It was an unpleasant thought.
The most disturbing was the attack on her house.
Someone had taken the trouble to find out where she lived, drive out here, and throw a brick through the window. It was obviously premeditated--the attacker had brought his can of spray paint. The next moment she froze when she realized that she could add another attack to the list. All four of her tyres had been slashed when she spent the night with Blomkvist at the Slussen Hilton.
The conclusion was just as unpleasant as it was obvious. She was being stalked.
Someone, for some unknown reason, had decided to harass her.
The fact that her home had been subject to an attack was understandable--it was where it was and impossible to disguise. But if her car had been damaged on some random street in Sodermalm, her stalker must have been somewhere nearby when she parked it. He must have been following her.
CHAPTER 18
Thursday, June 2
Berger's mobile was ringing. It was 9:05.
"Good morning, Fru Berger. Dragan Armansky. I understand you called last night."
Berger explained what had happened and asked whether Milton Security could take over the contract from Nacka Integrated Protection.
"We can certainly install an alarm that will work," Armansky said. "The problem is that the closest car we have at night is in Nacka centre. Response time would be about thirty minutes. If we took the job I'd have to subcontract out your house. We have an agreement with a local security company, Adam Security in Fisksatra, which has a response time of ten minutes if all goes as it should."
"That would be an improvement over NIP, which doesn't bother to turn up at all."
"Adam Security is a family-owned business, a father, two sons, and a couple of cousins. Greeks, good people. I've known the father for many years. They handle coverage about three hundred twenty days a year. They tell us in advance the days they aren't available because of holidays or something else, and then our car in Nacka takes over."
"That works for me."
"I'll be sending a man out this morning. His name is David Rosin, and in fact he's already on his way. He's going to do a security assessment. He needs your keys if you're not going to be home, and he needs your authorization to do a thorough examination of your house, from top to bottom. He's going to take pictures of the entire property and the immediate surroundings."
"All right."
"Rosin has a lot of experience, and we'll make you a proposal. We'll have a complete security plan ready in a few days, which will include a personal attack alarm, fire security, evacuation plan, and breakin protection."
"OK."
"If anything should happen, we also want you to know what to do in the ten minutes before the car arrives from Fisksatra."
"Sounds good."
"We'll install the alarm this afternoon. Then we'll have to sign a contract."
Only after she had finished her conversation with Armansky did Berger realize that she had overslept. She called Fredriksson and explained that she had hurt herself. He would have to cancel the 10:00.
"What's happened?" he said.
"I cut my foot," Berger said. "I'll hobble in as soon as I've pulled myself together."
She used the toilet in the master bathroom and then pulled on some black pants and borrowed one of Greger's slippers for her injured foot. She chose a black blouse and put on a jacket. Before she removed the doorstop from the bedroom door, she armed herself with the canister of Mace.
She made her way cautiously through the house and switched on the coffeemaker. She had her breakfast at the kitchen table, listening for sounds in the vicinity. She had just poured a second cup of coffee when there was a firm knock on the front door. It was David Rosin from Milton Security.
Figuerola walked to Bergsgatan and summoned her four colleagues for an early morning conference.
"We have a deadline now," she said. "Our work has to be done by July 13, the day the Salander trial begins. We have just under six weeks. Let's agree on what's most important right now. Who wants to go first?"
Berglund cleared his throat. "The blond man with Martensson. Who is he?"
"We have photographs, but no idea how to find him. We can't put out an APB."
"What about Gullberg, then? There must be a story to track down there. We have him in the Security Police from the early fifties to 1964, when SIS was founded. Then he vanishes."
Figuerola nodded.
"Should we conclude that the Zalachenko club was an association formed in 1964? That would be some time before Zalachenko even came to Sweden."
"There must have been some other purpose . . . a secret organization within the organization."
"That was after Stig Wennerstrom. Everyone was paranoid."
"A sort of secret spy police?"
"There are in fact parallels overseas. In the States a special g
roup of internal spy chasers was created within the CIA in the fifties. It was led by a James Jesus Angleton, and it very nearly sabotaged the entire CIA. Angleton's gang were as fanatical as they were paranoid--they suspected everyone in the CIA of being a Russian agent. As a result, the agency's effectiveness in large areas was paralysed."
"But that's all speculation . . ."
"Where are the old personnel files kept?"
"Gullberg isn't in them. I've checked."
"But what about a budget? An operation like this has to be financed."
The discussion went on until lunchtime, when Figuerola excused herself and went to the gym for some peace, to think things over.
Berger did not arrive in the newsroom until lunchtime. Her foot was hurting so badly that she could not put any weight on it. She hobbled over to her glass cage and sank into her chair with relief. Fredriksson looked up from his desk, and she waved him in.
"What happened?" he said.
"I stepped on a piece of glass and a shard lodged in my heel."
"That . . . wasn't so good."
"No. It wasn't good. Peter, has anyone received any more weird emails?"
"Not that I've heard."
"Keep your ears open. I want to know if anything odd happens around SMP."
"What sort of odd?"
"I'm afraid some idiot is sending really vile emails and he seems to have targeted me. So I want to know if you hear of anything going on."
"The type of email Eva Carlsson got?"
"Right, but anything strange at all. I've had a whole string of crazy emails accusing me of being all kinds of things--and suggesting various perverse things that ought to be done to me."
Fredriksson's expression darkened. "How long has this been going on?"
"A couple of weeks. Keep your eyes peeled. . . . So tell me, what's going to be in the paper tomorrow?"
"Well . . ."
"Well, what?"
"Holm and the head of the legal section are on the warpath."
"Why is that?"
"Because of Frisk. You extended his contract and gave him a feature assignment. And he won't tell anybody what it's about."
"He is forbidden to talk about it. My orders."
"That's what he says. Which means that Holm and the legal editor are up in arms."
"I can see that they might be. Set up a meeting with Legal at 3:00. I'll explain the situation."
"Holm is not pleased--"
"I'm not pleased with Holm, either, so we're even."