The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

  "How am I doing?" she said.

  "You'll pull through," the doctor said and made some notes before he stood up. This was not very informative.

  After he left, a nurse came in and helped Salander with a bedpan. Then she was allowed to go back to sleep.

  Zalachenko, alias Karl Axel Bodin, was given a liquid lunch. Even small movements of his facial muscles caused sharp pains in his jaw and cheekbone, and chewing was out of the question.

  But the pain was manageable. Zalachenko was used to pain. Nothing could compare with the pain he had undergone for several weeks, months even, fifteen years before, when he had burned like a torch in his car. The follow-up care had been a marathon of agony.

  The doctors had decided that his life was no longer at risk, but still he was severely injured. In view of his age, he would stay in the intensive care unit for a few more days.

  On Saturday he had five visitors.

  At 10:00 a.m. Inspector Erlander returned. This time he had left that damned Modig woman behind and instead was accompanied by Inspector Holmberg, who was much more agreeable. They asked pretty much the same questions about Niedermann as they had the night before. He had his story straight and did not slip up. When they started plying him with questions about his possible involvement in trafficking and other criminal activities, he again denied all knowledge of any such thing. He was living on a disability pension, and he had no idea what they were talking about. He blamed Niedermann for everything and offered to help them in any way he could to find the fugitive.

  Unfortunately, there was not much he could help with, practically speaking. He had no knowledge of the circles Niedermann moved in, or whom he might go to for protection.

  At around 11:00 he had a brief visit from a representative of the prosecutor's office, who formally advised him that he was a suspect in the aggravated assault and attempted murder of Lisbeth Salander. Zalachenko patiently explained that on the contrary, he was the victim of a crime, that in point of fact it was Salander who had attempted to murder him. The prosecutor's office offered him legal assistance in the form of a public defence lawyer. Zalachenko said that he would mull over the matter.

  Which he had no intention of doing. He already had a lawyer, and the first thing he had to do that morning was call him and tell him to get down there right away. Martin Thomasson was therefore the fourth guest of the day at Zalachenko's sickbed. He wandered in with a carefree expression, ran a hand through his thick blond hair, adjusted his glasses, and shook hands with his client. He was a chubby and very charming man. True, he was suspected of running errands for the Yugoslav mafia, a matter which was still under investigation, but he was also known for winning his cases.

  Zalachenko had been referred to Thomasson through a business associate five years earlier, when he needed to restructure certain funds connected to a small financial firm that he owned in Liechtenstein. They were not dramatic sums, but Thomasson's skill had been exceptional, and Zalachenko had avoided paying taxes on them. He then engaged Thomasson on a couple of other matters. Thomasson knew that the money came from criminal activity, but it didn't seem to faze him. Ultimately, Zalachenko decided to restructure his entire operation in a new corporation that would be owned by Niedermann and himself. He approached Thomasson and proposed that the lawyer come in as a third, silent partner to handle the financial side of the business. Thomasson accepted at once.

  "So, Herr Bodin, none of this looks like much fun."

  "I have been the victim of aggravated assault and attempted murder," Zalachenko said.

  "I can see as much. A certain Lisbeth Salander, if I understood correctly."

  Zalachenko lowered his voice: "Our partner Niedermann, as you know, has really screwed things up."

  "Indeed."

  "The police suspect that I am involved."

  "Which of course you are not. You're a victim, and it's important that we see to it at once that this is the image presented to the press. Ms. Salander has already received a good deal of negative publicity. . . . Let me deal with the situation."

  "Thank you."

  "But I have to remind you right from the start that I'm not a criminal lawyer. You're going to need a specialist. I'll arrange to hire one that you can trust."

  The fifth visitor of the day arrived at 11:00 on Saturday night and managed to get past the nurses by showing an ID card and stating that he had urgent business. He was shown to Zalachenko's room. The patient was still awake, and grumbling.

  "My name is Jonas Sandberg," he introduced himself, holding out a hand that Zalachenko ignored.

  He was in his thirties. He had blond hair and was casually dressed in jeans, a checked shirt, and a leather jacket. Zalachenko scrutinized him for fifteen seconds.

  "I was wondering when one of you was going to show up."

  "I work for SIS, Swedish Internal Security," Sandberg said, and showed Zalachenko his ID.

  "I doubt that," said Zalachenko.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You may be employed by SIS, but I doubt that's who you're working for."

  Sandberg looked around the room, then he pulled up the guest chair.

  "I came here late so as not to attract attention. We've discussed how we can help you, and now we have to reach some sort of agreement about what's going to happen. I'm just here to get your version of the story and find out what your intentions are, so that we can work out a common strategy."

  "What sort of strategy do you have in mind?"

  "Herr Zalachenko . . . I'm afraid that a process has been set in motion in which the deleterious effects are hard to foresee," Sandberg said. "We've talked it through. It's going to be difficult to explain away the grave in Gosseberga, and the fact that the girl was shot three times. But let's not lose hope altogether. The conflict between you and your daughter can explain your fear of her and why you took such drastic measures . . . but I'm afraid we're talking about your doing some time in prison."

  Zalachenko suddenly felt elated and would have burst out laughing had he not been so trussed up. He managed a slight curl of his lips. Anything more would be just too painful.

  "So that's our strategy?"

  "Herr Zalachenko, you are aware of the concept of damage control. We have to arrive at a common strategy. We'll do everything in our power to assist you with a lawyer and so on, but we need your cooperation, as well as certain guarantees."

  "You'll get only one guarantee from me. First, you will see to it that all this disappears." He waved his hand. "Niedermann is the scapegoat, and I guarantee that no-one will ever find him."

  "There's forensic evidence that--"

  "Fuck the forensic evidence. It's a matter of how the investigation is carried out and how the facts are presented. My guarantee is this: if you don't wave your magic wand and make all this disappear, I'm inviting the media to a press conference. I know names, dates, events. I don't think I need to remind you who I am."

  "You don't understand--"

  "I understand perfectly. You're an errand boy. So go to your superior and tell him what I've said. He'll understand. Tell him that I have copies of . . . everything. I can take you all down."

  "We have to come to an agreement."

  "This conversation is over. Get out of here. And tell them that next time they should send a grown man for me to discuss things with."

  Zalachenko turned his head away from his visitor. Sandberg looked at Zalachenko for a moment. Then he shrugged and got up. He was almost at the door when he heard Zalachenko's voice again.

  "One more thing."

  Sandberg turned.

  "Salander."

  "What about her?"

  "She has to disappear."

  "How do you mean?"

  Sandberg looked so nervous that Zalachenko had to smile, though the pain drilled into his jaw.

  "I see that you milksops are too sensitive to kill her, and that you don't even have the resources to have it done. Who would do it . . . you? But she has to disappear. Her
testimony has to be declared invalid. She has to be committed to a mental institution for life."

  Salander heard footsteps in the corridor. She had never heard those footsteps before.

  Her door had been open all evening and the nurses had been in to check on her every ten minutes. She had heard a man explain to a nurse right outside her door that he had to see Herr Karl Axel Bodin on an urgent matter. She had heard him offering his ID, but no words were exchanged that gave her any clue as to who he was or what sort of ID he had.

  The nurse had asked him to wait while she went to see whether Herr Bodin was awake. Salander concluded that his ID, whatever it said, must have been persuasive.

  She heard the nurse go down the corridor to the left. It took her seventeen steps to reach the room, and the male visitor took fourteen steps to cover the same distance. That gave an average of fifteen and a half steps. She estimated the length of a step at twenty-four inches, which multiplied by fifteen and a half told her that Zalachenko was in a room about thirty feet down the corridor to the left. She estimated that the width of her room was about fifteen feet, which should mean that Zalachenko's room was two doors down from hers.

  According to the green numerals on the digital clock on her bedside cabinet, the visit lasted precisely nine minutes.

  Zalachenko lay awake for a long time after the man who called himself Jonas Sandberg had left. He assumed that it was not his real name; in his experience, Swedish amateur spies had a real obsession with using false names even when it was not in the least bit necessary. In which case Sandberg, or whatever the hell his name was, was the first indication that Zalachenko's predicament had come to the attention of the Section. Considering the media attention, this would have been hard to avoid. But the visit did confirm that his predicament was a matter of anxiety to them. As well it might be.

  He weighed the pros and cons, lined up the possibilities, and rejected various options. He was fully aware that everything had gone about as badly as it could have. In a well-ordered world he would be at home in Gosseberga now, Niedermann would be safely out of the country, and Salander would be buried in a hole in the ground. Despite the fact that he had a reasonable grasp of what had happened, for the life of him he could not comprehend how she had managed to dig herself out of Niedermann's trench, make her way to his farm, and damn near destroy him with two blows of an axe. She was extraordinarily resourceful.

  On the other hand, he understood quite well what had happened to Niedermann, and why he had run for his life instead of staying to finish Salander off. He knew that something was not quite right in Niedermann's head, that he saw visions--ghosts, even. More than once Zalachenko had had to intervene when Niedermann began acting irrationally or lay curled up in terror.

  This worried Zalachenko. He was convinced that since Niedermann had not yet been captured, he must have been acting rationally during the twenty-four hours since his flight from Gosseberga. Probably he would go to Tallinn, where he would seek protection among contacts in Zalachenko's criminal empire. What worried him in the short term was that he could never predict when Niedermann might be struck by his mental paralysis. If it happened while he was trying to escape, he would make mistakes, and if he made mistakes he would end up in prison. He would never surrender voluntarily, which meant that policemen would die and Niedermann probably would as well.

  This thought upset Zalachenko. He did not want Niedermann to die. Niedermann was his son, and physically an almost perfect specimen. But regrettable as it was, Niedermann must not be captured alive. He had never been arrested, and Zalachenko could not predict how he would react under interrogation. He doubted that Niedermann would be able to keep quiet, as he should. So it would be a good thing if he were killed by the police. Zalachenko would grieve for his son, but the alternative was worse. If Niedermann talked, Zalachenko himself would have to spend the rest of his life in prison.

  But it was now forty-eight hours since Niedermann had fled, and he had not yet been caught. That was good. It was an indication that Niedermann was functioning, and a functioning Niedermann was invincible.

  In the long term there was another worry. He wondered how Niedermann would get along on his own, without his father there to guide him. Over the years he had noticed that if he stopped giving instructions or gave Niedermann too much latitude to make his own decisions, he would slip into an indolent state of indecision.

  Zalachenko acknowledged for the umpteenth time that it was a shame his son did not possess certain qualities. Ronald Niedermann was without doubt a very talented person who had physical attributes to make him a formidable and feared individual. He was also an excellent and cold-blooded organizer. His problem was that he utterly lacked the instinct to lead. He always needed somebody to tell him what he was supposed to be organizing.

  But for the time being all this lay outside Zalachenko's control. Right now he had to focus on himself. His situation was precarious, perhaps more precarious than ever before.

  He did not think that Advokat Thomasson's visit earlier in the day had been particularly reassuring. Thomasson was and remained a corporate lawyer, and no matter how effective he was in that respect, he would not be a great support in this other business.

  And then there had been the visit of Jonas Sandberg, or whatever his name was. Sandberg offered a considerably stronger lifeline. But that lifeline could also be a trap. Zalachenko had to play his cards right, and he would have to take control of the situation. Control was everything.

  In the end he had his own resources to fall back on. For the moment he needed medical attention, but in a couple of days, maybe a week, he would have regained his strength. If things came to a head, he might have only himself to rely on. That meant he would have to disappear, from right under the noses of the policemen circling around him. He would need a hideout, a passport, and some cash. Thomasson could provide all that. But first he would have to get strong enough to make his escape.

  At 1:00 a.m. the night nurse looked in. He pretended to be asleep. When she closed the door he arduously sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat still for a while, testing his sense of balance. Then he cautiously put his left foot down on the floor. Luckily the axe blow had struck his already crippled right leg. He reached for his prosthesis, stored in the cabinet next to his bed, and attached it to his stump. Then he stood up, keeping his weight on his uninjured leg. As he shifted his weight, a sharp pain shot through his right leg.

  He gritted his teeth and took a step. He would need crutches, and he was sure that the hospital would offer him some soon. He braced himself against the wall and limped over to the door. It took him several minutes, and he had to stop after each step to deal with the pain.

  He rested on one leg as he pushed open the door a crack and peered out into the corridor. He did not see anyone, so he stuck his head out a little farther. He heard faint voices to the left and turned to look. The night nurses were at their station about twenty yards down on the other side of the corridor.

  He turned his head to the right and saw the exit at the other end.

  Earlier in the day he had enquired about Lisbeth Salander's condition. He was, after all, her father. The nurses obviously had been instructed not to discuss other patients. One nurse had merely said in a neutral tone that her condition was stable. But she had unconsciously glanced to her left.

  In one of the rooms between his own and the exit was Lisbeth Salander.

  He carefully closed the door, limped back to the bed, and detached his prosthesis. He was drenched in sweat when he finally slipped under the covers.

  Inspector Holmberg returned to Stockholm at lunchtime on Sunday. He was hungry and exhausted. He took the tunnelbana to City Hall, walked to police headquarters on Bergsgatan, and went up to Inspector Bublanski's office. Modig and Andersson had already arrived. Bublanski had called the meeting on Sunday because he knew that preliminary investigation leader Richard Ekstrom was busy elsewhere.

  "Thanks for coming
in," said Bublanski. "I think it's time we had a discussion in peace and quiet to try to make sense of this mess. Jerker, do you have anything new?"

  "Nothing I haven't already told you on the phone. Zalachenko isn't budging an inch. He's innocent of everything and won't talk. Just that--"

  "Yes?"

  "Sonja, you were right. He's one of the nastiest people I've ever met. It might sound stupid to say that. Policemen aren't supposed to think in those terms, but there's something really scary beneath his calculating facade."

  "OK." Bublanski cleared his throat. "What have we got? Sonja?"

  She smiled weakly.

  "The investigative reporter won this round. I can't find Zalachenko in any public registry, but a Karl Axel Bodin seems to have been born in 1942 in Uddevalla. His parents were Marianne and Georg Bodin. They died in an accident in 1946. Karl Axel Bodin was brought up by an uncle living in Norway. So there is no record of him until the seventies, when he moved back to Sweden. Mikael Blomkvist's story that he's a GRU agent who defected from the Soviet Union seems impossible to verify, but I'm inclined to think he's right."

  "And what does that mean?"

  "The obvious explanation is that he was given a false identity. It must have been done with the consent of the authorities."

  "You mean the Security Police, Sapo?"

  "That's what Blomkvist claims. But exactly how it was done I don't know. It presupposes that his birth certificate and a number of other documents were falsified and then slipped into our public records. I don't dare to comment on the legal ramifications of such an action. It probably depends on who made the decision. But for it to be legal, the decision would have to have been made at senior government level."

  Silence descended in Bublanski's office as the four criminal inspectors considered these implications.

  "OK," said Bublanski. "The four of us are just dumb police officers. If people in government are mixed up in this, I don't intend to interrogate them."

  "Hmm," said Andersson. "This could lead to a constitutional crisis. In the United States you can cross-examine members of the government in a normal court of law. In Sweden you have to do it through a constitutional committee."

  "But we could ask the boss," said Holmberg.