The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

Blomkvist hung up and rested his gaze on the notebook on his desk. The national vehicle register had just informed him that the car he had seen at the top of Bellmansgatan with the blonde woman inside was owned by Monica Figuerola, born in 1969, and living on Pontonjargatan in Kungsholmen. Since it was a woman in the car, Blomkvist assumed it was Figuerola herself.



She had been talking on her mobile and looking at a map that was unfolded on the passenger seat. Blomkvist had no reason to believe that she had anything to do with the Zalachenko club, but he made a note of every deviation from the norm in his working day, and especially around his neighbourhood.



He called Karim in.



"Who is this woman, Lottie? Dig up her passport picture, where she works... and anything else you can find."



Sellberg looked rather startled. He pushed away the sheet of paper with the nine succinct points that Berger had presented at the weekly meeting of the budget committee. Flodin looked similarly concerned. Chairman Borgsjo appeared neutral, as always.



"This is impossible," Sellberg said with a polite smile.



"Why so?" Berger said.



"The board will never go along with this. It defies all rhyme or reason."



"Shall we take it from the top?" Berger said. "I was hired to make S.M.P. profitable again. To do that I have to have something to work with, don't you think?"



"Well, yes, but  - "



"I can't wave a magic wand and conjure up the contents of a daily newspaper by sitting in my glass cage and just wishing for things."



"You don't quite understand the hard economic facts."



"That's quite possible. But I understand making newspapers. And the reality is that over the past fifteen years, S.M.P.'s personnel has been reduced by 118. Half were graphic artists and so on, replaced by new technology... but the number of reporters contributing to copy was reduced by 48 during that period."



"Those were necessary cuts. If the staff hadn't been cut, the paper would have folded long since. At least Morander understood the necessity of the reductions."



"Well, let's wait and see what's necessary and what isn't. In three years, nineteen reporter jobs have disappeared. In addition, we now have a situation in which nine positions at S.M.P. are vacant and are being to some extent covered by temps. The sports desk is dangerously understaffed. There should be nine employees there, and for more than a year two positions have remained unfilled."



"It's a question of saving money we're not going to have. It's that simple."



"The culture section has three unfilled positions. The business section has one. The legal desk does not even in practice exist... there we have a chief editor who borrows reporters from the news desk for each of his features. And so on. S.M.P. hasn't done any serious coverage of the civil service and government agencies for at least eight years. We depend for that on freelancers and the material from the T.T. wire service. And as you know, T.T. shut down its civil service desk some years ago. In other words, there isn't a single news desk in Sweden covering the civil service and the government agencies."



"The newspaper business is in a vulnerable position  - "



"The reality is that S.M.P. should either be shut down immediately, or the board should find a way to take an aggressive stance. Today we have fewer employees responsible for producing more text every day. The articles they turn out are terrible, superficial, and they lack credibility. That's why S.M.P. is losing its readers."



"You don't understand the situation  - "



"I'm tired of hearing that I don't understand the situation. I'm not some temp. who's just here for the bus fare."



"But your proposal is off the wall."



"Why is that?"



"You're proposing that the newspaper should not be profitable."



"Listen, Sellberg, this year you will be paying out a huge amount of money in dividends to the paper's twenty-three shareholders. Add to this the unforgivably absurd bonuses that will cost S.M.P. almost ten million kronor for nine individuals who sit on S.M.P.'s board.



You've awarded yourself a bonus of 400,000 kronor for administering cutbacks. Of course it's a long way from being a bonus as huge as the ones that some of the directors of Skandia grabbed. But in my eyes you're not worth a bonus of so much as one single ore. Bonuses should be paid to people who do something to strengthen S.M.P. The plain truth is that your cutbacks have weakened S.M.P. and deepened the crisis we now find ourselves in."



"That is grossly unfair. The board approved every measure I proposed."



"The board approved your measures, of course they did, because you guaranteed a dividend each year. That's what has to stop, and now."



"So you're suggesting in all seriousness that the board should decide to abolish dividends and bonuses. What makes you think the shareholders would agree to that?"



"I'm proposing a zero-profit operating budget this year. That would mean savings of almost 21 million kronor and the chance to beef up S.M.P.'s staff and finances. I'm also proposing wage cuts for management. I'm being paid a monthly salary of 88,000 kronor, which is utter insanity for a newspaper that can't add a job to its sports desk."



"So you want to cut your own salary? Is this some sort of wage-communism you're advocating?"



"Don't bullshit me. You make 112,000 kronor a month, if you add in your annual bonus. That's off the wall. If the newspaper were stable and bringing in a tremendous profit, then pay out as much as you want in bonuses. But this is no time for you to be increasing your own bonus. I propose cutting all management salaries by half."



"What you don't understand is that our shareholders bought stock in the paper because they want to make money. That's called capitalism. If you arrange that they're going to lose money, then they won't want to be shareholders any longer."



"I'm not suggesting that they should lose money, though it might come to that. Ownership implies responsibility. As you yourself have pointed out, capitalism is what matters here. S.M.P.'s owners want to make a profit. But it's the market decides whether you make a profit or take a loss. By your reasoning, you want the rules of capitalism to apply solely to the employees of S.M.P., while you and the shareholders will be exempt."



Sellberg rolled his eyes and sighed. He cast an entreating glance at Borgsjo, but the chairman of the board was intently studying Berger's nine-point program.



Figuerola waited for forty-nine minutes before Mårtensson and his companion in overalls came out of Bellmansgatan 1. As they started up the hill towards her, she very steadily raised her Nikon with its 300mm telephoto lens and took two pictures. She put the camera in the space under her seat and was just about to fiddle with her map when she happened to glance towards the Maria lift. Her eyes opened wide. At the end of upper Bellmansgatan, right next to the gate to the Maria lift, stood a dark-haired woman with a digital camera filming Mårtensson and his companion. What the hell? Is there some sort of spy convention on Bellmansgatan today?



The two men parted at the top of the hill without exchanging a word. Mårtensson went back to his car on Tavastgatan. He pulled away from the curb and disappeared from view.



Figuerola looked into her rear-view mirror, where she could still see the back of the man in the blue overalls. She then saw that the woman with the camera had stopped filming and was heading past the Laurinska building in her direction.



Heads or tails? She already knew who Mårtensson was and what he was up to. The man in the blue overalls and the woman with the camera were unknown entities. But if she left her car, she risked being seen by the woman.



She sat still. In her rear-view mirror she saw the man in the blue overalls turn into Brannkyrkagatan. She waited until the woman reached the crossing in front of her, but instead of following the man in the overalls, the woman turned 180 degrees and went down the steep hill towards Bellmansgatan 1. Figuerola reckoned that she was in her mid-thirties. She had short dark hair and was dressed in dark jeans and a black jacket. As soon as she was a little way down the hill, Figuerola pushed open her car door and ran towards Brannkyrkagatan. She could not see the blue overalls. The next second a Toyota van pulled away from the kerb. Figuerola saw the man in half-profile and memorized the registration number. But if she got the registration wrong she would be able to trace him anyway. The sides of the van advertised Lars Faulsson Lock and Key Service  -  with a telephone number.



There was no need to follow the van. She walked calmly back to the top of the hill just in time to see the woman disappear through the entrance door of Blomkvist's building.



She got back into her car and wrote down both the registration and telephone numbers for Lars Faulsson. There was a lot of mysterious traffic around Blomkvist's address that morning. She looked up towards the roof of Bellmansgatan 1. She knew that Blomkvist's apartment was on the top floor, but on the blueprints from the city construction office she knew that it was on the other side of the building, with dormer windows looking out on Gamla Stan and the waters of Riddarfjarden. An exclusive address in a fine old cultural quarter. She wondered whether he was an ostentatious nouveau riche.



Ten minutes later the woman with the camera came out of the building again. Instead of going back up the hill to Tavastgatan, she continued down the hill and turned right at the corner of Pryssgrand. Hmm. If she had a car parked down on Pryssgrand, Figuerola was out of luck. But if she was walking, there was only one way out of the dead end  -  up to Brannkyrkagatan via Pustegrand and towards Slussen.



Figuerola decided to leave her car behind and turned left in the direction of Slussen on Brannkyrkagatan. She had almost reached Pustegrand when the woman appeared, coming up towards her. Bingo. She followed her past the Hilton on Sodermalmstorg and past the Stadsmuseum at Slussen. The woman walked quickly and purposefully without once looking round. Figuerola gave her a lead of about thirty metres. When she went into Slussen tunnelbana Figuerola picked up her pace, but stopped when she saw the woman head for the Pressbyrån kiosk instead of through the turnstiles.



She watched the woman as she stood in the queue at the kiosk. She was about one metre seventy and looked to be in pretty good shape. She was wearing running shoes. Seeing her with both feet planted firmly as she stood by the window of the kiosk, Figuerola suddenly had the feeling that she was a policewoman. She bought a tin of Catch Dry snuff and went back out on to Sodermalmstorg and turned right across Katarinavagen.



Figuerola followed her. She was almost certain the woman had not seen her. The woman turned the corner at McDonald's and Figuerola hurried after her, but when she got to the corner, the woman had vanished without a trace. Figuerola stopped short in consternation. Shit. She walked slowly past the entrances to the buildings. Then she caught sight of a brass plate that read Milton Security.



Figuerola walked back to Bellmansgatan.



She drove to Gotgatan where the offices of Millennium were and spent the next half hour walking around the streets in the area. She did not see Mårtensson's car. At lunchtime she returned to police headquarters in Kungsholmen and spent two hours thinking as she pumped iron in the gym.



"We've got a problem," Cortez said.



Eriksson and Blomkvist looked up from the typescript of the book about the Zalachenko case. It was 1.30 in the afternoon.



"Take a seat," Eriksson said.



"It's about Vitavara Inc., the company that makes the 1700 kronor toilets in Vietnam."



"Alright. What's the problem?" Blomkvist said.



"Vitavara Inc. is a wholly owned subsidiary of Svea Construction Inc."



"I see. That's a very large firm."



"Yes, it is. The chairman of the board is Magnus Borgsjo, a professional board member. He's also the chairman of the board of Svenska Morgon-Posten and owns about 10 per cent of it."



Blomkvist gave Cortez a sharp look. "Are you sure?"



"Yep. Berger's boss is a bloody crook, a man who exploits child labour in Vietnam."



Assistant Editor Fredriksson looked to be in a bad mood as he knocked on the door of Berger's glass cage at 2.00 in the afternoon.



"What is it?"



"Well, this is a little embarrassing, but somebody in the newsroom got an email from you."



"From me? So? What does it say?



He handed her some printouts of emails addressed to Eva Carlsson, a 26-year-old temp on the culture pages. According to the headers the sender was [email protected]/* */›:



Darling Eva. I want to caress you and kiss your breasts. I'm hot with excitement and can't control myself. I beg you to reciprocate my feelings. Could we meet? Erika



And then two emails on the following days:



Dearest, darling Eva. I beg you not to reject me. I'm crazy with desire. I want to have you naked. I have to have you. I'm going to make you so happy. You'll never regret it. I'm going to kiss every inch of your naked skin, your lovely breasts, and your delicious grotto. Erika



Eva. Why don't you reply? Don't be afraid of me. Don't push me away. You're no innocent. You know what it's all about. I want to have sex with you and I'm going to reward you handsomely. If you're nice to me then I'll be nice to you. You've asked for an extension of your temporary job. I have the power to extend it and even make it a full-time position. Let's meet tonight at 9.00 by my car in the garage. Your Erika



"Alright," Berger said. "And now she's wondering if it was me that wrote to her, is that it?"



"Not exactly... I mean... geez."