The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest Page 0,150

still with the Secret State Police."

"Who's H.W. Francke?" Figuerola said.

"Hans Wilhelm Francke," Edklinth said. "Died in the early '90s, but was assistant chief of the Secret State Police in the late '50s and early '60s. He was a bit of a legend, just like Otto Danielsson. I actually met him a couple of times."

"Is that so?" Figuerola said.

"He left S.I.S. in the late '60s. Francke and P.G. Vinge never saw eye to eye, and he was more or less forced to resign at the age of fifty or fifty-five. Then he opened his own shop."

"His own shop?"

"He became a consultant in security for industry. He had an office on Stureplan, but he also gave lectures from time to time at S.I.S. training sessions. That's where I met him."

"What did Vinge and Francke quarrel about?"

"They were just very different. Francke was a bit of a cowboy who saw K.G.B. agents everywhere, and Vinge was a bureaucrat of the old school. Vinge was fired shortly thereafter. A bit ironic, that, because he thought Palme was working for the K.G.B."

Figuerola looked at the photograph of Gullberg and Francke standing side by side.

"I think it's time we had another talk with Justice," Edklinth told her.

"Millennium came out today," Figuerola said.

Edklinth shot her a glance.

"Not a word about the Zalachenko affair," she said.

"So we've got a month before the next issue. Good to know. But we have to deal with Blomkvist. In the midst of all this mess he's like a hand grenade with the pin pulled."

CHAPTER 17

WEDNESDAY, 1.VI

Blomkvist had no warning that someone was in the stairwell when he reached the landing outside his top-floor apartment at Bellmansgatan 1. It was 7.00 in the evening. He stopped short when he saw a woman with short, blonde curly hair sitting on the top step. He recognized her straightaway as Monica Figuerola of S.I.S. from the passport photograph Karim had located.

"Hello, Blomkvist," she said cheerfully, closing the book she had been reading. Blomkvist looked at the book and saw that it was in English, on the idea of God in the ancient world. He studied his unexpected visitor as she stood up. She was wearing a short-sleeved summer dress and had laid a brick-red leather jacket over the top stair.

"We need to talk to you," she said.

She was tall, taller than he was, and that impression was magnified by the fact that she was standing two steps above him. He looked at her arms and then at her legs and saw that she was much more muscular than he was.

"You spend a couple of hours a week at the gym," he said.

She smiled and took out her I.D.

"My name is - "

"Monica Figuerola, born in 1969, living on Pontonjargatan on Kungsholmen. You came from Borlange and you've worked with the Uppsala police. For three years you've been working in S.I.S., Constitutional Protection. You're an exercise fanatic and you were once a top-class athlete, almost made it on to the Swedish Olympic team. What do you want with me?"

She was surprised, but she quickly regained her composure.

"Fair enough," she said in a low voice. "You know who I am - so you don't have to be afraid of me."

"I don't?"

"There are some people who need to have a talk with you in peace and quiet. Since your apartment and mobile seem to be bugged and we have reason to be discreet, I've been sent to invite you."

"And why would I go anywhere with somebody who works for Sapo?"

She thought for a moment. "Well... you could just accept a friendly personal invitation, or if you prefer, I could handcuff you and take you with me." She smiled sweetly. "Look, Blomkvist. I understand that you don't have many reasons to trust anyone who comes from S.I.S. But it's like this: not everyone who works there is your enemy, and my superiors really want to talk to you. So, which do you prefer? Handcuffed or voluntary?"

"I've been handcuffed by the police once already this year. And that was enough. Where are we going?"

She had parked around the corner down on Pryssgrand. When they were settled in her new Saab 9 - 5, she flipped open her mobile and pressed a speed-dial number.

"We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

She told Blomkvist to fasten his seat belt and drove over Slussen to ostermalm and parked on a side street off Artillerigatan. She sat still for a moment and looked at him.

"This is a friendly invitation, Blomkvist. You're not risking