The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest m(-3

by Stieg Larsson

“That wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Sandberg said.

  Clinton and Nyström both stared at him.

  “We’re agreed that Blomkvist is our greatest threat, and that he’s going to publish something damaging in the next issue of Millennium. We can’t prevent publication, so we have to destroy his credibility. If he’s killed in what appears to be a typical underworld hit and the police then find drugs and cash in his apartment, the investigators will draw certain conclusions. They won’t initially be looking for conspiracies involving the Security Police.”

  “Go on,” Clinton said.

  “Erika Berger is actually Blomkvist’s lover,” Sandberg said with some force. “She’s unfaithful to her husband. If she too were to be a victim, that would lead to further speculation.”

  Clinton and Nyström exchanged glances. Sandberg had a natural talent when it came to creating smokescreens. He learned fast. But Clinton and Nyström felt a surge of anxiety. Sandberg was too cavalier about life-and-death decisions. That was not good. Extreme measures were not to be employed just because an opportunity had presented itself. Murder was no easy solution; it should be resorted to only when there was no alternative.

  Clinton shook his head.

  Collateral damage, he thought. He suddenly felt disgust for the whole operation.

  After a lifetime in service to the nation, here we sit like primitive mercenaries. Zalachenko was necessary. Björck was… regrettable, but Gullberg was right: Björck would have caved in. Blomkvist is… possibly necessary. But Erika Berger could only be an innocent bystander.

  He looked steadily at Sandberg. He hoped that the young man would not develop into a psychopath.

  “How much do the Nikolich brothers know?”

  “Nothing. About us, that is. I’m the only one they’ve met. I used another identity and they can’t trace me. They think the killing has to do with trafficking.”

  “What happens to them after the hit?”

  “They leave Sweden at once,” Nyström said. “Just like after Björck. If the murder investigation yields no results, they can very cautiously return after a few weeks.”

  “And the method?”

  “Sicilian style. They walk up to Blomkvist, empty a magazine into him, and walk away.”

  “Weapon?”

  “They have an automatic. I don’t know what type.”

  “I do hope they won’t spray the whole restaurant –”

  “No danger of that. They’re cold-blooded, they know what they have to do. But if Berger is sitting at the same table –”

  Collateral damage.

  “Look here,” Clinton said. “It’s important that Wadensjöö doesn’t get wind of this. Especially not if Berger becomes a victim. He’s stressed to breaking point as it is. I’m afraid we’re going to have to put him out to pasture when this is over.”

  Nyström nodded.

  “Which means that when we get word that Blomkvist has been shot, we’re going to have to put on a good show. We’ll call a crisis meeting and act thunderstruck by the development. We can speculate who might be behind the murder, but we’ll say nothing about the drugs until the police find the evidence.”

  Blomkvist took leave of the presenter of She just before 5.00. They had spent the afternoon filling in the gaps in the material. Then Blomkvist had gone to make-up and subjected himself to a long interview on film.

  One question had been put to him which he struggled to answer in a coherent way, and they had to film that section several times.

  How is it possible that civil servants in the Swedish government will go so far as to commit murder?

  Blomkvist had brooded over the question long before She’s presenter had asked it. The Section must have considered Zalachenko an unacceptable threat, but it was still not a satisfactory answer. The reply he eventually gave was not satisfactory either:

  “The only reasonable explanation I can give is that over the years the Section developed into a cult in the true sense of the word. They became like Knutby, or the pastor Jim Jones or something like that. They write their own laws, within which concepts like right and wrong have ceased to be relevant. And through these laws they imagine themselves isolated from normal society.”

  “It sounds like some sort of mental illness, don’t you think?”

  “That wouldn’t be an inaccurate description.”

  Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Slussen. It was too early to go to Samir’s Cauldron. He stood on Södermalmstorg for a while. He was worried still, yet all of a sudden life felt right again. It was not until Berger came back to Millennium that he realized how terribly he had missed her. Besides, her retaking of the helm had not led to any internal strife; Eriksson had reverted happily to the position of assistant editor, indeed was almost ecstatic – as she put it – that life would now return to normal.

  Berger’s coming back had also meant that everyone discovered how incredibly understaffed they had been during the past three months. Berger had had to resume her duties at Millennium at a run, and she and Eriksson managed to tackle together some of the organizational issues that had been piling up.

  Blomkvist decided to buy the evening papers and have coffee at Java on Hornsgatan to kill time before he was to meet Berger.

  Prosecutor Ragnhild Gustavsson of the National Prosecutors’ Office set her reading glasses on the conference table and studied the group. She had a lined but apple-cheeked face and short, greying hair. She had been a prosecutor for twenty-five years and had worked at the N.P.O. since the early ’90s. She was fifty-eight. Only three weeks had passed since she had been without warning summoned to the N.P.O. to meet Superintendent Edklinth, Director of Constitutional Protection. That day she had been busily finishing up one or two routine matters so she could begin her six-week leave at her cabin on the island of Husarö with a clear conscience. Instead she had been assigned to lead the investigation of a group of civil servants who went by the name of “the Section”. Her holiday plans had quickly to be shelved. She had been advised that this would be her priority for the foreseeable future, and she had been given a more or less free hand to shape her operational team and take the necessary decisions.

  “This may prove one of the most sensational criminal investigations this country has witnessed,” the Prosecutor General had told her.

  She was beginning to think he was right.

  She had listened with increasing amazement to Edklinth’s summary of the situation and the investigation he had undertaken at the instruction of the Prime Minister. The investigation was not yet complete, but he believed that his team had come far enough to be able to present the case to a prosecutor.

  First of all Gustavsson had reviewed all the material that Edklinth had delivered. When the sheer scope of the criminal activity began to emerge, she realized that every decision she made would some day be pored over by historians and their readers. Since then she had spent every waking minute trying to get to grips with the numerous crimes. The case was unique in Swedish law, and since it involved charting criminal activity that had gone on for at least thirty years, she recognized the need for a very particular kind of operational team. She was reminded of the Italian government’s anti-Mafia investigators who had been forced in the ’70s and ’80s to work almost underground in order to survive. She knew why Edklinth himself had been bound to work in secret. He did not know whom he could trust.

  Her first action was to call in three colleagues from the N.P.O. She selected people she had known for many years. Then she hired a renowned historian who had worked on the Crime Prevention Council to help with an analysis of the growth of Security Police responsibilities and powers over the decades. She formally appointed Inspector Figuerola head of the investigation.

  At this point the investigation of the Section had taken on a constitutionally valid form. It could now be viewed like any other police investigation, even though its operation would be conducted in absolute secrecy.

  Over the past two weeks Prosecutor Gust
avsson had summoned a large number of individuals to official but extremely discreet interviews. As well as with Edklinth and Figuerola, interviews had been conducted with Criminal Inspectors Bublanski, Modig, Andersson and Holmberg. She had called in Mikael Blomkvist, Malin Eriksson, Henry Cortez, Christer Malm, Advokat Giannini, Dragan Armansky and Susanne Linder, and she had herself gone to visit Lisbeth Salander’s former guardian, Holger Palmgren. Apart from the members of Millennium’s staff who on principle did not answer questions that might reveal the identity of their sources, all had readily provided detailed answers, and in some cases supporting documentation as well.

  Prosecutor Gustavsson had not been at all pleased to have been presented with a timetable that had been determined by Millennium. It meant that she would have to order the arrest of a number of individuals on a specific date. She knew that ideally she would have had several months of preparation before the investigation reached its present stage, but she had no choice. Blomkvist had been adamant. Millennium was not subject to any governmental ordinances or regulations, and he intended to publish the story on day three of Salander’s trial. Gustavsson was thus compelled to adjust her own schedule to strike at the same time, so that those individuals who were under suspicion would not be given a chance to disappear along with the evidence. Blomkvist received a surprising degree of support from Edklinth and Figuerola, and the prosecutor came to see that Blomkvist’s plan had certain clear advantages. As prosecutor she would get just the kind of fully focused media back-up she needed to push forward the prosecution. In addition, the whole process would move ahead so quickly that this complex investigation would not have time to leak into the corridors of the bureaucracy and thus risk being unearthed by the Section.

  “Blomkvist’s first priority is to achieve justice for Salander. Nailing the Section is merely a by-product,” Figuerola said.

  The trial of Lisbeth Salander was to commence on Wednesday, in two days’ time. The meeting on Monday involved doing a review of the latest material available to them and dividing up the work assignments.

  Thirteen people participated in the meeting. From N.P.O., Ragnhild Gustavsson had brought her two closest colleagues. From Constitutional Protection, Inspector Monica Figuerola had come with Bladh and Berglund. Edklinth, as Director of Constitutional Protection, was sitting in as an observer.

  But Gustavsson had decided that a matter of this importance could not credibly be restricted to S.I.S. She had therefore called in Inspector Bublanski and his team, consisting of Modig, Holmberg and Andersson from the regular police force. They had, after all, been working on the Salander case since Easter and were familiar with all the details. Gustavsson had also called in Prosecutor Jervas and Inspector Erlander from the Göteborg police. The investigation of the Section had a direct connection to the investigation of the murder of Alexander Zalachenko.

  When Figuerola mentioned that former Prime Minister Thorbjörn Fälldin might have to take the stand as a witness, Holmberg and Modig were scarcely able to conceal their discomfort.

  For five hours they examined one individual after another who had been identified as an activist in the Section. After that they established the various crimes that could be linked to the apartment on Artillerigatan. A further nine people had been identified as being connected to the Section, although they never visited Artillerigatan. They worked primarily at S.I.S. on Kungsholmen, but had met with some of the Section’s activists.

  “It is still impossible to say how widespread the conspiracy is. We do not know under what circumstances these people meet with Wadensjöö or with anyone else. They could be informers, or they may have been given the impression that they’re working for internal affairs or something similar. So there is some uncertainty about the degree of their involvement, and that can be resolved only after we’ve had a chance to interview them. Furthermore, these are merely those individuals we have observed during the weeks the surveillance has been in effect; there could be more that we do not yet know about.”

  “But the chief of Secretariat and the chief of Budget –”

  “We have to assume that they’re working for the Section.”

  It was 6.00 on Monday when Gustavsson gave everyone an hour’s break for dinner, after which they would reconvene.

  It was just as everyone had stood up and begun to move about that Jesper Thoms, Figuerola’s colleague from C.P.’s operations unit, drew her aside to report on what had developed during the last few hours of surveillance.

  “Clinton has been in dialysis for most of the day and got back to Artillerigatan at 3.00. The only one who did anything of interest was Nyström, although we aren’t quite sure what it was he did.”

  “Tell me,” said Figuerola.

  “At 1.30 he drove to Central Station and met up with two men. They walked across to the Sheraton and had coffee in the bar. The meeting lasted for about twenty minutes, after which Nyström returned to Artillerigatan.”

  “O.K. So who were they?”

  “They’re new faces. Two men in their mid-thirties who seem to be of eastern European origin. Unfortunately our observer lost them when they went into the tunnelbana.”

  “I see,” Figuerola said wearily.

  “Here are the pictures,” Thoms said. He handed her a series of surveillance photographs.

  She glanced at the enlargements of two faces she had never set eyes on before.

  “Thanks,” she said, laying out the photographs on the conference table. She picked up her handbag to go and find something to eat.

  Andersson, who was standing nearby, bent to look more closely at the pictures.

  “Oh shit,” he said. “Are the Nikolich brothers involved in this?”

  Figuerola stopped in her tracks. “Who did you say?”

  “These two are seriously rotten apples,” Andersson said. “Tomi and Miro Nikolich.”

  “Have you had dealings with them?”

  “Sure. Two brothers from Huddinge. Serbs. We had them under observation several times when they were in their twenties and I was in the gangs unit. Miro is the dangerous one. He’s been wanted for about a year for G.B.H. I thought they’d both gone back to Serbia to become politicians or something.”

  “Politicians?”

  “Right. They went down to Yugoslavia in the early ’90s and helped carry out ethnic cleansing. They worked for a Mafia leader, Arkan, who was running some sort of private fascist militia. They got a reputation for being shooters.”

  “Shooters?”

  “Hit men. They’ve been flitting back and forth between Belgrade and Stockholm. Their uncle has a restaurant in Norrmalm, and they’ve apparently worked there once in a while. We’ve had reports that they were mixed up in at least two of the killings in what was known as the ‘cigarette war’, but we never got close to charging them with anything.”

  Figuerola gazed mutely at the photographs. Then suddenly she turned pale as a ghost. She stared at Edklinth.

  “Blomkvist,” she cried with panic in her voice. “They’re not just planning to involve him in a scandal, they’re planning to murder him. Then the police will find the cocaine during the investigation and draw their own conclusions.”

  Edklinth stared back at her.

  “He’s supposed to be meeting Erika Berger at Samir’s Cauldron,” Figuerola said. She grabbed Andersson by the shoulder. “Are you armed?”

  “Yes…”

  “Come with me.”

  Figuerola rushed out of the conference room. Her office was three doors down. She ran in and took her service weapon from the desk drawer. Against all regulations she left the door to her office unlocked and wide open as she raced off towards the lifts. Andersson hesitated for a second.

  “Go,” Bublanski told him. “Sonja, you go with them too.”

  Blomkvist got to Samir’s Cauldron at 6.20. Berger had just arrived and found a table near the bar, not far from the entrance. He kissed her on the cheek. They both ordered lamb stew and strong beers from the waiter.
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br />   “How was the She woman?” Berger said.

  “Cool, as usual.”

  Berger laughed. “If you don’t watch out you’re going to become obsessed by her. Imagine, a woman who can resist the famous Blomkvist charm.”

  “There are in fact several women who haven’t fallen for me over the years,” Blomkvist said. “How has your day been?”

  “Wasted. But I accepted an invitation to be on a panel to debate the whole S.M.P. business at the Publicists’ Club. That will be my final contribution.”

  “Great.”

  “It’s just such a relief to be back at Millennium.”

  “You have no idea how good it is that you’re back. I’m still elated.”

  “It’s fun to be at work again.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’m happy.”

  “And I have to go to the gents’,” Blomkvist said, getting up.

  He almost collided with a man who had just walked in. Blomkvist noticed that he looked vaguely eastern European and was staring at him. Then he saw the sub-machine gun.

  As they passed Riddarholmen, Edklinth called to tell them that neither Blomkvist nor Berger were answering their mobiles. They had presumably turned them off for dinner.

  Figuerola swore and passed Södermalmstorg at a speed of close to eighty kilometres an hour. She kept her horn pressed down and made a sharp turn on to Hornsgatan. Andersson had to brace himself against the door. He had taken out his gun and checked the magazine. Modig did the same in the back seat.

  “We have to call for back-up,” Andersson said. “You don’t play games with the Nikolich boys.”

  Figuerola ground her teeth.

  “This is what we’ll do,” she said. “Sonja and I will go straight into the restaurant and hope they’re sitting inside. Curt, you know what these guys look like, so you stay outside and keep watch.”

  “Right.”

  “If all goes well, we’ll take Blomkvist and Berger straight out to the car and drive them down to Kungsholmen. If we suspect anything’s wrong, we stay inside the restaurant and call for back-up.”