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," Wadensjoo said. "It's all about getting Ekstrom to split the two cases. But that's only if we can control Ekstrom."
"That shouldn't be such a big problem," Gullberg said. He glanced at Nystrom, who nodded.
"I can take care of Ekstrom," he said. "I'm guessing that he's sitting there wishing he'd never heard of Zalachenko. He turned over Bjorck'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?" Wadensjoo said.
"Allow me to manufacture a scenario," Nystrom 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 Bjorck's report by themselves... they got it from a journalist. And the press, as you are all aware, is a real problem here. Millennium."
Nystrom turned a page his notebook. "Mikael Blomkvist."
Everyone around the table had heard of the Wennerstrom 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," Wadensjoo 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 cafe 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 Wadensjoo.
"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