The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (10 page)

Nieminen had already decided that Niedermann had to be gotten rid of, but he knew that it would be a bad idea to frighten off Waltari before they were in place.

“I don’t know. We’ll see what he has in mind. If he’s planning to get out of the country as fast as hell then we could help him on his way. But as long as he risks being busted, he’s a threat to us.”

The lights were off at Göransson’s place when Nieminen and Waltari drove up in the twilight. That was not a good sign. They sat in the car and waited.

“Maybe they’re out,” Waltari said.

“Right. They went to the bar with Niedermann,” Nieminen said, opening the car door.

The front door was unlocked. Nieminen switched on an overhead light. They went from room to room. The house was well kept and neat, which was probably because of her, whatever-her-name-was, the woman Göransson lived with.

They found Göransson and his girlfriend in the basement, stuffed in a laundry room.

Nieminen bent down and looked at the bodies. He reached out a finger to touch the woman whose name he could not remember. She was ice-cold and stiff. That meant they had been dead maybe twenty-four hours.

Nieminen did not need the help of a pathologist to work out how they had died. Her neck had been broken when her head was turned 180 degrees. She was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and had no other injuries that Nieminen could see.

Göransson, on the other hand, wore only his underpants. He had been beaten, had blood and bruises all over his body. His arms were bent in impossible directions, like twisted tree limbs. The battering he had been subjected to could only be defined as torture. He had been killed, as far as Nieminen could judge, by a single blow to the neck. His larynx was rammed deep into his throat.

Nieminen went up the stairs and out the front door. Waltari followed him. Nieminen walked the fifty yards to the barn. He flipped the latch and opened the door.

He found a dark blue 1991 Renault.

“What kind of car does Göransson have?” Nieminen said.

“He drove a Saab.”

Nieminen nodded. He fished some keys out of his jacket pocket and opened a door at the far end of the barn. One quick look around told him that they were too late. The heavy weapons cabinet stood wide open.

Nieminen grimaced. “About 800,000 kronor,” he said.

“What?”

“Svavelsjö MC had about 800,000 kronor stashed in this cabinet. It was our treasury.”

Only three people knew where Svavelsjö MC kept the cash that was waiting to be invested and laundered: Göransson, Lundin, and Nieminen. Niedermann was on the run. He needed cash. He knew that Göransson was the one who handled the money.

Nieminen shut the door and walked slowly away from the barn. His mind was spinning as he tried to digest the catastrophe. Part of Svavelsjö MC’s assets were in the form of bonds that he could access, and some of their investments could be reconstructed with Lundin’s help. But a large number of them had been listed only in Göransson’s head, unless he had given clear instructions to Lundin. Which Nieminen doubted—Lundin had never been good with finances. Nieminen estimated that Svavelsjö MC had lost upwards of 60 percent of its assets with Göransson’s death. It was a devastating blow. Above all, they needed the cash to take care of day-to-day expenses.

“What do we do now?” Waltari said.

“We’ll go and tip off the police about what happened here.”

“Tip off the
police?”

“Yes, damn it. My prints are all over the house. I want Göransson and his bitch to be found as soon as possible, so that forensics can work out that they died while I was still locked up.”

“I get it.”

“Good. Go and find Benny. I want to talk to him. If he’s still alive, that is. And then we’ll track down Niedermann. We’ll need every contact we have in the clubs all over Scandinavia to keep their eyes peeled. I want that bastard’s head on a platter. He’s probably riding around in Göransson’s Saab. Find out the registration number.”

When Salander woke up it was 2:00 on Saturday afternoon and a doctor was poking at her.

“Good morning,” he said. “My name is Benny Svantesson. I’m a doctor. Are you in pain?”

“Yes,” Salander said.

“I’ll make sure you get some painkillers in a minute. But first I’d like to examine you.”

He squeezed and poked her lacerated body. Salander was extremely aggravated by the time he had finished, but she held back; she was exhausted and decided it would be better to keep quiet than to tarnish her stay at Sahlgrenska with a fight.

“How am I doing?” she said.

“You’ll pull through,” the doctor said and made some notes before he stood up. This was not very informative.

After he left, a nurse came in and helped Salander with a bedpan. Then she was allowed to go back to sleep.

Zalachenko, alias Karl Axel Bodin, was given a liquid lunch. Even small movements of his facial muscles caused sharp pains in his jaw and cheekbone, and chewing was out of the question.

But the pain was manageable. Zalachenko was used to pain. Nothing could compare with the pain he had undergone for several weeks, months even, fifteen years before, when he had burned like a torch in his car. The follow-up care had been a marathon of agony.

The doctors had decided that his life was no longer at risk, but still he was severely injured. In view of his age, he would stay in the intensive care unit for a few more days.

On Saturday he had five visitors.

At 10:00 a.m. Inspector Erlander returned. This time he had left that damned Modig woman behind and instead was accompanied by Inspector Holmberg, who was much more agreeable. They asked pretty much the same questions about Niedermann as they had the night before. He had his story straight and did not slip up. When they started plying him with questions about his possible involvement in trafficking and other criminal activities, he again denied all knowledge of any such thing. He was living on a disability pension, and he had no idea what they were talking about. He blamed Niedermann for everything and offered to help them in any way he could to find the fugitive.

Unfortunately, there was not much he could help with, practically speaking. He had no knowledge of the circles Niedermann moved in, or whom he might go to for protection.

At around 11:00 he had a brief visit from a representative of the prosecutor’s office, who formally advised him that he was a suspect in the aggravated assault and attempted murder of Lisbeth Salander. Zalachenko patiently explained that on the contrary,
he
was the victim of a crime, that in point of fact it was Salander who had attempted to murder
him
. The prosecutor’s office offered him legal assistance in the form of a public defence lawyer. Zalachenko said that he would mull over the matter.

Which he had no intention of doing. He already had a lawyer, and the first thing he had to do that morning was call him and tell him to get down there right away. Martin Thomasson was therefore the fourth guest of the day at Zalachenko’s sickbed. He wandered in with a carefree expression, ran a hand through his thick blond hair, adjusted his glasses, and shook hands with his client. He was a chubby and very charming man. True, he was suspected of running errands for the Yugoslav mafia, a matter which was still under investigation, but he was also known for winning his cases.

Zalachenko had been referred to Thomasson through a business associate five years earlier, when he needed to restructure certain funds connected to a small financial firm that he owned in Liechtenstein. They were not dramatic sums, but Thomasson’s skill had been exceptional, and Zalachenko had avoided paying taxes on them. He then engaged Thomasson on a couple of other matters. Thomasson knew that the money came from criminal activity, but it didn’t seem to faze him. Ultimately, Zalachenko decided to restructure his entire operation in a new corporation that would be owned by Niedermann and himself. He approached Thomasson and proposed that the lawyer come in as a third, silent partner to handle the financial side of the business. Thomasson accepted at once.

“So, Herr Bodin, none of this looks like much fun.”

“I have been the victim of aggravated assault and attempted murder,” Zalachenko said.

“I can see as much. A certain Lisbeth Salander, if I understood correctly.”

Zalachenko lowered his voice: “Our partner Niedermann, as you know, has really screwed things up.”

“Indeed.”

“The police suspect that I am involved.”

“Which of course you are not. You’re a victim, and it’s important that we see to it at once that this is the image presented to the press. Ms. Salander has already received a good deal of negative publicity. . . . Let me deal with the situation.”

“Thank you.”

“But I have to remind you right from the start that I’m not a criminal lawyer. You’re going to need a specialist. I’ll arrange to hire one that you can trust.”

The fifth visitor of the day arrived at 11:00 on Saturday night and managed to get past the nurses by showing an ID card and stating that he had urgent business. He was shown to Zalachenko’s room. The patient was still awake, and grumbling.

“My name is Jonas Sandberg,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand that Zalachenko ignored.

He was in his thirties. He had blond hair and was casually dressed in jeans, a checked shirt, and a leather jacket. Zalachenko scrutinized him for fifteen seconds.

“I was wondering when one of you was going to show up.”

“I work for SIS, Swedish Internal Security,” Sandberg said, and showed Zalachenko his ID.

“I doubt that,” said Zalachenko.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You may be employed by SIS, but I doubt that’s who you’re working for.”

Sandberg looked around the room, then he pulled up the guest chair.

“I came here late so as not to attract attention. We’ve discussed how we can help you, and now we have to reach some sort of agreement about what’s going to happen. I’m just here to get your version of the story and find out what your intentions are, so that we can work out a common strategy.”

“What sort of strategy do you have in mind?”

“Herr Zalachenko . . . I’m afraid that a process has been set in motion in which the deleterious effects are hard to foresee,” Sandberg said. “We’ve talked it through. It’s going to be difficult to explain away the grave in Gosseberga, and the fact that the girl was shot three times. But let’s not lose hope altogether. The conflict between you and your daughter can explain your fear of her and why you took such drastic measures . . . but I’m afraid we’re talking about your doing some time in prison.”

Zalachenko suddenly felt elated and would have burst out laughing had he not been so trussed up. He managed a slight curl of his lips. Anything more would be just too painful.

“So that’s our strategy?”

“Herr Zalachenko, you are aware of the concept of damage control. We
have to arrive at a common strategy. We’ll do everything in our power to assist you with a lawyer and so on, but we need your cooperation, as well as certain guarantees.”

“You’ll get only one guarantee from me. First, you will see to it that all this disappears.” He waved his hand. “Niedermann is the scapegoat, and I guarantee that no-one will ever find him.”

“There’s forensic evidence that—”

“Fuck the forensic evidence. It’s a matter of how the investigation is carried out and how the facts are presented. My guarantee is this: if you don’t wave your magic wand and make all this disappear, I’m inviting the media to a press conference. I know names, dates, events. I don’t think I need to remind you who I am.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly. You’re an errand boy. So go to your superior and tell him what I’ve said. He’ll understand. Tell him that I have copies of . . . everything. I can take you all down.”

“We have to come to an agreement.”

“This conversation is over. Get out of here. And tell them that next time they should send a grown man for me to discuss things with.”

Zalachenko turned his head away from his visitor. Sandberg looked at Zalachenko for a moment. Then he shrugged and got up. He was almost at the door when he heard Zalachenko’s voice again.

“One more thing.”

Sandberg turned.

“Salander.”

“What about her?”

“She has to disappear.”

“How do you mean?”

Sandberg looked so nervous that Zalachenko had to smile, though the pain drilled into his jaw.

“I see that you milksops are too sensitive to kill her, and that you don’t even have the resources to have it done. Who would do it . . . you? But she has to disappear. Her testimony has to be declared invalid. She has to be committed to a mental institution for life.”

Salander heard footsteps in the corridor. She had never heard those footsteps before.

Her door had been open all evening and the nurses had been in to check on her every ten minutes. She had heard a man explain to a nurse right outside
her door that he had to see Herr Karl Axel Bodin on an urgent matter. She had heard him offering his ID, but no words were exchanged that gave her any clue as to who he was or what sort of ID he had.

The nurse had asked him to wait while she went to see whether Herr Bodin was awake. Salander concluded that his ID, whatever it said, must have been persuasive.

She heard the nurse go down the corridor to the left. It took her seventeen steps to reach the room, and the male visitor took fourteen steps to cover the same distance. That gave an average of fifteen and a half steps. She estimated the length of a step at twenty-four inches, which multiplied by fifteen and a half told her that Zalachenko was in a room about thirty feet down the corridor to the left. She estimated that the width of her room was about fifteen feet, which should mean that Zalachenko’s room was two doors down from hers.

According to the green numerals on the digital clock on her bedside cabinet, the visit lasted precisely nine minutes.

Zalachenko lay awake for a long time after the man who called himself Jonas Sandberg had left. He assumed that it was not his real name; in his experience, Swedish amateur spies had a real obsession with using false names even when it was not in the least bit necessary. In which case Sandberg, or whatever the hell his name was, was the first indication that Zalachenko’s predicament had come to the attention of the Section. Considering the media attention, this would have been hard to avoid. But the visit did confirm that his predicament was a matter of anxiety to them. As well it might be.