The Girl in the Spider's Web (Millennium series Book 4) (40 page)

“What on earth did he mean by that?”

“It’s not altogether clear. Apparently Roger Winter has a disabled younger brother. Throughout their childhood Roger was a constant disappointment, while his talented brother was showered with praise and distinctions, and appreciated in every possible way. I guess that bred some bitterness. Maybe Roger was subconsciously getting his own back on his brother. Or else …”

“Or else what?”

“He put it in an odd way. He said it felt as if he were trying to beat the shame out of himself.”

“That’s sick.”

“Yes. Strangest thing of all is the way he suddenly confessed everything. It was almost as if he wanted to be arrested. Amanda said he was limping and had two black eyes.”

“Peculiar.”

“Isn’t it? But there’s one other thing which surprises me even more,” Modig said.

“And what’s that?”

“That my boss, that brooding old grouch, has become a little ray of sunshine.”

Bublanski looked embarrassed. “So it shows.”

“It shows.”

“Well, yes,” he stammered. “It’s just that a woman has agreed to come out to dinner with me.”

“You haven’t gone and fallen in love, have you?”

“It’s just dinner,” Bublanski said, blushing.

Needham did not enjoy it. But he knew the rules of the game. It was like being back in Dorchester. Whatever you did, you could not back down. If Salander wanted to play hardball, he would show her hardball. He glared at her. But it did not get him very far.

She glared back and did not say a word. It felt like a duel, and in the end Needham looked away. This whole thing was ridiculous. The girl had been unmasked and crushed after all. He had cracked her secret identity and tracked her down, and she should be grateful that he wasn’t marching in with the Marines to arrest her.

“You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?” he said.

“I don’t like surprise visits.”

“I don’t like people who break into my system, so we’re square. Maybe you’d like to know how I found you?”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“It was via your company in Gibraltar. Not too smart to call it Wasp Enterprises.”

“Apparently not.”

“For a smart girl, you make a lot of mistakes.”

“For a clever boy, you work for a pretty rotten set-up.”

“You got me there. But we’re a necessary evil in this wicked world.”

“Especially with guys like Jonny Ingram around.”

He was not expecting that. He really was not expecting that. But he would not let it show.

“You have quite a sense of humour,” he said.

“It’s hilarious, isn’t it? To have people murdered and to work together with villains in the Russian Duma making megabucks and saving your own skin, that’s really comical, isn’t it?” she said.

For a moment he could barely breathe. He could no longer keep up the pretence. Where the hell had she got that from? He felt dizzy. But then he realized – and that slowed his pulse a little – that she was bluffing. If he believed her even for one second it was only because in his worst moments he too had imagined that Ingram might be guilty of something like that. But Needham knew better than anyone that there was not a shred of evidence of such a thing.

“Don’t try to bullshit me,” he growled. “I have the same material you do and a lot more besides.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Ed, unless you too have the private keys to Ingram’s R.S.A. algorithm?”

Needham looked at her and told himself that this could not be true. Surely she could not have cracked the encryption? Not even he, with all the resources and experts at his disposal, had thought it was even worth trying.

But now she was suggesting … No, it was impossible. Maybe she had a mole in Ingram’s inner circle? No, that was just as far-fetched.

“This is how it is, Ed,” she said in a new authoritative tone. “You told Blomkvist that you would leave me in peace if I told you how I carried out my data breach. It’s possible you’re telling the truth there. It’s also possible that you’re lying, or that you won’t have any say in the matter anyway. You could get the sack. I don’t see any case at all for trusting you or the people you work for.”

Needham took a deep breath.

“I respect your attitude,” he said. “But I’m a man of my word. Not because I’m a particularly decent person. I’m a vengeful maniac, just like you, young lady. But I wouldn’t have survived as long as I have if I let people down when it matters. You can either believe that or not. I swear to you though, I will make your life hell if you don’t open up.”

“You’re a tough guy,” she said. “But you’re also a proud bugger, aren’t you? You need to make absolutely sure that no-one ever gets wind of my breach, whatever the cost. But as to that, I’m ridiculously well prepared. Every detail of it would be made public before you even have time to blink. I don’t in fact want to do it, but I
will
humiliate you if I have to.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I wouldn’t have survived either if I was full of shit,” she said. “I hate this society where we’re watched over all the time. I’ve had enough of Big Brother and authorities in my life. But I’m prepared to do something for you, Ed. If you can keep your trap shut, I can give you information that will put you in a stronger position, and help you clear out the rotten apples in Fort Meade. I’m not telling you anything about my breach – only because it’s a matter of principle for me. But I can help you get your own back on the bastards.”

Ed stared at the strange woman in front of him. Then he did something which would surprise him for a long time.

He burst out laughing. He laughed until he cried.

2.xii–3.xii

Levin woke up in a good mood at Häringe castle after a long conference about the digitalization of the media, which had ended with a big party where the champagne and hard liquor had flowed. A failure of a trade-union representative from the Norwegian newspaper
Kveldsbladet
had remarked spitefully that Serner’s parties “grow more lavish the more people you sack”, and made a bit of scene which resulted in Levin getting red wine on his tailor-made jacket. But he was happy to let him have that. Especially since it had enabled him to get Natalie Foss up to his hotel room in the small hours. Natalie was twenty-seven and sexy as hell, and despite the fact that he was drunk Levin had managed to have sex with her both last night and this morning.

Now it was already 9.00 and his mobile was pinging and he had more of a hangover than was good for him, bearing in mind all the things he had to do. On the other hand he was a champion in this discipline. “Work hard, play hard” was his motto. And Natalie, Jesus! – how many fifty-year-olds could pull a bird like that? But now he had to get up. He was dizzy as he lurched to the bathroom for a pee. Then he checked his share portfolio. It was usually a good way to start hungover mornings. He picked up his mobile and went into Internet banking.

Something must be wrong, some technical mishap he could not understand. His portfolio had crashed, and as he sat there, shaking and skimming through his assets, he noticed something peculiar. His large holding in Solifon had as good as evaporated. He was beside himself as he went into the stock-exchange sites and saw the same headline everywhere:

THE N.S.A. AND SOLIFON CONTRACTED FOR THE MURDER OF PROFESSOR FRANS BALDER.
MILLENNIUM
MAGAZINE REVELATIONS SHOCK THE WORLD.

What he did next is unclear. He probably yelled and swore and banged his fists on the table. He vaguely remembered Natalie waking up, asking what was going on. But the only thing he knew for sure was that he kneeled for a long time over the toilet bowl, vomiting as if there were no end to it.

Grane’s desk at Säpo had been tidied. She would not be coming back. Now she sat there for a little while, leaning back in her chair and reading
Millennium
. The first page was not what she had expected from a magazine serving up the scoop of the century. It was black, elegant, sombre. There were no pictures. At the top it said:

IN MEMORY OF ANDREI ZANDER

And further down:

THE MURDER OF FRANS BALDER AND THE STORY OF HOW THE RUSSIAN MAFIA GOT TOGETHER WITH THE N.S.A. AND AMERICA’S LEADING TECHNOLOGY COMPANY

Page two consisted of a close-up of Zander. Even though Grane had never met him, she was moved. Zander looked beautiful and a little vulnerable. His smile was searching, tentative. There was something at once intense and unsure about him. In an accompanying text Erika Berger wrote about how Zander’s parents had been killed by a bomb in Sarajevo. She went on to say that he had loved
Millennium
magazine, the poet Leonard Cohen and Antonio Tabucchi’s novel
Pereira Maintains
. He dreamed of the great love and the great scoop. His favourite films were “Dark Eyes” by Nikita Mikhalkov and “Love Actually” by Richard Curtis. Berger praised his report on Stockholm’s homeless as a piece of classic journalism. And even though Zander hated people who offended others, he himself refused to speak ill of anyone. The piece went on:

As I write this, my hands are shaking. Yesterday our friend and colleague Andrei Zander was found dead on a freighter in Hammarbyhamnen. He had been tortured, and had suffered terribly. I will live with that pain for the rest of my life.

But I am also proud to have had the privilege of working with him. I have never met such a dedicated journalist and genuinely good person. Andrei was twenty-six years old. He loved life and he loved journalism. He wanted to expose injustices and help the vulnerable and displaced. He was murdered because he tried to protect a small boy called August Balder and, as we reveal in this issue one of the biggest scandals in modern times, we honour Andrei in every sentence. In his report, Mikael Blomkvist writes:

“Andrei believed in love. He believed in a better world and a more just society. He was the best of us.”

The report ran to more than thirty pages of the magazine and was perhaps the best piece of journalistic prose Grane had ever read. She sometimes had tears in her eyes, but still she smiled when she came to the words:

Säpo’s star analyst Gabriella Grane demonstrated outstanding civic courage.

The basic story was simple. A group of individuals under Commander Jonny Ingram – who ranked just below the N.S.A. head, Admiral Charles O’Connor, and had close contacts with the White House and Congress – had begun to exploit the vast numbers of trade secrets in the hands of his organization for their own gain. He had been assisted by a group of business-intelligence analysts at Solifon’s research department “Y”.

If the matter had stopped there, it would have been a scandal which was in some way comprehensible. But the course of events followed its own evil own logic when a criminal group – the Spiders – entered the drama. Mikael Blomkvist had evidence to show how Jonny Ingram had got together with the notorious Russian Duma member Ivan Gribanov and “Thanos”, the mysterious leader of the Spiders, to plunder tech companies of ideas and new technology worth astronomical sums of money, and to sell it all on. But they really plumbed the depths of moral depravity when Professor Frans Balder picked up their tracks and it was decided to eliminate him. That was the most astonishing part of the story. One of the most senior executives at the N.S.A. had known that a leading Swedish researcher was going to be murdered and did not lift a finger to prevent it.

It was not the account of the political quagmire that most engaged Grane, but rather the human drama. There Blomkvist’s gifts as a writer were on full display. She shuddered at the creeping realization that we live in a twisted world where everything, both big and small, is subject to surveillance, and where anything worth money will always be exploited.

Just as she finished reading she noticed someone standing in the doorway. It was Helena Kraft, beautifully dressed as always.

Grane could not help remembering how she had suspected Kraft of being the leak in the investigation. What she had taken to be guilty shame had been Kraft’s regret at the unprofessional way in which the investigation was being conducted – at least that is what she had been told during their long conversation after Mårten Nielsen confessed and was arrested.

“I can’t begin to say how sorry I am to see you go,” Kraft said.

“Everything has its time.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re going to do?”

“I’m moving to New York. I want to work in human rights, and, as you know, I’ve had an offer on the table from the U.N. for some time.”

“It’s a loss for us, Gabriella. But you deserve it.”

“So my betrayal’s been forgiven?”

“Not by all of us, I can assure you. But I see it as a sign of your good character.”

“Thanks, Helena. Will I see you later at the Pressklubben’s memorial for Andrei Zander?”

“I’m afraid I have to do a presentation for the government on this whole mess. But later this evening I’ll raise a glass to young Zander, and to you, Gabriella.”

Alona Casales was sitting at a distance, contemplating the panic with an inward smile. She observed Admiral O’Connor crossing the floor, looking like a bullied schoolboy rather than the head of the world’s most powerful intelligence organization. But then all the powerful figures at the N.S.A. were feeling put-upon and pathetic today, all of them apart from Needham, that is.

Needham was not in a good mood either. He waved his arms around and was sweaty and bilious. But he exuded all his usual authority. It was obvious that even O’Connor was afraid of him. Needham had come back from Stockholm with real dynamite, and had caused a huge row and insisted on a complete shake-up throughout the organization. The head of the N.S.A. was not going to thank him for that; he probably felt like sending Needham to Siberia – immediately and for ever.

But there was nothing he could do. He looked small as he approached Needham, who did not even bother to turn in his direction. Needham ignored the head of the N.S.A. in the same way he ignored all the other poor bastards he had no time for, and plainly nothing improved for O’Connor once the conversation got going.

For the most part Needham seemed dismissive and, even though Casales could not hear what was going on, she could imagine what was being said, or rather, what was not being said. Over the course of her own long conversations with Needham he refused to say one word about the way he had got hold of the information. He was not, even on a single point, going to compromise, and she respected that.

Now he seemed determined to exploit the situation for all it was worth, and Casales solemnly swore that she would stand up for integrity in the agency and give Needham as much backing as she could if he ran into any problems. She also swore to herself that she would call Gabriella Grane in a final bid to ask her out, if the rumour was true that she was on her way over here.

Needham was not in fact deliberately ignoring the N.S.A. head. But nor was he going to interrupt what he was doing – yelling at two of his controllers – just because the admiral was standing at his desk. Only after about a minute did he address him and then in fact he said something quite friendly, not to ingratiate himself or compensate for his nonchalance, but because he really meant it.

“You did a good job at the press conference.”

“Did I?” the admiral said. “It was hell.”

“Well, you can thank me then, for giving you time to prepare.”

“Thank
you
? Are you kidding? Every news site around the world is posting pictures of Ingram and me together. I’m guilty by association.”

“In that case for Christ’s sake keep your own people in line from now on.”

“How dare you talk to me like that?”

“I’ll talk however the hell I want. We’re in the middle of a crisis and I’m responsible for security. I don’t get paid for being polite.”

“Watch what you say …” O’Connor began.

But he was completely thrown when Needham suddenly stood up, big as a bear, either to stretch his back or to assert his authority.

“I sent you to Sweden to clean all this up,” the admiral went on. “Instead when you came back everything was a complete disaster.”

“The disaster had already happened,” Needham snapped. “You know it as well as I do.”

“So how do you explain all the shit that ended up in that Swedish magazine?”

“I’ve explained it to you a thousand times.”

“Right, your hacker. Guesswork and bullshit is what I call it.”

Needham had promised to keep Wasp out of this mess, and it was a promise he was going to keep.

“Top-quality bullshit in that case, don’t you think?” he said. “That damn hacker, whoever he may be, must have cracked Ingram’s files and leaked them to
Millennium
. That’s bad, I agree. But do you know what’s worse? What’s worse is that we had the chance to cut the hacker’s balls off and put an end to the leaking. But then we were ordered to shut down our investigation. Let’s not pretend you went out of your way to stand up for me then.”

“I sent you to Stockholm.”

“But you called off my guys and our entire investigation came to a grinding halt. Now the tracks are covered, and what good would it do us if it came out that some lousy little hacker had taken us for a ride?”

“Not a lot, probably. But we can still make trouble for
Millennium
and that reporter Blomström, believe you me.”

“It’s Blomkvist, actually. Mikael Blomkvist. And be my guest. You’d really do well in the popularity stakes if you marched in on Swedish territory and arrested the world’s most celebrated journalist right now,” Needham said.

O’Connor muttered something inaudible and stormed off.

Needham knew as well as anyone that O’Connor was fighting for political survival and could not afford to make any reckless moves. He himself was fed up with working his fingers to the bone, and he loped over to Casales to chat with her instead. He was in the mood for something irresponsible.

“Let’s go get hammered and forget this whole fucking mess.”

Hanna Balder was standing in her snow boots on the little hill outside Hotel Schloss Elmau. She gave August a push and watched him whizz down the slope on the old-fashioned wooden toboggan the hotel had lent them. He came to a stop near a brown barn. Even though there was a glimmer of sunshine, a light snow was falling. There was hardly any wind. In the far distance the mountain peaks touched the sky and wide-open spaces stretched out before her.

Hanna had never stayed in such a wonderful place, and August was recovering well, not least thanks to Charles Edelman’s efforts. But none of it was easy. She felt terrible. Even here on the slope she had stopped twice and felt her chest. Withdrawal from her pills – benzodiazepines – was worse than she could have imagined. At night she would lie in bed curled up like a shrimp and examine her life in the most unsparing light, sometimes banging her fist against the wall and crying. She cursed Lasse Westman, and she cursed herself.

And yet … there were times when she felt strangely purified and occasionally she came close to being happy. There were moments when August was sitting with his equations and his number series and he would even answer her questions – albeit in monosyllables and somewhat odd terms.

The boy was still an enigma to her. Sometimes he spoke in numbers, in high numbers to the power of even higher numbers, and seemed to think that she would understand. But something had indeed changed, and she would never forget how she had seen August sitting at the desk in their hotel room that first day, writing out long winding equations which poured from him with amazing fluency, and which she photographed and sent on to the woman in Stockholm. Late that evening a text message had come in on her Blackphone: