He would come into the picture later; the hunt for her sister was being handled by Bogdanov and the rest of the gang. So far they had found nothing, not a trace. It was as if they were chasing a shadow, and to make matters worse they had lost yet another lead tonight. Earlier she had summoned Marko Sandström, Svavelsjö’s president, and he now walked into the living room with another of the thugs—Krille, she thought his name was—although she could hardly have cared less.
“I don’t want any excuses,” she said. “Just a factual account of how this could have happened.”
Sandström smiled nervously, and she liked that. He was as big and threatening as all the others in Svavelsjö. But at least he had the good taste not to wear a beard and long hair, and his stomach was a normal size. His face was almost beautiful, in fact, and Camilla could imagine sinking her fingernails into his chest, just as she had in the old days.
“You’re asking for the impossible,” Sandström said, trying to sound authoritative, although he could not help glancing at Galinov, who did not even look up. She liked that too.
She said:
“What’s impossible? I was only asking you not to let him out of your sight, that’s all.”
“Yes, around the clock,” Sandström said. “That takes resources, and we’re not talking about some nobody.”
“How. Could. This. Happen?” she said again, stressing each word.
“That fucker…” the one she thought was called Krille said.
Sandström interrupted him:
“Let me deal with this. Camilla—”
“Kira.”
“I’m sorry, Kira,” he went on. “Blomkvist rushed off in his motorboat yesterday afternoon. There was no way we could have followed him, and pretty soon the situation became uncomfortable. The island was crawling with policemen and soldiers, and we had no idea where he’d gone, so we split up. Jorma stayed in Sandhamn and Krille headed off to Bellmansgatan and waited there.”
“And that’s where Blomkvist showed up.”
“Late that evening, in a taxi. He seemed dead beat. There was nothing to suggest that he wasn’t simply going home to sleep, and I think we should really applaud Krille for having stuck with him. Blomkvist turned off his lights, but then came out of the building carrying a suitcase at 1:00 a.m. and walked towards the tunnelbana by Mariatorget. He never turned around once. When he got to the platform he sat down, his head in his hands.”
“It looked as if he was sick,” Krille added.
“Precisely,” Sandström said. “All that made us lower our guard. On the tunnelbana he leaned against the window and closed his eyes. He seemed completely knackered. But then…”
“Yes?”
“At Gamla Stan, just before the doors closed, he rocketed to his feet, dashed through the doors and vanished off the platform. We lost him.”
Kira did not say a word, not at first. She exchanged a look with Galinov, then she looked down at her hands and sat there, immobile. One of the first things she had learned was that silence and calm are more intimidating than any outburst, and even though she wanted to scream, she simply said in a dry and matter-of-fact way:
“This woman who was with Blomkvist out in Sandhamn. Have we identified her?”
“Absolutely. She’s Catrin Lindås, she lives at Nytorget 6. She’s a well-known media whore.”
“Does she mean anything to him?”
“Well…” Krille began.
Krille had a ponytail and small, watery eyes. He didn’t exactly look like an expert in matters of the heart. But he seemed keen to have a go.
“They looked to me to be in love. They were all over each other, all day long in the garden.”
“OK, good,” she said. “Then I want you to keep tabs on her as well.”
“Christ, Camilla…sorry, Kira. That’s asking a lot. That’s three addresses to keep an eye on,” Sandström said.
Once again she sat there in silence, and then she thanked them. She was glad when Galinov, tall as he was, rose to his feet and saw them out. He said a few words to them which at first may have seemed courteous, but later, once they had sunk in, would scare the living daylights out of them.
He was so very good at that kind of thing, and it was needed, she thought. Once again she had lost the initiative, and she looked around angrily. The apartment was 1,800 square feet, bought through dummy companies and front men two years earlier, and still too impersonal and sparsely furnished. But it would have to do, for want of anything better. She got up, and without knocking went into the corner room to the right, where Bogdanov was sitting crouched over his computers, stinking of sweat.
“How are you getting on with Blomkvist’s computer?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“I got into his server, like I told you.”
“But no further news?”
He shifted in his chair and she realized at once: He did not have any good news either.
“Yesterday Blomkvist was looking up Forsell, the Minister of Defence. That’s interesting, of course, not only because Forsell is one of the GRU’s targets and Galinov has had dealings with him in the past, but because yesterday the Minister tried—”
“I don’t give a shit about Forsell,” she snapped. “I’m only interested in the encrypted links Blomkvist received and forwarded.”
“I didn’t manage to crack them.”
“What do you mean you ‘didn’t manage’? You’ll just have to keep trying.”
Bogdanov bit his lip and looked down at the table.
“I’m no longer in there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Last night someone chucked out my trojan.”
“How the hell did that happen? I thought it was impossible to get at your trojans.”
“I know, but…”
He chewed at his cuticles.
“So it was some sort of fucking genius, you mean?” she hissed.
“Seems like it,” he agreed, and Kira was about to hit the ceiling when a completely different thought struck her. Instead of yelling and making a scene she smiled.
It had dawned on her that Lisbeth was closer than she had dared hope.
* * *
—
Blomkvist lay in bed in Hotel Hellsten on Luntmakargatan, while Salander sat in an armchair over by the window, looking at him absently. He had slept for barely two hours. It hadn’t been such a good idea to go there. It wasn’t as if it had been a romantic night, nor had they met up as old friends. The whole thing had gone off the rails from the moment they met in the doorway.