“She’s O.K. She’s been fighting your corner.”
Faria swallowed. She drew herself up and began to talk. The atmosphere in the room was one of solemn anticipation, as always when after a long silence a witness or suspect decides to speak. Giannini and Modig were concentrating so hard that they did not hear the intercoms ringing in the corridor and the rising agitation in the voices of the guards.
It was unbearably hot in the visitors’ room. Modig mopped the sweat from her forehead and repeated what Faria had said, twice now, in two versions which were similar and yet not quite the same. Something still seemed to be missing.
“So you had the sense that your situation was improving. You thought your brothers were relenting, that you might be given some sort of freedom after all.”
“I’m not sure what I thought,” Faria said. “I was a wreck. But they did apologize. Bashir and Ahmed had never treated me like that before. They said they had gone too far. That they were ashamed. That all they wanted was for me to live a respectable life and that I had been punished enough. They gave me a radio.”
“Did it occur to you at any stage that it might be a trap?”
“I thought that constantly. I’d read about other girls who’d let themselves be lulled into a sense of security and then …”
“And then killed?”
“I realized that there was a real risk, not least because of Bashir’s body language, and that scared me. I hardly slept. I had a knot in my stomach. But I was also guilty of wishful thinking. You have to understand, it was the only way for me to bear it. I missed Jamal so much I was going crazy. More than anything I hoped, I believed Jamal was out there somewhere, fighting for me. I bided my time and told myself that things were improving. Khalil meanwhile kept working out on his StairMaster like an insane person. I heard that step machine thumping away all night long. Swoosh, swoosh. It was driving me mad, I have no idea how he could do it. He just wouldn’t stop, and occasionally he’d come out of his room and hug me and say ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ a hundred times over. I said I would look after him, and make sure that Jamal and his friends protected us both, and maybe, I don’t know … It’s hard to say now, looking back.”
“Try to be clear. It’s important,” Modig said, more sharply than usual.
Giannini looked at her watch and patted down her hair, and said angrily:
“Enough of that! If Faria’s being unclear, it’s because the situation itself was unclear. Under the circumstances I think she’s being admirably clear.”
“I’m simply trying to understand,” Modig said. “Faria, you must have realized that something was about to happen. You say that Khalil was in a state of high tension. That he was exercising so hard there was nothing left of him.”
“He was in a really bad way. He was a prisoner too. But I had the impression that he was beginning to feel better, it was only afterwards that I remembered the look in his eye.”
“And how did he look?”
“Desperate. Like a hunted animal. But at the time I didn’t see it.”
“You didn’t hear your other brothers leave the apartment on the evening of October 23?”
“I was asleep, or at least trying to sleep. But I do remember that they came back in the middle of the night and were whispering in the kitchen. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The next day they gave me odd looks, and I took that as a good sign. It seemed to me that Jamal was somewhere nearby. I felt his presence. But as the hours passed this weird, tense atmosphere was building up. Evening came and then I saw Ahmed, just as I told you.”
“You said he was by the window.”
“There was something angry, something menacing about the way he stood there, and he was breathing heavily. I felt a weight on my chest. Ahmed said, ‘He’s dead.’ I didn’t understand who he was talking about. ‘Jamal’s dead,’ he said again. I think I sank to my knees. I blacked out for a moment. I hadn’t really taken it in.”
“You were in shock,” Giannini said.
“And yet an instant later, you found this incredible strength,” Modig said.
“I’ve already explained that.”
“She has, you know,” Giannini said.
“I’d like to hear it again.”
“Khalil was there all of a sudden,” Faria said. “Or maybe he’d been there all along. He cried out that he was the one who had killed Jamal, and that made even less sense. But he went on saying he’d done it for my sake, that they would have murdered me otherwise, he’d had to choose between me and Jamal. And that’s when the strength came to me, that fury. I just lost it, and I went for Ahmed.”
“Why not Khalil?”
“Because I …”
“Because you?”
“Because I must have understood, in spite of it all.”
“What? That they’d used Khalil’s love for you as a means of pressuring him into this terrible act?”
“That they’d driven him to it, that they’d destroyed his life along with mine and Jamal’s, and that’s why I flew into a blind rage. I went crazy. Can’t you get that?”
“I can,” Modig said. “Honestly I can. But there are other things I find more difficult to understand – for example, the fact that you refused to answer any questions during your police interviews. You said you wanted revenge. But you could have struck back also against Bashir, the biggest criminal of them all. With our help you could have had him put away for conspiracy to murder.”
“But don’t you understand?” Faria’s voice broke.
“Don’t we understand what?”
“My life ended with Jamal’s. What would I gain by having Bashir or Khalil locked up as well? Khalil was the only one in the family who …”
“Go on.”
“He was the only one I loved.”
“But he killed the love of your life.”
“I hated him. I loved him. I hated him. Is that so hard to understand?”
Giannini was just about to interrupt to say that Faria needed a break from the interview when there was a knock at the door. Rikard Fager wanted to have a word with Modig.
It was immediately clear that something serious had happened, that whatever it was had shaken the governor’s confidence. Modig was irritated that he was being so long-winded. He would not get to the point, as if he intended rather to find excuses than to explain. He said there had been security guards and surveillance and even metal detectors. He said not to forget that Benito had been in a serious condition, with sustained injuries to her skull, a concussion, and a smashed jaw.
“She’s escaped from the hospital, is that what you’re trying to say?”
Fager was not to be put off: “No-one expected she would be able to leave the place.” All visitors had been searched. Or at least should have been searched. But then something happened to the hospital’s computer system. It crashed, and some of the medical equipment stopped working. The situation became serious. Doctors and nurses were running around all over the place, and just then three men in suits turned up. They told reception that they were there to visit another patient, an engineer from A.B.B. apparently, who was on the same ward. Then things happened quickly. The men were armed with nunchakus. Fager, that idiot, started to explain that nunchakus were wooden sticks used in martial arts …
Modig waved it all away.
“What actually happened, for heaven’s sake?”
“These men overpowered the security, hustled Benito out of the hospital and disappeared in a grey van with what turns out to be false number plates. One of the men has been identified as Esbjörn Falk, of Svavelsjö M.C., the criminal motorcycle gang.”
“I know what Svavelsjö M.C. is,” Modig said. “So what’s been done so far?”
“There’s a nationwide alert issued on Benito. We’ve told the media. Alvar Olsen’s under protection.”
“And Lisbeth Salander?”
“What about her?”
“Idiot,” she muttered, then said she had to leave right away b
ecause the situation required immediate action.
On her way out through prison security she called Bublanski and told him about Benito and about Faria Kazi’s interview. He quoted an ancient Jewish saying back to her: “One can see into a man’s eyes, but not into his heart.”
CHAPTER 18
22.vi
Dan Brody was late for work again today. He was agitated and listless, and was haunted by dark thoughts. But he was better dressed for the weather in a light-blue linen suit, a T-shirt and leather shoes. The sun beat down as he walked along Birger Jarlsgatan thinking about Leo. All of a sudden he heard a car’s screeching halt, and he staggered, just as he had at the Fotografiska Museum.
For a moment he struggled for breath. Yet he kept walking, and became reimmersed in his thoughts. Those days in December, after their first weekend together, were still the happiest of his life, in spite of moments of pain and resentment. He and Leo had talked and played music without interruption. But they never left the building together, only ever one at a time. For they had devised a plan. They were going to confront Greitz and she must not suspect anything.
December, a year and a half earlier
Leo cancelled his Christmas lunch at a restaurant with Greitz and invited her over to his place at 1.00 p.m. on December 23 instead. In the meantime, the brothers enjoyed playing games with their identities. Out and about in town they were both Leo, and that amused them enormously. Dan borrowed Leo’s suits, shirts and shoes. He had his hair cut like Leo’s and practised being Leo with role play. Leo kept saying that Dan was the more convincing of the two of them – “You’re more Leo than I am!”
Leo only did short days at the office. One evening he went out with his colleagues to Riche but even then he was back early to tell Dan that he’d come this close – he showed Dan with a thumb and forefinger – to revealing their secret to Malin.
“But you didn’t say anything?”
“Oh, no. She seems to think I’m in love.”
“Is she upset?”
“No, not really.”
Dan knew that Leo had a flirtation going with Malin Frode, who was getting divorced and would soon be leaving Alfred Ögren. But Leo always claimed she was not serious. He thought she had her eye on Blomkvist, the journalist. And anyway, Leo didn’t think he loved her either. They were just fooling around, he said. Mostly.
He and Leo were always swapping ideas and memories and gossip. They made a pact which seemed unbreakable, and rehearsed in detail what they would do when Greitz arrived, how Dan would hide himself and Leo would question her, cautiously at first and then more aggressively.
The day before the lunch, December 22, a Friday, Malin was giving a farewell party at her home on Bondegatan. Just like Dan, Leo disliked parties in small spaces. There was too much noise. He could not bring himself to go, he said. He had another idea. He would show Dan his office at Alfred Ögren. The building would probably be deserted because most of the staff would be at Malin’s, and no-one worked late on a Friday evening, especially one so close to Christmas. Dan thought it sounded like a good idea. He was curious about Leo’s work.
At around 8.00 p.m. they left the apartment ten minutes apart. Leo first with one bottle of good burgundy and another of champagne in his briefcase: Dan left ten minutes later, also dressed in Leo’s clothes, but in a paler suit and a darker overcoat. It was cold. It was snowing. They were going to celebrate.
They planned to go public with their story the day after their meeting with Greitz and even though Dan was against it, Leo had promised him a substantial sum of money. There would be no more inequality between them, he said. And no more boring investment banking. He would leave his job and the gloominess at Alfred Ögren so that they could begin playing music together. The evening got off to a wonderful start. They drank and toasted each other, and the air was full of promise. “Tomorrow,” they said. “Tomorrow!”
But something went wrong. Dan thought it was because of Leo’s office. There were Renaissance angels on the ceiling, turn-of-the-century art on the walls, and gilt handles on the chests of drawers. It was so opulent and vulgar that Dan became provocative. He needled his brother:
“Looks like you have it made,” he said.
Leo agreed. “I know. I feel ashamed. I’ve never liked this room, it was my father’s.”
Dan pushed things a step further. “You were hell-bent on bringing me here though, weren’t you? You wanted to show off and ram all this down my throat.”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Leo said. “I just wanted you to see my life. I know it’s unfair.”
“Unfair?” Dan raised his voice.
The word was no longer enough. It was obscene. It was beyond belief. They argued back and forth, Dan accusing Leo, then calming down and apologizing, before going on the offensive again. And then – it was hard to know at what point – Dan had gone too far. The resentment that had been lying beneath the surface, causing tension from the beginning but kept in check by the delirious joy of their meeting, now broke out. Not only did it tear open a wound between them, it seemed to cast the whole situation in a new light.
“You’ve had all of this, yet all you do is complain. ‘Mamma doesn’t understand me, Pappa didn’t have a clue. I wasn’t allowed to play music. It was so tough, poor little rich me.’ I don’t want to hear another word of it. Don’t you get that? I was beaten and I went hungry. I had nothing, absolutely nothing, and you …”
Dan was shaking all over, he had no idea what had come over him. Perhaps they were both drunk. He accused Leo of being a shit and an insincere bastard, a show-off who flaunted his depressions. He was about to smash a pair of Chinese vases, but instead he walked out, slamming the door behind him.
He spent hours wandering the streets, freezing cold and crying. Eventually he ended up back at the af Chapman youth hostel at Skeppsholmen and spent the night there. But at 11.00 the next morning he went back to Leo’s apartment on Floragatan and hugged him and they both apologized. They turned their attentions to preparing themselves for the meeting with Greitz. Still, something unresolved hung in the air, which would affect what was about to happen.
A year and a half later Dan was thinking of that time as he turned into Smålandsgatan, and his face showed it. He passed Konstnärsbaren restaurant and emerged on Norrmalmstorg. The weather was hot for ten in the morning. He was not feeling all that well, and was certainly not looking forward to meeting Sweden’s most famous investigative journalist.
Rakel Greitz and Benito Andersson, who had nothing in common save their sadism and the fact that neither was currently in good physical health, were certainly looking forward to meeting Lisbeth Salander. Neither knew who the other was, and if they should have happened to meet they would have regarded each other with contempt. But they were both equally single-minded and equally determined to get Salander out of the picture. And they each had their networks. Benito was associated with that particular chapter of Svavelsjö M.C. which from time to time received information from Salander’s sister Camilla and her group of hackers. Greitz could rely on back-up from her organization, which had its own technologically savvy resources, as well.
And above all, Greitz had her willpower and her vigilance, despite the cancer. She had for the time being taken up residence in a hotel on Kungsholmen to keep anyone from following her home. She was well aware that things were going badly. She had foreseen it, in fact. Ever since December 23, two Christmases ago, when everything had fallen apart. At the time, she had done what she had done because she saw no choice. It had been a bold gamble on her part, and now she stood ready once more.
She would have preferred to start with Salander and von Kanterborg. But the two women were impossible to track down, so she decided to deal first with Daniel Brolin. He was the weak link. She came walking along Hamngatan, past N.K. department store, dressed in a thin grey coat and skirt and a black cotton polo neck. Despite the nausea and pain, she felt strong. But the heat was getting to her. What had happened to Sw
eden? When she was young there had never been a summer like this one. This was tropical. It was insane. She felt hot and sticky, but she pulled herself together and drew her shoulders back. Further down the street, as she passed two men in blue overalls digging a hole at the edge of the pavement, she caught the smell of drains in the stifling, stagnant air. She thought the men looked overweight and ugly. She walked on to Norrmalmstorg and was about to turn into Alfred Ögren’s when she made a deeply troubling discovery: Mikael Blomkvist, the journalist, whom she had already encountered on the stairs at Hilda’s place in Skanstull, now on his way into the firm’s offices.
Greitz took a step into the shadows and called Benjamin.
Dan Brody, or Leo Mannheimer as he called himself nowadays, was sitting in his far-too-elegant office and felt his pulse pounding and the walls closing in on him. What was he to do? His “junior adviser” – as his male secretary liked to style himself – had informed him that Mikael Blomkvist was in reception. Dan had said that he would be ready for him in twenty minutes.
Even as he said it he knew it sounded impolite. But – as so often in the past – he needed time to think. Who knows, maybe Blomkvist would help him get even with Greitz. Whatever the cost might be.
December, a year and a half earlier
It was snowing that day at Floragatan as they waited for Rakel Greitz. Dan apologized again and again.
“It’s O.K.,” Leo said. “I had a visitor at the office yesterday after you left.”
“Who was that?”
“Malin. We finished the champagne. It wasn’t a great success, I wasn’t at my best. I was in the middle of writing something. Would you like to see?”
Dan nodded. Leo got up from the piano and left the room. He came back a minute later with a sheet of paper inside a plastic folder. He looked solemn and burdened by guilt. With a slow, deliberate gesture he handed over the document, which was sand-coloured and lightly textured with a watermark at the top.
“I think it needs to be witnessed,” he said.
The handwriting was neat and full of flourishes. The document stated that Leo was hereby giving half of all his assets to Dan.
The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye: Continuing Stieg Larsson's Millennium Series Page 28