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"Allow me to manufacture a scenario," Nystrom said. "I assume that we're going to tell him in a subtle way what he has to do to avoid an abrupt end to his career."
"The most serious problem is going to be the third part," Gullberg said. "The police didn't get ahold of Bjorck's report by themselves . . . they got it from a journalist. And the press, as you are all aware, is a real problem here. Millennium."
Nystrom turned a page in his notebook. "Mikael Blomkvist."
Everyone around the table had heard of the Wennerstrom affair and knew the name.
"Svensson, the journalist who was murdered, was freelancing at Millennium. He was working on a story about sex trafficking. That was how he lit upon Zalachenko. It was Blomkvist who found Svensson's and his girlfriend's bodies. In addition, Blomkvist knows Salander and has always believed in her innocence."
"How the hell can he know Zalachenko's daughter? That sounds like too big a coincidence."
"We don't think it is a coincidence," Wadensjoo said. "We believe that Salander is in some way the link between all of them, but we don't yet know how."
Gullberg drew a series of concentric circles on his notepad. At last he looked up.
"I have to think about this for a while. I'm going for a walk. We'll meet again in an hour."
Gullberg's excursion lasted nearly three hours. He had walked for only about ten minutes before he found a cafe that served many unfamiliar types of coffee. He ordered a cup of regular black coffee and sat at a corner table near the entrance. He spent a long time thinking things over, trying to dissect the various aspects of their dilemma. Occasionally he would jot down notes in a pocket diary.
After an hour and a half a plan had begun to take shape.
It was not a perfect plan, but after weighing all the options, he concluded that the problem called for a drastic solution.
As luck would have it, the human resources were available. It was doable.
He got up to find a phone booth and called Wadensjoo.
"We'll have to postpone the meeting a bit longer," he said. "There's something I have to do. Can we meet again at 2:00 p.m.?"
Gullberg went down to Stureplan and hailed a taxi. He gave the driver an address in the suburb of Bromma. When he was dropped off, he walked south one block and rang the doorbell of a small, semi-detached house. A woman in her forties opened the door.
"Good afternoon. I'm looking for Fredrik Clinton."
"Who should I say is here?"
"An old colleague."
The woman nodded and showed him into the living room, where Clinton rose slowly from the sofa. He was only sixty-eight, but he looked much older. His ill health had taken a heavy toll.
"Gullberg," Clinton said in surprise.
For a long moment they stood looking at each other. Then the two old agents embraced.
"I thought I'd never see you again," Clinton said. He pointed to the front page of the morning paper, which had a photograph of Niedermann and the headline POLICE KILLER HUNTED IN DENMARK. "I assume that's what's brought you out here."
"How are you?"
"I'm sick," Clinton said.
"I can see that."
"If I don't get a new kidney I'm not long for this world. And the likelihood of my getting one in this people's republic is pretty slim."
The woman came to the living-room doorway and asked if Gullberg would like anything.
"A cup of coffee, thank you," he said. When she was gone he turned to Clinton. "Who's that?"
"My daughter."
It was fascinating that despite the collegial atmosphere they had shared for so many years at the Section, hardly any of them socialized with each other in their free time. Gullberg knew the most minute character traits, the strengths and weaknesses, of all his colleagues, but he had only a vague notion of their family lives. Clinton had probably been Gullberg's closest colleague for twenty years. Gullberg knew that he had been married and had children, but he did not know the daughter's name, his late wife's name, or even where Clinton usually spent his vacations. It was as if everything outside the Section was sacred, not to be discussed.
"What can I do for you?" asked Clinton.
"Can I ask you what you think of Wadensjoo?"
Clinton shook his head. "I don't want to get into it."
"That's not what I asked. You know him. He worked with you for ten years."
Clinton shook his head again. "He's the one running the Section today. What I think is no longer of any interest."
"Can he handle it?"
"He's no idiot."
"But?"
"He's an analyst. Extremely good at puzzles. Instinctual. A brilliant administrator who balanced the budget, and did it in a way we didn't think was possible."
Gullberg nodded. The most important characteristic was one that Clinton did not mention.
"Are you ready to come back to work?"
Clinton looked up. He hesitated for a long time.
"Evert . . . I spend nine hours every other day on a dialysis machine at the hospital. I can't go up stairs without gasping for breath. I simply have no energy. No energy at all."
"I need you. One last operation."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. And you can still spend nine hours every other day on dialysis. You can take the elevator instead of going up the stairs. I'll even arrange for somebody to carry you back and forth on a stretcher if necessary. It's your mind I need."
Clinton sighed. "Tell me."
"Right now we're confronted with an exceptionally complicated situation that requires operational expertise. Wadensjoo has a young kid, still wet behind the ears, named Jonas Sandberg; he's the entire operations department. And I don't think Wadensjoo has the drive to do what needs to be done. He might be a genius at finessing the budget, but h
e's afraid to make operational decisions, and he's afraid to get the Section involved in the necessary field work."
Clinton gave him a feeble smile.
"The operation has to be carried out on two separate fronts. One part concerns Zalachenko. I have to get him to listen to reason, and I think I know how I'm going to do it. The second part has to be handled from here, in Stockholm. The problem is that there isn't anyone in the Section who can actually run it. I need you to take command. One last job. Sandberg and Nystrom will do the legwork; you control the operation."
"You don't understand what you're asking."
"Yes, I do. But you're going to have to make up your mind whether to take on the assignment or not. Either we ancients step in and do our bit, or the Section will cease to exist a few weeks from now."
Clinton propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested his head on his hand. He thought about it for two minutes.
"Tell me your plan," he said at last.
Gullberg and Clinton talked for a long time.
Wadensjoo stared in disbelief when Gullberg returned at 2:57 with Clinton in tow. Clinton looked like a skeleton. He seemed to have difficulty breathing; he kept one hand on Gullberg's shoulder.
"What in the world . . . ?" Wadensjoo said.
"Let's get the meeting moving again," Gullberg said briskly.
They settled themselves again around the table in Wadensjoo's office. Clinton sank silently onto the chair that was offered.
"You all know Fredrik Clinton," Gullberg said.
"Indeed," Wadensjoo said. "The question is, what's he doing here?"
"Clinton has decided to return to active duty. He'll be leading the Section's operations department until the present crisis is over." Gullberg raised a hand to forestall Wadensjoo's objections. "Clinton is tired. He's going to need assistance. He has to go regularly to the hospital for dialysis. Wadensjoo, assign two personal assistants to help him with all the practical matters. But let me make this quite clear: with regard to this affair, it's Clinton who will be making the operational decisions."
He paused for a moment. No-one voiced any objections.
"I have a plan. I think we can handle this matter successfully, but we're going to have to act fast so that we don't squander the opportunity," he said. "It depends on how decisive you can be in the Section these days."
"Let's hear it," Wadensjoo said.
"First of all, we've already discussed the police. This is what we're going to do. We'll try to isolate them in a lengthy investigation, sidetracking them into the search for Niedermann. That will be Nystrom's task. Whatever happens, Niedermann is of no importance. We'll arrange for Faste to be assigned to investigate Salander."
