The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle

by Stieg Larsson

  “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 NPO, 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 SIS. 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 SIS 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 CP’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.”

  “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 aggravated assault. I thought they’d both gone back to Serbia to become politicians or something.”

  “Politicians?”

  “Right. They went to Yugoslavia in the early nineties 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 elevators. 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.

  “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 SMP 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 was answering their mobiles. They had presumably turned them off for dinner.

  Figuerola swore and passed Södermalmstorg at a speed of close to fifty miles an hour. She kept her horn pressed down and made a sharp turn onto 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 backup,” Andersson said. “You don’t play games with the Nikolich boys.”

  Figuerola ground her teeth.

  “This is what we’ll do,” s
he 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’ll stay inside the restaurant and call for backup.”

  “OK,” Modig said.

  Figuerola was nearly at the restaurant when the police radio crackled beneath the dashboard.

  All units. Shots fired on Tavastgatan on Södermalm. Samir’s Cauldron restaurant.

  Figuerola felt a sudden lurch in her chest.

  Berger saw Blomkvist bump into a man as he was heading past the entrance towards the gents’. She frowned without really knowing why. She saw the other man stare at Blomkvist with a surprised expression. She wondered if it was somebody he knew.

  Then she saw the man take a step back and drop a bag to the floor. At first she did not know what she was seeing. She sat paralysed as he raised some kind of gun and aimed it at Blomkvist.

  Blomkvist reacted without stopping to think. He flung out his left hand, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and twisted it up towards the ceiling. For a microsecond the muzzle passed in front of his face.

  The burst of fire from the sub-machine gun was deafening in the small room. Mortar and glass from the overhead lights rained down on Blomkvist as Miro Nikolich squeezed off eleven shots. For a moment Blomkvist looked directly into the eyes of his attacker.

  Then Nikolich took a step back and yanked the gun towards him. Blomkvist was unprepared and lost his grip on the barrel. He knew at once that he was in mortal danger. Instinctively he threw himself at the attacker instead of crouching down or trying to take cover. Later he realized that if he had ducked or backed away, he would have been shot on the spot. He got a new grip on the barrel of the sub-machine gun and used his entire weight to drive the man against the wall. He heard another six or seven shots go off and tore desperately at the gun to direct the muzzle at the floor.

  Berger instinctively took cover when the second series of shots was fired. She stumbled and fell, hitting her head on a chair. As she lay on the floor, she looked up and saw that three holes had appeared in the wall just behind where she had been sitting.

  In shock she turned her head and saw Blomkvist struggling with the man by the door. He had fallen to his knees and was gripping the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it loose. She saw the attacker struggling to get free. He kept smashing his fist over and over into Blomkvist’s face and temple.

  Figuerola braked hard opposite Samir’s Cauldron, flung open the car door, and ran across the road towards the restaurant. She had her Sig Sauer in her hand with the safety off when she noticed the car parked right outside the restaurant.

  She saw one of the Nikolich brothers behind the wheel and pointed her weapon at his face behind the driver’s door.

  “Police. Hands up,” she screamed.

  Tomi Nikolich held up his hands.

  “Get out of the car and lie facedown on the pavement,” she roared, fury in her voice. She turned and glanced at Andersson and Modig beside her. “The restaurant,” she said.

  Modig was thinking of her children. It was against all police protocol to charge into a building with her weapon drawn without first having backup in place and without knowing the exact situation.

  Then she heard the sound of more shots from inside.

  Blomkvist had his middle finger between the trigger and the trigger guard as Miro Nikolich tried to keep shooting. He heard glass shattering behind him. He felt a searing pain as the attacker squeezed the trigger again and again, crushing his finger. As long as his finger was in place the gun could not be fired. But as Nikolich’s fist pummelled the side of his head, it suddenly occurred to him that he was too old for this sort of thing.

  Have to end it, he thought.

  That was his first rational thought since he had become aware of the man with the sub-machine gun.

  He clenched his teeth and shoved his finger farther into the space behind the trigger.

  Then he braced himself, rammed his shoulder into the attacker’s body, and forced himself back onto his feet. He let go of the gun with his right hand and raised his elbow up to protect his face from the pummelling. Nikolich switched to hitting him in the armpit and ribs. For a second they stood eye to eye again.

  The next moment Blomkvist felt the attacker being pulled away from him. He felt one last devastating pain in his finger and became aware of Andersson’s huge form. The police officer literally picked up Nikolich with a firm grip on his neck and slammed his head into the wall by the door. Nikolich collapsed to the ground.

  “Police! Get down! Stay still!” he heard Modig yell.

  He turned his head and saw her standing with her legs apart and her gun held in both hands as she surveyed the chaos. At last she raised her gun to point it at the ceiling and looked at Blomkvist.

  “Are you hurt?” she said.

  In a daze Blomkvist looked back at her. He was bleeding from his forehead and his nose.

  “I think I broke a finger,” he said, sitting down on the floor.

  Figuerola received backup from the Södermalm armed response team less than a minute after she forced Tomi Nikolich to the pavement at gunpoint. She showed her ID and left the officers to take charge of the prisoner. Then she ran inside. She stopped in the entrance to take stock of the situation.

  Blomkvist and Berger were sitting side by side. His face was bloodied and he seemed to be in shock. She sighed in relief. He was alive. Then she frowned as Berger put her arm around his shoulder. At least her face was bruised.

  Modig was squatting down next to them, examining Blomkvist’s hand. Andersson was handcuffing Nikolich, who looked as though he had been hit by a truck. She saw a Swedish army model M/45 sub-machine gun on the floor.

  Figuerola looked up and saw shocked restaurant staff and terror-stricken patrons, along with shattered china, overturned chairs and tables, and debris from the rounds that had been fired. She smelled cordite. But she was not aware of anyone dead or wounded in the restaurant. Officers from the armed response team began to squeeze into the room with their weapons drawn. She reached out and touched Andersson’s shoulder. He stood up.

  “You said that Miro Nikolich was on our wanted list?”

  “Correct. Aggravated assault. About a year ago. A street fight down in Hallunda.”

  “OK. Here’s what we’ll do,” Figuerola said. “I’ll take off as fast as I can with Blomkvist and Berger. You stay here. The story is that you and Modig came here to have dinner and you recognized Nikolich from your time in the gangs unit. When you tried to arrest him he pulled a weapon and started shooting. So you sorted him out.”

  Andersson looked completely astonished. “That’s not going to hold up. There are witnesses.”

  “The witnesses will say that somebody was fighting and shots were fired. It only has to hold up until tomorrow’s evening papers. The story is that the Nikolich brothers were apprehended by sheer chance because you recognized them.”

  Andersson surveyed the shambles all around him.

  Figuerola pushed her way through the knot of police officers out on the street and put Blomkvist and Berger in the back seat of her car. She turned to the armed response team leader and spoke in a low voice with him for half a minute. She gestured towards the car in which Blomkvist and Berger were now sitting. The leader looked puzzled but at last he nodded. She drove to Zinkensdamm, parked, and turned around to her passengers.

  “How badly are you hurt?”

  “I took a few punches. I still have all my teeth, but my middle finger’s hurt.”

  “I’ll take you to the ER at St. Göran’s.”

  “What happened?” Berger said. “And who are you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Blomkvist said. “Erika, this is Inspector Monica Figuerola. She works for Säpo. Monica, this is Erika Berge
r.”

  “I worked that out all by myself,” Figuerola said in a neutral tone. She did not spare Berger a glance.

  “Monica and I met during the investigation. She’s my contact at SIS.”

  “I understand,” Berger said, and she began to shake as suddenly the shock set in.

  Figuerola stared hard at Berger.

  “What went wrong?” Blomkvist said.

  “We misinterpreted the reason for the cocaine,” Figuerola said. “We thought they were setting a trap for you, to create a scandal. Now we know they wanted to kill you. They were going to let the police find the cocaine when they went through your apartment.”

  “What cocaine?” Berger said.

  Blomkvist closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Take me to St. Göran’s,” he said.

  • • •

  “Arrested?” Clinton barked. He felt a butterfly-light pressure around his heart.

  “We think it’s all right,” Nyström said. “It seems to have been sheer bad luck.”

  “Bad luck?”

  “Miro Nikolich was wanted on some old assault story. A policeman from the gangs unit happened to recognize him when he went into Samir’s Cauldron and wanted to arrest him. Nikolich panicked and tried to shoot his way out.”

  “And Blomkvist?”

  “He wasn’t involved. We don’t even know if he was in the restaurant at the time.”

  “This cannot be fucking true,” Clinton said. “What do the Nikolich brothers know?”

  “About us? Nothing. They think Björck and Blomkvist were both hits that had to do with trafficking.”

  “But they know that Blomkvist was the target?”

  “Sure, but they’re hardly going to start blabbing about being hired to do a hit. They’ll keep their mouths shut all the way to district court. They’ll do time for possession of illegal weapons and, as like as not, for resisting arrest.”