Giannini hesitated. “I’m not quite sure. He was behind me, I think. No, wait. He got out of the elevator 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, on her instructions. 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 Säpo had lately initiated a preliminary investigation because he was a nutcase who wrote threatening letters to public figures.
Erlander knew from long experience that there were plenty of nutcases 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, it could quickly turn to violent hatred. There were stalkers who travelled from Germany or Italy to follow a twenty-one-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 violent individuals who harped on and on about real or imaginary injustices and who sometimes turned to threatening behaviour. There were psychopaths and conspiracy theorists, nutcases 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 registry was Karl Axel Bodin but whose real name, according to Blomkvist, was Zalachenko. A fucking 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 protestations 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 around 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 grace under pressure.
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 Göteborg 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 draft 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 because of the dramatic events at Sahlgrenska, 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 Göteborg again as soon as the following day. Or 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 Göteborg,” she said. “I was thinking of going home tonight, but certain things happened today that require me to stay overnight. Is it OK 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 guest 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 didn’t 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 onto 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 fe
w 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 the hospital. Yes, she would like a cup of tea. Only then did she begin to think rationally again. The first thing she did was 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 OK 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 onto 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 phone, but stopped with his hand on the receiver. Someone had been in his apartment. He looked at his phone 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 Göteborg at 4:30 that afternoon. She called her friend on her mobile, gotten 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 against Björck or Teleborian.”
They talked for another two minutes before Blomkvist ended the conversation.
“I want you to come back to Stockholm tomorrow,” he said.
“I have to see Salander.”
“Go and see her in the morning. We have to sit down and think about where we go from here.”
When Blomkvist hung up he sat on the sofa staring into space. Whoever was listening to their conversation knew now that Millennium had lost Björck’s report, along with the correspondence between Björck and Dr. Teleborian. They could be satisfied that Blomkvist and Giannini were distraught.
If nothing else, Blomkvist had learned from the preceding night’s study of the history of the Security Police that disinformation was the basis of all espionage activity. And he had just planted disinformation that in the long run might prove invaluable.
He opened his laptop case and took out the copy of the Zalachenko report he’d made for Armansky, which he had not yet managed to deliver. It was the only remaining copy, and he did not intend to waste it. On the contrary, he would make five more copies and put them in safe places.
Then he called Eriksson. She was about to lock up for the day.
“Where did you disappear to in such a hurry?” she said.
“Could you stay there a few minutes, please? There’s something I have to discuss with you before you leave.”
He had not had time to do his laundry for several weeks. All his shirts were in the hamper. He packed a razor and Power Struggle for Säpo along with the last remaining copy of Björck’s report. He went to Dressman and bought four shirts, two pairs of trousers, and some underwear and took the clothes with him to the office. Eriksson waited while he took a quick shower, wondering what was going on.
“Someone broke into my apartment and stole the Zalachenko report. Someone mugged Annika in Göteborg and stole her copy. I have proof that her phone is tapped, which may well mean that mine is too. Maybe yours at home and all the Millennium phones have been bugged. And if someone took the trouble to break into my apartment, they’d be pretty dumb if they didn’t bug it as well.”
“I see,” said Eriksson in a flat voice. She glanced at the mobile on the desk in front of her.
“Keep working as usual. Use the mobile, but don’t give away any information. Tomorrow, tell Henry.”
“He went home an hour ago. He left a stack of public reports on your desk. But what are you doing here?”
“I plan to sleep here tonight. If they shot Zalachenko, stole the reports, and bugged my apartment today, there’s a good chance they’ve just gotten started and haven’t done the office yet. People have been here all day. I don’t want the office to be empty tonight.”
“You think that the murder of Zalachenko … ? But the murderer was a geriatric psycho.”
“Malin, I don’t believe in coincidence. Somebody is covering Zalachenko’s tracks. I don’t care who people think that old lunatic was or how many crazy letters he wrote to government ministers. He was a hired killer of some sort. He went there to kill Zalachenko … and maybe Lisbeth too.”
“But he committed suicide, or tried to. What hired killer would do that?”
Blomkvist thought for a moment. He met the editor in chief’s gaze.
“Maybe someone who’s seventy-eight and doesn’t have much to lose. He’s mixed up in all this, and when we finish digging we’ll prove it.”
>
Eriksson studied Blomkvist’s face. She had never before seen him so composed and unflinching. She shuddered. Blomkvist noticed her reaction.
“One more thing. We’re no longer in a battle with a gang of criminals; this time it’s with a government department. It’s going to be tough.”
Eriksson nodded.
“I didn’t imagine things would go this far. Malin, what happened today makes very plain how dangerous this could get. If you want out, just say the word.”
She wondered what Berger would have said. Then stubbornly she shook her head.
PART 2
Hacker Republic
MAY 1–22
An Irish law from the year 697 forbids women to be soldiers—which means that women had been soldiers previously. Peoples who over the centuries have recruited female soldiers include Arabs, Berbers, Kurds, Rajputs, Chinese, Filipinos, Maoris, Papuans, Micronesians, and American Indians.
There is a wealth of legend about fearsome female warriors from ancient Greece. These tales speak of women who were trained in the art of war from childhood—in the use of weapons, and how to cope with physical privation. They lived apart from the men and went to war in their own regiments. The tales tell us that they conquered men on the field of battle. Amazons occur in Greek literature in the Iliad of Homer, for example, in 600 BC.
It was the Greeks who coined the term “Amazon.” The word literally means “without breast.” It is said that in order to facilitate the drawing of a bow, the female’s right breast was removed, either in early childhood or with a red-hot iron after she became an adult. Even though the Greek physicians Hippocrates and Galen are said to have agreed that this operation would enhance the ability to use weapons, it is doubtful whether such operations were actually performed. Herein lies a linguistic riddle—whether the prefix “a-” in their language does indeed mean “without.” It has been suggested that it means the opposite—that an Amazon was a woman with especially large breasts. Nor is there a single example in any museum of a drawing, amulet, or statue of a woman without her right breast, which should have been a common motif had the legend about breast amputation been based on fact.
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle Page 128
