Millennium 03 - The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest Page 31

  (2) Neither Lundin or Sonny Nieminen has said a word about what happened at Stallarholmen. Lundin has been arrested for kidnapping Miriam. Nieminen has been released.

  Salander had already discussed all of this with Giannini. That was nothing new. She had told Giannini everything that had happened in Gosseberga, but she had refrained from telling her anything about Bjurman.

  What I think you haven’t understood are the rules of the game.

  It’s like this. Säpo got saddled with Zalachenko in the middle of the Cold War. For fifteen years he was protected, no matter what havoc he wrought. Careers were built on Zalachenko. On any number of occasions they cleaned up behind his rampages. This is all criminal activity: Swedish authorities helping to cover up crime against individual citizens.

  If this gets out, there’ll be a scandal that will affect both the conservative and social democratic parties. Above all, people in high places within Säpo will be exposed as accomplices in criminal and immoral activities. Even though by now the statute of limitations has run out on the specific instances of crime, there’ll still be a scandal. It involves big beasts who are either retired now or close to retirement.

  They will do everything they can to reduce the damage to themselves and their group, and that means you’ll once again be a pawn in their game. But this time it’s not a matter of them sacrificing a pawn – it’ll be a matter of them actively needing to limit the damage to themselves personally. So you’ll have to be locked up again.

  This is how it will work. They know that they can’t keep the lid on the Zalachenko secret for long. I’ve got the story, and they know that sooner or later I’m going to publish it. It doesn’t matter so much, of course, now that he’s dead. What matters to them is their own survival. The following points are therefore high on their agenda:

  (1) They have to convince the district court (the public, in effect) that the decision to lock you up in St Stefan’s in 1991 was a legitimate one, that you really were mentally ill.

  (2) They have to separate the “Salander affair” from the “Zalachenko affair”. They’ll try to create a situation where they can say that “certainly Zalachenko was a fiend, but that had nothing to do with the decision to lock up his daughter. She was locked up because she was deranged – any claims to the contrary are the sick fantasies of bitter journalists. No, we did not assist Zalachenko in any crime – that’s the delusion of a mentally ill teenage girl.”

  (3) The problem is that if you’re acquitted, it would mean that the district court finds you not only not guilty, but also not a nutcase. And that would have to mean that locking you up in 1991 was illegal. So they have, at all costs, to condemn you again to the locked psychiatric ward. If the court determines that you are mentally ill, the media’s interest in continuing to dig around in the “Salander affair” will die away. That is how the media work.

  Are you with me?

  All of this she had already worked out for herself. The problem was that she did not know what she should do.

  Lisbeth – seriously – this battle is going to be decided in the mass media and not in the courtroom. Unfortunately the trial is going to be held behind closed doors “to protect your privacy”.

  The day that Zalachenko was shot there was a robbery at my apartment. There were no signs on my door of a break-in, and nothing was touched or moved – except for one thing. The folder from Bjurman’s summer cabin with Björck’s report was taken. At the same time my sister was mugged and her copy of the report was also stolen. That folder is your most important evidence.

  I have let it be known that our Zalachenko documents are gone, disappeared. In fact I had a third copy that I was going to give to Armansky. I made several copies of that one and have tucked them away in safe places.

  Our opponents – who include several high-powered figures and certain psychiatrists – are of course also preparing for the trial together with Prosecutor Ekström. I have a source who provides me with some info. on what’s going on, but I suspect that you might have a better chance of finding out the relevant information. This is urgent.

  The prosecutor is going to try to get you locked up in the psychiatric ward. Assisting him he has your old friend Peter Teleborian.

  Annika won’t be able to go out and do a media campaign in the same way that the prosecution can (and does), leaking information as they see fit. Her hands are tied.

  But I’m not lumbered with that sort of restriction. I write whatever I want – and I also have an entire magazine at my disposal.

  Two important details are still needed:

  (1) First of all, I want to have something that shows that Prosecutor Ekström is today working with Teleborian in some inappropriate manner, and that the objective once more is to confine you to a nuthouse. I want to be able to go on any talk show on T.V. and present documentation that annihilates the prosecution’s game.

  (2) To wage a media war I must be able to appear in public to discuss things that you may consider your private business. Hiding behind the arras in this situation is a wildly overrated tactic in view of all that has been written about you since Easter. I have to be able to construct a completely new media image of you, even if that, in your opinion, means invading your privacy – preferably with your approval. Do you understand what I mean?

  She opened the archive in [Idiotic_Table]. It contained twenty-six documents.

  CHAPTER 14

  Wednesday, 18.v

  Figuerola got up at 5.00 on Wednesday morning and went for an unusually short run before she showered and dressed in black jeans, a white top, and a lightweight grey linen jacket. She made coffee and poured it into a thermos and then made sandwiches. She also strapped on a shoulder holster and took her Sig Sauer from the gun cabinet. Just after 6.00 she drove her white Saab 9-5 to Vittangigatan in Vällingby.

  Mårtensson’s apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building in the suburbs. The day before, she had assembled everything that could be found out about him in the public archives. He was unmarried, but that did not mean that he might not be living with someone. He had no black marks in police records, no great fortune, and did not seem to lead a fast life. He very seldom called in sick.

  The one conspicuous thing about him was that he had licences for no fewer than sixteen weapons. Three of them were hunting rifles, the others were handguns of various types. As long as he had a licence, of course, there was no crime, but Figuerola harboured a deep scepticism about anyone who collected weapons on such a scale.

  The Volvo with the registration beginning KAB was in the car park about thirty metres from where Figuerola herself parked. She poured black coffee into a paper cup and ate a lettuce and cheese baguette. Then she peeled an orange and sucked each segment to extinction.

  At morning rounds, Salander was out of sorts and had a bad headache. She asked for a Tylenol, which she was immediately given.

  After an hour the headache had grown worse. She rang for the nurse and asked for another Tylenol. That did not help either. By lunchtime she had such a headache that the nurse called Dr Endrin, who examined her patient briskly and prescribed a powerful painkiller.

  Salander held the tablets under her tongue and spat them out as soon as she was alone.

  At 2.00 in the afternoon she threw up. This recurred at around 3.00.

  At 4.00 Jonasson came up to the ward just as Dr Endrin was about to go home. They conferred briefly.

  “She feels sick and she has a strong headache. I gave her Dexofen. I don’t understand what’s going on with her. She’s been doing so well lately. It might be some sort of flu …”

  “Does she have a fever?” asked Jonasson.

  “No. She had 37.2 an hour ago.”

  “I’m going to keep an eye on her overnight.”

  “I’ll be going on holiday for three weeks,” Endrin said. “Either you or Svantesson will have to take over her case. But Svantesson hasn’t had much to do with her …”

  “I’ll arrange to be
her primary care doctor while you’re on holiday.”

  “Good. If there’s a crisis and you need help, do call.”

  They paid a short visit to Salander’s sickbed. She was lying with the sheet pulled up to the tip of her nose, and she looked miserable. Jonasson put his hand on her forehead and felt that it was damp.

  “I think we’ll have to do a quick examination.”

  He thanked Dr Endrin, and she left.

  At 5.00 Jonasson discovered that Salander had developed a temperature of 37.8, which was noted on her chart. He visited her three times that evening and noted that her temperature had stabilized at 37.8 – too high, certainly, but not so high as to present a real problem. At 8.00 he ordered a cranial X-ray.

  When the X-rays came through he studied them intently. He could not see anything remarkable, but he did observe that there was a barely visible darker area immediately adjacent to the bullet hole. He wrote a carefully worded and noncommittal comment on her chart: Radiological examination gives a basis for definitive conclusions but the condition of the patient has deteriorated steadily during the day. It cannot be ruled out that there is a minor bleed that is not visible on the images. The patient should be confined to bedrest and kept under strict observation until further notice.

  Berger had received twenty-three emails by the time she arrived at S.M.P. at 6.30 on Wednesday morning.

  One of them had the address editorial-sr@swedishradio.com>. The text was short. A single word.

  WHORE

  She raised her index finger to delete the message. At the last moment she changed her mind. She went back to her inbox and opened the message that had arrived two days before. The sender was centraled@smpost.se>. So … two emails with the word “whore” and a phoney sender from the world of mass media. She created a new folder called [MediaFool] and saved both messages. Then she got busy on the morning memo.

  Mårtensson left home at 7.40 that morning. He got into his Volvo and drove towards the city but turned off to go across Stora Essingen and Gröndal into Södermalm. He drove down Hornsgatan and across to Bellmansgatan via Brännkyrkagatan. He turned left on to Tavastgatan at the Bishop’s Arms pub and parked at the corner.

  Just as Figuerola reached the Bishop’s Arms, a van pulled out and left a parking space on Bellmansgatan at the corner with Tavastgatan. From her ideal location at the top of the hill she had an unobstructed view. She could just see the back window of Mårtensson’s Volvo. Straight ahead of her, on the steep slope down towards Pryssgränd, was Bellmansgatan 1. She was looking at the building from the side, so she could not see the front door itself, but as soon as anyone came out on to the street, she would see them. She had no doubt that this particular address was the reason for Mårtensson’s being there. It was Blomkvist’s front door.

  Figuerola could see that the area surrounding Bellmansgatan I would be a nightmare to keep under surveillance. The only spot from which the entrance door to the building could be observed directly was from the promenade and footbridge on upper Bellmansgatan near the Maria lift and the Laurinska building. There was nowhere there to park a car, and the watcher would stand exposed on the footbridge like a swallow perched on an old telephone wire in the country. The crossroads of Bellmansgatan and Tavastgatan, where Figuerola had parked, was basically the only place where she could sit in her car and have a view of the whole. She had been incredibly lucky. Yet it was not a particularly good place because any alert observer would see her in her car. But she did not want to leave the car and start walking around the area. She was too easily noticeable. In her role as undercover officer her looks worked against her.

  Blomkvist emerged at 9.10. Figuerola noted the time. She saw him look up at the footbridge on upper Bellmansgatan. He started up the hill straight towards her.

  She opened her handbag and unfolded a map of Stockholm which she placed on the passenger seat. Then she opened a notebook and took a pen from her jacket pocket. She pulled out her mobile and pretended to be talking, keeping her head bent so that the hand holding her telephone hid part of her face.

  She saw Blomkvist glance down Tavastgatan. He knew he was being watched and he must have seen Mårtensson’s Volvo, but he kept walking without showing any interest in the car. Acts calm and cool. Somebody should have opened the car door and scared the shit out of him.

  The next moment he passed Figuerola’s car. She was obviously trying to find an address on the map while she talked on the telephone, but she could sense Blomkvist looking at her as he passed. Suspicious of everything around him. She saw him in the wing mirror on the passenger side as he went on down towards Hornsgatan. She had seen him on T. V. a couple of times, but this was the first time she had seen him in person. He was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt and a grey jacket. He carried a shoulder bag and he walked with a long, loose stride. A nice-looking man.

  Mårtensson appeared at the corner by the Bishop’s Arms and watched Blomkvist go. He had a large sports bag over his shoulder and was just finishing a call on his mobile. Figuerola expected him to follow his quarry, but to her surprise he crossed the street right in front of her car and turned down the hill towards Blomkvist’s building. A second later a man in blue overalls passed her car and caught up with Mårtensson. Hello, where did you spring from?

  They stopped outside the door to Blomkvist’s building. Mårtensson punched in the code and they disappeared into the stairwell. They’re checking the apartment. Amateur night. What the hell does he think he’s doing?

  Then Figuerola raised her eyes to the rear-view mirror and gave a start when she saw Blomkvist again. He was standing about ten metres behind her, close enough that he could keep an eye on Mårtensson and his buddy by looking over the crest of the steep hill down towards Bellmansgatan 1. She watched his face. He was not looking at her. But he had seen Mårtensson go in through the front door of his building. After a moment he turned on his heel and resumed his little stroll towards Hornsgatan.

  Figuerola sat motionless for thirty seconds. He knows he’s being watched. He’s keeping track of what goes on around him. But why doesn’t he react? A normal person would react, and pretty strongly at that … He must have something up his sleeve.

  Blomkvist hung up and rested his gaze on the notebook on his desk. The national vehicle register had just informed him that the car he had seen at the top of Bellmansgatan with the blonde woman inside was owned by Monica Figuerola, born in 1969, and living on Pontonjärgatan in Kungsholmen. Since it was a woman in the car, Blomkvist assumed it was Figuerola herself.

  She had been talking on her mobile and looking at a map that was unfolded on the passenger seat. Blomkvist had no reason to believe that she had anything to do with the Zalachenko club, but he made a note of every deviation from the norm in his working day, and especially around his neighbourhood.

  He called Karim in.

  “Who is this woman, Lottie? Dig up her passport picture, where she works … and anything else you can find.”

  Sellberg looked rather startled. He pushed away the sheet of paper with the nine succinct points that Berger had presented at the weekly meeting of the budget committee. Flodin looked similarly concerned. Chairman Borgsjö appeared neutral, as always.

  “This is impossible,” Sellberg said with a polite smile.

  “Why so?” Berger said.

  “The board will never go along with this. It defies all rhyme or reason.”

  “Shall we take it from the top?” Berger said. “I was hired to make S.M.P. profitable again. To do that I have to have something to work with, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I can’t wave a magic wand and conjure up the contents of a daily newspaper by sitting in my glass cage and just wishing for things.”

  “You don’t quite understand the hard economic facts.”

  “That’s quite possible. But I understand making newspapers. And the reality is that over the past fifteen years, S.M.P.’s personnel has been reduced by 118. Half were graph
ic artists and so on, replaced by new technology … but the number of reporters contributing to copy was reduced by 48 during that period.”

  “Those were necessary cuts. If the staff hadn’t been cut, the paper would have folded long since. At least Morander understood the necessity of the reductions.”

  “Well, let’s wait and see what’s necessary and what isn’t. In three years, nineteen reporter jobs have disappeared. In addition, we now have a situation in which nine positions at S.M.P. are vacant and are being to some extent covered by temps. The sports desk is dangerously understaffed. There should be nine employees there, and for more than a year two positions have remained unfilled.”

  “It’s a question of saving money we’re not going to have. It’s that simple.”

  “The culture section has three unfilled positions. The business section has one. The legal desk does not even in practice exist … there we have a chief editor who borrows reporters from the news desk for each of his features. And so on. S.M.P. hasn’t done any serious coverage of the civil service and government agencies for at least eight years. We depend for that on freelancers and the material from the T. T. wire service. And as you know, T. T. shut down its civil service desk some years ago. In other words, there isn’t a single news desk in Sweden covering the civil service and the government agencies.”

  “The newspaper business is in a vulnerable position—”

  “The reality is that S.M.P. should either be shut down immediately, or the board should find a way to take an aggressive stance. Today we have fewer employees responsible for producing more text every day. The articles they turn out are terrible, superficial, and they lack credibility. That’s why S.M.P. is losing its readers.”