The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (51 page)

“But what about a budget? An operation like this has to be financed.”

The discussion went on until lunchtime, when Figuerola excused herself and went to the gym for some peace, to think things over.

Berger did not arrive in the newsroom until lunchtime. Her foot was hurting so badly that she could not put any weight on it. She hobbled over to her glass cage and sank into her chair with relief. Fredriksson looked up from his desk, and she waved him in.

“What happened?” he said.

“I stepped on a piece of glass and a shard lodged in my heel.”

“That . . . wasn’t so good.”

“No. It wasn’t good. Peter, has anyone received any more weird emails?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Keep your ears open. I want to know if anything odd happens around
SMP.”

“What sort of odd?”

“I’m afraid some idiot is sending really vile emails and he seems to have targeted me. So I want to know if you hear of anything going on.”

“The type of email Eva Carlsson got?”

“Right, but anything strange at all. I’ve had a whole string of crazy emails accusing me of being all kinds of things—and suggesting various perverse things that ought to be done to me.”

Fredriksson’s expression darkened. “How long has this been going on?”

“A couple of weeks. Keep your eyes peeled. . . . So tell me, what’s going to be in the paper tomorrow?”

“Well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“Holm and the head of the legal section are on the warpath.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of Frisk. You extended his contract and gave him a feature assignment. And he won’t tell anybody what it’s about.”

“He is forbidden to talk about it. My orders.”

“That’s what he says. Which means that Holm and the legal editor are up in arms.”

“I can see that they might be. Set up a meeting with Legal at 3:00. I’ll explain the situation.”

“Holm is not pleased—”

“I’m not pleased with Holm, either, so we’re even.”

“He’s so upset that he’s complained to the board.”

Berger looked up.
Damn it. I’m going to have to face up to the Borgsjö problem
.

“Borgsjö is coming in this afternoon and wants a meeting with you. I suspect it’s Holm’s doing.”

“What time?”

“Two o’clock,” said Fredriksson, and he went back to his desk to write the midday memo.

Jonasson visited Salander during her lunch. She pushed away a plate of the hospital’s vegetable stew. As always, he did a brief examination of her, but she noticed that he was no longer putting much effort into it.

“You’ve recovered nicely,” he said.

“Hmm. You’ll have to do something about the food at this place.”

“What about it?”

“Couldn’t you get me a pizza?”

“Sorry. Way beyond the budget.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Lisbeth, we’re going to have a discussion about the state of your health tomorrow—”

“Understood. And I’ve recovered nicely.”

“You’re now well enough to be moved to Kronoberg prison. I might be able to postpone the move for another week, but my colleagues are going to start wondering.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I’m ready. And it had to happen sooner or later.”

“I’ll give the go-ahead tomorrow, then,” Jonasson said. “You’ll probably be transferred pretty soon.”

She nodded.

“It might be as early as this weekend. The hospital administration doesn’t want you here.”

“Who could blame them.”

“Er . . . that device of yours—”

“I’ll leave it in the recess behind the table here.” She pointed.

“Good idea.”

They sat in silence for a moment before Jonasson stood up.

“I have to check on my other patients.”

“Thanks for everything. I owe you one.”

“Just doing my job.”

“No. You’ve done a great deal more. I won’t forget it.”

Blomkvist entered police headquarters on Kungsholmen through the entrance on Polhemsgatan. Figuerola accompanied him up to the offices of the Constitutional Protection Unit. They exchanged only silent glances in the elevator.

“Do you think it’s such a good idea for me to be hanging around at police HQ?” Blomkvist said. “Someone might see us together and start to wonder.”

“This will be our only meeting here. From now on we’ll meet in an office we’ve rented at Fridhemsplan. We get access tomorrow. But this will be OK. Constitutional Protection is a small and more or less self-sufficient unit, and nobody else at SIS cares about it. And we’re on a different floor from the rest of Säpo.”

He greeted Edklinth without shaking hands and said hello to two colleagues who were apparently part of his team. They introduced themselves only as Stefan and Anders. He smiled to himself.

“Where do we start?” he said.

“We could start by having some coffee. . . . Monica?” Edklinth said.

“Thanks, that would be nice,” Figuerola said.

Edklinth had probably meant for her to serve the coffee. Blomkvist noticed that the chief of the Constitutional Protection Unit hesitated for only a second before he got up and brought the coffee over to the conference table, where place settings were already laid out. Blomkvist saw that Edklinth was also smiling to himself, which he took to be a good sign. Then Edklinth turned serious.

“I honestly don’t know how I should be managing this. It must be the first time a journalist has sat in on a meeting of the Security Police. The issues we’ll be discussing now are in many respects confidential and highly classified.”

“I’m not interested in military secrets. I’m only interested in the Zalachenko club.”

“But we have to strike a balance. First of all, the names of today’s participants must not be mentioned in your articles.”

“Agreed.”

Edklinth gave Blomkvist a look of surprise.

“Second, you may not speak with anyone but me and Monica Figuerola. We’re the ones who will decide what we can tell you.”

“If you have a long list of requirements, you should have mentioned them yesterday.”

“Yesterday I hadn’t yet thought through the matter.”

“Then I have something to tell you too. This is probably the first and only time in my professional career that I will reveal the contents of an unpublished story to a police officer. So, to quote you, I honestly don’t know how I should be managing this.”

A brief silence settled over the table.

“Maybe we—”

“What if we—”

Edklinth and Figuerola had started talking at the same time before falling silent.

“My target is the Zalachenko club,” Blomkvist said. “You want to bring charges against the Zalachenko club. Let’s stick to that.”

Edklinth nodded.

“So, what do you have?” Blomkvist said.

Edklinth explained what Figuerola and her team had unearthed. He showed Blomkvist the photograph of Evert Gullberg with Colonel Wennerström.

“Good. I’ll take a copy of that.”

“It’s in Åhlén and Åkerlund’s archive,” Figuerola said.

“It’s on the table in front of me. With a note on the back,” Blomkvist said.

“Give him a copy,” Edklinth said.

“That means that Zalachenko was murdered by the Section.”

“Murder, coupled with the suicide of a man who was dying of cancer. Gullberg’s still alive, but the doctors don’t give him more than a few weeks. After his suicide attempt he sustained such severe brain damage that he is for all intents and purposes a vegetable.”

“And he was the person with primary responsibility for Zalachenko when he defected.”

“How do you know that?”

“Gullberg met Prime Minister Fälldin six weeks after Zalachenko’s defection.”

“Can you prove that?”

“I can. With the visitors’ log of the government secretariat. Gullberg arrived together with the then chief of SIS.”

“And the chief has since died.”

“But Fälldin is alive and willing to talk about the matter.”

“Have you—”

“No, I haven’t. But someone else has. I can’t give you the name. Source protection.”

Blomkvist explained how Fälldin had reacted to the information about Zalachenko and how he had travelled to The Hague to interview Janeryd.

“So the Zalachenko club is somewhere in this building,” Blomkvist said, pointing at the photograph.

“Partly. We think it’s an organization inside the organization. What you call the Zalachenko club cannot exist without the support of key people in this building. But we think that the so-called Section for Special Analysis set up shop somewhere outside.”

“So that’s how it works? A person can be employed by Säpo, have his salary paid by Säpo, and then in fact report to another employer?”

“Something like that.”

“So who in the building is working for the Zalachenko club?”

“We don’t know yet. But we have several suspects.”

“Mårtensson,” Blomkvist suggested.

Edklinth nodded.

“Mårtensson works for Säpo, and when he’s needed by the Zalachenko club he’s released from his regular job,” Figuerola said.

“How does that work in practice?”

“That’s a very good question,” Edklinth said with a faint smile. “Wouldn’t you like to come and work for us?”

“Not on your life,” Blomkvist said.

“I jest, of course. But it’s a good question. We have a suspect, but we’re unable to verify our suspicions just yet.”

“Let’s see . . . it must be someone with administrative authority.”

“We suspect Chief of Secretariat Albert Shenke,” Figuerola said.

“And here we are at our first stumbling block,” Edklinth said. “We’ve given you a name, but we have no proof. So how do you intend to proceed?”

“I can’t publish a name without proof. If Shenke is innocent he would sue
Millennium
for libel.”

“Good. Then we are agreed. This cooperative effort has to be based on mutual trust. Your turn. What do you have?”

“Three names,” Blomkvist said. “The first two were members of the Zalachenko club in the eighties.”

Edklinth and Figuerola were instantly alert.

“Hans von Rottinger and Fredrik Clinton. Von Rottinger is dead. Clinton is retired. But both of them were part of the circle closest to Zalachenko.”

“And the third name?” Edklinth said.

“Teleborian has a link to a person I know only as Jonas. We don’t know his last name, but we do know that he was with the Zalachenko club. . . . We’ve actually speculated a bit that he might be the man with Mårtensson in the pictures from Café Copacabana.”

“And in what context did the name Jonas crop up?”

Salander hacked Teleborian’s computer, and we can follow the correspondence that shows how Teleborian is conspiring with Jonas in the same way he conspired with Björck in 1991
.

“He gives Teleborian instructions. And now we come to another stumbling block,” Blomkvist said to Edklinth with a smile. “I can prove my assertions, but I can’t give you the documentation without revealing a source. You’ll have to accept what I’m saying.”

Edklinth looked thoughtful.

“Maybe one of Teleborian’s colleagues in Uppsala. OK. Let’s start with Clinton and von Rottinger. Tell us what you know.”

Borgsjö received Berger in his office next to the boardroom. He looked concerned.

“I heard that you hurt yourself,” he said, pointing to her foot.

“It’ll pass,” Berger said, leaning her crutches against his desk as she sat down in the guest chair.

“Well . . . that’s good. Erika, you’ve been here a month and I want us to have a chance to catch up. How do you feel it’s going?”

I have to discuss Vitavara with him. But how? When?

“I’ve begun to get a handle on the situation. There are two sides to it. On the one hand,
SMP
has financial problems and the budget is strangling the newspaper. On the other,
SMP
has a huge amount of dead meat in the newsroom.”

“Aren’t there any positive aspects?”

“Of course there are. A whole bunch of experienced professionals who know how to do their jobs. The problem is the ones who won’t let them do their jobs.”

“Holm has spoken to me. . . .”

“I know.”

Borgsjö looked puzzled. “He has a number of opinions about you. Almost all of them are negative.”

“That’s OK. I have a number of opinions about him too.”

“Also negative? It’s no good if the two of you can’t work together—”

“I have no problem working with him. But he does have a problem with me.” Berger sighed. “He’s driving me nuts. He’s very experienced and doubtless one of the most competent news chiefs I’ve come across. At the same time, he’s a bastard of exceptional proportions. He enjoys indulging in intrigue and playing people against one another. I’ve worked in the media for twenty-five years, and I have never met a person like him in a management position.”

“He has to be tough to handle the job. He’s under pressure from every direction.”

“Tough, by all means. But that doesn’t mean he has to behave like an idiot. Unfortunately, Holm is a walking disaster, and he’s one of the chief reasons why it’s almost impossible to get the staff to work as a team. He takes divide-and-rule as his job description.”

“Harsh words.”

“I’ll give him one month to sort out his attitude. If he hasn’t managed it by then, I’m going to remove him as news editor.”

“You can’t do that. It’s not your job to take apart the operational organization.”

Berger studied the CEO.

“Forgive me for pointing this out, but that was exactly why you hired me. We also have a contract which explicitly gives me free rein to make the editorial changes I deem necessary. My task here is to rejuvenate the newspaper, and I can do that only by changing the organization and the work routines.”

“Holm has devoted his life to
SMP.”

“Right. And he’s fifty-eight, with seven years to go before retirement. I can’t afford to keep him on as a dead weight all that time. Don’t misunderstand me, Magnus. From the moment I sat down in that glass cage, my life’s goal has been to raise
SMP’s
quality as well as its circulation figures. Holm has a choice: either he can do things my way, or he can do something else.
I’m going to bulldoze anyone who is obstructive or who tries to damage
SMP
in some other way.”