"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 Borgsjo problem.
"Borgsjo 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 Sapo."
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 Wennerstrom.
"Good. I'll take a copy of that."
"It's in Ahlen and Akerlund'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 Falldin 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 Falldin 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 Falldin 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 Sapo, have his salary paid by Sapo, 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."
"Martensson," Blomkvist suggested.
Edklinth nodded.
"Martensson works for Sapo, 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 cooperativ
e 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 Martensson in the pictures from Cafe 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 Bjorck 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."
Borgsjo 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."
Borgsjo 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."
Damn . . . I have to bring up the Vitavara thing. Borgsjo is going to be fired.
Suddenly Borgsjo smiled. "By God, I think you're pretty tough too."
"Yes, I am, and in this case it's regrettable since it shouldn't be necessary. My job is to produce a good newspaper, and I can do that only if I have a management that functions and colleagues who enjoy their work."
After the meeting with Borgsjo, Berger limped back to the glass cage. She felt depressed. She had been with Borgsjo for forty-five minutes without mentioning one syllable about Vitavara. She had not, in other words, been particularly straight or honest with him.
When she sat at her computer she found a message from . She knew perfectly well that no such address existed at Millennium. She opened the email:
YOU THINK THAT BORGSJO CAN SAVE YOU, YOU LITTLE WHORE: HOW DOES YOUR FOOT FEEL?
----------
She raised her eyes involuntarily and looked out across the newsroom. Her gaze fell on Holm. He looked back at her. Then he smiled.
It can only be someone at SMP.
The meeting at the Constitutional Protection Unit lasted until after 5:00, and they agreed to have another meeting the following week. Blomkvist could contact Figuerola if he needed to be in touch with SIS before then. He packed away his laptop and stood up.
"How do I get out of here?" he asked.
"You certainly can't go running around on your own," Edklinth said.
"I'll show him out," Figuerola said. "Give me a couple of minutes; I just have to pick up a few things from my office." They walked together through Kronoberg park towards Fridhemsplan.
"So what happens now?" Blomkvist said.
"We stay in touch," Figuerola said.
"I'm beginning to like my contact with Sapo."
"Do you feel like having dinner later?"
"Bosnian again?"
"No, I can't afford to eat out every night. I was thinking of something simple at my place."
She stopped and smiled at him.
"Do you know what I'd like to do now?" she said.
"No."
"I'd like to take you home and undress you."
"This could get a bit awkward."
"I know. But I wasn't planning on telling my boss."
"We don't know how this story's going to turn out. We could end up on opposite sides of the barricades."
"I'll take my chances. Now, are you going to come quietly or do I have to handcuff you?"
The consultant from Milton Security was waiting for Berger when she got home at around 7:00. Her foot was throbbing painfully, and she limped into the kitchen and sank onto the nearest chair. He had made coffee, and he poured her some.
"Thanks. Is making coffee part of Milton's service agreement?"
He gave her a polite smile. David Rosin was a short, plump man in his fifties with a reddish goatee. "Thanks for letting me borrow your kitchen today."
"It's the least I could do. What's the situation?"
"Our technicians were here and installed a proper alarm. I'll show you how it works in a minute. I've also gone over every inch of your house from the basement to the attic and studied the area around it. I'll review your situation with my colleagues at Milton, and in a few days we'll present an assessment that we'll go over with you. But before that there are one or two things we ought to discuss."
"Go ahead."
"First of all, we have to take care of a few formalities. We'll work out the final contract later--it depends what services we agree on--but this is an agreement saying that you've commissioned Milton Security to install the alarm we put in today. It's a standard
document saying that we at Milton require certain things of you and that we commit to certain things--client confidentiality and so forth."
"You require things of me?"
"Yes. An alarm is an alarm and is completely pointless if some nutcase is standing in your living room with an automatic weapon. For the security to work, we want you and your husband to be aware of certain things and to take certain routine measures. I'll go over the details with you."
"OK."
"I'm jumping ahead and anticipating the final assessment, but this is how I view the general situation. You and your husband live in a detached house. You have a beach at the back of the house and a few large houses in the immediate vicinity. Your neighbours do not have an unobstructed view of your house. It's relatively isolated."
"That's correct."
"Therefore an intruder would have a good chance of approaching your house without being observed."
"The neighbours on the right are away for long periods, and on the left is an elderly couple who go to bed quite early."
"In addition, the houses are positioned with their gables facing each other. There are few windows, and so on. Once an intruder comes onto your property--and it takes only five seconds to turn off the road and arrive at the rear of the house--the view is completely blocked. The rear is screened by your hedge, the garage, and that large freestanding building."
"That's my husband's studio."
"He's an artist, I take it?"
"That's right. Then what?"
"Whoever smashed your window and sprayed your outside wall was able to do so undisturbed. There might have been some risk that the sound of the breaking window would be heard and someone might have reacted . . . but your house sits at an angle and the sound was deflected by the facade."
"I see."
"The second thing is that you have a large property here with a living area of approximately 2,700 square feet, not counting the attic and basement. That's eleven rooms on two floors."
"The house is a monster. It's my husband's old family home."
"There are also a number of different ways to get into the house. Via the front door, the balcony at the back, the porch on the upper floor, and the garage. There are also windows on the ground floor and six basement windows that were left without alarms by our predecessors. Finally, I could break in by using the fire escape at the back of the house and entering through the roof hatch leading to the attic. The trapdoor is secured by nothing more than a latch."
"It sounds as if there are revolving doors into the place. What do we have to do?"
"The alarm we installed today is temporary. We'll come back next week and do the proper installation with alarms on every window on the ground floor and in the basement. That's your protection against intruders in the event that you and your husband are away."