CHAPTER 15
Thursday, 19.v – Sunday,
22.v
Salander spent most of Wednesday night and early
Thursday morning reading Blomkvist’s articles and the
chapters of the Millennium book that were more or less
finished. Since Prosecutor Ekström had tentatively referred
to a trial in July, Blomkvist had set June 20 as his deadline
for going to press. That meant that Blomkvist had about a
month to finish writing and patching up all the holes in his
text.
She could not imagine how he could finish in time, but that
was his problem, not hers. Her problem was how to
respond to his questions.
She took her Palm and logged on to the Yahoo group
[Idiotic_Table] to check whether he had put up anything
new in the past twenty-four hours. He had not. She opened
the document that he had called [Central questions]. She
knew the text by heart already, but she read through it
again anyway.
He outlined the strategy that Giannini had already
explained to her. When her lawyer spoke to her she had
listened with only half an ear, almost as though it had
nothing to do with her. But Blomkvist, knowing things about
nothing to do with her. But Blomkvist, knowing things about
her that Giannini did not, could present a more forceful
strategy. She skipped down to the fourth paragraph.
The only person who can decide your future is
you. It doesn’t matter how hard Annika works
for you, or how much Armansky and Palmgren
and I, and others, try to support you. I’m not
going to try to convince you one way or the
other. You’ve got to decide for yourself. You
could turn the trial to your advantage or let
them convict you. But if you want to win, you’re
going to have to fight.
She disconnected and looked up at the ceiling. Blomkvist
was asking her for permission to tell the truth in his book.
He was not going to mention the fact of Bjurman raping her,
and he had already written that section. He had filled in the
gaps by saying that Bjurman had made a deal with
Zalachenko which collapsed when Bjurman lost control.
Therefore Niedermann was obliged to kill him. Blomkvist did
not speculate about Bjurman’s motives.
Kalle Bloody Blomkvist was complicating life for her.
At 2.00 in the morning she opened the word processing
program on her Palm. She clicked on New Document, took
program on her Palm. She clicked on New Document, took
out the stylus and began to tap on the letters on the digital
keypad.
My name is Lisbeth Salander. I was born on 30
April 1978. My mother was Agneta Sofia
Salander. She was seventeen when I was
born. My father was a psychopath, a killer and
wife beater whose name was Alexander
Zalachenko. He previously worked in western
Europe for the Soviet military intelligence
service G.R.U.
It was a slow process, writing with the stylus on the keypad.
She thought through each sentence before she tapped it
in. She did not make a single revision to the text she had
written. She worked until 4.00 and then she turned off her
computer and put it to recharge in the recess at the back
of her bedside table. By that time she had produced a
document corresponding to two single-spaced A4 pages.
Twice since midnight the duty nurse had put her head
around the door, but Salander could hear her a long way
off and even before she turned the key the computer was
hidden and the patient asleep.
Berger woke at 7.00. She felt far from rested, but she had
slept uninterrupted for eight hours. She glanced at
Blomkvist, still sleeping soundly beside her.
She turned on her mobile to check for messages. Greger
Beckman, her husband, had called eleven times. Shit. I
forgot to call. She dialled the number and explained where
she was and why she had not come home. He was angry.
“Erika, don’t do that again. It has nothing to do with Mikael,
but I’ve been worried sick all night. I was terrified that
something had happened. You know you have to call and
tell me if you’re not coming home. You mustn’t ever forget
something like that.”
Beckman was completely O.K. with the fact that Blomkvist
was his wife’s lover. Their affair was carried on with his
assent. But every time she had decided to sleep at
Blomkvist’s, she had called her husband to tell him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just collapsed in exhaustion last
night.”
He grunted.
“Try not to be furious with me, Greger. I can’t handle it right
now. You can give me hell tonight.”
He grunted some more and promised to scold her when
she got home. “O.K. How’s Mikael doing?”
she got home. “O.K. How’s Mikael doing?”
“He’s dead to the world.” She burst out laughing. “Believe it
or not, we were fast asleep moments after we got here.
That’s never happened.”
“This is serious, Erika. I think you ought to see a doctor.”
When she hung up she called the office and left a
message for Fredriksson. Something had come up and she
would be in a little later than usual. She asked him to
cancel a meeting she had arranged with the culture editor.
She found her shoulder bag, ferreted out a toothbrush and
went to the bathroom. Then she got back into the bed and
woke Blomkvist.
“Hurry up – go and wash and brush your teeth.”
“What … huh?” He sat up and looked around in
bewilderment. She had to remind him that he was at the
Slussen Hilton. He nodded.
“So. To the bathroom with you.”
“Why the hurry?”
“Because as soon as you come back I need you to make
love to me.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting
at 11.00 that I can’t postpone. I have to look presentable,
at 11.00 that I can’t postpone. I have to look presentable,
and it’ll take me at least half an hour to put on my face. And
I’ll have to buy a new shift dress or something on the way
to work. That gives us only two hours to make up for a
whole lot of lost time.”
Blomkvist headed for the bathroom.
*
Holmberg parked his father’s Ford in the drive of former
Prime Minister Thorbjörn Fälldin’s house in Ås just outside
Ramvik in Härnösand county. He got out of the car and
looked around. At the age of seventy-nine, Fälldin could
hardly still be an active farmer, and Holmberg wondered
who did the sowing and harvesting. He knew he was being
watched from the kitchen window. That was the custom in
the village. He himself had grown up in Hälledal outside
Ramvik, very close to Sandöbron, which was one of the
most beautiful places in the world. At any rate Holmberg
thought so.
He knocked at the front door.
The former leader of the Centre Party looked old, but he
seemed alert still, and vigorous.
“Hello, Thorbjörn. My name is Jerker Holmberg. We’ve met
before but it’s been a few years. My father is Gustav
Holmberg, a delegate for the Centre in the ’70s and ’80s.”
Holmberg, a delegate for the Centre in the ’70s and ’80s.”
“Yes, I recognize you, Jerker. Hello. You’re a policeman
down in Stockholm now, aren’t you? It must be ten or fifteen
years since I last saw you.”
“I think it’s probably longer than that. May I come in?”
Holmberg sat at the kitchen table while Fälldin poured them
some coffee.
“I hope all’s well with your father. But that’s not why you
came, is it?”
“No. Dad’s doing fine. He’s out repairing the roof of the
cabin.”
“How old is he now?”
“He turned seventy-one two months ago.”
“Is that so?” Fälldin said, joining Holmberg at the kitchen
table. “So what’s this visit all about then?”
Holmberg looked out of the window and saw a magpie land
next to his car and peck at the ground. Then he turned to
Fälldin.
“I am sorry for coming to see you without warning, but I
have a big problem. It’s possible that when this
conversation is over, I’ll be fired from my job. I’m here on a
work issue, but my boss, Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski
of the Violent Crimes Division in Stockholm, doesn’t know
I’m here.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Just to say that I’d be on very thin ice if my superiors
found out about this visit.”
“I understand.”
“On the other hand I’m afraid that if I don’t do something,
there’s a risk that a woman’s rights will be shockingly
violated, and to make matters worse, it’ll be the second
time it’s happened.”
“You’d better tell me the whole story.”
“It’s about a man named Alexander Zalachenko. He was an
agent for the Soviets’ G.R.U. and defected to Sweden on
Election Day in 1976. He was given asylum and began to
work for Säpo. I have reason to believe that you know his
story.”
Fälldin regarded Holmberg attentively.
“It’s a long story,” Holmberg said, and he began to tell
Fälldin about the preliminary investigation in which he had
Fälldin about the preliminary investigation in which he had
been involved for the past few months.
Erika Berger finally rolled over on to her stomach and
rested her head on her fists. She broke out in a big smile.
“Mikael, have you ever wondered if the two of us aren’t
completely nuts?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s true for me, at least. I’m smitten by an insatiable desire
for you. I feel like a crazy teenager.”
“Oh yes?”
“And then I want to go home and go to bed with my
husband.”
Blomkvist laughed. “I know a good therapist.”
She poked him in the stomach. “Mikael, it’s starting to feel
like this thing with S.M.P. was a seriously big mistake.”
“Nonsense. It’s a huge opportunity for you. If anyone can
inject life into that dying body, it’s you.”
“Maybe so. But that’s just the problem. S.M.P. feels like a
dying body. And then you dropped that bombshell about
Borgsjö.”
Borgsjö.”
“You’ve got to let things settle down.”
“I know. But the thing with Borgsjö is going to be a real
problem. I don’t have the faintest idea how to handle it.”
“Nor do I. But we’ll think of something.”
She lay quiet for a moment.
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“How much would it take for you to come to S.M.P. and be
the news editor?”
“I wouldn’t do it for anything. Isn’t what’s-his-name, Holm,
the news editor?”
“Yes. But he’s an idiot.”
“You got him in one.”
“Do you know him?”
“I certainly do. I worked for him for three months as a temp
in the mid-’80s. He’s a prick who plays people off against
each other. Besides …”
“Besides what?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“Some girl, Ulla something, who was also a temp, claimed
that he sexually harassed her. I don’t know how much was
true, but the union did nothing about it and her contract
wasn’t extended.”
Berger looked at the clock and sighed. She got up from the
bed and made for the shower. Blomkvist did not move when
she came out, dried herself, and dressed.
“I think I’ll doze for a while,” he said.
She kissed his cheek and waved as she left.
Figuerola parked seven cars behind Mårtensson’s Volvo
on Luntmakargatan, close to the corner of Olof Palmes
Gata. She watched as Mårtensson walked to the machine
to pay his parking fee. He then walked on to Sveavägen.
Figuerola decided not to pay for a ticket. She would lose
him if she went to the machine and back, so she followed
him. He turned left on to Kungsgatan, and went into
Kungstornet. She waited three minutes before she followed
him into the café. He was on the ground floor talking to a
blond man who looked to be in very good shape. A
policeman she thought. She recognized him as the other
man Malm had photographed outside the Copacabana on
May Day.
She bought herself a coffee and sat at the opposite end of
the café and opened her Dagens Nyheter. Mårtensson and
his companion were talking in low voices. She took out her
mobile and pretended to make a call, although neither of
the men were paying her any attention. She took a
photograph with the mobile that she knew would be only 72
dpi – low quality, but it could be used as evidence that the
meeting had taken place.
After about fifteen minutes the blond man stood up and left
the café. Figuerola cursed. Why had she not stayed
outside? She would have recognized him when he came
out. She wanted to leap up and follow him. But Mårtensson
was still there, calmly nursing his coffee. She did not want
to draw attention to herself by leaving so soon after his
unidentified companion.
And then Mårtensson went to the toilet. As soon as he
closed the door Figuerola was on her feet and back out on
Kungsgatan. She looked up and down the block, but the
blond man was gone.
She took a chance and hurried to the corner of
Sveavägen. She could not see him anywhere, so she went
down to the tunnelbana concourse, but it was hopeless.
She turned back towards Kungstornet, feeling stressed.
Mårtensson had left too.
Berger swore when she got back to where she had parked
her B.M.W. the night before.
The car was still there, but during the night some bastard
had punctured all four tyres. Infernal bastard piss rats, she
fumed.
She called the vehicle recovery service, told them that she
did not have time to wait, and put the key in the exhaust
pipe. Then she went down to Hornsgaten and hailed a taxi.
Lisbeth Salander logged on to Hacker Republice and saw
that Plague was online. She pinged him.
his email. You’ll have to send the material to a
hotmail address.>
Plague went quiet for a few seconds.
She explained what she needed to have done.
On Friday morning Jonasson was faced with an obviously
irritated Inspector Faste on the other side of his desk.
irritated Inspector Faste on the other side of his desk.
“I don’t understand this,” Faste said. “I thought Salander
had recovered. I came to Göteborg for two reasons: to
interview her and to get her ready to be transferred to a
cell in Stockholm, where she belongs.”
“I’m sorry for your wasted journey,” Jonasson said. “I’d be
glad to discharge her because we certainly don’t have any
beds to spare here. But—”
“Could she be faking?”
Jonasson smiled politely. “I really don’t think so. You see,
Lisbeth Salander was shot in the head. I removed a bullet
from her brain, and it was 50/50 whether she would
survive. She did survive and her prognosis has been
exceedingly satisfactory … so much so that my colleagues
and I were getting ready to discharge her. Then yesterday
she had a setback. She complained of severe headaches
and developed a fever that has been fluctuating up and
down. Last night she had a temperature of 38 and vomited
on two occasions. During the night the fever subsided; she
was almost back down to normal and I thought the episode
had passed. But when I examined her this morning her
temperature had gone up to almost 39. That is serious.”
“So what’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know, but the fact that her temperature is
fluctuating indicates that it’s not flu or any other viral
infection. Exactly what’s causing it I can’t say, but it could
be something as simple as an allergy to her medication or
to something else she’s come into contact with.”
He clicked on an image on his computer and turned the
screen towards Faste.
“I had a cranial X-ray done. There’s a darker area here, as
you can see right next to her gunshot wound. I can’t
determine what it is. It could be scar tissue as a product of
the healing process, but it could also be a minor
haemorrhage. And until we’ve found out what’s wrong, I
can’t release her, no matter how urgent it may be from a
police point of view.”
Faste knew better than to argue with a doctor, since they
were the closest things to God’s representatives here on
earth. Policemen possibly excepted.
“What is going to happen now?”
“I’ve ordered complete bedrest and put her physiotherapy
on hold – she needs therapeutic exercise because of the
wounds in her shoulder and hip.”
“Understood. I’ll have to call Prosecutor Ekström in
Stockholm. This will come as a bit of a surprise. What can I
tell him?”
tell him?”
“Two days ago I was ready to approve a discharge,
possibly for the end of this week. As the situation is now, it
will take longer. You’ll have to prepare him for the fact that
probably I won’t be in a position to make a decision in the
coming week, and that it might be two weeks before you
can move her to Stockholm. It depends on her rate of
recovery.”
“The trial has been set for July.”
“Barring the unforeseen, she should be on her feet well
before then.”
Bublanski cast a sceptical glance at the muscular woman
on other side of the table. They were drinking coffee in the
pavement area of a café on Norr Mälarstrand. It was
Friday, May 20, and the warmth of summer was in the air.
Inspector Monica Figuerola, her I.D. said, S.I.S. She had
caught up with him just as he was leaving for home; she
had suggested a conversation over a cup of coffee, just
that.
At first he had been almost hostile, but she had very
straightforwardly conceded that she had no authority to
interview him and that naturally he was perfectly free to tell
her nothing at all if he did not want to. He asked her what
her business was, and she told him that she had been
assigned by her boss to form an unofficial picture of what
was true and what not true in the so-called Zalachenko
case, also in some quarters known as the Salander case.
She vouchsafed that it was not absolutely certain whether
she had the right to question him. It was entirely up to him
to decide whether he would talk to her or not.
“What would you like to know?” Bublanski said at last.
“Tell me what you know about Salander, Mikael Blomkvist,
Gunnar Björck, and Zalachenko. How do the pieces fit
together?”
They talked for more than two hours.
Edklinth thought long and hard about how to proceed. After
five days of investigations, Figuerola had given him a
number of indisputable indications that something was
rotten within S.I.S. He recognized the need to move very
carefully until he had enough information. He found
himself, furthermore, on the horns of a constitutional
dilemma: he did not have the authority to conduct secret
investigations, and most assuredly not against his
colleagues.
Accordingly he had to contrive some cause that would
legitimize what he was doing. If the worst came to the worst,
he could always fall back on the fact that it was a
he could always fall back on the fact that it was a
policeman’s duty to investigate a crime – but the breach
was now so sensitive from a constitutional standpoint that
he would surely be fired if he took a single wrong step. So
he spent the whole of Friday brooding alone in his office.
Finally he concluded that Armansky was right, no matter
how improbable it might seem. There really was a
conspiracy inside S.I.S., and a number of individuals were
acting outside of, or parallel to, regular operations.
Because this had been going on for many years – at least
since 1976, when Zalachenko arrived in Sweden – it had to
be organized and sanctioned from the top. Exactly how
high up the conspiracy went he had no idea.
He wrote three names on a pad:
Göran Mårtensson, Personal Protection.
Criminal Inspector.
Gunnar Björck, assistant chief of Immigration
Division. Deceased (Suicide?).
Albert Shenke, chief of Secretariat, S.I.S.
Figuerola was of the view that the chief of Secretariat at
least must have been calling the shots when Mårtensson in
Personal Protection was supposedly moved to Counter-Espionage, although he had not in fact been working there.
He was too busy monitoring the movements of the
He was too busy monitoring the movements of the
journalist Mikael Blomkvist, and that did not have anything
at all to do with the operations of Counter-Espionage.
Some other names from outside S.I.S. had to be added to
the list:
Peter Teleborian, psychiatrist
Lars Faulsson, locksmith
Teleborian had been hired by S.I.S. as a psychiatric
consultant on specific cases in the late ’80s and early ’90s
– on three occasions, to be exact, and Edklinth had
examined the reports in the archive. The first had been
extraordinary – Counter-Espionage had identified a
Russian informer inside the Swedish telecom industry, and
the spy’s background indicated that he might be inclined to
suicide in the event that his actions were exposed.
Teleborian had done a strikingly good analysis, which
helped them turn the informer so that he could become a
double agent. His other two reports had involved less
significant evaluations: one was of an employee inside
S.I.S. who had an alcohol problem, and the second was an
analysis of the bizarre sexual behaviour of an African
diplomat.
Neither Teleborian nor Faulsson – especially not Faulsson
– had any position inside S.I.S. And yet through their
assignments they were connected to … to what?
The conspiracy was intimately linked to the late Alexander
Zalachenko, the defected G.R.U. agent who had
apparently turned up in Sweden on Election Day in 1976. A
man no-one had ever heard of before. How was that
possible?
Edklinth tried to imagine what reasonably would have
happened if he had been sitting at the chief’s desk at S.I.S.
in 1976 when Zalachenko defected. What would he have
done? Absolute secrecy. It would have been essential. The
defection could only be known to a small group without
risking that the information might leak back to the Russians
and … How small a group?
An operations department?
An unknown operations department?
If the affair had been appropriately handled, Zalachenko’s
case should have ended up in Counter-Espionage. Ideally
he should have come under the auspices of the military
intelligence service, but they had neither the resources nor
the expertise to run this sort of operational activity. So,
S.I.S. it was.
But Counter-Espionage had not ever had him. Björck was
the key; he had been one of the people who handled
Zalachenko. And yet Björck had never had anything to do
Zalachenko. And yet Björck had never had anything to do
with Counter-Espionage. Björck was a mystery. Officially he
had held a post in the Immigration Division since the ’70s,
but in reality he had scarcely been seen in the department
before the ’90s, when suddenly he became assistant
director.
And yet Björck was the primary source of Blomkvist’s
information. How had Blomkvist been able to persuade
Björck to reveal such explosive material? And to a journalist
at that.
Prostitutes. Björck messed around with teenage prostitutes
and Millennium were going to expose him. Blomkvist must
have blackmailed Björck.
Then Salander came into the picture.
The deceased lawyer Nils Bjurman had worked in the
Immigration Division at the same time as the deceased
Björck. They were the ones who had taken care of
Zalachenko. But what did they do with him?
Somebody must have made the decision. With a defector
of such provenance the order must have come from the
highest level.
From the government. It must have been backed by the
government. Anything else would be unthinkable.
Surely?
Edklinth felt cold shivers of apprehension. This was all
conceivable in practice. A defector of Zalachenko’s status
would have to be handled with the utmost secrecy. He
would have decided as much himself. That was what
Fälldin’s administration must have decided too. It made
sense.
But what happened in 1991 did not make sense. Björck
had hired Teleborian effectively to lock Salander up in a
psychiatric hospital for children on the – false – pretext that
she was mentally deranged. That was a crime. That was
such a monstrous crime that Edklinth felt yet more
apprehensive.
Somebody must have made that decision. It simply could
not have been the government. Ingvar Carlsson had been
Prime Minister at the time, and then Carl Bildt.* But no
politician would dare to be involved in such a decision,
which contradicted all law and justice and which would
result in a disastrous scandal if it were ever discovered.
If the government was involved, then Sweden was not one
iota better than any dictatorship in the entire world.
It was impossible.
And what about the events of April 12? Zalachenko was
conveniently murdered at Sahlgrenska hospital by a
mentally ill fanatic at the same time as a burglary was
committed at Blomkvist’s apartment and Advokat Giannini
was mugged. In both latter instances, copies of Björck’s
strange report dating from 1991 were stolen. Armansky
had contributed this information, but it was completely off
the record. No police report was ever filed.
And at the same time, Björck hangs himself – a person with
whom Edklinth wished he could have had a serious talk.
Edklinth did not believe in coincidence on such a grand
scale. Inspector Bublanski did not believe in such
coincidence either. And Blomkvist did not believe it.
Edklinth took up his felt pen once more:
Evert Gullberg, seventy-eight years old. Tax
specialist. ???
Who the hell was Evert Gullberg?
He considered calling up the chief of S.I.S., but he
restrained himself for the simple reason that he did not
know how far up in the organization the conspiracy
reached. He did not know whom he could trust.
For a moment he considered turning to the regular police.
Jan Bublanski was the leader of the investigation
concerning Ronald Niedermann, and obviously he would
concerning Ronald Niedermann, and obviously he would
be interested in any related information. But from a purely
political standpoint, it was out of the question.
He felt a great weight on his shoulders.
There was only one option left that was constitutionally
correct, and which might provide some protection if he
ended up in political hot water. He would have to turn to the
chief to secure political support for what he was working
on.
It was just before 4.00 on Friday afternoon. He picked up
the telephone and called the Minister of Justice, whom he
had known for many years and had dealings with at
numerous departmental meetings. He got him on the line
within five minutes.
“Hello, Torsten. It’s been a long time. What’s the problem?”
“To tell you the truth … I think I’m calling to check how
much credibility I have with you.”
“Credibility? That’s a peculiar question. As far as I’m
concerned you have absolute credibility. What makes you
ask such a dramatic question?”
“It’s prompted by a dramatic and extraordinary request. I
need to have a meeting with you and the Prime Minister,
and it’s urgent.”
“Whoa!”
“If you’ll forgive me, I’d rather explain when we can talk in
private. Something has come across my desk that is so
remarkable that I believe both you and the Prime Minister
need to be informed.”
“Does it have anything to do with terrorists and threat
assessments—”
“No. It’s more serious than that. I’m putting my reputation
and career on the line by calling you with this request.”
“I see. That’s why you asked about your credibility. How
soon do you need the meeting with the P.M.?”
“This evening if possible.”
“Now you’ve got me worried.”
“Unhappily, there’s good reason for you to be worried.”
“How long will the meeting take?”
“It’ll probably take an hour.”
“Let me call you back.”
The Minister of Justice called back ten minutes later and
said that the Prime Minister would meet with Edklinth at his
residence at 9.30 that evening. Edklinth’s palms were
sweating when he put down the telephone. By tomorrow
morning my career could be over.
He called Figuerola.
“Hello, Monica. At 9.00 tonight you have to report for duty.
You’d better dress nicely.”
“I always dress nicely,” Figuerola said.
The Prime Minister gave the Director of Constitutional
Protection a long, wary look. Edklinth had a sense that
cogs were whirring at high speed behind the P.M.’s
glasses.
The P.M. shifted his gaze to Figuerola, who had not said a
word during the presentation. He saw an unusually tall and
muscular woman looking back at him with a polite,
expectant expression. Then he turned to the Minister of
Justice, who had paled in the course of the presentation.
After a while the P.M. took a deep breath, removed his
glasses, and stared for a moment into the distance.
“I think we need a little more coffee,” he said.
“Yes, please,” Figuerola said.
Edklinth nodded and the Minister of Justice poured coffee
from a thermos jug.
“I’ll sum up so that I am absolutely certain that I understood
you correctly,” the Prime Minister said. “You suspect that
there’s a conspiracy within the Security Police that is acting
outside its constitutional mandate, and that over the years
this conspiracy has committed what could be categorized
as serious criminal acts.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re coming to me because you don’t trust the
leadership of the Security Police?”
“No, not exactly,” Edklinth said. “I decided to turn directly to
you because this sort of activity is unconstitutional. But I
don’t know the objective of the conspiracy, or whether I
have possibly misinterpreted something. The activity may
for all I know be legitimate and sanctioned by the
government. Then I risk proceeding on faulty or
misunderstood information, thereby compromising some
secret operation.”
The Prime Minister looked at the Minister of Justice. Both
understood that Edklinth was covering his back.
“I’ve never heard of anything like this. Do you know
anything about it?”
“Absolutely not,” the Minister of Justice said. “There’s
nothing in any report that I’ve seen from the Security Police
that could have a bearing on this matter.”
“Blomkvist thinks there’s a faction within Säpo. He refers to
it as the Zalachenko club,” Edklinth said.
“I’d never even heard that Sweden had taken in and
protected a Russian defector of such importance,” the P.M.
said. “He defected during the Fälldin administration, you
say?”
“I don’t believe Fälldin would have covered up something
like this,” the Minister of Justice said. “A defection like this
would have been given the highest priority, and would have
been passed over to the next administration.”
Edklinth cleared his throat. “Fälldin’s conservative
government was succeeded by Olof Palme’s. It’s no secret
that some of my predecessors at S.I.S. had a certain
opinion of Palme—”
“You’re suggesting that somebody forgot to inform the
social democratic government?”
Edklinth nodded. “Let’s remember that Fälldin was in power
for two separate mandates. Each time the coalition
for two separate mandates. Each time the coalition
government collapsed. First he handed over to Ola Ullsten,
who had a minority government in 1979. The government
collapsed again when the moderates jumped ship, and
Fälldin governed together with the People’s Party. I’m
guessing that the government secretariat was in turmoil
during those transition periods. It’s also possible that
knowledge of Zalachenko was confined to so small a circle
that Prime Minister Fälldin had no real oversight, so he
never had anything to hand over to Palme.”
“In that case, who’s responsible?” the P.M. said.
All except Figuerola shook their heads.
“I assume that this is bound to leak to the media,” the P.M.
said.
“Blomkvist and Millennium are going to publish it. In other
words, we’re caught between the proverbial rock and hard
place.” Edklinth was careful to use the word “we”.
The P.M. nodded. He realized the gravity of the situation.
“Then I’ll have to start by thanking you for coming to me
with this matter as soon as you did. I don’t usually agree to
this sort of unscheduled meeting, but the minister here said
that you were a prudent person, and that something
serious must have happened if you wanted to see me
outside all normal channels.”
outside all normal channels.”
Edklinth exhaled a little. Whatever happened, the wrath of
the Prime Minister was not going to come down on him.
“Now we just have to decide how we’re going to handle it.
Do you have any suggestions?”
“Perhaps,” Edklinth said tentatively.
He was silent for so long that Figuerola cleared her throat.
“May I say something?”
“Please do,” the P.M. said.
“If it’s true that the government doesn’t know about this
operation, then it’s illegal. The person responsible in such
a case is the criminal civil servant – or civil servants – who
overstepped his authority. If we can verify all the claims
Blomkvist is making, it means that a group of officers within
S.I.S. have been devoting themselves to criminal activity for
a long time. The problem would then unfold in two parts.”
“How do you mean?”
“First we have to ask the question: how could this have
been possible? Who is responsible? How did such a
conspiracy develop within the framework of an established
police organization? I myself work for S.I.S., and I’m proud
of it. How can this have gone on for so long? How could
of it. How can this have gone on for so long? How could
this activity have been both concealed and financed?”
“Go on,” the P.M. said.
“Whole books will probably be written about this first part.
It’s clear that there must have been financing, at least
several million kronor annually I’d say. I looked over the
budget of the Security Police and found nothing resembling
an allocation for the Zalachenko club. But, as you know,
there are a number of hidden funds controlled by the chief
of Secretariat and chief of Budget that I have no access to.
”
The Prime Minister nodded grimly. Why did Säpo always
have to be such a nightmare to administer?
“The second part is: who is involved? And very specifically,
which individuals should be arrested? From my standpoint,
all these questions depend on the decision you make in
the next few minutes,” she said to the P.M.
Edklinth was holding his breath. If he could have kicked
Figuerola in the shin he would have done so. She had cut
through all the rhetoric and intimated that the Prime
Minister himself was responsible. He had considered
coming to the same conclusion, but not before a long and
diplomatic circumlocution.
“What decision do you think I should make?”
“I believe we have common interests. I’ve worked at
Constitutional Protection for three years. I consider this
office of central importance to Swedish democracy. The
Security Police has worked satisfactorily within the
framework of the constitution in recent years. Naturally I
don’t want the scandal to affect S.I.S. For us it’s important
to bear in mind that this is a case of criminal activity
perpetrated by a small number of individuals.”
“Activity of this kind is most definitely not sanctioned by the
government,” the Minister of Justice said.
Figuerola nodded and thought for a few seconds. “It is, in
my view, essential that the scandal should not implicate the
government – which is what would happen if the
government tried to cover up the story.”
“The government does not cover up criminal activity,” the
Minister of Justice said.
“No, but let’s assume, hypothetically, that the government
might want to do so. There would be a scandal of
enormous proportions.”
“Go on,” the P.M. said.
“The situation is complicated by the fact that we in
Constitutional Protection are being forced to conduct an
operation which is itself against regulations in order to
investigate this matter. So we want everything to be
legitimate and in keeping with the constitution.”
“As do we all,” the P.M. said.
“In that case I suggest that you – in your capacity as Prime
Minister – instruct Constitutional Protection to investigate
this mess with the utmost urgency,” Figuerola said. “Give
us a written order and the authority we need.”
“I’m not sure that what you propose is legal,” the Minister of
Justice said.
“It is legal. The government has the power to adopt a wide
range of measures in the event that breaches of the
constitution are threatened. If a group from the military or
police starts pursuing an independent foreign policy, a de
facto coup has taken place in Sweden.”
“Foreign policy?” the Minister of Justice said.
The P.M. nodded all of a sudden.
“Zalachenko was a defector from a foreign power,”
Figuerola said. “The information he contributed was
supplied, according to Blomkvist, to foreign intelligence
services. If the government was not informed, a coup has
taken place.”
taken place.”
“I follow your reasoning,” the P.M. said. “Now let me say my
piece.”
He got up and walked once around the table before
stopping in front of Edklinth.
“You have a very talented colleague. She has hit the nail
on the head.”
Edklinth swallowed and nodded. The P.M. turned to the
Minister of Justice.
“Get on to the Undersecretary of State and the head of the
legal department. By tomorrow morning I want a document
drawn up granting the Constitutional Protection Unit
extraordinary authority to act in this matter. Their
assignment is to determine the truth behind the assertions
we have discussed, to gather documentation about its
extent, and to identify the individuals responsible or in any
way involved. The document must not state that you are
conducting a preliminary investigation – I may be wrong,
but I think only the Prosecutor General could appoint a
preliminary investigation leader in this situation. But I can
give you the authority to conduct a one-man investigation.
What you are doing is therefore an official public report. Do
you understand?”
“Yes. But I should point out that I myself am a former
prosecutor.”
“We’ll have to ask the head of the legal department to take
a look at this and determine exactly what is formally
correct. In any case, you alone are responsible for your
investigation. You will choose the assistants you require. If
you find evidence of criminal activity, you must turn this
information over to the P.G., who will decide on the
charges.”
“I’ll have to look up exactly what applies, but I think you’ll
have to inform the speaker of parliament and the
constitutional committee … This is going to leak out fast,”
the Minister of Justice said.
“In other words, we have to work faster,” the P.M. said.
Figuerola raised a hand.
“What is it?” the P.M. said.
“There are two problems remaining. First, will Millennium’s
publication clash with our investigation, and second,
Lisbeth Salander’s trial will be starting in a couple of
weeks.”
“Can we find out when Millennium’s going to publish?”
“We could ask,” Edklinth said. “The last thing we want to do
is to interfere with the press.”
“With regard to this girl Salander …” the Minister of Justice
began, and then he paused for a moment. “It would be
terrible if she really has been subjected to the injustices
that Millennium claims. Could it really be possible?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Edklinth said.
“In that case we have to see to it that she is given redress
for these wrongs, and above all that she is not subjected to
new injustices,” the P.M. said.
“And how would that work?” asked the Minister of Justice.
“The government cannot interfere in an ongoing
prosecution case. That would be against the law.”
“Could we talk to the prosecutor?”
“No,” Edklinth said. “As Prime Minister you may not
influence the judicial process in any way.”
“In other words, Salander will have to take her chances in
court,” the Minister of Justice said. “Only if she loses the
trial and appeals to the government can the government
step in and pardon her or require the P.G. to investigate
whether there are grounds for a new trial. But this applies
only if she’s sentenced to prison. If she’s sentenced to a
secure psychiatric facility, the government cannot do a
secure psychiatric facility, the government cannot do a
thing. Then it’s a medical matter, and the Prime Minister
has no jurisdiction to determine whether or not she is sane.
”
At 10.00 on Friday night, Salander heard the key turn in
the door. She instantly switched off her Palm and slipped it
under the mattress. When she looked up she saw
Jonasson closing the door.
“Good evening, Fröken Salander,” he said. “And how are
you doing this evening?”
“I have a splitting headache and I feel feverish.”
“That doesn’t sound so good.”
Salander looked to be not particularly bothered by either
the fever or the headache. Jonasson spent ten minutes
examining her. He noticed that over the course of the
evening her fever had again risen dramatically.
“It’s a shame that you should be having this setback when
you’ve been recovering so well over the past few weeks.
Unfortunately I won’t now be able to discharge you for at
least two more weeks.”
“Two weeks should be sufficient.”
*
The distance by land from London to Stockholm is roughly
1900 kilometres, or 1180 miles. In theory that would be
about twenty hours’ driving. In fact it had taken almost
twenty hours to reach the northern border of Germany with
Denmark. The sky was filled with leaden thunderclouds,
and when the man known as Trinity found himself on
Sunday in the middle of the Öresundsbron, there was a
downpour. He slowed and turned on his windscreen wipers.
Trinity thought it was sheer hell driving in Europe, since
everyone on the Continent insisted on driving on the wrong
side of the road. He had packed his van on Friday morning
and taken the ferry from Dover to Calais, then crossed
Belgium by way of Liege. He crossed the German border at
Aachen and then took the Autobahn north towards
Hamburg and on to Denmark.
His companion, Bob the Dog, was asleep in the back. They
had taken it in turns to drive, and apart from a couple of
hour-long stops along the way, they had maintained a
steady ninety kilometres an hour. The van was eighteen
years old and was not able to go much faster anyway.
There were easier ways of getting from London to
Stockholm, but it was not likely that he would be able to
take thirty kilos of electronic gear on a normal flight. They
had crossed six national borders but they had not been
had crossed six national borders but they had not been
stopped once, either by customs or by passport control.
Trinity was an ardent fan of the E.U., whose regulations
simplified his visits to the Continent.
Trinity was born in Bradford, but he had lived in north
London since childhood. He had had a miserable formal
education, and then attended a vocational school and
earned a certificate as a trained telecommunications
technician. For three years after his nineteenth birthday he
had worked as an engineer for British Telecom. Once he
had understood how the telephone network functioned and
realized how hopelessly antiquated it was, he switched to
being a private security consultant, installing alarm systems
and managing burglary protection. For special clients he
would also offer his video surveillance and telephone
tapping services.
Now thirty-two years old, he had a theoretical knowledge of
electronics and computer science that allowed him to knock
spots off any professor in the field. He had lived with
computers since he was ten, and he hacked his first
computer when he was thirteen.
It had whetted his appetite, and when he was sixteen he
had advanced to the extent that he could compete with the
best in the world. There was a period in which he spent
every waking minute in front of his computer screen, writing
his own programs and planting insidious tendrils on the
his own programs and planting insidious tendrils on the
Internet. He infiltrated the B.B.C., the Ministry of Defence
and Scotland Yard. He even managed – for a short time –
to take command of a nuclear submarine on patrol in the
North Sea. It was as well that Trinity belonged to the
inquisitive rather than the malicious type of computer
marauder. His fascination was extinguished the moment he
had cracked a computer, gained access, and appropriated
its secrets.
He was one of the founders of Hacker Republic. And Wasp
was one of its citizens.
It was 7.30 on Sunday evening as he and Bob the Dog
were approaching Stockholm. When they passed Ikea at
Kungens Kurva in Skärholmen, Trinity flipped open his
mobile and dialled a number he had memorized.
“Plague,” Trinity said.
“Where are you guys?”
“You said to call when we passed Ikea.”
Plague gave him directions to the youth hostel on
Långholmen where he had booked a room for his
colleagues from England. Since Plague hardly ever left his
apartment, they agreed to meet at his place at 10.00 the
next morning.
Plague decided to make an exceptional effort and washed
the dishes, generally cleaned up, and opened the windows
in anticipation of his guests’ arrival.
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