Monday, 11.iv Blomkvist got up just after 9.00 and called Eriksson at Millennium. “Good morning, editor-in-chief,” he said. “I’m still in shock that Erika is gone and you want me to take her place. I can’t believe she’s gone already. Her office is empty.” “Then it would probably be a good idea to spend the day moving in there.” “I feel extremely self-conscious.” “Don’t be. Everyone agrees that you’re the best choice. And if need be you can always come to me or Christer.” “Thank you for your trust in me.” “You’ve earned it,” Blomkvist said. “Just keep working the way you always do. We’ll deal with any problems as and when they crop up.” He told her he was going to be at home all day writing. Eriksson realized that he was reporting in to her the way he had with Berger. “O.K. Is there anything you want us to do?” “No. On the contrary … if you have any instructions for me, just call. I’m still on the Salander story, trying to find out what’s happening there, but for everything else to do with the magazine, the ball’s in your court. You make the decisions. You’ll have my support if you need it.” “And what if I make a wrong decision?” “If I see or hear anything out of the ordinary, we’ll talk it through. But it would have to be something very unusual. Generally there aren’t any decisions that are 100 per cent right or wrong. You’ll make your decisions, and they might not be the same ones Erika would have made. If I were to make the decisions they would be different again, but your decisions are the ones that count.” “Alright.” “If you’re a good leader then you’ll discuss any concerns with the others. First with Henry and Christer, then with me, and we’ll raise any awkward problems at the editorial meetings.” “I’ll do my best.” “Good luck.” He sat down on the sofa in the living room with his iBook on his lap and worked without any breaks all day. When he was finished, he had a rough draft of two articles totalling twenty-one pages. That part of the story focused on the deaths of Svensson and Johansson – what they were working on, why they were killed, and who the killer was. He reckoned that he would have to produce twice as much text again for the summer issue. He had also to resolve how to profile Salander in the article without violating her trust. He knew things about her that she would never want published. Gullberg had a single slice of bread and a cup of black coffee in Frey’s café. Then he took a taxi to Artillerigatan in ?stermalm. At 9.15 he introduced himself on the entry phone and was buzzed inside. He took the lift to the seventh floor, where he was received by Birger Wadensj??, the new chief of the Section. Wadensj?? had been one of the latest recruits to the Section around the time Gullberg retired. He wished that the decisive Fredrik was still there. Clinton had succeeded Gullberg and was the chief of the Section until 2002, when diabetes and coronary artery disease had forced him into retirement. Gullberg did not have a clear sense of what Wadensj?? was made of. “Welcome, Evert,” Wadensj?? said, shaking hands with his former chief. “It’s good of you to take the time to come in.” “Time is more or less all I have,” Gullberg said. “You know how it goes. I wish we had the leisure to stay in touch with faithful old colleagues.” Gullberg ignored the insinuation. He turned left into his old office and sat at the round conference table by the window. He assumed it was Wadensj?? who was responsible for the Chagall and Mondrian reproductions. In his day plans of Kronan and Wasa had hung on the walls. He had always dreamed about the sea, and he was in fact a naval officer, although he had spent only a few brief months at sea during his military service. There were computers now, but otherwise the room looked almost exactly as when he had left. Wadensj?? poured coffee. “The others are on their way,” he said. “I thought we could have a few words first.” “How many in the Section are still here from my day?” “Apart from me … only Otto Hallberg and Georg Nystr?m are still here. Hallberg is retiring this year, and Nystr?m is turning sixty. Otherwise it’s new recruits. You’ve probably met some of them before.” “How many are working for the Section today?” “We’ve reorganized a bit.” “And?” “There are seven full-timers. So we’ve cut back. But there’s a total of thirty-one employees of the Section within S.I.S. Most of them never come here. They take care of their normal jobs and do some discreet moonlighting for us should the need or opportunity arise.” “Thirty-one employees.” “Plus the seven here. You were the one who created the system, after all. We’ve just fine-tuned it. Today we have what’s called an internal and an external organization. When we recruit somebody, they’re given a leave of absence for a time to go to our school. Hallberg is in charge of training, which is six weeks for the basics. We do it out at the Naval School. Then they go back to their regular jobs in S.I.S., but now they’re working for us.” “I see.” “It’s an excellent system. Most of our employees have no idea of the others’ existence. And here in the Section we function principally as report recipients. The same rules apply as in your day. We have to be a single-level organization.” “Have you an operations unit?” Wadensj?? frowned. In Gullberg’s day the Section had a small operations unit consisting of four people under the command of the shrewd Hans von Rottinger. “Well, not exactly. Von Rottinger died five years ago. We have a younger talent who does some field work, but usually we use someone from the external organization if necessary. But of course things have become more complicated technically, for example when we need to arrange a telephone tap or enter an apartment. Nowadays there are alarms and other devices everywhere.” Gullberg nodded. “Budget?” “We have about eleven million a year total. A third goes to salaries, a third to overheads, and a third to operations.” “So the budget has shrunk.” “A little. But we have fewer people, which means that the operations budget has actually increased.” “Tell me about our relationship to S.I.S.” Wadensj?? shook his head. “The chief of Secretariat and the chief of Budget belong to us. Formally, of course, the chief of Secretariat is the only one who has insight into our activities. We’re so secret that we don’t exist. But in practice two assistant chiefs know of our existence. They do their best to ignore anything they hear about us.” “Which means that if problems arise, the present S.I.S. leadership will have an unpleasant surprise. What about the defence leadership and the government?” “We cut off the defence leadership some ten years ago. And governments come and go.” “So if the balloon goes up, we’re on our own?” Wadensj?? nodded. “That’s the drawback with this arrangement. The advantages are obvious. But our assignments have also changed. There’s a new realpolitik in Europe since the Soviet Union collapsed. Our work is less and less about identifying spies. It’s about terrorism, and about evaluating the political suitability of individuals in sensitive positions.” “That’s what it was always about.” There was a knock at the door. Gullberg looked up to see a smartly dressed man of about sixty and a younger man in jeans and a tweed jacket. “Come in … Evert Gullberg, this is Jonas Sandberg. He’s been working here for four years and is in charge of operations. He’s the one I told you about. And Georg Nystr?m you know.” “Hello, Georg,” Gullberg said. They all shook hands. Then Gullberg turned to Sandberg. “So where do you come from?” “Most recently from G?teborg,” Sandberg said lightly. “I went to see him.” “Zalachenko?” Sandberg nodded. “Have a seat, gentlemen,” Wadensj?? said. “Bj?rck,” Gullberg said, frowning when Wadensj?? lit a cigarillo. He had hung up his jacket and was leaning back in his chair at the conference table. Wadensj?? glanced at Gullberg and was struck by how thin the old man had become. “He was arrested for violation of the prostitution laws last Friday,” Nystr?m said. “The matter has gone to court, but in effect he confessed and slunk home with his tail between his legs. He lives out in Sm?dalar?, but he’s on disability leave. The press haven’t picked up on it yet.” “He was once one of the very best we had here in the Section,” Gullberg said. “He played a key role in the Zalachenko affair. What’s happened to him since I retired?” “Bj?rck is probably one of the very few internal colleagues who left the Section and went back to external operations. He was out flitting around even in your day.” “Well, I do recall that he needed a little rest and wanted to expand his horizons. He was on leave of absence from the Section for two years in the ’80s when he worked as intelligence attaché. He had worked like a fiend with Zalachenko, practically around the clock from 1976 on, and I thought that he needed a break. He was gone from 1985 to 1987, when he came back here.” “You could say that he quit the Section in 1994 when he went over to the external organization. In 1996 he became assistant chief of the Immigration Division and ended up in a stressful position. His official duties took up a great deal of his time. Naturally he has stayed in contact with the Section throughout, and I can also say that we had conversations with him about once a month until recently.” “So he’s ill?” “It’s nothing serious, but very painful. He has a slipped disc. He’s had recurring trouble with it over the past few years. Two years ago he was on sick leave for four months. And then he was taken ill again in August last year. He was supposed to start work again at new year, but his sick leave was extended and now it’s a question of waiting for an operation.” “And he spent his sick leave running around with prostitutes?” Gullberg said. “Yes. He’s not married, and his dealings with whores appear to have been going on for many years, if I’ve understood correctly,” said Sandberg, who had been silent for almost half an hour. “I’ve read Dag Svensson’s manuscript.” “I see. But can anyone explain to me what actually happened?” “As far as we can tell, it was Bj?rck who set this whole mess rolling. How else can we explain the report from 1991 ending up in the hands of Advokat Bjurman?” “Another man who spends his time with prostitutes?” Gullberg said. “Not as far as we know, and he wasn’t mentioned in Svensson’s material. He was, however, Lisbeth Salander’s guardian.” Wadensj?? sighed. “You could say it was my fault. You and Bj?rck arrested Salander in 1991, when she was sent to the psychiatric hospital. We expected her to be away for much longer, but she became acquainted with a lawyer, Advokat Palmgren, who managed to spring her loose. She was then placed with a foster family. By that time you had retired.” “And then what happened?” “We kept an eye on her. In the meantime her twin sister, Camilla, was placed in a foster home in Uppsala. When they were seventeen, Lisbeth started digging into her past. She was looking for Zalachenko, and she went through every public register she could find. Somehow – we’re not sure how it happened – she found out that her sister knew where Zalachenko was.” “Was it true?” Wadensj?? shrugged. “I have no idea. The sisters had not seen each other for several years when Lisbeth Salander ran Camilla to ground and tried to persuade her to tell her what she knew. It ended in a violent argument and a spectacular fight between the sisters.” “Then what?” “We kept close track of Lisbeth during those months. We had also informed Camilla that her sister was violent and mentally ill. She was the one who got in touch with us after Lisbeth’s unexpected visit, and thereafter we increased our surveillance of her.” “So the sister was your informant?” “Camilla was mortally afraid of her sister. Lisbeth had aroused attention in other quarters as well. She had several run-ins with people from the social welfare agency, and in our estimation she still represented a threat to Zalachenko’s anonymity. Then there was the incident in the tunnelbana.” “She attacked a paedophile—” “Precisely. She was obviously prone to violence and mentally disturbed. We thought that it would be best for all concerned if she disappeared into some institution again and availed herself of the opportunities there, so to speak. Clinton and von Rottinger were the ones who took the lead. They engaged the psychiatrist Teleborian again and through a representative filed a request in the district court to get her institutionalized for a second time. Palmgren stood up for Salander, and against all odds the court decided to follow his recommendation – so long as she was placed under guardianship.” “But how did Bjurman get involved?” “Palmgren had a stroke in the autumn of 2002. We still flag Salander for monitoring whenever she turns up in any database, and I saw to it that Bjurman became her new guardian. Bear in mind that he had no clue she was Zalachenko’s daughter. The brief was simply for Bjurman to sound the alarm if she started blabbing about Zalachenko.” “Bjurman was an idiot. He should never have been allowed to have anything to do with Zalachenko, even less with his daughter.” Gullberg looked at Wadensj??. “That was a serious mistake.” “I know,” Wadensj?? said. “But he seemed the right choice at the time. I never would have dreamed that—” “Where’s the sister today? Camilla Salander.” “We don’t know. When she was nineteen she packed her bag and ran away from her foster family. We haven’t found hide nor hair of her since.” “O.K., go on …” “I have a man in the regular police who has spoken with Prosecutor Ekstr?m,” Sandberg said. “The officer running the investigation, Inspector Bublanski, thinks that Bjurman raped Salander.” Gullberg looked at Sandberg with blank astonishment. “Raped?” he said. “Bjurman had a tattoo across his belly which read I am a sadistic pig, a pervert, and a rapist.” Sandberg put a colour photograph from the autopsy on the table. Gullberg stared at it with distaste. “Zalachenko’s daughter is supposed to have given him that?” “It’s hard to find another explanation. And she’s not known for being a shrinking violet. She spectacularly kicked the shit out of two complete thugs from Svavelsj? M.C.” “Zalachenko’s daughter,” Gullberg repeated. He turned to Wadensj??. “You know what? I think you ought to recruit her for the Section.” Wadensj?? looked so startled that Gullberg quickly explained that he was joking. “O.K. Let’s take it as a working hypothesis that Bjurman raped her and that she somehow took her revenge. What else?” “The only one who could tell us exactly what happened, of course, is Bjurman, and he’s dead. But the thing is, he shouldn’t have had a clue that she was Zalachenko’s daughter; it’s not in any public records. But somehow, somewhere along the way, Bjurman discovered the connection.” “But, Goddamnit Wadensj??! She knew who her father was and could have told Bjurman at any time.” “I know. We … that is, I simply wasn’t thinking straight.” “That is unforgivably incompetent,” Gullberg said. “I’ve kicked myself a hundred times about it. But Bjurman was one of the very few people who knew of Zalachenko’s existence and my thought was that it would be better if he discovered that she was Zalachenko’s daughter rather than some other unknown guardian. She could have told anyone at all.” Gullberg pulled on his earlobe. “Alright … go on.” “It’s all hypothetical,” Nystr?m said. “But our supposition is that Bjurman assaulted Salander and that she struck back and did that …” He pointed at the tattoo in the autopsy photograph. “Her father’s daughter,” Gullberg said. There was more than a trace of admiration in his voice. “With the result that Bjurman made contact with Zalachenko, hoping to get rid of the daughter. As we know, Zalachenko had good reason to hate the girl. And he gave the contract to Svavelsj? M.C. and this Niedermann that he hangs out with.” “But how did Bjurman get in touch—” Gullberg fell silent. The answer was obvious. “Bj?rck,” Wadensj?? said. “Bj?rck gave him the contact.” “Damn,” Gullberg said. In the morning two nurses had come to change her bedlinen. They had found the pencil. “Oops. How did this get here?” one of them said, putting the pencil in her pocket. Salander looked at her with murder in her eyes. She was once more without a weapon, but she was too weak to protest. Her headache was unbearable and she was given strong painkillers. Her left shoulder stabbed like a knife if she moved carelessly or tried to shift her weight. She lay on her back with the brace around her neck. It was supposed to be left on for a few more days until the wound in her head began to heal. On Sunday she had a temperature of 102. Dr Endrin could tell that there was infection in her body. Salander did not need a thermometer to work that out. She realized that once again she was confined to an institutional bed, even though this time there was no strap holding her down. That would have been unnecessary. She could not sit up even, let alone leave the room. At lunchtime on Monday she had a visit from Dr Jonasson. “Hello. Do you remember me?” She shook her head. “I was the one who woke you after surgery. I operated on you. I just wanted to hear how you’re doing and if everything is going well.” Salander looked at him, her eyes wide. It should have been obvious that everything was not going well. “I heard you took off your neck brace last night.” She acknowledged as much with her eyes. “We put the neck brace on for a reason – you have to keep your head still for the healing process to get started.” He looked at the silent girl. “O.K.,” he said at last. “I just wanted to check on you.” He was at the door when he heard her voice. “It’s Jonasson, right?” He turned and smiled at her in surprise. “That’s right. If you remember my name then you must have been more alert than I thought.” “And you were the one who operated to remove the bullet?” “That’s right.” “Please tell me how I’m doing. I can’t get a sensible answer from anyone.” He went back to her bedside and looked her in the eye. “You were lucky. You were shot in the head, but the bullet did not, I believe, injure any vital areas. The risk you are running is that you could have bleeding in your brain. That’s why we want you to stay still. You have an infection in your body. The wound in your shoulder seems to be the cause. It’s possible that you’ll need another operation – on your shoulder – if we can’t arrest the infection with antibiotics. You are going to have some painful times ahead while your body heals. But as things look now, I’m optimistic that you’ll make a full recovery.” “Can this cause brain damage?” He hesitated before nodding. “Yes, there is that possibility. But all the signs indicate that you made it through fine. There’s also a possibility that you’ll develop scar tissue in your brain, and that might cause trouble … for instance, you might develop epilepsy or some other problem. But to be honest, it’s all speculation. Right now, things look good. You’re healing. And if problems crop up along the way, we’ll deal with them. Is that a clear enough answer?” She shut her eyes to say yes. “How long do I have to lie here like this?” “You mean in the hospital? It will be at the least a couple of weeks before we can let you go.” “No, I mean how long before I can get up and start walking and moving around?” “That depends on how the healing progresses. But count on two weeks before we can start you on some sort of physical therapy.” She gave him a long look. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?” she said. Dr Jonasson burst out laughing and shook his head. “Sorry. There’s no smoking allowed in the hospital. But I can see to it that you get a nicotine patch or some gum.” She thought for a moment before she looked at him again. “How’s the old bastard doing?” “Who? You mean—” “The one who came in the same time as I did.” “No friend of yours, I presume. Well, he’s going to survive and he’s been up walking around on crutches. He’s actually in worse shape than you are, and he has a very painful facial wound. As I understood it, you slammed an axe into his head.” “He tried to kill me,” Salander said in a low voice. “That doesn’t sound good. I have to go. Do you want me to come back and look in on you again?” Salander thought for a moment, then she signalled yes. When he was gone she stared at the ceiling. Zalachenko has been given crutches. That was the sound I heard last night. Sandberg, the youngest person at the meeting, was sent out to get some food. He came back with sushi and light beer and passed the food around the conference table. Gullberg felt a thrill of nostalgia. This is just the way it was in his day, when some operation went into a critical phase and they had to work around the clock. The difference, he observed, was possibly that in his day there was nobody who would have come up with the wild idea of ordering raw fish. He wished Sandberg had ordered Swedish meatballs with mashed potatoes and lingonberries. On the other hand he was not really hungry, so he pushed the sushi aside. He ate a piece of bread and drank some mineral water. They continued the discussion over their meal. They had to decide what to do. The situation was urgent. “I never knew Zalachenko,” Wadensj?? said. “What was he like?” “Much as he is today, I assume,” Gullberg said. “Phenomenally intelligent, with a damn near photographic memory. But in my opinion he’s a pig. And not quite right in the head, I should think.” “Jonas, you talked to him yesterday. What’s your take on this?” Wadensj?? said. Sandberg put down his chopsticks. “He’s got us over a barrel. I’ve already told you about his ultimatum. Either we make the whole thing disappear, or he cracks the Section wide open.” “How the hell do we make something disappear that’s been plastered all over the media?” Nystr?m said. “It’s not a question of what we can or can’t do. It’s a question of his need to control us,” Gullberg said. “Would he, in your opinion, talk to the press?” Wadensj?? said. Gullberg hesitated. “It’s almost impossible to answer that question. Zalachenko doesn’t make empty threats, and he’s going to do what’s best for him. In that respect he’s predictable. If it benefits him to talk to the media … if he thought he could get an amnesty or a reduced sentence, then he’d do it. Or if he felt betrayed and wanted to get even.” “Regardless of the consequences?” “Especially regardless of the consequences. For him the point is to be seen to be tougher than all of us.” “If Zalachenko were to talk, it’s not certain that anyone would believe him. And to prove anything they’d have to get hold of our archives.” “Do you want to take the chance? Let’s say Zalachenko talks. Who’s going to talk next? What do we do if Bj?rck signs an affidavit confirming his story? And Clinton, sitting at his dialysis machine … what would happen if he turned religious and felt bitter about everything and everyone? What if he wanted to make a confession? Believe me, if anyone starts talking, it’s the end of the Section.” “So … what should we do?” Silence settled over the table. It was Gullberg who took up the thread. “There are several parts to this problem. First of all, we can agree on what the consequences would be if Zalachenko talked. The entire legal system would come crashing down on our heads. We would be demolished. My guess is that several employees of the Section would go to prison.” “Our activity is completely legal … we’re actually working under the auspices of the government.” “Spare me the bullshit,” Gullberg said. “You know as well as I do that a loosely formulated document that was written in the mid-’60s isn’t worth a damn today. I don’t think any one of us could even imagine what would happen if Zalachenko talked.” Silence descended once again. “So our starting point has to be to persuade Zalachenko to keep his mouth shut,” Nystr?m said at last. “And to be able to persuade him to keep his mouth shut, we have to be able to offer him something substantial. The problem is that he’s unpredictable. He would scorch us out of sheer malice. We have to think about how we can keep him in check.” “And what about his demand …,” Sandberg said, “that we make the whole thing disappear and put Salander back in an asylum?” “Salander we can handle. It’s Zalachenko who’s the problem. But that leads us to the second part – damage control. Teleborian’s report from 1991 has been leaked, and it’s potentially as serious a threat as Zalachenko.” Nystr?m cleared his throat. “As soon as we realized that the report was out and in the hands of the police, I took certain measures. I went through Forelius, our lawyer in S.I.S., and he got hold of the Prosecutor General. The P.G. ordered the report confiscated from the police – it’s not to be disseminated or copied.” “How much does the P.G. know?” Gullberg said. “Not a thing. He’s acting on an official request from S.I.S. It’s classified material and the P.G. has no alternative.” “Who in the police has read the report?” “There were two copies which were read by Bublanski, his colleague Inspector Modig, and finally the preliminary investigation leader, Richard Ekstr?m. We can assume that another two police officers …,” Nystr?m leafed through his notes, “… that Curt Andersson and Jerker Holmberg at least, are aware of the contents.” “So, four police officers and one prosecutor. What do we know about them?” “Prosecutor Ekstr?m, forty-two, regarded as a rising star. He’s been an investigator at Justice and has handled a number of cases that got a fair bit of attention. Zealous. P.R.-savvy. Careerist.” “Social Democrat?” Gullberg said. “Probably. But not active.” “So Bublanski is leading the investigation. I saw him in a press conference on T. V. He didn’t seem comfortable in front of the cameras.” “He’s older and has an exceptional record, but he also has a reputation for being crusty and obstinate. He’s Jewish and quite conservative.” “And the woman … who’s she?” “Sonja Modig. Married, thirty-nine, two kids. Has advanced rather quickly in her career. I talked to Teleborian, who described her as emotional. She asks questions non-stop.” “Next.” “Andersson is a tough customer. He’s thirty-eight and comes from the gangs unit in S?der. He landed in the spotlight when he shot dead some hooligan a couple of years ago. Acquitted of all charges, according to the report. He was the one Bublanski sent to arrest Bj?rck.” “I see. Keep in mind that he shot someone dead. If there’s any reason to cast doubt on Bublanski’s group, we can always single him out as a rogue policeman. I assume we still have relevant media contacts. And the last guy?” “Holmberg, fifty-five. Comes from Norrland and is in fact a specialist in crime scene investigation. He was offered supervisory training a few years ago but turned it down. He seems to like his job.” “Are any of them politically active?” “No. Holmberg’s father was a city councillor for the Centre Party in the ’70s.” “It seems to be a modest group. We can assume they’re fairly tight-knit. Could we isolate them somehow?” “There’s a fifth officer involved,” Nystr?m said. “Hans Faste, forty-seven. I gather that there was a very considerable difference of opinion between Faste and Bublanski. So much so that Faste took sick leave.” “What do we know about him?” “I get mixed reactions when I ask. He has an exemplary record with no real criticisms. A pro. But he’s tricky to deal with. The disagreement with Bublanski seems to have been about Salander.” “In what way?” “Faste appears to have become obsessed by one newspaper story about a lesbian Satanist gang. He really doesn’t like Salander and seems to regard her existence as a personal insult. He may himself be behind half of the rumours. I was told by a former colleague that he has difficulty working with women.” “Interesting,” Gullberg said slowly. “Since the newspapers have already written about a lesbian gang, it would make sense to continue promoting that story. It won’t exactly bolster Salander’s credibility.” “But the officers who’ve read Bj?rck’s report are a big problem,” Sandberg said. “Is there any way we can isolate them?” Wadensj?? lit another cigarillo. “Well, Ekstr?m is the head of the preliminary investigation …” “But Bublanski’s leading it,” Nystr?m said. “Yes, but he can’t go against an administrative decision.” Wadensj?? turned to Gullberg. “You have more experience than I do, but this whole story has so many different threads and connections … It seems to me that it would be wise to get Bublanski and Modig away from Salander.” “That’s good, Wadensj??,” Gullberg said. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Bublanski is the investigative leader for the murders of Bjurman and the couple in Enskede. Salander is no longer a suspect. Now it’s all about this German, Ronald Niedermann. Bublanski and his team have to focus on Niedermann. Salander is not their assignment any more. Then there’s the investigation at Nykvarn … three cold-case killings. And there’s a connection to Niedermann there too. That investigation is presently allocated to S?dert?lje, but it ought to be brought into a single investigation. That way Bublanski would have his hands full for a while. And who knows? Maybe he’ll catch Niedermann. Meanwhile, Hans Faste … do you think he might come back on duty? He sounds like the right man to investigate the allegations against Salander.” “I see what you’re thinking,” Wadensj?? said. “It’s all about getting Ekstr?m to split the two cases. But that’s only if we can control Ekstr?m.” “That shouldn’t be such a big problem,” Gullberg said. He glanced at Nystr?m, who nodded. “I can take care of Ekstr?m,” he said. “I’m guessing that he’s sitting there wishing he’d never heard of Zalachenko. He turned over Bj?rck’s report as soon as S.I.S. asked him for it, and he’s agreed to comply with every request that may have a bearing on national security.” “What do you have in mind?” Wadensj?? said. “Allow me to manufacture a scenario,” Nystr?m said. “I assume that we’re going to tell him in a subtle way what he has to do to avoid an abrupt end to his career.” “The most serious problem is going to be the third part,” Gullberg said. “The police didn’t get hold of Bj?rck’s report by themselves … they got it from a journalist. And the press, as you are all aware, is a real problem here. Millennium.” Nystr?m turned a page his notebook. “Mikael Blomkvist.” Everyone around the table had heard of the Wennerstr?m affair and knew the name. “Svensson, the journalist who was murdered, was freelancing at Millennium. He was working on a story about sex trafficking. That was how he lit upon Zalachenko. It was Blomkvist who found Svensson and his girlfriend’s bodies. In addition, Blomkvist knows Salander and has always believed in her innocence.” “How the hell can he know Zalachenko’s daughter … that sounds like too big a coincidence.” “We don’t think it is a coincidence,” Wadensj?? said. “We believe that Salander is in some way the link between all of them, but we don’t yet know how.” Gullberg drew a series of concentric circles on his notepad. At last he looked up. “I have to think about this for a while. I’m going for a walk. We’ll meet again in an hour.” Gullberg’s excursion lasted nearly three hours. He had walked for only about ten minutes before he found a café that served many unfamiliar types of coffee. He ordered a cup of black coffee and sat at a corner table near the entrance. He spent a long time thinking things over, trying to dissect the various aspects of their dilemma. Occasionally he would jot down notes in a pocket diary. After an hour and a half a plan had begun to take shape. It was not a perfect plan, but after weighing all the options he concluded that the problem called for a drastic solution. As luck would have it, the human resources were available. It was doable. He got up to find a telephone booth and called Wadensj??. “We’ll have to postpone the meeting a bit longer,” he said. “There’s something I have to do. Can we meet again at 2.00 p.m.?” Gullberg went down to Stureplan and hailed a taxi. He gave the driver an address in the suburb of Bromma. When he was dropped off, he walked south one street and rang the doorbell of a small, semidetached house. A woman in her forties opened the door. “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Fredrik Clinton.” “Who should I say is here?” “An old colleague.” The woman nodded and showed him into the living room, where Clinton rose slowly from the sofa. He was only sixty-eight, but he looked much older. His ill health had taken a heavy toll. “Gullberg,” Clinton said in surprise. For a long moment they stood looking at each other. Then the two old agents embraced. “I never thought I’d see you again,” Clinton said. He pointed to the front page of the evening paper, which had a photograph of Niedermann and the headline POLICE KILLER HUNTED IN DENMARK. “I assume that’s what’s brought you out here.” “How are you?” “I’m sick,” Clinton said. “I can see that.” “If I don’t get a new kidney I’m not long for this world. And the likelihood of my getting one in this people’s republic is pretty slim.” The woman came to the living-room doorway and asked if Gullberg would like anything. “A cup of coffee, thank you,” he said. When she was gone he turned to Clinton. “Who’s that?” “My daughter.” It was fascinating that despite the collegial atmosphere they had shared for so many years at the Section, hardly anyone socialized with each other in their free time. Gullberg knew the most minute character traits, strengths and weaknesses of all his colleagues, but he had only a vague notion of their family lives. Clinton had probably been Gullberg’s closest colleague for twenty years. He knew that he had been married and had children, but he did not know the daughter’s name, his late wife’s name, or even where Clinton usually spent his holidays. It was as if everything outside the Section were sacred, not to be discussed. “What can I do for you?” asked Clinton. “Can I ask you what you think of Wadensj??.” Clinton shook his head. “I don’t want to get into it.” “That’s not what I asked. You know him. He worked with you for ten years.” Clinton shook his head again. “He’s the one running the Section today. What I think is no longer of any interest.” “Can he handle it?” “He’s no idiot.” “But?” “He’s an analyst. Extremely good at puzzles. Instinctual. A brilliant administrator who balanced the budget, and did it in a way we didn’t think was possible.” Gullberg nodded. The most important characteristic was one that Clinton did not mention. “Are you ready to come back to work?” Clinton looked up. He hesitated for a long time. “Evert … I spend nine hours every other day on a dialysis machine at the hospital. I can’t go up stairs without gasping for breath. I simply have no energy. No energy at all.” “I need you. One last operation.” “I can’t.” “Yes, you can. And you can still spend nine hours every other day on dialysis. You can take the lift instead of going up the stairs. I’ll even arrange for somebody to carry you back and forth on a stretcher if necessary. It’s your mind I need.” Clinton sighed. “Tell me.” “Right now we’re confronted with an exceptionally complicated situation that requires operational expertise. Wadensj?? has a young kid, still wet behind the ears, called Jonas Sandberg. He’s the entire operations department and I don’t think Wadensj?? has the drive to do what needs to be done. He might be a genius at finessing the budget, but he’s afraid to make operational decisions, and he’s afraid to get the Section involved in the necessary field work.” Clinton gave him a feeble smile. “The operation has to be carried out on two separate fronts. One part concerns Zalachenko. I have to get him to listen to reason, and I think I know how I’m going to do it. The second part has to be handled from here, in Stockholm. The problem is that there isn’t anyone in the Section who can actually run it. I need you to take command. One last job. Sandberg and Nystr?m will do the legwork, you control the operation.” “You don’t understand what you’re asking.” “Yes, I do. But you’re going to have to make up your mind whether to take on the assignment or not. Either we ancients step in and do our bit, or the Section will cease to exist a few weeks from now.” Clinton propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested his head on his hand. He thought about it for two minutes. “Tell me your plan,” he said at last. Gullberg and Clinton talked for a long time. Wadensj?? stared in disbelief when Gullberg returned at 2.57 with Clinton in tow. Clinton looked like … a skeleton. He seemed to have difficulty breathing; he kept one hand on Gullberg’s shoulder. “What in the world …” Wadensj?? said. “Let’s get the meeting moving again,” Gullberg said, briskly. They settled themselves again around the table in Wadensj??’s office. Clinton sank silently on to the chair that was offered. “You all know Fredrik Clinton,” Gullberg said. “Indeed,” Wadensj?? said. “The question is, what’s he doing here?” “Clinton has decided to return to active duty. He’ll be leading the Section’s operations department until the present crisis is over.” Gullberg raised a hand to forestall Wadensj??’s objections. “Clinton is tired. He’s going to need assistance. He has to go regularly to the hospital for dialysis. Wadensj??, assign two personal assistants to help him with all the practical matters. But let me make this quite clear … with regards to this affair it’s Clinton who will be making the operational decisions.” He paused for a moment. No-one voiced any objections. “I have a plan. I think we can handle this matter successfully, but we’re going to have to act fast so that we don’t squander the opportunity,” he said. “It depends on how decisive you can be in the Section these days.” “Let’s hear it.” Wadensj?? said. “First of all, we’ve already discussed the police. This is what we’re going to do. We’ll try to isolate them in a lengthy investigation, sidetracking them into the search for Niedermann. That will be Nystr?m’s task. Whatever happens, Niedermann is of no importance. We’ll arrange for Faste to be assigned to investigate Salander.” “That may not be such a bright idea,” Nystr?m said. “Why don’t I just go and have a discreet talk with Prosecutor Ekstr?m?” “And if he gets difficult—” “I don’t think he will. He’s ambitious and on the lookout for anything that will benefit his career. I might be able to use some leverage if I need to. He would hate to be dragged into any sort of scandal.” “Good. Stage two is Millennium and Mikael Blomkvist. That’s why Clinton has returned to duty. This will require extraordinary measures.” “I don’t think I’m going to like this,” Wadensj?? said. “Probably not. But Millennium can’t be manipulated in the same straightforward way. On the other hand, the magazine is a threat because of one thing only: Bj?rck’s 1991 police report. I presume that the report now exists in two places, possibly three. Salander found the report, but Blomkvist somehow got hold of it. Which means that there was some degree of contact between the two of them while Salander was on the run.” Clinton held up a finger and uttered his first words since he had arrived. “It also tells us something about the character of our adversary. Blomkvist is not afraid to take risks. Remember the Wennerstr?m affair.” Gullberg nodded. “Blomkvist gave the report to his editor-in-chief, Erika Berger, who in turn messengered it to Bublanski. So she’s read it too. We have to assume that they made a copy for safekeeping. I’m guessing that Blomkvist has a copy and that there’s one at the editorial offices.” “That sounds reasonable,” Wadensj?? said. “Millennium is a monthly, so they won’t be publishing it tomorrow. We’ve got a little time – find out exactly how long before the next issue is published – but we have to confiscate both those copies. And here we can’t go through the Prosecutor General.” “I understand.” “So we’re talking about an operation, getting into Blomkvist’s apartment and Millennium’s offices. Can you handle that, Jonas?” Sandberg glanced at Wadensj??. “Evert … you have to understand that … we don’t do things like that any more,” Wadensj?? said. “It’s a new era. We deal more with computer hacking and electronic surveillance and such like. We don’t have the resources for what you’d think of as an operations unit.” Gullberg leaned forward. “Wadensj??, you’re going to have to sort out some resources pretty damn fast. Hire some people. Hire a bunch of skinheads from the Yugo mafia who can whack Blomkvist over the head if necessary. But those two copies have to be recovered. If they don’t have the copies, they don’t have the evidence. If you can’t manage a simple job like that then you might as well sit here with your thumb up your backside until the constitutional committee comes knocking on your door.” Gullberg and Wadensj?? glared at each other for a long moment. “I can handle it,” Sandberg said suddenly. “Are you sure?” Sandberg nodded. “Good. Starting now, Clinton is your boss. He’s the one you take your orders from.” Sandberg nodded his agreement. “It’s going to involve a lot of surveillance,” Nystr?m said. “I can suggest a few names. We have a man in the external organization, M?rtensson – he works as a bodyguard in S.I.S. He’s fearless and shows promise. I’ve been considering bringing him in here. I’ve even thought that he could take my place one day.” “That sounds good,” Gullberg said. “Clinton can decide.” “I’m afraid there might be a third copy,” Nystr?m said. “Where?” “This afternoon I found out that Salander has taken on a lawyer. Her name is Annika Giannini. She’s Blomkvist’s sister.” Gullberg pondered this news. “You’re right. Blomkvist will have given his sister a copy. He must have. In other words, we have to keep tabs on all three of them – Berger, Blomkvist and Giannini – until further notice.” “I don’t think we have to worry about Berger. There was a report today that she’s going to be the new editor-in-chief at Svenska Morgon-Posten. She’s finished with Millennium.” “Check her out anyway. As far as Millennium is concerned, we’re going to need telephone taps and bugs in everyone’s homes, and at the offices. We have to check their email. We have to know who they meet and who they talk to. And we would very much like to know what strategy they’re planning. Above all we have to get those copies of the report. A whole lot of stuff, in other words.” Wadensj?? sounded doubtful. “Evert, you’re asking us to run an operation against an influential magazine and the editor-in-chief of S.M.P. That’s just about the riskiest thing we could do.” “Understand this: you have no choice. Either you roll up your sleeves or it’s time for somebody else to take over here.” The challenge hung like a cloud over the table. “I think I can handle Millennium,” Sandberg said at last. “But none of this solves the basic problem. What do we do with Zalachenko? If he talks, anything else we pull off is useless.” “I know. That’s my part of the operation,” Gullberg said. “I think I have an argument that will persuade Zalachenko to keep his mouth shut. But it’s going to take some preparation. I’m leaving for G?teborg later this afternoon.” He paused and looked around the room. Then he fixed his eyes on Wadensj??. “Clinton will make the operational decisions while I’m gone,” he said. Not until Monday evening did Dr Endrin decide, in consultation with her colleague Dr Jonasson, that Salander’s condition was stable enough for her to have visitors. First, two police inspectors were given fifteen minutes to ask her questions. She looked at the officers in sullen silence as they came into her room and pulled up chairs. “Hello. My name is Marcus Erlander, Criminal Inspector. I work in the Violent Crimes Division here in G?teborg. This is my colleague Inspector Modig from the Stockholm police.” Salander said nothing. Her expression did not change. She recognized Modig as one of the officers in Bublanski’s team. Erlander gave her a cool smile. “I’ve been told that you don’t generally communicate much with the authorities. Let me put it on record that you do not have to say anything at all. But I would be grateful if you would listen to what we have to say. We have a number of things to discuss with you, but we don’t have time to go into them all today. There’ll be opportunities later.” Salander still said nothing. “First of all, I’d like to let you know that your friend Mikael Blomkvist has told us that a lawyer by the name of Annika Giannini is willing to represent you, and that she knows about the case. He says that he already mentioned her name to you in connection with something else. I need you to confirm that this would be your intention. I’d also like to know if you want Giannini to come here to G?teborg, the better to represent you.” Annika Giannini. Blomkvist’s sister. He had mentioned her in an email. Salander had not thought about the fact that she would need a lawyer. “I’m sorry, but I have to insist that you answer the question. A yes or no will be fine. If you say yes, the prosecutor here in G?teborg will contact Advokat Giannini. If you say no, the court will appoint a defence lawyer on your behalf. Which do you prefer?” Salander considered the choice. She assumed that she really would need a lawyer, but having Kalle Bastard Blomkvist’s sister working for her was hard to stomach. On the other hand, some unknown lawyer appointed by the court would probably be worse. She rasped out a single word: “Giannini.” “Good. Thank you. Now I have a question for you. You don’t have to say anything before your lawyer gets here, but this question does not, as far as I can see, affect you or your welfare. The police are looking for a German citizen by the name of Ronald Niedermann, wanted for the murder of a policeman.” Salander frowned. She had no clue as to what had happened after she had swung the axe at Zalachenko’s head. “As far as the G?teborg police are concerned, they are anxious to arrest him as soon as possible. My colleague here would like to question him also in connection with the three recent murders in Stockholm. You should know that you are no longer a suspect in those cases. So we are asking for your help. Do you have any idea … can you give us any help at all in finding this man?” Salander flicked her eyes suspiciously from Erlander to Modig and back. They don’t know that he’s my brother. Then she considered whether she wanted Niedermann caught or not. Most of all she wanted to take him to a hole in the ground in Gosseberga and bury him. Finally she shrugged. Which she should not have done, because pain flew through her left shoulder. “What day is it today?” she said. “Monday.” She thought about that. “The first time I heard the name Ronald Niedermann was last Thursday. I tracked him to Gosseberga. I have no idea where he is or where he might go, but he’ll try to get out of the country as soon as he can.” “Why would he flee abroad?” Salander thought about it. “Because while Niedermann was out digging a grave for me, Zalachenko told me that things were getting too hot and that it had already been decided that Niedermann should leave the country for a while.” Salander had not exchanged this many words with a police officer since she was twelve. “Zalachenko … so that’s your father?” Well, at least they had worked that one out. Probably thanks to Kalle Bastard Blomkvist. “I have to tell you that your father has made a formal accusation to the police stating that you tried to murder him. The case is now at the prosecutor’s office, and he has to decide whether to bring charges. But you have already been placed under arrest on a charge of grievous bodily harm, for having struck Zalachenko on the head with an axe.” There was a long silence. Then Modig leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I just want to say that we on the police force don’t put much faith in Zalachenko’s story. Do have a serious discussion with your lawyer so we can come back later and have another talk.” The detectives stood up. “Thanks for the help with Niedermann,” Erlander said. Salander was surprised that the officers had treated her in such a correct, almost friendly manner. She thought about what the Modig woman had said. There would be some ulterior motive, she decided.