CHAPTER 20
Saturday, 4.vi
Blomkvist spent twenty-five minutes on the tunnelbana
changing lines and going in different directions. He finally
got off a bus at Slussen, jumped on the Katarina lift up to
Mosebacke and took a circuitous route to Fiskargatan 9.
He had bought bread, milk and cheese at the mini
supermarket next to the County Council building and he
put the groceries straight into the fridge. Then he turned
on Salander’s computer.
After a moment’s thought he also turned on his Ericsson
T10. He ignored his normal mobile because he did not
want to talk to anyone who was not involved in the
Zalachenko story. He saw that he had missed six calls in
the past twenty-four hours: three from Cortez, two from
Eriksson, and one from Berger.
First he called Cortez who was in a café in Vasastad and
had a few details to discuss, nothing urgent.
Eriksson had only called, she told him, to keep in touch.
Then he called Berger, who was engaged.
He opened the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] and found the
final version of Salander’s autobiographical statement. He
smiled, printed out the document and began to read it at
once.
Salander switched on her Palm Tungsten T3. She had
spent an hour infiltrating and charting the intranet at
S.M.P. with the help of Berger’s account. She had not
tackled the Peter Fleming account because she did not
need to have full administrator rights. What she was
interested in was access to S.M.P.’s personnel files. And
Berger’s account had complete access to those.
She fervently wished that Blomkvist had been kind enough
to smuggle in her PowerBook with a real keyboard and a
17” screen instead of only the hand-held. She downloaded
17” screen instead of only the hand-held. She downloaded
a list of everyone who worked at S.M.P. and began to
check them off. There were 223 employees, 82 of whom
were women.
She began by crossing off all the women. She did not
exclude women on the grounds of their being incapable of
such folly, but statistics showed that the absolute majority
of people who harassed women were men. That left 141
individuals.
Statistics also argued that the majority of poison pen artists
were either teenagers or middle-aged. Since S.M.P. did not
have any teenagers on its staff, she drew an age curve
and deleted everyone over fifty-five and under twenty-five.
That left 103.
She thought for a moment. She did not have much time.
Maybe not even twenty-four hours. She made a snap
decision. At a stroke she eliminated all employees in
distribution, advertising, the picture department,
maintenance and I.T. She focused on a group of journalists
and editorial staff, forty-eight men between the ages of
twenty-six and fifty-four.
Then she heard the rattle of a set of keys. She turned off
the Palm and put it under the covers between her thighs.
This would be her last Saturday lunch at Sahlgrenska. She
took stock of the cabbage stew with resignation. After lunch
she would not, she knew, be able to work undisturbed for a
while. She put the Palm in the recess behind the bedside
table and waited while two Eritrean women vacuumed the
room and changed her bedlinen.
One of the women was named Sara. She had regularly
smuggled in a few Marlboro Lights for Salander during the
past month. She had also given her a lighter, now hidden
behind the bedside table. Salander gratefully accepted two
cigarettes, which she planned to smoke by the vent window
during the night.
Not until 2.00 p.m. was everything quiet again in her room.
She took out the Palm and connected to the Net. She had
intended to go straight back to S.M.P.’s administration, but
she had also to deal with her own problems. She made her
daily sweep, starting with the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table].
She saw that Blomkvist had not uploaded anything new for
three days and wondered what he was working on. The
son-of-a-bitch is probably out screwing around with some
bimbo with big boobs.
She then proceeded to the Yahoo group [The_Knights]
and checked whether Plague had added anything. He had
not.
Then she checked the hard drives of Ekström (some
routine correspondence about the trial) and Teleborian.
routine correspondence about the trial) and Teleborian.
Every time she accessed Teleborian’s hard drive she felt
as if her body temperature dropped a few degrees.
She found that he had already written her forensic
psychiatric report, even though he was obviously not
supposed to write it until after he had been given the
opportunity to examine her. He had brushed up his prose,
but there was nothing much new. She downloaded the
report and sent it off to [Idiotic_Table]. She checked
Teleborian’s emails from the past twenty-four hours,
clicking through one after another. She almost missed the
terse message:
Saturday, 3.00 at the Ring in Central Station.
Jonas
Shit. Jonas. He was mentioned in a lot of correspondence
with Teleborian. Used a hotmail account. Not identified.
Salander glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table.
2.28. She immediately pinged Blomkvist’s I.C.Q. No
response.
Blomkvist printed out the 220 pages of the manuscript that
were finished. Then he shut off the computer and sat down
at Salander’s kitchen table with an editing pencil.
at Salander’s kitchen table with an editing pencil.
He was pleased with the text. But there was still a gigantic
gaping hole. How could he find the remainder of the
Section? Eriksson might be right: it might be impossible. He
was running out of time.
Salander swore in frustration and pinged Plague. He did
not answer either. She looked again at the clock. 2.30.
She sat on the edge of the bed and tried Cortez next and
then Eriksson. Saturday. Everybody’s off work. 2.32.
Then she tried to reach Berger. No luck. I told her to go
home. Shit. 2.33.
She should be able to send a text message to Blomkvist’s
mobile … but it was tapped. She tugged her lip.
Finally in desperation she rang for the nurse.
It was 2.35 when she heard the key in the lock and Nurse
Agneta looked in on her.
“Hello. Are you O.K.?”
“Is Dr Jonasson on duty?”
“Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I feel fine. But I need to have a few words with him. If
possible.”
“I saw him a little while ago. What’s it about?”
“I just have to talk to him.”
Nurse Agneta frowned. Lisbeth Salander had seldom rung
for a nurse if she did not have a severe headache or some
other equally serious problem. She never pestered them
for anything and had never before asked to speak to a
specific doctor. But Nurse Agneta had noticed that Dr
Jonasson had spent time with the patient who was under
arrest and otherwise seemed withdrawn from the world. It
was possible that he had established some sort of rapport.
“I’ll find out if he has time,” Nurse Agneta said gently, and
closed the door. And then locked it. It was 2.36, and then
the clock clicked over to 2.37.
Salander got up from the edge of the bed and went to the
window. She kept an eye on the clock. 2.39. 2.40.
At 2.44 she heard steps in the corridor and the rattle of the
Securitas guard’s key ring. Jonasson gave her an
inquisitive glance and stopped in his tracks when he saw
her desperate look.
“Has something happened?”
“Something is happening right now. Have you got a mobile
on you?”
“A what?”
“A mobile. I have to make a call.”
Jonasson looked over his shoulder at the door.
“Anders – I need a mobile. Now!”
When he heard the desperation in her voice he dug into
his inside pocket and handed her his Motorola. Salander
grabbed it from him. She could not call Blomkvist because
he had not given her the number of his Ericsson T10. It
had never come up, and he had never supposed that she
would be able to call him from her isolation. She hesitated
a tenth of a second and punched in Berger’s number. It
rang three times before Berger answered.
Berger was in her B.M.W. half a mile from home in
Saltsjöbaden when her mobile rang.
“Berger.”
“Salander. No time to explain. Have you got the number of
Mikael’s second mobile? The one that’s not tapped.”
“Yes.”
Salander had already surprised her once today.
“Call him. Now! Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in
Central Station at 3.00.”
“What’s—”
“Just hurry. Teleborian. Jonas. The Ring in Central Station.
3.00. He has fifteen minutes.”
Salander flipped the mobile shut so that Berger would not
be tempted to waste precious seconds with unnecessary
questions.
Berger pulled over to the curb. She reached for the
address book in her bag and found the number Blomkvist
had given her the night they met at Samir’s Cauldron.
Blomkvist heard his mobile beeping. He got up from the
kitchen table, went to Salander’s office and picked up the
telephone from the desk.
“Yes?”
“Erika.”
“Hi.”
“Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station
at 3.00. You’ve only got a few minutes.”
“What? What? What?”
“Teleborian—”
“I heard you. How do you know about that?”
“Stop arguing and make it snappy.”
Mikael glanced at the clock. 2.47. “Thanks. Bye.”
He grabbed his laptop case and took the stairs instead of
waiting for the lift. As he ran he called Cortez on his T10.
“Cortez.”
“Where are you now?”
“At the Academy bookshop.”
“Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station
at 3.00. I’m on my way, but you’re closer.”
“Oh, boy. I’m on my way.”
Blomkvist jogged down to Götgatan and sped up towards
Slussen. When he reached Slussplan he was badly out of
breath. Maybe Figuerola had a point. He was not going to
make it. He looked about for a taxi.
*
Salander handed back the mobile to Dr Jonasson.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Teleborian?” Jonasson could not help overhearing the
name.
She met his gaze. “Teleborian is a really, really bad
bastard. You have no idea.”
“No, but I could see that something happened just now that
got you more agitated than I’ve seen you in all the time
you’ve been in my care. I hope you know what you’re
doing.”
Salander gave Jonasson a lopsided smile.
“You should have the answer to that question quite soon,”
she said.
Cortez left the Academy bookshop running like a madman.
He crossed Sveavägen on the viaduct at Mäster
Samuelsgatan and went straight down to Klara Norra,
where he turned up the Klaraberg viaduct and across
Vasagatan. He flew across Klarabergsgatan between a bus
and two cars, one of whose drivers punched his
windscreen in fury, and through the doors of Central
Station as the station clock ticked over to 3.00 sharp.
He took the escalator three steps at a time down to the
main ticket hall, and jogged past the Pocket bookshop
before slowing down so as not to attract attention. He
scanned every face of every person standing or walking
near the Ring.
He did not see Teleborian or the man Malm had
photographed outside Café Copacabana, whom they
believed to be Jonas. He looked back at the clock. 3.01. He
was gasping as if he had just run a marathon.
He took a chance and hurried across the hall and out
through the doors on to Vasagatan. He stopped and
looked about him, checking one face after another, as far
as his eyes could see. No Teleborian. No Jonas.
He turned back into the station. 3.03. The Ring area was
almost deserted.
Then he looked up and got a split second’s glimpse of
Teleborian’s dishevelled profile and goatee as he came out
of Pressbyrån on the other side of the ticket hall. A second
later the man from Malm’s photograph materialized at
Teleborian’s side. Jonas. They crossed the concourse and
went out on to Vasagatan by the north door.
went out on to Vasagatan by the north door.
Cortez exhaled in relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow
with the back of his hand and set off in pursuit of the two
men.
Blomkvist’s taxi got to Central Station at 3.07. He walked
rapidly into the ticket hall, but he could see neither
Teleborian nor anyone looking like they might be Jonas.
Nor Cortez for that matter.
He was about to call Cortez when the T10 rang in his hand.
“I’ve got them. They’re sitting in the Tre Remmare pub on
Vasagatan by the stairs down to the Akalla line.”
“Thanks, Henry. Where are you?”
“I’m at the bar. Having my afternoon beer. I earned it.”
“Very good. They know what I look like, so I’ll stay out of it. I
don’t suppose you have any chance of hearing what
they’re saying.”
“Not a hope. I can only see Jonas’ back and that bloody
psychoanalyst mumbles when he speaks, so I can’t even
see his lips move.”
“I get it.”
“But we may have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Jonas has put his wallet and mobile on the table. And he
put his car keys on top of the wallet.”
“O.K. I’ll handle it.”
Figuerola’s mobile played out the theme tune from Once
Upon a Time in the West. She put down her book about
God in antiquity. It did not seem as though she would ever
be able to finish it
“Hi. It’s Mikael. What are you up to?”
“I’m sitting at home sorting through my collection of
photographs of old lovers. I was ignominiously ditched
earlier today.”
“Do you have your car nearby?”
“The last time I checked it was in the parking space
outside.”
“Good. Do you feel like an afternoon on the town?”
“Not particularly. What’s going on?”
“A psychiatrist called Teleborian is having a beer with an
undercover agent – code name Jonas – down on
Vasagatan. And since I’m co-operating with your Stasi-style
bureaucracy, I thought you might be amused to tag along.”
Figuerola was on her feet and reaching for her car keys.
“This is not your little joke, is it?”
“Hardly. And Jonas has his car keys on the table in front of
him.”
“I’m on my way.”
Eriksson did not answer the telephone, but Blomkvist got
lucky and caught Karim, who had been at Åhlens
department store buying a birthday present for her
husband. He asked her to please – on overtime – hurry
over to the pub as back-up for Cortez. Then he called
Cortez.
“Here’s the plan. I’ll have a car in place in five minutes. It’ll
be on Järnvägsgatan, down the street from the pub. Lottie
is going to join you in a few minutes as back-up.”
“Good.”
“When they leave the pub, you tail Jonas. Keep me posted
by mobile. As soon as you see him approach a car, we
have to know. Lottie will follow Teleborian. If we don’t get
have to know. Lottie will follow Teleborian. If we don’t get
there in time, make a note of his registration number.”
“O.K.”
Figuerola parked beside the Nordic Light Hotel next to the
Arlanda Express platforms. Blomkvist opened the driver’s
door a minute later.
“Which pub are they in?”
Blomkvist told her.
“I have to call for support.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. We’ve got them covered. Too many
cooks might wreck the whole dish.”
Figuerola gave him a sceptical look. “And how did you
know that this meeting was going to take place?”
“I have to protect my source. Sorry.”
“Do you have your own bloody intelligence service at
Millennium?” she burst out.
Blomkvist looked pleased. It was cool to outdo Säpo in their
own field of expertise.
In fact he did not have the slightest idea how Berger came
In fact he did not have the slightest idea how Berger came
to call him out of the blue to tell him of the meeting. She
had not had access to ongoing editorial work at Millennium
since early April. She knew about Teleborian, to be sure,
but Jonas had not come into the picture until May. As far as
he knew, Berger had not even known of his existence, let
alone that he was the focus of intense speculation both at
Säpo and Millennium.
He needed to talk to Berger.
Salander pressed her lips together and looked at the
screen of her handheld. After using Jonasson’s mobile, she
had pushed all thoughts of the Section to one side and
concentrated on Berger’s problem. She had next, after
careful consideration, eliminated all the men in the twenty-six to fifty-four age group who were married. She was
working with a broad brush, of that she was perfectly
aware. The selection was scarcely based on any statistical,
sociological or scientific rationale. Poison Pen might easily
be a married man with five children and a dog. He might
also be a man who worked in maintenance. “He” could
even be a woman.
She simply needed to prune the number of names on the
list, and her group was now down from forty-eight to
eighteen since her latest cut. The list was made up largely
of the better-known reporters, managers or middle
managers aged thirty-five or older. If she did not find
anything of interest in that group, she could always widen
the net again.
At 4.00 she logged on to Hacker Republic and uploaded
the list to Plague. He pinged her a few minutes later.
She outlined the Poison Pen situation.
She sent him the access codes for S.M.P.’s newsroom and
then logged off from I.C.Q.
It was 4.20 before Cortez called.
“They’re showing signs of leaving.”
“We’re ready.”
Silence.
“They’re going their separate ways outside the pub. Jonas
heading north. Teleborian to the south. Lottie’s going after
him.”
Blomkvist raised a finger and pointed as Jonas flashed
past them on Vasagatan. Figuerola nodded and started the
engine. Seconds later Blomkvist could also see Cortez.
“He’s crossing Vasagatan, heading towards Kungsgatan,”
Cortez said into his mobile.
“Keep your distance so he doesn’t spot you.”
“Quite a few people out.”
Silence.
“He’s turning north on Kungsgatan.”
“North on Kungsgatan,” Blomkvist said.
Figuerola changed gear and turned up Vasagatan. They
were stopped by a red light.
“Where is he now?” Blomkvist said as they turned on to
Kungsgatan.
“Opposite P.U.B. department store. He’s walking fast.
Whoops, he’s turned up Drottninggatan heading north.”
“Drottninggatan heading north,” Blomkvist said.
“Right,” Figuerola said, making an illegal turn on to Klara
Norra and heading towards Olof Palmes Gata. She turned
and braked outside the S.I.F. building. Jonas crossed Olof
Palmes Gata and turned up towards Sveavägen. Cortez
stayed on the other side of the street.
“He turned east—”
“We can see you both.”
“He’s turning down Holländargatan. Hello… Car. Red Audi.”
“Car,” Blomkvist said, writing down the registration number
Cortez read off to him.
“Which way is he facing?” Figuerola said.
“Facing south,” Cortez reported. “He’s pulling out in front of
you on Olof Palmes Gata … now.”
Monica was already on her way and passing
Drottninggatan. She signalled and headed off a couple of
pedestrians who tried to sneak across even though their
light was red.
“Thanks, Henry. We’ll take him from here.”
The red Audi turned south on Sveavägen. As Figuerola
followed she flipped open her mobile with her left hand and
punched in a number.
“Could I get an owner of a red Audi?” she said, rattling off
the number.
“Jonas Sandberg, born 1971. What did you say?
Helsingörsgatan, Kista. Thanks.”
Blomkvist wrote down the information.
They followed the red Audi via Hamngatan to Strandvägen
and then straight up to Artillerigatan. Jonas parked a block
away from the Armémuseum. He walked across the street
and through the front door of an 1890s building.
“Interesting,” Figuerola said, turning to Blomkvist.
Jonas Sandberg had entered a building that was only a
block away from the apartment the Prime Minister had
borrowed for their private meeting.
“Nicely done,” Figuerola said.
Just then Karim called and told them that Teleborian had
gone up on to Klarabergsgatan via the escalators in
Central Station and from there to police headquarters on
Kungsholmen.
“Police headquarters at 5.00 on a Saturday afternoon?”
Figuerola and Blomkvist exchanged a sceptical look.
Monica pondered this turn of events for a few seconds.
Then she picked up her mobile and called Criminal
Inspector Jan Bublanski.
“Hello, it’s Monica from S.I.S. We met on Norr Mälarstrand a
while back.”
“What do you want?” Bublanski said.
“Have you got anybody on duty this weekend?”
“Modig,” Bublanski said.
“I need a favour. Do you know if she’s at headquarters?”
“I doubt it. It’s beautiful weather and Saturday afternoon.”
“Could you possibly reach her or anyone else on the
investigative team who might be able to take a look in
Prosecutor Ekström’s corridor … to see if there’s a meeting
going on in his office at the moment.”
“What sort of meeting?”
“I can’t explain just yet. I just need to know if he has a
meeting with anybody right now. And if so, who.”
“You want me to spy on a prosecutor who happens to be
my superior?”
Figuerola raised her eyebrows. Then she shrugged. “Yes, I
do.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he said and hung up.
Sonja Modig was closer to police headquarters than
Bublanski had thought. She was having coffee with her
husband on the balcony of a friend’s place in Vasastaden.
Their children were away with her parents who had taken
them on a week’s holiday, and they planned to do
something as old-fashioned as have a bite to eat and go to
the movies.
Bublanski explained why he was calling.
“And what sort of excuse would I have to barge in on
Ekström?” Modig asked.
“I promised to give him an update on Niedermann
yesterday, but in fact I forgot to deliver it to his office before
I left. It’s on my desk.”
“O.K.,” said Modig. She looked at her husband and her
friend. “I have to go in to H.Q. I’ll take the car and with a
little luck I’ll be back in an hour.”
Her husband sighed. Her friend sighed.
“I’m on call this weekend,” Modig said in apology.
She parked on Bergsgatan, took the lift up to Bublanski’s
office, and picked up the three A4 pages that comprised
the meagre results of their search for Niedermann. Not
much to hang on the Christmas tree, she thought.
She took the stairs up to the next floor and stopped at the
door to the corridor. Headquarters was almost deserted on
this summer afternoon. She was not exactly sneaking
around. She was just walking very quietly. She stopped
outside Ekström’s closed door. She heard voices and all of
a sudden her courage deserted her. She felt a fool. In any
normal situation she would have knocked on the door,
pushed it open and exclaimed, “Hello! So you’re still here?”
and then sailed right in. Now it seemed all wrong.
She looked around.
Why had Bublanski called her? What was this meeting
about?
She glanced across the corridor. Opposite Ekström’s office
was a conference room big enough for ten people. She
had sat through a number of presentations there herself.
She went into the room and closed the door. The blinds
were down, and the glass partition to the corridor was
covered by curtains. It was dark. She pulled up a chair and
sat down, then opened the curtains a crack so that she
would have a view of the corridor.
She felt uneasy. If anyone opened the door she would
have quite a problem explaining what she was doing there.
She took out her mobile and looked at the time display.
Just before 6.00. She changed the ring to silent and
leaned back in her chair, watching the door of Ekström’s
leaned back in her chair, watching the door of Ekström’s
office.
At 7.00 Plague pinged Salander.
He sent over a U.R.L.
She logged out and went to the U.R.L. where Plague had
uploaded all the administrator rights for S.M.P. She started
by checking whether Fleming was online and at work. He
was not. So she borrowed his identity and went into
S.M.P.’s mail server. That way she could look at all the
activity in the email system, even messages that had long
since been deleted from individual accounts.
She started with Ernst Teodor Billing, one of the night
editors at S.M.P., forty-three years old. She opened his
mail and began to click back in time. She spent about two
seconds on each message, just long enough to get an idea
of who sent it and what it was about. After a few minutes
she had worked out what was routine mail in the form of
daily memos, schedules and other uninteresting stuff. She
started to scroll past these.
She went through three months’ worth of messages one by
one. Then she skipped month to month and read only the
subject lines, opening the message only if it was something
that caught her attention. She learned that Billing was
going out with a woman named Sofia and that he used an
going out with a woman named Sofia and that he used an
unpleasant tone with her. She saw that this was nothing
unusual, since Billing took an unpleasant tone with most of
the people to whom he wrote messages – reporters, layout
artists and others. Even so, she thought it odd that a man
would consistently address his girlfriend with the words
fucking fatty, fucking airhead or fucking cunt.
After an hour of searching, she shut down Billing and
crossed him off the list. She moved on to Lars Örjan
Wollberg, a veteran reporter at fifty-one who was on the
legal desk.
Edklinth walked into police headquarters at 7.30 on
Saturday evening. Figuerola and Blomkvist were waiting for
him. They were sitting at the same conference table at
which Blomkvist had sat the day before.
Edklinth reminded himself that he was on very thin ice and
that a host of regulations had been violated when he gave
Blomkvist access to the corridor. Figuerola most definitely
had no right to invite him here on her own authority. Even
the spouses of his colleagues were not permitted in the
corridors of S.I.S., but were asked instead to wait on the
landings if they were meeting their partner. And to cap it all,
Blomkvist was a journalist. From now on Blomkvist would be
allowed only into the temporary office at Fridhemsplan.
But outsiders were allowed into the corridors by special
invitation. Foreign guests, researchers, academics,
freelance consultants … he put Blomkvist into the category
of freelance consultant. All this nonsense about security
classification was little more than words anyway. Someone
decides that a certain person should be given a particular
level of clearance. And Edklinth had decided that if criticism
were raised, he would say that he personally had given
Blomkvist clearance.
If something went wrong, that is. He sat down and looked at
Figuerola.
“How did you find out about the meeting?”
“Blomkvist called me at around 4.00,” she said with a
satisfied smile.
Edklinth turned to Blomkvist. “And how did you find out
about the meeting?”
“Tipped off by a source.”
“Am I to conclude that you’re running some sort of
surveillance on Teleborian?”
Figuerola shook her head. “That was my first thought too,”
she said in a cheerful voice, as if Blomkvist were not in the
room. “But it doesn’t add up. Even if somebody were
following Teleborian for Blomkvist, that person could not
following Teleborian for Blomkvist, that person could not
have known in advance that he was on his way to meet
Jonas Sandberg.”
“So … what else? Illegal tapping or something?” Edklinth
said.
“I can assure you,” Blomkvist said to remind them that he
was there in the room, “that I’m not conducting illegal
eavesdropping on anyone. Be realistic. Illegal tapping is
the domain of government authorities.”
Edklinth frowned. “So you aren’t going to tell us how you
heard about the meeting?”
“I’ve already told you that I won’t. I was tipped off by a
source. The source is protected. Why don’t we concentrate
on what we’ve discovered?”
“I don’t like loose ends,” Edklinth said. “But O.K. What have
you found out?”
“His name is Jonas Sandberg,” Figuerola said. “Trained as
a navy frogman and then attended the police academy in
the early ’90s. Worked first in Uppsala and then in
Södertälje.”
“You’re from Uppsala.”
“Yes, but we missed each other by about a year. He was
recruited by S.I.S. Counter-Espionage in 1998. Reassigned
to a secret post abroad in 2000. According to our
documents, he’s at the embassy in Madrid. I checked with
the embassy. They have no record of a Jonas Sandberg
on their staff.”
“Just like Mårtensson. Officially moved to a place where he
doesn’t exist.”
“The chief of Secretariat is the only person who could
make this sort of arrangement.”
“And in normal circumstances everything would be
dismissed as muddled red tape. We’ve noticed it only
because we’re specifically looking for it. And if anyone
starts asking awkward questions, they’ll say it’s confidential
or that it has something to do with terrorism.”
“There’s quite a bit of budget work to check up on.”
“The chief of Budget?”
“Maybe.”
“Anything else?”
“Sandberg lives in Sollentuna. He’s not married, but he has
a child with a teacher in Södertälje. No black marks on his
record. Licence for two handguns. Conscientious and a
record. Licence for two handguns. Conscientious and a
teetotaller. The only thing that doesn’t quite fit is that he
seems to be an evangelical and was a member of the Word
of Life in the ’90s.”
“Where did you find that out?”
“I had a word with my old chief in Uppsala. He remembers
Sandberg quite well.”
“A Christian frogman with two weapons and offspring in
Södertälje. More?”
“We only I.D.’d him about three hours ago. This is pretty
fast work, you have to admit.”
“Fair enough. What do we know about the building on
Artillerigatan?”
“Not a lot yet. Stefan went to chase someone up from the
city building office. We have blueprints of the building. A
housing association block since the 1890s. Six floors with a
total of twenty-two apartments, plus eight apartments in a
small building in the courtyard. I looked up the tenants, but
didn’t find anything that stood out. Two of the people living
in the building have police records.”
“Who are they?”
“Lindström on the second floor, sixty-three. Convicted of
insurance fraud in the ’70s. Wittfelt on the fourth floor,
forty-seven. Twice convicted for beating his ex-wife.
Otherwise what sounds like a cross-section of middle-class
Sweden. There’s one apartment that raises a question
mark though.”
“What?”
“It’s on the top floor. Eleven rooms and apparently a bit of a
snazzy joint. It’s owned by a company called Bellona Inc.”
“And what’s their stated business?”
“God only knows. They do marketing analyses and have
annual sales of around thirty million kronor. All the owners
live abroad.”
“Aha.”
“Aha what?”
“Nothing. Just ‘aha’. Do some more checks on Bellona.”
At that moment the officer Blomkvist knew only as Stefan
entered the room.
“Hi, chief,” he greeted Edklinth. “This is really cool. I
checked out the story behind the Bellona apartment.”
“And?” Figuerola said.
“Bellona Inc. was founded in the ’70s. They bought the
apartment from the estate of the former owner, a woman by
the name of Kristina Cederholm, born in 1917, married to
Hans Wilhelm Francke, the loose cannon who quarrelled
with P.G. Vinge at the time S.I.S. was founded.”
“Good,” Edklinth said. “Very good. Monica, we want
surveillance on that apartment around the clock. Find out
what telephones they have. I want to know who goes in and
who comes out, and what vehicles drop anyone off at that
address. The usual.”
Edklinth turned to Blomkvist. He looked as if he wanted to
say something, but he restrained himself. Blomkvist looked
at him expectantly.
“Are you satisfied with the information flow?” Edklinth said
at last.
“Very satisfied. Are you satisfied with Millennium’s
contribution?”
Edklinth nodded reluctantly. “You do know that I could get
into very deep water for this.”
“Not because of me. I regard the information that I receive
here as source-protected. I’ll report the facts, but I won’t
here as source-protected. I’ll report the facts, but I won’t
mention how or where I got them. Before I go to press I’m
going to do a formal interview with you. If you don’t want to
give me an answer to something, you just say ‘No
comment’. Or else you could expound on what you think
about the Section for Special Analysis. It’s up to you.”
“Indeed,” Edklinth nodded.
Blomkvist was happy. Within a few hours the Section had
taken on tangible form. A real breakthrough.
To Modig’s great frustration the meeting in Ekström’s office
was lasting a long time. Mercifully someone had left a full
bottle of mineral water on the conference table. She had
twice texted her husband to tell him that she was still held
up, promising to make it up to him as soon as she could
get home. She was starting to get restless and felt like an
intruder.
The meeting did not end until 7.30. She was taken
completely by surprise when the door opened and Faste
came out. And then Dr Teleborian. Behind them came an
older, grey-haired man Modig had never seen before.
Finally Prosecutor Ekström, putting on a jacket as he
switched off the lights and locked the door to his office.
Modig held up her mobile to the gap in the curtains and
took two low-res photographs of the group outside
Ekström’s door. Seconds later they had set off down the
corridor.
She held her breath until they were some distance from the
conference room in which she was trapped. She was in a
cold sweat by the time she heard the door to the stairwell
close. She stood up, weak at the knees.
Bublanski called Figuerola just after 8.00.
“You wanted to know if Ekström had a meeting.”
“Correct,” Figuerola said.
“It just ended. Ekström met with Dr Peter Teleborian and my
former colleague Criminal Inspector Faste, and an older
gentleman we didn’t recognize.”
“Just a moment,” Figuerola said. She put her hand over the
mouthpiece and turned to the others. “Teleborian went
straight to Ekström.”
“Hello, are you still there?”
“Sorry. Do we have a description of the third man?”
“Even better. I’m sending you a picture.”
“A picture? I’m in your debt.”
“It would help if you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
They sat in silence around the conference table for a
moment.
“So,” Edklinth said at last. “Teleborian meets with the
Section and then goes directly to see Prosecutor Ekström.
I’d give a lot of money to find out what they talked about.”
“Or you could just ask me,” Blomkvist said.
Edklinth and Figuerola looked at him.
“They met to finalize their strategy for nailing Salander at
her trial.”
Figuerola gave him a look. Then she nodded slowly.
“That’s a guess,” Edklinth said. “Unless you happen to
have paranormal abilities.”
“It’s no guess,” said Mikael. “They met to discuss the
forensic psychiatric report on Salander. Teleborian has just
finished writing it.”
“Nonsense. Salander hasn’t even been examined.”
Blomkvist shrugged and opened his laptop case. “That
hasn’t stopped Teleborian in the past. Here’s the latest
version. It’s dated, as you can see, the week the trial is
scheduled to begin.”
Edklinth and Figuerola read through at the text before
them. At last they exchanged glances and then looked at
Blomkvist.
“And where the devil did you get hold of this?” Edklinth
said.
“That’s from a source I have to protect,” said Blomkvist.
“Blomkvist … we have to be able to trust each other. You’re
withholding information. Have you got any more surprises
up your sleeve?”
“Yes. I do have secrets, of course. Just as I’m persuaded
that you haven’t given me carte blanche to look at
everything you have here at Säpo.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“It’s precisely the same thing. This arrangement involves
cooperation. You said it yourself: we have to trust each
other. I’m not holding back anything that could be useful to
your investigation of the Section or throw light on the
various crimes that have been committed. I’ve already
handed over evidence that Teleborian committed crimes
handed over evidence that Teleborian committed crimes
with Björck in 1991, and I told you that he would be hired to
do the same thing again now. And this is the document that
proves me right.”
“But you’re still withholding key material.”
“Naturally, and you can either suspend our co-operation or
you can live with that.”
Figuerola held up a diplomatic finger. “Excuse me, but does
this mean that Ekström is working for the Section?”
Blomkvist frowned. “That I don’t know. My sense is that he’s
more a useful fool being used by the Section. He’s
ambitious, but I think he’s honest, if a little stupid. One
source did tell me that he swallowed most of what
Teleborian fed him about Salander at a presentation of
reports when the hunt for her was still on.”
“So you don’t think it takes much to manipulate him?”
“Exactly. And Criminal Inspector Faste is an unadulterated
idiot who believes that Salander is a lesbian Satanist.”
Berger was at home. She felt paralysed and unable to
concentrate on any real work. All the time she expected
someone to call and tell her that pictures of her were
posted on some website.
She caught herself thinking over and over about Salander,
although she realized that her hopes of getting help from
her were most likely in vain. Salander was locked up at
Sahlgrenska. She was not allowed visitors and could not
even read the newspapers. But she was an oddly
resourceful young woman. Despite her isolation she had
managed to contact Berger on I.C.Q. and then by
telephone. And two years ago she had single-handedly
destroyed Wennerström’s financial empire and saved
Millennium.
At 8.00 Linder arrived and knocked on the door. Berger
jumped as though someone had fired a shot in her living
room.
“Hello, Erika. You’re sitting here in the dark looking glum.”
Berger nodded and turned on a light. “Hi. I’ll put on some
coffee—”
“No. Let me do it. Anything new?”
You can say that again. Lisbeth Salander got in touch with
me and took control of my computer. And then she called
to say that Teleborian and somebody called Jonas were
meeting at Central Station this afternoon.
“No. Nothing new,” she said. “But I have something I’d like
to try on you.”
“Try it.”
“What do you think the chances are that this isn’t a stalker
but somebody I know who wants to fuck with me?”
“What’s the difference?”
“To me a stalker is someone I don’t know who’s become
fixated on me. The alternative is a person who wants to
take some sort of revenge and sabotage my life for
personal reasons.”
“Interesting thought. Why did this come up?”
“I was … discussing the situation with someone today. I
can’t give you her name, but she suggested that threats
from a real stalker would be different. She said a stalker
would never have written the email to the girl on the culture
desk. It seems completely beside the point.”
Linder said: “There is something to that. You know, I never
read the emails. Could I see them?”
Berger set up her laptop on the kitchen table.
Figuerola escorted Blomkvist out of police headquarters at
10.00 p.m. They stopped at the same place in Kronoberg
park as the day before.
park as the day before.
“Here we are again. Are you going to disappear to work or
do you want to come to my place and come to bed with
me?”
“Well …”
“You don’t have to feel pressured, Mikael. If you have to
work, then do it.”
“Listen, Figuerola, you’re worryingly habit-forming.”
“And you don’t want to be dependent on anything. Is that
what you’re saying?”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying. But there’s someone I have
to talk to tonight and it’ll take a while. You’ll be asleep
before I’m done.”
She shrugged.
“See you.”
He kissed her cheek and headed for the bus stop on
Fridhemsplan.
“Blomkvist,” she called.
“What?”
“What?”
“I’m free tomorrow morning as well. Come and have
breakfast if you can make it.”
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