The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

Frisk scratched his head. Berger waited until he had finished thinking.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go back to your desk and start working on another story. You don’t have to stress out about it, but just before the trial begins we might be able to publish a whole feature that examines the accuracy of all the statements that have been made about Salander. Start by reading through the clippings, list everything that’s been said about her, and check off the allegations one by one.”

“Alright.”

“Think like a reporter. Investigate who’s spreading the story, why it’s being spread, and ask yourself whose interests it might serve.”

“But I probably won’t be at S.M.P. when the trial starts. This is my last week.”

Berger took a plastic folder from a desk drawer and laid a sheet of paper in front of him.

“I’ve extended your assignment by three months. You’ll finish off this week with your ordinary duties and report in here on Monday.”

“Thank you.”

“If you want to keep working at S.M.P., that is.”

“Of course I do.”

“You’re contracted to do investigative work outside the normal editorial job. You’ll report directly to me. You’re going to be a special correspondent assigned to the Salander trial.”

“The news editor is going to have something to say –”

“Don’t worry about Holm. I’ve talked with the head of the legal department and fixed it so there won’t be any hassle there. But you’re going to be digging into the background, not news reporting. Does that sound good?”

“It sounds fantastic.”

“Right then… that’s all. I’ll see you on Monday.”

As she waved him out of the glass cage she saw Holm watching her from the other side of the news desk. He lowered his gaze and pretended that he had not been looking at her.

CHAPTER 11

FRIDAY, 13.V – SATURDAY, 14.V

Blomkvist made sure that he was not being watched when he walked from the Millennium offices early on Friday morning to Salander’s old apartment block on Lundagatan. He had to meet Idris Ghidi in Goteborg. The question was how to travel there without being observed or leaving a trail. He decided against the train, since he did not want to use a credit card. Normally he would borrow Berger’s car, but that was no longer possible. He had thought about asking Cortez or someone else to rent a car for him, but that too would leave a trace.

Finally he lit upon the obvious solution. He withdrew cash from an A.T.M. on Gotgatan. He had Salander’s keys to her burgundy Honda. It had been parked outside her building since March. He adjusted the seat and saw that the petrol tank was half full. Then he backed out and headed across Liljeholmsbron towards the E4.

At 2.50 he parked on a side street off Avenyn in Goteborg. He had a late lunch at the first cafe he saw. At 4.10 he took the tram to Angered and got off in the centre of town. It took twenty minutes to find the address where Idris Ghidi lived. He was about ten minutes late for their meeting.

Ghidi opened the door, shook hands with Blomkvist, and invited him into a living room with spartan furnishings. He had a limp. He asked Blomkvist to take a seat at the table next to a dresser on which were a dozen framed photographs, which Blomkvist studied.

“My family,” Ghidi said.

He spoke with a thick accent. Blomkvist suspected that he would not pass the language test recommended by the People’s Party of Sweden.

“Are those your brothers?”

“My two brothers on the left who were murdered by Saddam in the ’80s. That’s my father in the middle. My two uncles were murdered by Saddam in the ’90s. My mother died in 2000. My three sisters are still alive. Two are in Syria and my little sister is in Madrid.”

Ghidi poured Turkish coffee.

“Kurdo Baksi sends his greetings.”

“Kurdo said you wanted to hire me for a job, but not what it was. I have to tell you, right away, that I won’t take the job if it’s illegal. I don’t dare get mixed up in anything like that.”

“There is nothing illegal in what I am going to ask you to do. But it is unusual. The job itself will last for a couple of weeks. It must be done each day, but it will take only a minute of your time. For this I’m willing to pay you a thousand kronor a week. You will be paid by me, and I won’t report it to the tax authorities.”

“I understand. What is it I have to do?”

“One of your jobs at Sahlgrenska hospital – six days a week, if I understood correctly – is to clean corridor 11C, the intensive care unit.”

Ghidi nodded.

“This is what I want you to do.”

Blomkvist leaned forward and explained his plan.

Prosecutor Ekstrom took stock of his visitor. It was the third time he had met Superintendent Nystrom. He saw a lined face framed by short grey hair. Nystrom had first come to see him in the days following the murder of Karl Axel Bodin. He had offered credentials to indicate that he worked for S.I.S. They had had a long, subdued conversation.

“It’s important that you understand this: in no way am I trying to influence how you might act or how you do your job. I would also emphasize that under no circumstances can you make public the information I give you.” Nystrom said.

“I understand.”

If truth be told, Ekstrom did not entirely understand, but he did not want to seem very unclever by asking questions. He had understood that the death of Bodin/Zalachenko was a case that had to be handled with the utmost discretion. He had also understood that Nystrom’s visit was off the record, although endorsed by the highest authorities within the Security Police.

“This is most assuredly a matter of life or death,” Nystrom had said at their very first meeting. “As far as the Security Police are concerned, everything related to the Zalachenko case is Top Secret. I can tell you that he is a defector, a former agent of Soviet military intelligence, and a key player in the Russians’ offensive against western Europe in the ’70s.”

“That’s what Blomkvist at Millennium is evidently alleging.”

“And in this instance Blomkvist is quite correct. He’s a journalist who happened to stumble upon one of the most secret operations ever conducted by Swedish defence.”

“He’s going to publish the information.”

“Of course. He represents the media, with all the advantages and drawbacks. We live in a democracy and naturally we cannot influence what is written in the press. The problem in this case is that Blomkvist knows only a fraction of the truth about Zalachenko, and much of what he thinks he knows is wrong.”

“I see.”

“What Blomkvist doesn’t grasp is that if the truth about Zalachenko comes out, the Russians will swiftly identify our informants and sources in Russia. People who have risked their lives for democracy will be in danger of being killed.”

“But isn’t Russia a democracy now too? I mean, if this had been during the communist days –”

“That’s an illusion. This is about people who spied formerly within the Soviet Union – no regime in the world would stand for that, even if it happened many years ago. And a number of these sources are still