it’s going to cause uproar. You might bear in mind that the beating that provoked Lisbeth’s attack put her mother in hospital for the rest of her life.”
“O.K. Go on.”
“I’m going to expose two doctors who were errand boys for Sapo, and who helped bury Lisbeth in the asylum. I’m going to hang them out to dry. One of these is a well-known and respected person. But, as I said, I have all the documentation.”
“If a doctor were mixed up in something like this, it’s a blot on the entire profession.”
“I don’t believe in collective guilt. It concerns only those directly involved. The same is true of Sapo. I don’t doubt that there are excellent people working in Sapo. This is about a small group of conspirators. When Lisbeth was eighteen they tried to institutionalize her again. This time they failed, and she was instead put under guardianship. In the trial, whenever it is, they’re once again going to try to throw as much shit at her as they can. I – or rather, my sister Annika – will fight to see that she is acquitted, and that her still-extant declaration of incompetence is revoked.”
“I see.”
“But she needs ammunition. So that’s the background for this tactic. I should probably also mention that there are some individuals in the police force who are actually on Lisbeth’s side in all this. But not the prosecutor who brought the charges against her. In short, Lisbeth needs help before the trial.”
“But I’m not a lawyer.”
“No. But you’re Lisbeth’s doctor and you have access to her.”
Jonasson’s eyes narrowed.
“What I’m thinking of asking you is unethical, and it might also be illegal.”
“Indeed?”
“But morally it’s the right thing to do. Her constitutional rights are being violated by the very people who ought to be protecting her. Let me give you an example. Lisbeth is not allowed to have visitors, and she can’t read newspapers or communicate with the outside world. The prosecutor has also pushed through a prohibition of disclosure for her lawyer. Annika has obeyed the rules. However, the prosecutor himself is the primary source of leaks to the reporters who keep writing all the shit about Lisbeth.”
“Is that really so?”
“This story, for example.” Blomkvist held up a week-old evening newspaper. “A source within the investigation claims that Lisbeth is
“I read the article. It’s nonsense.”
“So you don’t think she’s crazy.”
“I won’t comment on that. But I do know that no psychiatric evaluations have been done. Accordingly, the article is nonsense.”
“I can show you chapter and verse to prove that the person who leaked this information is a police officer called Hans Faste. He works for Prosecutor Ekstrom.”
“Oh.”
“Ekstrom is going to seek to have the trial take place behind closed doors, so that no outsider will have knowledge of or be able to weigh the evidence against Lisbeth. But what is worse… Because the prosecutor has isolated Lisbeth, she won’t be able to do the research she needs to do to prepare her defence.”
“But isn’t that supposed to be done by her lawyer?”
“As you must have gathered by now, Lisbeth is an extraordinary person. She has secrets I happen to know about, but I can’t reveal them to my sister. But Lisbeth should be able to choose whether she wants to make use of them in her trial.”
“I see.”
“And in order to do that, she needs this.”
Blomkvist laid Salander’s Palm Tungsten T3 hand-held computer and a battery charger on the table between them.
“This is the most important weapon Lisbeth has in her arsenal – she has to have it.”
Jonasson looked suspiciously at the Palm.
“Why not give it to her lawyer?”
“Because Lisbeth is the only one who knows how to get at the evidence.”
Jonasson sat for a while, still not touching the computer.
“Let me tell you one or two things about Dr Peter Teleborian,” Blomkvist said, taking a folder from his briefcase.
It was just after 8.00 on Saturday evening when Armansky left his office and walked to the synagogue of the Soder congregation on St Paulsgatan. He knocked on the door, introduced himself, and was admitted by the rabbi himself.
“I have an appointment to meet someone I know here,” Armansky said.
“One flight up. I’ll show you the way.”
The rabbi offered him a kippa for his head, which Armansky hesitantly put on. He had been brought up in a Muslim family and he felt foolish wearing it.
Bublanski was also wearing a kippa.
“Hello, Dragan. Thanks for coming. I’ve borrowed a room from the rabbi so we can speak undisturbed.”
Armansky sat down opposite Bublanski.
“I presume you have good reason for such secrecy.”
“I’m not going to spin this out: I know that you’re a friend of Salander’s.”
Armansky nodded.
“I need to know what you and Blomkvist have cooked up to help her.”
“Why would we be cooking something up?”
“Because Prosecutor Ekstrom has asked me a dozen times how much you at Milton Security actually knew about the Salander investigation. It’s not a casual question – he’s concerned that you’re going to spring something that could result in repercussions… in the media.”
“I see.”
“And if Ekstrom is worried, it’s because he knows or suspects that you’ve got something brewing. Or at least he’s talked to someone who has suspicions.”
“Someone?”
“Dragan, let’s not play games. You know Salander was the victim of an injustice in the early ’90s, and I’m afraid she’s going to get the same medicine when the trial begins.”
“You’re a police officer in a democracy. If you have information to that effect you should take action.”
Bublanski nodded. “I’m thinking of doing just that. The question is, how?”
“Tell me what you want to know.”
“I want to know what you and Blomkvist are up to. I assume you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs.”
“It’s complicated. How do I know I can trust you?”
“There’s a report from 1991 that Blomkvist discovered…”
“I know about it.”
“I no longer have access to the report.”
“Nor do I. The copies that Blomkvist and his sister – now Salander’s lawyer – had in their possession have both disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Blomkvist’s copy was taken during a break-in at his apartment, and Giannini’s was stolen when she was mugged, punched to the ground in Goteborg. All this happened on the day Zalachenko was murdered.”
Bublanski said nothing for a long while.
“Why haven’t we heard anything about this?”
“Blomkvist put it like this: there’s only one right time to publish a story, and an endless number of wrong
