“A counter-move to what?”
“They ran into Milton’s security patrol in Morgongåva last night.”
He told them what he had heard from Figuerola about Sandberg’s expedition to the printing factory.
“That busy little rascal,” Bohman said.
“But why now?”
“They must be nervous about what Millennium might publish when the trial starts,” Fräklund said. “If Blomkvist is arrested for dealing cocaine, his credibility will drop dramatically.”
Linder nodded. Blomkvist looked sceptical.
“How are we going to handle this?” Armansky said.
“We should do nothing,” Fräklund said. “We hold all the cards. We have crystal-clear evidence of Sandberg planting the stuff in your apartment. Let them spring the trap. We can prove your innocence in a second, and besides, this will be further proof of the Section’s criminal activities. I would so love to be prosecutor when those guys are brought to trial.”
“I don’t know,” Blomkvist said slowly. “The trial starts the day after tomorrow. The magazine is on the stands on Friday, day three of the trial. If they plan to frame me for dealing cocaine, I’ll never have the time to explain how it happened before the magazine comes out. I risk sitting in prison and missing the beginning of the trial.”
“So, all the more reason for you to stay out of sight this week,” Armansky said.
“Well … I have to work with TV4, and I have a number of other things to do. It would be enormously inconvenient—”
“Why right now?” Linder said suddenly.
“How do you mean?” Armansky said.
“They’ve had three months to smear Blomkvist. Why do it right now? Whatever happens, they’re not going to be able to prevent publication.”
They all sat in silence for a moment.
“It might be because they don’t have a clue what you’re going to publish, Mikael,” Armansky said. “They have to suppose that you have something in the offing, but they might think all you have is Björck’s report. They have no reason to know that you’re planning on rolling up the whole Section. If it’s only about Björck’s report, then it’s certainly enough to blacken your reputation. Any revelations you might come up with would be drowned out when you’re arrested and charged. Big scandal. The famous Mikael Blomkvist arrested on a drug charge. Six to eight years in prison.”
“Could I have two copies of the video?” Blomkvist said.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Lodge one copy with Edklinth. And in three hours I’m going to be at TV4. I think it would be prudent to have this ready to run on TV if or when all hell breaks loose.”
Figuerola turned off the DVD player and put the remote on the table. They were meeting in the temporary office on Fridhemsplan.
“Cocaine,” Edklinth said. “They’re playing a very dirty game here.”
Figuerola looked thoughtful. She glanced at Blomkvist.
“I thought it best to keep all of you up to date,” he said with a shrug.
“I don’t like this,” Figuerola said. “It implies a recklessness. Someone hasn’t really thought this through. They must realize that you wouldn’t go quietly and let yourself be thrown into Kumla bunker under arrest on a drugs charge.”
“I agree,” Blomkvist said.
“Even if you were convicted, there’s still a strong likelihood that people would believe what you have to say. And your colleagues at Millennium wouldn’t keep quiet either.”
“Furthermore, this is costing them a great deal,” Edklinth said. “They have a budget that allows them to distribute 120,000 kronor here and there without blinking, plus whatever the cocaine costs them.”
“I know, but the plan is actually not bad,” Blomkvist said. “They’re counting on Salander landing back in the asylum while I disappear in a cloud of suspicion. They’re also assuming that any attention would be focused on Säpo—not on the Section.”
“But how are they going to convince the narcotics unit to search your apartment? I mean, an anonymous tip will hardly be enough for someone to kick in the door of a star journalist. And if this is going to work, suspicion would have to be cast on you within forty-eight hours.”
“Well, we don’t really know anything about their schedule,” Blomkvist said.
He felt exhausted and longed for all this to be over. He got up.
“Where are you off to?” Figuerola said. “I’d like to know where you’re going to be for the next few days.”
“I have a meeting with TV4 at lunchtime. And at 6:00 I’m going to catch up with Erika Berger over a lamb stew at Samir’s. We’re going to fine-tune the press release. The rest of the afternoon and evening I’ll be at Millennium, I imagine.”
Figuerola’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Berger.
“I need you to stay in touch during the day. I’d prefer it if you laid low until the trial starts.”
“Maybe I could move in with you for a few days,” Blomkvist said with a playful smile.
Figuerola’s face darkened. She cast a hasty glance at Edklinth.
“Monica’s right,” Edklinth said. “I think it would be best if you stay more or less out of sight for the time being.”
“You take care of your end,” Blomkvist said, “and I’ll take care of mine.”
The host of She on TV4 could hardly conceal her excitement over the video material that Blomkvist had delivered. Blomkvist was amused at her undisguised glee. For a week they had worked like dogs to put together coherent material about the Section that they could use on TV. Her producer and the news editor at TV4 were in no doubt as to what a scoop the story would be. It was being produced in the utmost secrecy, with only a few people involved. They had agreed to Blomkvist’s insistence that the story be the lead the evening of the third day of the trial. They had decided to do an hour-long news special.
Blomkvist had given her a quantity of still photographs to work with, but on television nothing compares to the moving image. She was simply delighted when he showed her the video—in razor-sharp definition—of an identifiable police officer planting cocaine in his apartment.
“This is great TV,” she said. “Camera shot: ‘Here is Säpo planting cocaine in the reporter’s apartment.’ ”
“Not Säpo … the Section,” Blomkvist corrected her. “Don’t make the mistake of confusing the two.”
“Sandberg works for Säpo, for God’s sake,” she said.
“Sure, but in practice he should be regarded as an infiltrator. Keep the boundary line very clear.”
“Understood. It’s the Section that’s the story here. Not Säpo. Mikael, can you explain to me how it is that you keep getting mixed up in these sensational stories? And you’re right. This is going to be bigger than the Wennerström affair.”
“Sheer talent, I guess. Ironically enough, this story also begins with a Wennerström. The spy scandal of the sixties, that is.”
Berger called at 4:00. She was in a meeting with the newspaper publishers’ association, sharing her views on the planned cutbacks at SMP, which had given rise to a major conflict in the industry after she had resigned. She would not be able to make it to their dinner before 6:30.
Sandberg helped Clinton move from the wheelchair to the daybed in the room that was his command centre in the Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton had just returned from a whole morning spent in dialysis. He felt ancient, infinitely weary. He had hardly slept the past few days and wished that all this would soon come to an end. He had managed to make himself comfortable, sitting up in the bed, when Nyström appeared.
Clinton concentrated his energy. “Is it ready?”
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Nikolich brothers,” Nyström said. “It’s going to cost 50,000.”
“We can afford it,” Clinton said.
Christ, if only I were young again.
He turned his head and studied Nyström and Sandberg in turn.
> “No qualms of conscience?” he said.
They shook their heads.
“When?” Clinton said.
“Within twenty-four hours,” Nyström said. “It’s difficult to pin down where Blomkvist is staying, but if worst comes to worst they’ll do it outside Millennium’s offices.”
“We have a possible opportunity tonight, two hours from now,” said Sandberg.
“Oh, really?”
“Erika Berger called him a while ago. They’re going to have dinner at Samir’s Cauldron. It’s a restaurant near Bellmansgatan.”
“Berger … ,” Clinton said hesitantly.
“I hope for God’s sake that she doesn’t—” Nyström began.
“That wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Sandberg interrupted.
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 the 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 host 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 host 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 managing 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 met 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 NPO since the early nineties. She was fifty-eight.
Only three weeks had passed since she had been summoned to the NPO 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 vacation plans had to be shelved. She had been advised that this would be her priority for the foreseeable future, and she had been given more or less free rein to shape her operational team and make the necessary decisions.
“This may prove to be 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 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 someday be pored over by historians and their readers. Since then she had spent every waking minute trying to come 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 seventies and eighties to work almost underground in order to s
urvive. 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 NPO. 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 Gustavsson 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 backup 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 halls of the bureaucracy and thus risk being unearthed by the Section.
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