Monday, 11.iv – Tuesday, 12.iv At 5.45 p.m. on Monday Blomkvist closed the lid on his iBook and got up from the kitchen table in his apartment on Bellmansgatan. He put on a jacket and walked to Milton Security’s offices at Slussen. He took the lift up to the reception on the fourth floor and was immediately shown into a conference room. It was 6.00 p.m. on the dot, but he was the last to arrive. “Hello, Dragan,” he said and shook hands. “Thank you for being willing to host this informal meeting.” Blomkvist looked around the room. There were four others there: his sister, Salander’s former guardian Holger Palmgren, Malin Eriksson, and former Criminal Inspector Sonny Bohman, who now worked for Milton Security. At Armansky’s instruction Bohman had been following the Salander investigation from the very start. Palmgren was on his first outing in more than two years. Dr Sivarnandan of the Ersta rehabilitation home had been less than enchanted at the idea of letting him out, but Palmgren himself had insisted. He had come by special transport for the disabled, accompanied by his personal nurse, Johanna Karolina Oskarsson, whose salary was paid from a fund that had been mysteriously established to provide Palmgren with the best possible care. The nurse was sitting in an office next to the conference room. She had brought a book with her. Blomkvist closed the door behind him. “For those of you who haven’t met her before, this is Malin Eriksson, Millennium’s editor-in-chief. I asked her to be here because what we’re going to discuss will also affect her job.” “O.K.,” Armansky said. “Everyone’s here. I’m all ears.” Blomkvist stood at Armansky’s whiteboard and picked up a marker. He looked around. “This is probably the craziest thing I’ve ever been involved with,” he said. “When this is all over I’m going to found an association called ‘The Knights of the Idiotic Table’ and its purpose will be to arrange an annual dinner where we tell stories about Lisbeth Salander. You’re all members.” He paused. “So, this is how things really are,” he said, and he began to make a list of headings on Armansky’s whiteboard. He talked for a good thirty minutes. Afterwards the discussion went on for almost three hours. Gullberg sat down next to Clinton when their meeting was over. They spoke in low voices for a few minutes before Gullberg stood up. The old comrades shook hands. Gullberg took a taxi to Frey’s, packed his briefcase and checked out. He took the late afternoon train to G?teborg. He chose first class and had the compartment to himself. When he passed ?rstabron he took out a ballpoint pen and a plain paper pad. He thought for a long while and then began to write. He filled half the page before he stopped and tore the sheet off the pad. Forged documents had never been his department or his expertise, but here the task was simplified by the fact that the letters he was writing would be signed by himself. What complicated the issue was that not a word of what he was writing was true. By the time the train went through Nyk?ping he had already discarded a number of drafts, but he was starting to get a line on how the letters should be expressed. When they arrived in G?teborg he had twelve letters he was satisfied with. He made sure he had left clear fingerprints on each sheet. At G?teborg Central Station he tracked down a photocopier and made copies of the letters. Then he bought envelopes and stamps and posted the letters in a box with a 9.00 p.m. collection. Gullberg took a taxi to City Hotel on Lorensbergsgatan, where Clinton had already booked a room for him. It was the same hotel Blomkvist had spent the night in several days before. He went straight to his room and sat on the bed. He was completely exhausted and realized that he had eaten only two slices of bread all day. Yet he was not hungry. He undressed, stretched out in bed, and almost at once fell asleep. Salander woke with a start when she heard the door open. She knew right away that it was not one of the night nurses. She opened her eyes to two narrow slits and saw a silhouette with crutches in the doorway. Zalachenko was watching her in the light that came from the corridor. Without moving her head she glanced at the digital clock: 3.10 a.m. She then glanced at the bedside table and saw the water glass. She calculated the distance. She could just reach it without having to move her body. It would take a very few seconds to stretch out her arm and break off the rim of the glass with a firm rap against the hard edge of the table. It would take half a second to shove the broken edge into Zalachenko’s throat if he leaned over her. She looked for other options, but the glass was her only reachable weapon. She relaxed and waited. Zalachenko stood in the doorway for two minutes without moving. Then gingerly he closed the door. She heard the faint scraping of the crutches as he quietly retreated down the corridor. Five minutes later she propped herself up on her right elbow, reached for the glass, and took a long drink of water. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pulled the electrodes off her arms and chest. With an effort she stood up and swayed unsteadily. It took her about a minute to gain control over her body. She hobbled to the door and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. She was in a cold sweat. Then she turned icy with rage. Fuck you, Zalachenko. Let’s end this right here and now. She needed a weapon. The next moment she heard quick heels clacking in the corridor. Shit. The electrodes. “What in God’s name are you doing up?” the night nurse said. “I had to … go … to the toilet,” Salander said breathlessly. “Get back into bed at once.” She took Salander’s hand and helped her into the bed. Then she got a bedpan. “When you have to go to the toilet, just ring for us. That’s what this button is for.” Blomkvist woke up at 10.30 on Tuesday, showered, put on coffee, and then sat down with his iBook. After the meeting at Milton Security the previous evening, he had come home and worked until 5.00 a.m. The story was beginning at last to take shape. Zalachenko’s biography was still vague – all he had was what he had blackmailed Bj?rck to reveal, as well as the handful of details Palmgren had been able to provide. Salander’s story was pretty much done. He explained step by step how she had been targeted by a gang of Cold-Warmongers at S.I.S. and locked away in a psychiatric hospital to stop her blowing the gaff on Zalachenko. He was pleased with what he had written. There were still some holes that he would have to fill, but he knew that he had one hell of a story. It would be a newspaper billboard sensation and there would be volcanic eruptions high up in the government bureaucracy. He smoked a cigarette while he thought. He could see two particular gaps that needed attention. One was manageable. He had to deal with Teleborian, and he was looking forward to that assignment. When he was finished with him, the renowned children’s psychiatrist would be one of the most detested men in Sweden. That was one thing. The second thing was more complicated. The men who conspired against Salander – he thought of them as the Zalachenko club – were inside the Security Police. He knew one, Gunnar Bj?rck, but Bj?rck could not possibly be the only man responsible. There had to be a group … a division or unit of some sort. There must be chiefs, operations managers. There had to be a budget. But he had no idea how to go about identifying these people, where even to start. He had only the vaguest notion of how S?po was organized. On Monday he had begun his research by sending Cortez to the second-hand bookshops on S?dermalm, to buy every book which in any way dealt with the Security Police. Cortez had come to his apartment in the afternoon with six books. Espionage in Sweden by Mikael Rosquist (Tempus, 1988); S?po Chief 1962–1970 by P.G. Vinge (Wahlstr?m & Widstrand, 1988); Secret Forces by Jan Ottosson and Lars Magnusson (Tiden, 1991); Power Struggle for S?po by Erik Magnusson (Corona, 1989); An Assignment by Carl Lidbom (Wahlstr?m & Widstrand, 1990); and – somewhat surprisingly – An Agent in Place by Thomas Whiteside (Ballantine, 1966), which dealt with the Wennerstr?m affair. The Wennerstr?m affair of the ’60s, not Blomkvist’s own much more recent Wennerstr?m affair. He had spent much of Monday night and the early hours of Tuesday morning reading or at least skimming the books. When he had finished he made some observations. First, most of the books published about the Security Police were from the late ’80s. An Internet search showed that there was hardly any current literature on the subject. Second, there did not seem to be any intelligible basic overview of the activities of the Swedish secret police over the years. This may have been because many documents were stamped Top Secret and were therefore off limits, but there did not seem to be any single institution, researcher or media that had carried out a critical examination of S?po. He also noticed another odd thing: there was no bibliography in any one of the books Cortez had found. On the other hand, the footnotes often referred to articles in the evening newspapers, or to interviews with some old, retired S?po hand. The book Secret Forces was fascinating but largely dealt with the time before and during the Second World War. Blomkvist regarded P.G. Vinge’s memoir as propaganda, written in self-defence by a severely criticized S?po chief who was eventually fired. An Agent in Place contained so much inaccurate information about Sweden in the first chapter that he threw the book into the wastepaper basket. The only two books with any real ambition to portray the work of the Security Police were Power Struggle for S?po and Espionage in Sweden. They contained data, names and organizational charts. He found Magnusson’s book to be especially worthwhile reading. Even though it did not offer any answers to his immediate questions, it provided a good account of S?po as a structure as well as its primary concerns over several decades. The biggest surprise was Lidbom’s An Assignment, which described the problems encountered by the former Swedish ambassador to France when he was commissioned to examine S?po in the wake of the Palme assassination and the Ebbe Carlsson affair. Blomkvist had never before read anything by Lidbom, and he was taken aback by the sarcastic tone combined with razor-sharp observations. But even Lidbom’s book brought Blomkvist no closer to an answer to his questions, even if he was beginning to get an idea of what he was up against. He opened his mobile and called Cortez. “Hi, Henry. Thanks for the legwork yesterday.” “What do you need now?” “A little more legwork.” “Micke, I hate to say this, but I have a job to do. I’m editorial assistant now.” “An excellent career advancement.” “What is it you want?” “Over the years there have been a number of public reports on S?po. Carl Lidbom did one. There must be several others like it.” “I see.” “Order everything you can find from parliament: budgets, public reports, interpellations, and the like. And get S?po’s annual reports as far back as you can find them.” “Yes, master.” “Good man. And, Henry …” “Yes?” “I don’t need them until tomorrow.” Salander spent the whole day brooding about Zalachenko. She knew that he was only two doors away, that he wandered in the corridors at night, and that he had come to her room at 3.10 this morning. She had tracked him to Gosseberga fully intending to kill him. She had failed, with the result that Zalachenko was alive and tucked up in bed barely ten metres from where she was. And she was in hot water. She could not tell how bad the situation was, but she supposed that she would have to escape and discreetly disappear abroad herself if she did not want to risk being locked up in some nuthouse again with Teleborian as her warder. The problem was that she could scarcely sit upright in bed. She did notice improvements. The headache was still there, but it came in waves instead of being constant. The pain in her left shoulder had subsided a bit, but it resurfaced whenever she tried to move. She heard footsteps outside the door and saw a nurse open it to admit a woman wearing black trousers, a white blouse, and a dark jacket. She was a pretty, slender woman with dark hair and a boyish hairstyle. She radiated a cheerful confidence. She was carrying a black briefcase. Salander saw at once that she had the same eyes as Blomkvist. “Hello, Lisbeth. I’m Annika Giannini,” she said. “May I come in?” Salander studied her without expression. All of a sudden she did not have the slightest desire to meet Blomkvist’s sister and regretted that she had accepted this woman as her lawyer. Giannini came in, shut the door behind her, and pulled up a chair. She sat there for some time, looking at her client. The girl looked terrible. Her head was wrapped in bandages. She had purple bruises around her bloodshot eyes. “Before we begin to discuss anything, I have to know whether you really do want me to be your lawyer. Normally I’m involved in civil cases in which I represent victims of rape or domestic violence. I’m not a criminal defence lawyer. I have, however, studied the details of your case, and I would very much like to represent you, if I may. I should also tell you that Mikael Blomkvist is my brother – I think you already know that – and that he and Dragan Armansky are paying my fee.” She paused, but when she got no response she continued. “If you want me to be your lawyer, it’s you I will be working for. Not for my brother or for Armansky. I have to tell you too that I will receive advice and support during any trial from your former guardian, Holger Palmgren. He’s a tough old boy, and he dragged himself out of his sickbed to help you.” “Palmgren?” “Yes.” “Have you seen him?” “Yes.” “How’s he doing?” “He’s absolutely furious, but strangely he doesn’t seem to be at all worried about you.” Salander smiled lopsidedly. It was the first time she had smiled at Sahlgrenska hospital. “How are you feeling?” “Like a sack of shit.” “Well then. Do you want me to be your lawyer? Armansky and Mikael are paying my fee and—” “No.” “What do you mean, no?” “I’ll pay your fee myself. I don’t want a single ?re from Armansky or Kalle Blomkvist. But I can’t pay before I have access to the Internet.” “I understand. We’ll deal with that problem when it arises. In any case, the state will be paying most of my salary. But do you want me to represent you?” Salander gave a curt nod. “Good. Then I’ll get started by giving you a message from Mikael. It sounds a little cryptic, but he says you’ll know what he means.” “Oh?” “He wants you to know that he’s told me most of the story, except for a few details, of which the first concerns the skills he discovered in Hedestad.” He knows that I have a photographic memory … and that I’m a hacker. He’s kept quiet about that. “O.K.” “The other is the D.V.D. I don’t know what he’s referring to, but he was adamant that it’s up to you to decide whether you tell me about it or not. Do you know what he’s referring to?” The film of Bjurman raping me. “Yes.” “That’s good, then.” Giannini was suddenly hesitant. “I’m a little miffed at my brother. Even though he hired me, he’ll only tell me what he feels like telling me. Do you intend to hide things from me too?” “I don’t know. Could we leave that question for later?” Salander said. “Certainly. We’re going to be talking to each other quite a lot. I don’t have time for a long conversation now – I have to meet Prosecutor Jervas in forty-five minutes. I just wanted to confirm that you really do want me to be your lawyer. But there’s something else I need to tell you.” “Yes?” “It’s this: if I’m not present, you’re not to say a single word to the police, no matter what they ask you. Even if they provoke you or accuse you of whatever … Can you promise me?” “I could manage that.” Gullberg had been completely exhausted after all his efforts on Monday. He did not wake until 9.00 on Tuesday morning, four hours later than usual. He went to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth. He stood for a long time looking at his face in the mirror before he turned off the light and went to get dressed. He chose the only clean shirt he had left in the brown briefcase and put on a brown-patterned tie. He went down to the hotel’s breakfast room, drank a cup of black coffee and ate a slice of wholemeal toast with cheese and a little marmalade on it. He drank a glass of mineral water. Then he went to the hotel lobby and called Clinton’s mobile from the public telephone. “It’s me. Status report?” “Rather unsettled.” “Fredrik, can you handle this?” “Yes, it’s like the old days. But it’s a shame von Rottinger isn’t still with us. He was better at planning operations than I.” “You were equally good. You could have switched places at any time. Which indeed you quite often did.” “It’s a matter of intuition. He was always a little sharper.” “Tell me, how are you all doing?” “Sandberg is brighter than we thought. We brought in the external help in the form of M?rtensson. He’s a gofer, but he’s usable. We have taps on Blomkvist’s landline and mobile. We’ll take care of Giannini’s and the Millennium office telephones today. We’re looking at the blueprints for all the relevant offices and apartments. We’ll be going in as soon as it can be done.” “First thing is to locate all the copies …” “I’ve already done that. We’ve had some unbelievable luck. Giannini called Blomkvist this morning. She actually asked him how many copies there were in circulation, and it turned out that Blomkvist only has one. Berger copied the report, but she sent the copy on to Bublanski.” “Good. No time to waste.” “I know. But it has to be done in one fell swoop. If we don’t lift all the copies simultaneously, it won’t work.” “True.” “It’s a bit complicated, since Giannini left for G?teborg this morning. I’ve sent a team of externals to tail her. They’re flying down right now.” “Good.” Gullberg could not think of anything more to say. “Thanks, Fredrik,” he said at last. “My pleasure. This is a lot more fun than sitting around waiting for a kidney.” They said goodbye. Gullberg paid his hotel bill and went out to the street. The ball was in motion. Now it was just a matter of mapping out the moves. He started by walking to Park Avenue Hotel, where he asked to used the fax machine. He did not want to do it at the hotel where he had been staying. He faxed copies of the letters he had written the day before. Then he went out on to Avenyn to look for a taxi. He stopped at a rubbish bin and tore up the photocopies of his letters. * Giannini was with Prosecutor Jervas for fifteen minutes. She wanted to know what charges she was intending to bring against Salander, but she soon realized that Jervas was not yet sure of her plan. “Right now I’ll settle for charges of grievous bodily harm or attempted murder. I refer to the fact that Salander hit her father with an axe. I take it that you will plead self-defence?” “Maybe.” “To be honest with you, Niedermann is my priority at the moment.” “I understand.” “I’ve been in touch with the Prosecutor General. Discussions are ongoing as to whether to combine all the charges against your client under the jurisdiction of a prosecutor in Stockholm and tie them in with what happened here.” “I assumed that the case would be handled in Stockholm,” Giannini said. “Fine. But I need an opportunity to question the girl. When can we do that?” “I have a report from her doctor, Anders Jonasson. He says that Salander won’t be in a condition to participate in an interview for several days yet. Quite apart from her injuries, she’s on powerful painkillers.” “I received a similar report, and as you no doubt realize, this is frustrating. I repeat that my priority is Niedermann. Your client says that she doesn’t know where he’s hiding.” “She doesn’t know Niedermann at all. She happened to identify him and track him down to Gosseberga, to Zalachenko’s farm.” “We’ll meet again as soon as your client is strong enough to be interviewed,” Jervas said. Gullberg had a bunch of flowers in his hand when he got into the lift at Sahlgrenska hospital at the same time as a short-haired woman in a dark jacket. He held the lift door open for her and let her go first to the reception desk on the ward. “My name is Annika Giannini. I’m a lawyer and I’d like to see my client again, Lisbeth Salander.” Gullberg turned his head very slowly and looked in surprise at the woman he had followed out of the lift. He glanced down at her briefcase as the nurse checked Giannini’s I.D. and consulted a list. “Room twelve,” the nurse said. “Thank you. I know the way.” She walked off down the corridor. “May I help you?” “Thank you, yes. I’d like to leave these flowers for Karl Axel Bodin.” “He’s not allowed visitors.” “I know. I just want to leave the flowers.” “We’ll take care of them.” Gullberg had brought the flowers with him mainly as an excuse. He wanted to get an idea of how the ward was laid out. He thanked the nurse and followed the sign to the staircase. On the way he passed Zalachenko’s door, room fourteen according to Jonas Sandberg. He waited in the stairwell. Through a glass pane in the door he saw the nurse take the bouquet into Zalachenko’s room. When she returned to her station, Gullberg pushed open the door to room fourteen and stepped quickly inside. “Good morning, Alexander,” he said. Zalachenko looked up in surprise at his unannounced visitor. “I thought you’d be dead by now,” he said. “Not quite yet.” “What do you want?” “What do you think?” Gullberg pulled up the chair and sat down. “Probably to see me dead.” “Well, that’s gratitude for you. How could you be so bloody stupid? We give you a whole new life and you finish up here.” If Zalachenko could have laughed he would have. In his opinion, the Swedish Security Police were amateurs. That applied to Gullberg and equally to Bj?rck. Not to mention that complete idiot Bjurman. “Once again we have to haul you out of the furnace.” The expression did not sit well with Zalachenko, once the victim of a petrol bomb attack – from that bloody daughter of his two doors down the corridor. “Spare me the lectures. Just get me out of this mess.” “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you.” Gullberg put his briefcase on to his lap, took out a notebook, and turned to a blank page. Then he gave Zalachenko a long, searching look. “There’s one thing I’m curious about … were you really going to betray us after all we’ve done for you?” “What do you think?” “It depends how crazy you are.” “Don’t call me crazy. I’m a survivor. I do what I have to do to survive.” Gullberg shook his head. “No, Alexander, you do what you do because you’re evil and rotten. You wanted a message from the Section. I’m here to deliver it. We’re not going to lift a finger to help you this time.” All of a sudden Zalachenko looked uncertain. He studied Gullberg, trying to figure out if this was some puzzling bluff. “You don’t have a choice,” he said. “There’s always a choice,” Gullberg said. “I’m going to—” “You’re not going to do anything at all.” Gullberg took a deep breath, unzipped the outside pocket of his case, and pulled out a 9 mm Smith & Wesson with a gold-plated butt. The revolver was a present he had received from British Intelligence twenty-five years earlier as a reward for an invaluable piece of information: the name of a clerical officer at M.I.5 who in good Philby style was working for the Russians. Zalachenko looked astonished. Then he burst out laughing. “And what are you going to do with that? Shoot me? You’ll spend the rest of your miserable life in prison.” “I don’t think so.” Zalachenko was suddenly very unsure whether Gullberg was bluffing. “There’s going to be a scandal of enormous proportions.” “Again, I don’t think so. There’ll be a few headlines, but in a week nobody will even remember the name Zalachenko.” Zalachenko’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a filthy swine,” Gullberg said then with such coldness in his voice that Zalachenko froze. Gullberg squeezed the trigger and put the bullet right in the centre of Zalachenko’s forehead just as the patient was starting to swing his prosthesis over the edge of the bed. Zalachenko was thrown back on to the pillow. His good leg kicked four, five times before he was still. Gullberg saw a red flower-shaped splatter on the wall behind the bedhead. He became aware that his ears were ringing after the shot and he rubbed his left one with his free hand. Then he stood up and put the muzzle to Zalachenko’s temple and squeezed the trigger twice. He wanted to be sure this time that the bastard really was dead. * Salander sat up with a start the instant she heard the first shot. Pain stabbed through her shoulder. When the next two shots came she tried to get her legs over the edge of the bed. Giannini had only been there for a few minutes. She sat paralysed and tried to work out from which direction the sharp reports had come. She could tell from Salander’s reaction that something deadly was in the offing. “Lie still,” she shouted. She put her hand on Salander’s chest and shoved her client down on to the bed. Then Giannini crossed the room and pulled open the door. She saw two nurses running towards another room two doors away. The first nurse stopped short on the threshold. “No, don’t!” she screamed and then took a step back, colliding with the second nurse. “He’s got a gun. Run!” Giannini watched as the two nurses took cover in the room next to Salander’s. The next moment she saw a thin, grey-haired man in a hound’s-tooth jacket walk into the corridor. He had a gun in his hand. Annika recognized him as the man who come up in the lift with her. Then their eyes met. He appeared confused. He aimed the revolver at her and took a step forward. She pulled her head back in and slammed the door shut, looking around in desperation. A nurses’ table stood right next to her. She rolled it quickly over to the door and wedged the tabletop under the door handle. She heard a movement and turned to see Salander just starting to clamber out of bed again. In a few quick steps she crossed the floor, wrapped her arms around her client and lifted her up. She tore electrodes and I.V. tubes loose as she carried her to the bathroom and set her on the toilet seat. Then she turned and locked the bathroom door. She dug her mobile out of her jacket pocket and dialled 112. Gullberg went to Salander’s room and tried the door handle. It was blocked. He could not move it even a millimetre. For a moment he stood indecisively outside the door. He knew that the lawyer Giannini was in the room, and he wondered if a copy of Bj?rck’s report might be in her briefcase. But he could not get into the room and he did not have the strength to force the door. That had not been part of the plan anyway. Clinton would take care of Giannini. Gullberg’s only job was Zalachenko. He looked around the corridor and saw that he was being watched by nurses, patients and visitors. He raised the pistol and fired at a picture hanging on the wall at the end of the corridor. His spectators vanished as if by magic. He glanced one last time at the door to Salander’s room. Then he walked decisively back to Zalachenko’s room and closed the door. He sat in the visitor’s chair and looked at the Russian defector who had been such an intimate part of his own life for so many years. He sat still for almost ten minutes before he heard movement in the corridor and was aware that the police had arrived. By now he was not thinking of anything in particular. Then he raised the revolver one last time, held it to his temple, and squeezed the trigger. As the situation developed, the futility of attempting suicide in the middle of a hospital became apparent. Gullberg was transported at top speed to the hospital’s trauma unit, where Dr Jonasson received him and immediately initiated a battery of measures to maintain his vital functions. For the second time in less than a week Jonasson performed emergency surgery, extracting a full-metal-jacketed bullet from human brain tissue. After a five-hour operation, Gullberg’s condition was critical. But he was still alive. Yet Gullberg’s injuries were considerably more serious than those that Salander had sustained. He hovered between life and death for several days. Blomkvist was at the Kaffebar on Hornsgatan when he heard on the radio that a 66-year-old unnamed man, suspected of attempting to murder the fugitive Lisbeth Salander, had been shot and killed at Sahlgrenska hospital in G?teborg. He left his coffee untouched, picked up his laptop case, and hurried off towards the editorial offices on G?tgatan. He had crossed Mariatorget and was just turning up St Paulsgatan when his mobile beeped. He answered on the run. “Blomkvist.” “Hi, it’s Malin.” “I heard the news. Do we know who the killer was?” “Not yet. Henry is chasing it down.” “I’m on the way in. Be there in five minutes.” Blomkvist ran into Cortez at the entrance to the Millennium offices. “Ekstr?m’s holding a press conference at 3.00,” Cortez said. “I’m going to Kungsholmen now.” “What do we know?” Blomkvist shouted after him. “Ask Malin,” Cortez said, and was gone. Blomkvist headed into Berger’s … wrong, Eriksson’s office. She was on the telephone and writing furiously on a yellow Post-it. She waved him away. Blomkvist went into the kitchenette and poured coffee with milk into two mugs marked with the logos of the K.D.U. and S.S.U. political parties. When he returned she had just finished her call. He gave her the S.S.U. mug. “Right,” she said. “Zalachenko was shot dead at 1.15.” She looked at Blomkvist. “I just spoke to a nurse at Sahlgrenska. She says that the murderer was a man in his seventies, who arrived with flowers for Zalachenko minutes before the murder. He shot Zalachenko in the head several times and then shot himself. Zalachenko is dead. The murderer is just about alive and in surgery.” Blomkvist breathed more easily. Ever since he had heard the news at the Kaffebar he had had his heart in his throat and a panicky feeling that Salander might have been the killer. That really would have thrown a spanner in the works. “Do we have the name of the assailant?” Eriksson shook her head as the telephone rang again. She took the call, and from the conversation Blomkvist gathered that it was a stringer in G?teborg whom Eriksson had sent to Sahlgrenska. He went to his own office and sat down. It felt as if it was the first time in weeks that he had even been to his office. There was a pile of unopened post that he shoved firmly to one side. He called his sister. “Giannini.” “It’s Mikael. Did you hear what happened at Sahlgrenska?” “You could say so.” “Where are you?” “At the hospital. That bastard aimed at me, too.” Blomkvist sat speechless for several seconds before he fully took in what his sister had said. “What on earth… you were there?” “Yes. It was the most horrendous thing I’ve ever experienced.” “Are you hurt?” “No. But he tried to get into Lisbeth’s room. I blockaded the door and locked us in the bathroom.” Blomkvist’s whole world suddenly felt off balance. His sister had almost… “How is she?” he said. “She’s not hurt. Or, I mean, she wasn’t hurt in today’s drama at least.” He let that sink in. “Annika, do you know anything at all about the murderer?” “Not a thing. He was an older man, neatly dressed. I thought he looked rather bewildered. I’ve never seen him before, but I came up in the lift with him a few minutes before it all happened.” “And Zalachenko is dead, no question?” “Yes. I heard three shots, and according to what I’ve overheard he was shot in the head all three times. But it’s been utter chaos here, with a thousand policemen, and they’re evacuating a ward for acutely ill and injured patients who really ought not to be moved. When the police arrived one of them tried to question Lisbeth before they even bothered to ask what shape she’s in. I had to read them the riot act.” Inspector Erlander saw Giannini through the doorway to Salander’s room. The lawyer had her mobile pressed to her ear, so he waited for her to finish her call. Two hours after the murder there was still chaos in the corridor. Zalachenko’s room was sealed off. Doctors had tried resuscitation immediately after the shooting, but soon gave up. He was beyond all help. His body was sent to the pathologist, and the crime scene investigation proceeded as best it could under the circumstances. Erlander’s mobile chimed. It was Fredrik Malmberg from the investigative team. “We’ve got a positive I.D. on the murderer,” Malmberg said. “His name is Evert Gullberg and he’s seventy-eight years old.” Seventy-eight. Quite elderly for a murderer. “And who the hell is Evert Gullberg?” “Retired. Lives in Laholm. Apparently he was a tax lawyer. I got a call from S.I.S. who told me that they had recently initiated a preliminary investigation against him.” “When and why?” “I don’t know when. But apparently he had a habit of sending crazy and threatening letters to people in government.” “Such as who?” “The Minister of Justice, for one.” Erlander sighed. So, a madman. A fanatic. “This morning S?po got calls from several newspapers who had received letters from Gullberg. The Ministry of Justice also called, because Gullberg had made specific death threats against Karl Axel Bodin.” “I want copies of the letters.” “From S?po?” “Yes, damn it. Drive up to Stockholm and pick them up in person if necessary. I want them on my desk when I get back to H.Q. Which will be in about an hour.” He thought for a second and then asked one more question. “Was it S?po that called you?” “That’s what I told you.” “I mean … they called you, not vice versa?” “Exactly.” Erlander closed his mobile. He wondered what had got into S?po to make them, out of the blue, feel the need to get in touch with the police – of their own accord. Ordinarily you couldn’t get a word out of them. Wadensj?? flung open the door to the room at the Section where Clinton was resting. Clinton sat up cautiously. “Just what the bloody hell is going on?” Wadensj?? shrieked. “Gullberg has murdered Zalachenko and then shot himself in the head.” “I know,” Clinton said. “You know?” Wadensj?? yelled. He was bright red in the face and looked as if he was about to have a stroke. “He shot himself, for Christ’s sake. He tried to commit suicide. Is he out of his mind?” “You mean he’s alive?” “For the time being, yes, but he has massive brain damage.” Clinton sighed. “Such a shame,” he said with real sorrow in his voice. “Shame?” Wadensj?? burst out. “Gullberg is out of his mind. Don’t you understand what—” Clinton cut him off. “Gullberg has cancer of the stomach, colon and bladder. He’s been dying for several months, and in the best case he had only a few months left.” “Cancer?” “He’s been carrying that gun around for the past six months, determined to use it as soon as the pain became unbearable and before the disease turned him into a vegetable. But he was able to do one last favour for the Section. He went out in grand style.” Wadensj?? was almost beside himself. “You knew? You knew that he was thinking of killing Zalachenko?” “Naturally. His assignment was to make sure that Zalachenko never got a chance to talk. And as you know, you couldn’t threaten or reason with that man.” “But don’t you understand what a scandal this could turn into? Are you just as barmy as Gullberg?” Clinton got to his feet laboriously. He looked Wadensj?? in the eye and handed him a stack of fax copies. “It was an operational decision. I mourn for my friend, but I’ll probably be following him pretty soon. As far as a scandal goes … A retired tax lawyer wrote paranoid letters to newspapers, the police, and the Ministry of Justice. Here’s a sample of them. Gullberg blames Zalachenko for everything from the Palme assassination to trying to poison the Swedish people with chlorine. The letters are plainly the work of a lunatic and were illegible in places, with capital letters, underlining, and exclamation marks. I especially like the way he wrote in the margin.” Wadensj?? read the letters with rising astonishment. He put a hand to his brow. Clinton said: “Whatever happens, Zalachenko’s death will have nothing to do with the Section. It was just some demented pensioner who fired the shots.” He paused. “The important thing is that, starting from now, you have to get on board with the program. And don’t rock the boat.” He fixed his gaze on Wadensj??. There was steel in the sick man’s eyes. “What you have to understand is that the Section functions as the spear head for the total defence of the nation. We’re Sweden’s last line of defence. Our job is to watch over the security of our country. Everything else is unimportant.” Wadensj?? regarded Clinton with doubt in his eyes. “We’re the ones who don’t exist,” Clinton went on. “We’re the ones nobody will ever thank. We’re the ones who have to make the decisions that nobody else wants to make. Least of all the politicians.” His voice quivered with contempt as he spoke those last words. “Do as I say and the Section might survive. For that to happen, we have to be decisive and resort to tough measures.” Wadensj?? felt the panic rise. Cortez wrote feverishly, trying to get down every word that was said from the podium at the police press office at Kungsholmen. Prosecutor Ekstr?m had begun. He explained that it had been decided that the investigation into the police killing in Gosseberga – for which Ronald Niedermann was being sought – would be placed under the jurisdiction of a prosecutor in G?teborg. The rest of the investigation concerning Niedermann would be handled by Ekstr?m himself. Niedermann was a suspect in the murders of Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson. No mention was made of Advokat Bjurman. Ekstr?m had also to investigate and bring charges against Lisbeth Salander, who was under suspicion for a long list of crimes. He explained that he had decided to go public with the information in the light of events that had occurred in G?teborg that day, including the fact that Salander’s father, Karl Axel Bodin, had been shot dead. The immediate reason for calling the press conference was that he wanted to deny the rumours already being circulated in the media. He had himself received a number of calls concerning these rumours. “Based on current information, I am able to tell you that Karl Axel Bodin’s daughter, who is being held for the attempted murder of her father, had nothing to do with this morning’s events.” “Then who was the murderer?” a reporter from Dagens Eko shouted. “The man who at 1.15 today fired the fatal shots at Karl Axel Bodin before attempting to commit suicide has now been identified. He is a 78-year-old man who has been undergoing treatment for a terminal illness and the psychiatric problems associated with it.” “Does he have any connection to Lisbeth Salander?” “No. The man is a tragic figure who evidently acted alone, in accordance with his own paranoid delusions. The Security Police recently initiated an investigation of this man because he had written a number of apparently unstable letters to well-known politicians and the media. As recently as this morning, newspaper and government offices received letters in which he threatened to kill Karl Axel Bodin.” “Why didn’t the police give Bodin protection?” “The letters naming Bodin were sent only last night and thus arrived at the same time as the murder was being committed. There was no time to act.” “What’s the killer’s name?” “We will not give out that information until his next of kin have been notified.” “What sort of background does he have?” “As far as I understand, he previously worked as an accountant and tax lawyer. He has been retired for fifteen years. The investigation is still under way, but as you can appreciate from the letters he sent, it is a tragedy that could have been prevented if there had been more support within society.” “Did he threaten anyone else?” “I have been advised that he did, yes, but I do not have any details to pass on to you.” “What will this mean for the case against Salander?” “For the moment, nothing. We have Karl Axel Bodin’s own testimony from the officers who interviewed him, and we have extensive forensic evidence against her.” “What about the reports that Bodin tried to murder his daughter?” “That is under investigation, but there are strong indications that he did indeed attempt to kill her. As far as we can determine at the moment, it was a case of deep antagonism in a tragically dysfunctional family.” Cortez scratched his ear. He noticed that the other reporters were taking notes as feverishly as he was. Gunnar Bj?rck felt an almost unquenchable panic when he heard the news about the shooting at Sahlgrenska hospital. He had terrible pain in his back. It took him an hour to make up his mind. Then he picked up the telephone and tried to call his old protector in Laholm. There was no answer. He listened to the news and heard a summary of what had been said at the press conference. Zalachenko had been shot by a 78-year-old tax specialist. Good Lord, seventy-eight years old. He tried again to call Gullberg, but again in vain. Finally his uneasiness took the upper hand. He could not stay in the borrowed summer cabin in Sm?dalar?. He felt vulnerable and exposed. He needed time and space to think. He packed clothes, painkillers, and his wash bag. He did not want to use his own telephone, so he limped to the telephone booth at the grocer’s to call Landsort and book himself a room in the old ships’ pilot lookout. Landsort was the end of the world, and few people would look for him there. He booked the room for two weeks. He glanced at his watch. He would have to hurry to make the last ferry. He went back to the cabin as fast as his aching back would permit. He made straight for the kitchen and checked that the coffee machine was turned off. Then he went to the hall to get his bag. He happened to look into the living room and stopped short in surprise. At first he could not grasp what he was seeing. In some mysterious way the ceiling lamp had been taken down and placed on the coffee table. In its place hung a rope from a hook, right above a stool that was usually in the kitchen. Bj?rck looked at the noose, failing to understand. Then he heard movement behind him and felt his knees buckle. Slowly he turned to look. Two men stood there. They were southern European, by the look of them. He had no will to react when calmly they took him in a firm grip under both arms, lifted him off the ground, and carried him to the stool. When he tried to resist, pain shot like a knife through his back. He was almost paralysed as he felt himself being lifted on to the stool. Sandberg was accompanied by a man who went by the nickname of Falun and who in his youth had been a professional burglar. He had, in time, retrained as a locksmith. Hans von Rottinger had first hired Falun for the Section in 1986 for an operation that involved forcing entry into the home of the leader of an anarchist group. After that, Falun had been hired from time to time until the mid-’90s, when there was less demand for this type of operation. Early that morning Clinton had revived the contact and given Falun an assignment. Falun would make 10,000 kronor tax-free for a job that would take about ten minutes. In return he had pledged not to steal anything from the apartment that was the target of the operation. The Section was not a criminal enterprise, after all. Falun did not know exactly what interests Clinton represented, but he assumed it had something to do with the military. He had read Jan Guillou’s books, and he did not ask any questions. But it felt good to be back in the saddle again after so many years of silence from his former employer. His job was to open the door. He was expert at breaking and entering. Even so, it still took five minutes to force the lock to Blomkvist’s apartment. Then Falun waited on the landing as Sandberg went in. “I’m in,” Sandberg said into a handsfree mobile. “Good,” Clinton said into his earpiece. “Take your time. Tell me what you see.” “I’m in the hall with a wardrobe and hat-rack on my right. Bathroom on the left. Otherwise there’s one very large room, about fifty square metres. There’s a small kitchen alcove at the far end on the right.” “Is there any desk or …” “He seems to work at the kitchen table or sitting on the living-room sofa … wait.” Clinton waited. “Yes. Here we are, a folder on the kitchen table. And Bj?rck’s report is in it. It looks like the original.” “Very good. Anything else of interest on the table?” “Books. P.G. Vinge’s memoirs. Power Struggle for S?po by Erik Magnusson. Four or five more of the same.” “Is there a computer?” “No.” “Any safe?” “No … not that I can see.” “Take your time. Go through the apartment centimetre by centimetre. M?rtensson reports that Blomkvist is still at the office. You’re wearing gloves, right?” “Of course.” * Erlander had a chat with Giannini in a brief interlude between one or other or both of them talking on their mobiles. He went into Salander’s room and held out his hand to introduce himself. Then he said hello to Salander and asked her how she was feeling. Salander looked at him, expressionless. He turned to Giannini. “I need to ask some questions.” “Alright.” “Can you tell me what happened this morning?” Giannini related what she had seen and heard and how she had reacted up until the moment she had barricaded herself with Salander in the bathroom. Erlander glanced at Salander and then back to her lawyer. “So you’re sure that he came to the door of this room?” “I heard him trying to push down the door handle.” “And you’re perfectly sure about that? It’s not difficult to imagine things when you’re scared or excited.” “I definitely heard him at the door. He had seen me and pointed his pistol at me, he knew that this was the room I was in.” “Do you have any reason to believe that he had planned, beforehand that is, to shoot you too?” “I have no way of knowing. When he took aim at me I pulled my head back in and blockaded the door.” “Which was the sensible thing to do. And it was even more sensible of you to carry your client to the bathroom. These doors are so thin that the bullets would have gone clean through them if he had fired. What I’m trying to figure out is whether he wanted to attack you personally or whether he was just reacting to the fact that you were looking at him. You were the person nearest to him in the corridor.” “Apart from the two nurses.” “Did you get the sense that he knew you or perhaps recognized you?” “No, not really.” “Could he have recognized you from the papers? You’ve had a lot of publicity over several widely reported cases.” “It’s possible. I can’t say.” “And you’d never seen him before?” “I’d seen him in the lift, that’s the first time I set eyes on him.” “I didn’t know that. Did you talk?” “No. I got in at the same time he did. I was vaguely aware of him for just a few seconds. He had flowers in one hand and a briefcase in the other.” “Did you make eye contact?” “No. He was looking straight ahead.” “Who got in first?” “We got in more or less at the same time.” “Did he look confused or—” “I couldn’t say one way or the other. He got into the lift and stood perfectly still, holding the flowers.” “What happened then?” “We got out of the lift on the same floor, and I went to visit my client.” “Did you come straight here?” “Yes … no. That is, I went to the reception desk and showed my I.D. The prosecutor has forbidden my client to have visitors.” “Where was this man then?” Giannini hesitated. “I’m not quite sure. He was behind me, I think. No, wait … he got out of the lift first, but stopped and held the door for me. I couldn’t swear to it, but I think he went to the reception desk too. I was just quicker on my feet than he was. But the nurses would know.” Elderly, polite, and a murderer, Erlander thought. “Yes, he did go to the reception desk,” he confirmed. “He did talk to the nurse and he left the flowers at the desk, at her instruction. But you didn’t see that?” “No. I have no recollection of any of that.” Erlander had no more questions. Frustration was gnawing at him. He had had the feeling before and had trained himself to interpret it as an alarm triggered by instinct. Something was eluding him, something that was not right. The murderer had been identified as Evert Gullberg, a former accountant and sometime business consultant and tax lawyer. A man in advanced old age. A man against whom S?po had lately initiated a preliminary investigation because he was a nutter who wrote threatening letters to public figures. Erlander knew from long experience that there were plenty of nutters out there, some pathologically obsessed ones who stalked celebrities and looked for love by hiding in woods near their villas. When their love was not reciprocated – as why would it be? – it could quickly turn to violent hatred. There were stalkers who travelled from Germany or Italy to follow a 21-year-old lead singer in a pop band from gig to gig, and who then got upset because she would not drop everything to start a relationship with them. There were bloody-minded individuals who harped on and on about real or imaginary injustices and who sometimes turned to threatening behaviour. There were psychopaths and conspiracy theorists, nutters who had the gift to read messages hidden from the normal world. There were plenty of examples of these fools taking the leap from fantasy to action. Was not the assassination of Anna Lindh* the result of precisely such a crazy impulse? But Inspector Erlander did not like the idea that a mentally ill accountant, or whatever he was, could wander into a hospital with a bunch of flowers in one hand and a pistol in the other. Or that he could, for God’s sake, execute someone who was the object of a police investigation – his investigation. A man whose name in the public register was Karl Axel Bodin but whose real name, according to Blomkvist, was Zalachenko. A bastard defected Soviet Russian agent and professional gangster. At the very least Zalachenko was a witness; but in the worst case he was involved up to his neck in a series of murders. Erlander had been allowed to conduct two brief interviews with Zalachenko, and at no time during either had he been swayed by the man’s protest ations of innocence. His murderer had shown interest also in Salander, or at least in her lawyer. He had tried to get into her room. And then he had attempted suicide. According to the doctors, he had probably succeeded, even if his body had not yet absorbed the message that it was time to shut down. It was highly unlikely that Evert Gullberg would ever be brought before a court. Erlander did not like the situation, not for a moment. But he had no proof that Gullberg’s shots had been anything other than what they seemed. So he had decided to play it safe. He looked at Giannini. “I’ve decided that Salander should be moved to a different room. There’s a room in the connecting corridor to the right of the reception area that would be better from a security point of view. It’s in direct line-of-sight of the reception desk and the nurses’ station. No visitors will be permitted other than you. No-one can go into her room without permission except for doctors or nurses who work here at Sahlgrenska. And I’ll see to it that a guard is stationed outside her door round the clock.” “Do you think she’s in danger?” “I know of nothing to indicate that she is. But I want to play it safe.” Salander listened attentively to the conversation between her lawyer and her adversary, a member of the police. She was impressed that Giannini had replied so precisely and lucidly, and in such detail. She was even more impressed by her lawyer’s way of keeping cool under stress. Otherwise she had had a monstrous headache ever since Giannini had dragged her out of bed and carried her into the bathroom. Instinctively she wanted as little as possible to do with the hospital staff. She did not like asking for help or showing any sign of weakness. But the headaches were so overpowering that she could not think straight. She reached out and rang for a nurse. Giannini had planned her visit to G?teborg as a brisk, necessary prologue to long-term work. She wanted to get to know Salander, question her about her actual condition, and present a first outline of the strategy that she and Blomkvist had cobbled together to deal with the legal proceedings. She had originally intended to return to Stockholm that evening, but the dramatic events at Sahlgrenska had meant that she still had not had a real conversation with Salander. Her client was in much worse shape than she had been led to believe. She was suffering from acute headaches and a high fever, which prompted a doctor by the name of Endrin to prescribe a strong painkiller, an antibiotic, and rest. Consequently, as soon as her client had been moved to a new room and a security guard had been posted outside, Giannini was asked, quite firmly, to leave. It was already 4.30 p.m. She hesitated. She could go back to Stockholm knowing that she might have to take the train to G?teborg again as soon as the following day. Or else she could stay overnight. But her client might be too ill to deal with a visit tomorrow as well. She had not booked a hotel room. As a lawyer who mainly represented abused women without any great financial resources, she tried to avoid padding her bill with expensive hotel charges. She called home first and then rang Lillian Josefsson, a lawyer colleague who was a member of the Women’s Network and an old friend from law school. “I’m in G?teborg,” she said. “I was thinking of going home tonight, but certain things happened today that require me to stay overnight. Is it O.K. if I sleep at your place?” “Oh, please do, that would be fun. We haven’t seen each other in ages.” “I’m not interrupting anything?” “No, of course not. But I’ve moved. I’m now on a side street off Linnégatan. But I do have a spare room. And we can go out to a bar later if we feel like it.” “If I have the energy,” Giannini said. “What time is good?” They agreed that Giannini should turn up at around 6.00. Giannini took the bus to Linnégatan and spent the next hour in a Greek restaurant. She was famished, and ordered a shish kebab with salad. She sat for a long time thinking about the day’s events. She was a little shaky now that the adrenaline had worn off, but she was pleased with herself. In a time of great danger she had been cool, calm and collected. She had instinctively made the right decisions. It was a pleasant feeling to know that her reactions were up to an emergency. After a while she took her Filofax from her briefcase and opened it to the notes section. She read through it carefully. She was filled with doubt about the plan that her brother had outlined to her. It had sounded logical at the time, but it did not look so good now. Even so, she did not intend to back out. At 6.00 she paid her bill and walked to Lillian’s place on Olivedalsgatan. She punched in the door code her friend had given her. She stepped into the stairwell and was looking for a light switch when the attack came out of the blue. She was slammed up against a tiled wall next to the door. She banged her head hard, felt a rush of pain and fell to the ground. The next moment she heard footsteps moving swiftly away and then the front door opening and closing. She struggled to her feet and put her hand to her forehead. There was blood on her palm. What the hell? She went out on to the street and just caught a glimpse of someone turning the corner towards Sveaplan. In shock she stood still for about a minute. Then she walked back to the door and punched in the code again. Suddenly she realized that her briefcase was gone. She had been robbed. It took a few seconds before the horror of it sank in. Oh no. The Zalachenko folder. She felt the alarm spreading up from her diaphragm. Slowly she sat down on the staircase. Then she jumped up and dug into her jacket pocket. The Filofax. Thank God. Leaving the restaurant she had stuffed it into her pocket instead of putting it back in her briefcase. It contained the draft of her strategy in the Salander case, point by detailed point. Then she stumbled up the stairs to the fifth floor and pounded on her friend’s door. Half an hour had passed before she had recovered enough to call her brother. She had a black eye and a gash above her eyebrow that was still bleeding. Lillian had cleaned it with alcohol and put a bandage on it. No, she did not want to go to hospital. Yes, she would like a cup of tea. Only then did she begin to think rationally again. The first thing she did was to call Blomkvist. He was still at Millennium, where he was searching for information about Zalachenko’s murderer with Cortez and Eriksson. He listened with increasing dismay to Giannini’s account of what had happened. “No bones broken?” he said. “Black eye. I’ll be O.K. after I’ve had a chance to calm down.” “Did you disturb a robbery, was that it?” “Mikael, my briefcase was stolen, with the Zalachenko report you gave me.” “Not a problem. I can make another copy—” He broke off as he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. First Zalachenko. Now Annika. He closed his iBook, stuffed it into his shoulder bag and left the office without a word, moving fast. He jogged home to Bellmansgatan and up the stairs. The door was locked. As soon as he entered the apartment he saw that the folder he had left on the kitchen table was gone. He did not even bother to look for it. He knew exactly where it had been. He sank on to a chair at the kitchen table as thoughts whirled through his head. Someone had been in his apartment. Someone who was trying to cover Zalachenko’s tracks. His own copy and his sister’s copy were gone. Bublanski still had the report. Or did he? Blomkvist got up and went to the telephone, but stopped with his hand on the receiver. Someone had been in his apartment. He looked at his telephone with the utmost suspicion and took out his mobile. But how easy is it to eavesdrop on a mobile conversation? He slowly put the mobile down next to his landline and looked around. I’m dealing with pros here, obviously. People who could bug an apartment as easily as get into one without breaking a lock. He sat down again. He looked at his laptop case. How hard is it to hack into my email? Salander can do it in five minutes. He thought for a long time before he went back to the landline and called his sister. He chose his words with care. “How are you doing?” “I’m fine, Micke.” “Tell me what happened from the moment you arrived at Sahlgrenska until you were attacked.” It took ten minutes for Giannini to give him her account. Blomkvist did not say anything about the implications of what she told him, but asked questions until he was satisfied. He sounded like an anxious brother, but his mind was working on a completely different level as he reconstructed the key points. She had decided to stay in G?teborg at 4.30 that afternoon. She called her friend on her mobile, got the address and door code. The robber was waiting for her inside the stairwell at 6.00 on the dot. Her mobile was being monitored. It was the only possible explanation. Which meant that his was being monitored too. Foolish to think otherwise. “And the Zalachenko report is gone,” Giannini repeated. Blomkvist hesitated. Whoever had stolen the report already knew that his copy too had been stolen. It would only be natural to mention that. “Mine too,” he said. “What?” He explained that he had come home to find that the blue folder on his kitchen table was gone. “It’s a disaster,” he said in a gloomy voice. “That was the crucial part of the evidence.” “Micke … I’m so sorry.” “Me too,” Blomkvist said. “Damn it! But it’s not your fault. I should have published the report the day I got it.” “What do we do now?” “I have no idea. This is the worst thing that could have happened. It will turn our whole plan upside down. We don’t have a shred of evidence left