The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (30 page)

“I’m convinced that you quoted him accurately. What should have happened is that you should have taken the information to Holm, who should have knocked on the door of my office and explained the situation, and together we would have decided what to do.”

“I get it. But I—”

“You left the material with Holm, who’s the news editor. You acted correctly. But let’s analyse your article. First of all, why would Faste want to leak this information?”

Frisk shrugged.

“Does that mean that you don’t know, or that you don’t care?”

“I don’t know.”

“If I were to tell you that this story is untrue, and that Salander doesn’t have a thing to do with anabolic steroids, what would you say then?”

“I can’t prove otherwise.”

“No indeed. But you think we should publish a story that might be a lie just because we have no proof that it’s a lie.”

“No, we have a journalistic responsibility. But it’s a balancing act. We can’t refuse to publish when we have a source who makes a specific claim.”

“We can ask why the source might want this information to get out. Let me explain why I gave orders that everything to do with Salander has to cross my desk. I have special knowledge of the subject that no-one else at
SMP
has. The legal department has been informed that I possess this knowledge but cannot discuss it with them.
Millennium
is going to publish a story that I am contractually bound not to reveal to
SMP
, despite the fact that I work here. I obtained the information in my capacity as editor in chief of
Millennium
, and right now I’m caught between two loyalties. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“What I learned at
Millennium
tells me that I can say without a doubt that this story is a lie, and its purpose is to damage Salander before the trial.”

“It would be hard to do her any more damage, considering all the revelations that have already come out about her.”

“Revelations that are largely lies and distortions. Hans Faste is one of the key sources for the claims that Salander is a paranoid and violence-prone lesbian devoted to Satanism and S & M. And the media as a whole bought Faste’s propaganda simply because he appears to be a serious source and it’s always cool to write about S & M. Now he’s trying a new angle, which will put her at a disadvantage in the public consciousness, and which he wants
SMP
to help disseminate. Sorry, but not on my watch.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Good. Then I can sum up everything I said in one sentence. Your job description as a journalist is to question and scrutinize critically—never to repeat claims uncritically, no matter how highly placed the sources in the bureaucracy. Don’t ever forget that. You’re a damn good writer, but that talent is completely worthless if you forget your job description.”

“Right.”

“I intend to kill this story.”

“I understand.”

“This doesn’t mean that I distrust you.”

“Thank you.”

“So that’s why I’m sending you back to your desk with a proposal for a new story.”

“All right.”

“The whole thing has to do with my contract with
Millennium
. I’m not allowed to reveal what I know about the Salander story. At the same time, I’m editor in chief of a newspaper that’s in danger of skidding because the newsroom doesn’t have the information that I have. And we can’t allow that to happen. This is a unique situation and applies only to Salander. That’s why I’ve decided to choose a reporter and steer him in the right direction so that we won’t end up with our pants down when
Millennium
comes out.”

“And you think that
Millennium
will be publishing something noteworthy about Salander?”

“I don’t think so, I know so.
Millennium
is sitting on a scoop that will turn the Salander story on its head, and it’s driving me crazy that I can’t go public with it.”

“You say you’re rejecting my article because you know that it isn’t true.
That means there’s something in the story that all the other reporters have missed.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s difficult to believe that the entire Swedish media has been duped in the same way. . . .”

“Salander has been the object of a media frenzy. That’s when normal rules no longer apply, and any drivel can be printed.”

“So you’re saying that Salander isn’t exactly what she seems to be.”

“Try out the idea that she’s innocent of these accusations, that the picture painted of her in the media is nonsense, and that there are forces at work you haven’t even dreamed of.”

“Is that the truth?”

Berger nodded.

“So what I just handed in is part of a continuing campaign against her.”

“Precisely.”

Frisk scratched his head. Berger waited until he had finished thinking.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go back to your desk and start working on another story. You don’t have to stress out about it, but just before the trial begins we might be able to publish a whole feature that examines the accuracy of all the statements that have been made about Salander. Start by reading through the clippings, list everything that’s been said about her, and check off the allegations one by one.”

“All right.”

“Think like a reporter. Investigate who’s spreading the story, why it’s being spread, and ask yourself whose interests it might serve.”

“But I probably won’t be at
SMP
when the trial starts. This is my last week.”

Berger took a plastic folder from a desk drawer and laid a sheet of paper in front of him.

“I’ve extended your assignment by three months. You’ll finish off this week with your ordinary duties and report in here on Monday.”

“Thank you.”

“If you want to keep working at
SMP
, that is.”

“Of course I do.”

“You’re contracted to do investigative work outside the normal editorial job. You’ll report directly to me. You’re going to be a special correspondent assigned to the Salander trial.”

“The news editor is going to have something to say—”

“Don’t worry about Holm. I’ve talked with the head of the legal department
and fixed it so there won’t be any hassle there. But you’re going to be digging into the background, not news reporting. Does that sound good?”

“It sounds fantastic.”

“All right, then. That’s all. I’ll see you on Monday.”

As she waved him out of the glass cage she saw Holm watching her from the other side of the news desk. He lowered his gaze and pretended that he had not been looking at her.

Blomkvist made sure that he was not being watched when he walked from the
Millennium
offices early on Friday morning to Salander’s old apartment block on Lundagatan. He had to meet Idris Ghidi in Göteborg. The question was how to travel there without being observed or leaving a trail. He decided against the train, since he didn’t want to use a credit card. Normally he would borrow Berger’s car, but that was no longer possible. He had thought about asking Cortez or someone else to rent a car for him, but that too would leave a trace.

Finally he came up with the obvious solution. He had the keys to Salander’s burgundy Honda. It had been parked outside her building since March. He adjusted the seat and saw that the gas tank was half full. Then he backed out and headed across Liljeholmsbron towards the E4.

At 2:50 he parked on a side street off Avenyn in Göteborg. He had a late lunch at the first café he saw. At 4:10 he took the tram to Angered and got off in the centre of town. It took twenty minutes to find Idris Ghidi’s address. He was about ten minutes late for their meeting.

Ghidi opened the door, shook hands with Blomkvist, and invited him into a living room with spartan furnishings. He had a limp. He asked Blomkvist to take a seat at the table next to a dresser on which were a dozen framed photographs, which Blomkvist studied.

“My family,” Ghidi said.

He spoke with a thick accent. Blomkvist suspected that he would not pass the language test recommended by the People’s Party of Sweden.

“Are those your brothers?”

“My two brothers on the left were murdered by Saddam in the eighties.
That’s my father in the middle. My two uncles were murdered by Saddam in the nineties. My mother died in 2000. My three sisters are still alive. Two are in Syria and my little sister is in Madrid.”

Ghidi poured Turkish coffee.

“Kurdo Baksi sends his greetings.”

“Kurdo said you wanted to hire me for a job, but not what it was. I have to tell you, right away, that I won’t take the job if it’s illegal. I can’t afford to get mixed up in anything like that.”

“There is nothing illegal in what I’m going to ask you to do. But it is unusual. The job itself will last for a couple of weeks. It must be done each day, but it will take only a minute of your time. For this I’m willing to pay you a thousand kronor a week, which I won’t report to the tax authorities.”

“I understand. What is it I have to do?”

“One of your jobs at Sahlgrenska hospital—six days a week, if I understand correctly—is to clean corridor 11C, the intensive care unit.”

Ghidi nodded.

Blomkvist leaned forward and explained his plan.

Prosecutor Ekström took stock of his visitor. It was the third time he had met Superintendent Nyström. He saw a lined face framed by short grey hair. Nyström had first come to see him in the days following the murder of Karl Axel Bodin. He had offered credentials to indicate that he worked for SIS. They had had a long, subdued conversation.

“It’s important that you understand this: in no way am I trying to influence how you might act or how you do your job. I would also emphasize that under no circumstances can you make public the information I give you,” Nyström said.

“I understand.”

Truth be told, Ekström did not entirely understand, but he didn’t want to look like an idiot by asking questions. He understood that the death of Bodin/Zalachenko was a case that had to be handled with the utmost discretion. He also understood that Nyström’s visit was off the record, although endorsed by the highest authorities within the Security Police.

“This is a matter of life or death,” Nyström had said at their first meeting. “As far as the Security Police are concerned, everything related to the Zalachenko case is top secret. I can tell you that he is a defector, a former agent of Soviet military intelligence, and a key player in the Russians’ offensive against Western Europe in the seventies.”

“That’s what Blomkvist at
Millennium
is evidently alleging.”

“And in this instance Blomkvist is quite correct. He’s a journalist who happened to stumble upon one of the most secret operations ever conducted by Swedish defence.”

“He’s going to publish the information.”

“Of course. He represents the media, with all the advantages and drawbacks. We live in a democracy and naturally we cannot influence what is written in the press. The problem in this case is that Blomkvist knows only a fraction of the truth about Zalachenko, and much of what he thinks he knows is wrong.”

“I see.”

“What Blomkvist doesn’t grasp is that if the truth about Zalachenko comes out, the Russians will swiftly identify our informants and sources in Russia. People who have risked their lives for democracy will be in danger of being killed.”

“But isn’t Russia a democracy now too? I mean, if this had been during the communist days—”

“That’s an illusion. This is about people who spied formerly within the Soviet Union—no regime in the world would stand for that, even if it happened many years ago. And a number of these sources are still active.”

No such agents existed, but Ekström couldn’t know that. He was bound to take Nyström at his word. And he couldn’t help feeling flattered that he was being given information—off the record, of course—that was among the most secret to be found in Sweden. He was slightly surprised that the Swedish Security Police had been able to penetrate the Russian military to the degree Nyström was describing, but he perfectly understood that this was information that absolutely could not be disseminated.

“When I was assigned to make contact with you, we did an extensive investigation of your background,” Nyström said.

The seduction always involved discovering someone’s weaknesses. Prosecutor Ekström’s weakness was his belief in his own importance. Like everyone else, he appreciated flattery. The trick was to make him feel that he had been specially chosen.

“We have confirmed that you are a man who enjoys enormous respect within the police force . . . and of course in government circles.”

Ekström looked pleased. That unnamed individuals in government circles had great confidence in him implied that he could count on their gratitude if he played his cards right.

“Simply stated, my assignment is to provide you with background as necessary, and as discreetly as possible. You must understand how improbably complicated this story has become. For one thing, a preliminary
investigation is under way, for which you bear the primary responsibility. No-one—not in the government or the Security Police or anywhere else—can interfere in how you run this investigation. Your job is to ascertain the truth and bring the guilty parties to court. One of the most crucial functions in a democratic state.”

Ekström nodded.

“It would be a national catastrophe if the whole truth about Zalachenko were to leak out.”

“So what exactly is the purpose of your visit?”

“First, to make you aware of the sensitive nature of the situation. I don’t think Sweden has been in such an exposed position since the end of the Second World War. One might say that, to a certain extent, the fate of Sweden rests in your hands.”

“Who is your superior?”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot reveal the name of anyone working on this case. Let me just say that my instructions come from the very highest levels.”

Good Lord. He’s acting on orders from the government. But he can’t say without unleashing a political firestorm
.