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

by Stieg Larsson

  “We need to talk to you,” she said.

  She was tall, taller than he was, and that impression was magnified by the fact that she was standing two steps above him. He looked at her arms and then at her legs and saw that she was much more muscular than he was.

  “You spend a couple of hours a week at the gym,” he said.

  She smiled and took out her I.D.

  “My name is—”

  “Monica Figuerola, born in 1969, living on Pontonjärgatan on Kungsholmen. You came from Borlänge and you’ve worked with the Uppsala police. For three years you’ve been working in S.I.S., Constitutional Protection. You’re an exercise fanatic and you were once a top-class athlete, almost made it on to the Swedish Olympic team. What do you want with me?”

  She was surprised, but she quickly regained her composure.

  “Fair enough,” she said in a low voice. “You know who I am – so you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  “I don’t?”

  “There are some people who need to have a talk with you in peace and quiet. Since your apartment and mobile seem to be bugged and we have reason to be discreet, I’ve been sent to invite you.”

  “And why would I go anywhere with somebody who works for Säpo?”

  She thought for a moment. “Well … you could just accept a friendly personal invitation, or if you prefer, I could handcuff you and take you with me.” She smiled sweetly. “Look, Blomkvist. I understand that you don’t have many reasons to trust anyone who comes from S.I.S. But it’s like this: not everyone who works there is your enemy, and my superiors really want to talk to you. So, which do you prefer? Handcuffed or voluntary?”

  “I’ve been handcuffed by the police once already this year. And that was enough. Where are we going?”

  She had parked around the corner down on Pryssgränd. When they were settled in her new Saab 9-5, she flipped open her mobile and pressed a speed-dial number.

  “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  She told Blomkvist to fasten his seat belt and drove over Slussen to Östermalm and parked on a side street off Artillerigatan. She sat still for a moment and looked at him.

  “This is a friendly invitation, Blomkvist. You’re not risking anything.”

  Blomkvist said nothing. He was reserving judgement until he knew what this was all about. She punched in the code on the street door. They took the lift to the fifth floor, to an apartment with the name Martinsson on the door.

  “We’ve borrowed the place for tonight’s meeting,” she said, opening the door. “To your right, into the living room.”

  The first person Blomkvist saw was Torsten Edklinth, which was no surprise since Säpo was deeply involved in what had happened, and Edklinth was Figuerola’s boss. The fact that the Director of Constitutional Protection had gone to the trouble of bringing him in said that somebody was nervous.

  Then he saw a figure by the window. The Minister of Justice. That was a surprise.

  Then he heard a sound to his right and saw the Prime Minister get up from an armchair. This he had not for a moment expected.

  “Good evening, Herr Blomkvist,” the P.M. said. “Excuse us for summoning you to this meeting at such short notice, but we’ve discussed the situation and agreed that we need to talk to you. May I offer you some coffee, or something else to drink?”

  Blomkvist looked around. He saw a dining-room table of dark wood that was cluttered with glasses, coffee cups and the remnants of sandwiches. They must have been there for a couple of hours already.

  “Ramlösa,” he said.

  Figuerola poured him a mineral water. They sat down on the sofas as she stayed in the background.

  “He recognized me and knew my name, where I live, where I work, and the fact that I’m a workout fanatic,” Figuerola said to no-one in particular.

  The Prime Minister glanced quickly at Edklinth and then at Blomkvist. Blomkvist realized at once that he was in a position of some strength. The Prime Minister needed something from him and presumably had no idea how much Blomkvist knew or did not know.

  “How did you know who Inspector Figuerola was?” Edklinth said.

  Blomkvist looked at the Director of Constitutional Protection. He could not be sure why the Prime Minister had set up a meeting with him in a borrowed apartment in Östermalm, but he suddenly felt inspired. There were not many ways it could have come about. It was Armansky who had set this in train by giving information to someone he trusted. Which must have been Edklinth, or someone close to him. Blomkvist took a chance.

  “A mutual friend spoke with you,” he said to Edklinth. “You sent Figuerola to find out what was going on, and she discovered that some Säpo activists are running illegal telephone taps and breaking into my apartment and stealing things. This means that you have confirmed the existence of what I call the Zalachenko club. It made you so nervous that you knew you had to take the matter further, but you sat in your office for a while and didn’t know in which direction to go. So you went to the justice minister, and he in turn went to the Prime Minister. And now here we all are. What is it that you want from me?”

  Blomkvist spoke with a confidence that suggested that he had a source right at the heart of the affair and had followed every step Edklinth had taken. He knew that his guesswork was on the mark when Edklinth’s eyes widened.

  “The Zalachenko club spies on me, I spy on them,” Blomkvist went on. “And you spy on the Zalachenko club. This situation makes the Prime Minister both angry and uneasy. He knows that at the end of this conversation a scandal awaits that the government might not survive.”

  Figuerola understood that Blomkvist was bluffing, and she knew how he had been able to surprise her by knowing her name and shoe size.

  He saw me in my car on Bellmansgatan. He took the registration number and looked me up. But the rest is guesswork.

  She did not say a word.

  The Prime Minister certainly looked uneasy now.

  “Is that what awaits us?” he said. “A scandal to bring down the government?”

  “The survival of the government isn’t my concern,” Blomkvist said. “My role is to expose shit like the Zalachenko club.”

  The Prime Minister said: “And my job is to run the country in accordance with the constitution.”

  “Which means that my problem is definitely the government’s problem. But not vice versa.”

  “Could we stop going round in circles? Why do you think I arranged this meeting?”

  “To find out what I know and what I intend to do with it.”

  “Partly right. But more precisely, we’ve landed in a constitutional crisis. Let me first say that the government has absolutely no hand in this matter. We have been caught napping, without a doubt. I’ve never heard mention of this … what you call the Zalachenko club. The minister here has never heard a word about this matter either. Torsten Edklinth, an official high up in S.I.S. who has worked in Säpo for many years, has never heard of it.”

  “It’s still not my problem.”

  “I appreciate that. What I’d like to know is when you mean to publish your article, and exactly what it is you intend to publish. And this has nothing to do with damage control.”

  “Does it not?”

  “Herr Blomkvist, the worst possible thing I could do in this situation would be to try to influence the shape or content of your story. Instead, I am going to propose a co-operation.”

  “Please explain.”

  “Since we have now had confirmation that a conspiracy exists within an exceptionally sensitive part of the administration, I have ordered an investigation.” The P.M. turned to the Minister of Justice. “Please explain what the government has directed.”

  “It’s very simple,” said the Minister of Justice. “Torsten Edklinth has been given the task of finding out whether we can confirm this. He is to gather information that can be turned over to the Prosecutor General, who in turn must decide whether charges should be brought. It is a very clear inst
ruction. And this evening Edklinth has been reporting on how the investigation is proceeding. We’ve had a long discussion about the constitutional implications – obviously we want it to be handled properly.”

  “Naturally,” Blomkvist said in a tone that indicated he had scant trust in the Prime Minister’s assurances.

  “The investigation has already reached a sensitive stage. We have not yet identified exactly who is involved. That will take time. And that’s why we sent Inspector Figuerola to invite you to this meeting.”

  “It wasn’t exactly an invitation.”

  The Prime Minister frowned and glanced at Figuerola.

  “It’s not important,” Blomkvist said. “Her behaviour was exemplary. Please come to the point.”

  “We want to know your publication date. This investigation is being conducted in great secrecy. If you publish before Edklinth has completed it, it could be ruined.”

  “And when would you like me to publish? After the next election, I suppose?”

  “You decide that for yourself. It’s not something I can influence. Just tell us, so that we know exactly what our deadline is.”

  “I see. You spoke about co-operation …”

  The P.M. said: “Yes, but first let me say that under normal circumstances I would not have dreamed of asking a journalist to come to such a meeting.”

  “Presumably in normal circumstances you would be doing everything you could to keep journalists away from a meeting like this.”

  “Quite so. But I’ve understood that you’re driven by several factors. You have a reputation for not pulling your punches when there’s corruption involved. In this case there are no differences of opinion to divide us.”

  “Aren’t there?”

  “No, not in the least. Or rather … the differences that exist might be of a legal nature, but we share an objective. If this Zalachenko club exists, it is not merely a criminal conspiracy – it is a threat to national security. These activities must be stopped, and those responsible must be held accountable. On that point we would be in agreement, correct?”

  Blomkvist nodded.

  “I’ve understood that you know more about this story than anyone else. We suggest that you share your knowledge. If this were a regular police investigation of an ordinary crime, the leader of the preliminary investigation could decide to summon you for an interview. But, as you can appreciate, this is an extreme state of affairs.”

  Blomkvist weighed the situation for a moment.

  “And what do I get in return – if I do co-operate?”

  “Nothing. I’m not going to haggle with you. If you want to publish tomorrow morning, then do so. I won’t get involved in any horse-trading that might be constitutionally dubious. I’m asking you to cooperate in the interests of the country.”

  “In this case ‘nothing’ could be quite a lot,” Blomkvist said. “For one thing … I’m very, very angry. I’m furious at the state and the government and Säpo and all these fucking bastards who for no reason at all locked up a twelve-year-old girl in a mental hospital until she could be declared incompetent.”

  “Lisbeth Salander has become a government matter,” the P.M. said, and smiled. “Mikael, I am personally very upset over what happened to her. Please believe me when I say that those responsible will be called to account. But before we can do that, we have to know who they are.”

  “My priority is that Salander should be acquitted and declared competent.”

  “I can’t help you with that. I’m not above the law, and I can’t direct what prosecutors and the courts decide. She has to be acquitted by a court.”

  “O.K.,” Blomkvist said. “You want my co-operation. Then give me some insight into Edklinth’s investigation, and I’ll tell you when and what I plan to publish.”

  “I can’t give you that insight. That would be placing myself in the same relation to you as the Minister of Justice’s predecessor once stood to the journalist Ebbe Carlsson.”*

  “I’m not Ebbe Carlsson,” Blomkvist said calmly.

  “I know that. On the other hand, Edklinth can decide for himself what he can share with you within the framework of his assignment.”

  “Hmm,” Blomkvist said. “I want to know who Evert Gullberg was.”

  Silence fell over the group.

  “Gullberg was presumably for many years the chief of that division within S.I.S. which you call the Zalachenko club,” Edklinth said.

  The Prime Minister gave him a sharp look.

  “I think he knows that already,” Edklinth said by way of apology.

  “That’s correct,” Blomkvist said. “He started at Säpo in the ’50s. In the ’60s he became chief of some outfit called the Section for Special Analysis. He was the one in charge of the Zalachenko affair.”

  The P.M. shook his head. “You know more than you ought to. I would very much like to discover how you came by all this information. But I’m not going to ask.”

  “There are holes in my story,” Blomkvist said. “I need to fill them. Give me information and I won’t try to compromise you.”

  “As Prime Minister I’m not in a position to deliver any such information. And Edklinth is on a very thin ice if he does so.”

  “Don’t pull the wool over my eyes. I know what you want and you know what I want. If you give me information, then you’ll be my sources – with all the enduring anonymity that implies. Don’t misunderstand me … I’ll tell the truth as I see it in what I publish. If you are involved, I will expose you and do everything I can to ensure that you are never re-elected. But as yet I have no reason to believe that is the case.”

  The Prime Minister glanced at Edklinth. After a moment he nodded. Blomkvist took it as a sign that the Prime Minister had just broken the law – if only of the more academic specie – by giving his consent to the sharing of classified information with a journalist.

  “This can all be solved quite simply,” Edklinth said. “I have my own investigative team and I decide for myself which colleagues to recruit for the investigation. You can’t be employed by the investigation because that would mean you would be obliged to sign an oath of confidentiality. But I can hire you as an external consultant.”

  Berger’s life had been filled with meetings and work around the clock the minute she had stepped into Morander’s shoes.

  It was not until Wednesday night, almost two weeks after Blomkvist had given her Cortez’s research papers on Borgsjö, that she had time to address the issue. As she opened the folder she realized that her procrastination had also to do with the fact that she did not really want to face up to the problem. She already knew that however she dealt with it, calamity would be inevitable.

  She arrived home in Saltsjöbaden at 7.00, unusually early, and it was only when she had to turn off the alarm in the hall that she remembered her husband was not at home. She had given him an especially long kiss that morning because he was flying to Paris to deliver some lectures and would not be back until the weekend. She had no idea where he was giving the lectures, or what they were about.

  She went upstairs, ran the bath, and undressed. She took Cortez’s folder with her and spent the next half hour reading through the whole story. She could not help but smile. The boy was going to be a formidable reporter. He was twenty-six years old and had been at Millennium for four years, right out of journalism school. She felt a certain pride. The story had Millennium’s stamp on it from beginning to end, every t was crossed, every i dotted.

  But she also felt tremendously depressed. Borgsjö was a good man, and she liked him. He was soft-spoken, sharp-witted and charming, and he seemed unconcerned with prestige. Besides, he was her employer. How in God’s name could he have been so bloody stupid?

  She wondered whether there might be an alternative explanation or some mitigating circumstances, but she already knew it would be impossible to explain this away.

  She put the folder on the windowsill and stretched out in the bath to ponder the situation.

&n
bsp; Millennium was going to publish the story, no question. If she had still been there, she would not have hesitated. That Millennium had leaked the story to her in advance was nothing but a courtesy – they wanted to reduce the damage to her personally. If the situation had been reversed – if S.M.P. had made some damaging discovery about Millennium’s chairman of the board (who happened to be herself) – they would not have hesitated either.

  Publication would be a serious blow to Borgsjö. The damaging thing was not that his company, Vitavara Inc., had imported goods from a company on the United Nations blacklist of companies using child labour – and in this case slave labour too, in the form of convicts, and undoubtedly some of these convicts were political prisoners. The really damaging thing was that Borgsjö knew about all this and still went on ordering toilets from Fong Soo Industries. It was a mark of the sort of greed that did not go down well with the Swedish people in the wake of the revelations about other criminal capitalists such as Skandia’s former president.

  Borgsjö would naturally claim that he did not know about the conditions at Fong Soo, but Cortez had solid evidence. If Borgsjö took that tack he would be exposed as a liar. In June 1997 Borgsjö had gone to Vietnam to sign the first contracts. He had spent ten days there on that occasion and been round the company’s factories. If he claimed not to have known that many of the workers there were only twelve or thirteen years old, he would look like an idiot.

  Cortez had demonstrated that in 1999, the U.N. commission on child labour had added Fong Soo Industries to its list of companies that exploit child labour, and that this had then been the subject of magazine articles. Two organizations against child labour, one of them the globally recognized International Joint Effort Against Child Labour in London, had written letters to companies that had placed orders with Fong Soo. Seven letters had been sent to Vitavara Inc., and two of those were addressed to Borgsjö personally. The organization in London had been very willing to supply the evidence. And Vitavara Inc. had not replied to any of the letters.

  Worse still, Borgsjö went to Vietnam twice more, in 2001 and 2004, to renew the contracts. This was the coup de grâce. It would be impossible for Borgsjö to claim ignorance.