It was shockingly cold. He swam down below the surface and looked around, but he could not see anything at all. It was hopeless, and after a minute he went back up to the surface and caught his breath. He saw that his boat had already drifted far away, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He dived again, in the opposite direction this time, and caught sight of a body some way off, apparently lifeless and sinking like a pillar. He swam towards it and grabbed the man under his arms. He was as heavy as lead, unwieldy. Blomkvist gave it all he had and kicked hard as he tried to swim, and slowly, inch by inch, he bore the man up. But he had got the physics wrong.
If he could only get the body to the surface, he had thought, everything would be easier. But it felt as if he were carrying a tree trunk. The man was in a bad way and even heavier above water. He was showing no signs of life at all, and Blomkvist realized how far out in the bay he was. He would never make it back to shore with the body. But he couldn’t give up. A long time ago, in his youth, he had been on a life-saving course. He kept trying to change the way he held on to the man, to get a better grip.
But he just felt heavier and heavier, and Blomkvist was struggling hard, beginning to inhale water. His muscles were cramping. That was it. He would have to let the man go, or he himself would be dragged into the depths. One moment he was going to give up, and the next he felt he could not. He struggled on until everything went black.
CHAPTER 17
August 26
It was late and Bublanski was still in his office at police headquarters, surfing the news sites. Defence Minister Forsell was in a coma in intensive care at the Karolinska hospital, having nearly drowned. His condition was described as critical. Even if he were to regain consciousness, there was a risk he had suffered brain damage. There was talk of that, and of cardiac arrest, osmotic pulmonary edema and hypothermia, as well as arrhythmia. Things were not looking good.
The serious media were suggesting that it could have been a suicide attempt, which must have been leaked by some insider. It was widely known that Forsell was an excellent swimmer, in which case the most reasonable explanation would be that he had overestimated his capabilities, gone too far out and got caught in the freezing currents. But it was impossible to know for sure. There were reports that he had been saved by a man with a motorboat, and then picked up by a boat from the Sea Rescue Society. He had been taken to hospital by helicopter.
Beneath these stories were articles praising Forsell as a “strong and enterprising minister who had stood up for fundamental human values.” They sounded like obituaries. He had, they said, “battled intolerance and destructive nationalism” and been an “incurable optimist who had always sought out the middle ground.” The articles mentioned that he had been the victim of a “deeply unjust hate campaign,” which could be traced back to troll factories in Russia.
“About time someone said that,” Bublanski muttered, and nodded in agreement while reading a column by Catrin Lindås in Svenska Dagbladet, in which she argued that this was a logical consequence of the “mood in a society that encourages witch-hunts and the demonization of people.”
Then he turned to Inspector Modig, who was sitting in the worn armchair next to him, her laptop on her knee.
“Well, Sonja,” he said. “Are we getting anywhere with our story?”
Modig looked up at him, somewhat at a loss.
“I can’t say we are, really. We haven’t found Heikki Järvinen yet, but I’ve been speaking to one of the doctors who took care of Nima Rita in the mental health clinic in Kathmandu, the one Blomkvist mentioned.”
“And what did he say?”
“She said that Nima Rita had developed severe psychosis and was hearing voices and cries for help. He was desperate because he couldn’t do anything about them. Her impression was that he was constantly reliving something.”
“What sort of thing, could she say?”
“Things he had experienced on the mountain, times when he’d felt inadequate. She said that they tried to medicate him and give him electroconvulsive therapy, but it was hard.”
“Did you ask if he’d talked about Forsell?”
“She recognized the name, but that’s all. He had mostly spoken about his wife and Stan Engelman, of whom he was frightened. I think that’s something we should follow up. Apparently this Engelman’s pretty unscrupulous. But I heard something else that’s interesting too.”
“What’s that?”
“After the drama on Everest in 2008, the journalists all wanted to speak to Nima Rita. But that interest soon petered out. It became known that he was sick and confused and he was more or less forgotten. But as the tenth anniversary approached he was contacted by someone called Lilian Henderson, a journalist with The Atlantic, who was writing a book about the drama. Lilian tried to interview Nima at the hospital, by telephone.”
“What did she find out?”
“Actually nothing, from what I understand. But she and Nima Rita agreed to meet up since she was coming to Nepal to do some research. Except that, by the time she got there, he was already gone, and at the end of the day no book ever materialized. The publishers were afraid of being sued.”
“By whom?”
“By Engelman.”
“What was he so scared of?”
“That’s what I think we ought to find out.”
“So are we absolutely certain that the beggar and this Nima Rita are one and the same person?” Bublanski said.
“I’d say so. Far too many things match up, and apparently there’s a genuine physical likeness.”
“How did Blomkvist find this out?”
“All I know is what he wrote to you. I’ve tried to reach him. But no-one seems to know where he is, not even Erika Berger. She says she’s worried. They’d just been talking about doing a profile on Forsell, and ever since the accident she’s been frantically trying to get hold of him.”
“Doesn’t he have a place out on Sandön as well?”
“Yes, at Sandhamn.”
“Could Must or Säpo have got their hands on him? The whole thing seems very hush-hush.”
“It is. We’ve informed military high command, but they haven’t got back to us. And we don’t know either if Blomkvist’s told us everything. Maybe he really did find a connection between the Sherpa and Forsell.”
“Don’t you find this whole story distasteful?” Bublanski said.
“How do you mean?”
“Forsell criticizes Russia and accuses them of interfering with the Swedish electoral process and suddenly he’s hated by everybody and up to his neck in lies, and driven to the depths of despair. Then, hey presto, a dead Sherpa appears from nowhere and the finger points straight at Forsell. I have the feeling someone’s trying to set him up.”