Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [59]
After an hour and a half a plan had begun to take shape.
It was not a perfect plan, but after weighing all the options he concluded that the problem called for a drastic solution.
As luck would have it, the human resources were available. It was doable.
He got up to find a telephone booth and called Wadensjöö.
“We’ll have to postpone the meeting a bit longer,” he said. “There’s something I have to do. Can we meet again at 2.00 p.m.?”
Gullberg went down to Stureplan and hailed a taxi. He gave the driver an address in the suburb of Bromma. When he was dropped off, he walked south one street and rang the doorbell of a small, semidetached house. A woman in her forties opened the door.
“Good afternoon. I’m looking for Fredrik Clinton.”
“Who should I say is here?”
“An old colleague.”
The woman nodded and showed him into the living room, where Clinton rose slowly from the sofa. He was only sixty-eight, but he looked much older. His ill health had taken a heavy toll.
“Gullberg,” Clinton said in surprise.
For a long moment they stood looking at each other. Then the two old agents embraced.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” Clinton said. He pointed to the front page of the evening paper, which had a photograph of Niedermann and the headline POLICE KILLER HUNTED IN DENMARK. “I assume that’s what’s brought you out here.”
“How are you?”
“I’m sick,” Clinton said.
“I can see that.”
“If I don’t get a new kidney I’m not long for this world. And the likelihood of my getting one in this people’s republic is pretty slim.”
The woman came to the living-room doorway and asked if Gullberg would like anything.
“A cup of coffee, thank you,” he said. When she was gone he turned to Clinton. “Who’s that?”
“My daughter.”
It was fascinating that despite the collegial atmosphere they had shared for so many years at the Section, hardly anyone socialized with each other in their free time. Gullberg knew the most minute character traits, strengths and weaknesses of all his colleagues, but he had only a vague notion of their family lives. Clinton had probably been Gullberg’s closest colleague for twenty years. He knew that he had been married and had children, but he did not know the daughter’s name, his late wife’s name, or even where Clinton usually spent his holidays. It was as if everything outside the Section were sacred, not to be discussed.
“What can I do for you?” asked Clinton.
“Can I ask you what you think of Wadensjöö.”
Clinton shook his head. “I don’t want to get into it.”
“That’s not what I asked. You know him. He worked with you for ten years.”
Clinton shook his head again. “He’s the one running the Section today. What I think is no longer of any interest.”
“Can he handle it?”
“He’s no idiot.”
“But?”
“He’s an analyst. Extremely good at puzzles. Instinctual. A brilliant administrator who balanced the budget, and did it in a way we didn’t think was possible.”
Gullberg nodded. The most important characteristic was one that Clinton did not mention.
“Are you ready to come back to work?”
Clinton looked up. He hesitated for a long time.
“Evert … I spend nine hours every other day on a dialysis machine at the hospital. I can’t go up stairs without gasping for breath. I simply have no energy. No energy at all.”
“I need you. One last operation.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. And you can still spend nine hours every other day on dialysis. You can take the lift instead of going up the stairs. I’ll even arrange for somebody to carry you back and forth on a stretcher if necessary. It’s your mind I need.”
Clinton sighed. “Tell me.”
“Right now we’re confronted with an exceptionally complicated situation that requires operational expertise. Wadensjöö has a young kid, still wet behind the ears, called Jonas Sandberg. He’s the entire operations department and I don’t think Wadensjöö has the drive to do what needs to be done. He might be a