“There’s a fifth officer involved,” Nyström said. “Hans Faste, forty-seven. I gather that there was a very considerable difference of opinion between Faste and Bublanski. So much so that Faste took sick leave.”

“What do we know about him?”

“I get mixed reactions when I ask. He has an exemplary record with no real criticisms. A pro. But he’s tricky to deal with. The disagreement with Bublanski seems to have been about Salander.”

“In what way?”

“Faste appears to have become obsessed by one newspaper story about a lesbian Satanist gang. He really doesn’t like Salander and seems to regard her existence as a personal insult. He may himself be behind half of the rumours. I was told by a former colleague that he has difficulty working with women.”

“Interesting,” Gullberg said slowly. “Since the newspapers have already written about a lesbian gang, it would make sense to continue promoting that story. It won’t exactly bolster Salander’s credibility.”

“But the officers who’ve read Björck’s report are a big problem,” Sandberg said. “Is there any way we can isolate them?”

Wadensjöö lit another cigarillo. “Well, Ekström is the head of the preliminary investigation…”

“But Bublanski’s leading it,” Nyström said.

“Yes, but he can’t go against an administrative decision.” Wadensjöö turned to Gullberg. “You have more experience than I do, but this whole story has so many different threads and connections… It seems to me that it would be wise to get Bublanski and Modig away from Salander.”

“That’s good, Wadensjöö,” Gullberg said. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Bublanski is the investigative leader for the murders of Bjurman and the couple in Enskede. Salander is no longer a suspect. Now it’s all about this German, Ronald Niedermann. Bublanski and his team have to focus on Niedermann. Salander is not their assignment any more. Then there’s the investigation at Nykvarn… three cold-case killings. And there’s a connection to Niedermann there too. That investigation is presently allocated to Södertälje, but it ought to be brought into a single investigation. That way Bublanski would have his hands full for a while. And who knows? Maybe he’ll catch Niedermann. Meanwhile, Hans Faste… do you think he might come back on duty? He sounds like the right man to investigate the allegations against Salander.”

“I see what you’re thinking,” Wadensjöö said. “It’s all about getting Ekström to split the two cases. But that’s only if we can control Ekström.”

“That shouldn’t be such a big problem,” Gullberg said. He glanced at Nyström, who nodded.

“I can take care of Ekström,” he said. “I’m guessing that he’s sitting there wishing he’d never heard of Zalachenko. He turned over Björck’s report as soon as S.I.S. asked him for it, and he’s agreed to comply with every request that may have a bearing on national security.”

“What do you have in mind?” Wadensjöö said.

“Allow me to manufacture a scenario,” Nyström 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 hold of Björck’s report by themselves… they got it from a journalist. And the press, as you are all aware, is a real problem here. Millennium.”

Nyström turned a page his notebook. “Mikael Blomkvist.”

Everyone around the table had heard of the Wennerström 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 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,” Wadensjöö 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 café that served many unfamiliar types of coffee. He ordered a cup of 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 telephone booth and called Wadensjöö.

“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 street and rang the doorbell of a small, semidetached 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 never thought I’d see you again,” Clinton said. He pointed to the front page of the evening 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 anyone socialized with each other in their free time. Gullberg knew the most minute character traits, 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. He 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 holidays. It was as if everything outside the Section were sacred, not to be discussed.

“What can I do for you?” asked Clinton.

“Can I ask you what you think of Wadensjöö.”

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.”