The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (72 page)

Blomkvist listened to the questioning of Birger Wadensjöö from an adjoining room. His presence had been the topic of a good deal of internal argument before Edklinth decided that he would probably have use for Blomkvist’s observation.

Blomkvist noticed that Edklinth was using a third variant on the police interrogator, the uninterested cop, which in this particular case seemed to be working even better. Edklinth strolled into the interrogation room, served coffee in china cups, turned on the tape recorder, and leaned back in his chair.

“This is how it is: we already have every conceivable forensic evidence against you. We have, accordingly, no interest whatsoever in hearing your story save as confirmation of what we already know. But the question we might want an answer to is: why? How could you be so idiotic as to decide to begin liquidating individuals in Sweden just as we saw happen in Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship? The tape is rolling. If you have anything to say, now is the time. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll turn off the tape recorder and then we’ll remove your tie and shoelaces and accommodate you in a cell upstairs while we wait for a lawyer, a trial, and in due course, sentencing.”

Edklinth then took a sip of coffee and sat in silence. When nothing was said for two minutes, he reached out and turned off the tape recorder. He stood up.

“I’ll see that you’re taken upstairs in a few minutes. Good evening.”

“I didn’t murder anyone,” Wadensjöö said when Edklinth had already opened the door. Edklinth paused on the threshold.

“I’m not interested in having a general discussion with you. If you want
to explain yourself, then I’ll sit down and turn the tape recorder back on. All of Swedish officialdom—and the prime minister in particular—is eagerly waiting to hear what you have to say. If you tell me, then I can go and see the prime minister tonight to give him your version of events. If you don’t tell me, you will be charged and convicted anyway.”

“Please sit down,” Wadensjöö said.

It was evident to everyone that he was resigned to his fate. Blomkvist exhaled. He was there with Figuerola, Prosecutor Gustavsson, the otherwise anonymous Säpo officer Stefan, and two other altogether nameless individuals. Blomkvist suspected that one of them at least was there to represent the minister of justice.

“I had nothing to do with the murders,” Wadensjöö said when Edklinth started the tape recorder again.

“Murders?”
Blomkvist whispered to Figuerola.

“Ssshh,” she said.

“It was Clinton and Gullberg. I had no idea what they intended. I swear. I was utterly shocked when I heard that Gullberg had shot Zalachenko. I couldn’t believe it. . . . I simply couldn’t believe it. And when I heard about Björck I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

“Tell me about Björck’s murder,” Edklinth said without altering his tone. “How was it carried out?”

“Clinton hired some people. I don’t even know how it happened, but it was two Yugoslavs. Serbs, if I’m not mistaken. Georg Nyström gave them the contract and paid them afterwards. When I found out, I knew it would end in disaster.”

“Should we take this from the beginning?” Edklinth said. “When did you first start working for the Section?”

Once Wadensjöö had begun to talk he could not be stopped. The interview lasted for almost five hours.

Teleborian’s appearance inspired confidence as he sat in the witness box in the courtroom on Friday morning. He was questioned by Prosecutor Ekström for some ninety minutes, and he replied with calm authority to every question. The expression on his face was sometimes concerned and sometimes amused.

“To sum up,” Ekström said, leafing through his sheaf of papers, “it is your judgement as a psychiatrist of long standing that Lisbeth Salander suffers from paranoid schizophrenia?”

“I have said that it is unusually difficult to make a precise evaluation of her condition. The patient is, as you know, almost autistic in her relation to doctors and other figures of authority. My assessment is that she suffers from a serious mental disorder, but that at the present time I cannot give an exact diagnosis. Nor can I determine what stage of the psychosis she is in without more extensive study.”

“At any rate, you don’t consider her to be sane.”

“Indeed her entire history presents most compelling proof that she is not.”

“You have been allowed to read what Lisbeth Salander has termed her ‘autobiography,’ which she has presented to the district court. What are your comments on this?”

Teleborian threw up his hands and shrugged.

“How would you judge the credibility of her account?”

“There is no credibility. It is a series of assertions about various individuals, one story more fantastical than the other. Taken as a whole, her written explanation confirms our suspicions that she suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.”

“Could you give an example?”

“The most obvious is of course the description of the alleged rape by her guardian Advokat Bjurman.”

“Could you expand on that?”

“The description is extremely detailed. It is a classic example of the sort of grotesque fantasy that children are capable of. There are plenty of parallel examples from familial incest cases in which the child gives an account which falls through due to its utter improbability, and for which there is no forensic evidence. These are erotic fantasies which even children of a very young age can have . . . almost as if they were watching a horror film on television.”

“But Lisbeth Salander is not a child; she is a grown woman,” Ekström said.

“That is correct. Although it remains to be seen exactly what her mental level may be. But basically you are correct. She is a grown woman, and presumably she believes in the account she has presented.”

“So you’re saying it is all lies.”

“No. If she believes what she says, then it is not a lie. It’s a story which shows that she cannot distinguish fantasy from reality.”

“So she was not raped by Advokat Bjurman?”

“No. There is no likelihood of that at all. She needs expert care.”

“You yourself appear in Lisbeth Salander’s account—”

“Yes, and that is rather intriguing. But once again, it’s a figment of her imagination. If we are to believe the poor girl, then I’m something approximate to a paedophile.” He smiled and continued. “But this is all just another expression of what I was speaking of before. In Salander’s autobiography we are told that she was abused by being placed in restraints for long spells at St. Stefan’s. And that I came to her room at night . . . This is a classic manifestation of her inability to interpret reality; or rather, she is giving reality her own interpretation.”

“Thank you. I leave it to the defence, if Fru Giannini has any questions.”

Since Giannini had not had many questions or objections during the first two days of the trial, those in the courtroom expected that she would once again ask some obligatory questions and then bring the questioning to an end.
This really is an embarrassingly deficient effort by the defence
, Ekström thought.

“Yes, I do,” Giannini said. “I do in fact have a number of questions, and they may take some time. It’s 11:30 now. May I propose that we break for lunch, and that I be allowed to carry out my cross-examination of the witness after lunch without interruption?”

Judge Iversen agreed that the court should adjourn for lunch.

•    •    •

Andersson was accompanied by two uniformed officers when he placed his huge hand on Superintendent Nyström’s shoulder outside the Mäster Anders restaurant on Hantverkargatan at noon precisely. Nyström looked up in amazement at the man who was shoving his police ID right under his nose.

“Hello. You’re under arrest, suspected of being an accessory to murder and attempted murder. The charges will be explained to you by the prosecutor general at a hearing this afternoon. I suggest that you come along peacefully,” he said.

Nyström did not seem to process what Andersson was saying, but he could see that he was a man you went along with without protest.

Inspector Bublanski was accompanied by Modig and seven uniformed officers when Stefan Bladh of the Constitutional Protection Unit admitted them at exactly noon into the locked section that comprised the domain of the Security Police at Kungsholmen. They walked through the halls behind Bladh until he stopped and pointed at an office door. The chief of Secretariat’s assistant looked up and was utterly perplexed when Bublanski held up his ID.

“Kindly remain where you are. This is a police action.”

He strode to the inner door. Chief of Secretariat Albert Shenke was on the phone.

“What is this interruption?” Shenke said.

“I am Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski. You are under arrest for violation of the Swedish constitution. There is a long list of specific points in the charge, all of which will be explained to you this afternoon.”

“This is outrageous,” Shenke said.

“It most certainly is,” Bublanski said.

He had Shenke’s office sealed and then placed two officers on guard outside the door, with instructions to let no-one cross the threshold. They had permission to use their batons and even draw their service weapons if anyone tried to enter the sealed office by force.

They continued their procession down the hall until Bladh pointed to another door, and the procedure was repeated with Chief of Budget Gustav Atterbom.

•    •    •

Inspector Holmberg had the Södermalm armed response team as backup when at exactly noon he knocked on the door of an office rented temporarily on the fourth floor just across the street from
Millennium
’s offices on Götgatan.

Since no-one opened the door, Holmberg ordered the Södermalm police to force the lock, but the door was opened a crack before the crowbar was used.

“Police,” Holmberg said. “Come out with your hands up.”

“I’m a policeman myself,” Inspector Mårtensson said.

“I know. And you have licences for a great many guns.”

“Yes, well . . . I’m on assignment.”

“I think not,” Holmberg said.

He accepted the assistance of his colleagues in placing Mårtensson against the wall so he could confiscate his service weapon.

“You are under arrest for illegal telephone tapping, gross dereliction of duty, repeated break-ins at Mikael Blomkvist’s apartment on Bellmansgatan, and additional counts. Handcuff him.”

Holmberg took a swift look around the room and saw that there was enough electronic equipment to furnish a recording studio. He detailed an officer to guard the premises, but told him to sit still on a chair so he would not leave any fingerprints.

As Mårtensson was being led through the front door of the building, Cortez took a series of twenty-two photographs with his Nikon. He was, of course, no professional photographer, and the quality left something to be desired. But the best images were sold the next day to an evening newspaper for an obscene sum of money.

Figuerola was the only police officer participating in the day’s raids who encountered an unexpected incident. She had backup from the Norrmalm team and three colleagues from SIS when at noon she walked through the front door of the building on Artillerigatan and went up the stairs to the top-floor apartment, registered in the name of Bellona Inc.

The operation had been planned on short notice. As soon as the group was assembled outside the door of the apartment, she gave the go-ahead. Two burly officers from the Norrmalm team raised an eighty-five-pound steel battering ram and opened the door with two well-aimed blows. The team, equipped with bulletproof vests and assault rifles, took control of the apartment within ten seconds of the door’s being forced.

According to surveillance carried out at dawn, five individuals identified
as members of the Section had arrived at the apartment that morning. All five were apprehended and put in handcuffs.

Figuerola was wearing a bulletproof vest. She went through the apartment, which had been the headquarters of the Section since the sixties, and flung open one door after another. She was going to need an archaeologist to sort through the reams and reams of paper that filled the rooms.

A few seconds after she entered the apartment, she opened the door to a small room towards the back and discovered that it was used for overnight stays. She found herself eye to eye with Jonas Sandberg. He had been a question mark during that morning’s assignment of tasks, as the surveillance officer detailed to watch him had lost track of him the evening before. His car had been parked on Kungsholmen and he had not been home to his apartment during the night. This morning they had not expected to locate and apprehend him.

They man the place at night for security reasons. Of course. And Sandberg sleeps over after the night shift
.

Sandberg had on only his underpants and seemed to be dazed with sleep. He reached for his service weapon on the bedside table, but Figuerola bent over and swept the weapon away from him onto the floor.

“Jonas Sandberg, you are under arrest as a suspect and accessory to the murders of Gunnar Björck and Alexander Zalachenko, and as an accomplice in the attempted murders of Mikael Blomkvist and Erika Berger. Now get your trousers on.”

Sandberg threw a punch at Figuerola. She blocked it instinctively.

“You must be joking,” she said. She took hold of his arm and twisted his wrist so hard that he was forced backwards to the floor. She flipped him over onto his stomach and put her knee in the small of his back. She handcuffed him herself. It was the first time she had used handcuffs on an assignment since she began at SIS.

She handed Sandberg over to one of the backup team and continued her passage through the apartment until she opened the last door, at the very back. According to the blueprints, this was a small cubbyhole looking out onto the courtyard. She stopped in the doorway and looked at the most emaciated figure she had ever seen. She did not for one second doubt that here was a person who was mortally ill.

“Fredrik Clinton, you are under arrest as an accomplice to murder, for attempted murder, and for a long list of further crimes,” she said. “Stay where you are in bed. We’ve called an ambulance to take you to Kungsholmen.”