The Girl Who Lived Twice

by David Lagercrantz

  The bodyguards had sent for back-up and, without knowing what else she could do, Rebecka went up to Johannes’ office. She was hoping it might help her understand what had happened. But she found no clues, only that paper had been burned in the stove, and as she leaned on the desk there was a sudden buzz next to her. For an instant she thought it was something she had done.

  But it was Johannes’ mobile, with the name Mikael Blomkvist on the display. She let it ring. The last person she wanted to talk to was a journalist. They had poisoned her and Johannes’ lives, and she wanted to scream: Come back, you old fool. We love you … She had no idea what happened next, her legs must have given way.

  She sat on the floor and prayed, though she had not prayed since she was a little girl, and when the telephone buzzed again, she got up on her unsteady legs. Blomkvist again. Blomkvist, she tried to remember, surely he had been on their side? Maybe he knew something. It was not impossible, so on the spur of the moment she picked up and heard the despair in her own voice:

  “Johannes’ phone, Rebecka speaking.”

  Blomkvist realised at once that something was amiss, but could have no idea how serious it was. Some kind of row between husband and wife? It could have been anything …

  “Is this a bad time?” he said.

  “Yes … actually, no.”

  He could tell that she was overwrought.

  “Shall I call back?”

  “He just took off,” she burst out. “Just ran away from his bodyguards. What’s going on?”

  “Are you on Sandön?”

  “What …? Yes,” she mumbled.

  “Have you any idea what’s got into him?”

  “I’m terrified that he’s gone and done something stupid,” she said, at which he made some comforting remark about how things would surely sort themselves out.

  Then he ran down to the jetty to his boat. It was not a powerful boat, and Sandön was a sizeable island, fifty-four hectares. The Forsell house was a good way off and it would take time to get there. The wind was blowing hard and the boat felt small and light. Water sprayed into his face. What the hell did he think he was doing? He had no answer to that, but this was his way of tackling a crisis: he took action. He pushed the throttle forwards and soon heard the rattling sound of a helicopter overhead.

  It was likely to be something to do with Forsell and once again he thought about the wife. It had sounded as if she were shouting at everyone and no-one: What’s going on? He had been shaken by the shrill anxiety in her voice.

  He kept his eyes on the water ahead and for the time being had the wind at his back, which helped a little. Now he was approaching the southern tip of the island. A speedboat was being driven recklessly towards him, and as it passed, his small boat was pitched from side to side in its wake. He had to struggle not to turn and scream at those testosterone-fuelled kids, but he kept going and scanned the shoreline. There weren’t all that many people about, and no swimmers in the water either. He was considering heading for land and searching the forest when he spotted a tiny dot far out in the channel, bobbing up and down in the waves. He turned the boat towards it and yelled:

  “Hey there! Hey!”

  The wind had drowned out all noise and Forsell was alone in the world. The punishing muscle strain and the cramp building up in his arms felt almost liberating. His only focus was to forge ahead until he could let go and sink down through the water, away from life. But it was not that simple. He did not want to live. Yet he was not sure he wanted to die either. He knew only that all hope was gone. What remained was shame, and the towering rage which was now an imploding force, a sword thrust inwards, and it was too much. He could take it no longer.

  He thought about his sons Samuel and Jonathan. And then it became clear that he could not face the choice that confronted him. To fail them by dying. Or to live and have them see him as a man disgraced. So he swam on, as if the sea would provide an answer. He heard a helicopter overhead and swallowed a mouthful of water. He thought he had been overwhelmed by a wave. But it was his strength ebbing away.

  He was struggling to keep his head above the surface and switched to breaststroke. But his legs dragged him down, and in an instant, without knowing quite how, he was under the water. Gripped by panic, he began to flail with his arms. One thing was absolutely certain: even if he did want to die, he did not want it to be like this. He fought his way up, gasping for breath, then turned towards shore and swam some five or ten metres before sinking again.

  Now fear really seized him. He held his breath, but within seconds he swallowed more water and his throat spasmed. He could not breathe at all. His body protected him for as long as it could until his galloping fear of death caused him to hyperventilate. His chest and head were bursting with pain and fear. He lost consciousness briefly, then came to. But he was sinking to the bottom, and to the extent that he could think at all he thought of his family, and of everything and nothing.

  The head out there in the waves vanished, then reappeared, and Blomkvist shouted: “Wait for me, I’m coming.” But his boat was too slow and when he looked again, he saw nothing but the sea and a seagull diving, and further off a blue sailing boat. He tried to work out where he had last spotted the figure. Was it there … or there? He had to hope for the best, and in the end he shut off the engine and stared down into the water. It was murky. He had read that this was caused by a combination of rain, flowering algae, chemicals and soil particles. He waved at the helicopter above him – but what good would that do? He took off his shoes and socks and stood for a while in the boat as it rocked in the wind. And then he jumped in.

  It was shockingly cold. He swam down below the surface and looked around, but he could not see anything at all. It was hopeless, and after a minute he went back up to the surface and caught his breath. He saw that his boat had already drifted far away, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He dived again, in the opposite direction this time, and caught sight of a body some way off, apparently lifeless and sinking like a pillar. He swam towards it and grabbed the man under his arms. He was as heavy as lead, unwieldy. Blomkvist gave it all he had and kicked hard as he tried to swim, and slowly, centimetre by centimetre, he bore the man up. But he had got the psychology wrong.

  If he could only get the body to the surface, he had thought, everything would be easier. But it felt as if he were carrying a tree trunk. The man was in a bad way and even heavier above water. He was showing no signs of life at all, and Blomkvist realised how far out in the bay he was. He would never make it back to shore with the body. But he couldn’t give up. A long time ago, in his youth, he had been on a life-saving course. He kept trying to change the way he held on to the man, to get a better grip.

  But he just felt heavier and heavier, and Blomkvist was struggling hard, beginning to inhale water. His muscles were cramping. That was it. He would have to let the man go, or he himself would be dragged into the depths. One moment he was going to give up, and the next he felt he could not. He struggled on until everything went black.

  CHAPTER 17

  26.viii

  It was late and Bublanski was still in his office at police headquarters, surfing the news sites. Defence Minister Forsell was in a coma in intensive care at the Karolinska hospital, having nearly drowned. His condition was described as critical. Even if he were to regain consciousness, there was a risk he had suffered brain damage. There was talk of that, and of cardiac arrest, osmotic pulmonary oedema and hypothermia, as well as arrhythmia. Things were not looking good.

  The serious media were suggesting that it could have been a suicide attempt, which must have been leaked by some insider. It was widely known that Forsell was an excellent swimmer, in which case the most reasonable explanation would be that he had overestimated his capabilities, gone too far out and got caught in the freezing currents. But it was impossible to know for sure. There were reports that he had been saved by a man with a motorboat, and then picked up by a boat from the Sea Rescue Society.
He had been taken to hospital by helicopter.

  Beneath these stories were articles praising Forsell as a “strong and enterprising minister who had stood up for fundamental human values”. They sounded like obituaries. He had, they said, “battled intolerance and destructive nationalism” and been an “incurable optimist who had always sought out the middle ground”. The articles mentioned that he had been the victim of a “deeply unjust hate campaign”, which could be traced back to troll factories in Russia.

  “About time someone said that,” Bublanski muttered, and nodded in agreement while reading a column by Catrin Lindås in Svenska Dagbladet, in which she argued that this was a logical consequence of the “mood in a society that encourages witch-hunts and the demonisation of people”.

  Then he turned to Inspector Modig, who was sitting in the worn armchair next to him, her laptop on her knee.

  “Well, Sonja,” he said. “Are we getting anywhere with our story?”

  Modig looked up at him, somewhat at a loss.

  “I can’t say we are, really. We haven’t found Heikki Järvinen yet, but I’ve been speaking to one of the doctors who took care of Nima Rita in the mental health clinic in Kathmandu, the one Blomkvist mentioned.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “She said that Nima Rita had developed severe psychosis and was hearing voices and cries for help. He was desperate because he couldn’t do anything about them. Her impression was that he was constantly reliving something.”

  “What sort of thing, could she say?”

  “Things he had experienced on the mountain, times when he’d felt inadequate. She said that they tried to medicate him and give him electroconvulsive therapy, but it was hard.”

  “Did you ask if he’d talked about Forsell?”

  “She recognised the name, but that’s all. He had mostly spoken about his wife and Stan Engelman, of whom he was frightened. I think that’s something we should follow up. Apparently this Engelman’s pretty unscrupulous. But I heard something else that’s interesting too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “After the drama on Everest in 2008, the journalists all wanted to speak to Nima Rita. But that interest soon petered out. It became known that he was sick and confused and he was more or less forgotten. But as the tenth anniversary approached he was contacted by someone called Lilian Henderson, a journalist with The Atlantic, who was writing a book about the drama. Lilian tried to interview Nima at the hospital, by telephone.”

  “What did she find out?”

  “Actually nothing, from what I understand. But she and Nima Rita agreed to meet up since she was coming to Nepal to do some research. Except that, by the time she got there, he was already gone, and at the end of the day no book ever materialised. The publishers were afraid of being sued.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Engelman.”

  “What was he so scared of?”

  “That’s what I think we ought to find out.”

  “So are we absolutely certain that the beggar and this Nima Rita are one and the same person?” Bublanski said.

  “I’d say so. Far too many things match up, and apparently there’s a genuine physical likeness.”

  “How did Blomkvist find this out?”

  “All I know is what he wrote to you. I’ve tried to reach him. But no-one seems to know where he is, not even Erika Berger. She says she’s worried. They’d just been talking about doing a profile on Forsell, and ever since the accident she’s been frantically trying to get hold of him.”

  “Doesn’t he have a place out on Sandön as well?”

  “Yes, at Sandhamn.”

  “Could Must or Säpo have got their hands on him? The whole thing seems very hush-hush.”

  “It is. We’ve informed military high command, but they haven’t got back to us. And we don’t know either if Blomkvist’s told us everything. Maybe he really did find a connection between the Sherpa and Forsell.”

  “Don’t you find this whole story distasteful?” Bublanski said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Forsell criticises Russia and accuses them of interfering with the Swedish electoral process and suddenly he’s hated by everybody and up to his neck in lies, and driven to the depths of despair. Then, hey presto, a dead Sherpa appears from nowhere and the finger points straight at Forsell. I have the feeling someone’s trying to set him up.”

  “It doesn’t sound great when you put it like that.”

  “No,” he said. “Do we still not know how the beggar got into the country?”

  “The Migration Agency has reiterated that he’s not in any of their records.”

  “Odd.”

  “He should have cropped up in our databases.”

  “Maybe the intelligence services have put a lid on that too,” he muttered.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Are we not allowed to talk to Forsell’s wife either?”

  Modig shook her head.

  “We’ll need to question her soon, I’m sure they understand that. They can’t stop us doing our job,” he said.

  “I have a bad feeling that’s precisely what they think they can do.”

  “Are they scared of something too?”

  “Almost seems like it.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to accept it, and make do with what we have. But what a mess,” Bublanski said, and he couldn’t stop himself from having another look at the news sites.

  Johannes Forsell’s condition remained critical.

  Thomas Müller was late home from work, back in his large loft apartment on Østerbrogade in Copenhagen. He took a beer from the refrigerator and saw that the sink was dirty and the breakfast dishes had not been put in the dishwasher. He walked through all the rooms. None of them had been cleaned.

  The cleaners had simply not bothered. As if he didn’t have enough trouble already . Nothing but grief and moaning at work. His secretary was brain-dead. Today he had yelled at her so much that it had given him a headache, and then, of course, right in the middle of everything else, there was Paulina. He had had enough of it now. How could she! After all he had done. She had been a little nothing when they first met, a worthless journalist on a local paper. He had given her everything – everything apart from a signed pre-nuptial agreement, which had been a big mistake. Bloody dyke.

  When she came back to him like a wet rag, he would pretend to be nice. Then he’d let her have it. No way would he ever forgive her, especially not after that message. it had said. That was all, and he had smashed his mobile to bits, and a crystal vase … No, he didn’t want to think about it.

  He took off his jacket, settled onto the sofa with his beer and wondered whether to ring Fredrike, his mistress. But he was bored with her too. He turned on the T.V. and heard that the Swedish Minister of Defence was hovering between life and death. He could not have cared less. That buffoon was a P.C. idiot, everyone knew that, and a hypocrite and a fiddler too. He switched over to Bloomberg and the financial news and let his thoughts wander, and he must have flipped channels at least a dozen times when the doorbell rang. Fuck. Who the hell turns up at ten at night? He was tempted to ignore it.

  Then it struck him that it could be Paulina, so he hauled himself to his feet and yanked open the door. But it was not his wife. A stroppy-looking, black-haired girl in jeans and a hoodie was standing in the corridor, holding a bag and looking down at the hall floor.

  “I don’t need anything,” he said.

  “It’s about the cleaning,” she said.

  “You can tell your boss from me that she can go to hell,” he said. “I have no time for people who don’t do their job properly.”

  “It’s not the cleaning company’s fault,” the woman said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m the one who cancelled the service.”

  “You did what?”

  “I cancelled it, and I’ll take care of
things myself.”

  “Don’t you get it? I don’t want any more cleaning. Piss off,” he spat, slamming the door.

  But the woman put her foot in the way and stepped over the threshold, and only then did he notice that there was something odd about her. She walked in a funny way, without moving her arms or upper body and with her head slightly tilted to one side, as if she were looking at a remote point over by the windows. Perhaps she was a criminal or had some mental problem. Her eyes were icy and expressionless, as if she were not entirely present, and he said with all the authority he could muster:

  “If you don’t fuck off right away, I’ll call the police.”

  She did not answer. She did not even appear to have heard. She bent to get some rope and a roll of gaffer tape out of her bag, and for a moment he could not think of anything to say. Then he yelled “Out!” and grabbed her by the hand.

  But somehow she managed to take hold of his wrist and drag him over to the dining table. He was both furious and frightened, and he tore himself loose, meaning to hit her or ram her against the wall, but she rushed at him so that he toppled onto his back on the table. In a matter of seconds she was on top of him with those same icy, blank eyes, and quick as a flash she had him tied down. In her monotone she said:

  “Now I’m going to iron your shirt for you.”

  Then she put tape over his mouth and eyed him the way a wild beast eyes its prey. Thomas Müller had never felt so terrified in all his life.

  Blomkvist had suffered badly in the cold currents and had swallowed a lot of water. He and Forsell had been winched up and flown away in the same helicopter. For a while he had been more or less unconscious. But he had recovered fairly quickly and now, late in the evening, after the ward round and three interrogation sessions by military intelligence, he was given back his belongings, including his mobile which had been retrieved from his dinghy. A young family in a sailing boat had towed it in from the bay. He was given permission to go home, but the doctors recommended he stay in hospital overnight. He was also informed that a prosecutor by the name of Matson had placed a gagging order on him. He needed to call his sister Annika, the lawyer.