"Are you all right?" Berger asked him.
"I'm OK," Blomkvist said. "Lisbeth is the one who's in real danger."
"That poor girl," Berger said. "I read Bjorck's Sapo report this evening. How should I deal with it?"
"I don't have the energy to think that through right now," Blomkvist said. Security Police matters were going to have to wait until the next day, even if the report could help vindicate Lisbeth.
As he talked to Berger, he sat on the floor next to the bench and kept a watchful eye on Salander. He had taken off her shoes and her pants so that he could bandage the wound to her hip, and now his hand rested on the pants, which he had dropped on the floor next to the bench. There was something in one of the pockets. He pulled out a Palm Tungsten T3.
He frowned and looked long and hard at the hand-held computer. When he heard the approaching helicopter he stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket and then went through all her other pockets. He found another set of keys to the apartment in Mosebacke and a passport in the name of Irene Nesser. He put these swiftly into a side pocket of his laptop case.
The first patrol car from the station in Trollhattan arrived a few minutes after the helicopter landed. Next to arrive was Inspector Paulsson, who took charge immediately. Blomkvist began to explain what had happened. He very soon realized that Paulsson was a pompous, rigid drill-sergeant type. He did not seem to take in anything that Blomkvist said. It was when Paulsson arrived that things really started to go awry.
The only thing he seemed capable of grasping was that the badly damaged girl being cared for by the medics on the floor next to the kitchen bench was the triple murderer Lisbeth Salander. And above all, it was important that he make the arrest. Three times Paulsson had asked the urgently occupied medical orderly whether the girl could be arrested on the spot. In the end the orderly stood up and shouted at Paulsson to keep the hell out of his way.
Paulsson had then turned his attention to the wounded man in the woodshed, and Blomkvist heard the inspector report over his radio that Salander had evidently attempted to kill yet another person.
By now Blomkvist was so infuriated with Paulsson, who had obviously not paid attention to a word he had said, that he yelled at him to call Inspector Bublanski in Stockholm without delay. Blomkvist had even taken out his mobile and offered to dial the number for him, but Paulsson was not interested.
Blomkvist then made two mistakes.
First, he patiently but firmly explained that the man who had committed the murders in Stockholm was Ronald Niedermann, who was built like a heavily armoured robot and suffered from a disease called congenital analgesia, and who at that moment was sitting in a ditch on the road to Nossebro tied to a traffic sign. Blomkvist told Paulsson exactly where Niedermann was to be found, and urged him to send a platoon armed with automatic weapons to pick him up. Paulsson finally asked how Niedermann had come to be in that ditch, and Blomkvist freely admitted that he himself had put him there, and had managed only by holding a gun on him the whole time.
"Assault with a deadly weapon," was Paulsson's immediate response.
At this point Blomkvist should have realized that Paulsson was dangerously stupid. He should have called Bublanski himself and asked him to intervene, to bring some clarity to the fog in which Paulsson was apparently enveloped. Instead he made his second mistake: he offered to hand over the weapon he had in his jacket pocket--the Colt 1911 Government model that he had found earlier that day at Salander's apartment in Stockholm. It was the weapon he had used to disarm and disable Niedermann--not a straightforward matter with that giant of a man.
After which Paulsson swiftly arrested Blomkvist for possession of an illegal weapon. He then ordered his two officers to drive over to the Nossebro road. They were to find out if there was any truth to Blomkvist's story that a man was sitting in a ditch there, tied to a MOOSE CROSSING sign. If this was the case, the officers were to handcuff the person in question and bring him to the farm in Gosseberga.
Blomkvist had objected at once, pointing out that Niedermann was not a man who could be arrested and handcuffed just like that: he was a maniacal killer, for God's sake. When Blomkvist's objections were ignored by Paulsson, the exhaustion of the day made him reckless. He told Paulsson he was an incompetent fool and yelled at him that the officers should fucking forget about untying Niedermann until they had called for backup. As a result of this outburst, he was handcuffed and pushed into the back seat of Paulsson's car. Cursing, he watched as the policemen drove off in their patrol car. The only glimmer of light in the darkness was that Salander had been carried to the helicopter, which was even now disappearing over the treetops in the direction of Goteborg. Blomkvist felt utterly helpless: he could only hope that she would be given the very best care. She was going to need it, or she would die.
Jonasson made two deep incisions all the way down to the cranium and peeled back the skin around the entry wound. He used clamps to secure the opening. An OR nurse inserted a suction tube to remove any blood. Then came the awkward part, when he had to use a drill to enlarge the hole in the skull. The procedure was excruciatingly slow.
Finally he had a hole big enough to gain access to Salander's brain. With infinite care he inserted a probe into the brain and enlarged the wound channel by a few millimetres. Then he inserted a thinner probe and located the bullet. From the X-ray he could see that the bullet had turned and was lying at an angle of forty-five degrees to the entry channel. He used the probe cautiously to prise at the edge of the bullet, and after a few unsuccessful attempts he managed to lift it very slightly so that he could turn it in the right direction.
Finally he inserted narrow forceps with serrated jaws. He gripped the base of the bullet, got a good hold on it, then pulled the forceps straight out. The bullet emerged with almost no resistance. He held it up to the light for a few seconds and saw that it appeared intact; then he dropped it into a bowl.
"Swab," he said, and his request was instantly met.
He glanced at the ECG, which showed that his patient still had regular heart activity.
"Forceps."
He pulled down the powerful magnifying glass hanging overhead and focused on the exposed area.
"Careful," Ellis said.
Over the next forty-five minutes Jonasson picked out no fewer than thirty-two tiny bone chips from around the entry wound. The smallest of these chips could scarcely be seen with the naked eye.
As Blomkvist tried in frustration to manoeuvre his mobile out of the breast pocket of his jacket--it proved to be an impossible task with his hands cuffed behind his back, nor was it clear to him how he was going to be able to use it--several more vehicles containing both uniformed officers and technical personnel arrived at the Gosseberga farm. They were detailed by Paulsson to secure forensic evidence in the woodshed and to do a thorough examination of the farmhouse, from which several weapons had already been confiscated. By now resigned to his futility, Blomkvist had observed their comings and goings from his vantage point in Paulsson's vehicle.
An hour passed before it dawned on Paulsson that his officers had not yet returned from their mission to retrieve Niedermann. He had Blomkvist brought into the kitchen, where he was required once more to provide precise directions to the spot.
Blomkvist closed his eyes.
He was still in the kitchen with Paulsson when the armed response team sent to relieve the first two officers reported back. One had been found dead with a broken neck. The other was still alive, but he had been savagely beaten. The men had been discovered near a MOOSE CROSSING sign by the side of the road. Their service weapons and the marked police car were gone.
Inspector Paulsson had started out with a relatively manageable situation: now he had a murdered policeman and an armed killer on the run.
"Imbecile," Blomkvist said again.
"It won't help to insult the police."
"That certainly seems to be true in your case. But I'm going to report you for dereliction of du
ty and you won't even know what hit you. Before I'm through with you, you're going to be celebrated as the dumbest policeman in Sweden on every newspaper billboard in the country."
The notion of being the object of public ridicule appeared at last to have an effect on Inspector Paulsson. His face was lined with anxiety.
"What do you propose?"
"I don't propose, I demand that you call Inspector Bublanski in Stockholm. This minute. His number's in my mobile in my breast pocket."
Inspector Modig woke with a start when her mobile rang at the other end of the bedroom. She saw to her dismay that it was just after 4:00 in the morning. Then she looked at her husband, who was snoring peacefully. He would probably sleep through an artillery barrage. She staggered out of bed, unplugged her mobile from the charger, and fumbled for the Talk button.
Jan Bublanski, she thought. Who else?
"Everything has gone to hell down in Trollhattan," her senior officer said without bothering to greet her or apologize. "The X2000 to Goteborg leaves at 5:10. Take a taxi."
"What's happened?"
"Blomkvist found Salander, Niedermann, and Zalachenko. Got himself arrested for insulting a police officer, resisting arrest, and possession of an illegal weapon. Salander was taken to Sahlgrenska with a bullet in her head. Zalachenko is there too, with an axe wound to his skull. Niedermann got away. And he killed a policeman tonight."
Modig blinked twice, registering how exhausted she felt. Most of all she wanted to crawl back into bed and take a month's vacation.
"The X2000 at 5:10. OK. What do you want me to do?"
"Meet Jerker Holmberg at Central Station. You're to contact an Inspector Thomas Paulsson at the Trollhattan police. He seems to be responsible for much of the mess tonight. Blomkvist described him as an Olympic-class idiot."
"You've talked to Blomkvist?"
"Apparently he's been arrested and cuffed. I managed to persuade Paulsson to let me talk to him for a moment. I'm on my way to Kungsholmen right now, and I'll try to work out what's going on. We'll keep in touch by mobile."
Modig looked at the time again. Then she called a taxi and jumped into the shower for a minute. She brushed her teeth, pulled a comb through her hair, and dressed in long black pants, a black T-shirt, and a grey jacket. She put her police revolver in her shoulder bag and picked out a dark-red leather coat. Then she shook enough life into her husband to explain where she was off to, and that he had to deal with the kids in the morning. She walked out the front door just as the taxi pulled up.
She did not have to search for her colleague, Criminal Inspector Holmberg. She assumed he would be in the restaurant car, and that is where she found him. He had already bought coffee and sandwiches for her. They sat in silence for five minutes as they ate their breakfast. Finally Holmberg pushed his coffee cup aside.
"Maybe I should get some training in some other field," he said.
Some time after 4:00 in the morning, Criminal Inspector Marcus Erlander from the violent crimes division of the Goteborg police arrived in Gosseberga and took over the investigation from the overburdened Paulsson. Erlander was a short, round man in his fifties with grey hair. One of the first things he did was to have Blomkvist released from his handcuffs, and then he produced rolls and coffee from a thermos. They sat in the living room for a private conversation.
"I've spoken with Bublanski," Erlander said. "Bubble and I have known each other for many years. We are both sorry that you were subjected to Paulsson's rather primitive way of operating."
"He succeeded in getting a policeman killed tonight," Blomkvist said.
Erlander said: "I knew the man personally. He served in Goteborg before he moved to Trollhattan. He has a three-year-old daughter."
"I'm sorry. I tried to warn Paulsson."
"So I heard. You were quite emphatic, it seems, and that's why you were cuffed. You were the one who exposed that billionaire financier Wennerstrom last year. Bublanski says you're a shameless journalist bastard and an insane investigative reporter, but that you just might know what you're talking about. Can you bring me up to speed?"
"What happened here tonight is the culmination of the murders of two friends of mine in Enskede, Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson. And the murder of a person who was no friend of mine . . . a lawyer named Bjurman, also Lisbeth Salander's guardian."
Erlander made notes between taking sips of his coffee.
"As you no doubt know, the police have been looking for Salander since Easter. She was a suspect in all three murders. First of all, you have to realize that Salander is not only not guilty of these murders, she has been a victim in the whole affair."
"I haven't had the least connection to the Enskede business, but after everything that was in the media about her it seems a bit hard to swallow that Salander could be completely innocent."
"Nonetheless, that's how it is. She's innocent. Period. The killer is Ronald Niedermann, the man who murdered your officer tonight. He works for Karl Axel Bodin."
"The Bodin who's in Sahlgrenska with an axe in his skull?"
"The axe isn't still in his head. I assume it was Salander who nailed him. His real name is Alexander Zalachenko and he's Lisbeth's father. He was a hit man for Russian military intelligence. He defected in the seventies, and was then on the books of Sapo until the collapse of the Soviet Union. He's been running his own criminal network ever since."
Erlander scrutinized the man across from him. Blomkvist's face was shiny with sweat, but he looked both frozen and deathly tired. Until now he had sounded perfectly rational, but Paulsson--whose opinion had little influence on Erlander--had warned him that Blomkvist had been babbling on about Russian agents and German hit men, hardly routine elements in Swedish police work. Blomkvist had apparently reached the point in his story at which Paulsson had decided to ignore everything else he might say. But there was one policeman dead and another severely wounded on the road to Nossebro, so Erlander was willing to listen. But he could not keep a trace of incredulity out of his voice.
"OK. A Russian agent."
Blomkvist smiled weakly, only too aware of how odd his story sounded.
"A former Russian agent. I can document every one of my claims."
"Go on."
"Zalachenko was a top spy in the sixties and seventies. He defected and was granted asylum by Sapo. In his old age he became a gangster. As far as I understand it, it's not a unique situation in the wake of the Soviet Union's collapse."
"OK."
"As I said, I don't know exactly what happened here tonight, but Lisbeth tracked down her father, whom she hadn't seen for fifteen years. Zalachenko abused her mother so viciously that she spent most of her life in a nursing home. He tried to murder Lisbeth, and through Niedermann he was the architect of the murders of Svensson and Johansson. Plus, he was behind the kidnapping of Salander's friend Miriam Wu--you probably heard of boxer Paolo Roberto's title bout in Nykvarn, as a result of which Wu was rescued from certain death."
"If Salander hit her father in the head with an axe she isn't exactly innocent."
"She has been shot three times. I think we could assume her actions were on some level self-defence. I wonder . . ."
"Yes?"
"She was so covered with dirt, with mud, that her hair was one big lump of dried clay. Her clothes were full of sand, inside and out. It looked as though she might have been buried during the night. Niedermann is known to have a habit of burying people alive. The police in Sodertalje have found two graves in the place that's owned by Svavelsjo Motorcycle Club, outside Nykvarn."
"Three, as a matter of fact. They found one more late last night. But if Salander was shot and buried, how was she able to climb out and start wandering around with an axe?"
"Whatever went on here tonight, you have to understand that Salander is exceptionally resourceful. I tried to persuade Paulsson to bring in a dog unit--"
"It's on its way now."
"Good."
"Paulsson arrested you for insult
ing a police officer. . . ."
"I will dispute that. I called him an imbecile and an incompetent fool. Under the circumstances, neither of these epithets could be considered wide of the mark."
"Hmm. It's not a wholly inaccurate description. But you were also arrested for possession of an illegal weapon."
"I made the mistake of trying to hand over a weapon to him. I don't want to say anything more about that until I talk to my lawyer."
"All right. We'll leave it at that. We have more serious issues to discuss. What do you know about this Niedermann?"
"He's a murderer. And there's something wrong with him. He's well over six feet tall and built like a tank. Ask Paolo Roberto, who boxed with him. He suffers from a disease called congenital analgesia, which means the transmitter substance in his nerve synapses doesn't function. He feels no pain. He's German, was born in Hamburg, and in his teens he was a skinhead. Right now he's on the run and he'll be seriously dangerous to anyone he runs into."
"Do you have an idea where he might be heading?"
"No. I only know that I had him neatly trussed, all ready to be arrested, when that idiot from Trollhattan took charge of the situation."
Annika Giannini woke with a start. She saw that it was 5:58 a.m. She had her first client meeting at 8:00. She turned to look at her husband, Enrico, who was sleeping peacefully and probably would not be awake before 8:00. She blinked hard a few times and got up to turn on the coffeemaker before she took her shower. She dressed in black pants, a white polo shirt, and a muted brick-red jacket. She made two slices of toast with cheese, orange marmalade, and a sliced avocado, and carried her breakfast into the living room in time for the 6:30 television news. She took a sip of coffee and had just opened her mouth to take a bite of toast when she heard the headlines.
One policeman killed and another seriously wounded. Drama last night as triple murderer Lisbeth Salander is finally captured.
At first she could not make any sense of it. Was it Salander who had killed a policeman? The news item was sketchy, but bit by bit she gathered that a man was being sought for the killing. A nationwide alert had gone out for a man in his mid-thirties, as yet unnamed. Salander herself was critically injured and at Sahlgrenska hospital in Goteborg.