The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle

by Stieg Larsson

  • • •

  “His name is Alexander Zalachenko,” Björck said. “But officially he doesn’t exist. You won’t find him on the national register.”

  Zala. Alexander Zalachenko. Finally a name.

  “Who is he and how can I find him?”

  “He’s not someone you’d want to find.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “What I’m going to tell you is top secret information. If it came out that I told you this, I’d be sent to prison. It’s one of the most deeply buried secrets we have within the Swedish defence system. You have to understand why it’s so important that you guarantee my anonymity.”

  “I’ve already done that,” Blomkvist said impatiently.

  “Alexander Zalachenko was born in 1940 in Stalingrad. When he was a year old, the German offensive on the eastern front began. Both of Zalachenko’s parents died in the war. At least that’s what Zalachenko thinks. He doesn’t really know what happened during the war. His earliest memories are of an orphanage in the Ural Mountains.”

  Blomkvist made swift notes.

  “The orphanage was in a garrison town and was, as it were, sponsored by the Red Army. You might say that Zalachenko got a military education very early. Since the end of the Soviet Union, documents have emerged which show there were experiments to create a cadre of particularly athletic, elite soldiers among the orphans who were being raised by the state. Zalachenko was one of them. To make a long story short, when he was five he was put in an army school. It turned out that he was talented. When he was fifteen, in 1955, he was sent to a military school in Novosibirsk, where together with two thousand other pupils he underwent training similar to Spetsnaz, the Russian elite troops.”

  “OK, let’s get to the adult stuff.”

  “In 1958, when he was eighteen, he was moved to Minsk, to specialist training with the GRU—Glavnoye razvedyvatelnoye upravlenie, the military intelligence service that is directly subordinate to the army high command, not to be confused with the KGB, the civil secret police. The GRU usually took care of espionage and foreign operations. When he was twenty, Zalachenko was sent to Cuba. It was a training period and he was still only the equivalent of a second lieutenant. But he was there for two years, during the Cuban missile crisis and the invasion at the Bay of Pigs. In 1963 he went back to Minsk for further training. Thereafter he was stationed first in Bulgaria and then in Hungary. In 1965 he was promoted to lieutenant and got his first posting to Western Europe, in Rome, where he served for a year. That was his first undercover assignment. He was a civilian with a fake passport, obviously, and with no contact with the embassy.”

  Blomkvist nodded as he wrote. Against his will he was starting to get interested.

  “In 1967 he was moved to London. There he organized the execution of a defected KGB agent. Over the next ten years he became one of the GRU’s top agents. He belonged to the real elite of devoted political soldiers. He speaks six languages fluently. He’s worked as a journalist, a photographer, in advertising, as a sailor—you name it. He’s a survival artist, an expert in disguise and deception. He commanded his own agents and organized or carried out his own operations. Several of these operations were contracts for hits, and a large number of them took place in the third world, but he was also involved in extortion, intimidation, and all kinds of other assignments that his superiors needed him to perform. In 1969 he was promoted to captain, in 1972 to major, and in 1975 to lieutenant colonel.”

  “Why did he come to Sweden?”

  “I’m getting to that. Over the years he became corrupt, and he squirrelled away a little money here and there. He drank too much and did too much womanizing. All this was noted by his superiors, but he was still a favourite and they could overlook the small stuff. In 1976 he was sent to Spain on a mission. We don’t need to go into the details, but he made a fool of himself. The mission failed and all of a sudden he was in disgrace and called back to Russia. He chose to ignore the order and thereby ended up in an even worse situation. The GRU ordered a military attaché at the embassy in Madrid to find him and talk some sense into him. Something went wrong, and Zalachenko killed the man. Now he had no choice. He had burned his bridges and rashly decided to defect. He laid a trail that seemed to lead from Spain to Portugal and possibly to a boating accident. He also left clues indicating he intended to flee to the United States. He chose in fact to defect to the most improbable country in Europe. He came to Sweden, where he contacted the Security Police, Säpo, and sought asylum. This was well thought out, because the probability that a death squad from the KGB or the GRU would look for him here was almost zero.”

  Björck fell silent.

  “And?”

  “What’s the government supposed to do if one of the Soviet Union’s top spies defects and seeks asylum in Sweden? A conservative government was coming into power. As a matter of fact, it was one of the very first matters we had to take to the newly appointed foreign minister. Those political cowards tried to get rid of him like a hot potato, of course, but they couldn’t just send him back to the Soviets—that would have been a scandal of unmatched proportions if it ever came out. Instead they tried to send him to the States or to England. Zalachenko refused. He didn’t like America and he knew that England was one of those countries where the Soviets had agents at the highest levels within military intelligence. He didn’t want to go to Israel, because he didn’t like Jews. So he decided to make his home in Sweden.”

  The whole thing sounded so improbable that it occurred to Blomkvist that Björck might be pulling his leg.

  “So he stayed in Sweden?”

  “Exactly. For many years it was one of the country’s best-kept military secrets. The thing was, we got plenty of good information out of Zalachenko. For a time during the late seventies and early eighties, he was the jewel in the crown among defectors, the most senior from one of the GRU’s elite commands.”

  “So he could sell information?”

  “Precisely. He played his cards well and doled out information when it suited him best. We were able to identify an agent at NATO headquarters in Brussels. An agent in Rome. A contact for a whole ring of spies in Berlin. The identity of hit men he’d used in Ankara and Athens. He didn’t know that much about Sweden, but the information he did have we could pass on in return for favours. He was a gold mine.”

  “So you started cooperating with him.”

  “We gave him a new identity, a passport, a little money, and he took care of himself. That was what he was trained to do.”

  Blomkvist sat for a while in silence, digesting this information. Then he looked up at Björck.

  “You lied to me the last time I was here.”

  “I did?”

  “You said that you met Bjurman at your police shooting club in the eighties. But you met him long before that.”

  “It was an automatic reaction. It’s confidential, and I had no reason to go into how Bjurman and I met. It wasn’t until you asked about Zala that I made the connection.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was thirty-three and had been working at Säpo for three years. Bjurman was a good deal younger and had just finished his degree. He was handling certain legal matters at Säpo. It was a kind of trainee job. Bjurman was from Karlskrona, and his father worked in military intelligence.”

  “And?”

  “Neither Bjurman nor I was remotely qualified to handle someone like Zalachenko, but he made contact on election day in 1976. There was hardly a soul in police headquarters—everyone was either off that day or working on stakeouts and the like. Zalachenko chose that moment to walk into Norrmalm police station and declare that he was seeking political asylum and wanted to talk to somebody in the Security Police. He didn’t give his name. I was on duty and thought it was a straightforward refugee case, so I took Bjurman with me as legal advisor.”

  Björck rubbed his eyes.

  “There he sat and told us calmly and matter-of-factly who he was, and wh
at he had worked on. Bjurman took notes. After a while I realized what I was dealing with. I stopped the conversation and got Zalachenko and Bjurman the hell out of that police station. I didn’t know what to do, so I booked a room at the Hotel Continental right across from Central Station and stowed him there. I told Bjurman to babysit him while I went downstairs and called my superior.” He laughed. “I’ve often thought that we behaved like total amateurs. But that’s how it happened.”

  “Who was your boss?”

  “That’s not relevant. I’m not going to name anyone else.”

  Blomkvist shrugged and let the matter drop.

  “He made it very clear that this was a matter that required the greatest possible discretion and that we should get as few people involved as possible. Bjurman should never have had anything to do with it—it was way above his level—but since he already knew what was going on it was better to keep him on rather than bring in somebody new. I assume that the same reasoning applied to a junior officer like myself. There came to be a total of seven people associated with the Security Police who knew of Zalachenko’s existence.”

  “How many others know this story?”

  “From 1976 up to the beginning of 1990 … all in all about twenty people in the government, military high command, and within Säpo.”

  “And after the beginning of 1990?”

  Björck shrugged. “The moment the Soviet Union collapsed he became uninteresting.”

  “But what happened after Zalachenko came to Sweden?”

  Björck said nothing for so long that Blomkvist began to get restless.

  “To be honest … Zalachenko was a big success, and those of us who were involved built our careers on it. Don’t misunderstand me, it was also a full-time job. I was assigned to be Zalachenko’s mentor in Sweden, and over the first ten years we met at least a couple of times a week. This was all during the important years when he was full of fresh information. But it was just as much about keeping him under control.”

  “In what sense?”

  “Zalachenko was a sly devil. He could be incredibly charming, but he could also be paranoid and crazy. He would go on drinking binges and then turn violent. More than once I had to go out at night and sort out some mess he’d gotten himself into.”

  “For instance …”

  “For instance, the time he went to a bar and got into an argument and beat the living daylights out of two bouncers who tried to calm him down. He was quite a small man, but exceptionally skilled at close combat, which regrettably he chose to demonstrate on various occasions. Once I had to pick him up at a police station.”

  “He risked attracting serious attention to himself. That doesn’t sound very professional.”

  “That was the way he was. He hadn’t committed any crime in Sweden and was never arrested. We had provided him with a Swedish name, a Swedish passport and ID. And he had a house that the Security Police paid for. He received a salary from Säpo just to keep him available. But we couldn’t prevent him from going to bars or from womanizing. All we could do was clean up after him. That was my job until 1985 when I got a new post and my successor took over as Zalachenko’s handler.”

  “And Bjurman’s role?”

  “To be honest, Bjurman was deadweight. He wasn’t particularly clever. In fact he was the wrong man in the wrong job. It was pure chance that he was part of the whole Zalachenko business at all, and he was only involved in the very early days and on the occasions when we needed him to deal with legal formalities. My superior solved the problem with Bjurman.”

  “How?”

  “The easiest possible way. He was given a job outside the police force at a law firm that had, as you might say, close ties to us.”

  “Klang and Reine.”

  Björck gave Mikael a sharp look.

  “Yes. Over the years he always had assignments, minor investigations, from Säpo. So in a way he too built his career on Zalachenko.”

  “Where is Zalachenko today?”

  “I really don’t know. My contact with him dried up after 1985, and I haven’t seen him in over twelve years. The last I heard, he left Sweden in 1992.”

  “Apparently he’s back. He’s cropped up in connection with weapons, drugs, and sex trafficking.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Björck said. “But we can’t know for sure if it’s the Zala you’re looking for or somebody else.”

  “The likelihood of two separate Zalachenkos appearing in this story must be microscopic. What was his Swedish name?”

  “I’m not going to reveal that.”

  “Now you’re being evasive.”

  “You wanted to know who Zala was. I’ve told you. But I won’t give you the last piece of the puzzle before I know you’ve kept your side of the bargain.”

  “Zala has probably committed three murders and the police are looking for the wrong person. If you think I’ll be satisfied without his name, you’re mistaken.”

  “What makes you think Lisbeth Salander isn’t the murderer?”

  “I know.”

  Björck smiled at Blomkvist. He suddenly felt much safer.

  “I think Zala is the killer,” Blomkvist said.

  “Wrong. Zala hasn’t shot anyone.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Zala is sixty-plus years old now and severely disabled. He’s had a foot amputated and doesn’t do much walking. So he hasn’t been running around Odenplan and Enskede shooting people. If he was going to murder somebody, he’d have to call the disabled transport service.”

  Eriksson smiled politely at Modig. “You’ll have to ask Mikael about that.”

  “OK, I will.”

  “I can’t discuss his research with you.”

  “And if this Zala is a potential suspect …”

  “You’ll have to discuss that with Mikael,” Eriksson said. “I can help you with what Dag was working on, but I can’t tell you about our own research.”

  Modig sighed. “What can you tell me about the people on this list?”

  “Only what Dag wrote, nothing about the sources. But I can say that Mikael has crossed about a dozen people off this list so far. That might help.”

  No, that won’t help. The police will have to do their own formal interviews. A judge. Two lawyers. Several politicians and journalists … and police colleagues. A real merry-go-round. Modig knew that they should have started doing this the day after the murders.

  Her eyes lighted on one name on the list. Gunnar Björck.

  “There’s no address for this man.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He works for the Security Police. His address is unlisted. Actually he’s on sick leave. Dag was never able to track him down.”

  “And have you?” Modig said with a smile.

  “Ask Mikael.”

  Modig stared at the wall above Svensson’s desk. She was thinking. “May I ask a personal question?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Who do you think murdered your friends and the lawyer?”

  Eriksson wished Blomkvist were here to handle these questions. It was uncomfortable to be quizzed by a police officer. It was even more unpleasant not to be able to explain exactly what conclusions Millennium had reached. Then she heard Berger’s voice behind her back.

  “Our theory is that the murders were committed to prevent some part of Dag’s exposé from reaching the light of day. But we don’t know who the killer was. Mikael is focusing on someone who goes by the name of Zala.”

  Modig turned to look at Millennium’s editor in chief. Berger held out two mugs of coffee. They were decorated with the logos of the civil service union HTF and the Christian Democratic Party, respectively. Berger smiled sweetly and went back to her office.

  She came out again three minutes later.

  “Inspector Modig, your boss has just called. Your mobile is off. He wants you to call him.”

  An APB was sent out to say that Lisbeth Salander
had at last surfaced. The bulletin indicated that she was probably riding a Harley-Davidson and contained the warning that she was armed and had shot someone at a summer cabin in the vicinity of Stallarholmen.

  The police set up roadblocks on routes into Strängnäs, Mariefred, and Södertälje. Every commuter train between Södertälje and Stockholm was searched that evening. But no-one answering to Salander’s description was found.

  At around 7:00 p.m. a police patrol found the Harley-Davidson outside the fairground in Älvsjö, and that shifted the focus of the search from Södertälje to Stockholm. The report from Älvsjö said that part of a leather jacket with the insignia of Svavelsjö MC had also been found. News of the find made Inspector Bublanski push his glasses up on his head and peer glumly at the darkness outside his office on Kungsholmen.

  The day’s developments had led to nothing but bafflement. The kidnapping of Salander’s girlfriend, the inexplicable involvement of the boxer Paolo Roberto, the arson near Södertälje, and bodies buried in the woods there. And finally this bizarre business in Stallarholmen.

  Bublanski went out to the main office and looked at the map of Stockholm and its environs. He found Stallarholmen, Nykvarn, Svavelsjö, and finally Älvsjö, the four places that for apparently different reasons were of current interest. He moved his gaze to Enskede and sighed. He had the unpleasant feeling that the police investigation was many miles behind the unfolding events. Whatever the Enskede murders had been about, it was much more complicated than they had supposed.

  Blomkvist was unaware of the drama at Stallarholmen. He left Smådalarö around 3:00 in the afternoon. He stopped at a gas station and had some coffee as he tried to make sense of what he had discovered.

  He was surprised that Björck had given him so many details, but the man had absolutely refused to give him the last piece of the puzzle: Zalachenko’s Swedish identity.