“The plus side is that Leo can go on living—but in a different way, Daniel. Through you.”
She gestured around the apartment.
“You can have his life, his money and opportunities, an existence you could only have dreamed of before. You can take over, Daniel. You can have it, and I promise you, all the terrible things Leo’s done, his despicable greed, will never come to light. We’ll see to it, we’ll back you up in every way. The fact that you’re mirror-image twins could present some difficulties, admittedly. But you’re so extraordinarily alike. Everything will be fine, I just know it.”
At that very moment Greitz heard a sound she could not identify. It was one of Daniel’s teeth, which he had ground to pieces.
CHAPTER 20
June 22
Leo Mannheimer at last emerged from his office in a light-blue linen suit, grey T-shirt and sneakers, and Blomkvist got up to shake his hand. It was a peculiar meeting. Blomkvist had spent a great deal of time researching this man, and here they were, standing eye to eye. It was immediately apparent that there was something unspoken and painful hanging over him like a shadow, a phantom.
Leo was nervously rubbing his hands together. His nails were long and neat, his hair curly and a little dishevelled, and he seemed to be listening out for something. He looked tense and did not ask Blomkvist to come through, so instead they stood in the large lobby in front of the reception desk.
“I enjoyed your conversation with Karin Laestander at the Fotografiska Museum,” Blomkvist said.
“Thanks,” Leo said. “It was—”
“—clever,” Blomkvist cut in. “And true. We’re living in a time when lies and false news reports have more of an impact than ever. Or should I say ‘alternative facts’?”
“The post-truth society,” Leo replied, and hesitantly returned Blomkvist’s smile.
“Indeed, and we play around with our identities too, don’t we? Pretend to be people we’re not—on Facebook and so on.”
“I’m not actually on Facebook.”
“Me neither. I’ve never really understood the point. But I sometimes mess around with different identities too,” Blomkvist said. “It’s part of my job. How about you?”
Leo glanced at his wristwatch and looked out the window at the square.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I have wall-to-wall meetings today. What is it you wanted to see me about?”
“What do you think?”
“I really have no idea.”
“Anything you’ve had second thoughts about? Anything that would interest my magazine, Millennium?”
Leo swallowed hard. He gave the question serious consideration, and then, looking at the floor, he said:
“I suppose over the years I’ve done a few deals which could have been handled better. They’re a bit of a mess.”
“I’d be happy to take a look at them,” Blomkvist said. “Messes are my speciality. But just now I’m interested in more personal matters, small divergences let’s say.”
“Divergences?”
“Exactly.”
“Such as?”
“Such as you becoming right-handed.”
Leo—if indeed it was Leo—seemed to be listening out for something again. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“I haven’t, actually. I just changed around. I’ve always used both hands.”
“So you write equally well with your right and your left hand?”
“Roughly speaking.”
“Could you show me?”
Blomkvist pulled out a pen and his reporter’s notebook.
“I’d rather not.”
Sweat beaded on Leo’s upper lip. He looked away.
“Are you feeling OK?”
“No, I can’t say that I am.”
“It must be the heat.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’m not in the best shape, myself,” Blomkvist said. “I was up half the night drinking with Hilda von Kanterborg. You know her, don’t you?”
Blomkvist saw fear in the man’s eyes and realized that he had him. He could tell by his look, by the way he squirmed. But maybe—Blomkvist was watching him very carefully—there was something else too, something hard to define, a hint of impatience perhaps, and also doubt. As if Leo, or whoever it might be, was confronting a major decision.
“Hilda told me an unbelievable story,” Blomkvist said.
“Is that so?”
“It was about twins who had been separated at birth. One of the boys was named Daniel Brolin. He had to work like a dog on a farm outside Hudiksvall, while his twin brother—”
“Not so loud,” the man interrupted.
“Excuse me?” Blomkvist pretended to be surprised and looked at him.
“Perhaps we should go for a walk,” he said.
“I’m not so sure—”
“—if we should take a walk?”
The man plainly did not know what to say. He mumbled something about the men’s toilet and hurried off. The excuse was not in the least convincing as he took out his mobile before he was even out of sight. That was when Blomkvist became convinced that he had guessed right. He texted Salander that Leo was almost certainly Daniel.
As he continued to wait, he became increasingly worried that he had been outwitted—that the man had escaped through a back door. The minutes went by and nothing happened, employees and visitors came and went. The young woman at reception smiled and wished everyone a good day.
It was a stylish place with high ceilings and red-patterned wallpaper. Oil paintings of elderly gentlemen in suits, presumably one-time partners or board members, hung on the walls. In this day and age, the lack of women was an obscenity.
Blomkvist’s mobile buzzed. It was Giannini, and he was about to take the call when the man—Leo or Daniel—came back down the corridor. He seemed to have pulled himself together, perhaps he had made some sort of decision. It was hard to tell. His throat was flushed and he looked tense and serious. His eyes were fixed on the floor and he said nothing to Blomkvist, just told the receptionist that he would be gone for a few hours.
They took the lift down and stepped out onto Norrmalmstorg. Stockholm was ferociously hot. People were fanning themselves with newspapers, with anything. Men had slung their jackets over their shoulders. They turned into Hamngatan, and Blomkvist noticed the man look nervously behind him. He briefly wondered whether to suggest that they hop on a bus or take a taxi. Instead they crossed the street into Kungsträdgården. They walked on in silence, as if they were waiting for something to happen.
The man was sweating more than he ought to have been, even in this heat, and again glanced around anxiously. They found themselves diagonally across from Operan, and although he could not put his finger on why, Blomkvist sensed a threat. Maybe he had made a mistake, and the people from the Registry could already be a step ahead of him. He turned around. Nothing. In fact the streets were peaceful; there was a holiday feeling in the air. People sat on park benches and on café terraces, their faces towards the sun. Perhaps his companion’s nervousness was rubbing off on him. He went straight to the point:
“So, shall I call you Leo or Daniel?”
The man bit his lip and a shadow came over his face. A second later he threw himself on top of Blomkvist, and together they crashed to the ground.
—
Greitz, who had been waiting on a bench on Norrmalmstorg, had seen Daniel Brolin walk away with Blomkvist. She understood that elements had been set in motion which would lead to the story leaking out sooner rather than later.
She was neither surprised nor shocked. She had known for some time that the stakes were high, but instead of eliciting mere despair, this allowed her also a kind of freedom. She appeared to have acquired the resolve of someone who has nothing to lose. Plus, she had Benjamin. He was not dying as she was, but he was bound to her by his lifelong loyalty and by the unspeakable things they had done together. If it all came out, his fall would be as great as hers. Without que
stioning it, he had agreed to put Blomkvist out of action and take Daniel to a place where they could talk sense into him.
This was why Benjamin, in spite of the heat, was wearing a black hoodie and dark glasses. He was carrying a concealed syringe filled with ketamine, an anaesthetic which would knock the journalist clean out.
Although she had been suffering from stomach pains all morning, Greitz had dragged herself over to the avenue running alongside Kungsträdgården. In the glaring sunlight she made out Benjamin moving along with quick steps.
Her senses sharpened. The city became one single concentrated moment, one sparkling scene, and she watched intently as Daniel and Blomkvist slowed and the journalist appeared to be asking a question. Good, she thought, that will distract them, and in that moment she believed it would go precisely as planned.
Further down the street a horse-drawn carriage appeared. A blue hot-air balloon hung in the sky and people were walking by in every direction, oblivious to what was going on. Her heart pounded in anticipation and she was breathing deeply. But then Daniel looked up, saw Benjamin and threw Blomkvist to the ground. The journalist lay flat on the pavement and Benjamin hesitated and missed his chance. Blomkvist jumped to his feet. Benjamin lunged at him. But the journalist dodged him, and then Benjamin took to his heels. The coward! Furious, she watched as Daniel and Blomkvist ran towards Operakällaren. They jumped into a taxi and were gone. The heat settled like a wet blanket over Greitz and she felt only how unwell and nauseous she was. Yet she managed to pull herself up to her full height, and as rapidly as she was able she left the scene.
—
Salander was lying pressed against the floor of the grey van, being kicked at intervals in the stomach and face. The noxious rag was again placed over her nose, and she felt woozy and weak as she went in and out of consciousness. She had no trouble recognizing Benito and Bashir, no happy combination. Benito was looking pale and was bandaged around her head and jaw. She was having difficulty moving, so she kept still, which was good. Most of the blows aimed at Salander came from the men: Bashir, bearded and sweaty, dressed in the same clothes as the day before, and a thickset man of about thirty-five with a shaved head, grey T-shirt and black leather vest. A third man was driving.
The van rolled down past Slussen, at least she thought so. She tried to register every detail in the vehicle—a coil of rope, a roll of tape, two screwdrivers. Another kick, this time to her neck. Someone grabbed her hands. They tied her up, frisked her and took her mobile. That was a worry, but the bald guy stuffed it into his pocket and that was fine. She made a note of his physique and jerky movements, and his tendency to keep looking at Benito. He was obviously Benito’s lapdog, not Bashir’s.
There was a bench on the left side of the van. They sat there while she lay on the floor amid the smell of perfume, the stench of rubbing alcohol and sweat from their sneakers. Salander thought they were heading north but she could not be sure, she was far too light-headed. For a long time no-one spoke, the only sounds were of people breathing and engine noise and the metallic rattling of the old van, it must have been at least thirty years old. They drove out onto a main road and after twenty minutes or so began to talk. That was good, that was what she needed. Bashir had a bruise on his throat, from her blow with the hockey stick, she hoped. He looked like he had slept badly. In fact he looked like shit.
“You have no idea how we’re going to make you suffer, you little whore,” he said.
Salander was silent.
“Then I’m going to kill you. Slowly. With my Keris,” Benito said.
Still Salander said nothing. Why would she, when she knew that every word spoken was being transmitted to a number of different computers.
Nothing too sophisticated, at least not by her standards. When they overpowered her in the street she had whispered “Harpy” into her modified iPhone. That had activated her alarm button via S.R.I.’s A.I. system and a boosted microphone was switched on automatically, triggering a sound recording that was sent to all members of the so-called Hacker Republic, together with the mobile’s GPS coordinates.
—
Hacker Republic consisted of a group of elite hackers, all of whom had sworn a solemn oath to use the alarm only in cases of dire emergency. As a consequence a number of talented people all around the world were now breathlessly following the dramatic events in the back of the van. Most did not understand Swedish, but enough did, including Salander’s friend on Högklintavägen in Sundbyberg.
Plague was as wide as a house at 330 pounds, but stooped from spending all day at his keyboard. His beard was a thicket and he hadn’t had a haircut since the previous year. He looked like a case for social welfare, but he was an I.T. genius. He was sitting by his computer in his frayed blue dressing gown, nerves on high alert, following the GPS cooordinates northwards towards Uppsala. The car—it sounded large, and old—turned east onto National Highway 77 towards Knivsta, and that was not good. They were heading further out into the countryside, where GPS coverage was patchy at best. He heard the woman in the vehicle again, her voice hoarse and weak, as if she were unwell.
“Do you have any idea how slowly you’re going to die, you bitch? Do you?”
Plague looked at his desk in desperation. It was strewn with scraps of paper, used coffee cups and greasy Styrofoam containers. His back hurt. He had gained weight, which did not help his diabetes, and it was almost a week since he had last been out of the house. What was he to do? If he had an address for their destination he could hack the electricity and water utilities, locate neighbours and organize a group of local vigilantes. But he had no idea where they were heading. He was powerless. His whole body shook and his heart pounded.
Messages came pouring in. Salander was their friend, their shining star. But as far as Plague could tell, nobody in the fellowship had any good suggestions, at least nothing which could be organized fast enough. Should he call the police? Plague had never contacted the authorities, for good reason: There were few cybercrimes he had not committed. In one way or another, they were always after him, and yet, he thought, and yet, even the outlaw has to turn to the law for help sometimes. He remembered Salander—or Wasp as he knew her—had once talked about an Inspector Bublanski. He was OK, she had said, and coming from her, “OK” was a major compliment. For a minute Plague sat paralyzed, staring at a map of Uppland on his computer screen. Then he plugged in his headphones and turned up the volume on the audio file. He wanted to hear every subtle variation in the voices, even in the engine noise. There was a buzzing and scraping in his ears. For a short while nobody spoke. Then somebody said what Plague least wanted to hear:
“Have you got her phone?”
It was the woman again. She may have sounded terrible, but she seemed to be in charge, she and the man who sometimes spoke to the driver in a language the hackers had uploaded and now identified as Bengali.
“It’s in my pocket,” one of the men answered.
“Give it to me.”
There was a rustling and a crackling as the mobile was passed around. Somebody pressed some keys, turned it over, breathed into it.
“Is there anything fishy about it?”
“I don’t know,” the woman answered. “Doesn’t look like it. But maybe the police can use this piece of crap to listen in.”
“We’d better get rid of it.”
Plague heard some more words in Bengali and the car seemed to slow. A door creaked open, even though the vehicle was still moving. Wind sounded in the microphone and then there was a swishing sound, followed by a clattering and an excruciatingly loud bang. Plague ripped off his headphones and slammed his fist on the table. Shit, damn, fuck! Expletives flooded in over the network. They had lost contact with Wasp.
Plague tried to visualize the situation. Traffic cameras—of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? But they’d have to hack the Transport Administration to get access to their cameras, and that took time. And time they did not have. He wrote:
<
Does anyone know how to get into the Transport Administration system quickly? Like, now?>
He hooked them all up to an encrypted audio link.
“Some C.C.T.V. footage is publicly available online,” somebody said.
“That’s too jerky and blurred,” he said. “We’ve got to get close enough to see the model of the car and the reg plates.”
“I know a shortcut.” It was a young, female voice. It took Plague a moment to identify her: Nelly, one of their new members.
“Really?” he exclaimed. “Great, get in there! Hook yourselves up to her, go for it. Give it everything you’ve got. I’ll give you the times and coordinates.”
Plague went onto the site www.trafiken.nu, which showed the location of cameras along the E4 motorway to Uppsala, and at the same time rewound the file from Wasp’s mobile. The alarm had been activated at 12:52 p.m. The first camera on that route was likely to be the one at Haga South and, wait a moment…the vehicle seemed to have passed by there about thirteen minutes later, at 1:05 p.m. Then the cameras came in quick succession; that was good, he thought, good. Linvävartorpet and Linvävartorpet South, then Linvävartorpet North and Haga North Gates, Haga North, Stora Frösunda, Järva Krog, Mellanjärva, Ulriksdals golf course. There were plenty of cameras along the first stretch, and even though there was heavy traffic they should be able to identify the vehicle, since it was obviously an older, bigger model, a van or a light truck.
“How’s it going?” he shouted.
“Just chill, man, we’re working on it. Someone’s really been messing with this, they’ve put in something new. Hell, ‘access denied.’ Wait. Shit, fuck…yesss! Now…yes…we’re running, we’re in, now we just need to get…What kind of idiots built this amateur shit!”
It was the usual. Swearing and shouting. Adrenaline and sweat and more yelling, only this time it was worse. It was a matter of life and death, and once they had figured out the system and how to get in and had gone back and forth on the surveillance cameras, they identified the car: an old grey Mercedes minivan with apparently fake number plates. But now what? They felt even more powerless as the vehicle passed one camera position after the next like a pale, evil spirit, and in the end disappeared beyond the reach of surveillance into the forests to the east of Knivsta, somewhere near the lake at Vadabo.
The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye Page 30