Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [225]
“Well, we don’t really know anything about their schedule,” Blomkvist said.
He felt exhausted and longed for all this to be over. He got up.
“Where are you off to?” Figuerola said. “I’d like to know where you’re going to be for the next few days.”
“I have a meeting with T.V.4 at lunchtime. And at 6.00 I’m going to catch up with Erika Berger over a lamb stew at Samir’s. We’re going to fine-tune the press release. The rest of the afternoon and evening I’ll be at Millennium, I imagine.”
Figuerola’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Berger.
“I need you to stay in touch during the day. I’d prefer it if you stayed in close contact until the trial starts.”
“Maybe I could move in with you for a few days,” Blomkvist said with a playful smile.
Figuerola’s face darkened. She cast a hasty glance at Edklinth.
“Monica’s right,” Edklinth said. “I think it would be best if you stay more or less out of sight for the time being.”
“You take care of your end,” Blomkvist said, “and I’ll take care of mine.”
The presenter of She on T.V.4 could hardly conceal her excitement over the video material that Blomkvist had delivered. Blomkvist was amused at her undisguised glee. For a week they had worked like dogs to put together coherent material about the Section that they could use on T. V. Her producer and the news editor at T.V.4 were in no doubt as to what a scoop the story would be. It was being produced in the utmost secrecy, with only a very few people involved. They had agreed to Blomkvist’s insistence that the story be the lead on the evening of the third day of the trial. They had decided to do an hour-long news special.
Blomkvist had given her a quantity of still photographs to work with, but on television nothing compares to the moving image. She was simply delighted when he showed her the video – in razor-sharp definition – of an identifiable police officer planting cocaine in his apartment.
“This is great T.V.,” she said. “Camera shot: Here is Säpo planting cocaine in the reporter’s apartment.”
“Not Säpo … the Section,” Blomkvist corrected her. “Don’t make the mistake of muddling the two.”
“Sandberg works for Säpo, for God’s sake,” she said.
“Sure, but in practice he should be regarded as an infiltrator. Keep the boundary line very clear.”
“Understood. It’s the Section that’s the story here. Not Säpo. Mikael, can you explain to me how it is that you keep getting mixed up in these sensational stories? And you’re right. This is going to be bigger than the Wennerström affair.”
“Sheer talent, I guess. Ironically enough this story also begins with a Wennerström. The spy scandal of the ’60s, that is.”
Berger called at 4.00. She was in a meeting with the newspaper publishers’ association sharing her views on the planned cutbacks at S.M.P., which had given rise to a major conflict in the industry after she had resigned. She would not be able to make it to their dinner before 6.30.
Sandberg helped Clinton move from the wheelchair to the daybed in the room that was his command centre in the Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton had just returned from a whole morning spent in dialysis. He felt ancient, infinitely weary. He had hardly slept the past few days and wished that all this would soon come to an end. He had managed to make himself comfortable, sitting up in the bed, when Nyström appeared.
Clinton concentrated his energy. “Is it ready?”
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Nikolich brothers,” Nyström said. “It’s going to cost 50,000.”
“We can afford it,” Clinton said.
Christ, if only I were young again.
He turned his head and studied Nyström and Sandberg in turn.
“No qualms of conscience?” he said.
They shook their heads.
“When?” Clinton said.
“Within twenty-four hours,” Nyström said. “It’s difficult to pin down where Blomkvist is staying, but if the worst comes to the worst they’ll do it outside Millennium’s offices.”
“We