The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye

by David Lagercrantz

  “Our society would be shaken to its foundations.”

  “Exactly, and that’s what happened to some extent a few months ago.”

  “You mean the hacker attack on Finance Security? The old Värdepapperscentralen?”

  “Correct. We had a situation there in which our investments ceased to exist for a short time. They couldn’t be found anywhere in cyberspace and the market reeled. The krona fell by 46 percent.”

  “Yet the Stockholm Exchange reacted prodigiously quickly and closed all trading platforms.”

  “Indeed, we have to hand it to the people in charge there, Karin. But the collapse was limited by the fact that nobody in Sweden could keep dealing. There were no longer any assets. But believe you me, some people grew richer on the back of it. It’s enough to make your head spin. You cannot imagine what they made, those who created the crash and then took positions in the market. You would have to rob innumerable banks to amass that sort of money.”

  “Absolutely,” Laestander said. “There was a great deal written about it, not least in Millennium by Mikael Blomkvist. In fact I can see him sitting there at the back. But in truth, Leo, how serious was it, really?”

  “In actual fact there was no major danger. Both Finance Security and the Swedish banks have extensive backup systems. Still, for a time we came to doubt the very existence of capital in a digital world.”

  “The hacker attacks were also accompanied by a massive disinformation campaign on social media.”

  “Very much so. There was an avalanche of fake tweets about how our assets could never be reconstructed, so it was an attack on our faith as much as on our money—to the extent, that is, that you can distinguish between the two.”

  “It seems there is conclusive evidence that both the hacker attack and the accompanying disinformation campaign on social media originated in Russia.”

  “We should be careful about accusations like that, but it’s still an eye-opener. Perhaps that is exactly how a war of aggression in the future will begin. Few things would create as much chaos as a complete loss of faith in our money. You have to keep in mind that it’s not even necessary for us to doubt. It’s enough if we think that others do.”

  “Could you elaborate on that, Leo?”

  “Picture a large crowd. We ourselves may know that the situation is under control and nothing dangerous has happened. But if other people begin to run in panic, we have to run too. Good old Keynes, legendary economist, once compared the stock market to a beauty contest—one in which we, the jury, do not select the person we think is the most beautiful, but the one we think is going to win.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That we have to forget our own preferences and instead think about other people’s tastes and opinions. In fact, not even that: we should be thinking about who people think other people think is the most beautiful. Which is no more involved than what happens every second of the day in the financial markets. The stock market is not just the result of analyses of the values of companies and the world around us. Psychological factors play an equal role, real psychological mechanisms, and guessing about them. Guessing about other people’s guesses. Everything is twisted and turned around because everybody wants to be one step ahead, to be able, so to speak, to start running before anyone else does, and this is no different than in Keynes’ day. Actually, increased automated trading is making markets even more self-reflective. Algorithms act on people’s buy and sell orders, so that patterns are reinforced. There’s a significant risk with this. A quick movement in the market can accelerate out of control. In such a situation it becomes rational to act irrationally—to rush even though you know it’s lunacy to do so. It’s no good standing there shouting ‘Dimwits, there’s no danger,’ when everyone else is running for their lives.”

  “But surely if the panic is unjustified, the market will correct itself, will it not?” Laestander said.

  “It can take time, though, and then it doesn’t matter how right you are. You can be right all the way to the bankruptcy courts, to paraphrase Keynes again. But there is hope, and that’s because the market is able to reflect on itself. When a meteorologist analyzes the weather, that doesn’t change the weather. But when we study the economy, our guesses and analyses become a part of the economic organism. That’s why the market is like any self-respecting neurotic—it’s capable of evolving and becoming a little bit wiser.”

  “That makes it impossible to predict, doesn’t it?”

  “A bit like me on stage. We never really know when there’s going to be a wobble.”

  Genuine laughter could be heard now, and in it a kind of relief. Mannheimer gave a careful smile and took a step towards the edge of the stage.

  “In that respect, the stock market is a paradox,” he said. “We all want to understand it and make money from it. But if we really understood it, our very understanding would transform it, and then it would become something else, a mutated virus. The one thing we can predict with certainty is that it’s unpredictable.”

  “And our disparity is its very soul,” Laestander said.

  “Quite so. You need both buyers and sellers, believers and doubters, and that’s the beauty of it. The chorus of dissonant voices often makes it astonishingly wise, shrewder than any of us here who like to play the armchair guru. If people all over the world separately ask themselves: ‘How can we make as much money as possible?’ and when there is a perfect balance between guesswork and knowledge, between the buyer’s hope and the seller’s doubt, then an almost prophetic insight can appear. The problem is: When does the market know what it’s doing? And when has it gone mad and run off like a crazy mob?”

  “How are we supposed to know?”

  “That’s the point,” Mannheimer said. “When I’m feeling full of myself, I like to say that I now know enough about the financial markets to realize that I don’t understand them.”

  —

  Malin whispered in Blomkvist’s ear:

  “He’s certainly no fool, is he?”

  Blomkvist was about to reply when his mobile buzzed in his pocket. It was his sister, Annika. He thought about his conversation with Palmgren, whispered an apology and, deep in thought, left the auditorium without noticing that his departure brought a flicker of alarm to Mannheimer’s face. But Malin did not fail to see it, and she studied Mannheimer intently. She had another vision of him sitting in his office, writing on that sand-coloured paper. There was something significant and strange about the scene. She felt it more clearly now, and she decided to buttonhole Mannheimer after the presentation to ask him about it.

  —

  Blomkvist stood on the wharf, looking out across the water towards Gamla Stan and the Royal Palace. The sea was calm and in the distance a cruise ship was coming in to dock. He decided to use his Android mobile and his encrypted Signal app to call Giannini back. She answered after one ring, sounding slightly out of breath, so he asked if anything had happened. She was on her way home from Flodberga, she said. Salander had been questioned by the police.

  “Is she accused of something?”

  “Not yet, and with any luck she won’t be. But it’s serious, Mikael.”

  “Well, let’s have it!”

  “Easy, easy. That woman I was telling you about, Benito Andersson, the one who’s been threatening and exploiting both the staff and fellow prisoners—an unimaginably sadistic person—well, she’s been taken to Örebro University Hospital with severe injuries to her jaw and skull after a violent attack in the maximum security unit.”

  “And what’s that got to do with Lisbeth?”

  “Let me put it like this: The head of the unit, Alvar Olsen, claims he did it. He says he had to knock Benito out. Because she went for someone with a stiletto.”

  “Inside the prison?”

  “It’s a huge scandal, of course, and there’s a parallel investigation going on to find out how the knife could have been smuggled in. So I’d say that the attack in itself shouldn’t be a prob
lem. Getting it adjudged as self-defence shouldn’t be too difficult, especially since Olsen’s version is backed up by Faria Kazi, the woman from Bangladesh I told you about. Faria is adamant that Olsen saved her life.”

  “So what’s the problem for Lisbeth?”

  “Her own witness statement, for a start.”

  “She was a witness?”

  “Let’s deal with one thing at a time. There are contradictions between Faria’s witness statement and Olsen’s. Olsen claims that he punched Benito twice on the windpipe while Faria says that he elbowed her, and Benito then fell badly onto the concrete floor. But that may not be a problem. All experienced criminal investigators know that people’s memories of traumatic incidents can be surprisingly inconsistent. What the C.C.T.V. shows is more problematic.”

  “Which is…?”

  “The whole drama happened just after 7:30 in the evening. It’s the worst time in the maximum security unit. Most of the violence there occurs just before the cell doors are locked and, as Olsen knows perfectly well, no-one has been more exposed to it than Faria. He’s been aware, but hasn’t dared to do anything about it. He says so himself. He’s good in that way, very frank—I’ve seen a copy of his interview notes. At 7:32 last night he’s sitting in his office, and finally gets the call he’s been waiting on for so long: he learns that Benito’s going to be transferred to another prison. Yet he says nothing, apparently, he just puts down the receiver.”

  “Why?”

  “Because at exactly that moment he realizes that it’s 7:30, he says. He’s worried, he rushes off to open the sally port gates with his code and runs along the corridor of the maximum security unit. The strange thing is…just then another inmate, Tine Grönlund, bursts out of Faria’s cell. People in the maximum security unit call Grönlund Benito’s lapdog, so that raises the question: Why does she come rushing out? Because she hears Olsen coming, or for some entirely different reason? Olsen says he never even sees her. He’s busy barging past all the inmates gathered outside Faria’s door, and once he’s in the cell he discovers Benito with the knife in her hand. He hits her as hard as he can on the windpipe. For reasons of privacy there are no cameras in the cells, so we can’t check his story. To me he seemed like a man of principle and integrity. But Lisbeth is already in the cell at that stage.”

  “And Lisbeth isn’t the sort to stand idle while abuse happens in front of her eyes.”

  “Especially not when the victim is a woman like Faria. But that’s not all.”

  “OK, go on.”

  “The mood in the unit, Mikael. As usual in prison, no-one wants to talk. But even at a distance you can tell that the atmosphere is seething. When I was just passing through the dining hall with Lisbeth the inmates started rattling their mugs on the tables. They see her as a hero, but also…as someone with a death sentence. I heard the words ‘dead woman walking.’ Even though it only adds to her reputation, it’s critical, not just because of the unpleasant message in the words. It will also get the police thinking: If it really was Olsen who smashed Benito’s jaw, how come Lisbeth is the one being threatened?”

  “I get it,” Blomkvist said reflectively.

  “Lisbeth is now in isolation and she’s being treated with deep suspicion. Of course, there are many points in her favour. No-one seems to believe that someone so slight could have delivered such a devastating punch. And no-one can understand why Olsen would take the blame—and be backed by Faria—if he wasn’t the one who hit Benito. But Mikael, for such an intelligent woman, Lisbeth is being exasperatingly dumb.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She won’t say a word about what happened. She has only two things to communicate, she says.”

  “And what are they?”

  “One, that Benito got what she deserved. And two, that Benito got what she deserved.”

  Blomkvist laughed. He had no idea why. He knew the situation was serious.

  “So what do you believe really happened?” he asked.

  “My job isn’t to believe, it’s to defend my client,” Giannini said. “But purely as a hypothesis: Benito is exactly the type of person Lisbeth can’t tolerate.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. You can help me with Faria. I’m going to represent her too—on the issues which led to her imprisonment, that is—at Lisbeth’s request. Lisbeth seems to have carried out some research into her background while in prison, and it might make a compelling major story for you and the magazine. Faria’s boyfriend Jamal Chowdhury was killed by falling in front of a tunnelbana train. Could we meet up this evening?”

  “I’m supposed to see Holger Palmgren at 9:00.”

  “Say hi from me, please. He seems to have been trying to get in touch with me today. On second thought, why don’t we have dinner together before? Shall we say 6:00 at Pane Vino?”

  “OK,” Blomkvist said. “Good.”

  He rang off and looked over towards the Grand Hôtel and Kungsträdgården, wondering whether to go back to the seminar. Instead he Googled a few things on his mobile, and it was nearly twenty minutes before he headed back in.

  As he hurried past the table in the entrance with its display of books, something peculiar happened. He ran straight into Mannheimer. Blomkvist wanted to shake his hand and compliment him on the discussion on stage. But Mannheimer looked so nervous and unhappy that Blomkvist said nothing and watched him disappear out into the sunlight.

  Blomkvist stood there for a minute, thinking. Then he went into the auditorium and looked for Malin. She was no longer in her seat. He could have kicked himself for having taken so long. Did she lose patience and head off? He scanned the room. An older man was now talking up on the podium, pointing at curves and lines on a white screen. Blomkvist ignored him. Eventually he spotted Malin standing at the bar over to the right. Glasses of red and white wine had been lined up as refreshment during the break. Malin, glass in hand, looked crestfallen.

  CHAPTER 8

  June 19

  Faria Kazi leaned against the cell wall and closed her eyes. For the first time in ages she longed to see herself in a mirror. She felt a glimmer of hope, even though there was still fear in her body. She thought about the fact that the prison warden had apologized, and about her new lawyer, Annika Giannini, and the policemen who had questioned her. And of course she thought about Jamal.

  In the pocket of her trousers was a brown-leather holder containing the business card Jamal had given her after the debate at Kulturhuset. JAMAL CHOWDHURY, it read, BLOGGER, WRITER, PH.D. BIOLOGY (UNIVERSITY OF DHAKA), and then his e-mail address and mobile number. Underneath it in a different font was a web address: www.mukto-mona.com. The card was crumpled and the lettering was rubbing off. Jamal must have printed it himself. She never asked and why would she have? She had no way of knowing that this card would become her dearest possession. The night after they first met she had studied it under her blanket while she recalled their conversation and remembered every crease and line in his face. She should have called him right away. She should have gotten in touch that very evening. But she was young and innocent, and she did not want to appear too eager. Above all, how was she to know that soon everything would be taken away from her: her mobile, the computer, even the freedom to walk in the neighbourhood in her niqab?

  Sitting in her cell now, with the faint first light stealing into her life, she remembered again the summer’s day when her aunt Fatima admitted that she had lied for her sake, and Faria had found herself a prisoner in her own home. She was locked in and told that she was to be married off to a second cousin she had never met who owned three textile factories in Dhaka. Three! She had lost track of the number of times she had heard that number.

  “Just imagine, Faria. Three factories!”

  It would have made no difference to her if they had said three hundred and thirty-three. She found the cousin, whose name was Qamar Fatali, repulsive. In photographs he looked arrogant and mean, and it was no surprise
that he was a Salafist and an outspoken opponent of the secular movement in Bangladesh. Nor was she amazed to learn that it was a matter of life and death to Qamar that she remain a virgin and be a good Sunni Muslim woman until the moment he arrived to save her from the West.

  At that time nobody in the family knew about Jamal, but there were other factors being held against her, not just suspicions about what she had really been up to while she was not at Fatima’s. There were also old, innocent Facebook pictures, gossip which was supposed to confirm that she had “made a whore” of herself.

  The front door was security-locked from the inside and since two of the brothers, Ahmed and Bashir, were out of work, there was always somebody at home to keep an eye on her. She did not have much to do other than clean and cook and serve the household, or lie in her room and read whatever she could get her hands on: the Koran, Tagore’s poetry and novels, biographies of Muhammad and the first caliphs. But most of all she liked to daydream. Just thinking about Jamal made her blush. She knew she was being pathetic, but that was her family’s gift to her—because all joy had been taken from her, the mere memory of a walk along Drottninggatan could make the world quake.

  She was already living in a prison then, but she never allowed herself to give in to feelings of resignation or hopelessness. Instead she became furious, and gradually she drew less and less comfort from her memories of Jamal. Just thinking of a conversation where words had flown free made every exchange at home feel inhibited and stiff, and not even God was compensation for that. There was nothing spiritual or generous about God, not in her family. He was little more than a hammer with which to beat people over the head, an instrument for small-mindedness and oppression, exactly as Imam Ferdousi had said. She began to suffer from shortness of breath and palpitations, and in the end she could stand it no longer. She had to escape this life, come what may.

  It was already September. The weather was getting cooler and her eyes gained a new sharpness, constantly on the lookout for possible escape routes. That was just about all she thought of. At night she dreamed of running away, and in the morning she would wake up still fantasizing about it. Often she would steal a look at Khalil, her youngest brother. He too was affected: he was no longer allowed to watch his American or English T.V. series, or even see his best friend, Babak, because he was a Shia. Sometimes Khalil looked at her with such pain, as if he perfectly understood what she was going through. Could he help her?