The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (33 page)

Ghidi wondered what Adamsson would do if someone actually tried to get into the Salander woman’s room.

He also wondered what Blomkvist was really after. He had read about the eccentric journalist in the newspapers, and had made the connection to the woman in 11C, expecting that he would be asked to smuggle something in for her. But he didn’t have access to her room and had never even seen her. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t this.

He couldn’t see anything illegal about his task. He looked through the crack in the doorway at Adamsson, who was once more reading his book.
He checked that nobody else was in the corridor. He reached into the pocket of his smock and took out a Sony Ericsson Z600 mobile. Ghidi had seen in an advertisement that it cost around 3,500 kronor and had all the latest features.

He took a screwdriver from his pocket, stood on tiptoe, and unscrewed the three screws in the round white cover of a vent in the wall of Salander’s room. He pushed the phone as far into the vent as he could, just as Blomkvist had asked him to. Then he screwed the cover back on.

It took him forty-five seconds. The next day it would take less. He was supposed to get down the mobile, change the batteries, and put it back in the vent. He would then take the used batteries home and recharge them overnight.

That was all Ghidi had to do.

But this wasn’t going to be any help to Salander. On her side of the wall there was presumably a similar screwed-on cover. She would never be able to get at the phone, unless she had a screwdriver and a ladder.

“I know that,” Blomkvist had said. “But she doesn’t have to reach the phone.”

Ghidi was to do this every day until Blomkvist told him it was no longer necessary.

And for this job Ghidi would be paid 1,000 kronor a week, straight into his pocket. And he could keep the phone when the job was over.

He knew, of course, that Blomkvist was up to some sort of funny business, but he couldn’t work out what it was. Putting a mobile into an air vent inside a locked cleaning supplies room, turned on but not uplinked, was so crazy that Ghidi couldn’t imagine what use it could be. If Blomkvist wanted a way of communicating with the patient, he would be better off bribing one of the nurses to smuggle the phone in to her.

On the other hand, he had no objection to doing Blomkvist this favour. He was better off not asking any questions.

Jonasson slowed his pace when he saw a man with a briefcase leaning on the wrought-iron gates outside his apartment building on Hagagatan. He looked somehow familiar.

“Dr. Jonasson?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Apologies for bothering you on the street outside your home. It’s just that I didn’t want to track you down at work, and I do need to talk to you.”

“What’s this about, and who are you?”

“My name is Blomkvist, Mikael Blomkvist. I’m a journalist, and I work at
Millennium
magazine. It’s about Lisbeth Salander.”

“Oh, now I recognize you. You were the one who called the paramedics. Was it you who put duct tape on her wounds?”

“Yes.”

“That was a smart thing to do. But I don’t discuss my patients with journalists. You’ll have to speak to the PR department at Sahlgrenska, like everyone else.”

“You misunderstand me. I don’t want information, and I’m here in a completely private capacity. You don’t have to say a word or give me any information. Quite the opposite: I want to give you some.”

Jonasson frowned.

“Please hear me out,” Blomkvist said. “I don’t go around accosting surgeons on the street, but what I have to tell you is very important. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Tell me what it’s about.”

“It’s about Lisbeth Salander’s future and well-being. I’m a friend.”

Jonasson thought that if it had been anyone other than Blomkvist he would have refused. But Blomkvist was a man in the public eye, and Jonasson couldn’t imagine that this would be some sort of monkey business.

“I won’t under any circumstances be interviewed, and I won’t discuss my patient.”

“Perfectly understood,” Blomkvist said.

Jonasson accompanied Blomkvist to a nearby café.

“So what’s this all about?” he said when they had gotten their coffee.

“First of all, I’m not going to quote you, or even mention you in anything I write. And as far as I’m concerned this conversation never took place. That said, I am here to ask you a favour. But I have to explain why, so that you can decide whether you can or you can’t do it.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“All I ask is that you hear me out. It’s your job to take care of Lisbeth’s physical and mental health. As her friend, it’s my job to do the same. I can’t poke around in her skull and extract bullets, but I have another skill that is as crucial to her welfare.”

“Which is?”

“I’m an investigative journalist, and I’ve found out the truth about what happened to her.”

“OK.”

“I can tell you in general terms what it’s about and you can come to your own conclusions.”

“All right.”

“I should also say that Annika Giannini, Lisbeth’s lawyer—you’ve met her, I think—is my sister, and I’m the one paying her to defend Salander.”

“I see.”

“I can’t, obviously, ask Annika to do this favour. She has to keep her conversations with Lisbeth confidential. I assume you’ve read about Lisbeth in the newspapers.”

Jonasson nodded.

“She’s been described as psychotic, and as a mentally ill lesbian mass murderer. All that is nonsense. Lisbeth Salander is not psychotic. She is probably as sane as you and I. And her sexual preferences are nobody’s business.”

“If I’ve understood the matter correctly, there’s been some reassessment of the case. Now it’s this German who’s being sought in connection with the murders.”

“Yes. Niedermann is a murderer utterly without conscience. But Lisbeth has enemies. Big, nasty enemies. Some of them are in the Security Police.”

Jonasson looked at Blomkvist in astonishment.

“When Lisbeth was twelve, she was put in a children’s psychiatric clinic in Uppsala. Why? Because she had stirred up a secret that Säpo was trying at any price to keep a lid on. Her father, Alexander Zalachenko—otherwise known as Karl Axel Bodin, who was murdered in your hospital—was a Soviet defector, a spy, a relic from the Cold War. He also beat up Lisbeth’s mother year after year. When Lisbeth was twelve, she struck back and tried to kill him with a Molotov cocktail. That was why she was locked up.”

“I don’t understand. If she tried to kill her father, then surely there was good reason to take her in for psychiatric treatment.”

“The story I am going to publish is that Säpo knew that Zalachenko was abusive—the beating that provoked Lisbeth’s attack put her mother in a nursing home for the rest of her life—but they chose to protect him because he was a source of valuable information. So they faked a diagnosis to make sure that Lisbeth was committed.”

Jonasson looked so sceptical that Blomkvist had to laugh.

“I can document every detail. And I’m going to write a full account in time for Lisbeth’s trial. Believe me, it’s going to cause an uproar.”

“Go on.”

“I’m going to expose two doctors who were errand boys for Säpo, and
who helped bury Lisbeth in the asylum. I’m going to hang them out to dry. One of them is a well-known and respected person.”

“If a doctor was mixed up in something like this, it’s a blot on the entire profession.”

“I don’t believe in collective guilt. It concerns only those directly involved. The same is true of Säpo. I don’t doubt that there are excellent people working in Säpo. This is about a small group of conspirators. When Lisbeth was eighteen they tried to institutionalize her again. This time they failed, and she was instead put under guardianship. In the trial, whenever it is, they’re once again going to try to throw as much shit at her as they can. I—or rather, my sister, Annika—will fight to see that she is acquitted, and that her declaration of incompetence is revoked.”

“I see.”

“But she needs ammunition. So that’s the background for this tactic. I should probably also mention that there are some individuals in the police force who are actually on Lisbeth’s side in all this. But not the prosecutor who brought the charges against her. In short, Lisbeth needs help before the trial.”

“I’m not a lawyer.”

“No. But you’re Lisbeth’s doctor, and you have access to her.”

Jonasson’s eyes narrowed.

“What I’m thinking of asking you is unethical and might also be illegal.”

“Indeed?”

“But morally it’s the right thing to do. Her constitutional rights are being violated by the very people who ought to be protecting her. Let me give you an example. Lisbeth is not allowed to have visitors, and she can’t read newspapers or communicate with the outside world. The prosecutor has also pushed through a prohibition of disclosure for her lawyer. Annika has obeyed the rules. However, the prosecutor himself is the primary source of leaks to the reporters who keep writing all the shit about Lisbeth.”

“Really?”

“This story, for example.” Blomkvist held up a week-old evening newspaper. “A source within the investigation claims that Lisbeth is non compos mentis, which prompted the newspaper to speculate about her mental state.”

“I read the article. It’s nonsense.”

“So you don’t think she’s crazy.”

“I won’t comment on that. But I do know that no psychiatric evaluations have been done. Accordingly, the article is nonsense.”

“I can prove that the person who leaked this information is a police officer named Hans Faste. He works for Prosecutor Ekström.”

“Hmm.”

“Ekström is going to insist that the trial take place behind closed doors, so that no outsider can examine or evaluate the evidence against Lisbeth. But what’s worse, because the prosecutor has isolated Lisbeth, she won’t be able to do the research she needs to prepare her defence.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be done by her lawyer?”

“As you must have gathered by now, Lisbeth is an extraordinary person. She has secrets I happen to know about but can’t reveal to my sister. But Lisbeth should be able to choose whether she wants to make use of them in her trial.”

“I see.”

“And in order to do that, she needs this.”

Blomkvist laid Salander’s Palm Tungsten T3 hand-held computer and a battery charger on the table between them.

“This is the most important weapon Lisbeth has in her arsenal—she has to have it.”

Jonasson looked suspiciously at the Palm.

“Why not give it to her lawyer?”

“Because Lisbeth is the only one who knows how to get at the evidence.”

Jonasson sat for a while, still not touching the computer.

“Let me tell you one or two things about Dr. Peter Teleborian,” Blomkvist said, taking a folder from his briefcase.

It was just after 8:00 on Saturday evening when Armansky left his office and walked to the synagogue of the Söder congregation on St. Paulsgatan. He knocked on the door, introduced himself, and was admitted by the rabbi himself.

“I have an appointment to meet someone I know here,” Armansky said.

“One flight up. I’ll show you the way.”

The rabbi offered him a yarmulke for his head, which Armansky hesitantly put on. He had been brought up in a Muslim family and he felt foolish wearing it.

Bublanski was also wearing a yarmulke.

“Hello, Dragan. Thanks for coming. I’ve borrowed a room from the rabbi so we can speak undisturbed.”

Armansky sat down across from Bublanski.

“I presume you have good reason for such secrecy.”

“I’m not going to drag this out: I know that you’re a friend of Salander’s.”

Armansky nodded.

“I need to know what you and Blomkvist have cooked up to help her.”

“Why would we be cooking something up?”

“Because Prosecutor Ekström has asked me a dozen times how much you at Milton Security actually knew about the Salander investigation. It’s not a casual question—he’s concerned that you’re going to spring something that could result in repercussions . . . in the media.”

“I see.”

“And if Ekström is worried, it’s because he knows or suspects that you’ve got something brewing. Or at least he’s talked to someone who has suspicions.”

“Someone?”

“Dragan, let’s not play games. You know Salander was the victim of an injustice in the early nineties, and I’m afraid she’s going to get the same medicine when the trial begins.”

“You’re a police officer in a democracy. If you have information to that effect you should take action.”

Bublanski nodded. “I’m thinking of doing just that. The question is, how?”

“Tell me what you want to know.”

“I want to know what you and Blomkvist are up to. I assume you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs.”

“It’s complicated. How do I know I can trust you?”

“There’s a report from 1991 that Blomkvist discovered . . .”

“I know about it.”

“I no longer have access to the report.”

“Nor do I. The copies that Blomkvist and his sister—now Salander’s lawyer—had in their possession have both disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Blomkvist’s copy was taken during a break-in at his apartment, and Giannini’s was stolen when she was mugged in Göteborg. All this happened on the day Zalachenko was murdered.”

Bublanski said nothing for a long while.

“Why haven’t we heard anything about this?”

“Blomkvist put it like this: there’s only one right time to publish a story, and an endless number of wrong times.”

“But you two . . . he’ll publish it?”

Armansky gave a curt nod.

“A nasty attack in Göteborg and a break-in here in Stockholm. On the same day,” Bublanski said. “That means our adversary is well organized.”

“I should probably also mention that we know Giannini’s phone is tapped.”

“Someone is committing a whole bunch of crimes.”

“The question is, who?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. Most likely it’s Säpo—they would have an interest in suppressing Björck’s report. But Dragan, we’re talking about the Swedish Security Police, a government agency. I can’t believe this would be sanctioned by Säpo. I don’t even believe Säpo has the expertise to do anything like this.”