Blomkvist knew nothing except that it was probably all to do with Nima Rita and Everest, but he was certain there were other cards in play that he had no idea about, maybe a Russian trail—the whole of Forsell’s life suggested Russia—or connections to Engelman in Manhattan?
Time would tell. He would no doubt find out soon and he felt a tremendous excitement. This is big, he thought, really big. But in truth he was not even sure about that. He needed to keep a cool head. He took out his mobile to send Catrin a message via Signal:
<Sorry, had a foul day, but I’ll be there any moment now and btw, sorry again, you’ve got to help me with something else too. You’ll get information soon. I’ll explain. Can’t wait. Hugs, M>
Then he remembered the message that had come in just before the telephone call. He read it and thought, this is odd. It was almost like an answer to his questions, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the conversation he had just ended or if, on the contrary, it might be something from the other side, if indeed there were sides in this affair.
<A little bird has told me you’re interested in what happened on Everest in May 2008. I suggest you take a look at Viktor Grankin, the expedition guide, who died on the mountain. His background is a lot more interesting than people realize. That is where you’ll find the key to all this. Grankin was the reason Johannes Forsell was expelled from Russia in the autumn of 2008.
There are no official sources, but with your experience I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding out that his CV is a fake, no more than a façade. I happen to be in Stockholm right now, staying at the Grand Hôtel. I’d be happy to meet you and tell you what I know, I have documentary evidence.
I stay up late, a bad habit of mine, I’m afraid. Plus jet lag.
Charles>
Charles? Who the hell was Charles? This smacked of U.S. intelligence. But equally it could be something wildly different, a trap even. It was troubling that the man should be staying at the Grand Hôtel, just across the water from where he was standing, and very close to the Lydmar. Then again, nearly all rich or important foreigners stay at the Grand—Ed the Ned from the NSA was a case in point, so perhaps there was nothing suspicious about that coincidence.
But still he did not feel comfortable about it. No, Mr. Charles would have to wait. What had happened was more than enough for him to deal with and he felt bad about Catrin, so he hurried past the Grand to the Lydmar and raced up the stairs.
CHAPTER 27
August 27–28, Night
Rebecka Forsell had no idea what she had set in motion or what the consequences would be for her and the boys, but she saw no other way forward. It was no longer possible to remain silent, not about this.
Now she was sitting with a glass of wine in the brown armchair, deep in contemplation, aware of her husband and Kowalski whispering away in the kitchen. Was more that was crucial being kept from her? She was pretty sure it was, and she even doubted whether all that she had heard was true. But she did feel that she now understood what had happened on Everest. There was an irrefutable logic to the story and she thought about how little they had really known, not only then at Base Camp but also afterwards, when the witness statements were collected.
She knew that Nima Rita had climbed up twice to bring down Mads Larsen and Charlotte Richter, but not that he had gone up a third time, a fact which he never once mentioned during the interviews or the subsequent investigation. It did, however, explain why Susan Wedlock, the head of their group at Base Camp, was not able to get hold of him that evening.
According to Forsell’s account, it would by then have been past eight in the evening. Darkness was not far off and the cold, ferocious conditions were soon to deteriorate further. But Nima walked straight back into it, in a desperate attempt to bring down Klara Engelman. He was himself already in a bad way. The figure Forsell saw emerging from the fog and the snow was stumbling along with his head bent against the storm, as ever without an oxygen mask; all he had was a headlamp whose light darted about in the snow. His cheeks were frostbitten. He did not see Forsell and Lindberg until he was almost upon them. To them he was a godsend, once it dawned on them that it really was him in the flesh. Forsell could hardly stand upright. He was about to become the third victim on the mountain that evening. But Nima Rita paid no attention to that. “Must get Mamsahib” is all he said. “Must get Mamsahib.” Lindberg shouted to him that it was pointless, that she was dead. But Nima would not listen, not even when Lindberg bellowed:
“Then you’ll be killing us. You’re saving a dead person instead of us—we’re alive!”
Nima just walked on, up the face. He vanished into the storm with his down jacket flapping, and that was what did it. Forsell collapsed and was unable to get up, either by himself or with Lindberg’s help. He had no idea what happened next or how long it took, only that darkness fell and he was freezing, and Lindberg was yelling:
“For Christ’s sake, Johannes, I don’t want to leave you. But I have to, I’m sorry, otherwise we’ll both die.”
Lindberg laid a hand on his head, and stood up. Forsell realized that he was going to be abandoned. He would freeze to death. But then he heard the shouts, those inhuman howls. As he told her this, Rebecka thought, It’s not so bad after all. It was not pretty, but it was a human response and the usual rules did not apply up there. There were different standards on the mountain and Forsell had done nothing wrong, not then.
He had been too exhausted even to grasp what was going on, and that was why, regardless of what happened later, she wanted him to talk to a reporter like Blomkvist, someone who was capable of burrowing deep into the story, following all of its meandering paths and plumbing its psychological depths. But maybe that was a mistake. Maybe there were things which she was not aware of yet, things which were even worse.
She could not rule it out, especially with Johannes whispering so agitatedly in the kitchen and Kowalski shaking his head and throwing his arms out. Christ, what an idiot she had been. Perhaps they should try to bury the whole affair, keep their mouths shut—for the sake of the boys. For her sake. Oh, God help them, and she cursed her husband.
How could he have got them into this predicament?
How could he?
* * *
—
Blomkvist listened to Catrin muttering in her sleep. It was late and he was dead tired, but it was impossible to drift off. His head was filled with thoughts and his heart was pounding. What the hell’s the matter, he thought. I’m not exactly new to this game. And yet he was as excited as a cub reporter working on his very first scoop. As he tossed and turned he thought back to what Catrin had said to him:
“Don’t you think Grankin was a soldier too?”
“Why do you say so?”