat.
“We have to call for back-up,” Andersson said. “You don’t
play games with the Nikolich boys.”
Figuerola ground her teeth.
“This is what we’ll do,” she said. “Sonja and I will go straight
into the restaurant and hope they’re sitting inside. Curt,
you know what these guys look like, so you stay outside
and keep watch.”
“Right.”
“If all goes well, we’ll take Blomkvist and Berger straight out
to the car and drive them down to Kungsholmen. If we
suspect anything’s wrong, we stay inside the restaurant
and call for back-up.”
“O.K.,” Modig said.
Figuerola was nearly at the restaurant when the police
radio crackled beneath the dashboard.
All units. Shots fired on Tavastgatan on Södermalm.
Samir’s Cauldron restaurant.
Figuerola felt a sudden lurch in her chest.
Berger saw Blomkvist bump into a man as he was heading
past the entrance towards the gents’. She frowned without
really knowing why. She saw the other man stare at
Blomkvist with a surprised expression. She wondered if it
was somebody he knew.
Then she saw the man take a step back and drop a bag to
the floor. At first she did not know what she was seeing.
She sat paralysed as he raised some kind of gun and
aimed it at Blomkvist
Blomkvist reacted without stopping to think. He flung out his
left hand, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and twisted it up
towards the ceiling. For a microsecond the muzzle passed
in front of his face.
The burst of fire from the sub-machine gun was deafening
in the small room. Mortar and glass from the overhead
lights rained down on Blomkvist as Miro Nikolich squeezed
off eleven shots. For a moment Blomkvist looked directly
into the eyes of his attacker.
Then Nikolich took a step back and yanked the gun
towards him. Blomkvist was unprepared and lost his grip on
the barrel. He knew at once that he was in mortal danger.
Instinctively he threw himself at the attacker instead of
crouching down or trying to take cover. Later he realized
that if he had ducked or backed away, he would have been
shot on the spot. He got a new grip on the barrel of the
sub-machine gun and used his entire weight to drive the
man against the wall. He heard another six or seven shots
go off and tore desperately at the gun to direct the muzzle
at the floor.
Berger instinctively took cover when the second series of
shots was fired. She stumbled and fell, hitting her head on
a chair. As she lay on the floor she looked up and saw that
three holes had appeared in the wall just behind where she
had been sitting.
In shock she turned her head and saw Blomkvist struggling
with the man by the door. He had fallen to his knees and
was gripping the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it
loose. She saw the attacker struggling to get free. He kept
smashing his fist over and over into Blomkvist’s face and
temple.
Figuerola braked hard opposite Samir’s Cauldron, flung
open the car door and ran across the road towards the
restaurant. She had her Sig Sauer in her hand with the
safety off when she noticed the car parked right outside
the restaurant.
She saw one of the Nikolich brothers behind the wheel and
pointed her weapon at his face behind the driver’s door
“Police. Hands up,” she screamed.
Tomi Nikolich held up his hands.
“Get out of the car and lie face down on the pavement,”
she roared, fury in her voice. She turned and glanced at
Andersson and Modig beside her. “The restaurant,” she
said.
Modig was thinking of her children. It was against all police
protocol to gallop into a building with her weapon drawn
without first having back-up in place and without knowing
the exact situation.
Then she heard the sound of more shots from inside.
Blomkvist had his middle finger between the trigger and the
trigger guard as Miro Nikolich tried to keep shooting. He
heard glass shattering behind him. He felt a searing pain
as the attacker squeezed the trigger again and again,
crushing his finger. As long as his finger was in place the
gun could not be fired. But as Nikolich’s fist pummelled
again and again on the side of his head, it suddenly
occurred to him that he was too old for this sort of thing.
Have to end it, he thought.
That was his first rational thought since he had become
aware of the man with the sub-machine gun.
He clenched his teeth and shoved his finger further into the
space behind the trigger.
Then he braced himself, rammed his shoulder into the
attacker’s body and forced himself back on to his feet. He
let go of the gun with his right hand and raised elbow up to
protect his face from the pummelling. Nikolich switched to
hitting him in the armpit and ribs. For a second they stood
eye to eye again.
The next moment Blomkvist felt the attacker being pulled
away from him. He felt one last devastating pain in his
finger and became aware of Andersson’s huge form. The
police officer literally picked up Nikolich with a firm grip on
his neck and slammed his head into the wall by the door.
Nikolich collapsed to the ground.
“Get down! This is the police. Stay very still,” he heard
Modig yell.
Modig yell.
He turned his head and saw her standing with her legs
apart and her gun held in both hands as she surveyed the
chaos. At last she raised her gun to point it at the ceiling
and looked at Blomkvist.
“Are you hurt?” she said.
In a daze Blomkvist looked back at her. He was bleeding
from his eyebrows and nose.
“I think I broke a finger,” he said, sitting down on the floor.
Figuerola received back-up from the Södermalm armed
response team less than a minute after she forced Tomi
Nikolich on to the pavement at gunpoint. She showed her
I.D. and left the officers to take charge of the prisoner.
Then she ran inside. She stopped in the entrance to take
stock of the situation.
Blomkvist and Berger were sitting side by side. His face
was bloodied and he seemed to be in shock. She sighed in
relief. He was alive. Then she frowned as Berger put her
arm around his shoulders. At least her face was bruised.
Modig was squatting down next to them, examining
Blomkvist’s hand. Andersson was handcuffing Nikolich, who
looked as though he had been hit by a truck. She saw a
Swedish Army model M/45 submachine gun on the floor.
Figuerola looked up and saw shocked restaurant staff and
terrorstricken patrons, along with shattered china,
overturned chairs and tables, and debris from the rounds
that had been fired. She smelled cordite. But she was not
aware of anyone dead or wounded in the restaurant.
Officers from the armed response team began to squeeze
into the room with their weapons drawn. She reached out
and touched Andersson’s shoulder. He stood up.
“You said that Miro Nikolich was on our wanted list?”
“Correct. G.B.H. About a year ago. A street fight down in
Hallunda.”
“O.K. Here’s what we’ll do,” Figuerola said. “I’ll take off as
fast as I can with Blomkvist and Berger. You stay here. The
story is that you and Modig came here to have dinner and
you recognized Nikolich from your time in the gangs unit.
When you tried to arrest him he pulled a weapon and
started shooting. So you sorted him out.”
Andersson looked completely astonished. “That’s not going
to hold up. There are witnesses.”
“The witnesses will say that somebody was fighting and
shots were fired. It only has to hold up until tomorrow’s
evening papers. The story is that the Nikolich brothers
were apprehended by sheer chance because you
were apprehended by sheer chance because you
recognized them.”
Andersson surveyed the shambles all around him.
Figuerola pushed her way through the knot of police
officers out on the street and put Blomkvist and Berger in
the back seat of her car. She turned to the armed
response team leader and spoke in a low voice with him for
half a minute. She gestured towards the car in which
Blomkvist and Berger were now sitting. The leader looked
puzzled but at last he nodded. She drove to Zinkensdamm,
parked, and turned around to her passengers.
“How badly are you hurt?”
“I took a few punches. I’ve still got all my teeth, but my
middle finger’s hurt.”
“I’ll take you to A. & E. at St Göran’s.”
“What happened?” Berger said. “And who are you?”
“I’m sorry,” Blomkvist said. “Erika, this is Inspector Monica
Figuerola. She works for Säpo. Monica, this is Erika
Berger.”
“I worked that out all by myself,” Figuerola said in a neutral
tone. She did not spare Berger a glance.
“Monica and I met during the investigation. She’s my
contact at S.I.S.”
“I understand,” Berger said, and she began to shake as
suddenly the shock set in.
Figuerola stared hard at Berger.
“What went wrong?” Blomkvist said.
“We misinterpreted the reason for the cocaine,” Figuerola
said. “We thought they were setting a trap for you, to
create a scandal. Now we know they wanted to kill you.
They were going to let the police find the cocaine when
they went through your apartment.”
“What cocaine?” Berger said.
Blomkvist closed his eyes for a moment.
“Take me to St Göran’s,” he said.
“Arrested?” Clinton barked. He felt a butterfly-light
pressure around his heart.
“We think it’s alright,” Nyström said. “It seems to have been
sheer bad luck.”
“Bad luck?”
“Miro Nikolich was wanted on some old assault story. A
policeman from the gangs unit happened to recognize him
when he went into Samir’s Cauldron and wanted to arrest
him. Nikolich panicked and tried to shoot his way out.”
“And Blomkvist?”
“He wasn’t involved. We don’t even know if he was in the
restaurant at the time.”
“This cannot be fucking true,” Clinton said. “What do the
Nikolich brothers know?”
“About us? Nothing. They think Björck and Blomkvist were
both hits that had to do with trafficking.”
“But they know that Blomkvist was the target?”
“Sure, but they’re hardly going to start blabbing about
being hired to do a hit. They’ll keep their mouths shut all
the way to district court. They’ll do time for possession of
illegal weapons and, as like as not, for resisting arrest.”
“Those damned fuck-ups,” Clinton said.
“Well, they seriously screwed up. We’ve had to let
Blomkvist give us the slip for the moment, but no harm was
actually done.”
It was 11.00 by the time Linder and two hefty bodyguards
from Milton Security’s personal protection unit collected
Blomkvist and Berger from Kungsholmen.
“You really do get around,” Linder said.
“Sorry,” Berger said gloomily.
Berger had been in a state of shock as they drove to St
Göran’s. It had dawned on her all of a sudden that both
she and Blomkvist had very nearly been killed.
Blomkvist had spent an hour in A. & E. having his head X-rayed and his face bandaged. His left middle finger was put
in a splint. The end joint of his finger was badly bruised
and he would lose the fingernail. Ironically the main injury
was caused when Andersson came to his rescue and
pulled Nikolich off him. Blomkvist’s middle finger had been
caught in the trigger guard of the M/45 and had snapped
straight across. It hurt a lot but was hardly life-threatening.
For Blomkvist the shock did not set in until two hours later,
when he had arrived at Constitutional Protection at S.I.S.
and reported to Inspector Bublanski and Prosecutor
Gustavsson. He began to shiver and felt so tired that he
almost fell asleep between questions. At that point a certain
amount of palavering ensued.
“We don’t know what they’re planning and we have no idea
whether Mikael was the only intended victim,” Figuerola
whether Mikael was the only intended victim,” Figuerola
said. “Or whether Erika here was supposed to die too. We
don’t know if they will try again or if anyone else at
Millennium is being targeted. And why not kill Salander?
After all, she’s the truly serious threat to the Section.”
“I’ve already rung my colleagues at Millennium while Mikael
was being patched up,” Berger said. “Everyone’s going to
lie extremely low until the magazine comes out. The office
will be left unstaffed.”
Edklinth’s immediate reaction had been to order bodyguard
protection for Blomkvist and Berger. But on reflection he
and Figuerola decided that it would not be the smartest
move to contact S.I.S.’s Personal Protection unit. Berger
solved the problem by declining police protection. She
called Armansky to explain what had happened, which was
why, later that night, Linder was called in for duty.
Blomkvist and Berger were lodged on the top floor of a
safe house just beyond Drottningholm on the road to
Ekerö. It was a large ’30s villa overlooking Lake Mälaren. It
had an impressive garden, outbuildings and extensive
grounds. The estate was owned by Milton Security, but
Martina Sjögren lived there. She was the widow of their
colleague of many years, Hans Sjögren, who had died in
an accident on assignment fifteen years earlier. After the
funeral, Armansky had talked with Fru Sjögren and then
hired her as housekeeper and general caretaker of the
property. She lived rent-free in a wing of the ground floor
and kept the top floor ready for those occasions, a few
times each year, when Milton Security at short notice
needed to hide away individuals who for real or imagined
reasons feared for their safety.
Figuerola went with them. She sank on to a chair in the
kitchen and allowed Fru Sjögren to serve her coffee, while
Berger and Blomkvist installed themselves upstairs and
Linder checked the alarm and electronic surveillance
equipment around the property.
“There are toothbrushes and so on in the chest of drawers
outside the bathroom,” Sjögren called up the stairs.
Linder and Milton’s bodyguards installed themselves in
rooms on the ground floor.
“I’ve been on the go ever since I was woken at 4.00,”
Linder said. “You can put together a watch rota, but let me
sleep till at least 5.00.”
“You can sleep all night. We’ll take care of this,” one of the
bodyguards said.
“Thanks,” Linder said, and she went straight to bed.
Figuerola listened absent-mindedly as the bodyguards
switched on the motion detector in the courtyard and drew
switched on the motion detector in the courtyard and drew
straws to see who would take the first watch. The one who
lost made himself a sandwich and went into the T. V. room
next to the kitchen. Figuerola studied the flowery coffee
cups. She too had been on the go since early morning and
was feeling fairly exhausted. She was just thinking about
driving home when Berger came downstairs and poured
herself a cup of coffee. She sat down opposite Figuerola.
“Mikael went out like a light as soon as his head hit the
pillow.”
“Reaction to the adrenaline,” Figuerola said.
“What happens now?”
“You’ll have to lie low for a few days. Within a week this will
all be over, whichever way it ends. How are you feeling?”
“So-so. A bit shaky still. It’s not every day something like
this happens. I just called my husband to explain why I
wouldn’t be coming home.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m married to—”
“I know who you’re married to.”
Silence. Figuerola rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“I have to go home and get some sleep,” she said.
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop talking rubbish and go and lie
down with Mikael,” Berger said.
Figuerola looked at her.
“Is it that obvious?” she said.
Berger nodded.
“Did Mikael say anything—”
“Not a word. He’s generally rather discreet when it comes
to his lady friends. But sometimes he’s an open book. And
you’re clearly hostile every time you even look at me. The
pair of you obviously have something to hide.”
“It’s my boss,” Figuerola said.
“Where does he come into it?”
“He’d fly off the handle if he knew that Mikael and I were—”
“I can quite see that.”
Silence.
“I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m not
your rival,” Berger said.
“You’re not?”
“Mikael and I sleep together now and then. But I’m not
married to him.”
“I heard that you two had a special relationship. He told me
about you when we were out at Sandhamn.”
“So you’ve been to Sandhamn? Then it is serious.”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“Monica, I hope that you and Mikael … I’ll try to stay out of
your way.”
“And if you can’t?”
Berger shrugged. “His ex-wife flipped out big time when
Mikael was unfaithful with me. She threw him out. It was my
fault. As long as Mikael is single and available, I would have
no compunction. But I promised myself that if he was ever
serious about someone, then I’d keep my distance.”
“I don’t know if I dare count on him.”
“Mikael is special. Are you in love with him?”
“I think so.”
“Alright, then. Just don’t tell him too soon. Now go to bed.”
Figuerola thought about it for a moment. Then she went
upstairs, undressed and crawled into bed next to Blomkvist.
He mumbled something and put his arm around her waist.
Berger sat alone in the kitchen for a long time. She felt
deeply unhappy.
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