Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [226]
“Oh, really?”
“Erika Berger called him a while ago. They’re going to have dinner at Samir’s Cauldron. It’s a restaurant near Bellmansgatan.”
“Berger …” Clinton said hesitantly.
“I hope for God’s sake that she doesn’t—” Nyström said.
“That wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Sandberg said.
Clinton and Nyström both stared at him.
“We’re agreed that Blomkvist is our greatest threat, and that he’s going to publish something damaging in the next issue of Millennium. We can’t prevent publication, so we have to destroy his credibility. If he’s killed in what appears to be a typical underworld hit and the police then find drugs and cash in his apartment, the investigators will draw certain conclusions. They won’t initially be looking for conspiracies involving the Security Police.”
“Go on,” Clinton said.
“Erika Berger is actually Blomkvist’s lover,” Sandberg said with some force. “She’s unfaithful to her husband. If she too were to be a victim, that would lead to further speculation.”
Clinton and Nyström exchanged glances. Sandberg had a natural talent when it came to creating smokescreens. He learned fast. But Clinton and Nyström felt a surge of anxiety. Sandberg was too cavalier about life-and-death decisions. That was not good. Extreme measures were not to be employed just because an opportunity had presented itself. Murder was no easy solution; it should be resorted to only when there was no alternative.
Clinton shook his head.
Collateral damage, he thought. He suddenly felt disgust for the whole operation.
After a lifetime in service to the nation, here we sit like primitive mercenaries. Zalachenko was necessary. Björck was … regrettable, but Gullberg was right: Björck would have caved in. Blomkvist is … possibly necessary. But Erika Berger could only be an innocent bystander.
He looked steadily at Sandberg. He hoped that the young man would not develop into a psychopath.
“How much do the Nikolich brothers know?”
“Nothing. About us, that is. I’m the only one they’ve met. I used another identity and they can’t trace me. They think the killing has to do with trafficking.”
“What happens to them after the hit?”
“They leave Sweden at once,” Nyström said. “Just like after Björck. If the murder investigation yields no results, they can very cautiously return after a few weeks.”
“And the method?”
“Sicilian style. They walk up to Blomkvist, empty a magazine into him, and walk away.”
“Weapon?”
“They have an automatic. I don’t know what type.”
“I do hope they won’t spray the whole restaurant—”
“No danger of that. They’re cold-blooded, they know what they have to do. But if Berger is sitting at the same table—”
Collateral damage.
“Look here,” Clinton said. “It’s important that Wadensjöö doesn’t get wind of this. Especially not if Berger becomes a victim. He’s stressed to breaking point as it is. I’m afraid we’re going to have to put him out to pasture when this is over.”
Nyström nodded.
“Which means that when we get word that Blomkvist has been shot, we’re going to have to put on a good show. We’ll call a crisis meeting and act thunderstruck by the development. We can speculate who might be behind the murder, but we’ll say nothing about the drugs until the police find the evidence.”
Blomkvist took leave of the presenter of She just before 5.00. They had spent the afternoon filling in the gaps in the material. Then Blomkvist had gone to make-up and subjected himself to a long interview on film.
One question had been put to him which he struggled to answer in a coherent way, and they had to film that section several times.
How is it possible that civil servants in the Swedish government will go so far as to commit murder?
Blomkvist had brooded over the question long before She’s presenter had asked it. The Section must have considered Zalachenko an unacceptable threat, but it was still not a satisfactory answer. The reply he eventually gave was not satisfactory either:
“The only reasonable explanation I can give is that over the years