“I see.”
“So I do need access to her to do a first-hand evaluation of her condition.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot help you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As I said, she’s under arrest. If you want to initiate any psychiatric treatment of her, you’ll have to apply to Prosecutor Jervas here in Göteborg. She’s the one who makes the decisions on these things. And it would have to be done, I repeat, in cooperation with Salander’s lawyer, Annika Giannini. If it’s a matter of a forensic psychiatric report, then the district court would have to issue you a warrant.”
“It was just that sort of bureaucratic procedure I wanted to avoid.”
“Understood, but I’m responsible for Salander, and if she’s going to be taken to court in the near future, we need to have clear documentation of all the measures we have taken. So we’re bound to observe the bureaucratic procedures.”
“All right. Then I might as well tell you that I’ve already received a formal commission from Prosecutor Ekström in Stockholm to do a forensic psychiatric report. It will be needed in connection with the trial.”
“Then you can also obtain formal access to visit her through the appropriate channels without sidestepping regulations.”
“But while we’re discussing bureaucracy, there is a risk that her condition may continue to deteriorate. I’m only interested in her well-being.”
“So am I,” Jonasson said. “And between us, I can tell you that I see no sign of mental illness. She has been badly treated and is under a lot of pressure. But I see no evidence whatsoever that she is schizophrenic or suffering from paranoid delusions.”
When at long last he realized that it was fruitless trying to persuade Jonasson to change his mind, Teleborian got up abruptly and took his leave.
Jonasson sat for a while, staring at the chair Teleborian had been sitting in. It was not unusual for other doctors to contact him with advice or opinions on treatment. But that usually happened only with patients whose doctors were already managing their treatment. He had never before seen a psychiatrist land like a flying saucer, ignore all the protocols, and more or less demand to be given access to a patient—a patient whom he obviously had not been treating for several years. After a while Jonasson glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 7:00. He picked up the phone and called Martina Karlgren, the psychologist at Sahlgrenska who had been made available to trauma patients.
“Hello. I’m assuming you’ve already left for the day. Am I disturbing you?”
“No problem. I’m at home, but just puttering.”
“I’m curious about something. You’ve spoken to our notorious patient, Lisbeth Salander. Could you give me your impression of her?”
“Well, I’ve visited her three times and offered to talk with her. Every time she declined in a friendly but firm way.”
“What’s your impression of her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Martina, I know that you’re not a psychiatrist, but you’re an intelligent and sensible person. What general impression did you get of her nature, her state of mind?”
After a while Karlgren said: “I’m not sure how I should answer that question. I saw her twice soon after she was admitted, but she was in such wretched shape that I didn’t make any real contact with her. Then I visited her about a week ago, at the request of Helena Endrin.”
“Why did Helena ask you to visit her?”
“Salander is starting to recover. She mainly just lies there staring at the ceiling. Dr. Endrin wanted me to look in on her.”
“And what happened?”
“I introduced myself. We chatted for a couple of minutes. I asked how she was feeling and whether she felt the need to have someone to talk to. She said that she didn’t. I asked if I could help her with anything. She asked me to smuggle in a pack of cigarettes.”
“Was she angry, or hostile?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. She was calm, but she kept her distance. I considered her request for cigarettes more of a joke than a serious need. I asked if she wanted something to read, whether I could bring her books of any sort. At first she said no, but later she asked if I had any scientific journals that dealt with genetics and brain research.”
“With what?”
“Genetics.”
“Genetics?”
“Yes. I told her that there were some popular science books on the subject in our library. She wasn’t interested in those. She said she’d read books on the subject before, and she named some standard works that I’d never heard of. She was more interested in pure research in the field.”
“Good grief.”
“I said that we probably didn’t have any more advanced books in the patient library—we have more Philip Marlowe than scientific literature—but that I’d see what I could dig up.”
“And did you?”
“I went upstairs and borrowed some copies of Nature magazine and the New England Journal of Medicine. She was pleased and thanked me for taking the trouble.”
“But those journals contain mostly scholarly papers and pure research.”
“She reads them with obvious interest.”
Jonasson sat speechless for a moment.
“And how would you rate her mental state?”
“Withdrawn. She hasn’t discussed anything of a personal nature with me.”
“Do you have the sense that she’s mentally ill? Manic-depressive or paranoid?”
“No, no, not at all. If I thought that, I’d have sounded the alarm. She’s strange, no doubt about it, and she has big problems and is under stress. But she’s calm and matter-of-fact and seems to be able to cope with her situation. Why do you ask? Has something happened?”
“No, nothing’s happened. I’m just trying to take stock of her.”
CHAPTER 10
Saturday, May 7–Thursday, May 12
Blomkvist put his laptop case on the desk. It contained the findings of Olsson, the stringer in Göteborg. He watched the flow of people on Götgatan. That was one of the things he liked best about his office. Götgatan was full of life at all hours of the day and night, and when he sat by the window he never felt isolated, never alone.
He was under great pressure. He had kept working on the articles that were to go into the summer issue, but he had finally realized there was so much material that not even an issue devoted entirely to the topic would be sufficient. He had ended up in the same situation as during the Wennerström affair, and he had again decided to publish all the articles as a book. He had enough text already for 150 pages, and he estimated that the final book would run to 320 or 336 pages.
The easy part was done. He had written about the murders of Svensson and Johansson and described how he happened to be the one who came upon the scene. He had dealt with why Salander had become a suspect. He spent a chapter debunking first what the press had written about Salander, then what Prosecutor Ekström had claimed, and thereby indirectly the entire police investigation. After long deliberation he had toned down his criticism of Bublanski and his team. He did this after studying a video from Ekström’s press conference, in which it was clear that Bublanski was uncomfortable in the extreme and obviously annoyed at Ekström’s rapid conclusions.
After the introductory drama, he had gone back in time and described Zalachenko’s arrival in Sweden, Salander’s childhood, and the events that led to her being locked away in St. Stefan’s in Uppsala. He was careful to annihilate both Teleborian and the now dead Björck. He presented the psychiatric report of 1991 and explained why Salander had become a threat to certain unknown civil servants who had taken it upon themselves to protect the Russian defector. He quoted from the correspondence between Teleborian and Björck.
He then described Zalachenko’s new identity and his criminal operations. He described his assistant Niedermann, the kidnapping of Miriam Wu, and Paolo Roberto’s intervention. Finally, he summed up the dénouement in Gosseberga which led to Sal
ander’s being shot and buried alive, and explained how a policeman’s death was a needless catastrophe because Niedermann had already been captured.
Then the story became more sluggish. Blomkvist’s problem was that the account still had gaping holes in it. Björck had not acted alone. Behind this chain of events there had to be a larger group with resources and political influence. Nothing else made sense. But he had eventually come to the conclusion that the unlawful treatment of Salander would not have been sanctioned by the government or the bosses of the Security Police. Behind this conclusion lay no exaggerated trust in government, but rather his faith in human nature. An operation of that type could never have been kept secret if it were politically motivated. Someone would have called in a favour and gotten someone to talk, and the press would have uncovered the Salander affair several years earlier.
He thought of the Zalachenko club as small and anonymous. He could not identify any one of them, except possibly Mårtensson, a policeman with a secret appointment who devoted himself to shadowing the publisher of Millennium.
It was now clear that Salander would definitely go to trial.
Ekström had brought a charge of aggravated assault in the case of Magge Lundin, and aggravated assault and attempted murder in the case of Karl Axel Bodin.
No trial date had yet been set, but Blomkvist’s colleagues had learned that Ekström was planning for July, depending on the state of Salander’s health. Blomkvist understood the reasoning. A trial during the peak vacation season would attract less attention than one at any other time of the year.
Blomkvist’s plan was to have the book printed and ready to distribute on the first day of the trial. He and Malm had thought of a paperback edition, shrink-wrapped and sent out with the special summer issue. Various assignments had been given to Cortez and Eriksson, who were to produce articles on the history of the Security Police, the IB affair,* and the like.
He frowned as he stared out the window.
It’s not over. The conspiracy is continuing. It’s the only way to explain the tapped phones, the attack on Annika, and the double theft of the Salander report. Perhaps the murder of Zalachenko is a part of it too.
But he had no evidence.
Together with Eriksson and Malm, he had decided that Millennium would publish Svensson’s book about sex trafficking, also to coincide with the trial. It was better to present the package all at once, and besides, there was no reason to delay publication. On the contrary—the book would never be able to attract the same attention at any other time. Eriksson and Cortez were Blomkvist’s principal assistants for the Salander book. Karim and Malm (against his will) had thus become temporary assistant editors at Millennium, with Nilsson as the only available reporter. One result of this increased workload was that Eriksson had had to contract several freelancers to produce articles for future issues. It was expensive, but they had no choice.
Blomkvist wrote a note on a yellow Post-it, reminding himself to discuss the rights to the book with Svensson’s family. Svensson’s parents lived in Örebro and were his sole heirs. Blomkvist did not really need permission to publish the book in Svensson’s name, but he wanted to go and see them to get their approval. He had postponed the visit because he had had too much to do, but now it was time to take care of the matter.
Then there were a hundred other details. Some of them concerned how he should present Salander in the articles. To make the ultimate decision he needed to have a personal conversation to get her approval to tell the truth, or at least parts of it. And he could not have that conversation because she was under arrest and no visitors were allowed.
In that respect, his sister was no help either. She followed the regulations slavishly and had no intention of acting as Blomkvist’s go-between. Nor did Giannini tell him anything about what she and her client discussed, other than the parts that concerned the conspiracy against her—Giannini needed help with those. It was frustrating, but all very correct. Consequently Blomkvist had no clue whether Salander had revealed that her previous guardian had raped her, or that she had taken revenge by tattooing a shocking message on his stomach. As long as Giannini did not mention the matter, neither could he.
But Salander’s being isolated presented one other acute problem. She was a computer expert and a hacker, which Blomkvist knew but Giannini did not. Blomkvist had promised Salander that he would never reveal her secret, and he had kept his promise. But now he had a great need for her skills in that field.
Somehow he had to establish contact with her.
He sighed as he opened Olsson’s folder again. There was a photocopy of a passport application form for one Idris Ghidi, born 1950. A man with a moustache, olive skin, and black hair going grey at the temples.
He was Kurdish, a refugee from Iraq. Olsson had dug up much more on Ghidi than on any other hospital worker. Ghidi had apparently aroused media attention for a time, and had appeared in several articles.
Born in the city of Mosul in northern Iraq, he graduated as an engineer and had been part of the “great economic leap forward” in the seventies. In 1984 he was a teacher at the College of Construction Technology in Mosul. He had not been known as a political activist, but he was a Kurd, and so a potential criminal in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. In 1987 Ghidi’s father was arrested on suspicion of being a Kurdish militant. No elaboration was forthcoming. He was executed in January 1988. Three months later Idris Ghidi was seized by the Iraqi secret police, taken to a prison outside Mosul, and tortured there for eleven months to make him confess. What he was expected to confess, Ghidi never discovered, so the torture continued.
In March 1989, one of Ghidi’s uncles paid the equivalent of 50,000 Swedish kronor to the local leader of the Ba’ath Party, as compensation for the injury Ghidi had caused the Iraqi state. Two days later he was released into his uncle’s custody. He weighed eighty-six pounds and was unable to walk. Before his release, his left hip was smashed with a sledgehammer to discourage any mischief in the future.
He hovered between life and death for several weeks. When, slowly, he began to recover, his uncle took him to a farm well away from Mosul and there, over the summer, his strength returned and he was eventually able to walk again with crutches. He would never regain full health. The question was: what was he going to do in the future? In August he learned that his two brothers had been arrested. He would never see them again. When his uncle heard that Saddam Hussein’s police were looking once more for Ghidi, he arranged, for a fee equivalent to 30,000 kronor, to get him across the border into Turkey and from there with a false passport to Europe.
Idris Ghidi landed at Arlanda Airport in Sweden on October 19, 1989. He did not know a word of Swedish, but he had been told to go to the passport police and immediately to ask for political asylum, which he did in broken English. He was sent to a refugee camp in Upplands Väsby. There he would spend almost two years, until the immigration authorities decided that Ghidi did not have sufficient grounds for a residency permit.
By this time Ghidi had learned Swedish and obtained treatment for his shattered hip. He had two operations and could now walk without crutches. During that period the Sjöbo debate* had been conducted in Sweden, refugee camps had been attacked, and Bert Karlsson had formed the New Democracy Party.
The reason why Ghidi had appeared so frequently in the press archives was that at the eleventh hour he got a new lawyer who went directly to the press, and they published reports on his case. Other Kurds in Sweden got involved, including members of the prominent Baksi family. Protest meetings were held and petitions were sent to Minister of Immigration Birgit Friggebo, with the result that Ghidi was granted both a residency permit and a work visa in the kingdom of Sweden. In January 1992 he left Upplands Väsby a free man.
Ghidi soon discovered that being a well-educated and experienced construction engineer counted for nothing. He worked as a newspaper boy, a dishwasher, a doorman, and a taxi driver. He liked being a taxi driver, except for two things: he had no lo
cal knowledge of the streets in Stockholm county, and he could not sit still for more than an hour before the pain in his hip became unbearable.
In May 1998 he moved to Göteborg after a distant relative who owned an office-cleaning firm took pity on him. He was given a job on a cleaning crew at Sahlgrenska hospital, with which the company had a contract. The work was routine. He swabbed floors six days a week, including, as Olsson’s ferreting had revealed, corridor 11C.
Blomkvist studied the photograph of Idris Ghidi from the passport application. Then he logged on to the media archive and picked out several of the articles on which Olsson’s report was based. He read attentively. He lit a cigarette. The smoking ban at Millennium had been relaxed soon after Berger left. Cortez now kept an ashtray on his desk.
Finally Blomkvist read what Olsson had produced about Dr. Anders Jonasson.
Blomkvist did not see the grey Volvo on Monday, nor did he have the feeling that he was being watched or followed, but he walked briskly from the Academic bookshop to the side entrance of NK department store, and then straight through and out the main entrance. Anybody who could keep up surveillance inside the bustling NK would have to be superhuman. He turned off both his mobiles and walked through the Galleria to Gustav Adolfs Torg, past the Parliament building, and into Gamla Stan. Just in case anyone was still following him, he took a zigzag route through the narrow streets of the old city until he reached the right address and knocked at the door of Black/White Publishing.
It was 2:30 in the afternoon. He didn’t have an appointment, but the editor, Kurdo Baksi, was in and delighted to see him.
“Hello there,” he said heartily. “Why don’t you ever come and visit me anymore?”
“I’m here to see you right now,” Blomkvist said.
“Sure, but it’s been three years since the last time.”
They shook hands.
Blomkvist had known Baksi since the eighties. In fact, Blomkvist had been one of the people who gave Baksi practical help when he started the magazine Black/White with an issue that he produced secretly at night at the Trade Union Confederation offices. Baksi had been caught in the act by Per-Erik Åström—the same man who went on to be the paedophile hunter at Save the Children—who in the eighties was the research secretary at the Trade Union Confederation. He had discovered stacks of pages from Black/White’s first issue, along with an oddly subdued Baksi in one of the copy rooms. Åström had looked at the front page and said: “God Almighty, that’s not how a magazine is supposed to look.” After that, Åström had designed the logo that was on Black/White’s masthead for fifteen years before Black/White magazine went to its grave and became the book publishing house Black/White. At the same time, Blomkvist had been suffering through an appalling period as IT consultant at the Trade Union Confederation—his only venture into the IT field. Åström had enlisted him to proofread and give Black/White some editorial support. Baksi and Blomkvist had been friends ever since.
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle Page 132
