The Girl in the Spider's Web (Millennium series Book 4) (15 page)

Blomkvist accepted without protest. Zander was ambitious and amicable and it would be nice to wake up and find all the spadework done, ideally also with lists of people close to Balder whom he should be interviewing. For a little while Blomkvist welcomed the distraction of reflecting on Zander’s persistent problems with women, which had been confided to him during evening sessions at the Kvarnen beer hall. Zander was young, intelligent and handsome. He ought to be a catch. But because there was something soft and needy in his character, he was time and again being dumped, and that was painful for him. Zander was an incorrigible romantic, forever dreaming about the big scoop and love with a capital L.

Blomkvist sat down at Balder’s kitchen table and looked out at the darkness. In front of him, next to a matchbox, a copy of the
New Scientist
and a pad of paper with some incomprehensible equations on it, lay a beautiful but slightly ominous drawing of a street crossing. A man with watery, squinting eyes and thin lips was standing next to a traffic light. He was caught in a fleeting moment and yet you could see every wrinkle in his face and the folds in his quilted jacket and trousers. He did not look pleasant. He had a heart-shaped mole on his chin.

Yet the striking thing about the drawing was the traffic light. It shone with an eloquent, troubling glow, and was skilfully executed according to some sort of mathematical technique. You could almost see the underlying geometrical lines. Balder must have enjoyed doing drawings on the side. Blomkvist wondered, though, about the unconventional choice of subject. On the other hand, why would a person like Balder draw sunsets and ships? A traffic light was probably just as interesting to him as anything else. Blomkvist was intrigued by the fact that the drawing looked like a snapshot. Even if Balder had sat and studied the traffic light, he could hardly have asked the man to cross the street over and over again. Maybe he was imagined, or Balder had a photographic memory, just like … Blomkvist grew thoughtful. He picked up his mobile and for the third time called Berger.

“Are you on your way home?” she asked.

“Not yet, unfortunately. There are a couple of things I still need to look at. But I’d like you to do me a favour.”

“What else am I here for?”

“Could you go to my computer and log in? You know my password, don’t you?”

“I know everything about you.”

“Then go into Documents and open a file called
LISBETH STUFF
.”

“I think I have an idea where this is going.”

“Oh? Here’s what I’d like you to write …”

“Wait a second, I have to open it first. O.K., now … Hold on, there are already a few things here.”

“Ignore them. This is what I want, right at the top. Are you with me?”

“Yes, I’m with you.”

“Write: ‘Lisbeth, maybe you already know, but Frans Balder is dead, shot in the head. Can you find out why someone wanted to kill him?’”

“Is that all?”

“Well, it’s rather a lot considering that we haven’t been in touch for ages. She’ll probably think it’s cheeky of me to ask. But I don’t think it would hurt to have her help.”

“A little illegal hacking wouldn’t go amiss, you mean?”

“I didn’t hear that. I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

“I hope so.”

Salander had managed to go back to sleep, and woke again at 7.30. She was not on top form; she had a headache and she felt nauseous. Yet she felt better than she had in the night. She bandaged her hand, dressed, had a breakfast of two microwaved meat piroshki and a large glass of Coca-Cola, then she stuffed some work-out clothes into a sports bag and left the apartment. The storm had subsided, leaving rubbish and newspapers lying all over the city. She walked down from Mosebacke torg and along Götgatan, muttering to herself.

She looked angry and at least two people were alarmed enough to get out of her way. But Salander was merely determined. She was not looking forward to working out, she just wanted to stick to her routine and drive the toxins out of her body. So she continued down to Hornsgatan, and just before Hornsgatspuckeln she turned into the Zero boxing club, which was down one flight of stairs in the basement. It seemed more run-down than ever that morning.

The place could have used a coat of paint and some general freshening up. It seemed as if no improvements had been made since the ’70s. Posters of Ali and Foreman were still on the walls. It looked just like the day after that legendary bout in Kinshasa, possibly due to the fact that Obinze, the man in charge of the premises, had seen the fight live as a small boy and had afterwards run around in the liberating monsoon rain shouting “Ali Bomaye!” That double-time canter was not just his happiest memory, it also marked what he called the last moment of “the days of innocence”.

Not long after he and his family had been forced to flee Mobutu’s terror and nothing had ever been the same again. Maybe it was not so strange that he wanted to preserve that moment in history, carry it with him to this godforsaken boxing hall in the Södermalm district of Stockholm. Obinze was still constantly talking about the fight. But then he was always constantly talking about something or other.

He was tall and mighty and bald-headed, a chatterbox of epic proportions and one of many in the gym who quite fancied Salander, even if like many others he thought she was more or less crazy. Periodically she would train harder than anyone else in there and go at the punch-balls, punchbags and her sparring partners like a madwoman. She possessed a kind of primitive, furious energy which Obinze had seldom come across.

Once, before he got to know her, he had suggested that she take up competitive boxing. The derisive snort he got in response stopped him from asking again, though he had never understood why she trained so hard. Not that he really needed to know – one could train hard for no reason at all. It was better than drinking hard. It was better than lots of things.

Maybe it was true, as she said to him late one evening about a year ago, that she wanted to be physically prepared in case she ever ended up in difficulties again. He knew that there had been trouble before. He had read every single word about her on the net and understood what it meant to be prepared in case some evil shadow from the past turned up. Both his parents had been murdered by Mobutu’s thugs.

What he did not understand was why, at regular intervals, Salander gave up training altogether, not exercising at all, eating nothing but junk food. When she came into the gym that morning – as demonstratively dressed in black and pierced as ever – he had not seen her for two weeks.

“Hello, gorgeous. Where have you been?”

“Doing something highly illegal.”

“I can just imagine. Beating the crap out of some motorbike gang or something.”

But she did not even rise to the jest. She just marched angrily in towards the changing room and he did something he knew she would hate: he stepped in front of her and looked her straight in the face.

“Your eyes are bright red.”

“I’ve got the mother of all hangovers. Out of my way!”

“In that case I don’t want to see you in here, you know that.”

“Skip the crap. I want you to drive the shit out of me,” she spat, and ducked past him to get changed. When she emerged wearing her outsized boxing shorts and white vest with the black skull on the chest, he saw nothing for it but to go ahead and let her have it.

He pushed her until she threw up three times in his waste-paper bin. He gave her as much grief as he could. She gave him plenty of lip back. Then she went off and changed and left the gym without even a goodbye. As so often at such moments Obinze was overcome by a feeling of emptiness. Maybe he was even a little in love. He was certainly stirred – how could one not be by a girl who boxed like that?

The last he saw of her was her calves disappearing up the stairs so he could not know that the ground swayed beneath her feet as she came out onto Hornsgatan. Salander braced herself against the wall of the building and breathed heavily. Then she set off in the direction of her apartment on Fiskargatan. Once home she drank another large glass of Coca-Cola and half a litre of juice, then she crashed onto her bed and looked at the ceiling for ten, fifteen minutes, thinking about this and that, about singularities and event horizons and certain special aspects of Schrödinger’s equation, and Ed Needham.

She waited for the world to regain its usual colours before she got up and went to her computer. However reluctant she might be, she was drawn to it by a force which had not grown weaker since her childhood. But this morning she was not in the mood for any wild escapades. She hacked into Mikael Blomkvist’s computer. In the next moment she froze. They had been joking about Balder and now Blomkvist wrote that he had been murdered, shot in the head.

“Jesus,” she muttered and had a look at the online evening papers.

There was no explicit mention of Balder, but it was not difficult to work out that the “Swedish academic shot at his home in Saltsjöbaden” was indeed him. For the time being, the police were being tight-lipped and journalists had not managed to turn up a great deal, no doubt because they had not yet cottoned on to how big the story was. Other events from the night took precedence: the storm and the power outage right across the country and the scandalous delays on the railways. There was also the odd celebrity news item which Salander could not be bothered to try to understand.

The only facts reported on the murder were that it had taken place around 3.00 in the morning and that the police were seeking witnesses in the neighbourhood, for reports of anything untoward. So far there were no suspects, but apparently witnesses had spotted unknown and suspicious persons on the property. The police were looking for more information on them. At the end of the articles it said that a press conference was going to be held later that day, led by Chief Inspector Jan Bublanski. Salander gave a wistful smile. She had had a fair bit of history with Bublanski – or Officer Bubble, as he was sometimes called – and she thought that so long as they didn’t put any idiots onto his team the investigation would turn out to be reasonably effective.

Then she read Blomkvist’s message again. He needed help and without thinking twice she wrote “O.K.”, not only because it was he who was asking. It was personal. She did not do grief, at least not in the conventional way. Anger, on the other hand, yes, a cold ticking rage. And though she had a certain respect for Jan Bublanski she was not usually inclined to trust the forces of law and order.

She was used to taking matters into her own hands and she had all sorts of reasons to want to find out why Frans Balder had been murdered. Because it was no coincidence that she had sought him out and taken an interest in his situation. His enemies were most likely her enemies too.

It had begun with the old question of whether in some sense her father lived on. Alexander Zalachenko – Zala – had not only killed her mother and destroyed her childhood, he had also established and controlled a criminal network, sold drugs and arms and made a living exploiting and humiliating women. She was convinced that that sort of evil never goes away. It merely migrates into other forms. Ever since that day just over a year ago when she had woken up at dawn at Hotel Schloss Elmau in the Bavarian Alps, Salander had been pursuing her own investigation into what had become of his legacy.

For the most part his old comrades seemed to have turned into losers, depraved bandits, revolting pimps or small-time crooks. Not one of them was a villain on her father’s level, and for a long time Salander remained convinced that the organization had changed and dissolved after Zalachenko’s death. Yet she did not give up, and eventually she stumbled on something which pointed in a wholly unexpected direction. It was a reference to one of Zala’s young acolytes, a man called Sigfrid Gruber.

Already during Zala’s lifetime, Gruber was one of the more intelligent people in the network, and unlike his colleagues he had earned himself degrees in both computer science and business administration, which had apparently given him access to more exclusive circles. These days he cropped up in a couple of alleged crimes against high-tech companies: thefts of new technology, extortion, insider trading, hacker attacks.

Normally, Salander would have followed the lead no further. Not just because it seemed to have little to do with her father’s old activities. Also, nothing could worry her less than a couple of rich business groups being fleeced of some of their innovations. But then everything had changed.

In a classified report from Government Communications Headquarters in Cheltenham, England, which she had got her hands on, she had come across some codenames associated with a gang Gruber seemed now to belong to. The names had set some bells ringing, and after that she had not been able to let go of the story. She put together all the information she could find about the group and kept coming across a rumour that the organization had stolen Balder’s A.I. technology, and then sold it to the Russian–American games company, Truegames. Her source was unreliable – a half-open hacker site – but it was for this reason that she had turned up at the professor’s lecture at the Royal Institute of Technology and given him a hard time about singularities deep within black holes. Or that was part of the reason.

21 – 23.xi

People with a photographic memory are also said to have an eidetic memory.
*

Research shows that people with eidetic memories are more likely to be nervous and stressed than others.

Most, though not all, people with eidetic memories are autistic. There is also a connection between photographic memory and synaesthesia – the condition where two or more senses are connected, for example when numbers are seen in colour and every series of numbers forms an image in the mind.

21.xi

Jan Bublanski had been looking forward to a day off and a long conversation with Rabbi Goldman of the Söder congregation about certain questions which had been troubling him recently, chiefly concerning the existence of God.

It would be going too far to say that he was becoming an atheist. But the very notion of a God had become increasingly problematic for him and he wanted to discuss his persistent feelings of the meaninglessness of it all, which were often accompanied by dreams of handing in his notice.

Bublanski certainly considered himself to be a good investigator. His record of clearing up cases was on the whole outstanding and occasionally he was still stimulated by the job. But he was not sure he wanted to go on investigating murders. He could learn some new skill while there was still time. He dreamed about teaching, helping young people to find their path and believe in themselves, maybe because he himself suffered from bouts of the deepest self-doubt – but he did not know which subject he would choose. He had never specialized in one particular field, aside from that which had become his lot in life: sudden evil death and morbid human perversions. That was definitely not something he wanted to teach.

It was 8.10 in the morning and he was at his bathroom mirror. He felt puffy, worn out and bald. Absent-mindedly he picked up I.B. Singer’s novel,
The Magician of Lublin
, which he had loved with such a passion that for many years he had kept it next to the lavatory in case he felt like reading it at times when his stomach was playing up. But now he only managed a few lines. The telephone rang and his mood did not improve when he recognized the number: Chief Prosecutor Richard Ekström. A call from Ekström meant not just work, but probably work with a political and media element to it. Ekström would otherwise have wriggled out of it like a snake.

“Hi, Richard, nice to hear from you,” Bublanski lied. “But I’m afraid I’m busy.”

“What …? No, no, not too busy for this, Jan. You can’t miss out on this one. I heard that you’d taken the day off.”

“That’s right, and I’m just off to …” He did not want to say to his synagogue. His Jewishness was not popular in the force “… see my doctor,” he went on.

“Are you sick?”

“Not really.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Nearly sick?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, in that case there’s no problem. We’re all nearly sick, aren’t we? This is an important case, Jan. The Minister of Enterprise has been in touch, and she agrees that you should handle the investigation.”

“I find it very hard to believe the minister knows who I am.”

“Well, maybe not by name, and she’s not supposed to be interfering anyway. But we’re all agreed that we need a big player.”

“Flattery no longer works with me, Richard. What’s it about?” he said, and immediately regretted it. Just asking was halfway to saying yes and he could tell that Ekström accepted it as such.

“Last night Professor Frans Balder was murdered at his home in Saltsjöbaden.”

“And who is he?”

“One of our best-known scientists, of international renown. He’s a world authority on A.I. technology.”

“On
what
?”

“He was working on neural networks and digital quantum processes, that sort of thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“He was trying to get computers to think, to replicate the human brain.”

Replicate the human brain?
Bublanski wondered what Rabbi Goldman would make of that.

“They say he’s been a victim of industrial espionage in the past,” Ekström said. “And that’s why the murder is attracting the attention of the Ministry of Enterprise. No doubt you’re aware of the solemn declarations the minister has made about the absolute requirement to protect Swedish research and new technology.”

“Maybe.”

“It would seem that this Balder was under some sort of threat. He had police protection.”

“Are you saying he was killed while under police protection?”

“Well, it wasn’t the most effective protection in the world. It was Flinck and Blom from the regular force.”

“The Casanovas?”

“Yes. They were assigned the duty late last night at the height of the storm and the general confusion. But in their defence it has to be said that the whole situation was a total shambles. Balder was shot while our men were dealing with a drunk who had turned up at the house, out of nowhere. Unsurprisingly, the killer took advantage of that moment of inattention.”

“Doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it looks very professional, and on top of it all the burglar alarm seems to have been hacked.”

“So there were several of them?”

“We believe so. Furthermore, there are some tricky details.”

“Which the media are going to like?”

“Which the media are going to love,” Ekström said. “The lush who turned up, for example, was none other than Lasse Westman.”

“The actor?”

“The same. And that’s a real problem.”

“Because it’ll be all over the front pages?”

“Partly that, yes, but also because there’s a risk we’ll end up with a load of sticky divorce issues on our hands. Westman claimed he was there to bring home the eight-year-old son of his partner. Balder had the boy there with him, a boy who … hang on a moment … I want to get this right … who is certainly Balder’s biological son, but who, according to a custody ruling, he’s not competent to look after.”

“Why wouldn’t a professor who can get computers to behave like people be capable of looking after his own child?”

“Because previously he had shown a shocking lack of responsibility. He was a completely hopeless father, if I’ve understood it right. It’s all rather sensitive. This little boy, who wasn’t even supposed to have been at Balder’s, probably witnessed the killing.”

“Jesus! And what does he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Is he in shock?”

“He must be, but he never says anything anyway. He’s mute and apparently disabled, so he’s not going to be much good to us.”

“I see. So there’s no suspect.”

“Unless there was a reason why Westman appeared at precisely the same time as the killer entered the ground floor. You should get Westman in for questioning.”

“If I decide to take on the investigation.”

“As you will.”

“Are you so sure of that?”

“In my view you have no choice. Besides, I’ve saved the best for last.”

“And that is?”

“Mikael Blomkvist.”

“What about him?”

“For some reason he was out there too. I think Balder had asked to see him, to tell him something.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“So it would seem.”

“And then he was shot?”

“Just before Blomkvist rang the bell – and it seems the journalist caught a glimpse of the killer.”

Bublanski snorted. It was an inappropriate reaction in every conceivable way and he could not have explained it even to himself. Perhaps it was nerves, or a feeling that life was repeating itself.

“I’m sorry?” Ekström said.

“Just got a bit of a cough. So you’re worried that you’ll end up with a private investigator on your back, one who’ll show you all up in a bad light.”

“Hmm, yes, maybe. We’re assuming that
Millennium
have already got going with the story and right now I’m trying to find some legal justification for stopping them, or at least see to it that they’re restricted in some way. I won’t rule out that this case is to be regarded as a matter affecting national security.”

“So we’re saddled with Säpo as well?”

“No comment.”

Go to hell
, Bublanski thought. “Are Olofsson and the others at Industry Protection working on this?”

“No comment, as I said. When can you start?” Ekström said.

“I’ll do it, but I have some conditions,” Bublanski said. “I want my usual team: Modig, Svensson, Holmberg and Flod.”

“Of course, O.K., but you get Hans Faste as well.”

“No way!”

“Sorry, Jan, that’s not negotiable. You should be grateful you get to choose all the others.”

“You’re the bitter end, you know that?”

“I’ve heard it said.”

“So Faste’s going to be our own little mole from Säpo?”

“Nonsense. I happen to think that all teams benefit from someone who thinks differently.”

“Meaning that when the rest of us have got rid of all our prejudices and preconceived notions, we’re stuck with somebody who will take us back to square one?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Faste is an idiot.”

“No, Jan, he isn’t. He’s just …”

“What?”

“Conservative. He’s not someone who falls for the latest feminist fads.”

“Or for the earliest ones either. He may have just got his head around all that stuff about votes for women.”

“Come on, Jan, get a grip. Faste is an extremely reliable and loyal investigator, and I won’t listen to any more of this. Any other requests?”

How about you go take a running jump?
Bublanski thought. “I need to go to my doctor’s appointment, and in the meantime I want Modig to lead the investigation,” he said.

“Is that really such a wise idea?”

“It’s a damned wise idea,” he growled.

“O.K., O.K., I’ll see to it that Zetterlund hands over to her,” Ekström said with a wince.

Ekström was now far from sure he should have agreed to take on this investigation.

Alona Casales rarely worked nights. She had managed to avoid them for a decade and justified her stance on the grounds that her rheumatism forced her from time to time to take strong cortisone tablets, which not only turned her face into the shape of a full moon, but also raised her blood pressure. She needed her sleep and her routine. Yet here she was, at 3.10 in the morning.

She had driven from her home in Laurel, Maryland, in a light rain, past the sign saying “
N.S.A. NEXT RIGHT – STAFF ONLY
”, past the barriers and the electric fence, towards the black, cube-like main building in Fort Meade. She left her car in the sprawling parking area alongside the pale blue golf-ball-like radome with its myriad dish aerials, and made her way through the security gates up to her workstation on the twelfth floor. She was surprised by the feverish atmosphere there and soon realized that it was Ed Needham and his young hacker team who were responsible for the heightened concentration hanging over the department.

Needham looked like a man possessed and was standing there bawling out a young man whose face shone with an icy pallor, a pretty weird guy, Casales thought, just like all those young genius hackers Needham had surrounded himself with. The kid was skinny and anaemic-looking with a hairstyle from hell, and had strangely rounded shoulders which shook with some sort of spasm. Maybe he was frightened. He shuddered every now and then, and it did not help matters that Needham was kicking at his chair leg. The young man looked as if he were waiting for a slap, a clip across the ear. But then something unexpected happened.

Needham calmed down and ruffled the boy’s hair like a loving father. That was not like him. He did not go in for demonstrative affection. He was a cowboy who would never do anything as dubious as hug another man. But perhaps he was now so desperate that he was prepared to give normal humanity a go. Ed’s zip was undone and he had spilled coffee or Coca-Cola on his shirt. His face was an unhealthy flushed colour, his voice hoarse and rough from shouting. Casales thought that no-one of his age and weight should be pushing himself so hard.

Although only half a day had gone by, it looked as if Needham and his boys had been living there for a week. There were coffee cups and fast-food remnants and discarded caps and college jerseys everywhere, and a rank stench of sweat and tension in the air. The team was clearly in the process of turning the whole world upside down in their efforts to trace the hacker. She called out to them in a hearty tone:

“Go for it, guys! … Fix the bastard!”

She did not really mean it. Secretly she thought the breach was amusing. Many of these programmers seemed to think they could do whatever liked, as if they had carte blanche, and it might actually do them some good to see that the other side could hit back. Here in the Puzzle Palace their shortcomings only showed when they were confronted with something dire, as was happening now. She had been woken by a call saying that the Swedish professor had been murdered at his home outside Stockholm, and even though that in itself was not a big deal for the N.S.A. – not yet, at any rate – it did mean something to Casales.

The killing showed that she had read the signs right, and now she had to see if she could move forward one more step. She logged in and opened the diagrammatic overview of the organization she had been tracking. The evasive Thanos sat right at the top, but there were also names of real people like the member of the Russian Duma Ivan Gribanov, and the German, Gruber.

She did not understand why the N.S.A. gave such low priority to the matter, and why her superiors kept suggesting that other, more mainstream law-enforcement agencies should be taking care of it. They could not rule out the possibility that the network had state backing, or links to Russian state intelligence, and that it was all to do with the trade war between East and West. Even though the evidence was sparse and ambiguous, there were indications that western technology was being stolen and ending up in Russian hands.

But it was difficult to get a clear view of this tangled web or even to know whether any crime had been committed – perhaps it was purely by chance that a similar technology had been developed somewhere else. These days, industrial theft was an altogether nebulous concept. Assets were being borrowed all the time, sometimes as a part of creative exchanges, sometimes just dressed up to seem legitimate.

Large businesses, bolstered by threatening lawyers, regularly scared the living daylights out of small companies, and nobody seemed to find it odd that individual innovators had almost no legal rights. Besides which, industrial espionage and hacker attacks were often regarded as little more than routine research in a competitive environment. You could hardly claim that the N.S.A. crowd were helping to raise ethical standards in the field.