Giannini was with Prosecutor Jervas for fifteen minutes. She wanted to know what charges she was intending to bring against Salander, but she soon realized that Jervas was not yet sure of her plan.
“Right now I’ll settle for charges of grievous bodily harm or attempted murder. I refer to the fact that Salander hit her father with an axe. I take it that you will plead self-defence?”
“Maybe.”
“To be honest with you, Niedermann is my priority at the moment.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve been in touch with the Prosecutor General. Discussions are ongoing as to whether to combine all the charges against your client under the jurisdiction of a prosecutor in Stockholm and tie them in with what happened here.”
“I assumed that the case would be handled in Stockholm,” Giannini said.
“Fine. But I need an opportunity to question the girl. When can we do that?”
“I have a report from her doctor, Anders Jonasson. He says that Salander won’t be in a condition to participate in an interview for several days yet. Quite apart from her injuries, she’s on powerful painkillers.”
“I received a similar report, and as you no doubt realize, this is frustrating. I repeat that my priority is Niedermann. Your client says that she doesn’t know where he’s hiding.”
“She doesn’t know Niedermann at all. She happened to identify him and track him down to Gosseberga, to Zalachenko’s farm.”
“We’ll meet again as soon as your client is strong enough to be interviewed,” Jervas said.
Gullberg had a bunch of flowers in his hand when he got into the lift at Sahlgrenska hospital at the same time as a short-haired woman in a dark jacket. He held the lift door open for her and let her go first to the reception desk on the ward.
“My name is Annika Giannini. I’m a lawyer and I’d like to see my client again, Lisbeth Salander.”
Gullberg turned his head very slowly and looked in surprise at the woman he had followed out of the lift. He glanced down at her briefcase as the nurse checked Giannini’s I.D. and consulted a list.
“Room twelve,” the nurse said.
“Thank you. I know the way.” She walked off down the corridor.
“May I help you?”
“Thank you, yes. I’d like to leave these flowers for Karl Axel Bodin.”
“He’s not allowed visitors.”
“I know. I just want to leave the flowers.”
“We’ll take care of them.”
Gullberg had brought the flowers with him mainly as an excuse. He wanted to get an idea of how the ward was laid out. He thanked the nurse and followed the sign to the staircase. On the way he passed Zalachenko’s door, room fourteen according to Jonas Sandberg.
He waited in the stairwell. Through a glass pane in the door he saw the nurse take the bouquet into Zalachenko’s room. When she returned to her station, Gullberg pushed open the door to room fourteen and stepped quickly inside.
“Good morning, Alexander,” he said.
Zalachenko looked up in surprise at his unannounced visitor. “I thought you’d be dead by now,” he said.
“Not quite yet.”
“What do you want?”
“What do you think?”
Gullberg pulled up the chair and sat down.
“Probably to see me dead.”
“Well, that’s gratitude for you. How could you be so bloody stupid? We give you a whole new life and you finish up here.”
If Zalachenko could have laughed he would have. In his opinion, the Swedish Security Police were amateurs. That applied to Gullberg and equally to Bjorck. Not to mention that complete idiot Bjurman.
“Once again we have to haul you out of the furnace.”
The expression did not sit well with Zalachenko, once the victim of a petrol bomb attack – from that bloody daughter of his two doors down the corridor.
“Spare me the lectures. Just get me out of this mess.”
“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you.”
Gullberg put his briefcase on to his lap, took out a notebook, and turned to a blank page. Then he gave Zalachenko a long, searching look.
“There’s one thing I’m curious about… were you really going to betray us after all we’ve done for you?”
“What do you think?”
“It depends how crazy you are.”
“Don’t call me crazy. I’m a survivor. I do what I have to do to survive.”
Gullberg shook his head. “No, Alexander, you do what you do because you’re evil and rotten. You wanted a message from the Section. I’m here to deliver it. We’re not going to lift a finger to help you this time.”
All of a sudden Zalachenko looked uncertain. He studied Gullberg, trying to figure out if this was some puzzling bluff.
“You don’t have a choice,” he said.
“There’s always a choice,” Gullberg said.
“I’m going to –”
“You’re not going to do anything at all.”
Gullberg took a deep breath, unzipped the outside pocket of his case, and pulled out a 9 mm Smith&Wesson with a gold-plated butt. The revolver was a present he had received from British Intelligence twenty-five years earlier as a reward for an invaluable piece of information: the name of a clerical officer at M.I.5 who in good Philby style was working for the Russians.
Zalachenko looked astonished. Then he burst out laughing.
“And what are you going to do with that? Shoot me? You’ll spend the rest of your miserable life in prison.”
“I don’t think so.”
Zalachenko was suddenly very unsure whether Gullberg was bluffing.
“There’s going to be a scandal of enormous proportions.”
“Again, I don’t think so. There’ll be a few headlines, but in a week nobody will even remember the name Zalachenko.”
Zalachenko’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re a filthy swine,” Gullberg said then with such coldness in his voice that Zalachenko froze.
Gullberg squeezed the trigger and put the bullet right in the centre of Zalachenko’s forehead just as the patient was starting to swing his prosthesis over the edge of the bed. Zalachenko was thrown back on to the pillow. His good leg kicked four, five times before he was still. Gullberg saw a red flower-shaped splatter on the wall behind the bedhead. He became aware that his ears were ringing after the shot and he rubbed his left one with his free hand.
Then he stood up and put the muzzle to Zalachenko’s temple and squeezed the trigger twice. He wanted to be sure this time that the bastard really was dead.
Salander sat up with a start the instant she heard the first shot. Pain stabbed through her shoulder. When the next two shots came she tried to get her legs over the edge of the bed.
Giannini had only been there for a few minutes. She sat paralysed and tried to work out from which direction the sharp reports had come. She could tell from Salander’s reaction that something deadly was in the offing.
“Lie still,” she shouted. She put her hand on Salander’s chest and shoved her client down on to the
