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They sat in silence for a moment.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, I did. Oh, Mikael…”
“I know.”
“I’m unhappy. I don’t want to fall in love with you. It’ll hurt far too much when it’s over.”
“Listen, I’ve had this cabin for twenty-five years, since my father died and my mother moved back to Norrland. We shared out the property so that my sister got our apartment and I got the cabin. Apart from some casual acquaintances in the early years, there are five women who have been here before you: Erika, Lisbeth and my ex-wife, who I was together with in the ’80s, a woman I was in a serious relationship with in the late ’90s, and someone I met two years ago, whom I still see occasionally. It’s sort of special circumstances…”
“I bet it is.”
“I keep this cabin so that I can get away from the city and have some quiet time. I’m mostly here on my own. I read books, I write, and I relax and sit on the wharf and look at the boats. It’s not a secret love nest.”
He stood up to get the bottle of wine he had put in the shade.
“I won’t make any promises. My marriage broke up because Erika and I couldn’t keep away from each other,” he said, and then he added in English, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”
He filled their glasses.
“But you’re the most interesting person I’ve met in a long time. It’s as if our relationship took off at full speed from a standing start. I think I fell for you the moment you picked me up outside my apartment. The few times I’ve slept at my place since then, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night needing you. I don’t know if I want a steady relationship, but I’m terrified of losing you.” He looked at her. “So what do you think we should do?”
“Let’s think about things,” Figuerola said. “I’m badly attracted to you too.”
“This is starting to get serious,” Blomkvist said.
She suddenly felt a great sadness. They did not say much for a long time. When it got dark they cleared the table, went inside and closed the door.
On the Friday before the week of the trial, Blomkvist stopped at the Pressbyrån news-stand at Slussen and read the billboards for the morning papers. Svenska Morgon-Posten’s C.E.O. and chairman of the board Magnus Borgsjö had capitulated and tendered his resignation. Blomkvist bought the papers and walked to Java on Hornsgatan to have a late breakfast. Borgsjö cited family reasons as the explanation for his unexpected resignation. He would not comment on claims that Berger had also resigned after he ordered her to cover up a story about his involvement in the wholesale enterprise Vitavara Inc. But in a sidebar it was reported that the chair of Svenskt Näringsliv, the confederation of Swedish enterprise, had decided to set up an ethics committee to investigate the dealings of Swedish companies with businesses in South East Asia known to exploit child labour.
Blomkvist burst out laughing, and then he folded the morning papers and flipped open his Ericsson to call the woman who presented She on T.V.4, who was in the middle of a lunchtime sandwich.
“Hello, darling,” Blomkvist said. “I’m assuming you’d still like di
“Hi, Mikael,” she laughed. “Sorry, but you couldn’t be further from my type.”
“Still, how about coming out with me this evening to discuss a job?”
“What have you got going?”
“Erika Berger made a deal with you two years ago about the We
“I’m all ears.”
“I can’t tell you about it until we’ve agreed on the terms. I’ve got a story in the works. We’re going to publish a book and a themed issue of the magazine, and it’s going to be huge. I’m offering you an exclusive look at all the material, provided you don’t leak anything before we publish. This time the publication is extra complicated because it has to happen on a specific day.”
“How big is the story?”
“Bigger than We
“Are you serious? Where shall we meet?”
“How about Samir’s Cauldron? Erika’s going to sit in on the meeting.”
“What’s going with on her? Is she back at Mille
“She didn’t get thrown out. She resigned because of differences of opinion with Magnus Borgsjö.”
“He seems to be a real creep.”
“You’re not wrong there,” Blomkvist said.
Clinton was listening to Verdi through his earphones. Music was pretty much the only thing left in life that could take him away from dialysis machines and the growing pain in the small of his back. He did not hum to the music. He closed his eyes and followed the notes with his right hand, which hovered and seemed to have a life of its own alongside his disintegrating body.
That is how it goes. We are born. We live. We grow old. We die. He had played his part. All that remained was the disintegration.
He felt strangely satisfied with life.
He was playing for his friend Evert Gullberg.
It was Saturday, July 9. Only four days until the trial, and the Section could set about putting this whole wretched story behind them. He had had the message that morning. Gullberg had been tougher than almost anyone he had known. When you fire a 9 mm full-metal-jacketed bullet into your own temple you expect to die. Yet it was three months before Gullberg’s body gave up at last. That was probably due as much to chance as to the stubbor
Gullberg’s death had been painful, and that saddened Clinton. Although incapable of communicating with the outside world, he had at times been in a semi-conscious state, smiling when the hospital staff stroked his cheek or grunting when he seemed to be in pain. Sometimes he had tried to form words and even sentences, but nobody was able to understand anything he said.
He had no family, and none of his friends came to his sickbed. His last contact with life was an Eritrean night nurse by the name of Sara Kitama, who kept watch at his bedside and held his hand as he died.
Clinton realized that he would soon be following his former comrade-in-arms. No doubt about that. The likelihood of his surviving a transplant operation decreased each day. His liver and intestinal functions appeared to have declined at each examination.
He hoped to live past Christmas.
Yet he was contented. He felt an almost spiritual, giddy satisfaction that his final days had involved such a sudden and surprising return to service.
It was a boon he could not have anticipated.
The last notes of Verdi faded away just somebody opened the door to the small room in which he was resting at the Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan.
Clinton opened his eyes. It was Wadensjöö.
He had come to the conclusion that Wadensjöö was a dead weight. He was entirely unsuitable as director of the most important vanguard of Swedish national defence. He could not conceive how he and von Rottinger could ever have made such a fundamental miscalculation as to imagine that Wadensjöö was the appropriate successor.
Wadensjöö was a warrior who needed a fair wind. In a crisis he was feeble and incapable of making a decision. A timid encumbrance lacking steel in his backbone who would most likely have remained in paralysis, incapable of action, and let the Section go under.
It was this simple. Some had it. Others would always falter when it came to the crunch.
“You wanted a word?”
“Sit down,” Clinton said.
Wadensjöö sat.
“I’m at a stage in my life when I can no longer waste time. I’ll get straight to the point. When all this is over, I want you to resign from the management of the Section.”