Page 29 of The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

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Dakota wrote.

Salander was not sure, but she suspected that Dakota was a woman. The other citizens online, including the one who called himself SisterJen, were guys. Hacker Republic had a total (the last time she was connected) of sixty-two citizens, of whom four were female.

Wasp wrote.

Dakota wrote.

Trinity wrote.

He got abuse from five directions at once.

Of the sixty-two citizens, Wasp had met two face-to-face. Plague, who for some strange reason was not online, was one. Trinity was the other. He was English and lived in London. Two years earlier she had met him for a few hours when he helped her and Blomkvist in the hunt for Harriet Vanger by doing an illegal tapping of a landline in St. Albans. Salander fumbled with the clumsy stylus and wished she had a keyboard.

Mandrake wrote.

She punched letters.

Pred wrote.

Slip wrote.

Three chatters at once.

Salander summed up her situation in five lines, which were greeted by a worried muttering.

Trinity wrote.

Bambi wrote.

SisterJen wrote, and that was followed by a spate of disparaging remarks about Wasp's mental abilities. Salander smiled. The conversation resumed with a contribution from Dakota.

SixOfOne wrote.

Wasp wrote.

Mandrake wrote.

The citizens of Hacker Republic did not generally spread computer viruses. On the contrary--they were hackers and consequently implacable adversaries of those idiots who created viruses whose sole purpose was to sabotage the Net and crash computers. The citizens were information junkies and wanted a functioning Internet that they could hack.

But their proposal to shut down the Swedish government was not an idle threat. Hacker Republic comprised a very exclusive club of the best of the best, an elite force that any defence organization in the world would have paid enormous sums to use for cyber-military purposes, if the citizens could be persuaded to feel any kind of loyalty to any state. Which was not very likely.

But they were every one of them computer wizards, and they were well versed in the art of contriving viruses. Nor did they need much convincing to carry out particular campaigns if the situation warranted. Some years earlier a citizen of Hacker Republic, who in his private life was a software developer in California, had been cheated out of a patent by a hot dot-com company that had the nerve to take the citizen to court. This caused the activists in Hacker Republic to devote a startling amount of energy for six months to hacking and destroying every computer owned by that company. All the company's secrets and emails--along with some fake documents that might lead people to think that its CEO was involved in tax fraud--were gleefully posted on the Net, along with information about the CEO's now not-so-secret mistress and pictures from a party in Hollywood in which he could be seen snorting cocaine. The company went under in six months, and several years later some members of the "people's militia" in Hacker Republic, who did not easily forget an enemy, were still haunting the former CEO.

If fifty of the world's foremost hackers decided to launch a coordinated attack against an entire country, the country might survive, but not without serious problems. The costs would certainly run into the billions if Salander gave it the thumbs-up. She thought for a moment.

Dakota wrote.

Mandrake wrote.

Bambi wrote.

Trinity wrote.

Salander leaned back against the pillow and followed the conversation with a smile. She wondered why she, who had such difficulty talking about herself with people of flesh and blood, could blithely reveal her most intimate secrets to a bunch of completely unknown freaks on the Internet. The fact was that if Salander could claim to have any sort of family or group affiliation, then it was with these lunatics. None of them actually had a hope of helping her with the problems she had with the Swedish state. But she knew that if the need arose, they would devote both time and cunning to performing effective demonstrations of their powers. Through this network she could also find herself hideouts abroad. It had been Plague's contacts on the Net who had provided her with a Norwegian passport in the name of Irene Nesser.

Salander had no idea who the citizens of Hacker Republic were, and she had only a vague notion of what they did when they were not on the Net--the citizens were uniformly vague about their identities. SixOfOne had once claimed that he was a black, male American of Catholic origin living in Toronto. He could just as easily be white, female, and Lutheran, and living in Skovde.

The one she knew best was Plague--he had introduced her to the family, and nobody became a member of this exclusive club without very strong recommendations. And for anyone to become a member they had also to be known personally to one other citizen.

On the Net, Plague was an intelligent and socially gifted citizen. In real life he was a severely overweight and socially challenged thirty-year-old living on disability benefits in Sundbyberg. He bathed too seldom and his apartment smelled like a monkey house. Salander visited him only once in a blue moon. She was content to confine her dealings with him to the Net.

As the chat continued, Wasp downloaded mail that had been sent to her private mailbox at Hacker Republic. One was from another member, Poison, and contained an improved version of her programme Asphyxia 1.3, which was available in the Republic's archive for its citizens. Asphyxia was a programme that could control other people's computers via the Internet. Poison said that he had used it successfully, and that his updated version included the latest versions of Unix, Apple, and Windows. She emailed him a brief reply and thanked him for the upgrade.

During the next hour, as evening approached in the United States, another half-dozen citizens had come online and welcomed back Wasp before joining the debate. When Salander logged off, the others were discussing to what extent the Swedish prime minister's computer could be made to send civil but crazy emails to other heads of state. A working group had been formed to explore the matter. Salander logged off by writing a brief message:

Everyone sent her hugs and kisses and admonished her to keep the hole in her head warm.

Only when Salander had logged out of Hacker Republic did she go into Yahoo and log on to the private newsgroup [Idiotic_Table]. She discovered that the group had two members--herself and Blomkvist. The mailbox had one message, sent on May 15. It was titled [Read this first].

Hi, Sally. The situation is as follows:

The police haven't found your apartment and don't have access to the DVD of Bjurman's rape. The disk is very strong evidence. I don't want to turn it over to Annika without your approval. I have the keys to your apartment and
a passport in name of Nesser.

But the police do have the backpack you had in Gosseberga. I don't know if it contains anything compromising.

------------

Salander thought for a moment. Don't think so. A half-empty thermos of coffee, some apples, a change of clothes. No problem.

You're going to be charged with aggravated assault against and the attempted murder of Zalachenko, and aggravated assault against Carl-Magnus Lundin at Stallarholmen--i.e., because you shot him in the foot and broke his jaw when you kicked him. But a source in the police whom I trust tells me that the evidence in each case is vague. The following is important:

(1) Before Zalachenko was shot he denied everything and claimed that it could only have been Niedermann who shot and buried you. He laid a charge against you for attempting to murder him. The prosecutor is going to go on about this being the second time you have tried to kill him.

(2) Neither Lundin nor Sonny Nieminen has said a word about what happened at Stallarholmen. Lundin has been arrested for kidnapping Miriam. Nieminen has been released.

------------

Salander had already discussed all of this with Giannini. She had told Giannini everything that had happened in Gosseberga, but she had refrained from telling her anything about Bjurman.

What I think you haven't understood are the rules of the game.

It's like this. Sapo got saddled with Zalachenko in the middle of the Cold War. For fifteen years he was protected, no matter what he did. Careers were built on Zalachenko. On any number of occasions they cleaned up after his rampages. This is all criminal activity: Swedish authorities helping to cover up crimes against individual citizens.

If this gets out, there'll be a scandal that will affect both the conservative and social democratic parties. Above all, people in high places within Sapo will be exposed as accomplices in criminal and immoral activities. Even though by now the statute of limitations has run out on the specific instances of crime, there'll still be a scandal. It involves big shots who are either retired now or close to retirement.

They will do everything they can to reduce the damage to themselves and their group, and that means you'll once again be a pawn in their game. But this time it's not a matter of them sacrificing a pawn--it'll be a matter of them actively needing to limit the damage to themselves personally. So you'll have to be locked up again.

This is how it will work. They know that they can't keep the lid on the Zalachenko secret for long. I have got the story, and they know that sooner or later I'm going to publish it. It doesn't matter so much, of course, now that he's dead. What matters to them is their own survival. The following points are therefore high on their agenda:

(1) They have to convince the district court (the public, in effect) that the decision to lock you up in St. Stefan's in 1991 was a legitimate one, that you really were mentally ill.

(2) They have to separate the "Salander affair" from the "Zalachenko affair." They'll try to create a situation where they can say, "Certainly Zalachenko was a fiend, but that had nothing to do with the decision to lock up his daughter. She was locked up because she was deranged--any claims to the contrary are the sick fantasies of bitter journalists. No, we did not assist Zalachenko in any crime--that's the delusion of a mentally ill teenage girl."

(3) The problem is that if you're acquitted, it would mean that the district court finds that you're not a nutcase. And that would have to mean that locking you up in 1991 was illegal. So they have to condemn you, at all costs, to the locked psychiatric ward. If the court determines that you are mentally ill, the media's interest in continuing to dig around in the "Salander affair" will die away. That is how the media work.

Are you with me?

------------

All of this she had already worked out for herself. The problem was that she didn't know what she should do.

Lisbeth--seriously--this battle is going to be decided in the mass media, and not in the courtroom. Unfortunately, the trial is going to be held behind closed doors "to protect your privacy."

The day that Zalachenko was shot there was a robbery at my apartment. There were no signs on my door of a break-in, and nothing was touched or moved--except for one thing. The folder from Bjurman's summer cabin with Bjorck's report was taken. At the same time, my sister was mugged and her copy of the report was also stolen. That folder is your most important evidence.

I have let it be known that our Zalachenko documents are gone, disappeared. In fact I had a third copy that I was going to give to Armansky. I made several copies of that one and have tucked them away in safe places.

Our opponents--who include several high-powered figures and certain psychiatrists--are of course also preparing for the trial, together with Prosecutor Ekstrom. I have a source who provides me with some info on what's going on, but I suspect that you might have a better chance of finding out the relevant information. This is urgent.

The prosecutor is going to try to get you locked up in the psychiatric ward. Assisting him is your old friend Peter Teleborian.

Annika won't be able to go out and do a media campaign in the same way that the prosecution can (and does), leaking information as they see fit. Her hands are tied.

But I'm not encumbered by that sort of restriction. I can write whatever I want--and I also have an entire magazine at my disposal.

Two important details are still needed:

(1) First of all, I want to have something that shows that Prosecutor Ekstrom is working with Teleborian in some inappropriate manner, and that the objective once more is to confine you to a nuthouse. I want to be able to go on any talk show on TV and present documentation that annihilates the prosecution's game.

(2) To wage a media war I must be able to appear in public to discuss things that you may consider your private business. Privacy in this situation is wildly overrated in view of all that has been written about you since Easter. I have to be able to construct a completely new media image of you, even if that, in your opinion, means invading your privacy--preferably with your approval. Do you understand what I mean?

------------

She opened the archive in [Idiotic_Table]. It contained twenty-six documents.

CHAPTER 14

Wednesday, May 18

Figuerola got up at 5:00 on Wednesday morning and went for an unusually short run before she showered and dressed in black jeans, a white top, and a lightweight grey linen jacket. She made coffee, poured it into a thermos, and then made sandwiches. She also strapped on a shoulder holster and took her Sig Sauer from the gun cabinet. Just after 6:00 she drove her white Saab 9-5 to Vittangigatan in Vallingby.

Martensson's apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building in the suburbs. The day before, she had assembled everything that could be found out about him in the public archives. He was unmarried, but that did not mean that he wasn't living with someone. He had no black marks in police records, and no great fortune, and he did not seem to lead a fast life. He very seldom called in sick.

The one conspicuous thing about him was that he had licences for no fewer than sixteen weapons. Three of them were hunting rifles; the others were handguns of various types. As long as he had a licence, of course, there was no crime, but Figuerola harboured a deep scepticism about anyone who collected weapons on such a scale.

The Volvo with the registration beginning KAB was in the parking lot about thirty yards from where Figuerola herself parked. She poured black coffee into a paper cup and ate a lettuce and cheese baguette. Then she peeled an orange and sucked each segment to extinction.

At morning rounds, Salander was out of sorts and had a bad headache. She asked for a Tylenol, which she was immediately given.

After an hour the headache had grown worse. She rang for the nurse and asked for another Tylenol. That didn't help either. By lunchtime she had such a headache that the nurse called Dr. Endrin, who examined her patient briskly and prescribed a powerful painkiller.

Salander held
the tablets under her tongue and spat them out as soon as she was alone.

At 2:00 in the afternoon she threw up. This recurred at around 3:00.

At 4:00 Jonasson came up to the ward just as Dr. Endrin was about to go home. They conferred briefly.

"She feels sick and she has a strong headache. I gave her Dexofen. I don't understand what's going on with her. She's been doing so well lately. It might be some sort of flu . . ."

"Does she have a fever?" asked Jonasson.

"No. She had 98.6 an hour ago."

"I'm going to keep an eye on her overnight."

"I'll be going on vacation for three weeks," Endrin said. "Either you or Svantesson will have to take over her case. But Svantesson hasn't had much to do with her. . . ."

"I'll arrange to be her primary care doctor while you're on vacation."

"Good. If there's a crisis and you need help, do call."

They paid a short visit to Salander's sickbed. She was lying with the sheet pulled up to the tip of her nose, and she looked miserable. Jonasson put his hand on her forehead and felt that it was damp.

"I think we'll have to do a quick examination."

He thanked Dr. Endrin, and she left.

At 5:00 Jonasson discovered that Salander had developed a temperature of 100, which was noted on her chart. He visited her three times that evening and noted that her temperature had remained at 100--too high, certainly, but not so high as to present a real problem. At 8:00 he ordered a cranial X-ray.

When the X-rays came through he studied them intently. He could not see anything remarkable, but he did observe that there was a barely visible darker area immediately adjacent to the bullet hole. He wrote a carefully worded and noncommittal comment on her chart: Radiological examination gives a basis for definitive conclusions, but the condition of the patient has deteriorated steadily during the day. It cannot be ruled out that there is a minor bleed that is not visible on the images. The patient should be confined to bedrest and kept under strict observation until further notice.

Berger had received twenty-three emails by the time she arrived at SMP at 6:30 on Wednesday morning.

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