The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle (195 page)

“Thanks.”

“But if you do anything like this again, I'm going to get very angry.”

Linder nodded.

“What did you do with the hard drive?”

“It's destroyed. I put it in a vise this morning and crushed it.”

“Then we can forget about all this.”

Berger spent the rest of the morning calling the board members of
SMP
. She reached the deputy chairman at his summer house near Vaxholm and persuaded him to drive to the city as quickly as he could. A rather makeshift board assembled over lunch. Berger began by explaining how the Cortez folder had come to her, and what consequences it had already had.

When she finished, it was proposed, as she had anticipated, that they try to find another solution. Berger told them that
SMP
was going to run the story the next day. She also told them that this would be her last day of work and that her decision was final.

She got the board to approve two decisions and enter them in the minutes. Magnus Borgsjö would be asked to vacate his position as CEO, effective immediately, and Anders Holm would be appointed acting editor in chief. Then she excused herself and left the board members to discuss the situation among themselves.

At 2:00 she went down to the personnel department and had a contract drawn up. Then she went to speak to Sebastian Strandlund, the culture editor, and the reporter Eva Carlsson.

“As far as I can tell, you consider Eva to be a talented reporter.”

“That's true,” said Strandlund.

“And in your budget requests over the past two years you've asked that your staff be increased by at least two.”

“Correct.”

“Eva, in view of the email to which you were subjected, there might be ugly rumours if I were to hire you full-time. But are you still interested?”

“Of course.”

“In that case my last act here at
SMP
will be to sign this employment contract.”

“Your last act?”

“It's a long story. I'm leaving today. Could you two be so kind as to keep quiet about it for an hour or so?”

“What … ?”

“There'll be a memo coming around soon.”

Berger signed the contract and pushed it across the desk towards Carlsson.

“Good luck,” she said, smiling.

•    •    •

“The older man who participated in the meeting with Ekström on Saturday is Georg Nyström, a police superintendent,” Figuerola said as she put the surveillance photographs from Modig's mobile on Edklinth's desk.

“Superintendent,” Edklinth muttered.

“Stefan identified him last night. He went to the apartment on Artillerigatan.”

“What do we know about him?”

“He comes from the regular police and has worked for SIS since 1983. Since 1996 he's been serving as an investigator with his own area of responsibility. He does internal checks and examines cases that SIS has completed.”

“OK.”

“Since Saturday morning six persons of interest have been to the building. Besides Sandberg and Nyström, Clinton is definitely operating from there. This morning he was taken by ambulance to have dialysis.”

“Who are the other three?”

“A man named Otto Hallberg. He was in SIS in the eighties but he's actually connected to the Defence General Staff. He works for the navy and the military intelligence service.”

“I see. Why am I not surprised?”

Figuerola laid down one more photograph. “This man we haven't identified yet. He went to lunch with Hallberg. We'll have to see if we can get a better picture when he goes home tonight. But the most interesting one is this man.” She laid another photograph on the desk.

“I recognize him,” Edklinth said.

“His name is Wadensjöö.”

“Precisely. He worked on the terrorist detail around fifteen years ago. A desk man. He was one of the candidates for the post of top boss here at the Firm. I don't know what became of him.”

“He resigned in 1991. Guess who he had lunch with an hour or so ago?”

She put her last photograph on the desk.

“Chief of Secretariat Shenke and Chief of Budget Gustav Atterbom. I want to have surveillance on these gentlemen around the clock. I want to know exactly who they meet.”

“That's not practical,” Edklinth said. “I have only four men available.”

Edklinth pinched his lower lip as he thought. Then he looked up at Figuerola.

“We need more people,” he said. “Do you think you could reach Inspector
Bublanski discreetly and ask him if he might like to have dinner with me today? Around 7:00, say?”

Edklinth then reached for his phone and dialled a number from memory.

“Hello, Armansky. It's Edklinth. Might I reciprocate for that wonderful dinner? No, I insist. Shall we say 7:00?”

Salander had spent the night in Kronoberg prison in a seven-by-thirteen-foot cell. The furnishings were pretty basic, but she had fallen asleep within minutes of the key being turned in the lock. Early on Monday morning she was up and obediently doing the stretching exercises prescribed for her by the physical therapist at Sahlgrenska. Breakfast was then brought to her, and she sat on her cot and stared into space.

At 9:30 she was led to an interrogation cell at the end of the hall. The guard was a short, bald, old man with a round face and horn-rimmed glasses. He was polite and cheerful.

Giannini greeted her affectionately. Salander ignored Faste. She was meeting Prosecutor Ekström for the first time, and she spent the next half hour sitting on a chair staring stonily at a spot on the wall just above Ekström's head. She said nothing, and she did not move a muscle.

At 10:00 Ekström broke off the fruitless interrogation. He was annoyed not to be able to get the slightest response out of her. He began to feel uncertain as he observed the thin, doll-like young woman. How was it possible that she could have beaten up those two thugs Lundin and Nieminen in Stallarholmen? Would the court really believe that story, even if he did have convincing evidence?

Salander was brought a simple lunch at noon and spent the next hour solving equations in her head. She focused on an area of spherical astronomy from a book she had read two years earlier.

At 2:30 she was led back to the interrogation cell. This time her guard was a young woman. Salander sat on a chair in the empty cell and pondered a particularly intricate equation.

After ten minutes the door opened.

“Hello, Lisbeth.” A friendly tone. It was Teleborian.

He smiled at her, and she froze. The components of the equation she had constructed in the air before her came tumbling to the ground. She could hear the numbers and mathematical symbols bouncing and clattering as if they had physical form.

Teleborian stood still for a minute and looked at her before he sat down
on the other side of the table. She continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.

After a while she met his eyes.

“I'm sorry that you've ended up in this situation,” Teleborian said. “I'm going to try to help you in every way I can. I hope we can establish some level of mutual trust.”

Salander examined every inch of him. The dishevelled hair. The goatee. The little gap between his front teeth. The thin lips. The brand-new brown jacket. The shirt open at the neck. She listened to his smooth and treacherously friendly voice.

“I also hope that I can be of more help to you than the last time we met.”

He placed a small notebook and pen on the table. Salander lowered her eyes and looked at the pen. It was a pointed, silver-coloured tube.

Risk assessment
.

She suppressed an impulse to reach out and grab the pen.

Her eyes sought the little finger of his left hand. She saw a faint white mark where fifteen years earlier she had sunk in her teeth and locked her jaws so hard that she almost bit his finger off. It had taken three guards to hold her down and prise open her jaw.

I was a scared little girl barely into my teens then. Now I'm a grown woman. I can kill you whenever I want
.

Again she fixed her eyes on the spot on the wall, and gathered up the scattered numbers and symbols and began to reassemble the equation.

Teleborian studied Salander with a neutral expression. He had not become an internationally respected psychiatrist for nothing. He had a gift for reading emotions and moods. He could sense a cold shadow passing through the room, and interpreted this as a sign that the patient felt fear and shame beneath her imperturbable exterior. He assumed that she was reacting to his presence, and was pleased that her attitude towards him had not changed over the years.
She's going to hang herself in court
.

Berger's final act at
SMP
was to write a memo to the staff. She was angry, and she filled two pages explaining why she was resigning, including her opinion of various colleagues. Then she deleted the whole text and started again in a calmer tone.

She did not refer to Fredriksson. If she had, all interest would have focused on him, and her real reasons would be drowned out by the sensation a case of sexual harassment would inevitably cause.

She gave two reasons. The principal one was that she had met implacable
resistance from management to her proposal that managers and owners should reduce their salaries and bonuses. Which meant that she would have had to start her tenure at
SMP
with damaging cutbacks in staff. This was not only a breach of the promise she had been given when she accepted the job, but it would undercut her every attempt to bring about long-term change in order to strengthen the newspaper.

The second reason she gave was the revelation about Borgsjö. She wrote that she had been instructed to cover up the story, and this flew in the face of all she believed to be her job. It meant that she had no choice but to resign her position as editor. She concluded by saying that
SMP
's dire situation was not a personnel problem, but a management problem.

She read through the memo, corrected the typos, and emailed it to all the paper's employees. She sent a copy to
Pressens Tidning
, a media journal, and also to the trade magazine
Journalisten
. Then she packed away her laptop and went to see Holm at his desk.

“Goodbye,” she said.

“Goodbye, Berger. It was hellish working with you.”

They smiled at each other.

“One last thing,” she said.

“Tell me.”

“Frisk has been working on a story I commissioned.”

“Right, and nobody has any idea what it's about.”

“Give him some support. He's come a long way, and I'll be staying in touch with him. Let him finish the job. I guarantee you'll be pleased with the result.”

He looked wary. Then he nodded.

They did not shake hands. She left her card key on his desk and took the elevator down to the garage. She parked her BMW near the
Millennium
offices at a little after 4:00.

JULY 1–OCTOBER 7

Despite the rich variety of Amazon legends from ancient Greece, South America, Africa, and elsewhere, there is only one historically documented example of female warriors. This is the women's army that existed among the Fon of Dahomey in West Africa, now Benin.

These female warriors have never been mentioned in the published military histories; no romanticized films have been made about them, and today they exist as no more than footnotes to history. Only one scholarly work has been written about these women,
Amazons of Black Sparta
by Stanley B. Alpern (C. Hurst & Co., London, 1998), and yet they made up a force that was the equal of every contemporary body of male elite soldiers from among the colonial powers.

It is not clear exactly when Fon's female army was founded, but some sources date it to the 1600s. It was originally a royal guard, but it developed into a military collective of 6,000 soldiers with a semi-divine status. They were not merely window dressing. For almost 200 years they constituted the vanguard of the Fon against European colonizers. They were feared by the French forces, who lost several battles against them. This army of women was not defeated until 1892, when France sent troops with artillery, the Foreign Legion, a marine infantry regiment, and cavalry.

It is not known how many of these female warriors fell in battle. For many years survivors continued to wage guerrilla warfare, and veterans of the army were interviewed and photographed as late as the 1940s.

Two weeks before the trial of Lisbeth Salander began, Malm finished the layout of the 352-page book tersely titled
The Section
. The cover was blue with yellow type. Malm had positioned seven postage-stamp-sized black-and-white images of Swedish prime ministers along the bottom. Superimposed over them hovered a photograph of Zalachenko. He had used Zalachenko's passport photograph as an illustration, increasing the contrast so that only the darkest areas stood out, like a shadow across the whole cover. It was not a particularly sophisticated design, but it was effective. Blomkvist, Cortez, and Eriksson were named as the authors.

It was 5:00 in the morning and he had been working all night. He felt slightly sick and badly wanted to go home and sleep. Eriksson had sat up with him doing final corrections page by page as Malm OK'd them and printed them out. By now she was asleep on the sofa.

Malm put the entire text plus illustrations into a folder. He started up the Toast programme and burned two CDs. One he put in the safe. The other was collected by a sleepy Blomkvist just before 7:00.

“Go and get some rest,” Blomkvist said.

“I'm on my way.”

They left Eriksson asleep and turned on the door alarm. Cortez would be in at 8:00 to take over.

Blomkvist walked to Lundagatan, where he again borrowed Salander's abandoned Honda without permission. He drove to Hallvigs Reklam, the
printers near the railway tracks in Morgongåva, west of Uppsala. This was a job he would not entrust to the mail.