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

by Stieg Larsson

  “Quite right. He knows he’s being watched, and he’s watching the ones who are watching him. He’s calculating.”

  “Calculating what?”

  “I mean, he has a plan. He’s gathering information and is going to expose Mårtensson. That’s the only reasonable explanation.”

  “And then this Linder woman?”

  “Susanne Linder, former police officer.”

  “Police officer?”

  “She graduated from the police academy and worked for six years on the Södermalm crime team. She resigned abruptly. There’s nothing in her file that says why. She was out of a job for several months before she was hired by Milton Security.”

  “Armansky,” Edklinth said thoughtfully. “How long was she in the building?”

  “Nine minutes.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m guessing – since she was filming Mårtensson and Faulsson on the street – that she’s documenting their activities. That means that Milton Security is working with Blomkvist and has placed surveillance cameras in his apartment or in the stairwell. She probably went in to collect the film.”

  Edklinth sighed. The Zalachenko story was beginning to get tremendously complicated.

  “Thank you. You go home. I have to think about this.”

  Figuerola went to the gym at St Eriksplan.

  Blomkvist used his second mobile when he punched in Berger’s number at S.M.P. He interrupted a discussion she was having with her editors about what angle to give an article on international terrorism.

  “Oh, hello, it’s you … wait a second.”

  Berger put her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “I think we’re done,” she said, and gave them one last instruction. When she was alone she said: “Hello, Mikael. Sorry not to have been in touch. I’m just so swamped here. There are a thousand things I’ve got to learn. How’s the Salander stuff going?”

  “Good. But that’s not why I called. I have to see you. Tonight.”

  “I wish I could, but I have to be here until 8.00. And I’m dead tired. I’ve been at it since dawn. What’s it about?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. But it’s not good.”

  “I’ll come to your place at 8.30.”

  “No. Not at mine. It’s a long story, but my apartment is unsuitable for the time being. Let’s meet at Samir’s Cauldron for a beer.”

  “I’m driving.”

  “Then we’ll have a light beer.”

  *

  Berger was slightly annoyed when she walked into Samir’s Cauldron. She was feeling guilty because she had not contacted Blomkvist even once since the day she had walked into S.M.P.

  Blomkvist waved from a corner table. She stopped in the doorway. For a second he seemed a stranger. Who’s that over there? God, I’m so tired. Then he stood and kissed her on the cheek, and she realized to her dismay that she had not even thought about him for several weeks and that she missed him terribly. It was as though her time at S.M.P. had been a dream and she might suddenly wake up on the sofa at Millennium. It felt unreal.

  “Hello, Mikael.”

  “Hello, editor-in-chief. Have you eaten?”

  “It’s 8.30. I don’t have your disgusting eating habits.”

  Samir came over with the menu and, she realised she was hungry. She ordered a beer and a small plate of calamari with Greek potatoes. Blomkvist ordered couscous and a beer.

  “How are you?” she said.

  “These are interesting times we’re living in. I’m swamped too.”

  “And Salander?”

  “She’s part of what makes it so interesting.”

  “Micke, I’m not going to steal your story.”

  “I’m not trying to evade your question. The truth is that right now everything is a little confused. I’d love to tell you the whole thing, but it would take half the night. How do you like being editor-inchief?”

  “It’s not exactly Millennium. I fall asleep like a blown-out candle as soon as I get home, and when I wake up, I see spreadsheets before my eyes. I’ve missed you. Can’t we go back to your place and sleep? I don’t have the energy for sex, but I’d love to curl up and sleep next to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Ricky. The apartment isn’t a good place right now.”

  “Why not? Has something happened?”

  “Well, some spooks have bugged the place and they listen, presumably, to every word I say. I’ve had cameras installed to record what happens when I’m not home. I don’t think we should let the state archives have footage of your naked self.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. But that wasn’t why I had to see you tonight.”

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  “Well, I’ll be very direct. We’ve come across a story that will sink your chairman. It’s about using child labour and exploiting political prisoners in Vietnam. We’re looking at a conflict of interest.”

  Berger put down her fork and stared at him. She saw at once that he was not being funny.

  “This is how things stand,” he said. “Borgsjö is chairman and majority shareholder of a company called Svea Construction, which in turn is sole owner of a subsidiary called Vitavara Inc. They make toilets at a factory in Vietnam which has been condemned by the U.N. for using child labour.”

  “Run that by me again.”

  Blomkvist told her the details of the story that Cortez had compiled. He opened his laptop bag and took out a copy of the documentation. Berger read slowly through the article. Finally she looked up and met Blomkvist’s eyes. She felt unreasoning panic mixed with disbelief.

  “Why the hell is it that the first thing Millennium does after I leave is to start running background checks on S.M.P.’s board members?”

  “That’s not what happened, Ricky.” He explained how the story had developed.

  “And how long have you known about this?”

  “Since today, since this afternoon. I feel deeply uncomfortable about how this has unfolded.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. We have to publish. We can’t make an exception just because it deals with your boss. But not one of us wants to hurt you.” He threw up his hands. “We are all extremely unhappy about the situation. Henry especially.”

  “I’m still a member of Millennium’s board. I’m a part-owner … it’s going to be viewed as—”

  “I know exactly how it’s going to be viewed. You’re going to land in a shitload of trouble at S.M.P.”

  Berger felt weariness settling over her. She clenched her teeth and stifled an impulse to ask Blomkvist to sit on the story.

  “God damn it,” she said. “And there’s no doubt in your mind …”

  Blomkvist shook his head. “I spent the whole afternoon going over Henry’s documentation. We have Borgsjö ready for the slaughter.”

  “So what are you planning, and when?”

  “What would you have done if we’d uncovered this story two months ago?”

  Berger looked intently at her friend, who had also been her lover over the past twenty years. Then she lowered her eyes.

  “You know what I would have done.”

  “This is a disastrous coincidence. None of it is directed at you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. That’s why I insisted on seeing you at once. We have to decide what to do.”

  “We?”

  “Listen … the story was slated to run in the July issue. I’ve killed that idea. The earliest it could come out is August, and it can be postponed for longer if you need more time.”

  “I understand.” Her voice took on a bitter tone.

  “I suggest we don’t decide anything now. Take the documentation and go home and think it over. Don’t do anything until we can agree a strategy. We’ve got time.”

  “A common strategy?”

  “You either have to resign from Millennium’s board before we publish, or resign from S.M.P. You can’t wear both hats.”

  She nodded. “I’
m so linked to Millennium that no-one will believe I didn’t have a finger in this, whether I resign or not.”

  “There is an alternative. You could take the story to S.M.P. and confront Borgsjö and demand his resignation. I’m quite sure Henry would agree to that. But don’t do anything until we all agree.”

  “So I start by getting the person who recruited me fired.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He isn’t a bad person.”

  “I believe you. But he’s greedy.”

  Berger got up. “I’m going home.”

  “Ricky, I—”

  She interrupted him. “I’m just dead tired. Thanks for warning me. I’ll let you know.”

  She left without kissing him, and he had to pay the bill.

  Berger had parked two hundred metres from the restaurant and was halfway to her car when she felt such strong heart palpitations that she had to stop and lean against a wall. She felt sick.

  She stood for a long time breathing in the mild May air. She had been working fifteen hours a day since May 1. That was almost three weeks. How would she feel after three years? Was that how Morander had felt before he dropped dead in the newsroom?

  After ten minutes she went back to Samir’s Cauldron and ran into Blomkvist as he was coming out of the door. He stopped in surprise.

  “Erika …”

  “Mikael, don’t say a word. We’ve been friends so long – nothing can destroy that. You’re my best friend, and this feels exactly like the time you disappeared to Hedestad two years ago, only vice versa. I feel stressed out and unhappy.”

  He put his arms around her. She felt tears in her eyes.

  “Three weeks at S.M.P. have already done me in,” she said.

  “Now now. It takes more than that to do in Erika Berger.”

  “Your apartment is compromised. And I’m too tired to drive home. I’d fall asleep at the wheel and die in a crash. I’ve decided. I’m going to walk to the Scandic Crown and book a room. Come with me.”

  “It’s called the Hilton now.”

  “Same difference.”

  They walked the short distance without talking. Blomkvist had his arm around her shoulders. Berger glanced at him and saw that he was just as tired as she was.

  They went straight to the front desk, took a double room, and paid with Berger’s credit card. When they got to the room they undressed, showered, and crawled into bed. Berger’s muscles ached as though she had just run the Stockholm marathon. They cuddled for a while and then both fell asleep in seconds.

  Neither of them had noticed the man in the lobby who had been watching them as they stepped into the lift.

  CHAPTER 15

  Thursday, 19.v – Sunday, 22.v

  Salander spent most of Wednesday night and early Thursday morning reading Blomkvist’s articles and the chapters of the Millennium book that were more or less finished. Since Prosecutor Ekström had tentatively referred to a trial in July, Blomkvist had set June 20 as his deadline for going to press. That meant that Blomkvist had about a month to finish writing and patching up all the holes in his text.

  She could not imagine how he could finish in time, but that was his problem, not hers. Her problem was how to respond to his questions.

  She took her Palm and logged on to the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] to check whether he had put up anything new in the past twenty-four hours. He had not. She opened the document that he had called [Central questions]. She knew the text by heart already, but she read through it again anyway.

  He outlined the strategy that Giannini had already explained to her. When her lawyer spoke to her she had listened with only half an ear, almost as though it had nothing to do with her. But Blomkvist, knowing things about her that Giannini did not, could present a more forceful strategy. She skipped down to the fourth paragraph.

  The only person who can decide your future is you. It doesn’t matter how hard Annika works for you, or how much Armansky and Palmgren and I, and others, try to support you. I’m not going to try to convince you one way or the other. You’ve got to decide for yourself. You could turn the trial to your advantage or let them convict you. But if you want to win, you’re going to have to fight.

  She disconnected and looked up at the ceiling. Blomkvist was asking her for permission to tell the truth in his book. He was not going to mention the fact of Bjurman raping her, and he had already written that section. He had filled in the gaps by saying that Bjurman had made a deal with Zalachenko which collapsed when Bjurman lost control. Therefore Niedermann was obliged to kill him. Blomkvist did not speculate about Bjurman’s motives.

  Kalle Bloody Blomkvist was complicating life for her.

  At 2.00 in the morning she opened the word processing program on her Palm. She clicked on New Document, took out the stylus and began to tap on the letters on the digital keypad.

  My name is Lisbeth Salander. I was born on 30 April 1978. My mother was Agneta Sofia Salander. She was seventeen when I was born. My father was a psychopath, a killer and wife beater whose name was Alexander Zalachenko. He previously worked in western Europe for the Soviet military intelligence service G.R.U.

  It was a slow process, writing with the stylus on the keypad. She thought through each sentence before she tapped it in. She did not make a single revision to the text she had written. She worked until 4.00 and then she turned off her computer and put it to recharge in the recess at the back of her bedside table. By that time she had produced a document corresponding to two single-spaced A4 pages.

  Twice since midnight the duty nurse had put her head around the door, but Salander could hear her a long way off and even before she turned the key the computer was hidden and the patient asleep.

  Berger woke at 7.00. She felt far from rested, but she had slept uninterrupted for eight hours. She glanced at Blomkvist, still sleeping soundly beside her.

  She turned on her mobile to check for messages. Greger Beckman, her husband, had called eleven times. Shit. I forgot to call. She dialled the number and explained where she was and why she had not come home. He was angry.

  “Erika, don’t do that again. It has nothing to do with Mikael, but I’ve been worried sick all night. I was terrified that something had happened. You know you have to call and tell me if you’re not coming home. You mustn’t ever forget something like that.”

  Beckman was completely O.K. with the fact that Blomkvist was his wife’s lover. Their affair was carried on with his assent. But every time she had decided to sleep at Blomkvist’s, she had called her husband to tell him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just collapsed in exhaustion last night.”

  He grunted.

  “Try not to be furious with me, Greger. I can’t handle it right now. You can give me hell tonight.”

  He grunted some more and promised to scold her when she got home. “O.K. How’s Mikael doing?”

  “He’s dead to the world.” She burst out laughing. “Believe it or not, we were fast asleep moments after we got here. That’s never happened.”

  “This is serious, Erika. I think you ought to see a doctor.”

  When she hung up she called the office and left a message for Fredriksson. Something had come up and she would be in a little later than usual. She asked him to cancel a meeting she had arranged with the culture editor.

  She found her shoulder bag, ferreted out a toothbrush and went to the bathroom. Then she got back into the bed and woke Blomkvist.

  “Hurry up – go and wash and brush your teeth.”

  “What … huh?” He sat up and looked around in bewilderment. She had to remind him that he was at the Slussen Hilton. He nodded.

  “So. To the bathroom with you.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Because as soon as you come back I need you to make love to me.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting at 11.00 that I can’t postpone. I have to look presentable, and it’ll take me at least half an hour to put on my face. And I’ll have to buy a new shift
dress or something on the way to work. That gives us only two hours to make up for a whole lot of lost time.”

  Blomkvist headed for the bathroom.

  *

  Holmberg parked his father’s Ford in the drive of former Prime Minister Thorbjörn Fälldin’s house in Ås just outside Ramvik in Härnösand county. He got out of the car and looked around. At the age of seventy-nine, Fälldin could hardly still be an active farmer, and Holmberg wondered who did the sowing and harvesting. He knew he was being watched from the kitchen window. That was the custom in the village. He himself had grown up in Hälledal outside Ramvik, very close to Sandöbron, which was one of the most beautiful places in the world. At any rate Holmberg thought so.

  He knocked at the front door.

  The former leader of the Centre Party looked old, but he seemed alert still, and vigorous.

  “Hello, Thorbjörn. My name is Jerker Holmberg. We’ve met before but it’s been a few years. My father is Gustav Holmberg, a delegate for the Centre in the ’70s and ’80s.”

  “Yes, I recognize you, Jerker. Hello. You’re a policeman down in Stockholm now, aren’t you? It must be ten or fifteen years since I last saw you.”

  “I think it’s probably longer than that. May I come in?”

  Holmberg sat at the kitchen table while Fälldin poured them some coffee.

  “I hope all’s well with your father. But that’s not why you came, is it?”

  “No. Dad’s doing fine. He’s out repairing the roof of the cabin.”

  “How old is he now?”

  “He turned seventy-one two months ago.”

  “Is that so?” Fälldin said, joining Holmberg at the kitchen table. “So what’s this visit all about then?”

  Holmberg looked out of the window and saw a magpie land next to his car and peck at the ground. Then he turned to Fälldin.

  “I am sorry for coming to see you without warning, but I have a big problem. It’s possible that when this conversation is over, I’ll be fired from my job. I’m here on a work issue, but my boss, Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski of the Violent Crimes Division in Stockholm, doesn’t know I’m here.”