Saturday, 4.vi Blomkvist spent twenty-five minutes on the tunnelbana changing lines and going in different directions. He finally got off a bus at Slussen, jumped on the Katarina lift up to Mosebacke and took a circuitous1 route to Fiskargatan 9. He had bought bread, milk and cheese at the mini supermarket next to the County Council building and he put the groceries straight into the fridge. Then he turned on Salander’s computer. After a moment’s thought he also turned on his Ericsson T10. He ignored his normal mobile because he did not want to talk to anyone who was not involved in the Zalachenko story. He saw that he had missed six calls in the past twenty-four hours: three from Cortez, two from Eriksson, and one from Berger. First he called Cortez who was in a café in Vasastad and had a few details to discuss, nothing urgent. Eriksson had only called, she told him, to keep in touch. Then he called Berger, who was engaged. He opened the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] and found the final version of Salander’s autobiographical statement. He smiled, printed out the document and began to read it at once. Salander switched on her Palm Tungsten T3. She had spent an hour infiltrating3 and charting the intranet at S.M.P. with the help of Berger’s account. She had not tackled the Peter Fleming account because she did not need to have full administrator4 rights. What she was interested in was access to S.M.P.’s personnel files. And Berger’s account had complete access to those. She fervently5 wished that Blomkvist had been kind enough to smuggle7 in her PowerBook with a real keyboard and a 17” screen instead of only the hand-held. She downloaded a list of everyone who worked at S.M.P. and began to check them off. There were 223 employees, 82 of whom were women. She began by crossing off all the women. She did not exclude women on the grounds of their being incapable8 of such folly9, but statistics showed that the absolute majority of people who harassed10 women were men. That left 141 individuals. Statistics also argued that the majority of poison pen artists were either teenagers or middle-aged2. Since S.M.P. did not have any teenagers on its staff, she drew an age curve and deleted everyone over fifty-five and under twenty-five. That left 103. She thought for a moment. She did not have much time. Maybe not even twenty-four hours. She made a snap decision. At a stroke she eliminated all employees in distribution, advertising12, the picture department, maintenance and I.T. She focused on a group of journalists and editorial staff, forty-eight men between the ages of twenty-six and fifty-four. Then she heard the rattle13 of a set of keys. She turned off the Palm and put it under the covers between her thighs14. This would be her last Saturday lunch at Sahlgrenska. She took stock of the cabbage stew15 with resignation. After lunch she would not, she knew, be able to work undisturbed for a while. She put the Palm in the recess16 behind the bedside table and waited while two Eritrean women vacuumed the room and changed her bedlinen. One of the women was named Sara. She had regularly smuggled17 in a few Marlboro Lights for Salander during the past month. She had also given her a lighter18, now hidden behind the bedside table. Salander gratefully accepted two cigarettes, which she planned to smoke by the vent6 window during the night. Not until 2.00 p.m. was everything quiet again in her room. She took out the Palm and connected to the Net. She had intended to go straight back to S.M.P.’s administration, but she had also to deal with her own problems. She made her daily sweep, starting with the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]. She saw that Blomkvist had not uploaded anything new for three days and wondered what he was working on. The son-of-a-bitch is probably out screwing around with some bimbo with big boobs. She then proceeded to the Yahoo group [The_Knights] and checked whether Plague had added anything. He had not. Then she checked the hard drives of Ekstr?m (some routine correspondence about the trial) and Teleborian. Every time she accessed Teleborian’s hard drive she felt as if her body temperature dropped a few degrees. She found that he had already written her forensic19 psychiatric report, even though he was obviously not supposed to write it until after he had been given the opportunity to examine her. He had brushed up his prose, but there was nothing much new. She downloaded the report and sent it off to [Idiotic_Table]. She checked Teleborian’s emails from the past twenty-four hours, clicking through one after another. She almost missed the terse20 message: Saturday, 3.00 at the Ring in Central Station. Jonas Shit. Jonas. He was mentioned in a lot of correspondence with Teleborian. Used a hotmail account. Not identified. Salander glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table. 2.28. She immediately pinged Blomkvist’s I.C.Q. No response. Blomkvist printed out the 220 pages of the manuscript that were finished. Then he shut off the computer and sat down at Salander’s kitchen table with an editing pencil. He was pleased with the text. But there was still a gigantic gaping21 hole. How could he find the remainder of the Section? Eriksson might be right: it might be impossible. He was running out of time. Salander swore in frustration22 and pinged Plague. He did not answer either. She looked again at the clock. 2.30. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried Cortez next and then Eriksson. Saturday. Everybody’s off work. 2.32. Then she tried to reach Berger. No luck. I told her to go home. Shit. 2.33. She should be able to send a text message to Blomkvist’s mobile … but it was tapped. She tugged23 her lip. Finally in desperation she rang for the nurse. It was 2.35 when she heard the key in the lock and Nurse Agneta looked in on her. “Hello. Are you O.K.?” “Is Dr Jonasson on duty?” “Aren’t you feeling well?” “I feel fine. But I need to have a few words with him. If possible.” “I saw him a little while ago. What’s it about?” “I just have to talk to him.” Nurse Agneta frowned. Lisbeth Salander had seldom rung for a nurse if she did not have a severe headache or some other equally serious problem. She never pestered24 them for anything and had never before asked to speak to a specific doctor. But Nurse Agneta had noticed that Dr Jonasson had spent time with the patient who was under arrest and otherwise seemed withdrawn25 from the world. It was possible that he had established some sort of rapport26. “I’ll find out if he has time,” Nurse Agneta said gently, and closed the door. And then locked it. It was 2.36, and then the clock clicked over to 2.37. Salander got up from the edge of the bed and went to the window. She kept an eye on the clock. 2.39. 2.40. At 2.44 she heard steps in the corridor and the rattle of the Securitas guard’s key ring. Jonasson gave her an inquisitive27 glance and stopped in his tracks when he saw her desperate look. “Has something happened?” “Something is happening right now. Have you got a mobile on you?” “A what?” “A mobile. I have to make a call.” Jonasson looked over his shoulder at the door. “Anders – I need a mobile. Now!” When he heard the desperation in her voice he dug into his inside pocket and handed her his Motorola. Salander grabbed it from him. She could not call Blomkvist because he had not given her the number of his Ericsson T10. It had never come up, and he had never supposed that she would be able to call him from her isolation28. She hesitated a tenth of a second and punched in Berger’s number. It rang three times before Berger answered. Berger was in her B.M.W. half a mile from home in Saltsj?baden when her mobile rang. “Berger.” “Salander. No time to explain. Have you got the number of Mikael’s second mobile? The one that’s not tapped.” “Yes.” Salander had already surprised her once today. “Call him. Now! Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00.” “What’s—” “Just hurry. Teleborian. Jonas. The Ring in Central Station. 3.00. He has fifteen minutes.” Salander flipped29 the mobile shut so that Berger would not be tempted30 to waste precious seconds with unnecessary questions. Berger pulled over to the curb31. She reached for the address book in her bag and found the number Blomkvist had given her the night they met at Samir’s Cauldron. Blomkvist heard his mobile beeping. He got up from the kitchen table, went to Salander’s office and picked up the telephone from the desk. “Yes?” “Erika.” “Hi.” “Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00. You’ve only got a few minutes.” “What? What? What?” “Teleborian—” “I heard you. How do you know about that?” “Stop arguing and make it snappy.” Mikael glanced at the clock. 2.47. “Thanks. Bye.” He grabbed his laptop case and took the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. As he ran he called Cortez on his T10. “Cortez.” “Where are you now?” “At the Academy bookshop.” “Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00. I’m on my way, but you’re closer.” “Oh, boy. I’m on my way.” Blomkvist jogged down to G?tgatan and sped up towards Slussen. When he reached Slussplan he was badly out of breath. Maybe Figuerola had a point. He was not going to make it. He looked about for a taxi. * Salander handed back the mobile to Dr Jonasson. “Thanks,” she said. “Teleborian?” Jonasson could not help overhearing the name. She met his gaze. “Teleborian is a really, really bad bastard32. You have no idea.” “No, but I could see that something happened just now that got you more agitated33 than I’ve seen you in all the time you’ve been in my care. I hope you know what you’re doing.” Salander gave Jonasson a lopsided smile. “You should have the answer to that question quite soon,” she said. Cortez left the Academy bookshop running like a madman. He crossed Sveav?gen on the viaduct at M?ster Samuelsgatan and went straight down to Klara Norra, where he turned up the Klaraberg viaduct and across Vasagatan. He flew across Klarabergsgatan between a bus and two cars, one of whose drivers punched his windscreen in fury, and through the doors of Central Station as the station clock ticked over to 3.00 sharp. He took the escalator three steps at a time down to the main ticket hall, and jogged past the Pocket bookshop before slowing down so as not to attract attention. He scanned every face of every person standing34 or walking near the Ring. He did not see Teleborian or the man Malm had photographed outside Café Copacabana, whom they believed to be Jonas. He looked back at the clock. 3.01. He was gasping35 as if he had just run a marathon. He took a chance and hurried across the hall and out through the doors on to Vasagatan. He stopped and looked about him, checking one face after another, as far as his eyes could see. No Teleborian. No Jonas. He turned back into the station. 3.03. The Ring area was almost deserted36. Then he looked up and got a split second’s glimpse of Teleborian’s dishevelled profile and goatee as he came out of Pressbyr?n on the other side of the ticket hall. A second later the man from Malm’s photograph materialized at Teleborian’s side. Jonas. They crossed the concourse and went out on to Vasagatan by the north door. Cortez exhaled37 in relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and set off in pursuit of the two men. Blomkvist’s taxi got to Central Station at 3.07. He walked rapidly into the ticket hall, but he could see neither Teleborian nor anyone looking like they might be Jonas. Nor Cortez for that matter. He was about to call Cortez when the T10 rang in his hand. “I’ve got them. They’re sitting in the Tre Remmare pub on Vasagatan by the stairs down to the Akalla line.” “Thanks, Henry. Where are you?” “I’m at the bar. Having my afternoon beer. I earned it.” “Very good. They know what I look like, so I’ll stay out of it. I don’t suppose you have any chance of hearing what they’re saying.” “Not a hope. I can only see Jonas’ back and that bloody38 psychoanalyst mumbles39 when he speaks, so I can’t even see his lips move.” “I get it.” “But we may have a problem.” “What’s that?” “Jonas has put his wallet and mobile on the table. And he put his car keys on top of the wallet.” “O.K. I’ll handle it.” Figuerola’s mobile played out the theme tune40 from Once Upon a Time in the West. She put down her book about God in antiquity41. It did not seem as though she would ever be able to finish it “Hi. It’s Mikael. What are you up to?” “I’m sitting at home sorting through my collection of photographs of old lovers. I was ignominiously42 ditched earlier today.” “Do you have your car nearby?” “The last time I checked it was in the parking space outside.” “Good. Do you feel like an afternoon on the town?” “Not particularly. What’s going on?” “A psychiatrist43 called Teleborian is having a beer with an undercover agent – code name Jonas – down on Vasagatan. And since I’m co-operating with your Stasi-style bureaucracy, I thought you might be amused to tag along.” Figuerola was on her feet and reaching for her car keys. “This is not your little joke, is it?” “Hardly. And Jonas has his car keys on the table in front of him.” “I’m on my way.” Eriksson did not answer the telephone, but Blomkvist got lucky and caught Karim, who had been at ?hlens department store buying a birthday present for her husband. He asked her to please – on overtime44 – hurry over to the pub as back-up for Cortez. Then he called Cortez. “Here’s the plan. I’ll have a car in place in five minutes. It’ll be on J?rnv?gsgatan, down the street from the pub. Lottie is going to join you in a few minutes as back-up.” “Good.” “When they leave the pub, you tail Jonas. Keep me posted by mobile. As soon as you see him approach a car, we have to know. Lottie will follow Teleborian. If we don’t get there in time, make a note of his registration45 number.” “O.K.” Figuerola parked beside the Nordic Light Hotel next to the Arlanda Express platforms. Blomkvist opened the driver’s door a minute later. “Which pub are they in?” Blomkvist told her. “I have to call for support.” “I’d rather you didn’t. We’ve got them covered. Too many cooks might wreck46 the whole dish.” Figuerola gave him a sceptical look. “And how did you know that this meeting was going to take place?” “I have to protect my source. Sorry.” “Do you have your own bloody intelligence service at Millennium47?” she burst out. Blomkvist looked pleased. It was cool to outdo S?po in their own field of expertise48. In fact he did not have the slightest idea how Berger came to call him out of the blue to tell him of the meeting. She had not had access to ongoing49 editorial work at Millennium since early April. She knew about Teleborian, to be sure, but Jonas had not come into the picture until May. As far as he knew, Berger had not even known of his existence, let alone that he was the focus of intense speculation50 both at S?po and Millennium. He needed to talk to Berger. Salander pressed her lips together and looked at the screen of her handheld. After using Jonasson’s mobile, she had pushed all thoughts of the Section to one side and concentrated on Berger’s problem. She had next, after careful consideration, eliminated all the men in the twenty-six to fifty-four age group who were married. She was working with a broad brush, of that she was perfectly51 aware. The selection was scarcely based on any statistical52, sociological or scientific rationale. Poison Pen might easily be a married man with five children and a dog. He might also be a man who worked in maintenance. “He” could even be a woman. She simply needed to prune53 the number of names on the list, and her group was now down from forty-eight to eighteen since her latest cut. The list was made up largely of the better-known reporters, managers or middle managers aged thirty-five or older. If she did not find anything of interest in that group, she could always widen the net again. At 4.00 she logged on to Hacker54 Republic and uploaded the list to Plague. He pinged her a few minutes later. She outlined the Poison Pen situation. She sent him the access codes for S.M.P.’s newsroom and then logged off from I.C.Q. It was 4.20 before Cortez called. “They’re showing signs of leaving.” “We’re ready.” Silence. “They’re going their separate ways outside the pub. Jonas heading north. Teleborian to the south. Lottie’s going after him.” Blomkvist raised a finger and pointed55 as Jonas flashed past them on Vasagatan. Figuerola nodded and started the engine. Seconds later Blomkvist could also see Cortez. “He’s crossing Vasagatan, heading towards Kungsgatan,” Cortez said into his mobile. “Keep your distance so he doesn’t spot you.” “Quite a few people out.” Silence. “He’s turning north on Kungsgatan.” “North on Kungsgatan,” Blomkvist said. Figuerola changed gear and turned up Vasagatan. They were stopped by a red light. “Where is he now?” Blomkvist said as they turned on to Kungsgatan. “Opposite P.U.B. department store. He’s walking fast. Whoops56, he’s turned up Drottninggatan heading north.” “Drottninggatan heading north,” Blomkvist said. “Right,” Figuerola said, making an illegal turn on to Klara Norra and heading towards Olof Palmes Gata. She turned and braked outside the S.I.F. building. Jonas crossed Olof Palmes Gata and turned up towards Sveav?gen. Cortez stayed on the other side of the street. “He turned east—” “We can see you both.” “He’s turning down Holl?ndargatan. Hello… Car. Red Audi.” “Car,” Blomkvist said, writing down the registration number Cortez read off to him. “Which way is he facing?” Figuerola said. “Facing south,” Cortez reported. “He’s pulling out in front of you on Olof Palmes Gata … now.” Monica was already on her way and passing Drottninggatan. She signalled and headed off a couple of pedestrians57 who tried to sneak58 across even though their light was red. “Thanks, Henry. We’ll take him from here.” The red Audi turned south on Sveav?gen. As Figuerola followed she flipped open her mobile with her left hand and punched in a number. “Could I get an owner of a red Audi?” she said, rattling59 off the number. “Jonas Sandberg, born 1971. What did you say? Helsing?rsgatan, Kista. Thanks.” Blomkvist wrote down the information. They followed the red Audi via Hamngatan to Strandv?gen and then straight up to Artillerigatan. Jonas parked a block away from the Armémuseum. He walked across the street and through the front door of an 1890s building. “Interesting,” Figuerola said, turning to Blomkvist. Jonas Sandberg had entered a building that was only a block away from the apartment the Prime Minister had borrowed for their private meeting. “Nicely done,” Figuerola said. Just then Karim called and told them that Teleborian had gone up on to Klarabergsgatan via the escalators in Central Station and from there to police headquarters on Kungsholmen. “Police headquarters at 5.00 on a Saturday afternoon?” Figuerola and Blomkvist exchanged a sceptical look. Monica pondered this turn of events for a few seconds. Then she picked up her mobile and called Criminal Inspector60 Jan Bublanski. “Hello, it’s Monica from S.I.S. We met on Norr M?larstrand a while back.” “What do you want?” Bublanski said. “Have you got anybody on duty this weekend?” “Modig,” Bublanski said. “I need a favour. Do you know if she’s at headquarters?” “I doubt it. It’s beautiful weather and Saturday afternoon.” “Could you possibly reach her or anyone else on the investigative team who might be able to take a look in Prosecutor61 Ekstr?m’s corridor … to see if there’s a meeting going on in his office at the moment.” “What sort of meeting?” “I can’t explain just yet. I just need to know if he has a meeting with anybody right now. And if so, who.” “You want me to spy on a prosecutor who happens to be my superior?” Figuerola raised her eyebrows62. Then she shrugged63. “Yes, I do.” “I’ll do what I can,” he said and hung up. Sonja Modig was closer to police headquarters than Bublanski had thought. She was having coffee with her husband on the balcony of a friend’s place in Vasastaden. Their children were away with her parents who had taken them on a week’s holiday, and they planned to do something as old-fashioned as have a bite to eat and go to the movies. Bublanski explained why he was calling. “And what sort of excuse would I have to barge64 in on Ekstr?m?” Modig asked. “I promised to give him an update on Niedermann yesterday, but in fact I forgot to deliver it to his office before I left. It’s on my desk.” “O.K.,” said Modig. She looked at her husband and her friend. “I have to go in to H.Q. I’ll take the car and with a little luck I’ll be back in an hour.” Her husband sighed. Her friend sighed. “I’m on call this weekend,” Modig said in apology. She parked on Bergsgatan, took the lift up to Bublanski’s office, and picked up the three A4 pages that comprised the meagre results of their search for Niedermann. Not much to hang on the Christmas tree, she thought. She took the stairs up to the next floor and stopped at the door to the corridor. Headquarters was almost deserted on this summer afternoon. She was not exactly sneaking65 around. She was just walking very quietly. She stopped outside Ekstr?m’s closed door. She heard voices and all of a sudden her courage deserted her. She felt a fool. In any normal situation she would have knocked on the door, pushed it open and exclaimed, “Hello! So you’re still here?” and then sailed right in. Now it seemed all wrong. She looked around. Why had Bublanski called her? What was this meeting about? She glanced across the corridor. Opposite Ekstr?m’s office was a conference room big enough for ten people. She had sat through a number of presentations there herself. She went into the room and closed the door. The blinds were down, and the glass partition to the corridor was covered by curtains. It was dark. She pulled up a chair and sat down, then opened the curtains a crack so that she would have a view of the corridor. She felt uneasy. If anyone opened the door she would have quite a problem explaining what she was doing there. She took out her mobile and looked at the time display. Just before 6.00. She changed the ring to silent and leaned back in her chair, watching the door of Ekstr?m’s office. At 7.00 Plague pinged Salander. He sent over a U.R.L. She logged out and went to the U.R.L. where Plague had uploaded all the administrator rights for S.M.P. She started by checking whether Fleming was online and at work. He was not. So she borrowed his identity and went into S.M.P.’s mail server. That way she could look at all the activity in the email system, even messages that had long since been deleted from individual accounts. She started with Ernst Teodor Billing, one of the night editors at S.M.P., forty-three years old. She opened his mail and began to click back in time. She spent about two seconds on each message, just long enough to get an idea of who sent it and what it was about. After a few minutes she had worked out what was routine mail in the form of daily memos66, schedules and other uninteresting stuff. She started to scroll67 past these. She went through three months’ worth of messages one by one. Then she skipped month to month and read only the subject lines, opening the message only if it was something that caught her attention. She learned that Billing was going out with a woman named Sofia and that he used an unpleasant tone with her. She saw that this was nothing unusual, since Billing took an unpleasant tone with most of the people to whom he wrote messages – reporters, layout artists and others. Even so, she thought it odd that a man would consistently address his girlfriend with the words fucking fatty, fucking airhead or fucking cunt. After an hour of searching, she shut down Billing and crossed him off the list. She moved on to Lars ?rjan Wollberg, a veteran reporter at fifty-one who was on the legal desk. Edklinth walked into police headquarters at 7.30 on Saturday evening. Figuerola and Blomkvist were waiting for him. They were sitting at the same conference table at which Blomkvist had sat the day before. Edklinth reminded himself that he was on very thin ice and that a host of regulations had been violated when he gave Blomkvist access to the corridor. Figuerola most definitely had no right to invite him here on her own authority. Even the spouses68 of his colleagues were not permitted in the corridors of S.I.S., but were asked instead to wait on the landings if they were meeting their partner. And to cap it all, Blomkvist was a journalist. From now on Blomkvist would be allowed only into the temporary office at Fridhemsplan. But outsiders were allowed into the corridors by special invitation. Foreign guests, researchers, academics, freelance consultants70 … he put Blomkvist into the category of freelance consultant69. All this nonsense about security classification was little more than words anyway. Someone decides that a certain person should be given a particular level of clearance71. And Edklinth had decided72 that if criticism were raised, he would say that he personally had given Blomkvist clearance. If something went wrong, that is. He sat down and looked at Figuerola. “How did you find out about the meeting?” “Blomkvist called me at around 4.00,” she said with a satisfied smile. Edklinth turned to Blomkvist. “And how did you find out about the meeting?” “Tipped off by a source.” “Am I to conclude that you’re running some sort of surveillance on Teleborian?” Figuerola shook her head. “That was my first thought too,” she said in a cheerful voice, as if Blomkvist were not in the room. “But it doesn’t add up. Even if somebody were following Teleborian for Blomkvist, that person could not have known in advance that he was on his way to meet Jonas Sandberg.” “So … what else? Illegal tapping or something?” Edklinth said. “I can assure you,” Blomkvist said to remind them that he was there in the room, “that I’m not conducting illegal eavesdropping73 on anyone. Be realistic. Illegal tapping is the domain74 of government authorities.” Edklinth frowned. “So you aren’t going to tell us how you heard about the meeting?” “I’ve already told you that I won’t. I was tipped off by a source. The source is protected. Why don’t we concentrate on what we’ve discovered?” “I don’t like loose ends,” Edklinth said. “But O.K. What have you found out?” “His name is Jonas Sandberg,” Figuerola said. “Trained as a navy frogman and then attended the police academy in the early ’90s. Worked first in Uppsala and then in S?dert?lje.” “You’re from Uppsala.” “Yes, but we missed each other by about a year. He was recruited by S.I.S. Counter-Espionage in 1998. Reassigned to a secret post abroad in 2000. According to our documents, he’s at the embassy in Madrid. I checked with the embassy. They have no record of a Jonas Sandberg on their staff.” “Just like M?rtensson. Officially moved to a place where he doesn’t exist.” “The chief of Secretariat is the only person who could make this sort of arrangement.” “And in normal circumstances everything would be dismissed as muddled75 red tape. We’ve noticed it only because we’re specifically looking for it. And if anyone starts asking awkward questions, they’ll say it’s confidential76 or that it has something to do with terrorism.” “There’s quite a bit of budget work to check up on.” “The chief of Budget?” “Maybe.” “Anything else?” “Sandberg lives in Sollentuna. He’s not married, but he has a child with a teacher in S?dert?lje. No black marks on his record. Licence for two handguns. Conscientious77 and a teetotaller. The only thing that doesn’t quite fit is that he seems to be an evangelical and was a member of the Word of Life in the ’90s.” “Where did you find that out?” “I had a word with my old chief in Uppsala. He remembers Sandberg quite well.” “A Christian78 frogman with two weapons and offspring in S?dert?lje. More?” “We only I.D.’d him about three hours ago. This is pretty fast work, you have to admit.” “Fair enough. What do we know about the building on Artillerigatan?” “Not a lot yet. Stefan went to chase someone up from the city building office. We have blueprints79 of the building. A housing association block since the 1890s. Six floors with a total of twenty-two apartments, plus eight apartments in a small building in the courtyard. I looked up the tenants80, but didn’t find anything that stood out. Two of the people living in the building have police records.” “Who are they?” “Lindstr?m on the second floor, sixty-three. Convicted of insurance fraud in the ’70s. Wittfelt on the fourth floor, forty-seven. Twice convicted for beating his ex-wife. Otherwise what sounds like a cross-section of middle-class Sweden. There’s one apartment that raises a question mark though.” “What?” “It’s on the top floor. Eleven rooms and apparently81 a bit of a snazzy joint82. It’s owned by a company called Bellona Inc.” “And what’s their stated business?” “God only knows. They do marketing83 analyses and have annual sales of around thirty million kronor. All the owners live abroad.” “Aha.” “Aha what?” “Nothing. Just ‘aha’. Do some more checks on Bellona.” At that moment the officer Blomkvist knew only as Stefan entered the room. “Hi, chief,” he greeted Edklinth. “This is really cool. I checked out the story behind the Bellona apartment.” “And?” Figuerola said. “Bellona Inc. was founded in the ’70s. They bought the apartment from the estate of the former owner, a woman by the name of Kristina Cederholm, born in 1917, married to Hans Wilhelm Francke, the loose cannon84 who quarrelled with P.G. Vinge at the time S.I.S. was founded.” “Good,” Edklinth said. “Very good. Monica, we want surveillance on that apartment around the clock. Find out what telephones they have. I want to know who goes in and who comes out, and what vehicles drop anyone off at that address. The usual.” Edklinth turned to Blomkvist. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but he restrained himself. Blomkvist looked at him expectantly. “Are you satisfied with the information flow?” Edklinth said at last. “Very satisfied. Are you satisfied with Millennium’s contribution?” Edklinth nodded reluctantly. “You do know that I could get into very deep water for this.” “Not because of me. I regard the information that I receive here as source-protected. I’ll report the facts, but I won’t mention how or where I got them. Before I go to press I’m going to do a formal interview with you. If you don’t want to give me an answer to something, you just say ‘No comment’. Or else you could expound85 on what you think about the Section for Special Analysis. It’s up to you.” “Indeed,” Edklinth nodded. Blomkvist was happy. Within a few hours the Section had taken on tangible86 form. A real breakthrough. To Modig’s great frustration the meeting in Ekstr?m’s office was lasting87 a long time. Mercifully someone had left a full bottle of mineral water on the conference table. She had twice texted her husband to tell him that she was still held up, promising88 to make it up to him as soon as she could get home. She was starting to get restless and felt like an intruder. The meeting did not end until 7.30. She was taken completely by surprise when the door opened and Faste came out. And then Dr Teleborian. Behind them came an older, grey-haired man Modig had never seen before. Finally Prosecutor Ekstr?m, putting on a jacket as he switched off the lights and locked the door to his office. Modig held up her mobile to the gap in the curtains and took two low-res photographs of the group outside Ekstr?m’s door. Seconds later they had set off down the corridor. She held her breath until they were some distance from the conference room in which she was trapped. She was in a cold sweat by the time she heard the door to the stairwell close. She stood up, weak at the knees. Bublanski called Figuerola just after 8.00. “You wanted to know if Ekstr?m had a meeting.” “Correct,” Figuerola said. “It just ended. Ekstr?m met with Dr Peter Teleborian and my former colleague Criminal Inspector Faste, and an older gentleman we didn’t recognize.” “Just a moment,” Figuerola said. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the others. “Teleborian went straight to Ekstr?m.” “Hello, are you still there?” “Sorry. Do we have a description of the third man?” “Even better. I’m sending you a picture.” “A picture? I’m in your debt.” “It would help if you’d tell me what’s going on.” “I’ll get back to you.” They sat in silence around the conference table for a moment. “So,” Edklinth said at last. “Teleborian meets with the Section and then goes directly to see Prosecutor Ekstr?m. I’d give a lot of money to find out what they talked about.” “Or you could just ask me,” Blomkvist said. Edklinth and Figuerola looked at him. “They met to finalize89 their strategy for nailing Salander at her trial.” Figuerola gave him a look. Then she nodded slowly. “That’s a guess,” Edklinth said. “Unless you happen to have paranormal abilities.” “It’s no guess,” said Mikael. “They met to discuss the forensic psychiatric report on Salander. Teleborian has just finished writing it.” “Nonsense. Salander hasn’t even been examined.” Blomkvist shrugged and opened his laptop case. “That hasn’t stopped Teleborian in the past. Here’s the latest version. It’s dated, as you can see, the week the trial is scheduled to begin.” Edklinth and Figuerola read through at the text before them. At last they exchanged glances and then looked at Blomkvist. “And where the devil did you get hold of this?” Edklinth said. “That’s from a source I have to protect,” said Blomkvist. “Blomkvist … we have to be able to trust each other. You’re withholding90 information. Have you got any more surprises up your sleeve?” “Yes. I do have secrets, of course. Just as I’m persuaded that you haven’t given me carte blanche to look at everything you have here at S?po.” “It’s not the same thing.” “It’s precisely91 the same thing. This arrangement involves cooperation. You said it yourself: we have to trust each other. I’m not holding back anything that could be useful to your investigation92 of the Section or throw light on the various crimes that have been committed. I’ve already handed over evidence that Teleborian committed crimes with Bj?rck in 1991, and I told you that he would be hired to do the same thing again now. And this is the document that proves me right.” “But you’re still withholding key material.” “Naturally, and you can either suspend our co-operation or you can live with that.” Figuerola held up a diplomatic finger. “Excuse me, but does this mean that Ekstr?m is working for the Section?” Blomkvist frowned. “That I don’t know. My sense is that he’s more a useful fool being used by the Section. He’s ambitious, but I think he’s honest, if a little stupid. One source did tell me that he swallowed most of what Teleborian fed him about Salander at a presentation of reports when the hunt for her was still on.” “So you don’t think it takes much to manipulate him?” “Exactly. And Criminal Inspector Faste is an unadulterated idiot who believes that Salander is a lesbian Satanist.” Berger was at home. She felt paralysed and unable to concentrate on any real work. All the time she expected someone to call and tell her that pictures of her were posted on some website. She caught herself thinking over and over about Salander, although she realized that her hopes of getting help from her were most likely in vain. Salander was locked up at Sahlgrenska. She was not allowed visitors and could not even read the newspapers. But she was an oddly resourceful young woman. Despite her isolation she had managed to contact Berger on I.C.Q. and then by telephone. And two years ago she had single-handedly destroyed Wennerstr?m’s financial empire and saved Millennium. At 8.00 Linder arrived and knocked on the door. Berger jumped as though someone had fired a shot in her living room. “Hello, Erika. You’re sitting here in the dark looking glum93.” Berger nodded and turned on a light. “Hi. I’ll put on some coffee—” “No. Let me do it. Anything new?” You can say that again. Lisbeth Salander got in touch with me and took control of my computer. And then she called to say that Teleborian and somebody called Jonas were meeting at Central Station this afternoon. “No. Nothing new,” she said. “But I have something I’d like to try on you.” “Try it.” “What do you think the chances are that this isn’t a stalker but somebody I know who wants to fuck with me?” “What’s the difference?” “To me a stalker is someone I don’t know who’s become fixated on me. The alternative is a person who wants to take some sort of revenge and sabotage94 my life for personal reasons.” “Interesting thought. Why did this come up?” “I was … discussing the situation with someone today. I can’t give you her name, but she suggested that threats from a real stalker would be different. She said a stalker would never have written the email to the girl on the culture desk. It seems completely beside the point.” Linder said: “There is something to that. You know, I never read the emails. Could I see them?” Berger set up her laptop on the kitchen table. Figuerola escorted Blomkvist out of police headquarters at 10.00 p.m. They stopped at the same place in Kronoberg park as the day before. “Here we are again. Are you going to disappear to work or do you want to come to my place and come to bed with me?” “Well …” “You don’t have to feel pressured, Mikael. If you have to work, then do it.” “Listen, Figuerola, you’re worryingly habit-forming.” “And you don’t want to be dependent on anything. Is that what you’re saying?” “No. That’s not what I’m saying. But there’s someone I have to talk to tonight and it’ll take a while. You’ll be asleep before I’m done.” She shrugged. “See you.” He kissed her cheek and headed for the bus stop on Fridhemsplan. “Blomkvist,” she called. “What?” “I’m free tomorrow morning as well. Come and have breakfast if you can make it.”
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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infiltrating
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| v.（使）渗透，（指思想）渗入人的心中( infiltrate的现在分词 ) | |
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administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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flipped
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| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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mumbles
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| 含糊的话或声音，咕哝( mumble的名词复数 ) | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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expertise
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| n.专门知识(或技能等)，专长 | |
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ongoing
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| adj.进行中的，前进的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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prune
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| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
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hacker
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| n.能盗用或偷改电脑中信息的人，电脑黑客 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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whoops
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| int.呼喊声 | |
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57
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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58
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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59
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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memos
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| n.备忘录( memo的名词复数 )；（美）内部通知 | |
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scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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spouses
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| n.配偶，夫或妻( spouse的名词复数 ) | |
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consultant
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| n.顾问；会诊医师，专科医生 | |
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consultants
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| 顾问( consultant的名词复数 )； 高级顾问医生，会诊医生 | |
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clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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eavesdropping
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| n. 偷听 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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blueprints
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| n.蓝图，设计图( blueprint的名词复数 ) | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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finalize
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| v.落实，定下来 | |
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withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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sabotage
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| n.怠工，破坏活动，破坏；v.从事破坏活动，妨害，破坏 | |
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