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Her door had been open all evening and the nurses had been in to check on her every ten minutes. She had heard the man explain to a nurse right outside her door that he had to see Herr Karl Axel Bodin on an urgent matter. She had heard him offering his I.D., but no words were exchanged that gave her any clue as to who he was or what sort of I.D. he had.
The nurse had asked him to wait while she went to see whether Herr Bodin was awake. Salander concluded that his I.D., whatever it said, must have been persuasive.
She heard the nurse go down the corridor to the left. It took her 17 steps to reach the room, and the male visitor took 14 steps to cover the same distance. That gave an average of 15.5 steps. She estimated the length of a step at 60 centimetres, which multiplied by 15.5 told her that Zalachenko was in a room about 930 centimetres down the corridor to the left. O.K., approximately ten metres. She estimated that the width of her room was about five metres, which should mean that Zalachenko’s room was two doors down from hers.
According to the green numerals on the digital clock on her bedside cabinet, the visit lasted precisely nine minutes.
Zalachenko lay awake for a long time after the man who called himself Jonas Sandberg had left. He assumed that it was not his real name; in his experience Swedish amateur spies had a real obsession with using false names even when it was not in the least bit necessary. In which case Sandberg, or whatever the hell his name was, was the first indication that Zalachenko’s predicament had come to the attention of the Section. Considering the media attention, this would have been hard to avoid. But the visit did confirm that his predicament was a matter of anxiety to them. As well it might be.
He weighed the pros and cons, lined up the possibilities, and rejected various options. He was fully aware that everything had gone about as badly as it could have. In a well-ordered world he would be at home in Gosseberga now, Niederma
On the other hand he understood quite well what had happened to Niederma
This worried Zalachenko. He was convinced that, since Niederma
This thought upset Zalachenko. He did not want Niederma
But it was now forty-eight hours since Niederma
In the long term there was another worry. He wondered how Niederma
Zalachenko acknowledged for the umpteenth time that it was a shame and a crime that his son did not possess certain qualities. Ronald Niederma
But for the time being all this lay outside Zalachenko’s control. Right now he had to focus on himself. His situation was precarious, perhaps more precarious than ever before.
He did not think that Advokat Thomasson’s visit earlier in the day had been particularly reassuring. Thomasson was and remained a corporate lawyer, and no matter how effective he was in that respect, he would not be a great support in this other business.
And then there had been the visit of Jonas Sandberg, or whatever his name was. Sandberg offered a considerably stronger lifeline. But that lifeline could also be a trap. He had to play his cards right, and he would have to take control of the situation. Control was everything.
In the end he had his own resources to fall back on. For the moment he needed medical attention, but in a couple of days, maybe a week, he would have regained his strength. If things came to a head, he might have only himself to rely on. That meant that he would have to disappear, from right under the noses of the policemen circling around him. He would need a hideout, a passport, and some cash. Thomasson could provide him with all that. But first he would have to get strong enough to make his escape.
At 1.00 a.m. the night nurse looked in. He pretended to be asleep. When she closed the door he arduously sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat still for while, testing his sense of balance. Then he cautiously put his left foot down on the floor. Luckily the axe blow had struck his already crippled right leg. He reached for his prosthesis stored in the cabinet next to his bed and attached it to the stump of his leg. Then he stood up, keeping his weight on his uninjured leg before trying to stand on the other. As he shifted his weight a sharp pain shot through his right leg.
He gritted his teeth and took a step. He would need crutches, and he was sure that the hospital would offer him some soon. He braced himself against the wall and limped over to the door. It took him several minutes, and he had to stop after each step to deal with the pain.
He rested on one leg as he pushed open the door a crack and peered out into the corridor. He did not see anyone, so he stuck his head out a little further. He heard faint voices to the left and turned to look. The night nurses were at their station about twenty metres down on the other side of the corridor.
He turned his head to the right and saw the exit at the other end.
Earlier in the day he had enquired about Lisbeth Salander’s condition. He was, after all, her father. The nurses obviously had been instructed not to discuss other patients. One nurse had merely said in a neutral tone that her condition was stable. But she had unconsciously glanced to her left.
In one of the rooms between his own and the exit was Lisbeth Salander.