Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [192]
“Do you have your car nearby?”
“The last time I checked it was in the parking space outside.”
“Good. Do you feel like an afternoon on the town?”
“Not particularly. What’s going on?”
“A psychiatrist called Teleborian is having a beer with an undercover agent – code name Jonas – down on Vasagatan. And since I’m co-operating with your Stasi-style bureaucracy, I thought you might be amused to tag along.”
Figuerola was on her feet and reaching for her car keys.
“This is not your little joke, is it?”
“Hardly. And Jonas has his car keys on the table in front of him.”
“I’m on my way.”
Eriksson did not answer the telephone, but Blomkvist got lucky and caught Karim, who had been at Åhlens department store buying a birthday present for her husband. He asked her to please – on overtime – hurry over to the pub as back-up for Cortez. Then he called Cortez.
“Here’s the plan. I’ll have a car in place in five minutes. It’ll be on Järnvägsgatan, down the street from the pub. Lottie is going to join you in a few minutes as back-up.”
“Good.”
“When they leave the pub, you tail Jonas. Keep me posted by mobile. As soon as you see him approach a car, we have to know. Lottie will follow Teleborian. If we don’t get there in time, make a note of his registration number.”
“O.K.”
Figuerola parked beside the Nordic Light Hotel next to the Arlanda Express platforms. Blomkvist opened the driver’s door a minute later.
“Which pub are they in?”
Blomkvist told her.
“I have to call for support.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. We’ve got them covered. Too many cooks might wreck the whole dish.”
Figuerola gave him a sceptical look. “And how did you know that this meeting was going to take place?”
“I have to protect my source. Sorry.”
“Do you have your own bloody intelligence service at Millennium?” she burst out.
Blomkvist looked pleased. It was cool to outdo Säpo in their own field of expertise.
In fact he did not have the slightest idea how Berger came to call him out of the blue to tell him of the meeting. She had not had access to ongoing editorial work at Millennium since early April. She knew about Teleborian, to be sure, but Jonas had not come into the picture until May. As far as he knew, Berger had not even known of his existence, let alone that he was the focus of intense speculation both at Säpo and Millennium.
He needed to talk to Berger.
Salander pressed her lips together and looked at the screen of her handheld. After using Jonasson’s mobile, she had pushed all thoughts of the Section to one side and concentrated on Berger’s problem. She had next, after careful consideration, eliminated all the men in the twenty-six to fifty-four age group who were married. She was working with a broad brush, of that she was perfectly aware. The selection was scarcely based on any statistical, sociological or scientific rationale. Poison Pen might easily be a married man with five children and a dog. He might also be a man who worked in maintenance. “He” could even be a woman.
She simply needed to prune the number of names on the list, and her group was now down from forty-eight to eighteen since her latest cut. The list was made up largely of the better-known reporters, managers or middle managers aged thirty-five or older. If she did not find anything of interest in that group, she could always widen the net again.
At 4.00 she logged on to Hacker Republic and uploaded the list to Plague. He pinged her a few minutes later.
She outlined the Poison Pen situation.
She sent him the access codes for S.M.P.’s newsroom and then logged off from I.C.Q.
It was 4.20 before Cortez called.
“They’re showing signs of leaving.”
“We’re ready.”
Silence.
“They’re going their separate ways outside the pub. Jonas heading north. Teleborian to the south. Lottie’s going after him.”
Blomkvist raised a finger and pointed as Jonas flashed past them on Vasagatan. Figuerola nodded and started the engine. Seconds later Blomkvist could also see Cortez.
“He’s crossing Vasagatan, heading towards Kungsgatan,” Cortez said into his mobile.