The Girl in the Spider's Web (Millennium series Book 4) (25 page)

Someone on Sveavägen might have recognized her; the police might already be turning everything upside down to find her. She needed a new hiding place, not linked to any of her identities, and so she needed help. But from whom? Holger?

Her former guardian, Holger Palmgren, had almost recovered from his stroke and was living in a two-room apartment on Liljeholmstorget. Holger was the only person who really knew her. He was loyal to a fault and would do everything in his power to help. But he was elderly and anxious and she did not want to drag him into this if she could help it.

There was Blomkvist of course, and in fact there was nothing wrong with him. Still, she was reluctant to contact him again – perhaps
precisely
because there was nothing wrong with him. He was such a damn good person. But what the hell … you could hardly hold that against him, or at least not too much. She called his mobile. He picked up after just one ring, sounding alarmed.

“It’s such a relief to hear your voice! What the hell has happened?”

“I can’t tell you now.”

“It looks like one of you’s been shot. There’s blood here.”

“The boy’s O.K.”

“And you?”

“I’m O.K.”

“You’ve been shot.”

“You’ll have to wait, Blomkvist.”

She looked out at the town and saw that they were close to Västerbron already. She turned to the driver:

“Pull up there, by the bus stop.”

“Are you getting out?”

“
You’re
getting out. You’re going to give me your mobile and wait outside while I talk. Is that clear?”

He glanced at her, terrified, then passed back his mobile, stopped the car and got out. Salander continued her conversation.

“What’s going on?” Blomkvist said.

“Don’t you worry about that,” she said. “From now on I want you to carry an Android phone with you, a Samsung or something. You must have one at the office?”

“Yes, I think there are a couple.”

“Good. So go straight into Google Play and install the Redphone app and also the Threema app for text messaging. We need a secure line of communication.”

“Right.”

“If you’re as much of an idiot as I think you are, whoever helps you do it has to remain anonymous. I don’t want any weak links.”

“Of course.”

“And then …”

“Yes?”

“Only use it in an emergency. All other communication should be through a special link on your computer. You or the person who isn’t an idiot needs to go into www.pgpi.org and download an encryption program for your emails. I want you to do that right now, then I want you to find a safe hiding place for the boy and me – somewhere not connected to you
or
Millennium
– and let me have the address in an encrypted email.”

“It’s not your job to keep the boy safe, Lisbeth.”

“I don’t trust the police.”

“Then we’ll have to find someone else you
do
trust. The boy is autistic, he has special needs. I don’t think you should be responsible for him, especially not if you’re wounded …”

“Are you going to keep talking crap or do you want to help me?”

“Help you of course.”

“Good. Check
LISBETH STUFF
in five minutes. I’ll give you more information there. Then delete it.”

“Lisbeth, listen to me, you need to get to a hospital. You need to be fixed up. I can tell by your voice …”

She hung up, waved the young man back in from the bus stop, got out her laptop and through her mobile hacked into Blomkvist’s computer. She wrote out instructions on how to download and install the encryption program.

She then told the man to drive her to Mosebacke torg. It was a risk, but she had no choice. The city was beginning to look more and more blurred.

Blomkvist swore under his breath. He was standing on Sveavägen, not far from the body of Torkel Lindén and the cordon which the police who had been first on the scene were putting in place. Ever since Salander’s original call he had been engaged in a frenzy of activity. He had thrown himself into a taxi to get here and had done everything he could during the trip to stop the boy and the director from walking out onto the street.

The only other member of staff he had managed to get hold of at Oden’s Medical Centre was Birgitta Lindgren, who had rushed into the hallway only to see her colleague fall against the door with a fatal bullet wound to his head. When Blomkvist arrived ten minutes later she was beside herself, but she and another woman by the name of Ulrika Franzén, who had been on her way to the offices of Albert Bonniers the publishers further up the street, had still been able to give Blomkvist a pretty coherent account of what had happened.

Which was why Blomkvist knew, even before his mobile rang again, that Salander had saved August Balder’s life. She and the boy were now in some car with a driver who had no reason to be enthusiastic about helping them having been shot at. Blomkvist had seen the blood on the pavement and in the street and, even though the call reassured him somewhat, he was still extremely concerned. Salander had sounded in a bad way and yet – no surprise there – she had been as pig-headed as ever.

She had a gunshot wound, but she was determined to hide the boy herself. That was understandable, given her history, but should he and the magazine get involved? However heroic her actions on Sveavägen, what she had done might from a legal point of view be seen as kidnapping. He could not help her with that. He was already in trouble with the media as well as the public prosecutor.

But this was Salander after all, and he had given his word. He would damn well help her, even if Berger threw a fit. He took a deep breath and pulled out his mobile. But a familiar voice was calling out behind him. It was Jan Bublanski. Bublanski came running along the pavement looking as if he were close to physical collapse, and with him were Detective Sergeant Modig and a tall, athletic man in his fifties, presumably the professor Salander had mentioned.

“Where’s the boy?” Bublanski panted.

“He was whisked away in a big red Volvo, somebody rescued him.”

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Blomkvist said, not sure what he would or should say. “But first I have to make a call.”

“Oh no, first you’re going to talk to us. We have to send out a nationwide alert.”

“Talk to that lady over there. Her name is Ulrika Franzén. She knows more than I do. She saw it happen, she’s even got some sort of description of the assailant. I arrived after it happened.”

“And the man who saved the boy?”

“The
woman
who saved him. Fru Franzén has a description of her as well. But just give me a minute here …”

“How did you know something was going to happen in the first place,” Modig spat, with unexpected anger. “They said on the radio that you had called the emergency services before any shots were fired.”

“I had a tip-off.”

“From whom?”

Blomkvist took another deep breath and looked Modig straight in the eye, unmoveable as ever.

“Whatever may have been written in today’s papers, I hope you realize that I want to cooperate with you in every way I can.”

“I’ve always trusted you, Mikael. But I’m beginning to have my doubts,” Modig said.

“O.K., I understand that. But you have to understand that
I
don’t trust
you
either. There’s been a serious leak – you’ve grasped that much, haven’t you? Otherwise this wouldn’t have happened,” he said, pointing at the prone body inside the cordon.

“That’s true, and it’s absolutely terrible,” Bublanski said.

“I’m going to make my call now,” Blomkvist said, and he walked up the street so he could talk undisturbed.

But he never made any call. He realised that the time had come to get serious about security, so he walked back and informed Bublanski and Modig that he had to go to his office immediately, but he was at their disposal whenever they needed him. At that moment, to her own surprise, Modig took hold of his arm.

“First you have to tell us how you knew that something was going to happen,” she said firmly.

“I’m afraid I have to invoke my right to protect my sources,” Blomkvist answered with a pained smile.

Then he waved down a taxi and took off for the office, deep in thought.
Millennium
usually used Tech Source, a consultancy firm with a team of young women who gave the magazine quick and efficient help whenever they had more complex I.T. issues. But he did not want to bring them in now. Nor did he feel like turning to Christer Malm, even though he knew more about I.T. than anyone on the editorial team. Instead he thought of Zander, who was already involved in the story and was also great with computers. Blomkvist decided to ask for his help, and promised himself that he would fight to get the boy a permanent job – just as soon as he and Berger had managed to sort out this mess.

Berger’s morning had been a nightmare even before shots were fired on Sveavägen, and that was due to the sickening T.T. bulletin. To some extent it was a continuation of the old campaign against Blomkvist – all the jealous, twisted souls came crawling out of the woodwork again, spewing their bile on Twitter and online forums and in emails. This time the racist mob had joined in, because
Millennium
had been in the forefront of the battles against xenophobia and racism for many years.

The worst part was surely that this hate campaign made it so much more difficult for everyone to do their jobs. All of a sudden people were less inclined to share information with the magazine. On top of that there was a rumour that Chief Prosecutor Ekström was planning to issue a search warrant for the magazine’s offices. Berger did not really believe it. That kind of warrant was a serious matter, given the right to source protection.

But she did agree with Malm that the present toxic atmosphere would give even lawyers ludicrous ideas about how they should act. She was standing there thinking about how to retaliate when Blomkvist stepped into the offices. To her surprise, he did not want to talk to her. Instead he went straight to Zander and ushered him into her room.

After a while she followed. She found the young man looking tense. She heard Blomkvist mention “P.G.P.” She had been on an I.T. security course so she knew what that meant, and she saw Zander making notes before, without so much as a glance in her direction, he made a beeline for Blomkvist’s laptop in the open-plan office.

“What was all that about?” she said.

Blomkvist told her in a whisper. She could barely take it in, and he had to repeat himself.

“So you want me to find a hiding place for them?”

“Sorry to drag you into this, Erika,” he said. “But I don’t know anyone who has as many friends with summer houses as you do.”

“I don’t know, Mikael. I really don’t know.”

“We can’t let them down. Salander has been shot. The situation is desperate.”

“If she’s been shot, she should go to a hospital.”

“She won’t. She wants to protect the boy at all costs.”

“To give him the calm he needs to draw the murderer.”

“Yes.”

“It’s too great a responsibility, Mikael, too great a risk. If something happens, the fallout would destroy the magazine. Witness protection is not our job. This is something for the police – just think of all the questions that will be thrown up by those drawings, both for the investigation and on a psychological level. There has to be another solution.”

“Maybe – if we were dealing with someone other than Lisbeth Salander.”

“You know what? I get really pissed off with the way you always defend her.”

“I’m only trying to be realistic. The authorities have let the Balder boy down and put his life in danger – I know that infuriates Salander.”

“So we just have to go along with it, is that it?”

“We don’t have a choice. She’s out there somewhere, hopping mad, and has nowhere to go.”

“Take them to Sandhamn then.”

“There’s too much of a connection between Lisbeth and me. If it comes out that it’s her, they would search my addresses straight away.”

“O.K. then.”

“O.K. then, what?”

“O.K., I’ll find something.”

She could hardly believe she was saying it. That was how it was with Blomkvist – she was incapable of saying no – but there was no limit to what he would do for her either.

“Great, Ricky. Where?”

She tried to think, but her mind was a blank. She could not come up with a single name.

“I’m racking my brains,” she said.

“Well, do it quickly, then give the address and directions to Andrei. He knows what to do.”

Berger needed some air and so she went down into Götgatan and walked in the direction of Medborgarplatsen, running through one name after another in her mind. But not one of them felt right. There was too much at stake, and everyone she thought of was in some way not right or had some drawback or even if not she was reluctant to expose them to the risk or put them to the trouble by asking, perhaps because she herself was so upset by the situation. On the other hand … here was a small boy and people were trying to kill him and she had promised. She had to come up with something.

A police siren wailed in the distance and she looked over towards the park and the Tunnelbana station and at the mosque on the hill. A young man went by, surreptitiously shuffling some papers, and then suddenly – Gabriella Grane. At first the name surprised her. Grane was not a close friend and she worked at a place where it was unwise to flout any laws. Grane would risk losing her job if she so much as thought about this, and yet … Berger could not get it out of her head.

It was not just that Grane was an exceptionally good and responsible person. A memory also kept intruding. It was from last summer, in the early hours of the morning or maybe even at daybreak after a crayfish party out at Grane’s summer house on Ingarö island, when the two had been sitting in a garden swing on the terrace looking down at the water through a gap in the trees.

“This is where I’d run to if the hyenas were after me,” Berger had said, without really knowing what she meant. She had been feeling tired and vulnerable at work, and there was something about that house which she thought would make it an ideal place of refuge.