"How am I doing?" she said.
"You'll pull through," the doctor said and made some notes before he stood up. This was not very informative.
After he left, a nurse came in and helped Salander with a bedpan. Then she was allowed to go back to sleep.
Zalachenko, alias Karl Axel Bodin, was given a liquid lunch. Even small movements of his facial muscles caused sharp pains in his jaw and cheekbone, and chewing was out of the question.
But the pain was manageable. Zalachenko was used to pain. Nothing could compare with the pain he had undergone for several weeks, months even, fifteen years before, when he had burned like a torch in his car. The follow-up care had been a marathon of agony.
The doctors had decided that his life was no longer at risk, but still he was severely injured. In view of his age, he would stay in the intensive care unit for a few more days.
On Saturday he had five visitors.
At 10:00 a.m. Inspector Erlander returned. This time he had left that damned Modig woman behind and instead was accompanied by Inspector Holmberg, who was much more agreeable. They asked pretty much the same questions about Niedermann as they had the night before. He had his story straight and did not slip up. When they started plying him with questions about his possible involvement in trafficking and other criminal activities, he again denied all knowledge of any such thing. He was living on a disability pension, and he had no idea what they were talking about. He blamed Niedermann for everything and offered to help them in any way he could to find the fugitive.
Unfortunately, there was not much he could help with, practically speaking. He had no knowledge of the circles Niedermann moved in, or whom he might go to for protection.
At around 11:00 he had a brief visit from a representative of the prosecutor's office, who formally advised him that he was a suspect in the aggravated assault and attempted murder of Lisbeth Salander. Zalachenko patiently explained that on the contrary, he was the victim of a crime, that in point of fact it was Salander who had attempted to murder him. The prosecutor's office offered him legal assistance in the form of a public defence lawyer. Zalachenko said that he would mull over the matter.
Which he had no intention of doing. He already had a lawyer, and the first thing he had to do that morning was call him and tell him to get down there right away. Martin Thomasson was therefore the fourth guest of the day at Zalachenko's sickbed. He wandered in with a carefree expression, ran a hand through his thick blond hair, adjusted his glasses, and shook hands with his client. He was a chubby and very charming man. True, he was suspected of running errands for the Yugoslav mafia, a matter which was still under investigation, but he was also known for winning his cases.
Zalachenko had been referred to Thomasson through a business associate five years earlier, when he needed to restructure certain funds connected to a small financial firm that he owned in Liechtenstein. They were not dramatic sums, but Thomasson's skill had been exceptional, and Zalachenko had avoided paying taxes on them. He then engaged Thomasson on a couple of other matters. Thomasson knew that the money came from criminal activity, but it didn't seem to faze him. Ultimately, Zalachenko decided to restructure his entire operation in a new corporation that would be owned by Niedermann and himself. He approached Thomasson and proposed that the lawyer come in as a third, silent partner to handle the financial side of the business. Thomasson accepted at once.
"So, Herr Bodin, none of this looks like much fun."
"I have been the victim of aggravated assault and attempted murder," Zalachenko said.
"I can see as much. A certain Lisbeth Salander, if I understood correctly."
Zalachenko lowered his voice: "Our partner Niedermann, as you know, has really screwed things up."
"Indeed."
"The police suspect that I am involved."
"Which of course you are not. You're a victim, and it's important that we see to it at once that this is the image presented to the press. Ms. Salander has already received a good deal of negative publicity. . . . Let me deal with the situation."
"Thank you."
"But I have to remind you right from the start that I'm not a criminal lawyer. You're going to need a specialist. I'll arrange to hire one that you can trust."
The fifth visitor of the day arrived at 11:00 on Saturday night and managed to get past the nurses by showing an ID card and stating that he had urgent business. He was shown to Zalachenko's room. The patient was still awake, and grumbling.
"My name is Jonas Sandberg," he introduced himself, holding out a hand that Zalachenko ignored.
He was in his thirties. He had blond hair and was casually dressed in jeans, a checked shirt, and a leather jacket. Zalachenko scrutinized him for fifteen seconds.
"I was wondering when one of you was going to show up."
"I work for SIS, Swedish Internal Security," Sandberg said, and showed Zalachenko his ID.
"I doubt that," said Zalachenko.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You may be employed by SIS, but I doubt that's who you're working for."
Sandberg looked around the room, then he pulled up the guest chair.
"I came here late so as not to attract attention. We've discussed how we can help you, and now we have to reach some sort of agreement about what's going to happen. I'm just here to get your version of the story and find out what your intentions are, so that we can work out a common strategy."
"What sort of strategy do you have in mind?"
"Herr Zalachenko . . . I'm afraid that a process has been set in motion in which the deleterious effects are hard to foresee," Sandberg said. "We've talked it through. It's going to be difficult to explain away the grave in Gosseberga, and the fact that the girl was shot three times. But let's not lose hope altogether. The conflict between you and your daughter can explain your fear of her and why you took such drastic measures . . . but I'm afraid we're talking about your doing some time in prison."
Zalachenko suddenly felt elated and would have burst out laughing had he not been so trussed up. He managed a slight curl of his lips. Anything more would be just too painful.
"So that's our strategy?"
"Herr Zalachenko, you are aware of the concept of damage control. We have to arrive at a common strategy. We'll do everything in our power to assist you with a lawyer and so on, but we need your cooperation, as well as certain guarantees."
"You'll get only one guarantee from me. First, you will see to it that all this disappears." He waved his hand. "Niedermann is the scapegoat, and I guarantee that no-one will ever find him."
"There's forensic evidence that--"
"Fuck the forensic evidence. It's a matter of how the investigation is carried out and how the facts are presented. My guarantee is this: if you don't wave your magic wand and make all this disappear, I'm inviting the media to a press conference. I know names, dates, events. I don't think I need to remind you who I am."
"You don't understand--"
"I understand perfectly. You're an errand boy. So go to your superior and tell him what I've said. He'll understand. Tell him that I have copies of . . . everything. I can take you all down."
"We have to come to an agreement."
"This conversation is over. Get out of here. And tell them that next time they should send a grown man for me to discuss things with."
Zalachenko turned his head away from his visitor. Sandberg looked at Zalachenko for a moment. Then he shrugged and got up. He was almost at the door when he heard Zalachenko's voice again.
"One more thing."
Sandberg turned.
"Salander."
"What about her?"