Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [156]
Blomkvist folded the letter and was putting it into his jacket pocket when Modig grabbed his hand. Her grip was hard.
“Information for information,” she said. “We want to hear everything Janeryd tells you.”
Blomkvist nodded. Modig stood up.
“Hang on. You said that Fälldin was visited by two people from Säpo. One was the chief of Säpo. Who was the other?”
“Fälldin met him only on that one occasion and couldn’t remember his name. No notes were taken at the meeting. He remembered him as thin with a narrow moustache. But he did recall that the man was introduced as the boss of the Section for Special Analysis, or something like that. Fälldin later looked at an organizational chart of Säpo and couldn’t find that department.”
The Zalachenko club, Blomkvist thought.
Modig seemed to be weighing her words.
“At risk of ending up shot,” she said at last, “there is one record that neither Fälldin nor his visitors thought of.”
“What was that?”
“Fälldin’s visitors’ logbook at Rosenbad. Jerker requisitioned it. It’s a public document.”
“And?”
Modig hesitated once again. “The book states only that the Prime Minister met with the chief of Säpo along with a colleague to discuss general questions.”
“Was there a name?”
“Yes. E. Gullberg.”
Blomkvist could feel the blood rush to his head.
“Evert Gullberg,” he said.
Blomkvist called from Café Madeleine on his anonymous mobile to book a flight to Amsterdam. The plane would take off from Arlanda at 2.50. He walked to Dressman on Kungsgatan and bought a shirt and a change of underwear, and then he went to a pharmacy to buy a toothbrush and other toiletries. He checked carefully to see that he was not being followed and hurried to catch the Arlanda Express.
The plane landed at Schiphol airport at 4.50, and by 6.30 he was checking into a small hotel about fifteen minutes’ walk from the Hague’s Centraal Station.
He spent two hours trying to locate the Swedish ambassador and made contact by telephone at around 9.00. He used all his powers of persuasion and explained that he was there on a matter of great urgency. The ambassador finally relented and agreed to meet him at 10.00 on Sunday morning.
Then Blomkvist went out and had a light dinner at a restaurant near his hotel. He was asleep by 11.00.
Ambassador Janeryd was in no mood for small talk when he offered Blomkvist coffee at his residence on Lange Voorhout.
“Well … what is it that’s so urgent?”
“Alexander Zalachenko. The Russian defector who came to Sweden in 1976,” Blomkvist said, handing him the letter from Fälldin.
Janeryd looked surprised. He read the letter and laid it on the table beside him.
Blomkvist explained the background and why Fälldin had written to him.
“I … I can’t discuss this matter,” Janeryd said at last.
“I think you can.”
“No, I could only speak of it with the constitutional committee.”
“There’s a great probability that you will have to do just that. But this letter tells you to use your own good judgement.”
“Fälldin is an honest man.”
“I don’t doubt that. And I’m not looking to damage either you or Fälldin. Nor do I ask you to tell me a single military secret that Zalachenko may have revealed.”
“I don’t know any secrets. I didn’t even know that his name was Zalachenko. I only knew him by his cover name. He was known as Ruben. But it’s absurd that you should think I would discuss it with a journalist.”
“Let me give you one very good reason why you should,” Blomkvist said and sat up straight in his chair. “This whole story is going to be published very soon. And when that happens, the media will either tear you to pieces or describe you as an honest civil servant who made the best of an impossible situation. You were the one Fälldin assigned to be the go-between with those who were protecting Zalachenko. I already know that.”
Janeryd was silent for almost a minute.
“Listen, I never had any information, not the remotest idea of the background you’ve described. I was rather young … I didn’t know how I should