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 eighties. 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 Sapo.
He also noticed another odd thing: there was no bibliography in any 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 Sapo 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 Sapo 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 Sapo 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 Sapo as a structure, as well as of 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 Sapo 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 managing editor now."
"An excellent career advancement."
"What is it that you want?"
"Over the years there have been a number of public reports on Sapo. 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 Sapo'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 that morning.
She had tracked him to Gosseberga fully intending to kill him. She had failed, with the result that Zalachenko was alive and tucked into bed just thirty feet 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 keeper.
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 pants, a white blouse, and a dark jacket. She was pretty, slender, with dark hair in 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 tough, 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?"
"Yes. But I'll pay your fee myself. I don't want a single ore 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. 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.
"OK."
"The other is the DVD. 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. Can you promise me?"
"No problem."
Gullberg was 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 and had a cup of bl
ack coffee and a slice of wheat 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?"
"A lot of BS."
"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 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 some external help in the form of Martensson. 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 phones 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 get all the copies simultaneously, it won't work."
"True."
"It's a bit complicated, since Giannini left for Goteborg 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 the Elite Park Avenue Hotel, where he asked to use the fax machine. He didn't 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 onto Avenyn to look for a taxi. He stopped at a trash can and tore up the copies of his letters.
Giannini was with Prosecutor Jervas for fifteen minutes. She wanted to know what charges the prosecutor intended 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 aggravated assault and 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. 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 elevator at Sahlgrenska hospital at the same time as a short-haired woman in a dark jacket. He held the elevator 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 glanced down at her briefcase as the nurse checked Giannini's ID 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 a chair and sat down.
"Probably to see me dead."
"Well, that's gratitude for you. How could you be so fucking stupid? We give you a whole new life and you wind 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 Bjorck. 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, who thought back to his gasoline bomb attack.
"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 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 9mm 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 MI5 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 will 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 motherfucker," Gullberg said then with such coldness in his voice th
at 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 onto 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 bed. 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, 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 been there for only a few minutes. She sat paralysed and tried to work out which direction the sharp reports had come from. She could tell from Salander's reaction that something deadly was brewing.
"Lie still," she shouted. She put her hand on Salander's chest and shoved her client down onto 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 houndstooth jacket walk into the corridor. He had a gun in his hand. Annika recognized him as the man who had come up in the elevator 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 IV 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.
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest Page 15
