The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (49 page)

She limped over to the balcony door and went out to the garden. Someone had sprayed in three-foot-high letters on the back wall:

It was just after 9:00 in the evening when Figuerola held the car door open for Blomkvist. She went around the car and got into the driver’s seat.

“Should I drive you home, or do you want to be dropped off somewhere?”

Blomkvist stared straight ahead. “I haven’t got my bearings yet, to be honest. I’ve never had a confrontation with a prime minister before.”

Figuerola laughed. “You played your cards very well,” she said. “I would never have guessed you were such a good poker player.”

“I meant every word.”

“Of course; but what I meant was that you pretended to know a lot more than you actually do. I realized that when I worked out how you identified me.”

Blomkvist turned and looked at her profile.

“You wrote down my car registration when I was parked on the hill outside your building. You made it sound as if you knew what was being discussed at the prime minister’s secretariat.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Blomkvist said.

She gave him a quick look and turned onto Grev Turegatan. “The rules of the game. I shouldn’t have picked that spot, but there wasn’t anywhere else to park. You keep a sharp eye on your surroundings, don’t you?”

“You were sitting with a map spread out on the front seat, talking on the phone. I took down your registration and ran a routine check. I check out every car that catches my attention. I usually draw a blank. In your case I discovered that you worked for Säpo.”

“I was following Mårtensson.”

“Aha. So simple.”

“Then I discovered that you were tailing him using Susanne Linder at Milton Security.”

“Armansky’s detailed her to keep an eye on what goes on around my apartment.”

“And since she went into your building I assume that Milton has put in some sort of hidden surveillance of your apartment.”

“That’s right. We have an excellent film of how they break in and go through my papers. Mårtensson carries a portable photocopier with him. Have you identified Mårtensson’s sidekick?”

“He’s unimportant. A locksmith with a criminal record who’s probably being paid to open your door.”

“Name?”

“Protected source?”

“Naturally.”

“Lars Faulsson. Forty-seven. Alias Falun. Convicted of safe-cracking in the eighties and some other minor stuff. Has a shop at Norrtull.”

“Thanks.”

“But let’s save the secrets till we meet again tomorrow.”

The meeting had ended with an agreement that Blomkvist would come to Constitutional Protection the next day to set in motion an exchange of information. Blomkvist was thinking. They were just passing Sergels Torg in the city centre.

“You know what? I’m incredibly hungry. I had a late lunch and was going to make some pasta when I got home, but I was waylaid by you. Have you eaten?”

“A while ago.”

“Take us to a restaurant where we can get some decent food.”

“All food is decent.”

He looked at her. “I thought you were a health-food fanatic.”

“No, I’m a workout fanatic. If you work out, you can eat whatever you want. Within reason.”

She braked at the Klaraberg viaduct and considered the options. Instead of turning down towards Södermalm she kept going straight to Kungsholmen.

“I don’t know what the restaurants are like in Söder, but I know an excellent Bosnian place at Fridhemsplan. Their
burek
is fantastic.”

“Sounds good,” Blomkvist said.

Salander tapped her way, letter by letter, through her report. She had worked an average of five hours each day. She was careful to express herself precisely. She left out all the details that could be used against her.

That she was locked up had turned out to be a blessing. She always had plenty of warning to put away her Palm when she heard the rattling of a key ring or a key being put in the lock.

There was no reason to volunteer the information that Lundin had called her a whore or that she had bent down and picked up Nieminen’s P-83 Wanad and punished Lundin by shooting him in the foot. The police could probably work that out for themselves, but it was up to them to prove it. She did not intend to make their job any easier by confessing to something that would lead to a prison sentence.

The text had grown to thirty-three pages, and she was nearing the end. In some sections she was particularly reticent about details and went to a lot of trouble not to supply any evidence that could back up in any way the many claims she was making. She went so far as to obscure some obvious evidence and instead moved on to the next link in the chain of events.

She scrolled back and read through a section where she told how Advokat Bjurman had violently and sadistically raped her. That was the part she had spent the most time on, and one of the few she had rewritten several times before she was satisfied. The section took up nineteen lines in her account. She reported in a matter-of-fact manner how he had hit her, thrown her onto her stomach on the bed, taped her mouth, and handcuffed her. She then related how he had repeatedly committed acts of sexual violence against her, including anal penetration. She went on to report how at one point during the rape he had wound a piece of clothing—her own T-shirt—around her neck and strangled her for such a long time that she temporarily lost consciousness. Then there were several lines where she identified the implements he had used during the rape, which included a short whip, an anal plug, a rough dildo, and clamps, which he attached to her nipples.

She frowned and studied the text. At last she raised the stylus and tapped out a few more lines of text.

The matter-of-fact tone gave the text such a surreal touch that it sounded like an absurd fantasy.

The story simply did not sound credible.

That was her intention.

At that moment she heard the rattle of the guard’s key ring. She turned off the Palm at once and put it in the recess at the back of the bedside table. It was Giannini. She frowned. It was 9:00 in the evening and Giannini did not usually appear this late.

“Hello, Lisbeth.”

“Hello.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m not finished yet.”

Giannini sighed. “Lisbeth, they’ve set the trial date for July 13.”

“That’s OK.”

“No, it’s not OK. Time is running out, and you’re not telling me anything. I’m beginning to think that I made a colossal mistake taking this job. If we’re going to have the slightest chance, you have to trust me. We have to work together.”

Salander studied her for a long moment. Finally she leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling.

“I know what we’re supposed to be doing. I understand Mikael’s plan. And he’s right.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“But I am.”

“The police want to interrogate you again. A detective named Hans Faste from Stockholm.”

“Let him interrogate me. I won’t say a word.”

“You have to hand in a statement.”

Salander gave Giannini a sharp look. “I repeat: I won’t say a word to the police. When we get to that courtroom the prosecutor won’t have a single syllable from any interrogation to fall back on. All they’ll have is the statement that I’m composing now, large parts of which will seem preposterous. And they’re going to get it a few days before the trial.”

“So when are you actually going to sit down with a pen and paper and write this statement?”

“You’ll have it in a few days. But it can’t go to the prosecutor until just before the trial.”

Giannini looked sceptical. Salander suddenly gave her a cautious smile. “You talk about trust. Can I trust you?”

“Of course you can.”

“OK. Could you smuggle me in a hand-held computer so that I can keep in touch with people online?”

“No, of course not. If it were discovered I’d be charged with a crime and lose my licence to practice.”

“But if someone else got one in, would you report it to the police?”

Giannini raised her eyebrows. “If I didn’t know about it . . .”

“But if you did know about it, what would you do?”

“I’d shut my eyes. How about that?”

“This hypothetical computer is soon going to send you a hypothetical email. When you’ve read it I want you to come again.”

“Lisbeth—”

“Wait. It’s like this. The prosecutor is dealing with a marked deck. I’m at a disadvantage no matter what I do, and the purpose of the trial is to get me committed to a secure psychiatric ward.”

“I know.”

“If I’m going to survive, I have to fight dirty.”

Finally Giannini nodded.

“When you came to see me the first time,” Salander said, “you had a message from Blomkvist. He said that he’d told you almost everything, with a few exceptions. One of those exceptions had to do with the skills he discovered I had when we were in Hedestad.”

“That’s correct.”

“He was referring to the fact that I’m extremely good with computers. So good that I can read and copy what’s on Ekström’s machine.”

Giannini went pale.

“You can’t be involved in this. And you can’t use any of that material at the trial,” Salander said.

“You’re right about that.”

“So you know nothing about it.”

“OK.”

“But someone else—your brother, let’s say—could publish selected excerpts from it. You’ll have to think about this possibility when you plan your strategy.”

“I understand.”

“Annika, this trial is going to turn on who uses the toughest methods.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy to have you as my lawyer. I trust you and I need your help.”

“Hmm.”

“But if you get difficult about the fact that I’m going to use unethical methods, then we’ll lose the trial.”

“Right.”

“And if that were the case, I need to know now. I’d have to get myself a new lawyer.”

“Lisbeth, I can’t break the law.”

“You don’t have to break any law. But you do have to shut your eyes to the fact that I am. Can you manage that?”

Salander waited patiently for almost a minute before Annika nodded.

“Good. Let me tell you the main points that I’m going to put in my statement.”

Figuerola had been right. The
burek
was fantastic. Blomkvist studied her carefully as she came back from the ladies’. She moved as gracefully as a ballerina, but she had a body like . . . hmm. Blomkvist could not help being fascinated. He repressed an impulse to reach out and feel her leg muscles.

“How long have you been working out?” he said.

“Since I was a teenager.”

“And how many hours a week do you do it?”

“Two hours a day. Sometimes three.”

“Why? I mean, I understand why people work out, but . . .”

“You think it’s excessive.”

“I’m not sure exactly what I think.”

She smiled and did not seem at all irritated by his questions.

“Maybe you’re just bothered by seeing a woman with muscles. Do you think it’s a turn-off, or unfeminine?”

“No, not at all. It suits you somehow. You’re very sexy.”

She laughed.

“I’m cutting back on the training now. Ten years ago I was doing rock-hard bodybuilding. It was cool. But now I have to be careful that the muscles don’t turn to fat. I don’t want to get flabby. So I lift weights once a week and spend the rest of the time doing some cross-training, or running, playing badminton, or swimming, that sort of thing. It’s exercise more than hard training.”

“I see.”

“The reason I work out is that it feels great. That’s a normal phenomenon among people who do extreme training. The body produces a pain-suppressing chemical and you become addicted to it. If you don’t run every day, you get withdrawal symptoms after a while. You feel an enormous sense of well-being when you give something your all. It’s almost as powerful as good sex.”

Blomkvist laughed.

“You should start working out yourself,” she said. “You’re getting a little thick in the waist.”

“I know,” he said. “I have a constant guilty conscience. Sometimes I start running regularly and lose a few pounds. Then I get involved in something and don’t get time to do it again for a month or two.”

“You’ve been pretty busy these last few months. I’ve been reading a lot about you. You beat the police by several lengths when you tracked down Zalachenko and identified Niedermann.”

“Lisbeth Salander was faster.”

“How did you find out Niedermann was in Gosseberga?”

Blomkvist shrugged. “Routine research. I wasn’t the one who found him. It was our managing editor—well, now our editor in chief—Malin Eriksson who managed to dig him up through the corporate records. He was on the board of Zalachenko’s company, KAB Import.”

“That simple . . .”

“And why did you become a Säpo activist?” he said.

“Believe it or not, I’m something as old-fashioned as a democrat. I mean, the police are necessary, and a democracy needs a political safeguard. That’s why I’m proud to be working at Constitutional Protection.”

“Is it really something to be proud of?” said Blomkvist.

“You don’t like the Security Police.”

“I don’t like institutions that are beyond normal parliamentary scrutiny. It’s an invitation to abuse of power, no matter how noble the intentions. Why are you so interested in the religion of antiquity?”