Stieg Larsson - The Girl who played with Fire

“So you started cooperating with him.”

“We gave him a new identity, a passport, a little money, and he took care of himself. That was what he was trained to do.”

Blomkvist sat for a while in silence, digesting this information. Then he looked up at Björck.

“You lied to me the last time I was here.”

“I did?”

“You said that you met Bjurman at your police shooting club in the eighties. But you met him long before that.”

“It was an automatic reaction. It’s confidential, and I had no reason to go into how Bjurman and I met. It wasn’t until you asked about Zala that I made the connection.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I was thirty-three and had been working at Säpo for three years. Bjurman was a good deal younger and had just finished his degree. He was handling certain legal matters at Säpo. It was a kind of trainee job. Bjurman was from Karlskrona, and his father worked in military intelligence.”

“And?”

“Neither Bjurman nor I was remotely qualified to handle someone like Zalachenko, but he made contact on election day in 1976. There was hardly a soul in police headquarters – everyone was either off that day or working on stakeouts and the like. Zalachenko chose that moment to walk into Norrmalm police station and declare that he was seeking political asylum and wanted to talk to somebody in the Security Police. He didn’t give his name. I was on duty and thought it was a straightforward refugee case, so I took Bjurman with me as legal advisor.”

Björck rubbed his eyes.

“There he sat and told us calmly and matter-of-factly who he was, and what he had worked on. Bjurman took notes. After a while I realized what I was dealing with. I stopped the conversation and got Zalachenko and Bjurman the hell out of that police station. I didn’t know what to do, so I booked a room at the Hotel Continental right across from Central Station and stowed him there. I told Bjurman to babysit him while I went downstairs and called my superior.” He laughed. “I’ve often thought that we behaved like total amateurs. But that’s how it happened.”

“Who was your boss?”

“That’s not relevant. I’m not going to name anyone else.”

Blomkvist shrugged and let the matter drop.

“He made it very clear that this was a matter that required the greatest possible discretion and that we should get as few people involved as possible. Bjurman should never have had anything to do with it – it was way above his level – but since he already knew what was going on it was better to keep him on rather than bring in somebody new. I assume that the same reasoning applied to a junior officer like myself. There came to be a total of seven people associated with the Security Police who knew of Zalachenko’s existence.”

“How many others know this story?”

“From 1976 up to the beginning of 1990… all in all about twenty people in the government, military high command, and within Säpo.”

“And after the beginning of 1990?”

Björck shrugged. “The moment the Soviet Union collapsed he became uninteresting.”

“But what happened after Zalachenko came to Sweden?”

Björck said nothing for so long that Blomkvist began to get restless.

“To be honest… Zalachenko was a big success, and those of us who were involved built our careers on it. Don’t misunderstand me, it was also a full-time job. I was assigned to be Zalachenko’s mentor in Sweden, and over the first ten years we met at least a couple of times a week. This was all during the important years when he was full of fresh information. But it was just as much about keeping him under control.”

“In what sense?”

“Zalachenko was a sly devil. He could be incredibly charming, but he could also be paranoid and crazy. He would go on drinking binges and then turn violent. More than once I had to go out at night and sort out some mess he’d gotten himself into.”

“For instance…”

“For instance, the time he went to a bar and got into an argument and beat the living daylights out of two bouncers who tried to calm him down. He was quite a small man, but exceptionally skilled at close combat, which regrettably he chose to demonstrate on various occasions. Once I had to pick him up at a police station.”

“He risked attracting serious attention to himself. That doesn’t sound very professional.”

“That was the way he was. He hadn’t committed any crime in Sweden and was never arrested. We had provided him with a Swedish name, a Swedish passport and ID. And he had a house that the Security Police paid for. He received a salary from Säpo just to keep him available. But we couldn’t prevent him from going to bars or from womanizing. All we could do was clean up after him. That was my job until 1985 when I got a new post and my successor took over as Zalachenko’s handler.”

“And Bjurman’s role?”

“To be honest, Bjurman was deadweight. He wasn’t particularly clever. In fact he was the wrong man in the wrong job. It was pure chance that he was part of the whole Zalachenko business at all, and he was only involved in the very early days and on the occasions when we needed him to deal with legal formalities. My superior solved the problem with Bjurman.”

“How?”

“The easiest possible way. He was given a job outside the police force at a law firm that had, as you might say, close ties to us.”

“Klang and Reine.”

Björck gave Mikael a sharp look.

“Yes. Over the years he always had assignments, minor investigations, from Säpo. So in a way he too built his career on Zalachenko.”

“Where is Zalachenko today?”

“I really don’t know. My contact with him dried up after 1985, and I haven’t seen him in over twelve years. The last I heard, he left Sweden in 1992.”

“Apparently he’s back. He’s cropped up in connection with weapons, drugs, and sex trafficking.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Björck said. “But we can’t know for sure if it’s the Zala you’re looking for or somebody else.”

“The likelihood of two separate Zalachenkos appearing in this story must be microscopic. What was his Swedish name?”

“I’m not going to reveal that.”

“Now you’re being evasive.”

“You wanted to know who Zala was. I’ve told you. But I won’t give you the last piece of the puzzle before I know you’ve kept your side of the bargain.”

“Zala has probably committed three murders and the police are looking for the wrong person. If you think I’ll be satisfied without his name, you’re mistaken.”

“What makes you think Lisbeth Salander isn’t the murderer?”

“I know.”

Björck smiled at Blomkvist. He suddenly felt much safer.

“I think Zala is the killer,” Blomkvist said.

“Wrong. Zala hasn’t shot anyone.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because Zala is sixty-plus years old now and severely disabled. He’s had a foot amputated and doesn’t do much walking. So he hasn’t been running around Odenplan and Enskede shooting people. If he was going to murder somebody, he’d have to call the disabled transport service.”

Eriksson smiled politely at Modig. “You’ll have to ask Mikael about that.”

“OK, I will.”

“I can’t discuss his research with you.”

“And if this Zala is a potential suspect…”

“You’ll have to discuss that with Mikael,” Eriksson said. “I can help you with what Dag was working on, but I can’t tell you about our own research.”

Modig sighed. “What can you tell me about the people on this list?”

“Only what Dag wrote, nothing about the sources. But I can say that Mikael has crossed about a dozen people off this list so far. That might help.”