The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest Page 0,180

out on to Vasagatan by the north door.

Cortez exhaled in relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and set off in pursuit of the two men.

Blomkvist's taxi got to Central Station at 3.07. He walked rapidly into the ticket hall, but he could see neither Teleborian nor anyone looking like they might be Jonas. Nor Cortez for that matter.

He was about to call Cortez when the T10 rang in his hand.

"I've got them. They're sitting in the Tre Remmare pub on Vasagatan by the stairs down to the Akalla line."

"Thanks, Henry. Where are you?"

"I'm at the bar. Having my afternoon beer. I earned it."

"Very good. They know what I look like, so I'll stay out of it. I don't suppose you have any chance of hearing what they're saying."

"Not a hope. I can only see Jonas' back and that bloody psychoanalyst mumbles when he speaks, so I can't even see his lips move."

"I get it."

"But we may have a problem."

"What's that?"

"Jonas has put his wallet and mobile on the table. And he put his car keys on top of the wallet."

"O.K. I'll handle it."

Figuerola's mobile played out the theme tune from Once Upon a Time in the West. She put down her book about God in antiquity. It did not seem as though she would ever be able to finish it

"Hi. It's Mikael. What are you up to?"

"I'm sitting at home sorting through my collection of photographs of old lovers. I was ignominiously ditched earlier today."

"Do you have your car nearby?"

"The last time I checked it was in the parking space outside."

"Good. Do you feel like an afternoon on the town?"

"Not particularly. What's going on?"

"A psychiatrist called Teleborian is having a beer with an undercover agent - code name Jonas - down on Vasagatan. And since I'm co-operating with your Stasi-style bureaucracy, I thought you might be amused to tag along."

Figuerola was on her feet and reaching for her car keys.

"This is not your little joke, is it?"

"Hardly. And Jonas has his car keys on the table in front of him."

"I'm on my way."

Eriksson did not answer the telephone, but Blomkvist got lucky and caught Karim, who had been at Åhlens department store buying a birthday present for her husband. He asked her to please - on overtime - hurry over to the pub as back-up for Cortez. Then he called Cortez.

"Here's the plan. I'll have a car in place in five minutes. It'll be on Jarnvagsgatan, down the street from the pub. Lottie is going to join you in a few minutes as back-up."

"Good."

"When they leave the pub, you tail Jonas. Keep me posted by mobile. As soon as you see him approach a car, we have to know. Lottie will follow Teleborian. If we don't get there in time, make a note of his registration number."

"O.K."

Figuerola parked beside the Nordic Light Hotel next to the Arlanda Express platforms. Blomkvist opened the driver's door a minute later.

"Which pub are they in?"

Blomkvist told her.

"I have to call for support."

"I'd rather you didn't. We've got them covered. Too many cooks might wreck the whole dish."

Figuerola gave him a sceptical look. "And how did you know that this meeting was going to take place?"

"I have to protect my source. Sorry."

"Do you have your own bloody intelligence service at Millennium?" she burst out.

Blomkvist looked pleased. It was cool to outdo Sapo in their own field of expertise.

In fact he did not have the slightest idea how Berger came to call him out of the blue to tell him of the meeting. She had not had access to ongoing editorial work at Millennium since early April. She knew about Teleborian, to be sure, but Jonas had not come into the picture until May. As far as he knew, Berger had not even known of his existence, let alone that he was the focus of intense speculation both at Sapo and Millennium.

He needed to talk to Berger.

Salander pressed her lips together and looked at the screen of her handheld. After using Jonasson's mobile, she had pushed all thoughts of the Section to one side and concentrated on Berger's problem. She had next, after careful consideration, eliminated all the men in the twenty-six to fifty-four age group who were married. She was working with a broad brush, of that she was perfectly aware. The selection was scarcely based on any statistical, sociological or scientific rationale. Poison Pen might easily be a