The Girl in the Spider's Web Read online

  Then she read Blomkvist’s message again. He needed help and without thinking twice she wrote “OK.” Not only because he was asking her. It was personal. She did not do grief, not in the conventional way at least. Anger, on the other hand, yes, a cold ticking rage. And though she had a certain respect for Jan Bublanski she was not usually inclined to trust the forces of law and order.

  She was used to taking matters into her own hands and she had all sorts of reasons to find out why Frans Balder had been murdered. Because it was no coincidence that she had sought him out and taken an interest in his situation. His enemies were most likely her enemies too.

  It had begun with the old question of whether in some sense her father lived on. Alexander Zalachenko—Zala—had not only killed her mother and destroyed her childhood, he had also established and controlled a criminal network, sold drugs and arms, and made a living exploiting and humiliating women. She was convinced that that sort of evil never goes away. It merely migrates into other forms.

  Ever since that day just over a year ago when she had woken up at dawn at Hotel Schloss Elmau in the Bavarian Alps, Salander had been pursuing her own investigation into what had become of his legacy.

  For the most part his old comrades seemed to have turned into losers, depraved bandits, revolting pimps, or small-time crooks. Not one of them was a villain on her father’s level, and for a long time Salander remained convinced that the organization had changed and dissolved after Zalachenko’s death. Yet she did not give up, and eventually she stumbled onto something which pointed in a wholly unexpected direction. It was a reference to one of Zala’s young acolytes, a certain Sigfrid Gruber.

  Already during Zala’s lifetime, Gruber was one of the more intelligent people in the network, and unlike his colleagues he had earned himself degrees in both computer science and business administration, which had apparently given him access to more exclusive circles. These days he cropped up in a couple of alleged crimes against high-tech companies: thefts of new technology, extortion, insider trading, hacker attacks.

  Normally, Salander would have followed the lead no further. Nothing could worry her less than a couple of rich business groups being fleeced of some of their innovations. But then everything had changed.

  In a classified report from Government Communications Headquarters in Cheltenham, England, which she had gotten her hands on, she had come across some codenames associated with a gang Gruber seemed now to belong to. The names had set some bells ringing, and after that she had not been able to let go of the story. She assembled all the information she could find about the group and kept coming across a rumour that the organization had stolen Balder’s AI technology and then sold it to the Russian-American games company Truegames. Her source was unreliable—a half-open hacker site—but it was for this reason that she had turned up at the professor’s lecture at the Royal Institute of Technology and given him a hard time about singularities deep within black holes. Or that was part of the reason.

  PART 2

  THE LABYRINTHS OF MEMORY

  NOVEMBER 21–23

  People with a photographic memory are also said to have an eidetic memory, an ability to recall images, sounds, or objects after only a few instants of exposure.

  Research shows that people with eidetic memories are more likely to be nervous and stressed than others.

  Most, though not all, people with eidetic memories are autistic. There is also a connection between photographic memory and synaesthesia—the condition where two or more senses are connected, for example when numbers are seen in colour and every series of numbers forms an image in the mind.

  CHAPTER 12

  NOVEMBER 21

  Jan Bublanski had been looking forward to a day off and a long conversation with Rabbi Goldman in the Söder congregation about certain questions which had been troubling him recently, chiefly concerning the existence of God.

  It would be going too far to say that he was becoming an atheist. But the very notion of a God had become increasingly problematic for him and he wanted to discuss his persistent feelings of the meaninglessness of it all, often accompanied by dreams of handing in his notice.

  Bublanski certainly considered himself to be a good investigator. His record of clearing up cases was on the whole outstanding and occasionally he was still stimulated by the job. But he was not sure he wanted to go on investigating murders. He could learn some new skill while there was time. He dreamed about teaching, helping young people to find their path and believe in themselves, maybe because he himself suffered from bouts of the deepest self-doubt—but he did not know which subject he would choose. He had never specialized in one particular field, aside from that which had become his lot in life: sudden, evil death, and morbid human perversions. That was definitely not something he wanted to teach.

  It was 8:10 in the morning and he was at his bathroom mirror. He felt puffy, worn out, and bald. Absentmindedly he picked up I. B. Singer’s novel The Magician of Lublin, which he had loved with such a passion that for many years he had kept it next to the lavatory in case he felt like reading it at times when his stomach was playing up. But now he managed only a few lines. The telephone rang and his mood did not improve when he recognized the number: Chief Prosecutor Richard Ekström. A call from Ekström meant not just work, but probably work with a political and media element to it. Ekström would otherwise have wriggled out of it like a snake.

  “Hi, Richard, nice to hear from you,” Bublanski lied. “But I’m afraid I’m busy.”

  “What…no, no, not too busy for this, Jan. You can’t miss out on this one. I heard that you’d taken the day off.”

  “That’s right, and I’m just off to”—he did not want to say his synagogue. His Jewishness was not popular in the force—“see my doctor,” he went on.

  “Are you sick?”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Nearly sick?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, in that case there’s no problem. We’re all nearly sick, aren’t we? This is an important case, Jan. The Minister of Enterprise has been in touch, and she agrees that you should handle the investigation.”

  “I find it very hard to believe the minister even knows who I am.”

  “Well, maybe not by name, and she’s not supposed to be interfering anyway. But we’re all agreed that we need a big player.”

  “Flattery no longer works with me, Richard. What’s it about?” he said, and immediately regretted it. Just asking was halfway to saying yes and he could tell that Ekström accepted it as such.

  “Last night Professor Frans Balder was murdered at his home in Saltsjöbaden.”

  “Who?”

  “One of our best-known scientists, of international renown. He’s a world authority on AI technology.”

  “On what?”

  “He was working on neural networks and digital quantum processes, that sort of thing.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “He was trying to get computers to think, to replicate the human brain.”

  Replicate the human brain? Bublanski wondered what Rabbi Goldman would make of that.

  “They say he’s been a victim of industrial espionage in the past,” Ekström said. “And that’s why the murder is attracting the attention of the Ministry of Enterprise. No doubt you’re aware of the solemn declarations the minister has made about the absolute requirement to protect Swedish research and new technology.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It would seem that this Balder was under some sort of threat. He had police protection.”

  “Are you saying he was killed while under police protection?”

  “Well, it wasn’t the most effective protection in the world. It was Flinck and Blom from the regular force.”

  “The Casanovas?”

  “Yes. They were assigned late last night at the height of the storm and the general confusion. But in their defence it has to be sai
d that the whole situation was a shambles. Balder was shot while our men were dealing with a drunk who had turned up at the house, out of nowhere. Unsurprisingly, the killer took advantage of that moment of inattention.”

  “Doesn’t sound good.”

  “No, it looks very professional, and on top of it all the burglar alarm seems to have been hacked.”

  “So there were several of them?”

  “We believe so. Furthermore, there are some tricky details.”

  “Which the media are going to like?”

  “Which the media are going to love,” Ekström said. “The lush who turned up, for example, was none other than Lasse Westman.”

  “The actor?”

  “The same. And that’s a real problem.”

  “Because it’ll be all over the front pages?”

  “Partly that, yes, but also because there’s a risk we’ll end up with a load of sticky divorce issues on our hands. Westman claimed he was there to bring home the eight-year-old son of his partner. Balder had the boy with him, even though…hang on a moment…I want to get this right…according to a custody ruling, Balder is not competent to look after him.”

  “Why wouldn’t a professor who can get computers to behave like people be capable of looking after his own child?”

  “Because previously he had shown a shocking lack of responsibility. He was a completely hopeless father, if I’ve understood it right. It’s all rather sensitive. This little boy, who wasn’t even supposed to have been at Balder’s, probably witnessed the killing.”

  “Jesus! And what does he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is he in shock?”

  “He must be, but he never says anything anyway. He’s mute and apparently disabled, so he’s not going to be much good to us.”

  “I see. So there’s no suspect.”

  “Unless there was a reason why Westman appeared at precisely the same time as the killer entered the ground floor. You should get Westman in for questioning.”

  “If I decide to take on the investigation.”

  “As you will.”

  “Are you so sure of that?”

  “You have no choice, in my view. Besides, I’ve saved the best for last.”

  “And that is?”

  “Mikael Blomkvist.”

  “What about him?”

  “For some reason he was out there too. I think Balder had asked to see him to tell him something.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “And then he was shot?”

  “Just before Blomkvist rang the bell—and it seems that the journalist caught a glimpse of the killer.”

  Bublanski snorted. It was an inappropriate reaction in every conceivable way and he could not have explained it even to himself. Perhaps it was a nervous reaction, or a feeling that life was repeating itself.

  “I’m sorry?” Ekström said.

  “Just got a bit of a cough. So you’re worried that you’ll end up with an investigative reporter on your back, one who’ll show you all up in a bad light.”

  “Hmm, yes, maybe. We’re assuming that Millennium has already gotten going with the story and right now I’m trying to find some legal justification for stopping them, or at least see to it that they’re restricted in some way. I won’t rule out that this case is a matter affecting national security.”

  “So we’re saddled with Säpo as well?”

  “No comment.”

  Go to hell, Bublanski thought.

  “Are Olofsson and the others at Industry Protection working on this?”

  “No comment, as I said. When can you start?” Ekström said.

  “I have some conditions,” Bublanski said. “I want my usual team, Modig, Svensson, Holmberg, and Flod.”

  “Of course, OK, but you get Hans Faste as well.”

  “No way!”

  “Sorry, Jan, that’s not negotiable. You should be grateful you get to choose all the others.”

  “You’re the bitter end, you know that?”

  “I’ve heard it said.”

  “So Faste’s going to be our own little mole from Säpo?”

  “Nonsense. I happen to think that all teams benefit from someone who thinks differently.”

  “Meaning that when the rest of us have got rid of all our prejudices and preconceived notions, we’re stuck with somebody who will take us back to square one?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Faste is an idiot.”

  “No, Jan, he isn’t. He’s just…”

  “What?”

  “Conservative. He’s not someone who falls for the latest feminist fads.”

  “Or for the earliest ones, either. He may have just got his head around all that stuff about votes for women.”

  “Come on, Jan, pull yourself together. Faste is an extremely reliable and loyal detective, and I won’t listen to any more of this. Any other requests?”

  How about you go take a running jump, Bublanski thought.

  “I need to go to my doctor’s appointment, and in the meantime I want Modig to lead the investigation,” he said.

  “Is that really such a wise idea?”

  “It’s a damned wise idea,” he growled.

  “OK, OK, I’ll see to it that Zetterlund hands it over to her,” Ekström said with a wince.

  Ekström was far from sure he should have agreed to take on this investigation.

  —

  Alona Casales rarely worked nights. She had managed to avoid them for a decade and justified her stance on the grounds that her rheumatism forced her from time to time to take strong cortisone tablets, which not only turned her face into the shape of a moon, but also raised her blood pressure. She needed her sleep and her routine. Yet here she was, 3:10 in the morning.

  She had driven from her home in Laurel, Maryland, in a light rain, past the sign that read NSA NEXT RIGHT—STAFF ONLY, past the barriers and the electric fence, towards the black, cube-like main building in Fort Meade. She left her car in the sprawling parking area alongside the pale-blue golf-ball-like radome with its myriad dish aerials, and made her way through the security gates up to her workstation on the twelfth floor. She was surprised by the feverish atmosphere there and soon realized that it was Ed Needham and his young hacker team who were responsible for the heightened concentration hanging over the department.

  Needham looked like a man possessed and was standing there bawling out a young man whose face shone with an icy pallor. A pretty weird guy, Casales thought, just like all those young genius hackers Needham had surrounded himself with. The kid was skinny, anaemic-looking, with a hairstyle from hell and strangely rounded shoulders which shook with some sort of spasm. Maybe he was frightened. He shuddered every now and then, and it did not help matters that Needham was kicking at his chair leg. The young man looked as if he were waiting for a slap, a clip across the ear. But then something unexpected happened.

  Needham calmed down and ruffled the boy’s hair like a loving father. That was not like him. He did not go in for demonstrative affection. He was a cowboy who would never do anything as dubious as hug another man. But perhaps he was so desperate that he was prepared to give normal humanity a go. Ed’s zip was undone and he had spilled coffee or Coca-Cola on his shirt. His face was an unhealthy flushed colour, his voice hoarse and rough from shouting. Casales thought that no-one of his age and weight should be pushing himself so hard.

  Although only half a day had gone by, it looked as if Needham and his boys had been living there for a week. There were coffee cups and fast-food remnants and discarded caps and sweatshirts everywhere, and a rank stench of sweat and tension in the air. The team was clearly in the process of turning the whole world upside down in their efforts to trace the hacker. She called out to them in a hearty tone:

  “Go for it, guys!…Get the bastard!”

  She did not really mean it. Secretly she thought the breach was amusing. Many of these programmers seemed
to think they could do whatever they liked, as if they had carte blanche, and it might actually do them some good to see that the other side could hit back. Here in the Puzzle Palace their shortcomings showed only when they were confronted with something dire, as was happening now. She had been woken by a call saying that the Swedish professor had been murdered at his home outside Stockholm, and even though that in itself was not a big deal for the NSA—not yet at any rate—it did mean something to Casales.

  The killing showed that she had read the signs right, and now she had to see if she could move forward one more step. She logged in and opened the diagrammatic overview of the organization she had been tracking. The evasive Thanos sat right at the top, but there were also names of real people like the member of the Russian Duma, Ivan Gribanov, and the German, Gruber, a highly educated former crook from a large and complex trafficking operation.

  She did not understand why the NSA gave such low priority to the matter, and why her superiors kept suggesting that other, more mainstream law-enforcement agencies should be taking care of it. They could not rule out the possibility that the network had state backing, or links to Russian state intelligence, and that it was all to do with the trade war between East and West. Even though the evidence was sparse and ambiguous, there were indications that Western technology was being stolen and ending up in Russian hands.

  But it was difficult to get a clear view of this tangled web, to know whether any crime had been committed or whether purely by chance a similar technology had been developed somewhere else. These days, industrial theft was an altogether nebulous concept. Assets were borrowed all the time, sometimes as a part of creative exchanges, sometimes just dressed up to seem legitimate.

  Large businesses, bolstered by threatening lawyers, regularly scared the living daylights out of small companies, and nobody seemed to find it odd that individual innovators had almost no legal rights. Besides which, industrial espionage and hacker attacks were often regarded as little more than routine research in a competitive environment. You could hardly claim that the NSA crowd was helping to raise ethical standards in the field.