The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

muddling the two.”

“Sandberg works for Sapo, for God’s sake,” she said.

“Sure, but in practice he should be regarded as an infiltrator. Keep the boundary line very clear.”

“Understood. It’s the Section that’s the story here. Not Sapo. Mikael, can you explain to me how it is that you keep getting mixed up in these sensational stories? And you’re right. This is going to be bigger than the Wennerstrom affair.”

“Sheer talent, I guess. Ironically enough this story also begins with a Wennerstrom. The spy scandal of the ’60s, that is.”

Berger called at 4.00. She was in a meeting with the newspaper publishers’ association sharing her views on the planned cutbacks at S.M.P., which had given rise to a major conflict in the industry after she had resigned. She would not be able to make it to their dinner before 6.30.

Sandberg helped Clinton move from the wheelchair to the daybed in the room that was his command centre in the Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton had just returned from a whole morning spent in dialysis. He felt ancient, infinitely weary. He had hardly slept the past few days and wished that all this would soon come to an end. He had managed to make himself comfortable, sitting up in the bed, when Nystrom appeared.

Clinton concentrated his energy. “Is it ready?”

“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Nikolich brothers,” Nystrom said. “It’s going to cost 50,000.”

“We can afford it,” Clinton said.

Christ, if only I were young again.

He turned his head and studied Nystrom and Sandberg in turn.

“No qualms of conscience?” he said.

They shook their heads.

“When?” Clinton said.

“Within twenty-four hours,” Nystrom said. “It’s difficult to pin down where Blomkvist is staying, but if the worst comes to the worst they’ll do it outside Millennium’s offices.”

“We have a possible opportunity tonight, two hours from now,” said Sandberg.

“Oh, really?”

“Erika Berger called him a while ago. They’re going to have dinner at Samir’s Cauldron. It’s a restaurant near Bellmansgatan.”

“Berger…” Clinton said hesitantly.

“I hope for God’s sake that she doesn’t –” Nystrom said.

“That wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Sandberg said.

Clinton and Nystrom both stared at him.

“We’re agreed that Blomkvist is our greatest threat, and that he’s going to publish something damaging in the next issue of Millennium. We can’t prevent publication, so we have to destroy his credibility. If he’s killed in what appears to be a typical underworld hit and the police then find drugs and cash in his apartment, the investigators will draw certain conclusions. They won’t initially be looking for conspiracies involving the Security Police.”

“Go on,” Clinton said.

“Erika Berger is actually Blomkvist’s lover,” Sandberg said with some force. “She’s unfaithful to her husband. If she too were to be a victim, that would lead to further speculation.”

Clinton and Nystrom exchanged glances. Sandberg had a natural talent when it came to creating smokescreens. He learned fast. But Clinton and Nystrom felt a surge of anxiety. Sandberg was too cavalier about life-and-death decisions. That was not good. Extreme measures were not to be employed just because an opportunity had presented itself. Murder was no easy solution; it should be resorted to only when there was no alternative.

Clinton shook his head.

Collateral damage, he thought. He suddenly felt disgust for the whole operation.

After a lifetime in service to the nation, here we sit like primitive mercenaries. Zalachenko was necessary. Bjorck was… regrettable, but Gullberg was right: Bjorck would have caved in. Blomkvist is… possibly necessary. But Erika Berger could only be an innocent bystander.

He looked steadily at Sandberg. He hoped that the young man would not develop into a psychopath.

“How much do the Nikolich brothers know?”

“Nothing. About us, that is. I’m the only one they’ve met. I used another identity and they can’t trace me. They think the killing has to do with trafficking.”

“What happens to them after the hit?”

“They leave Sweden at once,” Nystrom said. “Just like after Bjorck. If the murder investigation yields no results, they can very cautiously return after a few weeks.”

“And the method?”

“Sicilian style. They walk up to Blomkvist, empty a magazine into him, and walk away.”

“Weapon?”

“They have an automatic. I don’t know what type.”

“I do hope they won’t spray the whole restaurant –”

“No danger of that. They’re cold-blooded, they know what they have to do. But if Berger is sitting at the same table –”

Collateral damage.

“Look here,” Clinton said. “It’s important that Wadensjoo doesn’t get wind of this. Especially not if Berger becomes a victim. He’s stressed to breaking point as it is. I’m afraid we’re going to have to put him out to pasture when this is over.”

Nystrom nodded.

“Which means that when we get word that Blomkvist has been shot, we’re going to have to put on a good show. We’ll call a crisis meeting and act thunderstruck by the development. We can speculate who might be behind the murder, but we’ll say nothing about the drugs until the police find the evidence.”

Blomkvist took leave of the presenter of She just before 5.00. They had spent the afternoon filling in the gaps in the material. Then Blomkvist had gone to make-up and subjected himself to a long interview on film.

One question had been put to him which he struggled to answer in a coherent way, and they had to film that section several times.

How is it possible that civil servants in the Swedish government will go so far as to commit murder?

Blomkvist had brooded over the question long before She’s presenter had asked it. The Section must have considered Zalachenko an unacceptable threat, but it was still not a satisfactory answer. The reply he eventually gave was not satisfactory either:

“The only reasonable explanation I can give is that over the years the Section developed into a cult in the true sense of the word. They became like Knutby, or the pastor Jim Jones or something like that. They write their own laws, within which concepts like right and wrong have ceased to be relevant. And through these laws they imagine themselves isolated from normal society.”

“It sounds like some sort of mental illness, don’t you think?”

“That wouldn’t be an inaccurate description.”

Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Slussen. It was too early to go to Samir’s Cauldron. He stood on Sodermalmstorg for a while. He was worried still, yet all of a sudden life felt right again. It was not until Berger came back to Millennium that he realized how terribly he had missed her. Besides, her retaking of the helm had not led to any internal strife; Eriksson had reverted happily to the position of assistant editor, indeed was almost ecstatic – as she put it – that life would now return to normal.