He looked down at the floor, shutting out the world around him. Yet he still detected something out of the corner of his eye and turned to see the back of a tall, slender woman in a grey jacket over by the ATM next to the pharmacist’s.
Wasn’t that Becka? It definitely was Rebecka. He recognized her posture, the way she leaned forward. Should he go up and say a few words? No, no, he thought. This was an opportunity to snatch a few words with Johannes in private, without all the rigmarole about classified information, and he walked towards the lifts. He took a quick look back, having had the impression that she was not alone. But she was gone.
Had he been mistaken? Perhaps he had, and he was just about to step into the lift when he noticed the large column beside the ATM. Surely she wasn’t hiding from him? How crazy would that be? He could not help feeling uneasy and began to walk towards the pillar, a little hesitantly at first, then more quickly. There really was something sticking out, and it looked like Rebecka’s grey jacket.
He thought about what he should say to her, he even got angry—how silly to try to hide—when suddenly he tripped and fell. Before he had time to realize what had happened he sensed a movement nearby and heard footsteps running away. He cursed, picked himself up and hurried after them.
PART III
SERVING TWO MASTERS
AUGUST 27–SEPTEMBER 9
Secret agents, double agents, spies: sometimes their mission from the start is to infiltrate the enemy and to contrive smokescreens. Not infrequently they are turned politically, or submit to threats or inducements.
In some cases, their ultimate allegiance is not crystal clear. Sometimes even they do not know where they stand.
CHAPTER 25
August 27
Catrin Lindås had still had nothing to eat, she had only drunk some tea and read up on Forsell and the Everest expedition, and time and again she cast her mind back to her encounter with the beggar in Mariatorget, as if it were a riddle she needed to solve. Each time his outbursts sounded more and more desperate.
She remembered other things too, painful memories, the end of her childhood journey to India and Nepal when things went from bad to worse and eventually they left Kathmandu for the Khumbu. They did not get very far. Pappa’s withdrawal symptoms became too severe. They did manage to make friends among the local population up there and, after going over Blomkvist’s text message several times in her mind, she began to wonder if she had not recognized the beggar from the Khumbu Valley as much as from Freak Street. She sent Blomkvist one more question, even though he had not answered her first:
<Was the beggar a Sherpa?>
The answer came right back:
<Shouldn’t be talking to you. ☺ You’re with the competition>
<Well, your latest text was pretty revealing> she wrote.
<I’m an idiot>
<And I’m the enemy>
<Quite. You should be focusing on skewering me in your editorials>
<I’m sharpening my sword>
<Miss you> he wrote.
Stop it, she thought. Stop it. Then, reluctantly, she smiled. At last. But she was not going to go there, definitely not. Instead she went into the kitchen to tidy up, and put on Emmylou Harris so loudly that her cat raced into the bedroom. When she got back to the sitting room and picked up her mobile, she saw another text from Blomkvist.
<Let’s meet up>
No way, she thought. No way.
<Where?> she wrote.
<Let’s do this on Signal>
They went onto Signal.
<What about Hotel Lydmar?> he suggested.
<OK> she replied. Not “Hey, great idea, nice place!” nothing like that, only “OK.”
Then she changed and asked the neighbour to look after the cat, and began to pack.
* * *
—
Camilla was standing on the balcony and felt the rain falling on her shoulders and hands. Still, she was glad to be outside. Along Strandvägen and on the boats out there in the bay, a life was going on that should by rights have been hers, but now reminded her only of how much had been stolen from her. This cannot go on, she thought. It has to end.
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, and raindrops fell on her forehead and lips, and as she tried to escape into her dreams, she kept being drawn back to Lundagatan, and Agneta shouting at her to go away, and Lisbeth shutting up like a clam as if she wanted to kill them all with her silence, her grim rage.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Galinov had joined her on the terrace and she turned to look at him, at his gentle smile and his beautiful face. He drew her to him.
“My girl,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She looked down at the quay.
“Don’t worry, everything’ll be OK,” he said.
She searched his eyes.
“Has something happened?”
“We have visitors.”
“Who?”
“Your charming bandits.”
She nodded and went back into the apartment and saw Sandström and some other pathetic creature in jeans and a cheap brown jacket. The creature looked bruised, as if he had been given a beating. He was at least six-six and disgustingly bloated, and he turned out to be called Conny.
“Conny has something to tell us,” Sandström said.
“So, get on with it then?”
“I was watching Blomkvist’s apartment,” Andersson said.
“That obviously went well.”
“He was attacked,” Sandström said.
She looked at his split lip.
“Was he now?”
“By Salander.”
In Russian she said:
“Ivan, Conny here is taller than you, right?”
“He’s certainly heavier,” Galinov said. “And not quite as well dressed.”
She continued in Swedish. “My sister is just five feet tall and as thin as a rake, and she…beat the shit out of you.”
“She took me by surprise.”