“He looked like one,” she said, and, thinking back, that really did seem right.
There was something about the way he held himself that suggested a senior officer, and normally Blomkvist would not have given it a second thought. People can give an impression of being one thing and then turn out to be something quite different. But now he had received that message from the mysterious “Charles,” and it pointed in the same direction. Grankin would also seem to be one of the reasons for Forsell’s expulsion from Russia. He would need to follow up on that.
It was what Blomkvist had believed all along, and he had been planning to follow it up in the morning, before his meeting with the Forsells. But since he couldn’t sleep anyway, why not just get up? So long as he did not wake Catrin. He was already feeling guilty on that front. He got up slowly and carefully and tiptoed into the bathroom with his mobile. Grankin, he thought. Viktor Grankin.
He had been a fool not to run a more thorough check on him before now. But then it had never occurred to him that Grankin was anything other than an Everest guide, and that that was where his part in the story ended; just a poor bastard who had fallen in love with a married woman and made some bad decisions on the mountain, and lost his life as a result. But yes indeed, the background information on him was a little too tidy and unspecific.
He had without doubt been a distinguished climber who had conquered many of the toughest summits in the world—K2, the Eiger, Annapurna, Denali, Cerro Torre…and then, of course, Everest. But there was little else in the way of hard information, only over and again the fact that he had worked as a consultant for adventure holidays. What exactly did that entail? Blomkvist did not find much, but eventually came across an old picture of Grankin together with the Russian businessman Andrei Koskov. Didn’t that name ring a bell?
Yes, of course, damn it. Koskov was a businessman and whistle-blower in exile who in November 2011 had exposed connections between the Russian intelligence services and organized crime. Not long after that, in March 2012, he dropped dead while out walking in Camden, in London, and at first the police found nothing suspicious. Three months later, however, traces of Gelsemium elegans were detected in samples taken from his blood. Blomkvist found that this Asian dicotyledon plant is sometimes known as heartbreak grass—in concentrated form it can make the heart stop—and it was by no means an unknown poison. In 1879, none other than Arthur Conan Doyle had written about it in the British Medical Journal. But for a long time there was no mention of the plant in historical records or on the news until it shot to prominence again in 2012 when it was detected in the body of a defector, a GRU agent by the name of Igor Popov, in Baltimore, Maryland. Now Blomkvist was on the alert. Military intelligence, suspected deaths through poisoning, claims that Forsell had systematically investigated the activities of the GRU and been thrown out of the country…
Was this another misleading coincidence, like the one with Mats Sabin, the military historian? After all, it was nothing more than a picture of Grankin posing with someone who had died in mysterious circumstances. But still…there could be no harm in checking with the confounded “Charles” and asking him what he knew. He sent off a text:
<So who was Grankin really?>
It was ten minutes before he got an answer:
<Military policeman at the GRU Lieutenant colonel. Internal investigations>
Jesus, he thought. Jesus. Not that he took this at face value for one second. Nor would he until he knew who he was communicating with.
<And who are you?>
The reply came right back.
<I’m a former official>
<MI6, CIA?>
<No comment, as they say>
<Nationality, at least?>
<American, for my sins>
<How did you find out I’m digging into this story?>
<It’s the sort of thing I’m supposed to know about>
<Why would you want to leak this to the press?>
<Maybe I’m old-fashioned>
<In what way?>
<Happen to believe that crime needs to be seen and punished>
<Is it that simple?>
<I may have my own reasons as well. But does that really matter? You and I have common interests, Mikael>
<Give me something, in that case. So I know I’m not wasting my time>
Within five minutes a photograph arrived showing an ID card for none other than Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Alexeievich Grankin, bearing the emblem used by the GRU at the time, the red five-leaf clover on a black background. It seemed like solid information, for all that Blomkvist could tell.
<Did Grankin and Forsell have any common interest other than Everest?> he wrote.
<Forsell was there to recruit Grankin. But it went horribly wrong>
“Bloody hell,” Blomkvist muttered out loud. <And you want to give me that story?>
<Discreetly and with source protection, yes>
<Agreed>
<In that case, get a taxi here right away. I’ll meet you in the lobby. After that, even a night owl like me will need some sleep>
<OK> Blomkvist replied.
Was he being careless? He knew nothing about this man, save that he was well informed, and Blomkvist would need as many facts as possible before the meeting tomorrow morning. Surely a one-minute walk to the Grand Hôtel was a risk worth taking? It was 1:58 a.m. and there were still voices out in the street. The city was awake. There were always taxis waiting outside the Grand at night, as far as he could recall, and no doubt there were doormen too. No, surely, there could be no danger. He dressed quietly, left the room and took the lift to the lobby, then the curved stairs down to ground level. The street outside was wet from the downpour, but the dark sky was clearing.
It was good to get out. Lights were shining in the Royal Palace across the water and further away, in Kungsträdgården, there was life still and pockets of people. He was relieved to see a few individuals on the quay too, a young couple walking by. A waitress was clearing glasses from the outside tables, and a man in a white linen suit was still seated on a chair on the far side of the terrace bar, looking out at the water. All clear, he thought, and he set off. But then he heard a voice:
“Blomkvist?”
He turned and saw that it was the man in the white suit who had hailed him, a gentleman in his sixties with grey-white hair, handsome features and a cautious smile, perhaps even a smirk. What had amused him? Was it a quip about Blomkvist’s journalism, or character? If so, it was a quip he never got to share.