The Girl in the Spider's Web (Millennium series Book 4)

by David Lagercrantz

  “Go for it, guys! … Fix the bastard!”

  She did not really mean it. Secretly she thought the breach was amusing. Many of these programmers seemed to think they could do whatever liked, as if they had carte blanche, and it might actually do them some good to see that the other side could hit back. Here in the Puzzle Palace their shortcomings only showed when they were confronted with something dire, as was happening now. She had been woken by a call saying that the Swedish professor had been murdered at his home outside Stockholm, and even though that in itself was not a big deal for the N.S.A. – not yet, at any rate – it did mean something to Casales.

  The killing showed that she had read the signs right, and now she had to see if she could move forward one more step. She logged in and opened the diagrammatic overview of the organization she had been tracking. The evasive Thanos sat right at the top, but there were also names of real people like the member of the Russian Duma Ivan Gribanov, and the German, Gruber.

  She did not understand why the N.S.A. gave such low priority to the matter, and why her superiors kept suggesting that other, more mainstream law-enforcement agencies should be taking care of it. They could not rule out the possibility that the network had state backing, or links to Russian state intelligence, and that it was all to do with the trade war between East and West. Even though the evidence was sparse and ambiguous, there were indications that western technology was being stolen and ending up in Russian hands.

  But it was difficult to get a clear view of this tangled web or even to know whether any crime had been committed – perhaps it was purely by chance that a similar technology had been developed somewhere else. These days, industrial theft was an altogether nebulous concept. Assets were being borrowed all the time, sometimes as a part of creative exchanges, sometimes just dressed up to seem legitimate.

  Large businesses, bolstered by threatening lawyers, regularly scared the living daylights out of small companies, and nobody seemed to find it odd that individual innovators had almost no legal rights. Besides which, industrial espionage and hacker attacks were often regarded as little more than routine research in a competitive environment. You could hardly claim that the N.S.A. crowd were helping to raise ethical standards in the field.

  On the other hand, it was not so easy to view murder in relative terms, and Casales took a solemn vow to leave no stone unturned in trying to unseat Thanos. She did not get far. In fact she only managed to stretch her arms and massage her neck before she heard puffing and panting behind her.

  Needham looked dreadful. His back must have given out on him too. Her own neck felt better just looking at him.

  “Ed, to what do I owe this honour?”

  “I’m thinking you and I are working on the same problem.”

  “Park your butt, old man.”

  “You know, from my limited perspective …”

  “Don’t knock yourself, Ed.”

  “I’m not knocking myself at all. It’s no secret I couldn’t care less who’s high or low, who thinks this and who thinks that. I focus on my own stuff. I protect our systems, and the only thing that really impresses me is when people are good at their jobs.”

  “You’d hire the Devil himself if he was any good in I.T.”

  “I can respect just about any enemy, if he knows what he’s doing. Does that make sense to you?”

  “It does.”

  “As I’m sure you’ve heard, a rootkit’s been used to access our server and install a R.A.T., and that program, Alona, is like pure music. So compact and beautifully written.”

  “You’ve met a worthy opponent.”

  “Without a doubt, and my guys feel the same way. They’re putting on this outraged patriotic act or whatever the hell it is we’re supposed to do. But actually they want nothing more than to meet that hacker and pit their skills against his, and for a while I thought: O.K., get over it! Maybe the damage isn’t so great after all. This is just one genius hacker who wants to show off, and maybe there’s a silver lining. I mean, we’ve already learned a lot about our vulnerability chasing after this clown. But then I began to wonder if maybe I was being conned – maybe the whole performance on my mail server was just a smokescreen, hiding something altogether different.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as a search for certain pieces of information.”

  “Now I’m curious.”

  “You should be. We’ve identified which areas the hacker was checking out and basically it’s all related to the same thing, the network you’ve been working on, Alona. They call themselves the Spiders, don’t they?”

  “The Spider Society, to be precise. But I think it’s some kind of joke.”

  “The hacker was looking for information on that group and their connections to Solifon and that made me think, maybe he’s with them and wants to find out how much we know about them.”

  “That sounds possible. They know how to hack.”

  “But then I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it looks like the hacker also wanted to show us something. You know, he got himself superuser status which gave him access to documents maybe even you haven’t seen, highly classified stuff. But actually the file he uploaded is so heavily encrypted that neither he nor we have the slightest chance of reading it unless the fucker who wrote it gives us the private keys. Anyway …”

  “What?”

  “The hacker revealed through our own system that we cooperate with Solifon too, the same way the Spiders do. Did you know that?”

  “No, my God, I did not.”

  “I didn’t think so. But unfortunately what Solifon does for the Spiders, it also does for us. It’s part of our own industrial-espionage efforts. That must be why your project is such low priority. They’re worried your investigation will drop us in the shit.”

  “Idiots.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there. Probably now you’ll be taken off the job completely.”

  “That would be outrageous.”

  “Relax, there’s a loophole. And that’s why I dragged my sorry ass all the way over to your desk. Start working for me instead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This goddamn hacker knows things about the Spiders, and if we can crack his identity we’ll both get a break and then you’ll be able to see your investigation through.”

  “I see what you’re saying.”

  “So it’s a yes?”

  “It’s a sort of,” she said. “I want to focus on finding out who shot Frans Balder.”

  “And you’ll keep me informed?”

  “O.K.”

  “Good.”

  “Tell me,” she said, “if this hacker is so clever, won’t he have covered his tracks?”

  “No need to worry about that. No matter how smart he’s been, we’ll find him and we’ll flay him alive.”

  “What happened to all that respect for your opponent?”

  “It’s still there, my friend. But we’ll crush him all the same and lock him up for life. No fucker breaks into my system.”

  CHAPTER 13

  21.xi

  Once again Blomkvist did not get much sleep. He could not get the events of the night out of his head and at 11.15 he gave up.

  He went into the kitchen where he made himself two sandwiches with cheddar and prosciutto and a bowl of yoghurt and muesli. But he did not eat much of it. He opted instead for coffee and water and some headache pills. He drank five glasses of Ramlösa, swallowed two Alvedon, took out a notebook and tried to write a summary of what had happened. He did not get far before the telephone started ringing.

  The news was out: “Star reporter Mikael Blomkvist and T.V. star Lasse Westman” had found themselves at the centre of a “mysterious” murder drama, mysterious because no-one was able to work out why Westman and Blomkvist of all people, together or separately, had been on the scene when a Swedish professor was shot in the head. The questions seemed to be insinuating something sinister an
d that was why Blomkvist quite candidly said that he had gone there, despite the lateness of the hour, because Balder had asked to speak to him urgently.

  “I was there because of my job.”

  He was being more defensive than he needed to be. He wanted to provide an explanation for the accusations out there, although that might prompt more reporters to dig into the story. Apart from that he said “No comment”, and if that was not the ideal response it was at least straightforward and unambiguous. After that he turned off his mobile, put his father’s old fur coat back on again and set out in the direction of Götgatan.

  So much was going on at the office that it reminded him of the old days. All over the place, in every corner, there were colleagues sitting and working with concentration. Berger was bound to have made one or two impassioned speeches and everybody must have been aware of the significance of the moment. The deadline was just ten days away. There was also the threat from Ove Levin and Serner hanging over them and the whole team seemed up for the fight. They all jumped to their feet when they saw him and asked to hear about Balder and the night, and his reaction to the Norwegians’ proposal. But he wanted to follow their good example.

  “Later, later,” he said, and went to Andrei Zander’s desk.

  Zander was twenty-six years old, the youngest person in the office. He had done his time as an intern at the magazine and had stayed on, sometimes as a temp, as now, and sometimes as a freelancer. It pained Blomkvist that they had not been able to give him a permanent job, especially since they had hired Emil Grandén and Sofie Melker. He would have preferred to take on Zander. But Zander had not yet made a name for himself, and he still had a lot to learn.

  He was a superb team player, and that was good for the magazine, but not necessarily good for him. Not in this cynical business. The boy was not conceited enough, although he had every reason to be. He looked like a young Antonio Banderas, and was quicker on the uptake than most. But he did not go to any lengths to promote himself. He just wanted to be a part of it all and produce good journalism and he thought the world of Millennium. Blomkvist suddenly felt that he loved everyone who loved Millennium. One fine day he would do something big for young Zander.

  “Hi, Andrei,” he said. “How are things?”

  “Not bad. Busy.”

  “I expected nothing less. What have you managed to dig up?”

  “Quite a bit. It’s on your desk, and I’ve also written a summary. But can I give you some advice?”

  “Good advice is exactly what I need.”

  “In that case go straight to Zinkens väg, to see Farah Sharif.”

  “Who?”

  “A seriously gorgeous professor of computer science. She’s taken the whole day off.”

  “Are you saying that what I really need right now is an attractive, intelligent woman.”

  “Not exactly that, no. Professor Sharif just called and was under the impression that Balder had wanted to tell you something. She thinks she knows what it may have been all about, and she’s keen to talk to you. Maybe to carry out his wishes. I think it sounds like an ideal place to start.”

  “Have you checked her out otherwise?”

  “Sure, and we can’t altogether rule out the possibility that she has an agenda of her own. But she was close to Balder. They were at university together and have co-authored a couple of scientific papers. There are also a few society-page photos which show the two of them together. She’s a big name in her field.”

  “O.K., I’ll go. Will you let her know I’m on my way?”

  “I will,” Zander said, and gave Blomkvist the address. So Blomkvist left the office almost immediately, just as he had the previous day, and began to leaf through the research material as he was walking down towards Hornsgatan. Two or three times he bumped into people, but he was concentrating so hard that he scarcely apologized, and when at last he raised his head, his feet had not taken him as far as Farah Sharif’s place.

  He had stopped off at Mellqvist’s coffee bar and so he drank two double espressos standing up. Not just to get rid of his tiredness. He thought a jolt of caffeine might help with his headache, but afterwards he wondered if it had been the right cure. As he left the coffee shop he felt worse than when he had arrived, but that was because of all the morons who had read about the night’s dramatic events and were making idiotic remarks. They say that young people want nothing more than to become celebrities. He ought to explain to them that it is not worth aspiring to. It just drives you nuts, especially if you haven’t slept and you’ve seen things that no human being should have to see.

  Blomkvist went up Hornsgatan, past McDonald’s and the Co-op, cut across to Ringvägen, and as he glanced to the right he stiffened, as if he had seen something significant. But what? It was just a street crossing with a high traffic-accident rate and vast volumes of exhaust fumes, nothing more. Then it came to him.

  It was the very traffic light Balder had drawn with his mathematical precision, and so once again Blomkvist puzzled over the choice of subject matter. It was not an in any way unusual crossing; it was run down and banal. Maybe that was the point.

  The work of art is in the eye of the beholder, and even that tells us no more than that Balder had been here, and had maybe sat on a bench somewhere studying the traffic light. Blomkvist went on past Zinkensdamm sports centre and turned right onto Zinkens väg.

  Detective Sergeant Sonja Modig had been running around all morning. Now she was in her office and looked briefly at a framed photograph on her desk. It showed her six-year-old son Axel on the football pitch after scoring a goal. Modig was a single parent and had a hell of a time organizing her life. She was expecting to have a hellish time at work in the next few days too. There was a knock on the door. It was Bublanski at last, and she was supposed to be handing over responsibility for the investigation. Not that Officer Bubble looked as if he wanted to take responsibility for anything at all.

  He was looking unusually dashing in a jacket and tie and a freshly ironed blue shirt. He had combed his hair over his bald patch. There was a dreamy and absent look on his face, as if murder investigations were the last thing on his mind.

  “What did the doctor say?” she asked.

  “The doctor said that what matters is not that we believe in God; God is not small-minded. What matters is for us to understand that life is serious and rich. We should appreciate it and also try to make the world a better place. Whoever finds a balance between the two is close to God.”

  “So you were actually with your rabbi?”

  “Yes.”

  “O.K., Jan, I’m not sure if I can help with the bit about appreciating life. Apart from by offering you a piece of Swiss orange chocolate which I happen to have in my desk drawer. But if we nail the guy who shot Professor Balder then we’ll definitely make the world a little better.”

  “Swiss orange chocolate and a solution to this murder sounds like a decent start.”

  Modig broke off a piece of chocolate and gave it to Bublanski, who chewed it with a certain reverence.

  “Exquisite,” he said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Just think if life could be like that sometimes,” he said, pointing at the photograph of the jubilant Axel on her desk.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If joy could express itself with the same force as pain,” he said.

  “Yes, just imagine.”

  “How are things with Balder’s son?” he said.

  “Hard to tell,” she said. “He’s with his mother now. A psychologist has assessed him.”

  “And what have we got to go on?”

  “Not much yet, unfortunately. We’ve found out what the murder weapon was. A Remington 1911 R1 Carry, bought recently. We’re going follow it up, but I feel sure we’re not going to be able to trace it. We have the images from the surveillance cameras, which we’re analysing. But whatever angle we look at we still can’t see the man’s face, and we can’t spot any distinguishing features
either – no birthmarks, nothing, only a wristwatch which is just about visible in one sequence. It looks expensive. The guy’s clothes are black. His cap is grey without any branding. Jerker tells me he moves like an old junkie. In one picture he’s holding a small black box, presumably some kind of computer or G.S.M. station. He probably used it to hack the alarm system.”

  “I’d heard that. How do you hack a burglar alarm?”

  “Jerker has looked into that too and it isn’t easy, especially not an alarm of this specification, but it can be done. The system was connected to the net and to the mobile network and sent a feed of information to Milton Security over at Slussen. It’s not impossible that the guy recorded a frequency from the alarm with his box and managed to hack it that way. Or else he’d bumped into Balder when he was out walking and stole some information electronically from the professor’s N.F.C.”

  “What’s an N.F.C.?”

  “Near Field Communication, a function on Balder’s mobile which he used to activate the alarm.”

  “It was simpler in the days when burglars had crowbars,” Bublanski said. “Any cars in the area?”

  “A dark-coloured vehicle was parked a hundred metres away by the side of the road with the engine running on and off, but the only person to have seen it is an old lady by the name of Birgitta Roos; she has no idea what make it was. Maybe a Volvo, according to her. Or like the one her son has. Her son has a B.M.W.”

  “Oh, wonderful.”

  “Yes, so the investigation is looking a bit bleak,” Modig said. “The killers had the advantage of the night and the weather. They could move around the area undisturbed, and apart from what Mikael Blomkvist told us we’ve only got one sighting. It’s from a thirteen-year-old, Ivan Grede. A slightly odd, skinny figure who had leukaemia when he was small and who has decorated his room entirely in a Japanese style. He has a precocious way of expressing himself. Young Ivan went for a pee in the middle of the night and from the bathroom window he saw a tall man by the water’s edge. The man was looking out over the water and making the sign of the cross with his fists. It looked both aggressive and religious at the same time, Ivan said.”