“This is how things stand,” he said. “Borgsjö is chairman and majority stockholder of a company called Svea Construction, which in turn is sole owner of a subsidiary called Vitavara Inc. They make toilets at a factory in Vietnam which has been condemned by the UN for using child labour.”
“Run that by me again.”
Blomkvist told her the details of the story that Cortez had compiled. He opened his laptop bag and took out a copy of the documentation. Berger read slowly through the article. Finally she looked up and met Blomkvist’s eyes. She felt unreasoning panic mixed with disbelief.
“Why the hell is it that the first thing Millennium does after I leave is to start running background checks on SMP’s board members?”
“That’s not what happened, Ricky.” He explained how the story had developed.
“And how long have you known about this?”
“Since today; since this afternoon. I feel deeply uncomfortable about how this has unfolded.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. We have to publish. We can’t make an exception just because it deals with your boss. But not one of us wants to hurt you.” He threw up his hands. “We’re all extremely unhappy about the situation. Henry especially.”
“I’m still a member of Millennium’s board. I’m a part owner. It’s going to be viewed as—”
“I know exactly how it’s going to be viewed. You’re going to land in a shitload of trouble at SMP.”
Berger felt weariness settling over her. She clenched her teeth and stifled an impulse to ask Blomkvist to sit on the story.
“Goddamnit,” she said. “And there’s no doubt in your mind … ?”
Blomkvist shook his head. “I spent the whole afternoon going over Henry’s documentation. We have Borgsjö ready for the slaughter.”
“So what are you planning, and when?”
“What would you have done if we’d uncovered this story two months ago?”
Berger looked intently at her friend, who had also been her lover over the past twenty years. Then she lowered her eyes.
“You know what I would have done.”
“This is a disastrous coincidence. None of it is directed at you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. That’s why I insisted on seeing you at once. We have to decide what to do.”
“We?”
“Listen, the story was slated to run in the June issue. I’ve killed that idea. The earliest it could come out is August, and it can be postponed further if you need more time.”
“I understand.” Her voice took on a bitter tone.
“I suggest we don’t decide anything now. Take the documentation and go home and think it over. Don’t do anything until we can agree on a common strategy. We have time.”
“A common strategy?”
“You either have to resign from Millennium’s board before we publish, or resign from SMP. You can’t wear both hats.”
She nodded. “I’m so linked to Millennium that no-one will believe I didn’t have a hand in this, whether I resign or not.”
“There is an alternative. You could take the story to SMP and confront Borgsjö and demand his resignation. I’m quite sure Henry would agree to that. But don’t do anything until we all agree.”
“So I start by getting the person who recruited me fired.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He isn’t a bad person.”
“I believe you. But he’s greedy.”
Berger got up. “I’m going home.”
“Ricky, I—”
She interrupted him. “I’m just dead tired. Thanks for warning me. I’ll let you know.”
She left without kissing him, and he had to pay the bill.
Berger had parked 200 yards from the restaurant and was halfway to her car when she felt such strong heart palpitations that she had to stop and lean against a wall. She felt sick.
She stood for a long time breathing in the mild May air. She had been working fifteen hours a day since May 1. That was almost three weeks. How would she feel after three years? Was that how Morander had felt before he dropped dead in the newsroom?
After ten minutes she went back to Samir’s Cauldron and ran into Blomkvist as he was coming out the door. He stopped in surprise.
“Erika …”
“Mikael, don’t say a word. We’ve been friends so long—nothing can destroy that. You’re my best friend, and this feels exactly like the time you disappeared to Hedestad two years ago, only vice versa. I feel stressed out and unhappy.”
He put his arms around her. She felt tears in her eyes.
“Three weeks at SMP have already done me in,” she said.
“Now, now. It takes more than that to do in Erika Berger.”
“Your apartment is compromised. And I’m too tired to drive home. I’d fall asleep at the wheel and die in a crash. I’ve decided. I’m going to walk to the Scandic Crown and book a room. Come with me.”
“It’s called the Hilton now.”
“Same difference.”
They walked the short distance without talking. Blomkvist had his arm around her shoulder. Berger glanced at him and saw that he was just as tired as she was.
They went straight to the front desk, took a double room, and paid with Berger’s credit card. When they got to the room, they undressed, showered, and crawled into bed. Berger’s muscles ached as though she had just run the Stockholm marathon. They cuddled for a while and then both fell asleep in seconds.
Neither of them had noticed the man in the lobby who was watching them as they stepped into the elevator.
CHAPTER 15
Thursday, May 19–Sunday, May 22
Salander spent most of Wednesday night and early Thursday morning reading Blomkvist’s articles and the chapters of the Millennium book that were more or less finished. Since Prosecutor Ekström had tentatively referred to a trial in July, Blomkvist had set June 20 as his deadline for going to press. That meant that Blomkvist had about a month to finish writing and patching up all the holes in his text.
She could not imagine how he could finish in time, but that was his problem, not hers. Her problem was how to respond to his questions.
She took her Palm and logged on to the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] to check whether he had put up anything new in the past twenty-four hours. He had not. She opened the document that he had called [Central Questions]. She knew the text by heart already, but she read through it again anyway.
He outlined the strategy that Giannini had already explained to her. When her lawyer spoke to her she had listened with only half an ear, almost as though it had nothing to do with her. But Blomkvist, knowing things about her that Giannini did not, could present a more forceful strategy. She skipped down to the fourth paragraph.
The only person who can decide your future is you. It doesn’t matter how hard Annika works for you, or how much Armansky and Palmgren and I, and others, want to support you. I’m not going to try to convince you one way or the other. You have to decide for yourself. You can turn the trial to your advantage or you can let them convict you. But if you want to win, you’re going to have to fight.
—————
She disconnected and looked up at the ceiling. Blomkvist was asking her for permission to tell the truth in his book. He was not going to mention the fact of Bjurman’s raping her, and he had already written that section. He had filled in the gaps by saying that Bjurman had made a deal with Zalachenko which collapsed when Bjurman lost control. Therefore Niedermann was obliged to kill him. Blomkvist did not speculate about Bjurman’s motives.
Kalle Fucking Blomkvist was complicating life for her.
At 2:00 in the morning she opened the word-processing programme on her Palm. She clicked on New Document, took out the stylus, and began to tap on the letters on the digital keypad.
My name is Lisbeth Salander. I was born on April 30, 1978. My mother was Agneta Sofia Salander. She was twenty-two when I was born. My father was a psych
opath, killer, and batterer whose name was Alexander Zalachenko. He previously worked in western Europe for the Soviet military intelligence service GRU.
—————
It was a slow process, writing with the stylus on the keypad. She thought through each sentence before she tapped it in. She did not make a single change to what she had written. She worked until 4:00, then turned off her computer and put it in the charger in the recess at the back of her bedside table. By that time she had produced a document corresponding to two single-spaced pages.
Twice since midnight the duty nurse had put her head around the door, but Salander could hear her a long way off, and even before she turned the key the computer was hidden and the patient asleep.
• • •
Berger woke at 7:00. She felt far from rested, but she had slept uninterrupted for eight hours. She glanced at Blomkvist, who was still sleeping soundly beside her.
She turned on her mobile to check for messages. Greger Beckman, her husband, had called eleven times. Shit. I forgot to call. She dialled the number and explained where she was and why she had not come home. He was angry.
“Erika, don’t do that again. It has nothing to do with Mikael, but I’ve been worried sick all night. I was terrified that something had happened. You know you have to call and tell me if you’re not coming home. You can’t ever forget something like that.”
Beckman was completely OK with the fact that Blomkvist was his wife’s lover. Their affair was carried on with his assent. But every time she had decided to sleep at Blomkvist’s, she had called her husband to tell him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just collapsed in exhaustion last night.”
He grunted.
“Try not to be furious with me, Greger. I can’t handle it right now. You can give me hell tonight.”
He grunted some more and promised to scold her when she got home.
“OK. How’s Mikael doing?”
“He’s dead to the world.” She burst out laughing. “Believe it or not, we were fast asleep moments after we got here. That’s never happened.”
“This is serious, Erika. I think you ought to see a doctor.”
When she hung up she called the office and left a message for Fredriksson. Something had come up and she would be in a little later than usual. She asked him to cancel a meeting she had arranged with the culture editor.
She found her shoulder bag, ferreted out a toothbrush, and went to the bathroom. Then she got back into bed and woke Blomkvist.
“Hurry up—go and wash your face and brush your teeth.”
“What … Huh?” He sat up and looked around in bewilderment. She had to remind him that he was at the Slussen Hilton. He nodded.
“So. To the bathroom with you.”
“Why the hurry?”
“Because as soon as you come back I need you to make love to me.” She glanced at her watch. “I have a meeting at 11:00 that I can’t postpone. I have to look presentable, and it’ll take me at least half an hour to put on my face. And I’ll have to buy a new shift dress or something on the way to work. That gives us only two hours to make up for a whole lot of lost time.”
Blomkvist headed for the bathroom.
• • •
Holmberg parked his father’s Ford in the drive of former prime minister Thorbjörn Fälldin’s house in Ås just outside Ramvik in Härnösand county. He got out of the car and looked around. At the age of seventy-nine, Fälldin could hardly still be an active farmer, and Holmberg wondered who did the sowing and harvesting. He knew he was being watched from the kitchen window. That was the custom in the village. He himself had grown up in Hälledal outside Ramvik, very close to Sandöbron, which was one of the most beautiful places in the world. At least Holmberg thought so.
He knocked on the front door.
The former leader of the Centre Party looked old, but he seemed alert, and vigorous.
“Hello, Thorbjörn. My name is Jerker Holmberg. We’ve met before but it’s been a few years. My father is Gustav Holmberg, a delegate for the Centre in the seventies and eighties.”
“Yes, I recognize you, Jerker. Hello. You’re a policeman down in Stockholm now, aren’t you? It must be ten or fifteen years since I last saw you.”
“I think it’s probably longer than that. May I come in?”
Holmberg sat at the kitchen table while Fälldin poured them some coffee.
“I hope all’s well with your father. But that’s not why you came, is it?”
“No. Dad’s doing fine. He’s out repairing the roof of the cabin.”
“How old is he now?”
“He turned seventy-one two months ago.”
“Is that so?” Fälldin said, joining Holmberg at the kitchen table. “So what’s this visit all about then?”
Holmberg looked out the window and saw a magpie land next to his car and peck at the ground. Then he turned to Fälldin.
“I am sorry for coming to see you without warning, but I have a big problem. It’s possible that when this conversation is over, I’ll be fired from my job. I’m here on a work issue, but my boss, Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski of the violent crimes division in Stockholm, doesn’t know I’m here.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Just say that I’d be on very thin ice if my superiors found out about this visit.”
“I understand.”
“On the other hand, I’m afraid that if I don’t do something, there’s a risk that a woman’s rights will be shockingly violated, and to make matters worse, it’ll be the second time it’s happened.”
“You’d better tell me the whole story.”
“It’s about a man named Alexander Zalachenko. He was an agent for the Soviets’ GRU and defected to Sweden on Election Day in 1976. He was given asylum and began to work for Säpo. I have reason to believe that you know his story.”
Fälldin regarded Holmberg attentively.
“It’s a long story,” Holmberg said, and he began to tell Fälldin about the preliminary investigation in which he had been involved for the past few months.
Erika Berger finally rolled over onto her stomach and rested her head on her fists. She broke out in a big smile.
“Mikael, have you ever wondered if the two of us aren’t completely nuts?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s true for me, at least. I’m smitten by an insatiable desire for you. I feel like a crazy teenager.”
“Oh, yes?”
“And then I want to go home and go to bed with my husband.”
Blomkvist laughed. “I know a good therapist.”
She poked him in the stomach. “Mikael, it’s starting to feel like this thing with SMP was one big fucking mistake.”
“Bullshit. It’s a huge opportunity for you. If anyone can inject life into that dying body, it’s you.”
“Maybe so. But that’s just the problem. SMP feels like a cadaver. And then you dropped that bombshell about Borgsjö.”
“You have to let things settle down.”
“I know. But the thing with Borgsjö is going to be a real problem. I don’t have the faintest idea how to handle it.”
“Nor do I. But we’ll think of something.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“How much would it take for you to come to SMP and be the news editor?”
“I wouldn’t do it for anything. Isn’t what’s-his-name, Holm, the news editor?”
“Yes. But he’s an idiot.”
“You got that right.”
“Do you know him?”
“I certainly do. I worked for him for three months as a temp in the mid-eighties. He’s a prick who plays people off against each other. Besides …”
“Besides what?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“Some girl, Ulla something, who was also a temp, claimed that he sexually harassed her. I don’
t know how much was true, but the union did nothing about it and her contract wasn’t extended.”
Berger looked at the clock and sighed. She got up from the bed and made for the shower. Blomkvist did not move when she came out, dried herself, and dressed.
“I think I’ll doze for a while,” he said.
She kissed his cheek and waved as she left.
Figuerola parked seven cars behind Mårtensson’s Volvo on Luntmakargatan, close to the corner of Olof Palmes Gata. She watched as Mårtensson walked to the machine to pay his parking fee. He then walked onto Sveavägen.
Figuerola decided not to pay for a ticket. She would lose him if she went to the machine and back, so she followed him. He turned left onto Kungsgatan, and went into Kungstornet. She waited three minutes before she followed him into the café. He was on the ground floor talking to a blond man who looked to be in very good shape. A policeman, she thought. She recognized him as the other man Malm had photographed outside the Copacabana on May Day.
She bought herself a coffee and sat at the opposite end of the café and opened her Dagens Nyheter. Mårtensson and his companion were talking in low voices. She took out her mobile and pretended to make a call, although neither of the men was paying her any attention. She took a photograph with the mobile that she knew would be only 72 dpi—low quality, but it could be used as evidence that the meeting had taken place.
After about fifteen minutes the blond man stood up and left the café. Figuerola cursed. Why had she not stayed outside? She would have recognized him when he came out. She wanted to leap up and follow him. But Mårtensson was still there, calmly nursing his coffee. She did not want to draw attention to herself by leaving so soon after his unidentified companion.
And then Mårtensson went to the toilet. As soon as he closed the door Figuerola was on her feet and back out on Kungsgatan. She looked up and down the block, but the blond man was gone.
She took a chance and hurried to the corner of Sveavägen. She could not see him anywhere, so she went down to the tunnelbana concourse, but it was hopeless.
She turned back towards Kungstornet, feeling stressed. Mårtensson had left too.
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