The Girl in the Spider's Web Page 19

  “And who was it?”

  “Frans didn’t want to tell me, even though I pressed him. But the girl apparently called him directly from Linus’s apartment. Frans was in San Francisco at the time, and you can imagine: betrayed by one of his own! I was expecting him to report the guy right away and raise hell. But he had a better idea. He asked the girl to pretend they really had been hacked.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “He didn’t want any traces of evidence to be tidied away. He wanted to understand more about what had happened. I suppose it makes sense—for one of the world’s leading software businesses to steal and exploit his technology was obviously far more serious than if some good-for-nothing, unprincipled shit of a student had done the same. Because Solifon isn’t just one of the most respected research groups in the States, they had also been trying to recruit Frans for years. He was livid. ‘Those bastards were trying to seduce me and stealing from me at the same time,’ he growled.”

  “Let me be sure I’ve got this right.” Blomkvist said. “You’re saying he took a job at Solifon in order to find out why and how they’d stolen from him?”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s just how difficult it can be to understand a person’s motivation. The salary and the freedom and the resources obviously came into it. But apart from that: yes, I imagine you’re right. He’d worked out that Solifon was involved in the theft even before this hacker girl examined his computers. She gave him the specific information and that enabled him to dig into the mess. In the end it turned out to be much more difficult than he expected, and people started getting suspicious. It wasn’t long before he became fantastically unpopular, so he kept more and more to himself. But he did find something.”

  “What?”

  “This is where it all gets sensitive. I shouldn’t really be telling you.”

  “Yet here we are.”

  “Yet here we are. Not only because I’ve always had the utmost respect for your journalism. It occurred to me this morning that it may not have been a coincidence that Frans rang you last night rather than Säpo’s Industry Protection Group, who he had also been in touch with. I think he was beginning to suspect a leak there. It may have been no more than paranoia—Frans displayed a variety of symptoms of persecution mania. But it was you he called, and now I hope that I can fulfil his wish.”

  “I understand.”

  “At Solifon there’s a department called ‘Y,’ ” Farah said. “Google X is the model, the department where they work on ‘moonshots,’ as they call them, wild and far-fetched ideas like looking for eternal life or connecting search engines to brain neurons. If any place will achieve AGI or ASI, that’s probably it. Frans was assigned to ‘Y.’ But that wasn’t as smart as it may have sounded.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because he had found out from his hacker girl that there was a secret group of business intelligence analysts at ‘Y,’ headed up by a character called Zigmund Eckerwald, also known as Zeke.”

  “And who is that?”

  “The very person who had been communicating with Frans’s treacherous assistant.”

  “So Eckerwald was the thief.”

  “A thief of the highest order. On the face of it, the work carried out by Eckerwald’s group was perfectly legitimate. They compiled information on leading scientists and promising research projects. Every large high-tech firm has a similar operation. They want to know what’s going on and who they should be recruiting. But Frans understood that the group went beyond that. They stole—through hacker attacks, espionage, moles, and bribery.”

  “But then why didn’t he report them?”

  “It was tricky to prove. They were careful, of course. But in the end Frans went to the owner, Nicolas Grant. Grant was horrified and apparently organized an internal investigation. But the investigation found nothing, either because Eckerwald had gotten rid of the evidence or because the investigation was just for show. It left Frans in a tight spot. Everyone turned on him. Eckerwald must have been behind it, and I’m sure he had no trouble getting the others to join in. Frans was already perceived as paranoid and became progressively isolated and frozen out. I can picture it. How he would sit there and become more and more awkward and contrary, and refuse to say a word to anyone.”

  “So he had no concrete evidence, you think?”

  “Well, he did at least have the proof the hacker girl had given him: that Eckerwald had stolen Frans’s technology and sold it on.”

  “And he knew that for sure?”

  “Without a shadow of a doubt. Besides, he had realized that Eckerwald’s group was not working alone. It had backing from outside, in all likelihood from the American intelligence services and also…”

  Farah hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “This is where he was a bit more cryptic, and it may be that he didn’t know all that much. But he had come across an alias, he said, for the person who was the real leader outside Solifon. ‘Thanos.’ ”

  “Thanos?”

  “That’s right. He said that this individual was greatly feared. But he didn’t want to say more than that. He needed life insurance, he claimed, for when the lawyers came after him.”

  “You said you didn’t know which of his assistants sold him out. But you must have given it a great deal of thought,” said Blomkvist.

  “I have, and sometimes, I don’t know…I wondered if it wasn’t all of them.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “When they started working for Frans, they were young, ambitious, and gifted. By the time they finished, they were fed up with life and full of anxieties. Maybe Frans worked them too hard. Or maybe there’s something else tormenting them.”

  “Do you have all their names?”

  “I do. They’re my boys—unfortunately, I’d have to say. First there’s Linus Brandell, I’ve already mentioned him. He’s twenty-four now, and just drifts around playing computer games and drinking too much. For a while he had a good job as a games developer at Crossfire. But he lost it when he started calling in sick and accusing his colleagues of spying on him. Then there’s Arvid Wrange, maybe you’ve heard of him. He was a promising chess player, once upon a time. His father pushed him in a pretty inhuman way and in the end Arvid had enough and came to study with me. I’d hoped that he would have completed his PhD long ago. But instead he props up the bars around Stureplan and seems rootless. He came into his own for a while when he was with Frans. But there was also a lot of silly competition among the boys. Arvid and Basim, the third guy, came to hate each other—at least Arvid hated Basim. Basim Malik probably doesn’t do hate. He’s a sensitive, gifted boy who was taken on by Solifon Nordic a year ago. But he ran out of steam pretty quickly. Right now he’s being treated for depression at Ersta hospital and it so happens that his mother, whom I know vaguely, rang me this morning to tell me that he’s under sedation. When he found out what had happened to Frans, he tried to slash his wrists. It’s devastating, but at the same time I do wonder: Was it just grief? Or was it also guilt?”

  “How is he now?”

  “He’s not in any danger from a physical point of view. And then there’s Niklas Lagerstedt, and he…well, what can I say about him? He’s not like the others, at least not on the surface. He wouldn’t drink himself into oblivion or even think of harming himself. He’s a young man with moral objections to most things, including violent computer games and porn. He’s a member of the Mission Covenant Church. His wife is a paediatrician and they have a young son called Jesper. On top of all that he’s a consultant with the National Criminal Police, responsible for the computer system coming into service in the new year; which means he’s had to go through security clearance. But who knows how thorough it was.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because behind that respectable façade he’s a nasty piece of work. I happen to know that he’s embezzled parts of his in-laws’ fortune. He’s a hypocrite.”


  “Have these guys been questioned?”

  “Säpo talked to them, but nothing came of it. At that time it was thought that Frans was the victim of a data breach.”

  “I imagine the police will want to question them again now.”

  “I assume so.”

  “Do you happen to know if Balder did much sketching in his free time?”

  “Sketching?”

  “Really detailed drawings of scenes.”

  “No, I haven’t heard anything about that,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw a fantastic drawing at his home, of a traffic light up here on the intersection of Hornsgatan and Ringvägen. It was flawless, a sort of snapshot in the dark.”

  “How strange. Frans wasn’t usually in this part of town.”

  “There’s something about that drawing that won’t let go of me,” Blomkvist said, and he realized to his surprise that Farah had taken hold of his hand. He stroked her hair. Then he stood up with a feeling that he was on the scent. He said goodbye and went out onto the street.

  On the way back up Zinkens väg he called Berger and asked her to type another question in [Lisbeth stuff].

  CHAPTER 14

  NOVEMBER 21

  Ove Levin was sitting in his office with a view over Slussen and Riddarfjärden and not doing much at all except Googling himself in the hope of coming across something to cheer him up. What he read instead was that he was sleazy and flabby and that he had betrayed his ideals. All that in a blog written by a slip of a girl at the Institute for Media Studies at Stockholm University. It made him so furious that he could not bring himself to write her name in the little black book he kept, of people who would never get a job in the Serner Group.

  He could not be bothered to burden his brain with idiots who had no idea what it takes, and would only ever write underpaid articles in obscure cultural magazines. Rather than wallow in destructive thoughts he went into his online account and checked his portfolio. That helped a bit, at least to begin with. It was a good day in the markets. The Nasdaq and the Dow Jones had both gone up last night and the Stockholm index was 1.1 percent up too. The dollar, to which he was rather too exposed, had risen, and according to the update of a few seconds ago his portfolio was worth 12,161,389 kronor.

  Not bad for a man who had once covered house fires and knife fights for the morning edition of Expressen. Twelve million, plus the apartment in Villastaden and the villa in Cannes. They could post whatever they wanted on their blogs. He was well provided for, and he checked the value of his portfolio again. 12,149,101. Jesus Christ, was it falling? 12,131,737. He grimaced. There was no reason why the market should be falling, was there? The employment figures had been good, after all. He took the tumble in value almost personally and could not help thinking about Millennium, however insignificant it might be in the bigger picture. He found himself getting worked up again as he kept remembering the openly hostile look on Erika Berger’s beautiful face yesterday afternoon. Things had not improved this morning.

  He had just about had a fit. Blomkvist had cropped up on every site, and that hurt. Not only because Levin had so gleefully registered that the younger generation hardly knew who Blomkvist was. He also hated the media logic which said that you became a star—a star journalist or a star actor or whatever the hell it might be—simply because you found yourself in some sort of trouble. He would have been happier to read about has-been Blomkvist who wasn’t even going to keep his job at his own magazine, not if Ove Levin and Serner Media had anything to do with it. Instead they said: Why Frans Balder, of all people?

  Why on earth did he have to be murdered right under Blomkvist’s nose? Wasn’t that just typical? So infuriating. Even if those useless journalists out there hadn’t realized it yet, Levin knew that Balder was a big name. Not long ago Serner’s own newspaper, Business Daily, had produced a special supplement on Swedish scientific research which had given him a price tag: four billion kronor, though God knows how they got to that figure. Balder was a star, no doubt about it. Most important, he was a Garbo. He never gave interviews, which made him all the more sought-after.

  How many requests had Balder received from Serner’s own journalists? As many as he had refused or, for that matter, simply not bothered to answer. Many of Levin’s colleagues out there thought Balder was sitting on a fantastic story. He couldn’t bear the idea that, so the newspaper reports said, Balder had wanted to talk to Blomkvist in the middle of the night. Could Blomkvist really have a scoop on top of everything else? That would be disastrous. Once more, almost obsessively, Levin went onto the Aftonbladet site and was met with the headline:

  WHAT DID TOP SWEDISH SCIENTIST HAVE TO SAY TO MIKAEL BLOMKVIST?

  MYSTERY CALL JUST BEFORE THE MURDER

  The article was illustrated by a double-column photograph of Mikael Blomkvist which did not show any flab at all. Those bastard editors had of course chosen the most flattering photograph they could find, and that made Levin angrier still. I have to do something about this, he thought. But what? How could he put a stop to Blomkvist without barging in like some old East German censor and making everything worse? He looked out towards Riddarfjärden and an idea came to him. Borg, he thought. My enemy’s enemy can be my best friend.

  “Sanna,” he shouted.

  “Yes, Ove?”

  Sanna Lind was his young secretary.

  “Book a lunch at once with William Borg at Sturehof. If he says he has something else on, tell him this is more important. He can even have a raise,” he said, and thought, Why not? If he’s prepared to help me in this mess then it’s only fair he gets something out of it.

  —

  Hanna Balder was standing in the living room at Torsgatan looking in despair at August, who had yet again dug out paper and crayons. She had been told that she had to discourage him, and she did not like doing it. Not that she questioned the psychologist’s advice and expertise, but she had her doubts. August had seen his father murdered and if he wanted to draw, why stop him? Even if it did not seem to be doing him much good.

  His body trembled when he started drawing and his eyes shone with an intense, tormented light. The pattern of squares spreading out and multiplying in mirrors was a strange theme, given what had happened. But what did she know? Maybe it was the same as with his series of numbers. Even though she did not understand, it presumably meant something to him, and perhaps—who knows?—those squares were his own way of coming to terms with events. Shouldn’t she just ignore the instructions? After all, who would find out? She had read somewhere that a mother should rely on her intuition. Gut feeling is often a better tool than all the psychological theories in the world. She decided to let August draw.

  But suddenly the boy’s back stiffened like a bow, and Hanna could not help thinking back to what the psychologist had said. She took a hesitant step forward and looked down at the paper. She gave a start, and felt very uncomfortable. At first she could not make sense of it.

  She saw the same pattern of squares repeating themselves in two surrounding mirrors and it was extremely skilfully done. But there was something else there as well, a shadow which grew out of the squares, like a demon, a phantom, and it frightened the living daylights out of her. She started to think of films about children who become possessed. She snatched the drawing from the boy and crumpled it up without fully understanding why. Then she shut her eyes and expected to hear that heart-rending toneless cry again.

  But she heard no cry, just a muttering which sounded almost like words—impossible because the boy did not speak. Instead Hanna prepared herself for a violent outburst with August thrashing back and forth over the living-room floor. But there was no attack either, only a calm and composed determination as August took hold of a new piece of paper and started to draw the same squares again. Hanna had no choice but to carry him to his room. Afterwards she would describe what happened as pure horror.

  August kicked and screamed and lashed out, and Hanna barely managed to ke
ep hold of him. For a long time she lay in the bed with her arms knotted around him wishing that she could go to pieces herself. She briefly considered waking Lasse and asking him to give August one of those tranquilizing suppositories they now had, but then discarded that idea. Lasse was bound to be in a foul mood and she hated to give a child tranquilizers, however much Valium she herself took. There had to be some other way.

  She was falling apart, desperately considering one option after the next. She thought of her mother in Katrineholm, of her agent Mia, of the nice woman who rang last night, Gabriella Grane, and then of the psychologist again, Einar Fors-something, who had brought August to her. She had not particularly liked him. On the other hand he had offered to look after August for a while. He was the one who said August should not draw, so he should be sorting out this mess.

  In the end she let go of her son and dug out the psychologist’s card to call him. August immediately made a break for the living room to start drawing his damn squares again.

  —

  Einar Forsberg did not have a great deal of experience. He was forty-eight years old and with his deep-set blue eyes, brand-new Dior glasses, and brown corduroy jacket he could easily be taken for an intellectual. But anyone who had ever disagreed with him would know that there was something stiff and dogmatic about his way of thinking and he often concealed his lack of knowledge behind dogma and cocksure pronouncements.

  It had only been two years since he qualified as a psychologist. Before that he was a gym teacher from Tyresö, and if you had asked his old pupils about him they would all have roared: “Silence, cattle! Be quiet, oh my beasts!” Forsberg had loved to shout those words, only half joking, when he wanted order in the classroom and even though he had hardly been anyone’s favourite teacher he had kept his boys in line. It was this ability which persuaded him that he could put his skills to better use elsewhere.