She did not answer. She could not care less about Arvid Wrange. But she had made progress and worked out who the hollow-eyed junkie was, the man Wrange had been in touch with, who had called himself Bogey. Trinity in Hacker Republic remembered somebody with that same handle from a number of hacker sites some years previously. That did not necessarily mean anything—Bogey was not the most original alias. But Salander had traced the posts and thought she could be onto something, especially when he carelessly dropped that he was a computer engineer from Moscow University.
Salander was unable to find out when he graduated, or any other dates for that matter, but she got hold of a couple of nerdy details about how Bogey was hooked on fine watches and crazy for the Arsène Lupin films from the ’70s, about the gentleman thief of that name.
Then Salander posted questions on every conceivable website for former and current students at Moscow University, asking if anybody knew a scrawny, hollow-eyed ex-junkie who had been a street urchin and master thief and loved Arsène Lupin films. It was not long before she got a reply.
“That sounds like Jurij Bogdanov,” wrote someone who introduced herself as Galina.
According to this Galina, Bogdanov was a legend at the university. Not just because he had hacked into all the lecturers’ computers and had dirt on every one of them. He liked to ask people: Will you bet me one hundred roubles I can’t break into that house over there?
Many who did not know him thought this was easy money. But Jurij could pick any door lock, and if for some reason he failed then he would shin up the façade or the walls. He was known for his daring, and for his evil. He was said once to have kicked a dog to death when it disturbed him in his work and he was always stealing things, just for the hell of it. Galina thought he might have been a kleptomaniac. But he was also a genius hacker and a talented analyst, and after he graduated the world was his oyster. He did not want a job, he wanted to go his own way, he said, and it did not take Salander long to work out what he got up to after university—at least according to the official version.
Jurij Bogdanov was now thirty-four years old. He had left Russia and lived in Berlin at Budapester Strasse 8, not far from the Michelin-starred restaurant Hugo’s. He ran a white hat computer security business, Outcast Security, with seven employees and a turnover in the last financial year of twenty-two million euros. It was ironic yet somehow entirely logical that his front was a company which protected industrial groups from people like himself. He had not had any criminal convictions since he took his exams and managed a wide network of contacts—one of the members of his board of directors was Ivan Gribanov, member of the Russian Duma and a major shareholder in the oil company Gazprom—but she could find nothing to get her further.
Blomkvist’s second question was:
He did not explain why he was interested in the place. But she knew that Blomkvist was not someone who threw questions out at random. Nor did he make a habit of being unclear.
If he was being cryptic, then he had a reason to be, and the information must be sensitive. There was evidently something significant about this medical centre. Salander soon discovered that it had attracted a number of complaints—children had been forgotten or ignored and had been able to self-harm. Oden’s was managed privately by its director, Torkel Lindén, and his company Care Me and, if one was to believe past employees, Lindén’s word was law. The profit margin was always high because nothing was bought unless absolutely necessary.
Lindén himself was a former star gymnast, among other things a one-time Swedish horizontal bar champion. Nowadays he was a passionate hunter and member of a Christian congregation that took an uncompromising line on homosexuality. Salander went onto the websites of the Swedish Association for Hunting and Wildlife Management and the Friends of Christ to see what kinds of tempting activities were going on there. Then she sent Lindén two fake but enticing e-mails which looked as if they had come from the organizations. Attached were PDF files with sophisticated malware which would open automatically if Lindén clicked on the messages.
By 8:23 she had gotten onto the server and immediately confirmed her suspicions. August Balder had been admitted to the clinic the previous afternoon. In the medical file, underneath a description of the circumstances which had resulted in his admittance, it said:
Infantile autism, severe mental impairment. Restless. Severely traumatized by death of father. Constant observation required. Difficult to handle. Brought jigsaw puzzles. Not allowed to draw! Observed to be compulsive and destructive. Diagnosis by psychologist Forsberg, confirmed by T.L.
And the following had been added underneath, clearly somewhat later:
Professor Charles Edelman, Chief Inspector Bublanski, and Detective Sergeant Modig will visit A. Balder at 10:00 a.m. on Wednesday, November 22. T.L. will be present. Drawing under supervision.
Further down still it said:
Change of venue. A. Balder to be taken by T.L. and Professor Edelman to his mother Hanna Balder on Torsgatan, Bublanski and Modig will join. A.B. is thought likely to draw better in his home environment.
Salander quickly checked who Edelman was, and when she saw that his specialism was savant skills she understood straightaway what was going on. They seemed to be working towards some sort of testimony in the form of a sketch. Why else would Bublanski and Sonja Modig be interested in the boy’s drawing, and why else would Blomkvist have been so cautious in framing his question?
None of this must be allowed to get out. No killer must be able to find out that the boy might draw a picture of him. Salander decided to see for herself how careful Lindén had been in his correspondence. Luckily he had not written anything more about the boy’s drawing ability. He had on the other hand received an e-mail from Edelman at 11:10 last night, copied to Modig and Bublanski. That e-mail was clearly the reason why the meeting place had been changed. Edelman wrote:
The hell you have, Salander thought, and read on:
Best regards
Charles Edelman>
Bublanski and Modig had replied at 7:01 and 7:14 a.m. respectively. There was good reason, they wrote, to rely on Edelman’s expertise and follow his advice. Lindén had, at 7:57, confirmed that he and the boy would await Charles Edelman outside the entrance on Sveavägen. Salander sat for a while, lost in thought. Then she went to the kitchen and picked up a few old biscuits from the larder while she looked out towards Slussen and Riddarfjärden. So, she thought, the venue for the meeting has been changed. Instead of doing his drawing at the medical centre, the boy would be driven home to his mother.
The presence of the mother has a positive effect, Edelman wrote. There was something about that phrase Salander did not like. It felt old-fashioned, didn’t it? And the introduction itself was not much better: “The reason being that it is recognized in literature on the subject…” It was stilted. Although it was true that many academics could not write to save their lives, and she knew nothing about the way in which this professor normally expressed himself, would one of the world’s leading neurologists re
ally feel the need to lean on what is recognized in the literature? Wouldn’t he be more self-assured?
Salander went to her computer and skimmed through some of Edelman’s papers online; she may have found the odd little touch of vanity, even in the most factual passages, but there was nothing clumsy or psychologically naïve in what he had written. On the contrary, the man was sharp. So she went back to the e-mails and checked to find out which SMTP server it had been transmitted through, and that made her jump right away. The server, Birdino, was not familiar, which it should have been, so she sent it a series of commands to see exactly what it was. In a matter of seconds she had the evidence in black and white: the server supported open mail relay, and the sender could therefore transmit messages from any address he wanted.
In other words, the e-mail from Edelman was a fake, and the copies to Bublanski and Modig were a smoke screen. She hardly even needed to check, she already knew what had happened: the police replies and the approval of the altered arrangements were also a bluff. It didn’t just mean that someone was pretending to be Edelman. There also had to be a leak, and above all, somebody wanted the boy outside on Sveavägen.
Somebody wanted him defenceless in the street so that…what? They could kidnap or get rid of him? Salander looked at her watch, it was already 8:55. In just twenty minutes Torkel Lindén and August Balder would be outside waiting for someone who was not Professor Edelman, and who had anything but good intentions towards them.
What should she do? Call the police? That was never her first choice. She was especially reluctant when there was a risk of leaks. Instead, she went onto Oden’s website and got hold of Lindén’s office number. But she only made it as far as the switchboard. Lindén was in a meeting. So she found his mobile. After ending up in his voicemail, she swore out loud, and sent him both a text and an e-mail telling him on no account to go out into the street with the boy, not under any circumstances. She signed herself “Wasp” for lack of a better idea.
Then she threw on her leather jacket and rushed out. After a second, she turned, ran back into the apartment, and packed her laptop with the encrypted file and her pistol, a Beretta 92, into a black sports bag. Then she hurried out again. She wondered if she should take her car, the BMW M6 Convertible gathering dust in the garage. But she decided a taxi would be quicker. She soon regretted it.
When a taxi finally appeared, it was clear that rush hour had not subsided. Traffic inched forward and Centralbron was almost at a standstill. Had there been an accident? Everything went slowly, everything but the time, which flew. Soon it was 9:05, then 9:10. She was in a tearing hurry and in the worst case it was already too late. Most likely Lindén and the boy went out onto the street ahead of time and the killer, or whoever it was, had already struck.
She dialled Lindén’s number again. This time the call went through, but there was no answer, so she swore again and thought of Mikael Blomkvist. She had not actually spoken to him in ages. But now she called him and he answered, sounding irritated. Only when he realized who it was did he brighten up:
“Lisbeth, is that you?”
“Shut up and listen,” she said.
—
Blomkvist was in the Millennium offices on Götgatan, in a foul mood. It was not just because he had had another bad night. It was TT. Usually a serious and decent news agency, TT had put out a bulletin claiming that Mikael Blomkvist was sabotaging the murder enquiry by withholding crucial information, which he intended to publish first in Millennium.
Allegedly his aim was to save the magazine from financial disaster and rebuild his own “ruined reputation.” Blomkvist had known that the story was in the offing. He had had a long conversation with its author, Harald Wallin, the evening before. But he could not have imagined such a devastating result.
It was made up of idiotic insinuations and unsubstantiated accusations, but Wallin had nonetheless managed to produce something which sounded almost objective, almost credible. The man obviously had good sources both within the Serner Group and the police. Admittedly the headline was innocuous—PROSECUTOR CRITICAL OF MIKAEL BLOMKVIST—and there was plenty of room in the story for Blomkvist to defend himself. But whichever one of his enemies was responsible understood media logic: if a news bureau as serious as TT publishes a story like this one, not only does that make it legitimate for everybody else to jump on the bandwagon, it just about requires them to take a tougher line. It explains why Blomkvist woke up to the online papers saying BLOMKVIST SABOTAGES MURDER INVESTIGATION and BLOMKVIST ATTEMPTS TO SAVE MAGAZINE. MURDERER RUNS FREE. The print media were good enough to put quotation marks around the headlines. But the overall impression was nevertheless that a new truth was being served up with the breakfast coffee. A columnist by the name of Gustav Lund, who claimed to be fed up with all the hypocrisy, began his piece by writing: “Mikael Blomkvist, who has always thought of himself as a cut above the rest, has now been unmasked as the biggest cynic of us all.”
“Let’s hope they don’t start waving subpoenas at us,” said Malm, designer and part owner of the magazine, as he stood next to Blomkvist, nervously chewing gum.
“Let’s hope they don’t call in the Marines,” Blomkvist said.
“What?”
“It was meant to be a joke.”
“I get it. I don’t like the tone,” Malm said.
“Nobody likes it. But the best we can do is grit our teeth and keep working as usual.”
“Your phone’s buzzing.”
“It’s always buzzing.”
“How about answering it, before they come up with anything worse?”
“Yes, yes,” Blomkvist muttered, and answered gruffly.
It was a girl. He thought he recognized the voice but, caught off guard, he could not at first place it.
“Who’s that?” he said.
“Salander,” said the voice, and at that he gave a big smile.
“Lisbeth, is that you?”
“Shut up and listen,” she said. And so he did.
—
The traffic had eased and Salander and the taxi driver, a young man from Iraq named Ahmed who had lost his mother and two brothers in terrorist attacks, had emerged onto Sveavägen and passed the Stockholm Konserthuset on their left. Salander, who was a terrible passenger, sent off yet another text message to Lindén and tried to call some other member of the staff at Oden’s, anybody who could run out and warn him. No reply. She swore aloud, hoping that Blomkvist would do better.
“Is it an emergency?” Ahmed said from the driver’s seat.
When Salander replied “Yes,” Ahmed shot the light and got a fleeting smile out of her.
After that she focused on every foot they covered. Away to the left she caught a glimpse of the School of Economics and the Public Library—it was not far to go now. She scanned for the street numbers on the right-hand side, and at last saw the address. Thankfully there was no-one lying dead on the sidewalk. Salander pulled out some hundred-kronor notes for Ahmed. It was an ordinary, dreary November day, no more than that, and people were on their way to work. But wait…She looked over towards the low, green-speckled wall on the other side of the street.
A powerfully built man in a woollen hat and dark glasses was standing there, staring intently at the entrance on Sveavägen. There was something about his body language—his right hand was not visible but the arm was tensed and ready. Salander looked again at the entrance to Oden’s, to the extent that she could see anything from her oblique angle, and she noticed the door opening.
It opened slowly, as if the person about to come out were hesitant or finding the door heavy, and all of a sudden Salander shouted to Ahmed to stop. She jumped out of the moving car, just as the man across the street raised his right hand and aimed a pistol with a telescopic sight at the door as it slid open.
CHAPTER 17
NOVEMBER 22
The man who called himself Jan Holtser was not happy with the situation. The place was wide open and it was the wrong time of
day. The street was too busy, and although he had done his best to cover his face, he was uncomfortable in daylight, and so near the park. More than ever he felt that he hated killing children.
But that’s the way it was and he had to accept that the situation was of his own making.
He had underestimated the boy and now he had to correct his mistake. He must not let wishful thinking or his own demons get in the way. He would keep his mind on the job, be the professional he always was, and above all not think about Olga, still less recall that glassy stare which had confronted him in Balder’s bedroom.
He had to concentrate now on the doorway across the street and on his Remington pistol, which he was keeping under his windbreaker. But why wasn’t anything happening? His mouth felt dry. The wind was biting. There was snow lying in the street and on the sidewalk and people were hurrying back and forth to work. He tightened his grip on the pistol and glanced at his watch.
It was 9:16, and then 9:17. But still no-one emerged from the doorway across the road and he cursed: Was something wrong? All he had to go by was Bogdanov’s word, but that was assurance enough. The man was a wizard with computers and last night he had sat engrossed in his work, sending off fake e-mails and getting the language right with the help of his contacts in Sweden. Holtser had taken care of the rest: studying pictures of the place, selecting the weapon, and above all organizing the getaway car—a rental which Dennis Wilton of the Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club had fixed for them under a false name, and which was now standing ready three blocks away, with Bogdanov at the wheel.
Holtser sensed a movement immediately behind him and jumped. But it was just two young men walking past a little too close to him. The street seemed to be getting busier and he did not like that. In the distance a dog was barking and there was a smell, maybe food frying at McDonald’s, then…at long last…a short man in a grey overcoat and a curly-haired boy in a red quilted jacket could be seen through the glass door on the other side of the street. Holtser crossed himself with his left hand as he always did and started to squeeze the trigger on his weapon. But what was happening?
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