Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [191]
“What? What? What?”
“Teleborian—”
“I heard you. How do you know about that?”
“Stop arguing and make it snappy.”
Mikael glanced at the clock. 2.47. “Thanks. Bye.”
He grabbed his laptop case and took the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. As he ran he called Cortez on his T10.
“Cortez.”
“Where are you now?”
“At the Academy bookshop.”
“Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00. I’m on my way, but you’re closer.”
“Oh, boy. I’m on my way.”
Blomkvist jogged down to Götgatan and sped up towards Slussen. When he reached Slussplan he was badly out of breath. Maybe Figuerola had a point. He was not going to make it. He looked about for a taxi.
*
Salander handed back the mobile to Dr Jonasson.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Teleborian?” Jonasson could not help overhearing the name.
She met his gaze. “Teleborian is a really, really bad bastard. You have no idea.”
“No, but I could see that something happened just now that got you more agitated than I’ve seen you in all the time you’ve been in my care. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Salander gave Jonasson a lopsided smile.
“You should have the answer to that question quite soon,” she said.
Cortez left the Academy bookshop running like a madman. He crossed Sveavägen on the viaduct at Mäster Samuelsgatan and went straight down to Klara Norra, where he turned up the Klaraberg viaduct and across Vasagatan. He flew across Klarabergsgatan between a bus and two cars, one of whose drivers punched his windscreen in fury, and through the doors of Central Station as the station clock ticked over to 3.00 sharp.
He took the escalator three steps at a time down to the main ticket hall, and jogged past the Pocket bookshop before slowing down so as not to attract attention. He scanned every face of every person standing or walking near the Ring.
He did not see Teleborian or the man Malm had photographed outside Café Copacabana, whom they believed to be Jonas. He looked back at the clock. 3.01. He was gasping as if he had just run a marathon.
He took a chance and hurried across the hall and out through the doors on to Vasagatan. He stopped and looked about him, checking one face after another, as far as his eyes could see. No Teleborian. No Jonas.
He turned back into the station. 3.03. The Ring area was almost deserted.
Then he looked up and got a split second’s glimpse of Teleborian’s dishevelled profile and goatee as he came out of Pressbyrån on the other side of the ticket hall. A second later the man from Malm’s photograph materialized at Teleborian’s side. Jonas. They crossed the concourse and went out on to Vasagatan by the north door.
Cortez exhaled in relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and set off in pursuit of the two men.
Blomkvist’s taxi got to Central Station at 3.07. He walked rapidly into the ticket hall, but he could see neither Teleborian nor anyone looking like they might be Jonas. Nor Cortez for that matter.
He was about to call Cortez when the T10 rang in his hand.
“I’ve got them. They’re sitting in the Tre Remmare pub on Vasagatan by the stairs down to the Akalla line.”
“Thanks, Henry. Where are you?”
“I’m at the bar. Having my afternoon beer. I earned it.”
“Very good. They know what I look like, so I’ll stay out of it. I don’t suppose you have any chance of hearing what they’re saying.”
“Not a hope. I can only see Jonas’ back and that bloody psychoanalyst mumbles when he speaks, so I can’t even see his lips move.”
“I get it.”
“But we may have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Jonas has put his wallet and mobile on the table. And he put his car keys on top of the wallet.”
“O.K. I’ll handle it.”
Figuerola’s mobile played out the theme tune from Once Upon a Time in the West. She put down her book about God in antiquity. It did not seem as though she would ever be able to finish it
“Hi. It’s Mikael. What are you up to?”
“I’m sitting at home sorting through my collection of photographs of old lovers. I was ignominiously