CHAPTER 17
Blomkvist had no warning that someone was in the stairwell when he reached the landing outside his top- floor apartment at Bellmansgatan 1. It was 7.00 in the evening. He stopped short when he saw a woman with short, blonde curly hair sitting on the top step. He recognized her straightaway as Monica Figuerola of S.I.S. from the passport photograph Karim had located.
“Hello, Blomkvist,” she said cheerfully, closing the book she had been reading. Blomkvist looked at the book and saw that it was in English, on the idea of God in the ancient world. He studied his unexpected visitor as she stood up. She was wearing a short-sleeved summer dress and had laid a brick-red leather jacket over the top stair.
“We need to talk to you,” she said.
She was tall, taller than he was, and that impression was magnified by the fact that she was standing two steps above him. He looked at her arms and then at her legs and saw that she was much more muscular than he was.
“You spend a couple of hours a week at the gym,” he said.
She smiled and took out her I.D.
“My name is –”
“Monica Figuerola, born in 1969, living on Pontonjargatan on Kungsholmen. You came from Borlange and you’ve worked with the Uppsala police. For three years you’ve been working in S.I.S., Constitutional Protection. You’re an exercise fanatic and you were once a top-class athlete, almost made it on to the Swedish Olympic team. What do you want with me?”
She was surprised, but she quickly regained her composure.
“Fair enough,” she said in a low voice. “You know who I am – so you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“I don’t?”
“There are some people who need to have a talk with you in peace and quiet. Since your apartment and mobile seem to be bugged and we have reason to be discreet, I’ve been sent to invite you.”
“And why would I go anywhere with somebody who works for Sapo?”
She thought for a moment. “Well… you could just accept a friendly personal invitation, or if you prefer, I could handcuff you and take you with me.” She smiled sweetly. “Look, Blomkvist. I understand that you don’t have many reasons to trust anyone who comes from S.I.S. But it’s like this: not everyone who works there is your enemy, and my superiors really want to talk to you. So, which do you prefer? Handcuffed or voluntary?”
“I’ve been handcuffed by the police once already this year. And that was enough. Where are we going?”
She had parked around the corner down on Pryssgrand. When they were settled in her new Saab 9–5, she flipped open her mobile and pressed a speed-dial number.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
She told Blomkvist to fasten his seat belt and drove over Slussen to Ostermalm and parked on a side street off Artillerigatan. She sat still for a moment and looked at him.
“This is a friendly invitation, Blomkvist. You’re not risking anything.”
Blomkvist said nothing. He was reserving judgement until he knew what this was all about. She punched in the code on the street door. They took the lift to the fifth floor, to an apartment with the name Martinsson on the door.
“We’ve borrowed the place for tonight’s meeting,” she said, opening the door. “To your right, into the living room.”
The first person Blomkvist saw was Torsten Edklinth, which was no surprise since Sapo was deeply involved in what had happened, and Edklinth was Figuerola’s boss. The fact that the Director of Constitutional Protection had gone to the trouble of bringing him in said that somebody was nervous.
Then he saw a figure by the window. The Minister of Justice. That
Then he heard a sound to his right and saw the Prime Minister get up from an armchair. This he had not for a moment expected.
“Good evening, Herr Blomkvist,” the P.M. said. “Excuse us for summoning you to this meeting at such short notice, but we’ve discussed the situation and agreed that we need to talk to you. May I offer you some coffee, or something else to drink?”
Blomkvist looked around. He saw a dining-room table of dark wood that was cluttered with glasses, coffee cups and the remnants of sandwiches. They must have been there for a couple of hours already.
“Ramlosa,” he said.
Figuerola poured him a mineral water. They sat down on the sofas as she stayed in the background.
“He recognized me and knew my name, where I live, where I work, and the fact that I’m a workout fanatic,” Figuerola said to no-one in particular.
The Prime Minister glanced quickly at Edklinth and then at Blomkvist. Blomkvist realized at once that he was in a position of some strength. The Prime Minister needed something from him and presumably had no idea how much Blomkvist knew or did not know.
“How did you know who Inspector Figuerola was?” Edklinth said.
Blomkvist looked at the Director of Constitutional Protection. He could not be sure why the Prime Minister had set up a meeting with him in a borrowed apartment in Ostermalm, but he suddenly felt inspired. There were not many ways it could have come about. It was Armansky who had set this in train by giving information to someone he trusted. Which must have been Edklinth, or someone close to him. Blomkvist took a chance.
“A mutual friend spoke with you,” he said to Edklinth. “You sent Figuerola to find out what was going on, and she discovered that some Sapo activists are running illegal telephone taps and breaking into my apartment and stealing things. This means that you have confirmed the existence of what I call the Zalachenko club. It made you so nervous that you knew you had to take the matter further, but you sat in your office for a while and didn’t know in which direction to go. So you went to the justice minister, and he in turn went to the Prime Minister. And now here we all are. What is it that you want from me?”
Blomkvist spoke with a confidence that suggested that he had a source right at the heart of the affair and had followed every step Edklinth had taken. He knew that his guesswork was on the mark when Edklinth’s eyes widened.
“The Zalachenko club spies on me, I spy on them,” Blomkvist went on. “And you spy on the Zalachenko club. This situation makes the Prime Minister both angry and uneasy. He knows that at the end of this conversation a scandal awaits that the government might not survive.”
Figuerola understood that Blomkvist was bluffing, and she knew how he had been able to surprise her by knowing her name and shoe size.
She did not say a word.
The Prime Minister certainly looked uneasy now.
“Is that what awaits us?” he said. “A scandal to bring down the government?”
“The survival of the government isn’t my concern,” Blomkvist said. “My role is to expose shit like the Zalachenko club.”
The Prime Minister said: “And my job is to run the country in accordance with the constitution.”
“Which means that my problem is definitely the government’s problem. But not vice versa.”
“Could we stop going round in circles? Why do you think I arranged this meeting?”
“To find out what I know and what I intend to do with it.”
“Partly right. But more precisely, we’ve landed in a constitutional crisis. Let me first say that the government has absolutely no hand in this matter. We have been caught napping, without a doubt. I’ve never heard mention of this… what you call the Zalachenko club. The minister here has never heard a word about this matter either. Torsten Edklinth, an official high up in S.I.S. who has worked in Sapo for many years, has never heard of it.”
“It’s still not my problem.”
