“What do you mean?”
“It was hundreds of things in a way. We had picked up information on the radio about an emergency in our expedition and perhaps my mind was on that. Then I must have recognized the clothes and other details. But above all, there was something eerie about the smaller of the bodies. I remember bending down and looking into the face, and there wasn’t much you could see. The hood was pulled over the hat and forehead. The sunglasses were still in place. The cheeks, nose and mouth were coated in ice. The whole face was buried under a layer of snow. And yet I knew.”
“It was Klara, right?”
“It was Klara and Viktor. She was half turned on her side, with her arm around his waist, and there was no doubt in my mind that I would be leaving them like that. But that uncanny feeling would not go away. She seemed to be frozen through and through. And yet I thought I detected something about her which was not altogether lifeless, so I pushed her away from Viktor and tried to get the snow off her face. I couldn’t do it. It was too frozen, too hard, and I had no strength in my hands, so in the end I got out my ice axe. It must have looked absurd. I lifted off her sunglasses and hacked at her face. The ice chips went flying and Svante yelled at me to stop and get on down the mountain. But I kept at it manically, and I did try to be careful. But my fingers were frostbitten and I didn’t have proper control. I injured her. I opened up a gash in her lip and chin, and there was a twitch in her face which I took to be movement caused by my hacking, but no sign of life. Still, I took my oxygen mask and put it on her and held it in place for a long time, even though I myself was fighting for breath and not at all hopeful. But suddenly there was an intake of breath. I could see it from the tube and the mask, and I stood up and started yelling at Svante. But he only shook his head and he was right, of course. It didn’t matter that she was breathing. She was as close to death as one can be, and we were at twenty-seven thousand feet. There was no hope. She was beyond rescue. We would never be able to get her down and our own lives were at risk too.”
“But you were shouting for help.”
“We’d been calling out so many times that we’d lost all hope. I just remember putting my oxygen mask back on and then we carried on downhill. We struggled along and slowly I began to lose my grip on reality. I had hallucinations. I saw my father in a bathtub, and my mother in the sauna in Åre. I had all sorts of visions, I’ve told you that, Becka.”
“Yes,” she said.
“But I never told you, did I, how I saw monks too, the same Buddhist monks as in Tengboche, and then another figure who reminded me of them but was somehow completely different. He was walking up the mountain instead of downhill and, unlike the monks, he really existed. It was Nima Rita trudging towards us through the snow.”
* * *
—
Blomkvist was running late and regretted having lured Catrin to Hotel Lydmar. He should have picked another day. But it was not always easy to be rational, especially with women like her, and now he was walking along Drottninggatan in the rain, heading for the hotel on Blasieholmen. He was on the point of sending a text saying “There in ten” when two things happened.
Someone texted him, but he didn’t have time to read it before his mobile rang. He had been trying to get hold of so many people that day—even Svante Lindberg—and he hoped every minute that someone would get back to him. But no such luck; the voice at the other end of the line was that of an elderly man who did not even introduce himself. Blomkvist considered simply hanging up. But it was a friendly voice, speaking Swedish with an English accent.
“Could you repeat that?” he said.
“I’m sitting in my apartment, having tea with a married couple who are in the middle of telling me the most shocking story. They would very much like to share it with you. Preferably as early as tomorrow morning.”
“Do I know this couple?” Blomkvist said.
“You’ve done them a huge favour.”
“Recently?”
“Very recently, out at sea.”
He looked up at the sky and at the rain coming down.
“I’d love to meet them,” he said. “Where?”
“Let’s run through the details on another line, if you don’t mind, a mobile that’s not connected to you and has the appropriate functions.”
Blomkvist thought it over. It would have to be Catrin’s mobile and her Signal app.
“I can send you a different number on an encrypted link,” he said. “But first I need confirmation that this couple really are at your place and that they’re doing well.”
“I wouldn’t say they’re well,” the man said. “But they’re here, and of their own free will. You can have a word with the husband.”
Blomkvist closed his eyes and stopped. He was standing on the slope of Lejonbacken, right next to Slottet, the Royal Palace, looking across the water to the Grand Hôtel and the Nationalmuseum. He probably waited for no more than twenty or thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity.
“Mikael,” a voice eventually said. “I owe you a huge debt of gratitude.”
“How are you?” he said.
“Better than back then.”
“Back when?”
“When I was about to drown.”
It was Forsell.
“You want to talk?” Blomkvist said.
“Not really,”
“You don’t?”
“But my wife, Rebecka, who will soon have heard it all, insists that I do. So I don’t see how I can get out of it.”
“I understand,” Blomkvist said.
“I’m not sure that you do. But dare I ask if I can read what you write before you publish?”
Blomkvist set off towards the bridge across to Kungsträdgården, turning the words over in his mind.
“You can alter your quotes until you feel comfortable with them, and you can check my facts. You’re even welcome to try and persuade me that I should be writing my article differently. But I don’t promise to do as you say.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Good.”
“We’ll stand by, then.”
“Right you are.”
Forsell thanked him again and handed the phone back to the other man. He and Blomkvist agreed what to do next. Then Blomkvist sent over Catrin Lindås’s number and quickened his pace. His heart was pounding. His thoughts were racing. What was going on? He should have asked more questions. Why was Forsell no longer at the Karolinska? Surely it was unwise of him to leave the hospital so soon, seeing that he had been in such a bad way—and who was the Englishman who had called?