Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [229]
“But the chief of Secretariat and the chief of Budget—”
“We have to assume that they’re working for the Section.”
It was 6.00 on Monday when Gustavsson gave everyone an hour’s break for dinner, after which they would reconvene.
It was just as everyone had stood up and begun to move about that Jesper Thoms, Figuerola’s colleague from C.P.’s operations unit, drew her aside to report on what had developed during the last few hours of surveillance.
“Clinton has been in dialysis for most of the day and got back to Artillerigatan at 3.00. The only one who did anything of interest was Nyström, although we aren’t quite sure what it was he did.”
“Tell me,” said Figuerola.
“At 1.30 he drove to Central Station and met up with two men. They walked across to the Sheraton and had coffee in the bar. The meeting lasted for about twenty minutes, after which Nyström returned to Artillerigatan.”
“O.K. So who were they?”
“They’re new faces. Two men in their mid-thirties who seem to be of eastern European origin. Unfortunately our observer lost them when they went into the tunnelbana.”
“I see,” Figuerola said wearily.
“Here are the pictures,” Thoms said. He handed her a series of surveillance photographs.
She glanced at the enlargements of two faces she had never set eyes on before.
“Thanks,” she said, laying out the photographs on the conference table. She picked up her handbag to go and find something to eat.
Andersson, who was standing nearby, bent to look more closely at the pictures.
“Oh shit,” he said. “Are the Nikolich brothers involved in this?”
Figuerola stopped in her tracks. “Who did you say?”
“These two are seriously rotten apples,” Andersson said. “Tomi and Miro Nikolich.”
“Have you had dealings with them?”
“Sure. Two brothers from Huddinge. Serbs. We had them under observation several times when they were in their twenties and I was in the gangs unit. Miro is the dangerous one. He’s been wanted for about a year for G.B.H. I thought they’d both gone back to Serbia to become politicians or something.”
“Politicians?”
“Right. They went down to Yugoslavia in the early ’90s and helped carry out ethnic cleansing. They worked for a Mafia leader, Arkan, who was running some sort of private fascist militia. They got a reputation for being shooters.”
“Shooters?”
“Hit men. They’ve been flitting back and forth between Belgrade and Stockholm. Their uncle has a restaurant in Norrmalm, and they’ve apparently worked there once in a while. We’ve had reports that they were mixed up in at least two of the killings in what was known as the ‘cigarette war’, but we never got close to charging them with anything.”
Figuerola gazed mutely at the photographs. Then suddenly she turned pale as a ghost. She stared at Edklinth.
“Blomkvist,” she cried with panic in her voice. “They’re not just planning to involve him in a scandal, they’re planning to murder him. Then the police will find the cocaine during the investigation and draw their own conclusions.”
Edklinth stared back at her.
“He’s supposed to be meeting Erika Berger at Samir’s Cauldron,” Figuerola said. She grabbed Andersson by the shoulder. “Are you armed?”
“Yes …”
“Come with me.”
Figuerola rushed out of the conference room. Her office was three doors down. She ran in and took her service weapon from the desk drawer. Against all regulations she left the door to her office unlocked and wide open as she raced off towards the lifts. Andersson hesitated for a second.
“Go,” Bublanski told him. “Sonja, you go with them too.”
Blomkvist got to Samir’s Cauldron at 6.20. Berger had just arrived and found a table near the bar, not far from the entrance. He kissed her