Millennium 03 - The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest Read online

  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, he regained his strength and 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 of 30,000 kronor, to get him across the border into Turkey and thence with a false passport to Europe.

  Idris Ghidi landed at Arlanda airport in Sweden on 19 October, 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 came by 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 dish-washer, a doorman, and a taxi driver. He liked being a taxi driver except for two things. He had no local 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 took pity on him and offered him a steady job at an office-cleaning firm. He was given a part-time job managing 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, in 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 soon been relaxed 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 N.K. department store, and then straight through and out of the main entrance. Anybody who could keep up surveillance inside the bustling N.K. 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 was there without warning, 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 any more?”

  “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 ’80s. Actually, 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 Trades Union Federation 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 ’80s was the research secretary at the Trades Union Federation. 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 I.T. consultant at the Trades Union Federation – his only venture into the I.T. field. Åström had enlisted him to proofread and give Black/White some editorial support. Baksi and Blomkvist had been friends ever since.

  Blomkvist sat on a sofa while Baksi got coffee from a machine in the hallway. They chatted for a while, the way you do when you haven’t seen someone for some time, but they were constantly being interrupted by Baksi’s mobile. He would have urgent-sounding conversations in Kurdish or possibly Turkish or Arabic or some other language that Blomkvist did not understand. It had always been this way on his other visits to Black/White Publishing. People called from all over the world to talk to Baksi.

  “My dear Mikael, you look worried. What’s on your mind?” he said at last.

  “Could you turn off your telephone for a few minutes?”

  Baksi turned off his telephone.

  “I need a favour. A really important favour, and it has to be done immediately and cannot be mentioned outside this room.”

  “Tell me.”

  “In 1989 a refugee by the name of Idris Ghidi came to Sweden from Iraq. When he was faced with the prospect of deportation, he received help from your family until he was granted a residency permit. I don’t know if it was your father or somebody else in the family who helped him.”

  “It was my uncle Mahmut. I know Ghidi. What’s going on?”

  “He’s working in Göteborg. I need his help to do a simple job. I’m willing to pay him.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Do you trust me, Kurdo?”

  “Of course. We’ve always been friends.”

  “The job I need done is very odd. I don’t want to say what it entails right now, but I assure you it’s in no way illegal, nor will it cause any problems for you or for Ghidi.”

  Baksi gave Blomkvist a searching look. “You don’t want to tell me what it’s about?”

  “The fewer people who know, the better. But I need your help for an introduction – so that Idris will listen to me.”

  Baksi went to his desk and opened an address book. He looked through it for a minute before he found the number. Then he picked up the telephone. The conversation was in Kurdish. Blomkvist could see from Baksi’s expression that he started out with words of greeting and small talk before he got serious and explained why he was calling. After a while he said to Blomkvist:

  “When do you want to meet him?”

  “Friday afternoon, if that would work. Ask if I can visit him at home.”

  Baksi spoke for a short while before he hung up.

  “Idris lives in Angered,” he said. “Do you have the address?”

  Blomkvist nodded.

  “He’ll be home by 5.00 on Friday afternoon. You’re welcome to visit him there.”

  “Thanks, Kurdo.”

  “He works at Sahlgrenska hospital as a cleaner,” Baksi said.

  “I know.”

  “I couldn’t help reading in the papers that you’re mixed up in this Salander story.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She was shot.”

  “Yes.”

  “I heard she’s at Sahlgrenska.”

  “That’s also true.”

/>   Baksi knew that Blomkvist was busy planning some sort of mischief, which was what he was famous for doing. He had known him since the ’80s. They might not have been best friends, but they never argued either, and Blomkvist had never hesitated if Baksi asked him a favour.

  “Am I going to get mixed up in something I ought to know about?”

  “You’re not going to get involved. Your role was only to do me the kindness of introducing me to one of your acquaintances. And, I repeat, I won’t ask him to do anything illegal.”

  This assurance was enough for Baksi. Blomkvist stood up. “I owe you one.”

  “We always owe each other one.”

  Cortez put down the telephone and drummed so loudly with his fingertips on the edge of his desk that Nilsson glared at him. But she could see that he was lost in his own thoughts, and since she was feeling irritated in general she decided not to take it out on him.

  She knew that Blomkvist was doing a lot of whispering with Cortez and Eriksson and Malm about the Salander story, while she and Karim were expected to do all the spadework for the next issue of a magazine that had not had any real leadership since Berger left. Eriksson was fine, but she lacked experience and the gravitas of Berger. And Cortez was just a young whippersnapper.

  Nilsson was not unhappy that she had been passed over, nor did she want their jobs – that was the last thing she wanted. Her own job was to keep tabs on the government departments and parliament on behalf of Millennium. It was a job she enjoyed, and she knew it inside out. Besides, she had had it up to here with other work, like writing a column in a trade journal every week, or various volunteer tasks for Amnesty International and the like. She was not interested in being editor-in-chief of Millennium and working a minimum of twelve hours a day as well as sacrificing her weekends.

  She did, however, feel that something had changed at Millennium. The magazine suddenly felt foreign. She could not put her finger on what was wrong.

  As always, Blomkvist was irresponsible and kept vanishing on another of his mysterious trips, coming and going as he pleased. He was one of the owners of Millennium, fair enough, he could decide for himself what he wanted to do, but Jesus, a little sense of responsibility would not hurt.

  Malm was the other current part-owner, and he was about as much help as he was when he was on holiday. He was talented, no question, and he could step in and take over the reins when Berger was away or busy, but usually he just followed through with what other people had already decided. He was brilliant at anything involving graphic design or presentations, but he was right out of his depth when it came to planning a magazine.

  Nilsson frowned.

  No, she was being unfair. What bothered her was that something had happened at the office. Blomkvist was working with Eriksson and Cortez, and the rest of them were somehow excluded. Those three had formed an inner circle and were always shutting themselves in Berger’s office … well, Eriksson’s office, and then they’d all come trooping out in silence. Under Berger’s leadership the magazine had always been a collective.

  Blomkvist was working on the Salander story and would not share any part of it. But this was nothing new. He had not said a word about the Wennerström story either – not even Berger had known – but this time he had two confidants.

  In a word, Nilsson was pissed off. She needed a holiday. She needed to get away for a while. Then she saw Cortez putting on his corduroy jacket.

  “I’m going out for a while,” he said. “Could you tell Malin that I’ll be back in two hours?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I think I’ve got a lead on a story. A really good story. About toilets. I want to check a few things, but if this pans out we’ll have a fantastic article for the June issue.”

  “Toilets,” Nilsson muttered. “A likely story.”

  Berger clenched her teeth and put down the article about the forthcoming Salander trial. It was short, two columns, intended for page five under national news. She looked at the text for a minute and pursed her lips. It was 3.30 on Thursday. She had been working at S.M.P. for exactly twelve days. She picked up the telephone and called Holm, the news editor.

  “Hello, it’s Berger. Could you find Johannes Frisk and bring him to my office asap?”

  She waited patiently until Holm sauntered into the glass cage with the reporter Frisk in tow. Berger looked at her watch.

  “Twenty-two,” she said.

  “Twenty-two what?” said Holm.

  “Twenty-two minutes. That’s how long it’s taken you to get up from the editorial desk, walk the fifteen metres to Frisk’s desk, and drag yourself over here with him.”

  “You said there was no rush. I was pretty busy.”

  “I did not say there was no rush. I asked you to get Frisk and come to my office. I said asap, and I meant asap, not tonight or next week or whenever you feel like getting your arse out of your chair.”

  “But I don’t think—”

  “Shut the door.”

  She waited until Holm had closed the door behind him and studied him in silence. He was without doubt a most competent news editor. His role was to make sure that the pages of S.M.P. were filled every day with the correct text, logically organized, and appearing in the order and position they had decided on in the morning meeting. This meant that Holm was juggling a colossal number of tasks every day. And he did it without ever dropping a ball.

  The problem with him was that he persistently ignored the decisions Berger made. She had done her best to find a formula for working with him. She had tried friendly reasoning and direct orders, she had encouraged him to think for himself, and generally she had done everything she could think of to make him understand how she wanted the newspaper to be shaped.

  Nothing made any difference.

  An article she had rejected in the afternoon would appear in the newspaper sometime after she had gone home. We had a hole we needed to fill so I had to put in something.

  The headline that Berger had decided to use was suddenly replaced by something entirely different. It was not always a bad choice, but it would be done without her being consulted. As an act of defiance.

  It was always a matter of details. An editorial meeting at 2.00 was suddenly moved to 1.30 without her being told, and most of the decisions were already made by the time she arrived. I’m sorry … in the rush I forgot to let you know.

  For the life of her, Berger could not see why Holm had adopted this attitude towards her, but she knew that calm discussions and friendly reprimands did not work. Until now she had not confronted him in front of other colleagues in the newsroom. Now it was time to express herself more clearly, and this time in front of Frisk, which would ensure that the exchange was common knowledge in no time.

  “The first thing I did when I started here was to tell you that I had a special interest in everything to do with Lisbeth Salander. I explained that I wanted information in advance on all proposed articles, and that I wanted to look at and approve everything that was to be published. I’ve reminded you about this at least half a dozen times, most recently at the editorial meeting on Friday. Which part of these instructions do you not understand?”

  “All the articles that are planned or in production are on the daily memo on our intranet. They’re always sent to your computer. You’re always kept informed,” Holm said.

  “Bullshit,” Berger said. “When the city edition of the paper landed in my letterbox this morning we had a three-column story about Salander and the developments in the Stallarholmen incident in our best news spot.”

  “That was Margareta Orring’s article. She’s a freelancer, she didn’t turn it in until 7.00 last night.”

  “Margareta called me with the proposal at 11.00 yesterday morning. You approved it and gave her the assignment at 11.30. You didn’t say a word about it at the two o’clock meeting.”

  “It’s in the daily memo.”

  “Oh, right … here’s what it says in the daily memo: quote, Margareta Or
ring, interview with Prosecutor Martina Fransson, re: narcotics bust in Södertälje, unquote.”

  “The basic story was an interview with Martina Fransson about the confiscation of anabolic steroids. A would-be Svavelsjö biker was busted for that,” Holm said.

  “Exactly. And not a word in the daily memo about Svavelsjö M.C., or that the interview would be focused on Magge Lundin and Stallarholmen, and therefore the investigation of Salander.”

  “I assume it came up during the interview—”

  “Anders, I don’t know why, but you’re standing here lying to my face. I spoke to Margareta and she said that she clearly explained to you what her interview was going to focus on.”

  “I must not have realized that it would centre on Salander. Then I got an article late in the evening. What was I supposed to do, kill the whole story? Orring turned in a good piece.”

  “There I agree with you. It’s an excellent story. But that’s now your third lie in about the same number of minutes. Orring turned it in at 3.20 in the afternoon, long before I went home at 6.00.”

  “Berger, I don’t like your tone of voice.”

  “Great. Then I can tell you that I like neither your tone nor your evasions nor your lies.”

  “It sounds as if you think I’m organizing some sort of conspiracy against you.”

  “You still haven’t answered the question. And item two: today this piece by Johannes shows up on my desk. I can’t recall having any discussion about it at the two o’clock meeting. Why has one of our reporters spent the day working on Salander without anybody telling me?”

  Frisk squirmed. He was bright enough to keep his mouth shut.

  “So …,” Holm said. “We’re putting out a newspaper, and there must be hundreds of articles you don’t know about. We have routines here at S.M.P. and we all have to adapt to them. I don’t have time to give special treatment to specific articles.”