Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [173]
Figuerola nodded.
“Should we conclude that the Zalachenko club was an association formed in 1964? That would be some time before Zalachenko even came to Sweden.”
“There must have been some other purpose … a secret organization within the organization.”
“That was after Stig Wennerström. Everyone was paranoid.”
“A sort of secret spy police?”
“There are in fact parallels overseas. In the States a special group of internal spy chasers was created within the C.I.A. in the ’60s. It was led by a James Jesus Angleton, and it very nearly sabotaged the entire C.I.A. Angleton’s gang were as fanatical as they were paranoid – they suspected everyone in the C.I.A. of being a Russian agent. As a result the agency’s effectiveness in large areas was paralysed.”
“But that’s all speculation …”
“Where are the old personnel files kept?”
“Gullberg isn’t in them. I’ve checked.”
“But what about a budget? An operation like this has to be financed.”
The discussion went on until lunchtime, when Figuerola excused herself and went to the gym for some peace, to think things over.
Berger did not arrive in the newsroom until lunchtime. Her foot was hurting so badly that she could not put any weight on it. She hobbled over to her glass cage and sank into her chair with relief. Fredriksson looked up from his desk and she waved him in.
“What happened?” he said.
“I trod on a piece of glass and a shard lodged in my heel.”
“That … wasn’t so good.”
“No. It wasn’t good. Peter, has anyone received any more weird emails?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“O.K. Keep your ears open. I want to know if anything odd happens around S.M.P.”
“What sort of odd?”
“I’m afraid some idiot is sending really vile emails and he seems to have targeted me. So I want to know if you hear of anything going on.”
“The type of email Eva Carlsson got?”
“Right, but anything strange at all. I’ve had a whole string of crazy emails accusing me of being all kinds of things – and suggesting various perverse things that ought to be done to me.”
Fredriksson’s expression darkened. “How long has this been going on?”
“A couple of weeks. Keep your eyes peeled … So tell me, what’s going to be in the paper tomorrow?”
“Well …”
“Well, what?”
“Holm and the head of the legal section are on the warpath.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of Frisk. You extended his contract and gave him a feature assignment. And he won’t tell anybody what it’s about.”
“He is forbidden to talk about it. My orders.”
“That’s what he says. Which means that Holm and the legal editor are up in arms.”
“I can see that they might be. Set up a meeting with legal at 3.00. I’ll explain the situation.”
“Holm is not best pleased—”
“I’m not best pleased with Holm, so we’re all square.”
“He’s so upset that he’s complained to the board.”
Berger looked up. Damn it. I’m going to have to face up to the Borgsjö problem.
“Borgsjö is coming in this afternoon and wants a meeting with you. I suspect it’s Holm’s doing.”
“O.K. What time?”
“2.00,” said Fredriksson, and he went back to his desk to write the midday memo.
Jonasson visited Salander during her lunch. She pushed away a plate of the health authority’s vegetable stew. As always, he did a brief examination of her, but she noticed that he was no longer putting much effort into it.
“You’ve recovered nicely,” he said.
“Hmm. You’ll have to do something about the food at this place.”
“What about it?”
“Couldn’t you get me a pizza?”
“Sorry. Way beyond the budget.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Lisbeth, we’re going to have a discussion about the state of your health tomorrow—”
“Understood. And I’ve recovered nicely.”
“You’re now well enough to be moved to Kronoberg prison. I might be able to postpone the move for another week, but my colleagues are going to start wondering.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’m ready. And it had to happen sooner or later.”
“I’ll give the go-ahead tomorrow, then,” Jonasson said. “You’ll probably be transferred pretty soon.”
She nodded.
“It might be as early as this weekend. The hospital administration