The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (17 page)

“Would he, in your opinion, talk to the press?” Wadensjöö said.

Gullberg hesitated. “It’s almost impossible to answer that question. Zalachenko doesn’t make empty threats, and he’s going to do what’s best for him. In that respect he’s predictable. If it benefits him to talk to the media . . . if he thought he could get an amnesty or a reduced sentence, then he’d do it. Or if he felt betrayed and wanted to get even.”

“Regardless of the consequences?”

“Especially regardless of the consequences. For him the point is to be seen as tougher than all of us.”

“If Zalachenko were to talk, it’s not certain that anyone would believe him. And to prove anything they’d have to get ahold of our archives.”

“Do you want to take the chance? Let’s say Zalachenko talks. Who’s going to talk next? What do we do if Björck signs an affidavit confirming his story? And Clinton, sitting at his dialysis machine . . . what would happen if he turned religious and felt bitter about everything and everyone? What if he wanted to make a confession? Believe me, if anyone starts talking, it’s the end of the Section.”

“So . . . what should we do?”

Silence settled over the table. It was Gullberg who spoke first.

“There are several parts to this problem. First of all, we can agree on what the consequences would be if Zalachenko talked. The entire legal system would come crashing down on our heads. We would be demolished. My guess is that several employees of the Section would go to prison.”

“Our activity is completely legal . . . we’re actually working under the auspices of the government.”

“Spare me the bullshit,” Gullberg said. “You know as well as I do that a loosely formulated document that was written in the mid-sixties isn’t worth a damn today. I don’t think any one of us could even imagine what would happen if Zalachenko talked.”

Silence descended once again.

“So our starting point has to be to persuade Zalachenko to keep his mouth shut,” Nyström said at last.

“And to persuade him to keep his mouth shut, we have to be able to offer him something substantial. The problem is that he’s unpredictable.
He would burn us out of sheer malice. We have to think about how we can keep him in check.”

“And what about his demand,” Sandberg said, “that we make the whole thing disappear and put Salander back in an asylum?”

“Salander we can handle. It’s Zalachenko who’s the problem. But that leads us to the second part: damage control. Teleborian’s report from 1991 has been leaked, and it’s potentially as serious a threat as Zalachenko.”

Nyström cleared his throat. “As soon as we realized that the report was out and in the hands of the police, I took certain measures. I went through Forelius, our lawyer in SIS, and he got ahold of the prosecutor general. The PG ordered the report confiscated from the police—it’s not to be disseminated or copied.”

“How much does the PG know?” Gullberg said.

“Not a thing. He’s acting on an official request from SIS. It’s classified material, and the PG has no alternative.”

“Who in the police has read the report?”

“There were two copies, which were read by Bublanski, his colleague Inspector Modig, and finally the preliminary investigation leader, Richard Ekström. We can assume that another two police officers”—Nyström leafed through his notes—“that Curt Andersson and Jerker Holmberg, at least, are aware of the contents.”

“So, four police officers and one prosecutor. What do we know about them?”

“Prosecutor Ekström, forty-two, regarded as a rising star. He’s been an investigator at Justice and has handled a number of cases that got a fair bit of attention. Zealous. PR-savvy. Careerist.”

“Social Democrat?” Gullberg said.

“Probably. But not active.”

“Bublanski is leading the investigation. I saw him in a press conference on TV. He didn’t seem comfortable in front of the cameras.”

“He’s older and has an exceptional record, but he also has a reputation for being crusty and obstinate. He’s quite conservative.”

“And the woman . . . who’s she?”

“Sonja Modig. Married, thirty-nine, two kids. Has advanced rather quickly in her career. I talked to Teleborian, who described her as emotional. She asks questions non-stop.”

“Next.”

“Andersson is a tough customer. He’s thirty-eight and comes from the gangs unit in Söder. He landed in the spotlight when he shot dead some
hooligan a couple of years ago. Acquitted of all charges, according to the report. He was the one Bublanski sent to arrest Björck.”

“I see. Keep in mind that he shot someone dead. If there’s any reason to cast doubt on Bublanski’s group, we can always single him out as a rogue policeman. I assume we still have relevant media contacts. And the last guy?”

“Holmberg, fifty-five. Comes from Norrland and is in fact a specialist in crime scene investigation. He was offered supervisory training a few years ago but turned it down. He seems to like his job.”

“Are any of them politically active?”

“No. Holmberg’s father was a city councillor for the Centre Party in the seventies.”

“It seems to be a modest group. We can assume they’re fairly tight-knit. Could we isolate them somehow?”

“There’s a fifth officer involved,” Nyström said. “Hans Faste, forty-seven. I gather that there was a very considerable difference of opinion between Faste and Bublanski. So much so that Faste took sick leave.”

“What do we know about him?”

“I get mixed reactions when I ask. He has an exemplary record with no real criticisms. A pro. But he’s tricky to deal with. The disagreement with Bublanski seems to have been about Salander.”

“In what way?”

“Faste appears to have become obsessed by one newspaper story about a lesbian Satanist gang. He really doesn’t like Salander and seems to regard her existence as a personal insult. He may himself be behind half of the rumours. I was told by a former colleague that he has difficulty working with women.”

“Interesting,” Gullberg said slowly. “Since the newspapers have already written about a lesbian gang, it would make sense to continue promoting that story. It won’t exactly bolster Salander’s credibility.”

“But the officers who’ve read Björck’s report are a big problem,” Sandberg said. “Is there any way we can isolate them?”

Wadensjöö lit another cigarillo. “Well, Ekström is the head of the preliminary investigation. . . .”

“But Bublanski’s leading it,” Nyström said.

“Yes, but he can’t go against an administrative decision.” Wadensjöö turned to Gullberg. “You have more experience than I do, but this whole story has so many different threads and connections. . . . It seems to me that it would be wise to get Bublanski and Modig away from Salander.”

“That’s good, Wadensjöö,” Gullberg said. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Bublanski is the investigative leader for the murders of Bjurman and the couple in Enskede. Salander is no longer a suspect. Now it’s all about this German, Ronald Niedermann. Bublanski and his team have to focus on Niedermann. Salander is not their assignment anymore. Then there’s the investigation at Nykvarn; three cold-case killings. And there’s a connection to Niedermann there too. That investigation is presently allocated to Södertälje, but it ought to be brought into a single investigation. That way Bublanski would have his hands full for a while. And who knows? Maybe he’ll catch Niedermann. Meanwhile, Hans Faste . . . do you think he might come back on duty? He sounds like the right man to investigate the allegations against Salander.”

“I see what you’re thinking,” Wadensjöö said. “It’s all about getting Ekström to split the two cases. But that’s only if we can control Ekström.”

“That shouldn’t be such a big problem,” Gullberg said. He glanced at Nyström, who nodded.

“I can take care of Ekström,” he said. “I’m guessing that he’s wishing he’d never heard of Zalachenko. He turned over Björck’s report as soon as SIS asked him for it, and he’s agreed to comply with every request that may have a bearing on national security.”

“What do you have in mind?” Wadensjöö said.

“Allow me to manufacture a scenario,” Nyström said. “I assume that we’re going to tell him in a subtle way what he has to do to avoid an abrupt end to his career.”

“The most serious problem is going to be the third part,” Gullberg said. “The police didn’t get ahold of Björck’s report by themselves . . . they got it from a journalist. And the press, as you are all aware, is a real problem here.
Millennium.”

Nyström turned a page in his notebook. “Mikael Blomkvist.”

Everyone around the table had heard of the Wennerström affair and knew the name.

“Svensson, the journalist who was murdered, was freelancing at
Millennium
. He was working on a story about sex trafficking. That was how he lit upon Zalachenko. It was Blomkvist who found Svensson’s and his girlfriend’s bodies. In addition, Blomkvist knows Salander and has always believed in her innocence.”

“How the hell can he know Zalachenko’s daughter? That sounds like too big a coincidence.”

“We don’t think it is a coincidence,” Wadensjöö said. “We believe that
Salander is in some way the link between all of them, but we don’t yet know how.”

Gullberg drew a series of concentric circles on his notepad. At last he looked up.

“I have to think about this for a while. I’m going for a walk. We’ll meet again in an hour.”

Gullberg’s excursion lasted nearly three hours. He had walked for only about ten minutes before he found a café that served many unfamiliar types of coffee. He ordered a cup of regular black coffee and sat at a corner table near the entrance. He spent a long time thinking things over, trying to dissect the various aspects of their dilemma. Occasionally he would jot down notes in a pocket diary.

After an hour and a half a plan had begun to take shape.

It was not a perfect plan, but after weighing all the options, he concluded that the problem called for a drastic solution.

As luck would have it, the human resources were available. It was doable.

He got up to find a phone booth and called Wadensjöö.

“We’ll have to postpone the meeting a bit longer,” he said. “There’s something I have to do. Can we meet again at 2:00 p.m.?”

Gullberg went down to Stureplan and hailed a taxi. He gave the driver an address in the suburb of Bromma. When he was dropped off, he walked south one block and rang the doorbell of a small, semi-detached house. A woman in her forties opened the door.

“Good afternoon. I’m looking for Fredrik Clinton.”

“Who should I say is here?”

“An old colleague.”

The woman nodded and showed him into the living room, where Clinton rose slowly from the sofa. He was only sixty-eight, but he looked much older. His ill health had taken a heavy toll.

“Gullberg,” Clinton said in surprise.

For a long moment they stood looking at each other. Then the two old agents embraced.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Clinton said. He pointed to the front page of the morning paper, which had a photograph of Niedermann and the headline POLICE KILLER HUNTED IN DENMARK. “I assume that’s what’s brought you out here.”

“How are you?”

“I’m sick,” Clinton said.

“I can see that.”

“If I don’t get a new kidney I’m not long for this world. And the likelihood of my getting one in this people’s republic is pretty slim.”

The woman came to the living-room doorway and asked if Gullberg would like anything.

“A cup of coffee, thank you,” he said. When she was gone he turned to Clinton. “Who’s that?”

“My daughter.”

It was fascinating that despite the collegial atmosphere they had shared for so many years at the Section, hardly any of them socialized with each other in their free time. Gullberg knew the most minute character traits, the strengths and weaknesses, of all his colleagues, but he had only a vague notion of their family lives. Clinton had probably been Gullberg’s closest colleague for twenty years. Gullberg knew that he had been married and had children, but he did not know the daughter’s name, his late wife’s name, or even where Clinton usually spent his vacations. It was as if everything outside the Section was sacred, not to be discussed.

“What can I do for you?” asked Clinton.

“Can I ask you what you think of Wadensjöö?”

Clinton shook his head. “I don’t want to get into it.”

“That’s not what I asked. You know him. He worked with you for ten years.”

Clinton shook his head again. “He’s the one running the Section today. What I think is no longer of any interest.”

“Can he handle it?”

“He’s no idiot.”

“But?”

“He’s an analyst. Extremely good at puzzles. Instinctual. A brilliant administrator who balanced the budget, and did it in a way we didn’t think was possible.”

Gullberg nodded. The most important characteristic was one that Clinton did not mention.

“Are you ready to come back to work?”

Clinton looked up. He hesitated for a long time.

“Evert . . . I spend nine hours every other day on a dialysis machine at the hospital. I can’t go up stairs without gasping for breath. I simply have no energy. No energy at all.”

“I need you. One last operation.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. And you can still spend nine hours every other day on dialysis. You can take the elevator instead of going up the stairs. I’ll even arrange for somebody to carry you back and forth on a stretcher if necessary. It’s your mind I need.”

Clinton sighed. “Tell me.”

“Right now we’re confronted with an exceptionally complicated situation that requires operational expertise. Wadensjöö has a young kid, still wet behind the ears, named Jonas Sandberg; he’s the entire operations department. And I don’t think Wadensjöö has the drive to do what needs to be done. He might be a genius at finessing the budget, but he’s afraid to make operational decisions, and he’s afraid to get the Section involved in the necessary field work.”

Clinton gave him a feeble smile.

“The operation has to be carried out on two separate fronts. One part concerns Zalachenko. I have to get him to listen to reason, and I think I know how I’m going to do it. The second part has to be handled from here, in Stockholm. The problem is that there isn’t anyone in the Section who can actually run it. I need you to take command. One last job. Sandberg and Nyström will do the legwork; you control the operation.”