The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (56 page)

After a moment’s thought he also turned on his Ericsson T10. He ignored his normal mobile because he did not want to talk to anyone who was not involved in the Zalachenko story. He saw that he had missed a number of calls in the past twenty-four hours: three from Cortez, two from Eriksson, and several from Berger.

First he called Cortez, who was in a café in Vasastad and had a few details to discuss, nothing urgent.

Eriksson had only called, she told him, to keep in touch.

Then he called Berger, whose line was busy.

He opened the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] and found the final version of Salander’s autobiographical statement. He smiled, printed out the document, and began to read it at once.

Salander switched on her Palm Tungsten T3. She had spent an hour infiltrating and charting the intranet at
SMP
with the help of Berger’s account. She had not tackled the Peter Fleming account because she did not need to have full administrator rights. What she was interested in was access to SMP’s personnel files. And Berger’s account had complete access to those.

She fervently wished that Blomkvist had been kind enough to smuggle in her PowerBook with a real keyboard and a seventeen-inch screen instead
of only the hand-held. She downloaded a list of everyone who worked at
SMP
and began to check them off. There were 223 employees, 82 of whom were women.

She began by crossing off all the women. She did not exclude women on the grounds of their being incapable of such folly, but statistics showed that the absolute majority of people who harassed women were men. That left 141 individuals.

Statistics also argued that the majority of poison pen artists were either teenagers or middle-aged. Since
SMP
did not have any teenagers on its staff, she drew an age curve and deleted everyone over fifty-five and under twenty-five. That left 103.

She thought for a moment. She did not have much time. Maybe not even twenty-four hours. She made a snap decision. She eliminated all employees in distribution, advertising, the photo department, maintenance, and IT. She focused on a group of journalists and editorial staff, forty-eight men between the ages of twenty-six and fifty-four.

Then she heard the rattle of a set of keys. She turned off the Palm and put it under the covers, between her thighs. This would be her last Saturday lunch at Sahlgrenska. She took stock of the cabbage stew with resignation. After lunch she would not, she knew, be able to work undisturbed for a while. She put the Palm in the recess behind the bedside table and waited while two Eritrean women vacuumed the room and changed her bed linen.

One of the women had regularly smuggled in a few Marlboro Lights for Salander during the past month. She had also given her a lighter, now hidden behind the bedside table. Salander gratefully accepted two cigarettes, which she planned to smoke by the vent window during the night.

Not until 2:00 p.m. was everything quiet again in her room. She took out the Palm and connected to the Net. She had intended to go straight back to
SMP
’s administration, but she also had to deal with her own problems. She made her daily sweep, starting with the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]. She saw that Blomkvist had not uploaded anything new for three days and wondered what he was working on.
The son of a bitch is probably out screwing around with some bimbo with big boobs
.

She then proceeded to the Yahoo group [The_Knights] and checked whether Plague had added anything. He had not.

Then she checked the hard drives of Ekström (some routine correspondence about the trial) and Teleborian.

Every time she accessed Teleborian’s hard drive she felt as if her body temperature dropped a few degrees.

She found that he had already written her forensic psychiatric report,
even though he was obviously not supposed to write it until after he had been given the opportunity to examine her. He had brushed up his prose, but there was nothing much new. She downloaded the report and sent it off to [Idiotic_Table]. She checked Teleborian’s emails from the past twenty-four hours, clicking through one after another. She almost missed the terse message:

Shit. Jonas. He was mentioned in a lot of correspondence with Teleborian. Used a Hotmail account. Not identified
.

Salander glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table—2:28. She immediately pinged Blomkvist’s ICQ. No response.

Blomkvist printed out the 220 pages of the manuscript that were finished. Then he shut off the computer and sat down at Salander’s kitchen table with a red pencil.

He was pleased with the text. But there was still a gigantic, gaping hole. How could he find the remainder of the Section? Eriksson might be right: it might be impossible. He was running out of time.

Salander swore in frustration and pinged Plague. He did not answer either. She looked again at the clock—2:30.

She sat on the edge of the bed and tried Cortez next and then Eriksson.
Saturday. Everybody’s off work
. 2:32.

Then she tried to reach Berger.
No luck. I told her to go home. Shit
. 2:33.

She should be able to send a text message to Blomkvist’s mobile . . . but it was tapped. She bit her lip.

Finally, in desperation, she rang for the nurse.

It was 2:35 when she heard the key in the lock and Nurse Agneta looked in on her.

“Hello. Are you OK?”

“Is Dr. Jonasson on duty?”

“Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I feel fine. But I need to have a few words with him. If possible.”

“I saw him a little while ago. What’s it about?”

“I just have to talk to him.”

Nurse Agneta frowned. Lisbeth Salander had seldom rung for a nurse if she did not have a severe headache or some other equally serious problem. She never pestered them for anything and had never before asked to speak to a specific doctor. But Nurse Agneta had noticed that Dr. Jonasson had spent time with the patient who was under arrest and otherwise seemed withdrawn from the world. It was possible that he had established some sort of rapport.

“I’ll find out if he has time,” Nurse Agneta said gently, and closed the door. And then locked it. It was 2:36, and then the clock clicked over to 2:37.

Salander got up from the edge of the bed and went to the window. She kept an eye on the clock. 2:39. 2:40.

At 2:44 she heard steps in the corridor and the rattle of the Securitas guard’s key ring. Jonasson gave her an inquisitive glance and stopped in his tracks when he saw her desperate look.

“Has something happened?”

“Something is happening
right now
. Do you have a mobile on you?”

“A what?”

“A mobile. I have to make a call.”

Jonasson looked over his shoulder at the door.

“Anders, I need a mobile.
Now!”

When he heard the desperation in her voice he dug into his pants pocket and handed her his Motorola. Salander grabbed it from him. She could not call Blomkvist because he had not given her the number of his Ericsson T10. It had never come up, and he had never supposed that she would be able to call him from her isolation. She hesitated a tenth of a second and punched in Berger’s number. It rang three times before Berger answered.

Berger was in her BMW half a mile from home in Saltsjöbaden when her mobile rang.

“Berger.”

“Salander. No time to explain. Do you have the number of Mikael’s second mobile? The one that’s not tapped.”

“Yes.”

Salander had already surprised her once today.

“Call him. Now! Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3:00.”

“What’s—”

“Just hurry. Teleborian. Jonas. The Ring in Central Station. 3:00. He has fifteen minutes.”

Salander flipped the phone shut so that Berger would not be tempted to waste precious seconds with unnecessary questions.

Berger pulled over to the curb. She reached for the address book in her bag and found the number Blomkvist had given her the night they met at Samir’s Cauldron.

Blomkvist heard his mobile beeping. He got up from the kitchen table, went to Salander’s office, and picked up the phone from the desk.

“Yes?”

“Erika.”

“Hi.”

“Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3:00. You only have a few minutes.”

“What? What? What?”

“Teleborian—”

“I heard you. How do you know about that?”

“Stop arguing and make it snappy.”

Mikael glanced at the clock—2:47. “Thanks. Bye.”

He grabbed his laptop case and took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. As he ran he called Cortez on his T10.

“Cortez.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the Academy bookshop.”

“Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3:00. I’m on my way, but you’re closer.”

“Oh, boy. I’m on my way.”

Blomkvist jogged down to Götgatan and sped up towards Slussen. When he reached Slussplan he was badly out of breath. Maybe Figuerola had a point. He was not going to make it. He looked around for a taxi.

Salander handed the mobile back to Dr. Jonasson.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Teleborian?” Jonasson could not help overhearing the name.

She met his gaze. “Teleborian is a real, real bastard. You have no idea.”

“No, but I could see that something happened just now that got you
more agitated than I’ve seen you in all the time you’ve been in my care. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Salander gave Jonasson a lopsided smile.

“You should have the answer to that question very soon,” she said.

Cortez left the Academy bookshop running like a madman. He crossed Sveavägen on the viaduct at Mäster Samuelsgatan and went straight down to Klara Norra, where he turned up the Klaraberg viaduct and across Vasagatan. He flew across Klarabergsgatan between a bus and two cars, one of whose drivers punched his windshield in fury, and through the doors of Central Station as the station clock ticked over to 3:00 sharp.

He took the escalator three steps at a time down to the main ticket hall and jogged past the Pocket bookshop before slowing down so as not to attract attention. He scanned every face of every person standing or walking near the Ring.

He did not see Teleborian or the man Malm had photographed outside Café Copacabana, whom they believed to be Jonas. He looked back at the clock—3:01. He was gasping as if he had just run a marathon.

He took a chance and hurried across the hall and out through the doors onto Vasagatan. He stopped and looked around, checking one face after another, as far as his eyes could see. No Teleborian. No Jonas.

He turned back into the station—3:03. The Ring area was almost deserted.

Then he looked up and got a split second’s glimpse of Teleborian’s dishevelled profile and goatee as he came out of Pressbyrån on the other side of the ticket hall. A second later the man from Malm’s photograph materialized at Teleborian’s side.
Jonas
. They crossed the concourse and went out onto Vasagatan by the north door.

Cortez exhaled in relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and set off in pursuit of the two men.

Blomkvist’s taxi got to Central Station at 3:07. He walked rapidly into the ticket hall, but he could see neither Teleborian nor anyone looking like he might be Jonas. Nor Cortez for that matter.

He was about to call Cortez when the T10 rang in his hand.

“I’ve got them. They’re sitting in the Tre Remmare pub on Vasagatan by the stairs down to the Akalla line.”

“Thanks, Henry. Where are you?”

“I’m at the bar. Having my afternoon beer. I earned it.”

“Very good. They know what I look like, so I’ll stay out of it. I don’t suppose you have any chance of hearing what they’re saying.”

“Not a hope. I can only see Jonas’s back, and that fucking psychiatrist mumbles when he speaks, so I can’t even see his lips move.”

“I get it.”

“But we may have a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Jonas has put his wallet and mobile on the table. And he put his car keys on top of the wallet.”

“OK. I’ll handle it.”

Figuerola’s mobile played the theme from
Once Upon a Time in the West
. She put down her book about God in antiquity. It did not seem as though she would ever be able to finish it.

“Hi. It’s Mikael. What are you up to?”

“I’m sitting at home sorting through my collection of photographs of old lovers. I was ignominiously ditched earlier today.”

“Do you have your car nearby?”

“The last time I checked it was in the parking space outside.”

“Good. Do you feel like an afternoon on the town?”

“Not particularly. What’s going on?”

“A psychiatrist named Teleborian is having a beer with an undercover agent—code name Jonas—down on Vasagatan. And since I’m cooperating with your Stasi-style bureaucracy, I thought you might be amused to tag along.”

Figuerola was on her feet and reaching for her car keys.

“This is not your little joke, is it?”

“Hardly. And Jonas has his car keys on the table in front of him.”

“I’m on my way.”

Eriksson did not answer the phone, but Blomkvist got lucky and caught Karim, who had been at Åhléns department store buying a birthday present for her husband. He asked her to please—on overtime—hurry over to the pub as backup for Cortez. Then he called Cortez.

“Here’s the plan. I’ll have a car in place in five minutes. It’ll be on Järnvägsgatan, down the street from the pub. Lotta is going to join you in a few minutes as backup.”

“Good.”

“When they leave the pub, you tail Jonas. Keep me posted by mobile. As soon as you see him approach a car, we have to know. Lotta will follow Teleborian. If we don’t get there in time, make a note of his registration number.”

“OK.”

Figuerola parked beside the Nordic Light Hotel next to the Arlanda Express platforms. Blomkvist opened the driver’s door a minute later.

“Which pub are they in?”