Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [70]
As the situation developed, the futility of attempting suicide in the middle of a hospital became apparent. Gullberg was transported at top speed to the hospital’s trauma unit, where Dr Jonasson received him and immediately initiated a battery of measures to maintain his vital functions.
For the second time in less than a week Jonasson performed emergency surgery, extracting a full-metal-jacketed bullet from human brain tissue. After a five-hour operation, Gullberg’s condition was critical. But he was still alive.
Yet Gullberg’s injuries were considerably more serious than those that Salander had sustained. He hovered between life and death for several days.
Blomkvist was at the Kaffebar on Hornsgatan when he heard on the radio that a 66-year-old unnamed man, suspected of attempting to murder the fugitive Lisbeth Salander, had been shot and killed at Sahlgrenska hospital in Göteborg. He left his coffee untouched, picked up his laptop case, and hurried off towards the editorial offices on Götgatan. He had crossed Mariatorget and was just turning up St Paulsgatan when his mobile beeped. He answered on the run.
“Blomkvist.”
“Hi, it’s Malin.”
“I heard the news. Do we know who the killer was?”
“Not yet. Henry is chasing it down.”
“I’m on the way in. Be there in five minutes.”
Blomkvist ran into Cortez at the entrance to the Millennium offices.
“Ekström’s holding a press conference at 3.00,” Cortez said. “I’m going to Kungsholmen now.”
“What do we know?” Blomkvist shouted after him.
“Ask Malin,” Cortez said, and was gone.
Blomkvist headed into Berger’s … wrong, Eriksson’s office. She was on the telephone and writing furiously on a yellow Post-it. She waved him away. Blomkvist went into the kitchenette and poured coffee with milk into two mugs marked with the logos of the K.D.U. and S.S.U. political parties. When he returned she had just finished her call. He gave her the S.S.U. mug.
“Right,” she said. “Zalachenko was shot dead at 1.15.” She looked at Blomkvist. “I just spoke to a nurse at Sahlgrenska. She says that the murderer was a man in his seventies, who arrived with flowers for Zalachenko minutes before the murder. He shot Zalachenko in the head several times and then shot himself. Zalachenko is dead. The murderer is just about alive and in surgery.”
Blomkvist breathed more easily. Ever since he had heard the news at the Kaffebar he had had his heart in his throat and a panicky feeling that Salander might have been the killer. That really would have thrown a spanner in the works.
“Do we have the name of the assailant?”
Eriksson shook her head as the telephone rang again. She took the call, and from the conversation Blomkvist gathered that it was a stringer in Göteborg whom Eriksson had sent to Sahlgrenska. He went to his own office and sat down.
It felt as if it was the first time in weeks that he had even been to his office. There was a pile of unopened post that he shoved firmly to one side. He called his sister.
“Giannini.”
“It’s Mikael. Did you hear what happened at Sahlgrenska?”
“You could say so.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital. That bastard aimed at me, too.”
Blomkvist sat speechless for several seconds before he fully took in what his sister had said.
“What on earth… you were there?”
“Yes. It was the most horrendous thing I’ve ever experienced.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. But he tried to get into Lisbeth’s room. I blockaded the door and locked us in the bathroom.”
Blomkvist’s whole world suddenly felt off balance. His sister had almost…
“How is she?” he said.
“She’s not hurt. Or, I mean, she wasn’t hurt in today’s drama at least.”
He let that sink in.
“Annika, do you know anything at all about the murderer?”
“Not a thing. He was an older man, neatly dressed. I thought he looked rather bewildered. I’ve never seen him before, but I came up in the lift with him a few minutes before it all happened.”
“And Zalachenko is dead, no question?”
“Yes. I heard three shots, and according to what I’ve overheard he was shot in the head