Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [164]
“Lisbeth Salander has become a government matter,” the P.M. said, and smiled. “Mikael, I am personally very upset over what happened to her. Please believe me when I say that those responsible will be called to account. But before we can do that, we have to know who they are.”
“My priority is that Salander should be acquitted and declared competent.”
“I can’t help you with that. I’m not above the law, and I can’t direct what prosecutors and the courts decide. She has to be acquitted by a court.”
“O.K.,” Blomkvist said. “You want my co-operation. Then give me some insight into Edklinth’s investigation, and I’ll tell you when and what I plan to publish.”
“I can’t give you that insight. That would be placing myself in the same relation to you as the Minister of Justice’s predecessor once stood to the journalist Ebbe Carlsson.”*
“I’m not Ebbe Carlsson,” Blomkvist said calmly.
“I know that. On the other hand, Edklinth can decide for himself what he can share with you within the framework of his assignment.”
“Hmm,” Blomkvist said. “I want to know who Evert Gullberg was.”
Silence fell over the group.
“Gullberg was presumably for many years the chief of that division within S.I.S. which you call the Zalachenko club,” Edklinth said.
The Prime Minister gave him a sharp look.
“I think he knows that already,” Edklinth said by way of apology.
“That’s correct,” Blomkvist said. “He started at Säpo in the ’50s. In the ’60s he became chief of some outfit called the Section for Special Analysis. He was the one in charge of the Zalachenko affair.”
The P.M. shook his head. “You know more than you ought to. I would very much like to discover how you came by all this information. But I’m not going to ask.”
“There are holes in my story,” Blomkvist said. “I need to fill them. Give me information and I won’t try to compromise you.”
“As Prime Minister I’m not in a position to deliver any such information. And Edklinth is on a very thin ice if he does so.”
“Don’t pull the wool over my eyes. I know what you want and you know what I want. If you give me information, then you’ll be my sources – with all the enduring anonymity that implies. Don’t misunderstand me … I’ll tell the truth as I see it in what I publish. If you are involved, I will expose you and do everything I can to ensure that you are never re-elected. But as yet I have no reason to believe that is the case.”
The Prime Minister glanced at Edklinth. After a moment he nodded. Blomkvist took it as a sign that the Prime Minister had just broken the law – if only of the more academic specie – by giving his consent to the sharing of classified information with a journalist.
“This can all be solved quite simply,” Edklinth said. “I have my own investigative team and I decide for myself which colleagues to recruit for the investigation. You can’t be employed by the investigation because that would mean you would be obliged to sign an oath of confidentiality. But I can hire you as an external consultant.”
Berger’s life had been filled with meetings and work around the clock the minute she had stepped into Morander’s shoes.
It was not until Wednesday night, almost two weeks after Blomkvist had given her Cortez’s research papers on Borgsjö, that she had time to address the issue. As she opened the folder she realized that her procrastination had also to do with the fact that she did not really want to face up to the problem. She already knew that however she dealt with it, calamity would be inevitable.
She arrived home in Saltsjöbaden at 7.00, unusually early, and it was only when she had to turn off the alarm in the hall that she remembered her husband was not at home. She had given him an especially long kiss that morning because he was flying to Paris to deliver some lectures and would not be back until the weekend. She had no