Millennium 03 - The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest Page 24

  “I didn’t ask you to give special treatment to specific articles. I asked you for two things: first, that I be informed of everything that has a bearing on the Salander case. Second, I want to approve everything we publish on that topic. So, one more time … what part of my instructions did you not understand?”

  Holm sighed and adopted an exasperated expression.

  “O.K.,” Berger said. “I’ll make myself crystal clear. I am not going to argue with you about this. Just let’s see if you understand this message. If it happens again I’m going to relieve you of your job as news editor. You’ll hear bang-boom, and then you’ll find yourself editing the family page or the comics page or something like that. I cannot have a news editor that I can’t trust or work with and who devotes his precious time to undermining my decisions. Understood?”

  Holm threw up his hands in a gesture that indicated he considered Berger’s accusations to be absurd.

  “Do you understand me? Yes or no?”

  “I heard what you said.”

  “I asked if you understood. Yes or no?”

  “Do you really think you can get away with this? This paper comes out because I and the other cogs in the machinery work our backsides off. The board is going to—”

  “The board is going to do as I say. I’m here to revamp this paper. I have a carefully worded agreement that gives me the right to make far-reaching editorial changes at section editors’ level. I can get rid of the dead meat and recruit new blood from outside if I choose. And Holm … you’re starting to look like dead meat to me.”

  She fell silent. Holm met her gaze. He was furious.

  “That’s all,” Berger said. “I suggest you consider very carefully what we’ve talked about today.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “It’s up to you. That’s all. Now go.”

  He turned on his heel and left the glass cage. She watched him disappear into the editorial sea in the direction of the canteen. Frisk stood up and made to follow.

  “Not you, Johannes. You stay here and sit down.”

  She picked up his article and read it one more time.

  “You’re here on a temporary basis, I gather.”

  “Yes. I’ve been here five months – this is my last week.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “I apologize for putting you in the middle of a duel between me and Holm. Tell me about this story.”

  “I got a tip this morning and took it to Holm. He told me to follow up on it.”

  “I see. It’s about the police investigating the possibility that Lisbeth Salander was mixed up in the sale of anabolic steroids. Does this story have any connection to yesterday’s article about Södertälje, in which steroids also appeared?”

  “Not that I know of, but it’s possible. This thing about steroids has to do with her connection to boxers. Paolo Roberto and his pals.”

  “Paolo Roberto uses steroids?”

  “What? No, of course not. It’s more about the boxing world in general. Salander used to train at a gym in Söder. But that’s the angle the police are taking. Not me. And somewhere the idea seems to have popped up that she might have been involved in selling steroids.”

  “So there’s no actual substance to this story at all, just a rumour?”

  “It’s no rumour that the police are looking into the possibility. Whether they’re right or wrong, I have no idea yet.”

  “O.K., Johannes. I want you to know that what I’m discussing with you now has nothing to do with my dealings with Holm. I think you’re an excellent reporter. You write well and you have an eye for detail. In short, this is a good story. My problem is that I don’t believe it.”

  “I can assure you that it’s quite true.”

  “And I have to explain to you why there’s a fundamental flaw in the story. Where did the tip come from?”

  “From a source within the police.”

  “Who?”

  Frisk hesitated. It was an automatic response. Like every other journalist the world over, he was unwilling to name his source. On the other hand, Berger was editor-in-chief and therefore one of the few people who could demand that information from him.

  “An officer named Faste in the Violent Crimes Division.”

  “Did he call you or did you call him?”

  “He called me.”

  “Why do you think he called you?”

  “I interviewed him a couple of times during the hunt for Salander. He knows who I am.”

  “And he knows you’re twenty-seven and a temp and that you’re useful when he wants to plant information that the prosecutor wants put out.”

  “Sure, I understand all that. But I get a tip from the police investigation and go over and have a coffee with Faste and he tells me this. He is correctly quoted. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I’m persuaded that you quoted him accurately. What should have happened is that you should have taken the information to Holm, who should have knocked on the door of my office and explained the situation, and together we would have decided what to do.”

  “I get it. But I—”

  “You left the material with Holm, who’s the news editor. You acted correctly. But let’s analyse your article. First of all, why would Faste want to leak this information?”

  Frisk shrugged.

  “Does that mean that you don’t know, or that you don’t care?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If I were to tell you that this story is untrue, and that Salander doesn’t have a thing to do with anabolic steroids, what do you say then?”

  “I can’t prove otherwise.”

  “No indeed. But you think we should publish a story that might be a lie just because we have no proof that it’s a lie.”

  “No, we have a journalistic responsibility. But it’s a balancing act. We can’t refuse to publish when we have a source who makes a specific claim.”

  “We can ask why the source might want this information to get out. Let me explain why I gave orders that everything to do with Salander has to cross my desk. I have special knowledge of the subject that no-one else at S.M.P. has. The legal department has been informed that I possess this knowledge but cannot discuss it with them. Millennium is going to publish a story that I am contractually bound not to reveal to S.M.P., despite the fact that I work here. I obtained the information in my capacity as editor-in-chief of Millennium, and right now I’m caught between two loyalties. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “What I learned at Millennium tells me that I can say without a doubt that this story is a lie, and its purpose is to damage Salander before the trial.”

  “It would be hard to do her any more damage, considering all the revelations that have already come out about her.”

  “Revelations that are largely lies and distortions. Hans Faste is one of the key sources for the claims that Salander is a paranoid and violence-prone lesbian devoted to Satanism and S. & M. And the media as a whole bought Faste’s propaganda simply because he appears to be a serious source and it’s always cool to write about S. & M. And now he’s trying a new angle which will put her at a disadvantage in the public consciousness, and which he wants S.M.P. to help disseminate. Sorry, but not on my watch.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? Good. Then I can sum up everything I said in two sentences. Your job description as a journalist is to question and scrutinize most critically. And never to repeat claims uncritically, no matter how highly placed the sources in the bureaucracy. Don’t ever forget that. You’re a terrific writer, but that talent is completely worthless if you forget your job description.”

  “Right.”

  “I intend to kill this story.”

  “I understand.”

  “This doesn’t mean that I distrust you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So that’s why I’m sending you back to your desk with a proposal for a new story.�
��

  “Alright.”

  “The whole thing has to do with my contract with Millennium. I’m not allowed to reveal what I know about the Salander story. At the same time I’m editor-in-chief of a newspaper that’s in danger of skidding because the newsroom doesn’t have the information that I have. And we can’t allow that to happen. This is a unique situation and applies only to Salander. That’s why I’ve decided to choose a reporter and steer him in the right direction so that we won’t end up with our trousers down when Millennium comes out.”

  “And you think that Millennium will be publishing something noteworthy about Salander?”

  “I don’t think so, I know so. Millennium is sitting on a scoop that will turn the Salander story on its head, and it’s driving me crazy that I can’t go public with it.”

  “You say you’re rejecting my article because you know that it isn’t true. That means there’s something in the story that all the other reporters have missed.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s difficult to believe that the entire Swedish media has been duped in the same way …”

  “Salander has been the object of a media frenzy. That’s when normal rules no longer apply, and any drivel can be posted on a billboard.”

  “So you’re saying that Salander isn’t exactly what she seems to be.”

  “Try out the idea that she’s innocent of these accusations, that the picture painted of her on the billboards is nonsense, and that there are forces at work you haven’t even dreamed of.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  Berger nodded.

  “So what I just handed in is part of a continuing campaign against her.”

  “Precisely.”

  Frisk scratched his head. Berger waited until he had finished thinking.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go back to your desk and start working on another story. You don’t have to stress out about it, but just before the trial begins we might be able to publish a whole feature that examines the accuracy of all the statements that have been made about Salander. Start by reading through the clippings, list everything that’s been said about her, and check off the allegations one by one.”

  “Alright.”

  “Think like a reporter. Investigate who’s spreading the story, why it’s being spread, and ask yourself whose interests it might serve.”

  “But I probably won’t be at S.M.P. when the trial starts. This is my last week.”

  Berger took a plastic folder from a desk drawer and laid a sheet of paper in front of him.

  “I’ve extended your assignment by three months. You’ll finish off this week with your ordinary duties and report in here on Monday.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you want to keep working at S.M.P., that is.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You’re contracted to do investigative work outside the normal editorial job. You’ll report directly to me. You’re going to be a special correspondent assigned to the Salander trial.”

  “The news editor is going to have something to say—”

  “Don’t worry about Holm. I’ve talked with the head of the legal department and fixed it so there won’t be any hassle there. But you’re going to be digging into the background, not news reporting. Does that sound good?”

  “It sounds fantastic.”

  “Right then … that’s all. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  As she waved him out of the glass cage she saw Holm watching her from the other side of the news desk. He lowered his gaze and pretended that he had not been looking at her.

  CHAPTER 11

  Friday, 13.v – Saturday, 14.v

  Blomkvist made sure that he was not being watched when he walked from the Millennium offices early on Friday morning to Salander’s old apartment block on Lundagatan. He had to meet Idris Ghidi in Göteborg. The question was how to travel there without being observed or leaving a trail. He decided against the train, since he did not want to use a credit card. Normally he would borrow Berger’s car, but that was no longer possible. He had thought about asking Cortez or someone else to rent a car for him, but that too would leave a trace.

  Finally he lit upon the obvious solution. He withdrew cash from an A.T.M. on Götgatan. He had Salander’s keys to her burgundy Honda. It had been parked outside her building since March. He adjusted the seat and saw that the petrol tank was half full. Then he backed out and headed across Liljeholmsbron towards the E4.

  At 2.50 he parked on a side street off Avenyn in Göteborg. He had a late lunch at the first café he saw. At 4.10 he took the tram to Angered and got off in the centre of town. It took twenty minutes to find the address where Idris Ghidi lived. He was about ten minutes late for their meeting.

  Ghidi opened the door, shook hands with Blomkvist, and invited him into a living room with spartan furnishings. He had a limp. He asked Blomkvist to take a seat at the table next to a dresser on which were a dozen framed photographs, which Blomkvist studied.

  “My family,” Ghidi said.

  He spoke with a thick accent. Blomkvist suspected that he would not pass the language test recommended by the People’s Party of Sweden.

  “Are those your brothers?”

  “My two brothers on the left who were murdered by Saddam in the ’80s. That’s my father in the middle. My two uncles were murdered by Saddam in the ’90s. My mother died in 2000. My three sisters are still alive. Two are in Syria and my little sister is in Madrid.”

  Ghidi poured Turkish coffee.

  “Kurdo Baksi sends his greetings.”

  “Kurdo said you wanted to hire me for a job, but not what it was. I have to tell you, right away, that I won’t take the job if it’s illegal. I don’t dare get mixed up in anything like that.”

  “There is nothing illegal in what I am going to ask you to do. But it is unusual. The job itself will last for a couple of weeks. It must be done each day, but it will take only a minute of your time. For this I’m willing to pay you a thousand kronor a week. You will be paid by me, and I won’t report it to the tax authorities.”

  “I understand. What is it I have to do?”

  “One of your jobs at Sahlgrenska hospital – six days a week, if I understood correctly – is to clean corridor 11C, the intensive care unit.”

  Ghidi nodded.

  “This is what I want you to do.”

  Blomkvist leaned forward and explained his plan.

  Prosecutor Ekström took stock of his visitor. It was the third time he had met Superintendent Nyström. He saw a lined face framed by short grey hair. Nyström had first come to see him in the days following the murder of Karl Axel Bodin. He had offered credentials to indicate that he worked for S.I.S. They had had a long, subdued conversation.

  “It’s important that you understand this: in no way am I trying to influence how you might act or how you do your job. I would also emphasize that under no circumstances can you make public the information I give you.” Nyström said.

  “I understand.”

  If truth be told, Ekström did not entirely understand, but he did not want to seem very unclever by asking questions. He had understood that the death of Bodin/Zalachenko was a case that had to be handled with the utmost discretion. He had also understood that Nyström’s visit was off the record, although endorsed by the highest authorities within the Security Police.

  “This is most assuredly a matter of life or death,” Nyström had said at their very first meeting. “As far as the Security Police are concerned, everything related to the Zalachenko case is Top Secret. I can tell you that he is a defector, a former agent of Soviet military intelligence, and a key player in the Russians’ offensive against western Europe in the ’70s.”

  “That’s what Blomkvist at Millennium is evidently alleging.”

  “And in this instance Blomkvist is quite correct. He’s a journalist who happened to stumble upon one of the most secret operations ever conducted by Swedi
sh defence.”

  “He’s going to publish the information.”

  “Of course. He represents the media, with all the advantages and drawbacks. We live in a democracy and naturally we cannot influence what is written in the press. The problem in this case is that Blomkvist knows only a fraction of the truth about Zalachenko, and much of what he thinks he knows is wrong.”

  “I see.”

  “What Blomkvist doesn’t grasp is that if the truth about Zalachenko comes out, the Russians will swiftly identify our informants and sources in Russia. People who have risked their lives for democracy will be in danger of being killed.”

  “But isn’t Russia a democracy now too? I mean, if this had been during the communist days—”

  “That’s an illusion. This is about people who spied formerly within the Soviet Union – no regime in the world would stand for that, even if it happened many years ago. And a number of these sources are still active.”

  No such agents existed, but Ekström could not know that. He was bound to take Nyström at his word. And he could not help feeling flattered that he was being given information – off the record, of course – that was among the most secret to be found in Sweden. He was slightly surprised that the Swedish Security Police had been able to penetrate the Russian military to the degree Nyström was describing, and he perfectly understood that this was, of course, information that absolutely could not be disseminated.

  “When I was assigned to make contact with you, we did an extensive investigation of your background,” Nyström said.

  The seduction always involved discovering someone’s weaknesses. Prosecutor Ekström’s weakness was his conviction as to his own importance. He was like everyone else, he appreciated flattery. The trick was to make him feel that he had been specially chosen.

  “And we have been able to satisfy ourselves that you are a man who enjoys enormous respect within the police force … and of course in government circles.”

  Ekström looked pleased. That unnamed individuals in government circles had great confidence in him implied that he could count on their gratitude if he played his cards right.