The Girl in the Spider's Web Page 22

  Bublanski went out of the kitchen and nodded at Hanna Balder, who was sunk in the living-room sofa, fumbling with some tablets.

  —

  Lisbeth Salander and Arvid Wrange came out into Vasaparken arm in arm, like a pair of old friends out for a stroll. Appearances can be deceptive: Wrange was terrified as Salander steered them towards a park bench. The wind was getting up again and the temperature creeping down—it was hardly a day for feeding the pigeons—and Wrange was cold. But Salander decided that the bench would do and forced him to sit down, holding his arm in a vise-like grip.

  “Right,” she said. “Let’s make this quick.”

  “Will you keep my name out of it?”

  “I’m promising nothing, Arvid. But your chances of being able to go back to your miserable life will increase significantly if you tell me every detail of what happened.”

  “OK,” he said. “Do you know Darknet?”

  “I know it,” she said.

  No-one knew Darknet like Lisbeth Salander. Darknet was the lawless undergrowth of the Internet. The only way to access it was with especially encrypted software and the user’s anonymity was guaranteed. No-one could Google your details or trace your activities online. So Darknet was full of drug dealers, terrorists, con men, gangsters, illegal arms dealers, pimps, and black hats. If there was an Internet hell, then this was it.

  But Darknet was not in itself evil. Salander understood that better than anyone. These days, when spy agencies and the big software companies follow every step we take online, even honest people need a hiding place. Darknet was also a hub for dissidents, whistle-blowers, and informants. Opposition forces could protest on Darknet out of reach of their government, and Salander had used it for her own more discreet investigations and attacks. She knew its sites and search engines and its old-fashioned workings far away from the known, visible Net.

  “Did you put Balder’s technology up for sale on Darknet?” she said.

  “No, I was just casting about. I was pissed off. You know, Frans hardly even said hello to me. He treated me like dirt, and he didn’t care about that technology of his, either. It has the potential to make all of us rich, but he only wanted to play and experiment with it like a little kid. One evening when I’d had a few drinks I just chucked out a question on a geek site: ‘Who can pay good money for some revolutionary AI technology?’ ”

  “And did you get an answer?”

  “It took a while. I had time to forget that I’d even asked. But in the end someone calling himself Bogey wrote back with some well-informed questions. At first my answers were ridiculously unguarded, but soon I realized what a mess I’d gotten myself into, and I became terrified that Bogey would steal the technology.”

  “Without you getting anything for it.”

  “It was a dangerous game. To be able to sell Frans’s technology I had to tell people about it. But if I said too much then I would already have lost it. Bogey flattered me rotten—in the end he knew exactly where we were and what sort of software we were working on.”

  “He meant to hack you.”

  “Presumably. He somehow managed to get hold of my name, and that floored me. I became totally paranoid and announced that I wanted to pull out. But by then it was too late. Not that Bogey threatened me, at least not directly. He just went on and on about how he and I were going to do great things together and earn masses of money. In the end I agreed to meet him in Stockholm at a Chinese boat restaurant on Söder Mälarstrand. It was a windy day, I remember, and I stood there freezing. I waited more than half an hour, and afterwards I wondered if he had been checking me out in some way.”

  “But then he showed up?”

  “Yes. At first I didn’t believe it was him. He looked like a junkie, or a beggar, and if I hadn’t seen that Patek Philippe watch on his wrist I probably would have tossed him twenty kronor. He had amateur tattoos and dodgy-looking scars on his arms, which he waved about as he walked. He was carrying this awful-looking trench coat and he seemed to have been more or less living on the streets. The strangest thing of all was that he was proud of it. It was only the watch and the handmade shoes which showed that he had at some point managed to raise himself out of the gutter. Other than that, he seemed keen to stick to his roots. Later on, when I’d given him everything and we were celebrating our deal over a few bottles of wine, I asked about his background.”

  “I hope for your sake that he gave you some details.”

  “If you want to track him down, I have to warn you…”

  “I don’t want advice, Arvid. I want facts.”

  “Fine. He was careful,” he said. “But I still got a few things. He probably couldn’t help himself. He grew up in a big city in Russia, though he didn’t name it. He’d had everything stacked against him, he said. His mother was a whore and a heroin addict and his father could have been anybody. As a small boy he had ended up in the orphanage from hell. There was some lunatic there, he told me, who used to make him lie on a butcher’s slab in the kitchen and whipped him with a broken cane. When he was eleven he ran away and lived on the street. He stole, broke into cellars and stairwells to get a little warmth, got drunk on cheap vodka, sniffed glue, and was abused and beaten. But he also discovered one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That he had talent. He was an expert at breaking and entering, which became his first source of pride, his first identity. He was capable of doing in just a few seconds what took others hours. Before that he had been a homeless brat, everyone had despised him and spat at him. Now he was the boy who could get himself in wherever he wanted. It became an obsession. All day long he dreamed of being some sort of Houdini in reverse: he didn’t want to break out, he wanted to break in. He practised for ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day, and in the end he was a legend on the streets—or so he said. He started to carry out bigger operations, using computers he stole and reconfigured to hack in everywhere. He made a heap of money which he blew on drugs and often he was robbed or taken advantage of. He could be clear as a bell when he was on one of his jobs but afterwards he would lie around in a narcotic haze and someone would walk all over him. He was a genius and a total idiot at the same time, he said. But one day everything changed. He was saved, raised up out of his hell.”

  “How?”

  “He had been asleep in some dump of a place that was due to be pulled down and when he opened his eyes and looked around in the yellowish light there was an angel standing before him.”

  “An angel?”

  “That’s what he said, an angel, and maybe it was partly the contrast with everything else in there, the syringes, the leftover food, the cockroaches. He said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He could scarcely look at her, and he got this idea that he was going to die. It was an ominous, solemn feeling. But the woman explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that she would make him rich and happy. If I’ve understood it right, she kept her promise. She gave him new teeth, got him into rehab. She arranged for him to train as a computer engineer.”

  “So ever since he’s been hacking computers and stealing for this woman and her network.”

  “That’s right. He became a new person, or maybe not completely new—in many ways he’s still the same old thief and bum. But he no longer takes drugs, he says, and he spends all his free time keeping up to date with new technology. He finds a lot on Darknet and he claims to be stinking rich.”

  “And the woman—did he say anything more about her?”

  “No, he was extremely careful about that. He spoke in such evasive and respectful terms that I wondered for a while if she wasn’t a fantasy or hallucination. But I reckon she really does exist. I could sense sheer physical fear when he was talking about her—he said that he would rather die than let her down, and then he showed me a Russian patriarchal cross made of gold, which she had given him. One of those crosses, you know, which has a slanted beam down by the foot, one end pointing up and the other down. He told
me this was a reference to the Gospel according to St. Luke and the two thieves who were hanged next to Jesus on the cross. The one thief believes in Jesus and goes to heaven. The other mocks him and is thrust down into hell.”

  “That’s what awaits you if you fail her.”

  “That’s about it, yes.”

  “So she sees herself as Jesus?”

  “In this context the cross probably has nothing to do with Christianity. It’s the message she wants to pass on.”

  “Loyalty or the torments of hell.”

  “Something along those lines.”

  “Yet you’re sitting here, Arvid, spilling the beans.”

  “I didn’t see an alternative.”

  “I hope you got paid a lot.”

  “Well, yes…”

  “And then Balder’s technology was sold to Solifon and Truegames.”

  “Yes, but I don’t get it…not when I think of it now.”

  “What don’t you get?”

  “How could you know all this?”

  “Because you were dumb enough to send an e-mail to Eckerwald at Solifon, don’t you remember?”

  “But I wrote nothing to suggest that I’d sold the technology. I was very careful about that.”

  “What you said was enough for me,” she said. She got to her feet, and it was as if his entire being collapsed.

  “Wait, what’s going to happen now? Will you keep me out of it?”

  “You can always hope,” she said, and walked off towards Odenplan with purposeful steps.

  —

  Bublanski’s mobile rang as he was on his way down to the front entrance on Torsgatan. It was Professor Edelman. Bublanski had been trying to reach him ever since he realized that the boy was a savant. Bublanski had found out online that two Swedish authorities were regularly quoted on this subject: Lena Ek at Lund University and Charles Edelman at the Karolinska Institute. But he had not been able to get hold of either, so he had postponed the search and gone off to see Hanna Balder. Now Edelman was ringing back, and he sounded shaken. He was in Budapest, he said, at a conference on heightened memory capacity. He had just arrived there and seen the news about the murder a moment ago, on CNN.

  “Otherwise I would have gotten in touch right away,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Professor Balder rang me yesterday evening.”

  That made Bublanski jump. “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to talk about his son and his son’s talent.”

  “Did you know each other?”

  “Not in the slightest. He contacted me because he was worried about his boy and I was stunned to hear from him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was Frans Balder. He’s a household name to us neurologists. We tend to say he’s just like us in wanting to understand the brain. The only difference is that he also wants to build one.”

  “I’ve heard something about that.”

  “I’d been told that he was an introverted and difficult man. A bit like a machine himself, people sometimes used to joke: nothing but logic circuits. But with me he was incredibly emotional, and it shocked me, to be honest. It was…I don’t know, as if you were to hear your toughest policeman cry. I remember thinking that something must have happened, something other than what we were talking about.”

  “That sounds right. He had finally accepted that he was under a serious threat,” Bublanski said.

  “But he also had reason to be excited. His son’s drawings were apparently exceptionally good, and that’s not common at all at that age, not even with savants, and especially not in combination with proficiency in mathematics.”

  “Mathematics?”

  “Yes. According to Balder his son had mathematical skills too. I could spend a long time talking about that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because I was utterly amazed, and at the same time maybe not so amazed after all. We now know that there’s a hereditary factor in savants, and here we have a father who is a legend, thanks to his advanced algorithms. But still…artistic and numerical talents do not usually present themselves together in these children.”

  “Surely the great thing about life is that every now and then it springs a surprise on us,” Bublanski said.

  “True, Chief Inspector. So what can I do for you?”

  Bublanski thought through everything that had happened in Saltsjöbaden and it struck him that it would do no harm to be cautious.

  “All I can say is that we need your help and expert knowledge as a matter of urgency.”

  “The boy was a witness to the murder, was he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want me to try to get him to draw what he saw?”

  “I’d prefer not to comment.”

  —

  Charles Edelman was standing in the lobby of the Hotel Boscolo in Budapest, a conference centre not far from the glittering Danube. The place looked like an opera house, with magnificent high ceilings, old-fashioned cupolas and pillars. He had been looking forward to the week here, the dinners and the presentations. Yet he was agitated and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Unfortunately I’m not in a position to help you. I have to give an important lecture tomorrow morning,” he had said to Bublanski, and that was true. He had been preparing the talk for some weeks and he was going to take a controversial line with several eminent memory experts. He recommended a young associate professor, Martin Wolgers, to Bublanski.

  But as soon as he hung up and exchanged looks with a colleague who had paused next to him, holding a sandwich—he began to have regrets. He even began to envy young Martin Wolgers, who was not yet thirty-five, always looked far too good in photographs, and on top of it all was beginning to make a name for himself.

  It was true that Edelman did not fully understand what had happened. The police inspector had been cryptic and was probably worried that someone might be listening in on the call. Yet the professor still managed to grasp the bigger picture. The boy was good at drawing and was a witness to a murder. That could mean only one thing, and the longer Edelman thought about it, the more he fretted. He would be giving many more important lectures in his life, but he would never get another chance to play a part in a murder investigation at this level. However he looked at the assignment he had so casually passed on to Wolgers, it was bound to be much more interesting than anything he might be involved in here in Budapest. Who knows, it could even make him some sort of celebrity.

  He visualized the headline: PROMINENT NEUROLOGIST HELPS POLICE SOLVE MURDER, or better still: EDELMAN’S RESEARCH LEADS TO BREAKTHROUGH IN MURDER HUNT. How could he be so stupid as to turn it down? He picked up his mobile and called Chief Inspector Bublanski again.

  —

  Bublanski hung up. He and Modig had managed to park not far from the Stockholm Public Library and had just crossed the street. Once again the weather was dreadful, and Bublanski’s hands were freezing.

  “Did he change his mind?” Modig said.

  “Yes. He’s going to shelve his lecture.”

  “When can he be here?”

  “He’s looking into it. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  They were on their way to Oden’s Medical Centre on Sveavägen to meet the director, Torkel Lindén. The meeting was only meant to settle the practical arrangements for August Balder’s testimony—at least as far as Bublanski was concerned. But even though Torkel Lindén did not yet know the true purpose of their visit, he had been strangely discouraging over the telephone and said that right now the boy was not to be disturbed “in any way.” Bublanski had sensed an instinctive hostility and was not particularly pleasant in return. It had not been a promising start.

  Lindén turned out not to be the hefty figure Bublanski had expected. He was hardly more than five feet tall and had short, possibly dyed black hair and pinched lips. He wore black jeans, a black polo sweater, and a small cross on a ribbon around his neck. There was something eccle
siastical about him, and his hostility was genuine.

  He had a haughty look and Bublanski became aware of his own Jewishness—which happened whenever he encountered this sort of malevolence and air of moral superiority. Lindén wanted to show that he was better, because he put the boy’s physical well-being first rather than offering him up for police purposes. Bublanski saw no choice but to be as amiable as possible.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Is that so?” Lindén said.

  “Oh yes, and it’s kind of you to see us at such short notice. We really wouldn’t come barging in like this if we didn’t think this matter was of the utmost importance.”

  “I imagine you want to interview the boy in some way.”

  “Not exactly,” Bublanski said, not quite so amiably. “I have to emphasize first of all that what I’m saying now must remain between us. It’s a question of security.”

  “Confidentiality is a given for us. We have no loose lips here,” Lindén said, in such a way as to suggest that it was the opposite with the police.

  “My only concern is for the boy’s safety,” Bublanski said sharply.

  “So that’s your priority?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” the policeman said with even greater severity, “and that is why none of what I’m about to tell you must be passed on in any way—least of all by e-mail or by telephone. Can we sit somewhere private?”

  —

  Sonja Modig did not think much of the place. But then she was probably affected by the crying. Somewhere nearby a little girl was sobbing relentlessly. They were sitting in a room which smelled of detergent and also of something else, maybe a lingering trace of incense. A cross hung on the wall and there was a worn teddy bear lying on the floor. Not much else made the place cozy or attractive and since Bublanski, usually so good-natured, was about to lose his temper, she took matters into her own hands and gave a calm, factual account of what had happened.

  “We are given to understand,” she said, “that your colleague Einar Forsberg said that August should not be allowed to draw.”

  “That was his professional judgment and I agree with it. It doesn’t do the boy any good,” Lindén said.