“That’s what I came to talk about. It doesn’t look good.”
“What do we know?”
“That he worked late and was spotted disappearing down past Katarinahissen accompanied by a beautiful woman with strawberry- or dark-blond hair and expensive clothes.”
“I’d not heard that.”
“They were seen by a man called Ken Eklund, a baker at Skansen. He lives in the Millennium building. He said they looked as if they were in love, or at least Zander did.”
“You think it could have been some sort of honey trap?”
“It’s possible.”
“And this woman, might she be the same one who was seen at Ingarö?”
“We’re looking into that. But I don’t like the idea that they seemed to be heading towards Gamla Stan. Not only because we picked up Zander’s mobile phone signals there. That revolting specimen Orlov, who just spits at me whenever I try to question him, has an apartment on Mårten Trotzigs gränd.”
“Have we been there?”
“Not yet. We’ve only just located it. The apartment was registered in the name of one of his companies.”
“Let’s hope there’s nothing unpleasant waiting for us there.”
—
Westman was lying on the floor in the entrance hall on Torsgatan, wondering how he could be so terrified. She was just a chick, a pierced punk chick who hardly came up to his chest. He should be able to throw her out like some little rat. Yet he was as if paralyzed and it had nothing to do with the way the girl fought, he thought, still less with the fact that her foot was planted on his stomach. It was something about her look or her whole being that he could not put his finger on. For a few minutes he lay there like an idiot and listened.
“I’m reminded of the fact,” she said, “that there’s something really wrong in my family. We seem to be capable of the most unimaginable cruelties. It may be a genetic defect. Personally, I’ve got this thing against men who harm children and women, and that makes me dangerous. When I saw August’s drawings of you and your friend Roger, I wanted to hurt you, badly. But I think August has been through enough, so there’s a slight chance that you and your friend might get off more lightly.”
“I’m—” Westman began.
“Quiet,” she said. “This isn’t a negotiation, it’s not even a conversation. I’m just setting out the terms, that’s all. Legally, there are no problems. Frans was wise enough to register the apartment in August’s name. This is how it’s going to be: You have precisely four minutes to pack your things and get out. If you or Roger ever come back here or contact August in any way, I’ll make you suffer so much that you’ll be incapable of doing anything nice again, for the rest of your lives. In the meantime, I’ll be preparing to report you to the police with full details of the abuse you’ve subjected August to. As you know we have more than the drawings to go on. We have testimonies from psychologists and experts. I’ll also be contacting the evening papers to tell them that I have material which substantiates the image of you that emerged in connection with your assault on Renata Kapusinski. Remind me, Lasse, what was it that you did? Bite through her cheek and kick her in the head?”
“So you’re going to go to the press.”
“I’m going to go to the press. I’m going to cause you and your friend every conceivable disgrace. But maybe—I’m saying maybe—you can hope to escape the worst of the humiliation so long as you’re never again seen near Hanna and August, and if you never again harm a woman. As a matter of fact I couldn’t give a shit about you. Once you leave, and if you live like a shy and timid little monk, you may be all right. I have my doubts—as we all know, the rate of re-offending for violence against women is high, and basically you’re a bastard, but with a bit of luck, who knows…Got it?”
“I’ve got it,” he said, hating himself for saying so.
He saw no way out, he could only agree and do as he was told, so he got up and went into the bedroom and quickly packed some clothes. Then he took his coat and his mobile and left.
He had nowhere to go. He had never felt more pathetic in his life. Outside an unpleasant sleety rain lashed into him.
—
Salander heard the front door slam and footsteps receding down the stone stairs. She looked at August. He was standing still with his arms straight down by his sides, staring at her intently. That troubled her. A moment ago she had been in control, but now she was uncertain, and what on earth was the matter with Hanna Balder?
Hanna seemed about to burst into tears, and August…on top of everything else he started shaking his head and muttering. Salander just wanted to get out of there, but she stayed. Her work was not yet complete. Out of her pocket she took two plane tickets, a hotel voucher, and a thick bundle of notes, both kronor and euros.
“I’d just like, from the bottom of my heart—” Hanna began.
“Quiet,” Salander cut in. “Here are some plane tickets to Munich. Departure is at 7:15 this evening so you’ve got to hurry. I’ve organized transport to take you directly to Schloss Elmau. It’s a nice hotel not far from Garmisch-Partenkirchen. You’ll be staying in a large room on the top floor, in the name of Müller, and you’ll be there for three months to start with. I’ve been in touch with Professor Edelman and explained to him the importance of absolute confidentiality. He’ll be making regular visits and seeing to it that August gets good care. Edelman will also arrange for suitable schooling.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m deadly serious. The police now have August’s drawing and the murderer has been arrested. But the people behind the attacks are still at large; it’s impossible to know what they might be planning. You have to leave this apartment at once. I’m busy with a few other things, so I’ve arranged for a driver to take you to Arlanda. He’s a bit weird looking, maybe. But he’s OK. You can call him Plague. Have you got all that?”
“Yes, but…”
“Forget the buts. Just listen: You mustn’t use your credit card or your own mobile, Hanna. I’ve fixed an encrypted mobile for you, a Blackphone, in case there’s an emergency. My number is already programmed in. I’ll pick up all the costs of the hotel. You’ll get a hundred thousand kronor in cash, for unforeseen expenses. Any questions?”
“It sounds crazy.”
“Not to me.”
“But how can you afford this?”
“I can afford it.”
“How can we…”
Hanna looked completely bewildered, as if she were not sure what to believe. Then she began to cry.
“How can we ever thank you?” she struggled to say.
“Thank me?”
Salander said the words as if they were incomprehensible. When Hanna came towards her with outstretched arms she backed away, and with her eyes fixed on the hallway floor she said:
“Pull yourself together! Get a grip and get off whatever stuff you’re on, pills or anything else. That’s how you can thank me.”
“I will…”
“And if anyone gets it into their head that August needs to be put in some home or institution, I want you to fight back as hard and as ruthlessly as you can. Aim for their weakest point. Be a warrior.”
“A warrior?”
“Exactly. Don’t let anyone—”
Salander stopped herself. They were not perhaps the greatest words of farewell, but they would have to do. She turned and walked towards the front door. She did not get far. August started to mutter again, and this time they could make out what the boy was saying.
“Not go, not go…”
Salander had no good answer to that either. She just said: “You’ll be OK,” and then added, as if talking to herself, “Thanks for the scream this morning.” There was silence for a moment, and Salander wondered if she should say more. But instead she slipped out.
Hanna called after her: “I can’t tell you what this means to me!”
But Salander heard nothing. She was already running down the steps to her car. When
she reached Västerbron, Blomkvist called on the RedPhone app to say that the NSA had tracked her down.
“Tell them hi and that I’m on their tracks too,” she said.
Then she drove to Roger Winter’s house and scared him half to death. After that she drove back to her place and set to work with the encrypted NSA file, without coming any closer to a solution.
—
Needham and Blomkvist had worked a long day in the hotel room at the Grand. Needham’s story was fantastic and Blomkvist would be able to write the scoop Millennium so badly needed, but his feeling of unease did not abate. It was not just because Zander was still missing. There was something about Needham that did not add up. Why had he turned up in the first place, and why was he putting so much energy into helping a small Swedish magazine, far from all the centres of power in the United States? Blomkvist had undertaken not to disclose the hacker breach, and had half promised to persuade Salander to talk to Needham. But that hardly seemed enough.
Needham behaved as if he were taking enormous risks. The curtains were drawn and their mobiles were lying at a safe distance. There was a feeling of paranoia in the room. Confidential documents were laid out on the bed. Blomkvist was permitted to read them, but not to quote from or copy them. And every now and then Needham interrupted his account to discuss various aspects of the right to protect journalistic sources. He was obsessive about ensuring that the leak could not be traced back to him, and sometimes he listened nervously for footsteps in the corridor or looked out through a gap in the curtains to check that no-one was out there watching the hotel, and yet…Blomkvist could not help feeling that most of it was play-acting.
He became more and more convinced that Needham knew exactly what he was doing, and was not even especially worried about someone listening in. It occurred to Blomkvist that Needham was playing a part with the backing of his superiors. Maybe he himself had also been given a role in this play which he did not yet understand.
Therefore he paid close attention not just to what Needham said, but also to what he did not. He considered what Needham might be trying to achieve by going public. There was undoubtedly a certain amount of anger in the mix. Some “bastards” in a department called Protection of Strategic Technologies had prevented Needham from nailing the hacker who had gotten into his system, because they didn’t want to be exposed with their pants round their ankles, and that infuriated him, he said. Blomkvist had no reason not to believe him, still less to doubt that Needham genuinely did want to exterminate these people, to “crush them, grind them to pulp under my boots.” But there were other aspects of the story he was not quite so comfortable with. It felt as if Needham were wrestling with some kind of self-censorship.
From time to time Blomkvist went down to the lobby just to think, or to call Berger or Salander. Berger always answered on the first ring and, even though they were both enthusiastic about the story, Zander’s disappearance haunted their conversations.
Salander did not pick up all day, until eventually he got hold of her at 5:20. She sounded distracted, and informed him that the boy was now safe with his mother.
“And how are you?” he said.
“OK.”
“Not hurt?”
“Nothing new at least.”
Blomkvist took a deep breath.
“Have you hacked into the NSA’s intranet, Lisbeth?”
“Have you been talking to Ed the Ned?”
“No comment.”
He would say nothing, even to Salander. Protection of sources was even more important to him than loyalty to her.
“Ed isn’t so dumb after all,” she said.
“So you have.”
“Possibly.”
Blomkvist felt the urge to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing. Instead, as calmly as he could, he said:
“They’re prepared to let you off if you’ll agree to meet them and tell them how you did it.”
“Tell them that I’ve got more than they think.”
“OK. But would you consider meeting…”
“Ed?”
How the hell did she know, Blomkvist thought. Needham had wanted to be the one to reveal himself to her.
“Ed,” he repeated.
“A cocky bugger.”
“Pretty cocky. But would you consider meeting him if we provide guarantees that you won’t be arrested?”
“There are no such guarantees.”
“I could get in touch with my sister Annika and ask her to represent you.”
“I’ve got better things to do,” she said, as if she did not want to talk about it anymore.
He could not stop himself from saying, “This story we’re working on…I’m not sure I understand all of it.”
“What’s the problem?” Salander said.
“First of all, I don’t understand why Camilla has surfaced after all these years.”
“I suppose she’d just been biding her time.”
“How do you mean?”
“She probably always knew she would be back to get revenge for what I did to her and Zala. But she wanted to wait until she had built up her strength on every level. Nothing is more important to Camilla than to be strong, and she must have seen an opportunity, a chance to kill two birds with one stone. At least that’s my guess. Why don’t you ask her next time you have a drink together?”
“Have you spoken to Holger?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Thank God you got away,” Blomkvist went on.
“I made it.”
“But aren’t you worried that she could be back at any moment?”
“It has occurred to me.”
“OK, good. You do know that Camilla and I did nothing more than walk a short way down Hornsgatan?”
Salander did not answer.
“I know you, Mikael” was all she said. “And now that you’ve met Ed, I guess I’ll have to protect myself from him too.”
Blomkvist smiled to himself.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re probably right. Let’s not trust him any more than we absolutely have to. I don’t want to become his useful idiot.”
“Doesn’t sound like a role for you, Mikael.”
“No, and that’s why I’d love to know what you discovered when you accessed the NSA intranet.”
“A whole load of compromising shit.”
“About Eckerwald and the Spiders’ relationship with the NSA?”
“That and a bit more besides.”
“Which you were planning to tell me about.”
“I might do, if you behave yourself,” she said with a teasing tone, and that only made him feel happy.
Then he chuckled, because at that moment he realized what Ed Needham was trying to do. It hit him so forcefully that he had a hard time keeping up his act when he returned to the hotel room, but he went on working with the American until ten that night.
CHAPTER 29
NOVEMBER 25—MORNING
Vladimir Orlov’s apartment on Mårten Trotzigs gränd was neat and tidy. The bed was freshly made with clean sheets and the laundry basket in the bathroom was empty. Yet there were signs that something was not quite right. Neighbours reported that some moving men had been there the morning before and a close inspection revealed blood stains on the floor and on the wall above the headboard. The blood was compared to traces of saliva in Zander’s apartment and the match confirmed.
But the men now in custody—the two still capable of communicating—claimed to have no knowledge of blood stains or of Zander, so Bublanski and his team concentrated on getting more information on the woman who had been seen with him. By now the media had published columns and columns about not only the drama on Ingarö but also about Andrei Zander’s disappearance. Both evening newspapers and Svenska Morgon-Posten and Metro had carried prominent photographs of the journalist, and there was already speculation that he might have been murdered. Usually that would jog people’s memories and prompt them to remember anything suspicious, but
now it was almost the exact opposite.
Such witness accounts as came in and were thought to be credible were peculiarly vague, and everyone who came forward—except for Mikael Blomkvist and the baker from Skansen—took it upon themselves to remark that they could not imagine the woman guilty of any crime. She had apparently made an overwhelmingly good impression on everyone who had encountered her. A bartender called Sören Karlsten, who had served the woman and Zander in Papagallo on Götgatan, went on and on boasting that he was a good judge of character and claimed to be absolutely certain that this woman “would never hurt a soul.”
“She was class personified.”
She was just about everything personified, if one were to believe the witnesses, and from what Bublanski could see it would be virtually impossible to produce a police sketch of her. The witness accounts all depicted her in different terms, as if they were projecting their ideal image of a woman onto her, and so far they had no photographs from any surveillance camera. It was almost laughable. Blomkvist said that the woman was without a shadow of a doubt Camilla Salander, twin sister of Lisbeth. But going back in the records for many years, there was no trace of her. It was as if she had ceased to exist. If Camilla Salander were still alive, then it would be under a new identity.
Bublanski especially did not like that there had been two unexplained deaths in the foster family she left behind. The police investigations at the time were deficient, full of loose threads and question marks which had never been followed up.
Bublanski read the reports, ashamed that out of some bizarre respect for the family’s tragedy his colleagues had failed to get to the bottom of the glaring problem that both the father and the daughter had emptied their bank accounts just before their deaths, or that in the very week he had been found hanged the father had started writing a letter which began:
“Camilla, why is it so important to you to destroy my life?”
This person who seemed to have enchanted all the witnesses was shrouded in ominous darkness.
—
It was now 8:00 in the morning and there were a hundred other things Bublanski should have been attending to, so he reacted with both irritation and guilt when he heard that he had a visitor. She was a woman who had been interviewed by Modig but who now insisted on meeting him. Afterwards he wondered if he had been exceptionally brusque, maybe because all he was expecting was further problems.
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