by Неизвестный
Blomkvist ended his tour in her office. There were no flowers anywhere. There were no paintings or even posters on the walls. There were no rugs or wall hangings. He could not see a single decorative bowl, candlestick, or even a knickknack that had been saved for sentimental reasons.
Blomkvist felt as if someone were squeezing his heart. He felt that he had to find Salander and hold her close.
She would probably bite him if he tried.
Fucking Zalachenko.
Then he sat down at her desk and opened the folder with Björck’s report from 1991. He did not read it all, but skimmed through it, trying to absorb the essentials.
He booted up her PowerBook with the 17-inch screen, 200 GB hard drive, and 1,000 MB of RAM. It was empty. She had wiped it. That was ominous.
He opened her desk drawer and found a 9 mm Colt 1911 Government single-action with a fully loaded magazine, seven rounds. It was the pistol Salander had taken from the journalist Sandström, though Blomkvist knew nothing about that. He had not yet reached the letter S on the list of johns.
Then he found a DVD marked BJURMAN.
He stuck it into his iBook and watched its contents with horror. He sat in stunned silence as he saw Salander beaten up, raped, almost murdered. The film seemed to have been made with a hidden camera. He did not watch it all but skipped from one section to the next, each worse than the last.
Bjurman.
Salander’s guardian had raped her, and she had documented the event to the final detail. A digital date showed that the film had been recorded two years earlier. That was before he met her. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.
Björck and Bjurman together with Zalachenko in the seventies.
Zalachenko and Salander and a Molotov cocktail made from a milk carton in the early nineties.
Then Bjurman again, now her guardian, having replaced Palmgren. The circle had been closed. Bjurman had attacked his ward. He had treated her as a mentally ill, defenceless girl, but Salander was anything but defenceless. She was the girl who at the age of twelve had gone to war with a hit man who had defected from the GRU, and she had crippled him for life.
Salander was the woman who hated men who hate women.
He thought back to the time when he had come to know her in Hedestad. It must have been a matter of months after the rape. He could not recall that she had hinted by so much as a single word that any such thing had happened to her. She had not revealed much at all about herself. Blomkvist could not guess what she had done to Bjurman—but she had not killed him. Oddly enough. Otherwise Bjurman would have been dead two years ago. She must have been controlling him in some way and for some purpose that he could not begin to understand. Then he realized that he had the means of her control right there on the desk. The DVD. As long as she had that, Bjurman was her helpless slave. And Bjurman had turned to the man he supposed was an ally. Zalachenko. Her worst enemy. Her father.
Then a whole chain of events. Bjurman had been shot first, then Svensson and Johansson.
But how? What could have made Svensson such a threat?
And suddenly he knew what must have happened in Enskede.
Blomkvist found a piece of paper on the floor beneath the window. Salander had printed out a page, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it away. He smoothed it out. It was from Aftonbladet ’s online edition about the kidnapping of Miriam Wu.
He did not know what role Wu had played in the drama—if any—but she had been one of Salander’s very few friends. Maybe her only friend. Salander had given her old apartment to her. Now she was lying in the hospital, badly beaten.
Niedermann and Zalachenko.
First her mother. Then Miriam Wu. Salander must be crazy with hatred.
This was one provocation too many.
And now she was on the hunt.
At lunchtime Armansky received a call from the rehabilitation home in Ersta. He had expected to hear from Palmgren much earlier and had avoided making contact with him. He’d been afraid that he would have to report that Salander was guilty beyond all doubt. Now at least he could tell him that there was in fact reasonable doubt of her guilt.
“How far did you get?” Palmgren said without beating about the bush.
“With what?”
“With your investigation of Salander.”
“And what makes you think I’m doing any such investigation?”
“Don’t waste my time, Dragan.” Armansky sighed. “You’re right.”
“I want you to come and see me,” Palmgren said. “I can come this weekend.”
“Not good enough. I want you to come tonight. We have a great deal to discuss.”
Blomkvist had made himself coffee and a sandwich in Salander’s kitchen. He half hoped to hear her keys in the door. But he was not optimistic. The empty hard drive in her PowerBook told him that she had already left her hideout for good. He had found her apartment too late.
At 2:30 in the afternoon he was still sitting at Salander’s desk. He had read Björck’s “non-report” three times. It had been formulated as a memo to an unnamed superior. The recommendation was simple: get a pliable psychiatrist who would admit Salander to the children’s psychiatric clinic. The girl was disturbed, as was clearly demonstrated by her behaviour.
Blomkvist was going to devote very particular attention to Björck and Teleborian in the coming days. He was looking forward to it. His mobile rang and interrupted his train of thought.
“Hi again. It’s Malin. I think I’ve got something.”
“What?”
“There’s no Ronald Niedermann in the social security records in Sweden. He’s not in any telephone book or tax records or on the vehicle licencing database, or anywhere else. But listen to this. In 1998 a corporation was registered with the Patent Office. It’s called KAB Import AB and has a P.O. box address in Göteborg. The company imports electronics. The chairman of the board is Karl Axel Bodin, hence KAB, born in 1941.”
“It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Not for me either. There’s also an accountant on the board who’s registered at a couple of dozen other companies. He seems to be one of those nominal finance directors that small companies need. The company has been more or less dormant since it was set up. But then the third member of the board is an R. Niedermann. He doesn’t have a social security number in Sweden. He was born on January 18, 1970, and is listed as the company’s representative in the German market.”
“Good work, Malin. Very good. Do we have an address apart from the P.O. box?”
“No, but I’ve tracked down Karl Axel Bodin. He’s registered in West Sweden and lives at the address for P.O. box 612 in Gosseberga. I looked it up; it seems to be a property in the country not far from Nossebro, northeast of Göteborg.”
“What do we know about him?”
“He declared an income of 260,000 kronor two years ago. According to our friend on the police force, he has no criminal record. He has a licence for a moose rifle and a shotgun. He has two cars, a Ford and a Saab, both older models. No points on his licence. He’s unmarried and calls himself a farmer.”
“A man about whom we know nothing, who has no police record.” Blomkvist thought for a few moments. He had to make a decision.
“One more thing. Dragan Armansky called several times looking for you.”
“Thanks, Malin. I’ll call you later.”
“Mikael… is everything OK with you?”
“No, everything isn’t OK, but I’ll be in touch.”
As a good citizen he ought to call Bublanski. If he did, he would either have to tell him the truth about Salander or end up in a muddled situation of half-truths and withheld facts. But that was not the real problem.
Salander was out looking for Niedermann and Zalachenko. He had no idea how far she had gotten, but if he and Eriksson could find an address for P.O. box 612 in Gosseberga, there was no doubt that Salander could too. It was very likely that she was heading to Gosseberga. That was the natural next
step.
If he called the police and told them where Niedermann was hiding, he’d have to tell them that Salander was probably on her way there. She was being sought for three murders and the shooting in Stallarholmen, which would mean that the national armed response team or some equivalent would be tasked with taking her in.
And Salander would no doubt put up a violent resistance.
Blomkvist got a pen and paper and made a list of things he could not or would not want to tell the police.
First the address in Mosebacke.
Salander had gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure the privacy of her apartment. This was where she had her life and her secrets. He was not going to give her away.
Then he wrote Bjurman and added a question mark after the name.
He glanced at the DVD on the desk. Bjurman had raped Salander. He had nearly killed her. He had outrageously abused his position as her guardian. He should be exposed for the swine he was. But there was an ethical dilemma here. Salander had not told the police. Did she want to be exposed in the media by a police investigation in which the most harrowing, intimate details would be leaked in a matter of hours? The DVD was proof, and stills from it would probably end up in the evening papers.
It was up to Salander to decide how she wanted to proceed. But if he had been able to track down her apartment, sooner or later the police would do so too. He put the DVD in his bag.
Then he wrote Björck’s report. In 1991 it had been stamped top secret. It shed light on everything that had happened. It named Zalachenko and made clear Björck’s role, and together with the list of johns from Svensson’s computer it would give Björck some anxious hours facing Bublanski. And in light of the correspondence, Teleborian would find himself in deep shit too.
The documents would lead the police to Gosseberga, but at least he would have a head start.
He started Word and wrote in outline form the key facts he had discovered during the past twenty-four hours from his conversations with Björck and Palmgren, and from the material he had found at Salander’s place. It took him about an hour. He burned the document onto a CD along with his own research.
He wondered whether he ought to check in with Armansky, but thought the hell with it. He had enough balls to juggle already.
Blomkvist walked into Millennium and went straight to Berger’s office.
“His name is Zalachenko,” he said without even saying hello. “He’s a former Soviet hit man from one of the intelligence services. He defected in 1976 and was granted asylum in Sweden and given a salary by Säpo. After the end of the Soviet Union he became, like many others, a full-time gangster. Now he’s involved in sex trafficking and smuggling weapons and drugs.”
Berger put down her pen. “Why am I not surprised that the KGB is popping up in the action?”
“It’s not the KGB. It’s the GRU. The military intelligence service.”
“So it’s serious.”
Blomkvist nodded.
“You mean he’s the one who murdered Dag and Mia?”
“It wasn’t him, no. He sent someone. Ronald Niedermann, the monster that Malin has been finding out about.”
“Can you prove this?”
“More or less. Some of it is guesswork. But Bjurman was murdered because he asked Zalachenko for help in dealing with Lisbeth.”
Blomkvist told her about the DVD Salander had left in her desk.
“Zalachenko is her father. Bjurman worked formally for Säpo in the mid-seventies and was one of those who made Zalachenko officially welcome when he defected. Later Bjurman became a lawyer with his own practice and a full-time crook, doing jobs for an elite group within the Security Police. I would think there’s an inner circle that meets now and then in the men’s sauna to control the world and keep the secret about Zalachenko. I’m guessing that the rest of Säpo has never even heard of the bastard. Lisbeth threatened to crack the secret wide open. So they locked her up in a children’s psychiatric unit.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Oh, but it is,” Blomkvist said. “Lisbeth wasn’t especially manageable then, nor is she now … but since she was twelve years old she’s been a threat to national security.”
He gave her a summary of the story.
“This is quite a bit to digest,” Berger said. “And Dag and Mia…”
“Were murdered because Dag discovered the link between Bjurman and Zalachenko.”
“So what happens now? We have to tell the police, don’t we?”
“Parts of it, but not all. I’ve copied the significant information onto this disk as backup, just in case. Lisbeth is looking for Zalachenko. I’m going to try to find her. Nothing of this must be shared with anybody.”
“Mikael… I don’t like this. We can’t withhold information in a murder investigation.”
“And we’re not going to. I intend to call Bublanski. But my guess is that Lisbeth is on her way to Gosseberga. She’s still being sought for three murders, and if we call the police they’ll unleash their armed response team and backup weapons with hunting ammunition, and there’s a real risk that she would resist arrest. And then anything could happen.” He stopped and smiled grimly. “If nothing else, we ought to keep the police out of it so that the armed response team doesn’t come to a sticky end. I have to find her first.”
Berger looked dubious.
“I don’t intend to reveal Lisbeth’s secrets. Bublanski will have to figure those out for himself. I want you to do me a favour. This folder contains Björck’s report from 1991 and some correspondence between Björck and Teleborian. I want you to make a copy and offer it to Bublanski or Modig. I’m leaving for Göteborg in twenty minutes.”
“Mikael…”
“I know. But I’m on Lisbeth’s side through it all.”
Berger pressed her lips together and said nothing. Then she nodded.
“Be careful,” she said, but he had already left.
I should go with him, she thought. That was the only decent thing to do. But she still hadn’t told him that she was going to leave Millennium and that it was all over, no matter what happened. She took the folder and headed for the photocopier.
The box was in a post office in a shopping centre. Salander didn’t know Göteborg, nor where in the city she was, but she found the post office and positioned herself in a café where she could keep watch on the box through a gap in a window where there was a poster advertising the Svensk Kassatjänst, the improved Swedish postal system.
Irene Nesser wore more discreet makeup than Lisbeth Salander. She had some silly necklaces on and was reading Crime and Punishment, which she had found in a bookshop one street away. She took her time, occasionally turning a page. She’d begun her surveillance at lunch time and had no idea whether anyone came regularly to pick up the mail, whether it might be daily or every other week, whether it had already been collected earlier in the day, or whether anyone ever turned up at all. But it was her only lead, and she drank a caffè latte while she waited.
She was about to doze off when she suddenly saw the door to the box being opened. She glanced at the clock. A quarter to two. Lucky as shit.
She got up quickly and walked over to the window, where she spotted someone in a black leather jacket leaving the area where the boxes were. She caught up with him on the street outside. He was a thin young man in his twenties. He walked round the corner to a Renault and unlocked the door. Salander memorized the licence plate number and ran back to her Corolla, which was parked only a hundred yards away on the same street. She caught up with the car as it turned onto Linnégatan. She followed him down Avenyn and up towards Nordstan.
• • •
Blomkvist arrived at Central Station in time to catch the X2000 train at 5:10 p.m. He bought a ticket on board with his credit card, took a seat in the restaurant car, and ordered a late lunch.
He felt a gnawing uneasiness in the pit of his stomach and was afraid he had set off too late. He prayed that Salander would call
him, but he knew that she wouldn’t.
She had done her best to kill Zalachenko in 1991. Now, after all these years, he had struck back.
Palmgren had delivered a prescient analysis. Salander had experienced personally that it was no use talking to the authorities.
Blomkvist glanced at his laptop bag. He had brought along the Colt that he’d found in her desk. He wasn’t sure why he had taken the gun, but he’d felt instinctively that he must not leave it in her apartment. He knew that wasn’t much of a logical argument.
As the train rolled across Årstabron he flipped open his mobile and called Bublanski.
“What do you want?” Bublanski said, obviously annoyed.
“To tie up loose ends,” Blomkvist said.
“Loose ends of what?”
“This whole mess. Do you want to know who murdered Svensson, Johansson, and Bjurman?”
“If you have information I’d like to hear it.”
“The murderer’s name is Ronald Niedermann. That’s the giant who boxed with Paolo Roberto. He’s a German citizen, thirty-five years old, and he works for a scumbag named Alexander Zalachenko, also known as Zala.”
Bublanski said nothing for a long time, and then Blomkvist heard him sigh, turn over a sheet of paper, and click his ballpoint.
“And you’re sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“OK. So where are Niedermann and this Zalachenko?”
“I don’t know yet. But as soon as I work it out I’ll let you know. In a little while Erika Berger will deliver to you a police report from 1991. In it you’ll find all sorts of information about Zalachenko and Salander.”
“Like what?”
“That Zalachenko is Lisbeth’s father, for example. That he’s a hit man who defected from the Soviet Union during the Cold War.”
“A Russian hit man?” Bublanski echoed.
“A faction within Säpo has been supporting him and concealing his criminal dealings.”
Blomkvist heard Bublanski pull up a chair and sit down.