The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle

by Stieg Larsson

Not until Monday evening did Dr. Endrin decide, in consultation with her colleague Dr. Jonasson, that Salander’s condition was stable enough for her to have visitors. First, two police inspectors were given fifteen minutes to ask her questions. She looked at the officers in sullen silence as they came into her room and pulled up chairs.

  “Hello. My name is Marcus Erlander, criminal inspector. I work in the violent crimes division here in Göteborg. This is my colleague Inspector Modig from the Stockholm police.”

  Salander said nothing. Her expression did not change. She recognized Modig as one of the officers on Bublanski’s team. Erlander gave her a cool smile.

  “I’ve been told that you don’t generally communicate much with the authorities. Let me put it on record that you do not have to say anything at all. But I would be grateful if you would listen to what we have to say. We have a number of things to discuss with you, but we don’t have time to go into them all today. There’ll be opportunities later.”

  Salander still said nothing.

  “First of all, I’d like to let you know that your friend Mikael Blomkvist has told us that a lawyer by the name of Annika Giannini is willing to represent you, and that she knows about the case. He says that he already mentioned her name to you in connection with something else. I need you to confirm that this would be your intention. I’d also like to know if you want Giannini to come here to Göteborg, the better to represent you.”

  Annika Giannini. Blomkvist’s sister. He had mentioned her in an email. Salander had not thought about the fact that she would need a lawyer.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to insist that you answer the question. A yes or no will be fine. If you say yes, the prosecutor here in Göteborg will contact Advokat Giannini. If you say no, the court will appoint a defence lawyer on your behalf. Which do you prefer?”

  Salander considered the choice. She assumed that she really would need a lawyer, but having Kalle Fucking Blomkvist’s sister working for her was hard to stomach. On the other hand, some unknown lawyer appointed by the court would probably be worse. She rasped out a single word:

  “Giannini.”

  “Good. Thank you. Now I have a question for you. You don’t have to say anything before your lawyer gets here, but this question does not, as far as I can see, affect you or your welfare. The police are looking for a German citizen by the name of Ronald Niedermann, wanted for the murder of a policeman.”

  Salander frowned. She had no clue as to what had happened to Niederman after he ran from the woodshed.

  “The Göteborg police are anxious to arrest him as soon as possible. My colleague here would like to question him also in connection with the three recent murders in Stockholm. You should know that you are no longer a suspect in those cases. So we are asking for your help. Do you have any idea … can you give us any help at all in finding this man?”

  Salander flicked her eyes suspiciously from Erlander to Modig and back.

  They don’t know that he’s my brother.

  Then she considered whether she wanted Niedermann caught or not. Most of all she wanted to take him to a hole in the ground in Gosseberga and bury him. Finally she shrugged. Which she should not have done, because pain flew through her left shoulder.

  “What day is it today?” she said.

  “Monday.”

  She thought about that. “The first time I heard the name Ronald Niedermann was last Thursday. I tracked him to Gosseberga. I have no idea where he is or where he might go, but he’ll try to get out of the country as soon as he can.”

  “Why would he flee abroad?”

  Salander thought about it. “Because while Niedermann was out digging a grave for me, Zalachenko told me that things were getting too hot and that it had already been decided that Niedermann should leave the country for a while.”

  Salander had not exchanged this many words with a police officer since she was twelve.

  “Zalachenko … so that’s your father?”

  Well, at least they’ve worked that one out. Probably thanks to Kalle Fucking Blomkvist.

  “I have to tell you that your father has made a formal accusation to the police stating that you tried to murder him. The case is now at the prosecutor’s office, and he has to decide whether to bring charges. But you have already been placed under arrest on a charge of aggravated assault, for having struck Zalachenko on the head with an axe.”

  There was a long silence. Then Modig leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I just want to say that we on the police force don’t put much faith in Zalachenko’s story. Have a serious discussion with your lawyer so we can come back later and have another talk.”

  The detectives stood up.

  “Thanks for the help with Niedermann,” Erlander said.

  Salander was surprised that the officers had treated her in such a professional, almost friendly manner. She thought about what the Modig woman had said. There had to be some ulterior motive, she decided.

  CHAPTER 7

  Monday, April 11–Tuesday, April 12

  At 5:45 p.m. on Monday, Blomkvist closed the lid on his iBook and got up from the kitchen table in his apartment on Bellmansgatan. He put on a jacket and walked to Milton Security’s offices in Slussen. He took the elevator up to the reception on the fourth floor and was immediately shown into a conference room. It was 6:00 p.m. on the dot, but he was the last to arrive.

  “Hello, Dragan,” he said and shook hands. “Thank you for being willing to host this informal meeting.”

  Blomkvist looked around the room. There were four others there: his sister, Salander’s former guardian Holger Palmgren, Malin Eriksson, and former criminal inspector Sonny Bohman, who now worked for Milton Security. At Armansky’s instruction Bohman had been following the Salander investigation from the start.

  Palmgren was on his first outing in more than two years. Dr. Sivarnandan of the Ersta rehabilitation home had been less than enchanted at the idea of letting him out, but Palmgren himself had insisted. He had come by special transport for the disabled, accompanied by his personal assistant and trainer, Johanna Karolina Oskarsson, whose salary was paid from a fund that had been mysteriously established to provide Palmgren with the best possible care. Oskarsson was sitting in an office next to the conference room. She had brought a book with her. Blomkvist closed the door behind him.

  “For those of you who haven’t met her before, this is Malin Eriksson, Millennium’s editor in chief. I asked her to be here because what we’re going to discuss will also affect her job.”

  “OK,” Armansky said. “Everyone’s here. I’m all ears.”

  Blomkvist stood at Armansky’s whiteboard and picked up a marker. He looked around.

  “This is probably the craziest thing I’ve ever been involved with,” he said. “When this is all over I’m going to found an association called ‘The Knights of the Idiotic Table,’ and its purpose will be to arrange an annual dinner where we tell stories about Lisbeth Salander. You’re all members.”

  He paused.

  “So, this is how things really are,” he said, and he began to make a list of headings on Armansky’s whiteboard. He talked for a good thirty minutes. Afterwards, the discussion went on for almost three hours.

  Gullberg sat down next to Clinton when their meeting was over. They spoke in low voices for a few minutes before Gullberg stood up. The old comrades shook hands.

  Gullberg took a taxi to Freys, packed his briefcase, and checked out. He took the late-afternoon train to Göteborg. He chose first class and had the compartment to himself. When he passed Årstabron he took out a ballpoint pen and a notepad. He thought for a long while and then began to write. He filled half a page before he stopped and tore the sheet off the pad.

  Forged documents had never been his department or his expertise, but here the task was simplified by the fact that the letters he was writing would be signed by him. What complicated the issue was that not a word of what he was writing was true.

  By the time the train we
nt through Nyköping he had already discarded a number of drafts, but he was starting to get a sense for how the letters should be phrased. When they arrived in Göteborg he had twelve letters he was satisfied with. He made sure he had left clear fingerprints on each sheet.

  At Göteborg Central Station he tracked down a photocopier and made copies of the letters. Then he bought envelopes and stamps and posted the letters in a box with a 9:00 p.m. collection.

  Gullberg took a taxi to City Hotel on Lorensbergsgatan, where Clinton had already booked a room for him. It was the same hotel Blomkvist had spent the night in several days before. He went straight to his room and sat on the bed. He was completely exhausted and realized that he had eaten only two slices of bread all day. Yet he was not hungry. He undressed, stretched out in bed, and fell asleep almost at once.

  • • •

  Salander woke with a start when she heard the door open. She knew right away that it was not one of the night nurses. She opened her eyes to two narrow slits and saw a silhouette with crutches in the doorway. Zalachenko was watching her in the light that came from the corridor.

  Without moving her head she glanced at the digital clock: 3:10 a.m.

  She then glanced at the bedside table and saw the water glass. She calculated the distance. She could just reach it without having to move her body.

  It would take a few seconds to stretch out her arm and break off the rim of the glass with a firm rap against the hard edge of the table. It would take half a second to shove the broken edge into Zalachenko’s throat if he leaned over her. She looked for other options, but the glass was her only reachable weapon.

  She relaxed and waited.

  Zalachenko stood in the doorway for two minutes without moving. Then gingerly he closed the door.

  She heard the faint scraping of the crutches as he quietly retreated down the corridor.

  Five minutes later she propped herself up on her right elbow, reached for the glass, and took a long drink of water. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. With effort she stood up, pulled the electrodes off her arms and chest, and swayed unsteadily. It took her a few seconds to gain control over her body. She hobbled to the door and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. She was in a cold sweat. Then she turned icy with rage.

  Fuck you, Zalachenko. Let’s end this right here and now.

  She needed a weapon.

  The next moment she heard quick heels clacking in the corridor.

  Shit. The electrodes.

  “What in God’s name are you doing up?” the night nurse said.

  “I had to … go … to the toilet,” Salander said breathlessly.

  “Get back into bed at once.”

  She took Salander’s hand and helped her into the bed. Then she got a bedpan.

  “When you have to go to the toilet, just ring for us. That’s what this button is for.”

  Blomkvist woke up at 10:30 on Tuesday, showered, put on coffee, and then sat down with his iBook. After the meeting at Milton Security the previous evening, he had come home and worked until 5:00 a.m. The story was finally beginning to take shape. Zalachenko’s biography was still vague—all he had was what he had blackmailed Björck to reveal, as well as the handful of details Palmgren had been able to provide. Salander’s story was pretty much done. He explained step by step how she had been targeted by a gang of Cold War mongers at SIS and locked away in a psychiatric hospital to stop her from blowing the whistle on Zalachenko.

  He was pleased with what he had written. There were still some holes that he would have to fill, but he knew that he had one hell of a story. It would be a news sensation, and there would be volcanic eruptions high up in the government bureaucracy.

  He smoked a cigarette while he thought.

  He could see two particular gaps that needed attention. One was manageable. He had to deal with Teleborian, and he was looking forward to that assignment. When he was finished with him, the renowned children’s psychiatrist would be one of the most detested men in Sweden. That was one thing.

  The second thing was more complicated.

  The men who conspired against Salander—he thought of them as the Zalachenko club—were inside the Security Police. He knew one, Gunnar Björck, but Björck could not possibly be the only man responsible. There had to be a group … a division or unit of some sort. There must be chiefs, operations managers. There had to be a budget. But he had no idea how to go about identifying these people, where even to start. He had only the vaguest notion of how Säpo was organized.

  On Monday he had begun his research by sending Cortez to the secondhand bookshops on Södermalm, to buy every book which in any way dealt with the Security Police. Cortez had come to his apartment in the afternoon with six books: Espionage in Sweden by Mikael Rosquist (Tempus, 1988); Säpo Chief 1962–1970 by P. G. Vinge (Wahlström & Widstrand, 1988); Secret Forces by Jan Ottosson and Lars Magnusson (Tiden, 1991); Power Struggle for Säpo by Erik Magnusson (Corona, 1989); An Assignment by Carl Lidbom (Wahlström & Widstrand, 1990); and—somewhat surprisingly—An Agent in Place by Thomas Whiteside (Viking, 1966), which dealt with the Wennerström affair. The Wennerström affair of the sixties, not Blomkvist’s own much more recent Wennerström affair.

  He had spent much of Monday night and the early hours of Tuesday morning reading or at least skimming the books. When he had finished he made some observations. First, most of the books published about the Security Police were from the late eighties. An Internet search showed that there was hardly any current literature on the subject.

  Second, there did not seem to be any intelligible basic overview of the activities of the Swedish secret police over the years. This may have been because many documents were stamped TOP SECRET and were therefore off limits, but there did not seem to be any single institution, researcher, or media that had carried out a critical examination of Säpo.

  He also noticed another odd thing: there was no bibliography in any of the books Cortez had found. On the other hand, the footnotes often referred to articles in the evening newspapers, or to interviews with some old, retired Säpo hand.

  The book Secret Forces was fascinating but largely dealt with the time before and during the Second World War. Blomkvist regarded P. G. Vinge’s memoir as propaganda, written in self-defence by a severely criticized Säpo chief who was eventually fired. An Agent in Place contained so much inaccurate information about Sweden in the first chapter that he threw the book into the wastepaper basket. The only two books with any real ambition to portray the work of the Security Police were Power Struggle for Säpo and Espionage in Sweden. They contained data, names, and organizational charts. He found Magnusson’s book to be especially worthwhile reading. Even though it did not offer any answers to his immediate questions, it provided a good account of Säpo as a structure, as well as of its primary concerns over several decades.

  The biggest surprise was Lidbom’s An Assignment, which described the problems encountered by the former Swedish ambassador to France when he was commissioned to examine Säpo in the wake of the Palme assassination and the Ebbe Carlsson affair. Blomkvist had never before read anything by Lidbom, and he was taken aback by the sarcastic tone combined with razor-sharp observations. But even Lidbom’s book brought Blomkvist no closer to an answer to his questions, even if he was beginning to get an idea of what he was up against.

  He opened his mobile and called Cortez.

  “Hi, Henry. Thanks for the legwork yesterday.”

  “What do you need now?”

  “A little more legwork.”

  “Micke, I hate to say this, but I have a job to do. I’m managing editor now.”

  “An excellent career advancement.”

  “What is it that you want?”

  “Over the years there have been a number of public reports on Säpo. Carl Lidbom did one. There must be several others like it.”

  “I see.”

  “Order everything you can find from Parliament: budgets, public reports, interpell
ations, and the like. And get Säpo’s annual reports as far back as you can find them.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Good man. And, Henry …”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t need them until tomorrow.”

  Salander spent the whole day brooding about Zalachenko. She knew that he was only two doors away, that he wandered in the corridors at night, and that he had come to her room at 3:10 that morning.

  She had tracked him to Gosseberga fully intending to kill him. She had failed, with the result that Zalachenko was alive and tucked into bed just thirty feet from where she was. And she was in hot water. She could not tell how bad the situation was, but she supposed that she would have to escape and discreetly disappear abroad herself if she did not want to risk being locked up in some nuthouse again with Teleborian as her keeper.

  The problem was that she could scarcely sit upright in bed. She did notice improvements. The headache was still there, but it came in waves instead of being constant. The pain in her left shoulder had subsided a bit, but it resurfaced whenever she tried to move.

  She heard footsteps outside the door and saw a nurse open it to admit a woman wearing black pants, a white blouse, and a dark jacket. She was pretty, slender, with dark hair in a boyish hairstyle. She radiated a cheerful confidence. She was carrying a black briefcase. Salander saw at once that she had the same eyes as Blomkvist.

  “Hello, Lisbeth. I’m Annika Giannini,” she said. “May I come in?”

  Salander studied her without expression. All of a sudden she did not have the slightest desire to meet Blomkvist’s sister and regretted that she had accepted this woman as her lawyer.

  Giannini came in, shut the door behind her, and pulled up a chair. She sat there for some time, looking at her client.

  The girl looked terrible. Her head was wrapped in bandages. She had purple bruises around her bloodshot eyes.

  “Before we begin to discuss anything, I have to know whether you really do want me to be your lawyer. Normally I’m involved in civil cases, in which I represent victims of rape or domestic violence. I’m not a criminal defence lawyer. I have, however, studied the details of your case, and I would very much like to represent you, if I may. I should also tell you that Mikael Blomkvist is my brother—I think you already know that—and that he and Dragan Armansky are paying my fee.”