Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [144]
“I am sorry for coming to see you without warning, but I have a big problem. It’s possible that when this conversation is over, I’ll be fired from my job. I’m here on a work issue, but my boss, Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski of the Violent Crimes Division in Stockholm, doesn’t know I’m here.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Just to say that I’d be on very thin ice if my superiors found out about this visit.”
“I understand.”
“On the other hand I’m afraid that if I don’t do something, there’s a risk that a woman’s rights will be shockingly violated, and to make matters worse, it’ll be the second time it’s happened.”
“You’d better tell me the whole story.”
“It’s about a man named Alexander Zalachenko. He was an agent for the Soviets’ G.R.U. and defected to Sweden on Election Day in 1976. He was given asylum and began to work for Säpo. I have reason to believe that you know his story.”
Fälldin regarded Holmberg attentively.
“It’s a long story,” Holmberg said, and he began to tell Fälldin about the preliminary investigation in which he had been involved for the past few months.
Erika Berger finally rolled over on to her stomach and rested her head on her fists. She broke out in a big smile.
“Mikael, have you ever wondered if the two of us aren’t completely nuts?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s true for me, at least. I’m smitten by an insatiable desire for you. I feel like a crazy teenager.”
“Oh yes?”
“And then I want to go home and go to bed with my husband.”
Blomkvist laughed. “I know a good therapist.”
She poked him in the stomach. “Mikael, it’s starting to feel like this thing with S.M.P. was a seriously big mistake.”
“Nonsense. It’s a huge opportunity for you. If anyone can inject life into that dying body, it’s you.”
“Maybe so. But that’s just the problem. S.M.P. feels like a dying body. And then you dropped that bombshell about Borgsjö.”
“You’ve got to let things settle down.”
“I know. But the thing with Borgsjö is going to be a real problem. I don’t have the faintest idea how to handle it.”
“Nor do I. But we’ll think of something.”
She lay quiet for a moment.
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“How much would it take for you to come to S.M.P. and be the news editor?”
“I wouldn’t do it for anything. Isn’t what’s-his-name, Holm, the news editor?”
“Yes. But he’s an idiot.”
“You got him in one.”
“Do you know him?”
“I certainly do. I worked for him for three months as a temp in the mid-’80s. He’s a prick who plays people off against each other. Besides …”
“Besides what?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“Some girl, Ulla something, who was also a temp, claimed that he sexually harassed her. I don’t know how much was true, but the union did nothing about it and her contract wasn’t extended.”
Berger looked at the clock and sighed. She got up from the bed and made for the shower. Blomkvist did not move when she came out, dried herself, and dressed.
“I think I’ll doze for a while,” he said.
She kissed his cheek and waved as she left.
Figuerola parked seven cars behind Mårtensson’s Volvo on Luntmakargatan, close to the corner of Olof Palmes Gata. She watched as Mårtensson walked to the machine to pay his parking fee. He then walked on to Sveavägen.
Figuerola decided not to pay for a ticket. She would lose him if she went to the machine and back, so she followed him. He turned left on to Kungsgatan, and went into Kungstornet. She waited three minutes before she followed him into the café. He was on the ground floor talking to a blond man who looked to be in very good shape. A policeman she thought. She recognized him as the other man Malm had photographed outside the Copacabana on May Day.
She bought herself a coffee and sat at the opposite end of the café and opened her Dagens Nyheter. Mårtensson and his companion were talking in low voices. She took out her mobile and pretended to make a call, although neither of the men were paying her any attention. She took a photograph with the mobile that she knew would be only 72 dpi – low quality, but it could be