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Gullberg went to Salander's room and tried the door handle. It was blocked. He couldn't move it even an inch.
For a moment he stood indecisively outside the door. He knew that the lawyer, Giannini, was in the room, and he wondered if a copy of Bjorck's report might be in her briefcase. But he couldn't get into the room, and he did not have the strength to force the door.
That hadn't been part of the plan anyway. Clinton would take care of Giannini. Gullberg's only job was Zalachenko.
He looked around the corridor and saw that he was being watched by nurses, patients, and visitors. He raised the pistol and fired at a picture hanging on the wall. His spectators vanished as if by magic.
He glanced one last time at the door to Salander's room. Then he walked decisively back to Zalachenko's room and closed the door. He sat in the guest chair and looked at the Russian defector who had been such an intimate part of his own life for so many years.
He sat still for almost ten minutes before he heard movement in the corridor and was aware that the police had arrived. By now he wasn't thinking of anything in particular.
Then he raised the revolver one last time, held it to his temple, and squeezed the trigger.
As the situation developed, the futility of attempting suicide in the middle of a hospital became apparent. Gullberg was transported at top speed to the hospital's trauma unit, where Dr. Jonasson received him and immediately initiated a battery of measures to maintain his vital functions.
For the second time in less than a week Jonasson performed emergency surgery, extracting a full-metal-jacketed bullet from human brain tissue. After a five-hour operation, Gullberg's condition was critical. But he was still alive.
Yet Gullberg's injuries were considerably more serious than those Salander had sustained. He hovered between life and death for several days.
Blomkvist was at the Kaffebar on Hornsgatan when he heard on the radio that a sixty-five-year-old unnamed man, suspected of attempting to murder the fugitive Lisbeth Salander, had been shot and killed at Sahlgrenska hospital in Goteborg. He left his coffee untouched, picked up his laptop case, and hurried off towards the editorial offices on Gotgatan. He had crossed Mariatorget and was just turning up St. Paulsgatan when his mobile beeped. He answered on the run.
"Blomkvist."
"Hi, it's Malin."
"I heard the news. Do we know who the killer was?"
"Not yet. Henry is chasing it down."
"I'm on the way in. Be there in five minutes."
Blomkvist ran into Cortez at the entrance to the Millennium offices.
"Ekstrom's holding a press conference at 3:00," Cortez said. "I'm going to Kungsholmen now."
"What do we know?" Blomkvist shouted after him.
"Ask Malin," Cortez said, and was gone.
Blomkvist headed into Berger's--wrong; Eriksson's--office. She was on the phone and writing furiously on a yellow Post-it. She waved him away. Blomkvist went into the kitchenette and poured coffee with milk into two mugs marked with the logos of the KDU and SSU political parties. When he returned she had just finished her call. He gave her the SSU mug.
"OK," she said. "Zalachenko was shot dead at 1:15." She looked at Blomkvist. "I just spoke to a nurse at Sahlgrenska. She says that the murderer was an elderly man who arrived with flowers for Zalachenko minutes before the murder. He shot Zalachenko in the head several times and then shot himself. Zalachenko is dead. The murderer is still alive and in surgery."
Blomkvist breathed more easily. Ever since he had heard the news at the Kaffebar he had had his heart in his throat and a panicky feeling that Salander might have been the killer. That really would have thrown a monkey wrench into his plan.
"Do we have the name of the shooter?"
Eriksson shook her head as the phone rang again. She took the call, and from the conversation Blomkvist gathered that it was a stringer in Goteborg whom Eriksson had sent to Sahlgrenska. He went to his own office and sat down.
It felt as if it was the first time in weeks that he had even been to his office. There was a pile of unopened mail, which he shoved firmly to one side. He called his sister.
"Giannini."
"It's Mikael. Did you hear what happened at Sahlgrenska?"
"You could say so."
"Where are you?"
"At the hospital. That bastard aimed at me too."
Blomkvist sat speechless for several seconds before he fully took in what his sister had said.
"What the hell . . . you were there?"
"Yes. It was the most horrendous thing I've ever experienced."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. But he tried to get into Lisbeth's room. I blockaded the door and locked us in the bathroom."
Blomkvist's whole world suddenly felt off balance. His sister had almost . . .
"How is she?" he said.
"She's not hurt. Or, I mean, she wasn't hurt in today's drama at least."
He let that sink in.
"Annika, do you know anything at all about the murderer?"
"Not a thing. He was an older man, neatly dressed. I thought he looked rather bewildered. I've never seen him before, but I came up in the elevator with him a few minutes before it all happened."
"And Zalachenko is dead, no question?"
"Yes. I heard three shots, and according to what I've overheard he was shot in the head all three times. But it's been utter chaos here, with a thousand policemen, and they're evacuating a ward for acutely ill and injured patients who really ought not to be moved. When the police arrived one of them tried to question Lisbeth before they even bothered to ask what shape she's in. I had to read them the riot act."
Inspector Erlander saw Giannini through the doorway to Salander's room. The lawyer had her mobile pressed to her ear, so he waited for her to finish her call.
Two hours after the murder there was still chaos in the corridor. Zalachenko's room was sealed off. Doctors had tried resuscitation immediately after the shooting, but they soon gave up. He was beyond all help. His body was sent to the pathologist, and the crime scene investigation proceeded as best it could under the circumstances.
Erlander's mobile chimed. It was Fredrik Malmberg from the investigative team.
"We've got a positive ID on the murderer," Malmberg said. "His name is Evert Gullberg, and he's seventy-eight years old."
Seventy-eight. Quite elderly for a murderer.
"And who the hell is Evert Gullberg?"
"Retired. Lives in Laholm. Apparently he was a tax lawyer. I got a call from someone at SIS, who told me that they had recently initiated a preliminary investigation against him."
"When and why?"
"I don't know when. But apparently he had a habit of sending crazy and threatening letters to people in government."
"Such as who?"
"The minister of justice, for one."
Erlander sighed. So, a madman. A fanatic.
"This morning Sapo got calls from several newspapers that had received letters from Gullberg. The Ministry of Justice also called, because Gullberg had made specific death threats against Karl Axel Bodin."
"I want copies of the letters."
"From Sapo?"
"Yes, damn it. Drive up to Stockholm and pick them up in person if necessary. I want them on my desk when I get back to HQ. Which will be in about an hour."
He thought for a second and then asked one more question.
"Was it Sapo that called you?"
"That's what I told you."
"I mean, they called you, not vice versa?"
"Exactly."
Erlander closed his mobile.
He wondered what had gotten into Sapo to make them, out of the blue, feel the need to get in touch with the police--of their own accord. Ordinarily you couldn't get a word out of them.
Wadensjoo flung open the door to the room at the Section where Clinton was resting. Clinton sat up cautiously.
"Just what the hell is going on?" Wadensjoo shrieked. "Gullberg ha
