Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [166]
She had been thinking for so long that the bathwater was now cold. She showered and towelled herself and went to the bedroom to put on a dressing gown. Then she picked up her mobile and called Blomkvist. No answer. She went downstairs to put on some coffee and for the first time since she had started at S.M.P., she looked to see whether there was a film on T.V. that she could watch to relax.
As she walked into the living room, she felt a sharp pain in her foot. She looked down and saw blood. She took another step and pain shot through her entire foot, and she had to hop over to an antique chair to sit down. She lifted her foot and saw to her dismay that a shard of glass had pierced her heel. At first she felt faint. Then she steeled herself and took hold of the shard and pulled it out. The pain was appalling, and blood gushed from the wound.
She pulled open a drawer in the hall where she kept scarves, gloves and hats. She found a scarf and wrapped it around her foot and tied it tight. That was not going to be enough, so she reinforced it with another improvised bandage. The bleeding had apparently subsided.
She looked at the bloodied piece of glass in amazement. How did this get here? Then she discovered more glass on the hall floor. Jesus Christ… She looked into the living room and saw that the picture window was shattered and the floor was covered in shattered glass.
She went back to the front door and put on the outdoor shoes she had kicked off as she came home. That is, she put on one shoe and stuck the toes of her injured foot into the other, and hopped into the living room to take stock of the damage.
Then she found the brick in the middle of the living-room floor.
She limped over to the balcony door and went out to the garden. Someone had sprayed in metre-high letters on the back wall:
WHORE
It was just after 9.00 in the evening when Figuerola held the car door open for Blomkvist. She went around the car and got into the driver’s seat.
“Should I drive you home or do you want to be dropped off somewhere?”
Blomkvist stared straight ahead. “I haven’t got my bearings yet, to be honest. I’ve never had a confrontation with a prime minister before.”
Figuerola laughed. “You played your cards very well,” she said. “I would never have guessed you were such a good poker player.”
“I meant every word.”
“Of course, but what I meant was that you pretended to know a lot more than you actually do. I realized that when I worked out how you identified me.”
Blomkvist turned and looked at her profile.
“You wrote down my car registration when I was parked on the hill outside your building. You made it sound as if you knew what was being discussed at the Prime Minister’s secretariat.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Blomkvist said.
She gave him a quick look and turned on to Grev Turegatan. “The rules of the game. I shouldn’t have picked that spot, but there wasn’t anywhere else to park. You keep a sharp eye on your surroundings, don’t you?”
“You were sitting with a map spread out on the front seat, talking on the telephone. I took down your registration and ran a routine check. I check out every car that catches my attention. I usually draw a blank. In your case I discovered that you worked for Säpo.”
“I was following Mårtensson.”
“Aha. So simple.”
“Then I discovered that you were tailing him using Susanne Linder at Milton Security.”
“Armansky’s detailed her to keep an eye on what goes on around my apartment.”
“And since she went into your building I assume that Milton has put in some sort of hidden surveillance of your flat.”
“That’s right. We have an excellent film of how they break in and go through my papers. Mårtensson carries a portable photocopier with him. Have you identified Mårtensson’s sidekick?”
“He’s unimportant. A locksmith with a criminal record who’s probably being paid to open your door.”
“Name?”
“Protected source?”
“Naturally.”
“Lars