CHAPTER 11
Friday, 13.v – Saturday,
14.v
Blomkvist made sure that he was not being watched when
he walked from the Millennium offices early on Friday
morning to Salander’s old apartment block on Lundagatan.
He had to meet Idris Ghidi in Göteborg. The question was
how to travel there without being observed or leaving a
trail. He decided against the train, since he did not want to
use a credit card. Normally he would borrow Berger’s car,
but that was no longer possible. He had thought about
asking Cortez or someone else to rent a car for him, but
that too would leave a trace.
Finally he lit upon the obvious solution. He withdrew cash
from an A.T.M. on Götgatan. He had Salander’s keys to her
burgundy Honda. It had been parked outside her building
since March. He adjusted the seat and saw that the petrol
since March. He adjusted the seat and saw that the petrol
tank was half full. Then he backed out and headed across
Liljeholmsbron towards the E4.
At 2.50 he parked on a side street off Avenyn in Göteborg.
He had a late lunch at the first café he saw. At 4.10 he took
the tram to Angered and got off in the centre of town. It
took twenty minutes to find the address where Idris Ghidi
lived. He was about ten minutes late for their meeting.
Ghidi opened the door, shook hands with Blomkvist, and
invited him into a living room with spartan furnishings. He
had a limp. He asked Blomkvist to take a seat at the table
next to a dresser on which were a dozen framed
photographs, which Blomkvist studied.
“My family,” Ghidi said.
He spoke with a thick accent. Blomkvist suspected that he
would not pass the language test recommended by the
People’s Party of Sweden.
“Are those your brothers?”
“My two brothers on the left who were murdered by
Saddam in the ’80s. That’s my father in the middle. My two
uncles were murdered by Saddam in the ’90s. My mother
died in 2000. My three sisters are still alive. Two are in
Syria and my little sister is in Madrid.”
Ghidi poured Turkish coffee.
“Kurdo Baksi sends his greetings.”
“Kurdo said you wanted to hire me for a job, but not what it
was. I have to tell you, right away, that I won’t take the job if
it’s illegal. I don’t dare get mixed up in anything like that.”
“There is nothing illegal in what I am going to ask you to
do. But it is unusual. The job itself will last for a couple of
weeks. It must be done each day, but it will take only a
minute of your time. For this I’m willing to pay you a
thousand kronor a week. You will be paid by me, and I
won’t report it to the tax authorities.”
“I understand. What is it I have to do?”
“One of your jobs at Sahlgrenska hospital – six days a
week, if I understood correctly – is to clean corridor 11C,
the intensive care unit.”
Ghidi nodded.
“This is what I want you to do.”
Blomkvist leaned forward and explained his plan.
Prosecutor Ekström took stock of his visitor. It was the third
time he had met Superintendent Nyström. He saw a lined
face framed by short grey hair. Nyström had first come to
see him in the days following the murder of Karl Axel Bodin.
He had offered credentials to indicate that he worked for
S.I.S. They had had a long, subdued conversation.
“It’s important that you understand this: in no way am I
trying to influence how you might act or how you do your
job. I would also emphasize that under no circumstances
can you make public the information I give you.” Nyström
said.
“I understand.”
If truth be told, Ekström did not entirely understand, but he
did not want to seem very unclever by asking questions. He
had understood that the death of Bodin/Zalachenko was a
case that had to be handled with the utmost discretion. He
had also understood that Nyström’s visit was off the record,
although endorsed by the highest authorities within the
Security Police.
“This is most assuredly a matter of life or death,” Nyström
had said at their very first meeting. “As far as the Security
Police are concerned, everything related to the Zalachenko
case is Top Secret. I can tell you that he is a defector, a
former agent of Soviet military intelligence, and a key
player in the Russians’ offensive against western Europe in
the ’70s.”
the ’70s.”
“That’s what Blomkvist at Millennium is evidently alleging.”
“And in this instance Blomkvist is quite correct. He’s a
journalist who happened to stumble upon one of the most
secret operations ever conducted by Swedish defence.”
“He’s going to publish the information.”
“Of course. He represents the media, with all the
advantages and drawbacks. We live in a democracy and
naturally we cannot influence what is written in the press.
The problem in this case is that Blomkvist knows only a
fraction of the truth about Zalachenko, and much of what
he thinks he knows is wrong.”
“I see.”
“What Blomkvist doesn’t grasp is that if the truth about
Zalachenko comes out, the Russians will swiftly identify our
informants and sources in Russia. People who have risked
their lives for democracy will be in danger of being killed.”
“But isn’t Russia a democracy now too? I mean, if this had
been during the communist days—”
“That’s an illusion. This is about people who spied formerly
within the Soviet Union – no regime in the world would
stand for that, even if it happened many years ago. And a
stand for that, even if it happened many years ago. And a
number of these sources are still active.”
No such agents existed, but Ekström could not know that.
He was bound to take Nyström at his word. And he could
not help feeling flattered that he was being given
information – off the record, of course – that was among
the most secret to be found in Sweden. He was slightly
surprised that the Swedish Security Police had been able
to penetrate the Russian military to the degree Nyström
was describing, and he perfectly understood that this was,
of course, information that absolutely could not be
disseminated.
“When I was assigned to make contact with you, we did an
extensive investigation of your background,” Nyström said.
The seduction always involved discovering someone’s
weaknesses. Prosecutor Ekström’s weakness was his
conviction as to his own importance. He was like everyone
else, he appreciated flattery. The trick was to make him feel
that he had been specially chosen.
“And we have been able to satisfy ourselves that you are a
man who enjoys enormous respect within the police force
… and of course in government circles.”
Ekström looked pleased. That unnamed individuals in
government circles had great confidence in him implied
government circles had great confidence in him implied
that he could count on their gratitude if he played his cards
right.
“Simply stated, my assignment is to provide you with
background as necessary, and as discreetly as possible.
You must understand how improbably complicated this
story has become. For one thing, a preliminary
investigation is under way, for which you bear the primary
responsibility. No-one – not in the government or in the
Security Police or anywhere else – can interfere in how you
run this investigation. Your job is to ascertain the truth and
bring the guilty parties to court. One of the most crucial
functions in a democratic state.”
Ekström nodded.
“It would be a national catastrophe if the whole truth about
Zalachenko were to leak out.”
“So what exactly is the purpose of your visit?”
“First, to make you aware of the sensitive nature of the
situation. I don’t think Sweden has been in such an
exposed position since the end of the Second World War.
One might say that, to a certain extent, the fate of Sweden
rests in your hands.”
“And who is your superior?”
“I regret it, but I cannot reveal the name of anyone working
on this case. But I can say that my instructions come from
the very highest levels.”
Good Lord. He’s acting on orders from the government. But
he can’t say without unleashing a political firestorm.
Nyström saw that Ekström had swallowed the bait.
“What I am able to do, however, is to provide you with
information. I have been given the authority to use my own
judgement in giving you sight of material that is, some of it,
the most highly classified in this country.”
“I see.”
“This means that if you have questions about something,
whatever it may be, then you should turn to me. You must
not talk to anyone else in the Security Police, only to me.
My assignment is to be your guide in this labyrinth, and if
clashes between various interests threaten to arise, then
we will assist each other in finding solutions.”
“I understand. In that case I should say how grateful I am
that you and your colleagues are willing to facilitate matters
for me.”
“We want the legal process to take its course even though
this is a difficult situation.”
“Good. I assure you that I will exercise the utmost
discretion. This isn’t the first time I’ve handled Top Secret
information, after all.”
“No, we are quite aware of that.”
Ekström had a dozen questions that Nyström meticulously
noted, and then answered as best he could. On this third
visit Ekström would be given answers to several of the
questions he had asked earlier. Among them, and most
crucially: what was the truth surrounding Björck’s report
from 1991?
“That is a serious matter.” Nyström adopted a concerned
expression. “Since this report surfaced, we have had an
analysis group working almost round the clock to discover
exactly what happened. We are now close to the point
where we can draw conclusions. And they are most
unpleasant.”
“I can well imagine. That report alleges that the Security
Police and the psychiatrist Peter Teleborian co-operated to
place Lisbeth Salander in psychiatric care.”
“If only that were the case,” Nyström said with a slight smile.
“I don’t understand.”
“If that was all there was to it, the matter would be simple.
Then a crime would have been committed and led to a
prosecution. The difficulty is that this report does not
correspond with other reports that we have in our
archives.” Nyström took out a blue folder and opened it.
“What I have here is the report that Gunnar Björck actually
wrote in 1991. Here too are the original documents from
the correspondence between him and Teleborian. The two
versions do not agree.”
“Please explain.”
“The appalling thing is that Björck has hanged himself.
Presumably because of the threat of revelations about his
sexual deviations. Blomkvist’s magazine was intending to
expose him. That drove him to such depths of despair that
he took his own life.”
“Well …”
“The original report is an account of Lisbeth Salander’s
attempt to murder her father, Alexander Zalachenko, with a
petrol bomb. The first thirty pages of the report that
Blomkvist discovered agree with the original. These pages,
frankly, contain nothing remarkable. It’s not until page
thirty-three, where Björck draws conclusions and makes
recommendations, that the discrepancy arises.”
“What discrepancy?”
“In the original version Björck presents five well-argued
recommendations. We don’t need to hide the fact that they
concern playing down the Zalachenko affair in the media
and so forth. Björck proposes that Zalachenko’s
rehabilitation – he suffered very severe burns – be carried
out abroad. And things similar. He also recommends that
Salander should be offered the best conceivable
psychiatric care.”
“I see …”
“The problem is that a number of sentences were altered in
a very subtle way. On page thirty-four there is a paragraph
in which Björck appears to suggest that Salander be
branded psychotic, so that she will not be believed if
anyone should start asking questions about Zalachenko.”
“And this suggestion is not in the original report.”
“Precisely. Gunnar Björck’s own report never suggested
anything of the kind. Quite apart from anything else, that
would have been against the law. He warmly recommended
that she be given the care she quite clearly needed. In
Blomkvist’s copy, this was made out to be a conspiracy.”
“Could I read the original?”
“Certainly you can. I have to take the report with me when I
go. And before you read it, let me direct your attention to
the appendix containing the subsequent correspondence
between Björck and Teleborian. It is almost entirely
fabricated. Here it’s not a matter of subtle alterations, but
of gross falsifications.”
“Falsifications?”
“I think that’s the only appropriate description. The original
shows that Peter Teleborian was assigned by the district
court to do a forensic psychiatric examination of Lisbeth
Salander. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Salander was
twelve years old and had tried to kill her father – it would
have been very strange if that shocking event had not
resulted in a psychiatric report.”
“That’s true.”
“If you had been the prosecutor, I assume that you would
have insisted on both social and psychiatric investigations.”
“Of course.”
“Even then Teleborian was a well-respected child
psychiatrist who had also worked in forensic medicine. He
was given the assignment, conducted a normal
investigation, and came to the conclusion that the girl was
mentally ill. I don’t have to use their technical terms.”
“No, no …”
“Teleborian wrote this in a report that he sent to Björck.
The report was then given to the district court, which
decided that Salander should be cared for at St Stefan’s.
Blomkvist’s version is missing the entire investigation
conducted by Teleborian. In its place is an exchange
between Björck and Teleborian, which has Björck
instructing Teleborian to falsify a mental examination.”
“And you’re saying that it’s an invention, a forgery?”
“No question about it.”
“But who would be interested in creating such a thing?”
Nyström put down the report and frowned. “Now you’re
getting to the heart of the problem.”
“And the answer is …?”
“We don’t know. That’s the question our analytical group is
working very hard to answer.”
“Could it be that Blomkvist made some of it up?”
Nyström laughed. “That was one of our first thoughts too.
But we don’t think so. We incline to the view that the
falsification was done a long time ago, presumably more or
less simultaneously with the writing of the original report.
And that leads to one or two disagreeable conclusions.
Whoever did the falsification was extremely well informed.
In addition, whoever did it had access to the very typewriter
that Björck used.”
“You mean …”
“We don’t know where Björck wrote the report. It could
have been at his home or at his office or somewhere else
altogether. We can imagine two alternatives. Either the
person who did the falsification was someone in the
psychiatric or forensic medicine departments, who for some
reason wanted to involve Teleborian in a scandal. Or else
the falsification was done for a completely different
purpose by someone inside the Security Police.”
“For what possible reason?”
“This happened in 1991. There could have been a Russian
agent inside S.I.S. who had picked up Zalachenko’s trail.
Right now we’re examining a large number of old personnel
files.”
“But if the K.G.B. had found out … then it should have
leaked years ago.”
“You’re right. But don’t forget that this was during the
period when the Soviet Union was collapsing and the
period when the Soviet Union was collapsing and the
K.G.B. was dissolved. We have no idea what went wrong.
Maybe it was a planned operation that was shelved. The
K.G.B. were masters of forgery and disinformation.”
“But why would the K.G.B. want to plant such a forgery?”
“We don’t know that either. But the most obvious purpose
would have been to involve the Swedish government in a
scandal.”
Ekström pinched his lip. “So what you’re saying is that the
medical assessment of Salander is correct?”
“Oh yes. Salander is, to put it in colloquial terms, stark
raving mad. No doubt about that. The decision to commit
her to an institution was absolutely correct.”
“Toilets?” Eriksson sounded as if she thought Cortez was
pulling her leg.
“Toilets,” Cortez repeated.
“You want to run a story on toilets? In Millennium?”
Eriksson could not help laughing. She had observed his ill-concealed enthusiasm when he sauntered into the Friday
meeting, and she recognized all the signs of a reporter who
had a story in the works.
“Explain.”
“It’s really quite simple,” Cortez said. “The biggest industry
in Sweden by far is construction. It’s an industry that in
practice cannot be outsourced overseas, even if Skanska
Construction opens an office in London and stuff like that.
No matter what, the houses have to be built in Sweden.”
“But that’s nothing new.”
“No, but what is new is that the construction industry is a
couple of light-years ahead of all other Swedish industries
when it comes to competition and efficiency. If Volvo built
cars the same way, the latest model would cost about one,
maybe even two million kronor. For most of industry, cutting
prices is the constant challenge. For the construction
industry it’s the opposite. The price per square metre
keeps going up. The state subsidizes the cost with
taxpayers’ money just so that the prices aren’t prohibitive.”
“Is there a story in that?”
“Wait. It’s complicated. Let’s say the price curve for
hamburgers had been the same since the ’70s – so a Big
Mac would cost about 150 kronor or more. I don’t want to
guess what it would cost with fries and a Coke, but my
salary at Millennium might not cover it. How many people
around this table would go to McDonald’s and buy a burger
for 100 kronor?”
Nobody said a word.
“Understandable. But when N.C.C. bangs together some
sheet-metal cubes for exclusive rental at Gåshaga on
Lidingö, they ask 10– 12,000 kronor a month for a three-cube apartment. How many of you are paying that much?”
“I couldn’t afford it,” Nilsson said.
“No, of course not. But you already live in a one-bedroom
apartment by Danvikstull which your father bought for you
twenty years ago, and if you were to sell it you’d probably
get a million and a half for it. But what does a twenty-year-old do who wants to move out of the family home? They
can’t afford to. So they sublet or sub-sublet or they live at
home with their mothers until they retire.”
“So where do the toilets come into the picture?” Malm said.
“I’m getting to that. The question is, why are apartments so
bloody expensive? Because the people commissioning the
buildings don’t know how to set the price. To put it simply, a
developer calls up Skanska Construction and says that
they want a hundred apartments and asks what it will cost.
And Skanska calculates it and comes back and says it’ll
cost around 500 million kronor. Which means that the price
per square metre will be X kronor and it would cost 10,000
a month if you wanted to move in. But unlike the
a month if you wanted to move in. But unlike the
McDonald’s example, you don’t really have a choice – you
have to live somewhere. So you have to pay the going
rate.”
“Henry, dear … please get to the point.”
“But that is the point. Why should it cost 10,000 a month to
live in those crappy dumps in Hammarbyhamnen? Because
the construction companies don’t give a damn about
keeping prices down. The customer’s going to have to pay,
come what may. One of the big costs is building materials.
The trade in building materials goes through wholesalers
who set their own prices. Since there isn’t any real
competition there, a bathtub retails at 5,000 kronor in
Sweden. The same bathtub from the same manufacturer
retails at 2,000 kronor in Germany. There is no added cost
that can satisfactorily explain the price difference.”
There was impatient muttering around the table.
“You can read about a lot of this in a report from the
government’s Construction Cost Delegation, which was
active in the late ’90s. Since then not much has happened.
No-one is talking to the construction companies about the
unreasonable prices. The buyers cheerfully pay what they
are told it costs, and in the end the price burden falls on
the renters or the taxpayers.”
“Henry, the toilets?”
“The little that has changed since the Construction Cost
Delegation’s report has happened at the local level, and
primarily outside Stockholm. There are buyers who got fed
up with the high construction prices. One example is
Karlskrona Homes, which builds houses less expensively
than anyone else by buying the materials themselves. And
Svensk Handel has also got into the game. They think that
the price of construction materials is absurd, so they’ve
been trying to make it easier for companies to buy less
expensive products that are equally good. And that led to a
little clash at the Construction Fair in Älvsjö last year.
Svensk Handel had brought in a man from Thailand who
was selling toilets for 500 kronor apiece.”
“And what happened?”
“His nearest competitor was a Swedish wholesale outfit
called Vitavara Inc., which sells genuine Swedish toilets for
1700 kronor apiece. And shrewd municipal buyers started
to scratch their heads and wonder why they were shelling
out 1700 kronor when they could get a similar toilet from
Thailand for 500.”
“Better quality maybe,” Karim said.
“No. The exact same.”
“Thailand,” Malm said. “That sounds like child labour and
stuff like that. Which could explain the low price.”
“Not so,” Cortez said. “Child labour exists mostly in the
textile and souvenir industries in Thailand. And the
paedophile industry, of course. The United Nations keeps
an eye on child labour, and I’ve checked out this company.
They’re a reputable manufacturer. It’s a big, modern,
respectable operation producing appliances and plumbing
goods.”
“Alright … but we’re talking about low-wage countries, and
that means that you risk writing an article proposing that
Swedish industry should be outbid by Thai industry. Fire
the Swedish workers and close the factories here, and
import everything from Thailand. You won’t win any points
with the Trades Union Federation.”
A smile spread over Cortez’s face. He leaned back and
looked ridiculously pleased with himself.
“No again,” he said. “Guess where Vitavara Inc. makes its
toilets to sell at 1700 kronor apiece?”
Silence fell over the room.
“Vietnam,” Cortez said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Eriksson said.
“They’ve been making toilets there for at least ten years.
Swedish workers were already out of that race in the ’90s.”
“Oh, shit.”
“But here comes my point. If you imported directly from the
factory in Vietnam, the price would be in the order of 390
kronor. Guess how you can explain the price difference
between Thailand and Vietnam?”
“Don’t tell me that—”
“Oh, yes. Vitavara Inc. subcontracts the work to an outfit
called Fong Soo Industries. They’re on the U.N. list of
companies that use child labour, at least they were in an
investigation from 2001. But the majority of the workers are
convicts.”
Eriksson burst out laughing. “This is great. This is really
great. I’m sure you’re going to be a journalist when you
grow up. How fast can you have the story ready?”
“Two weeks. I have a lot of international trade stuff to check
out. And then we need a bad guy for the story, so I’m going
to see who owns Vitavara Inc.”
“Then we could run it in the June issue?”
“No problem.”
Inspector Bublanski listened to Prosecutor Ekström without
expression. The meeting had lasted forty minutes, and
Bublanski was feeling an intense desire to reach out and
grab the copy of The Law of the Swedish Kingdom that lay
on the edge of Ekström’s desk and ram it into the
prosecutor’s face. He wondered what would happen if he
acted on his impulse. There would certainly be headlines in
the evening papers and it would probably result in an
assault charge. He pushed the thought away. The whole
point of the socialized human being was to not give in to
that sort of impulse, regardless of how belligerently an
opponent might behave. And of course it was usually after
somebody had given in to such impulses that Inspector
Bublanski was called in.
“I take it that we’re in agreement,” Ekström said.
“No, we are not in agreement,” Bublanski said, getting to
his feet. “But you’re the leader of the preliminary
investigation.”
He muttered to himself as he turned down the corridor to
his office, summoning Andersson and Modig as he went.
They were the only colleagues available to him that
afternoon as Holmberg had regrettably opted to take a two-week holiday.
“My office,” Bublanski said. “Bring some coffee.”
After they had settled in, Bublanski looked at the notes
from his meeting with Ekström.
“As the situation stands, our preliminary investigation
leader has dropped all charges against Lisbeth Salander
relating to the murders for which she was being sought.
She is no longer part of the preliminary investigation so far
as we’re concerned.”
“That can be considered a step forward, at any rate,”
Modig said.
Andersson, as usual, said nothing.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Bublanski said. “Salander is
still suspected of G.B.H. in connection with the events at
Stallarholmen and Gosseberga. But we’re no longer
involved with those investigations. We have to concentrate
on finding Niedermann and working on the graves in the
woods at Nykvarn. On the other hand it’s now clear that
Ekström is going to bring charges against Salander. The
case has been transferred to Stockholm, and an entirely
new investigation has been set up for the purpose.”
“Oh, really?” Modig said.
“And who do you think is going to investigate Salander?”
Bublanski said.
Bublanski said.
“I’m fearing the worst.”
“Hans Faste is back on duty, and he’s going to assist
Ekström.”
“That’s insane. Faste is grossly unsuited to investigate
anything at all to do with Salander.”
“I know that. But Ekström has a good argument. Faste has
been out sick since … hmm … he collapsed in April, and
this would be the perfect, simple case for him to focus on.”
Silence.
“The long and the short of it is that we’re to hand all our
material on Salander over to him this afternoon.”
“And this story about Gunnar Björck and Säpo and the
1991 report …”
“… is going to be handled by Faste and Ekström.”
“I don’t like this,” Modig said.
“Nor do I. But Ekström’s the boss, and he has backing from
higher up in the bureaucracy. In other words, our job is still
to find the killer. Curt, what’s the situation?”
Andersson shook his head. “Niedermann seems to have
been swallowed up by the earth. I have to admit that in all
my years on the force I’ve never seen anything like it. We
haven’t had any tip-offs, and we don’t have a single
informer who knows him or has any idea where he might
be.”
“That sounds fishy,” Modig said. “But he’s being sought for
the police murder in Gosseberga, for G.B.H on another
officer, for the attempted murder of Salander, and for the
aggravated kidnapping and assault of the dental nurse
Anita Kaspersson, as well as for the murders of Svensson
and Johansson. In every instance there’s good forensic
evidence.”
“That helps a bit, at least. How’s it going with the case of
Svavelsjö M.C.’s treasurer?”
“Viktor Göransson – and his girlfriend, Lena Nygren.
Fingerprints and D.N.A. from Göransson’s body.
Niedermann must have bloodied his knuckles pretty badly
during the beating.”
“Anything new on Svavelsjö M.C.?”
“Nieminen has taken over as club president while Lundin
remains in custody, awaiting trial for the kidnapping of
Miriam Wu. There’s a whisper that Nieminen has offered a
big reward to anyone who could provide information as to
Niedermann’s whereabouts.”
“Which makes it even stranger that he hasn’t been found, if
the entire underworld is looking for him. What about
Göransson’s car?”
“Since we found Kaspersson’s car at Göransson’s place,
we’re sure that Niedermann switched vehicles. But we have
no trace of the car he took.”
“So we have to ask ourselves, one, is Niedermann still
hiding out somewhere in Sweden?; two, if so, with whom?;
three, is he out of the country? What do we think?”
“We have nothing to tell us that he has left the country, but
really that seems his most logical course.”
“If he has gone, where did he ditch the car?”
Modig and Andersson shook their heads. Nine times out of
ten, police work was largely uncomplicated when it came to
looking for one specific individual. It was about initiating a
logical sequence of inquiries. Who were his friends? Who
had he been in prison with? Where does his girlfriend live?
Who did he drink with? In what area was his mobile last
used? Where is his vehicle? At the end of that sequence
the fugitive would generally be found.
The problem with Niedermann was that he had no friends,
no girlfriend, no listed mobile, and he had never been in
prison.
The inquiries had concentrated on finding Göransson’s
car, which Niedermann was presumed to be using. They
had expected the car to turn up in a matter of days,
probably in some car park in Stockholm. But there was as
yet no sign of it.
“If he’s out of the country, where would he be?”
“He’s a German citizen, so the obvious thing would be for
him to head for Germany.”
“He seems not to have had any contact with his old friends
in Hamburg.”
Andersson waved his hand. “If his plan was to go to
Germany … Why would he drive to Stockholm? Shouldn’t
he have made for Malmö and the bridge to Copenhagen,
or for one of the ferries?”
“I know. And Inspector Erlander in Göteborg has been
focusing his search in that direction from day one. The
Danish police have been informed about Göransson’s car,
and we know for sure that he didn’t take any of the ferries.”
“But he did drive to Stockholm and to Svavelsjö, and there
he murdered the club’s treasurer and – we may assume –
he murdered the club’s treasurer and – we may assume –
went off with an unspecified sum of money. What would his
next step be?”
“He has to get out of Sweden,” Bublanski said. “The most
obvious thing would be to take one of the ferries across the
Baltic. But Göransson and his girlfriend were murdered late
on the night of April 9. Niedermann could have taken the
ferry the next morning. We got the alarm roughly sixteen
hours after they died, and we’ve had an A.P.B. out on the
car ever since.”
“If he took the morning ferry, then Göransson’s car would
have been parked at one of the ports,” Modig said.
“Perhaps we haven’t found the car because Niedermann
drove out of the country to the north via Haparanda? A big
detour around the Gulf of Bothnia, but in sixteen hours he
could have been in Finland.”
“Sure, but soon after he would have had to abandon the
car in Finland, and it should have been found by now.”
They sat in silence. Finally Bublanski got up and stood at
the window.
“Could he have found a hiding place where he’s just lying
low, a summer cabin or—”
“I don’t think it would be a summer cabin. This time of year
every cabin owner is out checking their property.”
“And he wouldn’t try anywhere connected to Svavelsjö M.C.
They’re the last people he’d want to run into.”
“And the entire underworld should be excluded as well …
Any girlfriend we don’t know about?”
They could speculate, but they had no facts.
When Andersson had left for the day, Modig went back to
Bublanski’s office and knocked on the door jamb. He
waved her in.
“Have you got a couple of minutes?” she said.
“What’s up?”
“Salander. I don’t like this business with Ekström and Faste
and a new trial. You’ve read Björck’s report. I’ve read
Björck’s report. Salander was unlawfully committed in 1991
and Ekström knows it. What the hell is going on?”
Bublanski took off his reading glasses and tucked them
into his breast pocket. “I don’t know.”
“Have you got any idea at all?”
“Ekström claims that Björck’s report and the
correspondence with Teleborian were falsified.”
“That’s rubbish. If it were a fake, then Björck would have
said so when we brought him in.”
“Ekström says Björck refused to discuss it, on the grounds
that it was Top Secret. I was given a dressing down
because I jumped the gun and brought him in.”
“I’m beginning to have strong reservations about Ekström.”
“He’s getting squeezed from all sides.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“We don’t have a monopoly on the truth, Sonja. Ekström
says he’s received evidence that the report is a fake – that
there is no real report with that protocol number. He also
says that the forgery is a good one and that the content is
a clever blend of truth and fantasy.”
“Which part was truth and which part was fantasy, that’s
what I need to know,” Modig said.
“The outline story is pretty much correct. Zalachenko is
Salander’s father, and he was a bastard who beat her
mother. The problem is the familiar one – the mother never
wanted to make a complaint so it went on for several years.
Björck was given the job of finding out what happened
Björck was given the job of finding out what happened
when Salander tried to kill her father. He corresponded with
Teleborian – but the correspondence in the form we’ve
seen it is apparently a forgery. Teleborian did a routine
psychiatric examination of Salander and concluded that
she was mentally unbalanced. A prosecutor decided not to
take the case any further. She needed care, and she got it
at St Stefan’s.”
“And if it is a forgery … who did it and why?”
Bublanski shrugged. As I understand it, Ekström is going to
commission one more thorough evaluation of Salander.”
“I can’t accept that.”
“It’s not our case any more.”
“And Faste has replaced us. Jan, I’m going to the media if
these bastards piss all over Salander one more time.”
“No, Sonja. You won’t. First of all, we no longer have
access to the report, so you have no way of backing up
your claims. You’re going to look like a paranoid, and then
your career will be over.”
“I still have the report,” Modig said in a low voice. “I made a
copy for Curt but I never had a chance to give it to him
before the Prosecutor General collected the others.”
“If you leak that report, you’ll not only be fired but you’ll be
guilty of gross misconduct.”
Modig sat in silence for a moment and looked at her
superior.
“Sonja, don’t do it. Promise me.”
“No, Jan. I can’t promise that. There’s something very sick
about this whole story.”
“You’re right, it is sick. But since we don’t know who the
enemy is, you’re not going to do anything for the moment.”
Modig tilted her head to one side. “Are you going to do
anything?”
“I’m not going to discuss that with you. Trust me. It’s Friday
night. Take a break, go home. And … this discussion never
took place.”
Niklas Adamsson, the Securitas guard, was studying for a
test in three weeks’ time. It was 1.30 on Saturday afternoon
when he heard the sound of rotating brushes from the low-humming floor polisher and saw that it was the dark-skinned immigrant who walked with a limp. The man would
always nod politely but never laughed if he said anything
humorous. Adamsson watched as he took a bottle of
cleaning fluid and sprayed the reception counter-top twice
before wiping it with a rag. Then he took his mop and
swabbed the corners in the reception area where the
brushes of the floor polisher could not reach. The guard
put his nose back into his book about the national
economy and kept reading.
It took ten minutes for the cleaner to work his way over to
Adamsson’s spot at the end of the corridor. They nodded
to each other. Adamsson stood to let the man clean the
floor around his chair outside Salander’s room. He had
seen him almost every day since he had been posted
outside the room, but he could not remember his name –
some sort of foreign name – but Adamsson did not feel the
need to check his I.D. For one thing, the nigger was not
allowed to clean inside the prisoner’s room – that was done
by two cleaning women in the morning – and besides, he
did not feel that the cripple was any sort of threat.
When the cleaner had finished in the corridor, he opened
the door to the room next to Salander’s. Adamsson
glanced his way, but this was no deviation from the daily
routine. This was where the cleaning supplies were kept. In
the course of the next five minutes he emptied his bucket,
cleaned the brushes, and replenished the cart with plastic
bags for the wastepaper baskets. Finally he manoeuvred
the cart into the cubbyhole.
Ghidi was aware of the guard in the corridor. It was a young
blond man who was usually there two or three days a week,
reading books. Part-time guard, and part-time student. He
was about as aware of his surroundings as a brick.
Ghidi wondered what Adamsson would do if someone
actually tried to get into the Salander woman’s room.
He also wondered what Blomkvist was really after. He had
read about the eccentric journalist in the newspapers, and
he had made the connection to the woman in 11C,
expecting that he would be asked to smuggle something in
for her. But he did not have access to her room and had
never even seen her. Whatever he had expected, it was
not this.
He could not see anything illegal about his task. He looked
through the crack in the doorway at Adamsson, who was
once more reading his book. He checked that nobody else
was in the corridor. He reached into the pocket of his
smock and took out the Sony Ericsson Z600 mobile. Ghidi
had seen in an advertisement that it cost around 3,500
kronor and had all the latest features.
He took a screwdriver from his pocket, stood on tiptoe and
unscrewed the three screws in the round white cover of a
vent in the wall of Salander’s room. He pushed the
telephone as far into the vent as he could, just as
Blomkvist had asked him to. Then he screwed on the cover
Blomkvist had asked him to. Then he screwed on the cover
again.
It took him forty-five seconds. The next day it would take
less. He was supposed to get down the mobile, change the
batteries and put it back in the vent. He would then take
the used batteries home and recharge them overnight.
That was all Ghidi had to do.
But this was not going to be of any help to Salander. On
her side of the wall there was presumably a similar
screwed-on cover. She would never be able to get at the
mobile, unless she had a screwdriver and a ladder.
“I know that,” Blomkvist had said. “But she doesn’t have to
reach the phone.”
Ghidi was to do this every day until Blomkvist told him it
was no longer necessary.
And for this job Ghidi would be paid 1000 kronor a week,
straight into his pocket. And he could keep the mobile when
the job was over.
He knew, of course, that Blomkvist was up to some sort of
funny business, but he could not work out what it was.
Putting a mobile telephone into an air vent inside a locked
cleaning supplies room, turned on but not uplinked, was so
crazy that Ghidi could not imagine what use it could be. If
crazy that Ghidi could not imagine what use it could be. If
Blomkvist wanted a way of communicating with the patient,
he would be better off bribing one of the nurses to smuggle
the telephone in to her.
On the other hand, he had no objection to doing Blomkvist
this favour – a favour worth 1000 kronor a week. He was
better off not asking any questions.
Jonasson slowed his pace when he saw a man with a
briefcase leaning on the wrought-iron gates outside his
housing association apartment on Hagagatan. He looked
somehow familiar.
“Dr Jonasson?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Apologies for bothering you on the street outside your
home. It’s just that I didn’t want to track you down at work,
and I do need to talk to you.”
“What’s this about, and who are you?”
“My name is Blomkvist, Mikael Blomkvist. I’m a journalist
and I work at Millennium magazine. It’s about Lisbeth
Salander.”
“Oh, now I recognize you. You were the one who called the
paramedics. Was it you who put duct tape on her wounds?”
paramedics. Was it you who put duct tape on her wounds?”
“Yes.”
“That was a smart thing to have done. But I don’t discuss
my patients with journalists. You’ll have to speak to the P.R.
department at Sahlgrenska, like everyone else.”
“You misunderstand me. I don’t want information and I’m
here in a completely private capacity. You don’t have to say
a word or give me any information. Quite the opposite: I
want to give you some information.”
Jonasson frowned.
“Please hear me out,” Blomkvist said. “I don’t go around
accosting surgeons on the street, but what I have to tell
you is very important. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Tell me what it’s about.”
“It’s about Lisbeth Salander’s future and wellbeing. I’m a
friend.”
Jonasson thought that if it had been anyone other than
Blomkvist he would have refused. But Blomkvist was a man
in the public eye, and Jonasson could not imagine that this
would be some sort of tomfoolery.
“I won’t under any circumstances be interviewed, and I
won’t discuss my patient.”
“Perfectly understood,” Blomkvist said.
Jonasson accompanied Blomkvist to a café nearby.
“So what’s this all about?” he said when they had got their
coffee.
“First of all, I’m not going to quote you or mention you even
in anything I write. And as far as I’m concerned this
conversation never took place. Which said, I am here to
ask you a favour. But I have to explain why, so that you can
decide whether you can or you can’t.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“All I ask is that you hear me out. It’s your job to take care
of Lisbeth’s physical and mental health. As her friend, it’s
my job to do the same. I can’t poke around in her skull and
extract bullets, but I have another skill that is as crucial to
her welfare.”
“Which is?”
“I’m an investigative journalist, and I’ve found out the truth
about what happened to her.”
“O.K.”
“I can tell you in general terms what it’s about and you can
come to your own conclusions.”
“Alright.”
“I should also say that Annika Giannini, Lisbeth’s lawyer –
you’ve met her I think – is my sister, and I’m the one paying
her to defend Salander.”
“I see.”
“I can’t, obviously, ask Annika to do this favour. She doesn’t
discuss Lisbeth with me. She has to keep her
conversations with Lisbeth confidential. I assume you’ve
read about Lisbeth in the newspapers.”
Jonasson nodded.
“She’s been described as a psychotic, and a mentally ill
lesbian mass murderer. All that is nonsense. Lisbeth
Salander is not psychotic. She may be as sane as you and
me. And her sexual preferences are nobody’s business.”
“If I’ve understood the matter correctly, there’s been some
reassessment of the case. Now it’s this German who’s
being sought in connection with the murders.”
“To my certain knowledge, Niedermann is a murderer who
has no grain of conscience. But Lisbeth has enemies. Big
and nasty enemies. Some of these are in the Security
Police.”
Jonasson looked at Blomkvist in astonishment.
“When Lisbeth was twelve, she was put in a children’s
psychiatric clinic in Uppsala. Why? Because she had
stirred up a secret that Säpo was trying at any price to
keep a lid on. Her father, Alexander Zalachenko –
otherwise known as Karl Axel Bodin, who was murdered in
your hospital – was a Soviet defector, a spy, a relic from
the Cold War. He also beat up Lisbeth’s mother year after
year. When Lisbeth was twelve, she hit back and threw a
Molotov cocktail at him as he sat in his car. That was why
she was locked up.”
“I don’t understand. If she tried to kill her father, then surely
there was good reason to take her in for psychiatric
treatment.”
“My story – which I am going to publish – is that Säpo knew
about Zalachenko the wife beater, they knew what had
provoked Lisbeth to do what she did, but they chose to
protect Zalachenko because he was a source of valuable
information. So they faked a diagnosis to make sure that
Lisbeth was committed.”
Jonasson looked so sceptical that Blomkvist had to laugh.
“I can document every detail. And I’m going to write a full
account in time for Lisbeth’s trial. Believe me – it’s going to
cause uproar. You might bear in mind that the beating that
provoked Lisbeth’s attack put her mother in hospital for the
rest of her life.”
“O.K. Go on.”
“I’m going to expose two doctors who were errand boys for
Säpo, and who helped bury Lisbeth in the asylum. I’m
going to hang them out to dry. One of these is a well-known
and respected person. But, as I said, I have all the
documentation.”
“If a doctor were mixed up in something like this, it’s a blot
on the entire profession.”
“I don’t believe in collective guilt. It concerns only those
directly involved. The same is true of Säpo. I don’t doubt
that there are excellent people working in Säpo. This is
about a small group of conspirators. When Lisbeth was
eighteen they tried to institutionalize her again. This time
they failed, and she was instead put under guardianship. In
the trial, whenever it is, they’re once again going to try to
throw as much shit at her as they can. I – or rather, my
sister Annika – will fight to see that she is acquitted, and
that her still-extant declaration of incompetence is revoked.
”
“I see.”
“But she needs ammunition. So that’s the background for
this tactic. I should probably also mention that there are
some individuals in the police force who are actually on
Lisbeth’s side in all this. But not the prosecutor who
brought the charges against her. In short, Lisbeth needs
help before the trial.”
“But I’m not a lawyer.”
“No. But you’re Lisbeth’s doctor and you have access to
her.”
Jonasson’s eyes narrowed.
“What I’m thinking of asking you is unethical, and it might
also be illegal.”
“Indeed?”
“But morally it’s the right thing to do. Her constitutional
rights are being violated by the very people who ought to
be protecting her. Let me give you an example. Lisbeth is
not allowed to have visitors, and she can’t read
newspapers or communicate with the outside world. The
prosecutor has also pushed through a prohibition of
prosecutor has also pushed through a prohibition of
disclosure for her lawyer. Annika has obeyed the rules.
However, the prosecutor himself is the primary source of
leaks to the reporters who keep writing all the shit about
Lisbeth.”
“Is that really so?”
“This story, for example.” Blomkvist held up a week-old
evening newspaper. “A source within the investigation
claims that Lisbeth is non compos mentis, which prompted
the newspaper to speculate about her mental state.”
“I read the article. It’s nonsense.”
“So you don’t think she’s crazy.”
“I won’t comment on that. But I do know that no psychiatric
evaluations have been done. Accordingly, the article is
nonsense.”
“I can show you chapter and verse to prove that the person
who leaked this information is a police officer called Hans
Faste. He works for Prosecutor Ekström.”
“Oh.”
“Ekström is going to seek to have the trial take place
behind closed doors, so that no outsider will have
knowledge of or be able to weigh the evidence against
knowledge of or be able to weigh the evidence against
Lisbeth. But what is worse … Because the prosecutor has
isolated Lisbeth, she won’t be able to do the research she
needs to do to prepare her defence.”
“But isn’t that supposed to be done by her lawyer?”
“As you must have gathered by now, Lisbeth is an
extraordinary person. She has secrets I happen to know
about, but I can’t reveal them to my sister. But Lisbeth
should be able to choose whether she wants to make use
of them in her trial.”
“I see.”
“And in order to do that, she needs this.”
Blomkvist laid Salander’s Palm Tungsten T3 hand-held
computer and a battery charger on the table between
them.
“This is the most important weapon Lisbeth has in her
arsenal – she has to have it.”
Jonasson looked suspiciously at the Palm.
“Why not give it to her lawyer?”
“Because Lisbeth is the only one who knows how to get at
the evidence.”
the evidence.”
Jonasson sat for a while, still not touching the computer.
“Let me tell you one or two things about Dr Peter
Teleborian,” Blomkvist said, taking a folder from his
briefcase.
It was just after 8.00 on Saturday evening when Armansky
left his office and walked to the synagogue of the Söder
congregation on St Paulsgatan. He knocked on the door,
introduced himself, and was admitted by the rabbi himself.
“I have an appointment to meet someone I know here,”
Armansky said.
“One flight up. I’ll show you the way.”
The rabbi offered him a kippa for his head, which Armansky
hesitantly put on. He had been brought up in a Muslim
family and he felt foolish wearing it.
Bublanski was also wearing a kippa.
“Hello, Dragan. Thanks for coming. I’ve borrowed a room
from the rabbi so we can speak undisturbed.”
Armansky sat down opposite Bublanski.
“I presume you have good reason for such secrecy.”
“I’m not going to spin this out: I know that you’re a friend of
Salander’s.”
Armansky nodded.
“I need to know what you and Blomkvist have cooked up to
help her.”
“Why would we be cooking something up?”
“Because Prosecutor Ekström has asked me a dozen times
how much you at Milton Security actually knew about the
Salander investigation. It’s not a casual question – he’s
concerned that you’re going to spring something that could
result in repercussions … in the media.”
“I see.”
“And if Ekström is worried, it’s because he knows or
suspects that you’ve got something brewing. Or at least
he’s talked to someone who has suspicions.”
“Someone?”
“Dragan, let’s not play games. You know Salander was the
victim of an injustice in the early ’90s, and I’m afraid she’s
going to get the same medicine when the trial begins.”
“You’re a police officer in a democracy. If you have
information to that effect you should take action.”
Bublanski nodded. “I’m thinking of doing just that. The
question is, how?”
“Tell me what you want to know.”
“I want to know what you and Blomkvist are up to. I assume
you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs.”
“It’s complicated. How do I know I can trust you?”
“There’s a report from 1991 that Blomkvist discovered …”
“I know about it.”
“I no longer have access to the report.”
“Nor do I. The copies that Blomkvist and his sister – now
Salander’s lawyer – had in their possession have both
disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Blomkvist’s copy was taken during a break-in at his
apartment, and Giannini’s was stolen when she was
mugged, punched to the ground in Göteborg. All this
happened on the day Zalachenko was murdered.”
Bublanski said nothing for a long while.
“Why haven’t we heard anything about this?”
“Blomkvist put it like this: there’s only one right time to
publish a story, and an endless number of wrong times.”
“But you two … he’ll publish it?”
Armansky gave a curt nod.
“A nasty attack in Göteborg and a break-in here in
Stockholm. On the same day,” Bublanski said. “That means
that our adversary is well organized.”
“I should probably also mention that we know Giannini’s
telephone is tapped.”
“A whole bunch of crimes.”
“The question is, whose?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. Most likely it’s Säpo – they
would have an interest in suppressing Björck’s report. But
Dragan … we’re talking about the Swedish Security Police,
a government agency. I can’t believe this would be
something sanctioned by Säpo. I don’t even believe Säpo
has the expertise to do anything like this.”
“I’m having trouble digesting it myself. Not to mention that
someone else saunters into Sahlgrenska and blows
Zalachenko’s head off. And at the same time, Gunnar
Björck, author of the report, hangs himself.”
“So you think there’s a single hand behind all this? I know
Inspector Erlander, who did the investigation in Göteborg.
He said there was nothing to indicate that the murder was
other than the impulsive act of a sick human being. And we
did a thorough investigation of Björck’s place. Everything
points towards a suicide.”
“Gullberg, seventy-eight years old, suffering from cancer,
recently treated for depression. Our operations chief Johan
Fräklund has been looking into his background.”
“And?”
“He did his military service in Karlskrona in the ’40s,
studied law and eventually became a tax adviser. Had an
office here in Stockholm for thirty years: low profile, private
clients … whoever they might have been. Retired in 1991.
Moved back to his home town of Laholm in 1994.
Unremarkable, except—”
“Except what?”
“Except for one or two surprising details. Fräklund cannot
find a single reference to Gullberg anywhere. He’s never
referred to in any newspaper or trade journal, and there’s
referred to in any newspaper or trade journal, and there’s
no-one who can tell us who his clients were. It’s as if he
never actually existed in the professional world.”
“What are you saying?”
“Säpo is the obvious link. Zalachenko was a Soviet
defector. Who else but Säpo would have taken charge of
him? Then the question of a co-ordinated strategy to get
Salander locked away in an institution. Now we have
burglaries, muggings and telephone tapping. Personally I
don’t think Säpo is behind this. Blomkvist calls them ‘the
Zalachenko club’, a small group of dormant Cold-Warmongers who hide out in some dark corridor at Säpo.”
“So what should we do?” Bublanski said.
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