The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest by Stieg Larsson
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 understand 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 both around the conference table. Gullberg felt a thrill of nostalgia. This was 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 that in his day nobody 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 wasn't 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," Wadensjoo 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."
"Jonas, you talked to him yesterday. What's your take?" Wadensjoo 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?" Nystrom 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?" Wadensjoo 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 as 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 ahold 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 Bjorck 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 spoke first.
"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-sixties 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," Nystrom said at last.
"And 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 burn 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."
Nystrom 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 SIS, and he got ahold of the prosecutor general. The PG ordered the report confiscated from the police--it's not to be disseminated or copied."
"How much does the PG know?" Gullberg said.
"Not a thing. He's acting on an official request from SIS. It's classified material, and the PG 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 Ekstrom. We can assume that another two police officers"--Nystrom 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 Ekstrom, 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. PR-savvy. Careerist."
"Social Democrat?" Gullberg said.
"Probably. But not active."
"Bublanski is leading the investigation. I saw him in a press conference on TV. 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 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 Soder. 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 Bjorck."
"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 seventies."
"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," Nystrom 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
"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 Bjorck's report are a big problem," Sandberg said. "Is there any way we can isolate them?"
Wadensjoo lit another cigarillo. "Well, Ekstrom is the head of the preliminary investigation. . . ."
"But Bublanski's leading it," Nystrom said.
"Yes, but he can't go against an administrative decision." Wadensjoo 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, Wadensjoo," 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 anymore. 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 Sodertalje, 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," Wadensjoo said. "It's all about getting Ekstrom to split the two cases. But that's only if we can control Ekstrom."
"That shouldn't be such a big problem," Gullberg said. He glanced at Nystrom, who nodded.
"I can take care of Ekstrom," he said. "I'm guessing that he's wishing he'd never heard of Zalachenko. He turned over Bjorck's report as soon as SIS 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?" Wadensjoo said.
"Allow me to manufacture a scenario," Nystrom 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 ahold of Bjorck's report by themselves . . . they got it from a journalist. And the press, as you are all aware, is a real problem here. Millennium."
Nystrom turned a page in his notebook. "Mikael Blomkvist."
Everyone around the table had heard of the Wennerstrom 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's 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," Wadensjoo 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 cafe that served many unfamiliar types of coffee. He ordered a cup of regular 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 phone booth and called Wadensjoo.
"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 block and rang the doorbell of a small, semi-detached 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 thought I'd never see you again," Clinton said. He pointed to the front page of the morning 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 any of them socialized with each other in their free time. Gullberg knew the most minute character traits, the 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. Gullberg 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 vacations. It was as if everything outside the Section was sacred, not to be discussed.
"What can I do for you?" asked Clinton.
"Can I ask you what you think of Wadensjoo?"
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 elevator 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. Wadensjoo has a young kid, still wet behind the ears, named Jonas Sandberg; he's the entire operations department. And I don't think Wadensjoo has the drive to do what needs to be done. He might be a genius at finessing the budget, but h
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 Nystrom 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.
Wadensjoo 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 . . . ?" Wadensjoo said.
"Let's get the meeting moving again," Gullberg said briskly.
They settled themselves again around the table in Wadensjoo's office. Clinton sank silently onto the chair that was offered.
"You all know Fredrik Clinton," Gullberg said.
"Indeed," Wadensjoo 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 Wadensjoo's objections. "Clinton is tired. He's going to need assistance. He has to go regularly to the hospital for dialysis. Wadensjoo, assign two personal assistants to help him with all the practical matters. But let me make this quite clear: with regard 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," Wadensjoo 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 Nystrom's task. Whatever happens, Niedermann is of no importance. We'll arrange for Faste to be assigned to investigate Salander."