“I’m flattered,” Balder interrupted. “But right now I have a quick question for you.”
“Oh, really? Is it something to do with your research?”
“Not at all. I have an autistic son. He’s eight years old and hasn’t yet said a single word, but the other day we passed a traffic light on Hornsgatan and afterwards…”
“Yes?”
“He just sat down and drew it at lightning speed, completely perfectly. It was astonishing!”
“And you want me to come and take a look at what he’s done?”
“I’d like that. But that’s not why I called. The fact is that I’m worried. I’ve read that perhaps drawing is the way in which he interacts with the world around him, and that he might lose this ability if he learns to talk.”
“I can tell you’ve been reading about Nadia.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she’s always mentioned in this context. But…may I call you Frans?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent, Frans, and I’m so glad you called. I can tell you straightaway that you have nothing to worry about, on the contrary. Nadia is the exception that proves the rule, no more than that. All research shows that speech development actually enhances savant abilities. It can happen, of course, that children lose those skills, but that is mostly due to other factors. They get bored, or there’s a significant event in their lives. You probably read that Nadia lost her mother.”
“I did.”
“Maybe that was the reason, even though neither I nor anyone else can know for sure. But there’s virtually no other documented case of a similar evolution, and I’m not just saying this off the top of my head, or because it happens to be my own hypothesis. There is broad consensus today to the effect that savants have everything to gain from developing their intellectual skills on all levels.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“He’s also good at numbers.”
“Really?” Edelman said thoughtfully.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it is extremely rare for artistic ability to be combined with mathematical talent in a savant. These two different skills have nothing in common, and sometimes they seem even to block each other.”
“But that’s how it is with my son. There’s a kind of geometric precision about his drawings, as if he had worked out the exact proportions.”
“How fascinating. When can I see him?”
“I don’t know. For the time being I only wanted some advice.”
“In that case my advice is clear: Make an effort with the boy. Stimulate him. Let him develop his skills in every way.”
“I…” Balder felt a strange pressure in his chest and found it hard to get the words out. “I want to thank you,” he said. “Really thank you. Now I have to…”
“It’s been such an honour to talk to you, it would be wonderful to be able to meet you and your son. I’ve developed quite a sophisticated test for savants, if I may boast a little. I could help you get to know the boy better.”
“Yes, of course, that would be terrific. But now I must…” Balder mumbled, without knowing what he wanted to say. “Goodbye, and thank you.”
“Oh, my pleasure. I hope to hear from you again soon.”
Balder hung up and sat still for a moment, his hands crossed over his chest, and looked at his son. August was still looking at the burning candle, the yellow pencil in his hand. A shudder went across Balder’s shoulders, and the tears came. Whatever else you might say about Professor Balder, he was not one to cry easily.
In fact he could not remember when it had last happened. Not when his mother died, and definitely not when watching or reading anything. He thought of himself as a block of stone. But now, in front of his son with his rows of pencils and crayons, the professor cried like a child and he just let it happen.
It had been Charles Edelman’s words. August would be able to learn to speak and could keep drawing, and that was overwhelming news. But Balder was not crying just because of that. There was also the drama at Solifon. The death threat. The secrets he was privy to and the longing for Hanna or Farah or anyone who could fill the gap in his heart.
“My little boy!” he said, so emotional he failed to notice his laptop switch itself on and show pictures from one of the surveillance cameras outside the house.
Out in the garden, in the blustering storm, there was a tall, thin man in a padded leather jacket, with a grey cap pulled down to conceal his face. Whoever it was knew that he was being filmed, and even if he seemed lean and agile there was something in his swaying walk which was reminiscent of a heavyweight boxer on his way into the ring.
—
Grane was sitting in her office at Säpo searching the Web and the agency’s records. She did not really know what she was looking for. But something worrying was gnawing away at her.
Her conversation with Balder had been interrupted by Helena Kraft, chief of Säpo, who was looking for her again to discuss the same matter as before. Then Alona Casales at the NSA had called to continue their conversation; this time she sounded calmer, and again a little flirtatious.
“Have you managed to sort out your computers?” Grane said.
“Yes, that was a circus, but I don’t think it’s anything serious. I’m sorry if I was a little cryptic last time. I don’t have much of a choice. I just want to stress again that the level of threat against Professor Balder is both real and serious, even though we know nothing for certain. Did you have time to deal with it?”
“I’ve spoken to him. He refuses to leave his house, told me he was in the middle of something. I’m going to arrange protection.”
“Fine. As you might have guessed I’ve done more than quickly check you out. I’m very impressed, Miss Grane. Shouldn’t someone like you be working for Goldman Sachs and earning millions?”
“Not my style.”
“Not mine either. I wouldn’t say no to the money, but this underpaid snooping is more my thing. Now, honey, here’s the situation. As far as my colleagues are concerned this isn’t a big deal—which I happen to disagree with. And not just because I’m convinced that this group represents a threat to our national economic interests. I also think there are political implications. One of those Russian computer engineers I mentioned, a guy called Anatoli Chabarov, is also linked to Ivan Gribanov, a member of the Russian Duma. He’s notorious, and a major shareholder in Gazprom.”
“I understand.”
“But most of it so far is just dead ends. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to crack the identity of the person at the top.”
“The man they call Thanos.”
“Or woman.”
“Woman?”
“I could be wrong. This type of group tends to exploit women, not promote them to leadership positions, and this figure has mostly been referred to as a he.”
“Then what makes you think it might be a woman?”
“A sort of reverence, you could say. They talk about ‘Thanos’ in the same way men through the ages have spoken about women they desire.”
“A beauty, in other words.”
“Right. But maybe I’m just picking up some homoeroticism. Nothing would make me happier than if Russian gangsters and bigwigs were to indulge more in that department.”
“Ha, true!”
“In fact I mention it only so that you’ll keep an open mind if this mess ends up on your desk. You understand, there are also quite a few lawyers mixed up in it. What else is new, right? Hackers steal and lawyers legitimize the theft.”
“True. Balder’s said to me that we’re equal before the law—if we pay the same amount.”
“If you can afford a strong defence you can get away with whatever you want these days. You do know who Balder’s legal opponents are, don’t you? The Washington firm, Dackstone & Partner.”
“Sure.”
“In that case you know that the firm is also used by l
arge tech companies to sue the shit out of inventors and innovators hoping to get some modest reward for their creations.”
“I discovered that when we were dealing with the lawsuits of that inventor Håkan Lans.”
“Grim, wasn’t it? But the interesting thing is that Dackstone crops up in one of the few conversations we’ve managed to track down and decrypt from this criminal network, although there the firm is simply referred to as DP, or even D.”
“So Solifon and these crooks have the same lawyers?”
“It looks like it, and that’s not all. Dackstone is about to open an office in Stockholm—do you know how we found that out?”
“No,” said Grane, who was beginning to feel stressed. She wanted to finish the conversation and ensure that Balder got police protection.
“Through our surveillance of this group,” Casales went on. “Anatoli Chabarov mentions it in passing, which suggests that there are ties to the firm. They knew about the office opening even before it became public. Also Dackstone & Partner is setting up in Stockholm together with a Swedish lawyer named Brodin. He used to be a criminal lawyer, and if you remember he was known for getting a little too cozy with his clients.”
“I do remember that classic picture in the evening papers—Kenny Brodin out on the town with some gangsters, his hands all over some call girl,” Grane said.
“I saw that. I’d bet Mr. Brodin is a good place to start if you want to check out this story. Who knows, maybe he’s the link between big business and this group.”
“I’ll take a look at it,” Grane said. “But right now I’ve got a number of other things to deal with. I’m sure we’ll be in touch again soon.”
She called the duty officer for Säpo’s Personal Protection Unit, who that evening was none other than Stig Yttergren. Her heart sank. Yttergren was sixty, overweight, known to be a heavy drinker, and most of all he liked to play cards online. He was sometimes called “Officer No-Can-Do.” She proceeded to explain the situation in her most authoritative tone and demanded that Professor Frans Balder in Saltsjöbaden be given a bodyguard as quickly as possible. As usual Yttergren responded by saying that it would be extremely difficult, perhaps not possible at all. When she countered by saying that this was an order from the chief of Säpo herself, he muttered something which might even have been “that stroppy cunt.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Grane said. “Just make sure this is put in place immediately.” Which of course it was not. While she was waiting and drumming her fingers on her desk, she searched for information on Dackstone & Partner and anything else she could find linked to what Casales had been telling her—and that is when she was overcome by a sense of something horribly familiar.
She could not put her finger on it. Before she could find what she was looking for, Yttergren called back to say that no-one from Personal Protection was available. There was an unusual amount of activity for the royal family that evening, he said, some sort of public engagement with the Norwegian crown prince and princess, and the leader of the Swedish Democrats had had an ice cream thrown at his head before his guards could intervene, which meant that they had to provide reinforcements for his late speech in Södertälje.
So Yttergren had sent out “two great guys from the regular police,” Peter Blom and Dan Flinck, and Grane had to make do with that, even if their names reminded her of Kling and Klang in Pippi Longstocking. For a moment she had serious misgivings. Then she got angry with herself.
It was so typical of her snobbish background to judge people by their names. She might have had more cause for concern if they had a posh name like Gyllentofs or something and been irresponsible layabouts. I’m sure this’ll be fine, she thought.
She got back to work. It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 9
NOVEMBER 20–21—NIGHT
Salander woke up lying straight across the king-size bed and realized that she had been dreaming about her father. A feeling of menace swept over her like a cloak. But then she remembered the start of the evening and concluded that it could as easily be a chemical reaction in her body. She had a terrible hangover. She got up on wobbly legs and went into the large bathroom—with the jacuzzi and the marble and all the idiotic luxuries—to be sick. But nothing happened, she just sank to the floor, breathing heavily.
Then she stood up and looked at herself in the mirror, which was not particularly encouraging either. Her eyes were red. On the other hand it was not long after midnight. She must have slept for only a few hours. She took a glass from the bathroom cupboard and filled it with water. But at the same moment the details of her dream came flooding back and she crushed the glass in her hand. Blood dripped to the floor, and she swore and realized that she was unlikely to be going back to sleep.
Should she try to crack the encrypted NSA file she had downloaded? No, that would be pointless, at least for now. Instead she wound a towel around her hand and took from her bookshelves a new study by Princeton physicist Julie Tammet, which described how a big star collapses into a black hole. She lay down on the sofa by the windows overlooking Slussen and Riddarfjärden.
As she began to read she felt a little better. Blood from the towel did seep onto the pages and her head would not stop hurting, but she became more and more engrossed in the book, every now and then making a note in the margin. None of it was new to her. She knew better than most that a star stays alive as a result of two opposing actions, the fusion at its core forcing it outwards and the gravitational pull keeping it together. She saw it as a balancing act, a tug of war from which a victor eventually emerges, once the fuel for the reactions runs out and the explosions weaken.
When gravity gains the upper hand, the celestial body shrinks like a punctured balloon and becomes smaller and smaller. In this way, a star can vanish into nothing. Salander liked black holes. She felt an affinity to them.
Yet, like Julie Tammet, she was not interested in black holes per se, but rather in the process which creates them. Salander was convinced that if only she could describe that process, she would be able to draw together the two irreconcilable languages of the universe, quantum physics and the theory of relativity. But it was no doubt beyond her capabilities, just like the bloody encryption, and inevitably she began again to think about her father.
When she was a child, that revolting specimen had raped her mother over and over again, right up until the time her mother received injuries from which she would never recover. Salander herself, then twelve, hit back with a horrific force. At the time she could have no idea that her father was an important spy who had defected from the GRU, the Soviet military intelligence service, nor could she know that a special department within the Swedish Security Police, referred to as the Section, was protecting him at any cost. Yet even then she understood that there was some mystery surrounding the man, a darkness no-one was allowed to approach in any way. That even applied to so simple a thing as his name: Zala, or Alexander Zalachenko, to be more precise.
Other fathers could be reported to the social services and the police. But Zala had forces behind him which were above all that.
It was this and one other thing which for her were true black holes.
—
The alarm went off at 1:18 a.m. and Balder woke with a start. Was there someone in the house? He felt an inexplicable fear and reached across the bed. August was lying beside him. The boy must have crept in as usual, and now he whimpered with worry, as if the wailing of the siren had made its way into his dreams. My little boy, Balder thought. Then he stiffened. Were those footsteps?
No, he must be imagining things. All you could hear was the alarm. He cast a worried look towards the storm beyond the windows. It seemed to have grown worse. The sea was beating against the jetty and the shore. The windowpanes shook and arched. Could the alarm have been set off by a gust of wind? Perhaps it was as simple as that.
He still had to check to see if that protection Gabriella Grane was organizing had arrived at last. Tw
o men from the regular police were supposed to have been there hours ago. It was a farce. They had been delayed by the storm and by a series of conflicting orders. It was either one thing or another and he agreed with Grane, it seemed hopelessly incompetent.
He would have to deal with that in due course. Now he had to make a call. But August was beginning to wake up and a hysterical child banging his body against the headboard was the last thing Balder needed right now. The earplugs, it occurred to him, those old green earplugs he had bought at Frankfurt airport.
He took them from the bedside table and gently pushed them into his son’s ears. Then he tucked him in and kissed him on the cheek and stroked his curly, tousled hair, straightened the collar on the boy’s pyjamas, and made sure that his head was resting comfortably on the pillow. Balder was frightened and should have been in a hurry, or had every reason to be. Yet he took his time and fussed over his son. Perhaps it was a sentimental moment in the midst of a crisis. Or he wanted to put off confronting whatever awaited him out there. For a moment he wished he did have a weapon. Not that he would have known how to use it.
He was a programmer, for heaven’s sake, who had developed some paternal instinct in his old age, that was all. He should never have gotten into this mess. To hell with Solifon and the NSA and all criminal gangs! But now he had to get a grip. With stealthy, uncertain steps he went into the hallway, and before doing anything else, before even looking out at the road, he turned off the alarm. The racket had set his nerves on edge and in the sudden silence which followed he stood stock-still. Then his mobile rang and even though it startled him he was grateful for the distraction.
“Yes,” he said.
“Hello, this is Jonas Anderberg, I’m on duty tonight at Milton Security. Is everything all right?”
“What, well…I think so. My alarm went off.”
“I know that and, according to our instructions, when this happens you’re supposed to go down to a special room in the cellar and lock the door. Are you down there?”
“Yes,” he lied.
“Good, very good. Do you know what’s happened?”
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