It was as if someone else were speaking in her place. And after that things moved quickly. Lasse raised his hand to strike her, but no blow came, not from him. The young woman reacted with lightning speed, and hit him in the face two, three times like a trained boxer, felling him with a kick to the leg.
“What the hell!” was all he was able to say.
He crashed to the floor, and the young woman stood over him. As Hanna took August into his bedroom she realized for how long and how desperately she had wished Lasse Westman out of her life.
Bublanski longed to see Rabbi Goldman.
He also longed for some of Modig’s orange chocolate, for his new Dux bed and for springtime. But right now it was his job to get some order into this investigation. It was true that, on one level, he was satisfied. August Balder was said to be unharmed and on his way home to his mother.
Thanks to the boy himself and to Lisbeth Salander his father’s killer had been arrested, even though it was not yet established that he would survive his injuries. He was in intensive care at Danderyd hospital. He was called Boris Latvinov but had for some time been using the name Jan Holtser. He was a major and former elite soldier from the Soviet army, and his name had cropped up in the past in several murder investigations, but he had never been convicted. He had his own business in the security industry, and was both a Finnish and Russian citizen, and a resident of Helsinki; no doubt someone had doctored his government records.
The other two people who had been found at the summer house on Ingarö had been identified by their fingerprints; Dennis Wilton, an old gangster from Svavelsjö M.C. who had done time for both aggravated robbery and grievous bodily harm; and Vladimir Orlov, a Russian with a criminal record in Germany for procuring, whose two wives had died in unexplained circumstances. None of the men had yet said a word about what happened, or about anything at all. Nor did Bublanski hold out much hope that this would change. Men like that tend to hold their peace in police interviews. But then those were the rules of the game.
What Bublanski was unhappy about, though, was the feeling that these three men were no more than foot soldiers and that there was a leadership above them linked to the upper echelons of society in both Russia and in the U.S.A. He had no problem with a journalist knowing more about his investigation than he did. In that respect he was not proud. He just wanted to move ahead, and was grateful for all information, whatever its source. But Blomkvist’s discerning approach to the case had pointed up their own shortcomings and reminded Bublanski of the leak in the investigation and the dangers to which the boy had been exposed because of them. On this score his anger would never subside, and perhaps that explains why he was so irritated at the head of Säpo’s eager efforts to get hold of him – and Kraft was not the only one. The I.T. people at the National Criminal Police were after him too, and so were Chief Prosecutor Richard Ekström and a Stanford professor by the name of Steven Warburton from the Machine Intelligence Research Institute who wanted to talk about “a significant risk”, as Amanda Flod put it.
That bothered Bublanski, along with a thousand other things. And there was someone knocking at his door. It was Modig, who looked tired and was wearing no make-up, revealing something different about her face.
“All three prisoners are having surgery,” she said. “It’ll be a while before we can question them again.”
“Try to question them, you mean.”
“I did manage to have a brief word with Latvinov. He was conscious for a while before his operation.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Just that he wanted to talk to a priest.”
“How come all lunatics and murderers are religious these days?”
“While all sensible old chief inspectors doubt the existence of their God, you mean?”
“Now, now.”
“Latvinov also seemed dejected, and that’s a good sign, I think,” Modig said. “When I showed him the drawing he just waved it away with a resigned expression.”
“So he didn’t try to claim it was a fabrication?”
“He just closed his eyes and started to talk about his priest.”
“Have you discovered what this American professor wants, the one who keeps calling?”
“What …? No … he’ll talk only to you. I think it’s about Balder’s research.”
“And Zander, the young journalist?”
“That’s what I came to talk about. It doesn’t look good.”
“What do we know?”
“That he worked late and was spotted disappearing down past Katarinahissen accompanied by a beautiful woman with strawberry- or dark-blonde hair and expensive clothes.”
“I’d not heard that.”
“They were seen by a man called Ken Eklund, a baker at Skansen. He lives in the Millennium building. He said they looked as if they were in love, or at least Zander did.”
“You think it could have been some sort of honeytrap?”
“It’s possible.”
“And this woman, might she be the same one who was seen at Ingarö?”
“We’re looking into that. But I don’t like the idea that they seemed to be heading towards Gamla Stan. Not only because we picked up Zander’s mobile phone signals there. That revolting specimen Orlov, who just spits at me whenever I try to question him, has an apartment on Mårten Trotzigs gränd.”
“Have we been there?”
“Not yet. We’ve only just discovered the address. The apartment was registered in the name of one of his companies.”
“Let’s hope there’s nothing unpleasant waiting for us there.”
Westman was lying on the floor in the entrance hall on Torsgatan, wondering how he could be so terrified. She was just a chick, a pierced punk chick who hardly came up to his chest. He should be able to throw her out like some little rat. Yet he was as if paralysed and it had nothing to do with the way the girl fought, he thought, still less with the fact that her foot was planted on his stomach. It was something about her look or her whole being that he could not put his finger on. For a few minutes he lay there like an idiot and listened.
“I’m just reminded,” she said, “that there’s something really wrong in my family. We seem to be capable of pretty much anything. Of the most unimaginable cruelties. It may be a genetic defect. Personally I’ve got this thing against men who harm children and women, and that makes me dangerous. When I saw August’s drawings of you and your friend Roger, I wanted to hurt you, badly. But I think August has been through enough, so there’s a slight chance that you and your friend might get off more lightly.”
“I’m—” Westman began.
“Quiet,” she said. “This isn’t a negotiation; it’s not even a conversation. I’m just setting out the terms, that’s all. Legally there are no problems. Frans was wise enough to register the apartment in August’s name. But for the rest, this is how it’s going to be: you have precisely four minutes to pack your things and get out. If you or Roger ever come back here or contact August in any way, I’ll make you suffer so much that you’ll be incapable of doing anything nice again, for the rest of your lives. In the meantime, I’ll be preparing to report you to the police with full details of the abuse you’ve subjected August to. As you know, we have more than the drawings to go on. We have testimonies from psychologists and experts. I’ll also be contacting the evening papers to tell them that I have material which substantiates the image of you that emerged in connection with your assault on Renata Kapusinski. Remind me, Lasse, what was it that you did? Bite her cheek through and kick her in the head?”
“So you’re going to go to the press.”
“I’m going to go to the press. I’m going to cause you and your friend every conceivable disgrace. But maybe – I’m saying maybe – you can hope to escape the worst of the humiliation so long as you’re never again seen near Hanna and August, and if you never again harm a woman. As a matter of fact I couldn’t give a shit about you. Once you leave, and if you live like a s
hy and timid little monk, you may be alright. I have my doubts – as we all know, the rate of re-offending for violence against women is high, and basically you’re a bastard, but with a bit of luck, who knows …? Have you got it?”
“I’ve got it,” he said, hating himself for saying so.
He saw no way out, he could only agree and do as he was told, and so he got up and went into the bedroom and swiftly packed some clothes. Then he took his coat and his mobile and left. He had nowhere to go.
He had never felt more pathetic in his life. Outside an unpleasant sleety rain lashed into him.
Salander heard the front door slam and footsteps receding down the stone stairs. She looked at August. He was standing still with his arms straight down by his sides, staring at her intently. That troubled her. A moment ago she had been in control of things, but now she was uncertain, and what on earth was the matter with Hanna Balder?
Hanna seemed about to burst into tears, and August … on top of everything else he started shaking his head and muttering. Salander just wanted to get out of there, but she stayed. Her work was not yet complete. Out of her pocket she took two plane tickets, a hotel voucher and a thick bundle of notes, both kronor and euros.
“I’d just like, from the bottom of my heart—” Hanna began.
“Quiet,” Salander cut in. “Here are some plane tickets to Munich. Departure is at 7.15 this evening so you’ve got to hurry. I’ve organized transport to take you directly to Schloss Elmau. It’s a nice hotel not far from Garmisch-Partenkirchen. You’ll be staying in a large room on the top floor, in the name of Müller, and you’ll be there for three months to start with. I’ve been in touch with Professor Edelman and explained to him the importance of absolute confidentiality. He’ll be making regular visits and seeing to it that August gets good care. Edelman will also arrange for suitable schooling.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m deadly serious. The police now have August’s drawing and the murderer has been arrested. But the people behind all this are still at large, and it’s impossible to know what they might be planning. You have to leave this apartment at once. I’m busy with a few other things, but I’ve arranged for a driver to take you to Arlanda. He’s a bit weird-looking, maybe, but he’s O.K. You can call him Plague. Have you got all that?”
“Yes, but—”
“Forget the buts. Just listen: you mustn’t use your credit card or your own mobile during the whole of your time away, Hanna. I’ve fixed an encrypted mobile for you, a Blackphone, in case there’s an emergency. My number is already programmed in. I’ll pick up all the costs of the hotel. You’ll get a hundred thousand kronor in cash, for unforeseen expenses. Any questions?”
“It sounds crazy.”
“Not to me.”
“But how can you afford all this?”
“I can afford it.”
“How can we …?” Hanna looked completely bewildered, as if she were not sure what to believe. Then she began to cry.
“How can we ever thank you?” she struggled to say.
“Thank?”
Salander repeated the word as if it were something incomprehensible. When Hanna came towards her with outstretched arms she backed away, and with her eyes fixed on the hallway floor she said:
“Pull yourself together! Get a grip on yourself and stop taking whatever it is you’re on, pills or anything else. That’s how you can thank me.”
“I will …”
“And if anyone gets it into their head that August needs to be put in some home or institution, I want you to fight back as hard and as ruthlessly as you can. Aim for their weakest point. Be a warrior.”
“A warrior?”
“Exactly. Don’t let anyone …”
Salander stopped herself. They were not perhaps the greatest words of farewell, but they would have to do. She turned and walked towards the front door. She did not get far. August started to mutter again, and this time they could make out what the boy was saying.
“Not go, not go …”
Salander had no good answer to that either. She just said, “You’ll be O.K.” and then added, as if talking to herself, “Thanks for the scream this morning.” There was silence for a moment, and Salander wondered if she should say more. But instead she turned and slipped out of the door.
Hanna called after her, “I can’t tell you what this means to me!”
But Salander heard nothing. She was already running down the steps to her car. When she reached Västerbron, Blomkvist called on the Redphone app to say that the N.S.A. had tracked her down.
”Tell them hi and that I’m on their tracks too,” she said.
Then she drove to Roger Winter’s house and scared him half to death. After that she drove back to her place and set to work with the encrypted N.S.A. file, without coming any closer to a solution.
Needham and Blomkvist had worked a long day in the hotel room at the Grand. Needham had a fantastic story for Blomkvist, who would be able to write the scoop Millennium so badly needed, but his feeling of unease did not abate. It was not just because Zander was still missing. There was something about Needham that did not add up. Why had he turned up in the first place, and why was he putting so much energy into helping out a small Swedish magazine, far from all the centres of power in the U.S.? Blomkvist had undertaken not to disclose the hacker breach, and had half promised to try to persuade Salander to talk to Needham. But that hardly seemed enough.
Needham behaved as if he was taking enormous risks. The curtains were drawn and their mobiles were lying at a safe distance. There was a feeling of paranoia in the room. Confidential documents were laid out on the bed. Blomkvist was permitted to read them, but not to quote from or copy them. And every now and then Needham interrupted his account to discuss various aspects of the right to protect journalistic sources. He was obsessively thorough about ensuring that the leak could not be traced back to him, and sometimes he listened nervously for footsteps in the corridor or looked out through a gap in the curtains to check that no-one was out there watching the hotel, and yet … Blomkvist could not help feeling that most of it was play-acting.
He became more and more convinced that Needham knew exactly what he was doing and was not even especially worried about someone listening in. It occurred to Blomkvist that Needham was playing a part which had the backing of his superiors – maybe he himself had also been given a role in this play which he did not yet understand.
Therefore he paid close attention not just to what Needham said, but also to what he did not, and he considered what he might be trying to achieve by going public. There was undoubtedly a certain amount of anger there. Some “bastards” in a department called Protection of Strategic Technologies had prevented Needham from nailing the hacker who had got into his system, just because they didn’t want to be exposed with their pants round their ankles, and that infuriated him, he said. Blomkvist had no reason not to believe him, still less to doubt that Needham genuinely did want to exterminate these people, to “crush them, grind them to pulp under my boots”.
There were other aspects of the story he was not quite so comfortable with. Occasionally it felt as if Needham was wrestling with some kind of self-censorship. From time to time Blomkvist went down to the lobby just to think, or to call Berger or Salander. Berger always answered on the first ring and, even though they were both enthusiastic about the story, Zander’s disappearance haunted their conversations.
Salander did not pick up all day, until eventually he got hold of her at 5.20. She sounded distracted, and informed him that the boy was now safe with his mother.
“And how are you?” he said.
“O.K.”
“Not hurt?”
“Nothing new at least.”
Blomkvist took a deep breath. “Have you hacked into the N.S.A.’s intranet, Lisbeth?”
“Have you been talking to Ed the Ned?”
“No comment.”
He would say nothing, even to Salander. The pr
otection of sources was even more important to him than loyalty to her.
“Ed isn’t so dumb after all,” she said.
“So you have.”
“Possibly.”
Blomkvist felt the urge to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. Instead, as calmly as he could, he said:
“They’re prepared to let you off if you’ll agree to meet them and tell them how you did it.”
“Tell them from me that I’m on to them as well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That I’ve got more than they think.”
“O.K. But would you consider meeting …”
“Ed?”
How the hell did she know, Blomkvist thought. Needham had wanted to be the one to reveal himself to her.
“Ed,” he said.
“A cocky bugger.”
“Pretty cocky. But would you consider meeting him if we provide guarantees that you won’t be arrested?”
“There are no such guarantees.”
“I could get in touch with my sister Annika and ask her to represent you.”
“I’ve got better things to do,” she said, as if she did not want to talk about it any more. He could not stop himself from saying, “This story we’re working on … I’m not sure I understand all of it.”
“What’s the difficulty?” Salander said.
“First of all, I don’t understand why Camilla has surfaced after all these years.”
“I suppose she has just been biding her time.”
“How do you mean?”
“She probably always knew she would be back to get her revenge for what I did to her and Zala. But she wanted to wait until she had built up her strength on every level. Nothing is more important to Camilla than to be strong, and I suppose she suddenly saw an opportunity, a chance to kill two birds with one stone. At least that’s my guess. Why don’t you ask her next time you have a drink together?”
“Have you spoken to Holger?”
The Girl in the Spider's Web (Millennium series Book 4) Page 40
