Page two consisted of a close-up of Zander. Even though Grane had never met him, she was moved. Zander looked beautiful and a little vulnerable. His smile was searching, tentative. There was something at once intense and unsure about him. In an accompanying text Erika Berger wrote about how Zander’s parents had been killed by a bomb in Sarajevo. She went on to say that he had loved Millennium magazine, the poet Leonard Cohen and Antonio Tabucchi’s novel Pereira Maintains. He dreamed of the great love and the great scoop. His favourite films were “Dark Eyes” by Nikita Mikhalkov and “Love Actually” by Richard Curtis. Berger praised his report on Stockholm’s homeless as a piece of classic journalism. And even though Zander hated people who offended others, he himself refused to speak ill of anyone. The piece went on:
As I write this, my hands are shaking. Yesterday our friend and colleague Andrei Zander was found dead on a freighter in Hammarbyhamnen. He had been tortured, and had suffered terribly. I will live with that pain for the rest of my life.
But I am also proud to have had the privilege of working with him. I have never met such a dedicated journalist and genuinely good person. Andrei was twenty-six years old. He loved life and he loved journalism. He wanted to expose injustices and help the vulnerable and displaced. He was murdered because he tried to protect a small boy called August Balder and, as we reveal in this issue one of the biggest scandals in modern times, we honour Andrei in every sentence. In his report, Mikael Blomkvist writes:
“Andrei believed in love. He believed in a better world and a more just society. He was the best of us.”
The report ran to more than thirty pages of the magazine and was perhaps the best piece of journalistic prose Grane had ever read. She sometimes had tears in her eyes, but still she smiled when she came to the words:
Säpo’s star analyst Gabriella Grane demonstrated outstanding civic courage.
The basic story was simple. A group of individuals under Commander Jonny Ingram — who ranked just below the N.S.A. head, Admiral Charles O’Connor, and had close contacts with the White House and Congress — had begun to exploit the vast numbers of trade secrets in the hands of his organization for their own gain. He had been assisted by a group of business-intelligence analysts at Solifon’s research department “Y”.
If the matter had stopped there, it would have been a scandal which was in some way comprehensible. But the course of events followed its own evil own logic when a criminal group — the Spiders — entered the drama. Mikael Blomkvist had evidence to show how Jonny Ingram had got together with the notorious Russian Duma member Ivan Gribanov and “Thanos”, the mysterious leader of the Spiders, to plunder tech companies of ideas and new technology worth astronomical sums of money, and to sell it all on. But they really plumbed the depths of moral depravity when Professor Frans Balder picked up their tracks and it was decided to eliminate him. That was the most astonishing part of the story. One of the most senior executives at the N.S.A. had known that a leading Swedish researcher was going to be murdered and did not lift a finger to prevent it.
It was not the account of the political quagmire that most engaged Grane, but rather the human drama. There Blomkvist’s gifts as a writer were on full display. She shuddered at the creeping realization that we live in a twisted world where everything, both big and small, is subject to surveillance, and where anything worth money will always be exploited.
Just as she finished reading she noticed someone standing in the doorway. It was Helena Kraft, beautifully dressed as always.
Grane could not help remembering how she had suspected Kraft of being the leak in the investigation. What she had taken to be guilty shame had been Kraft’s regret at the unprofessional way in which the investigation was being conducted — at least that is what she had been told during their long conversation after Mårten Nielsen confessed and was arrested.
“I can’t begin to say how sorry I am to see you go,” Kraft said.
“Everything has its time.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re going to do?”
“I’m moving to New York. I want to work in human rights, and, as you know, I’ve had an offer on the table from the U.N. for some time.”
“It’s a loss for us, Gabriella. But you deserve it.”
“So my betrayal’s been forgiven?”
“Not by all of us, I can assure you. But I see it as a sign of your good character.”
“Thanks, Helena. Will I see you later at the Pressklubben’s memorial for Andrei Zander?”
“I’m afraid I have to do a presentation for the government on this whole mess. But later this evening I’ll raise a glass to young Zander, and to you, Gabriella.”
Alona Casales was sitting at a distance, contemplating the panic with an inward smile. She observed Admiral O’Connor crossing the floor, looking like a bullied schoolboy rather than the head of the world’s most powerful intelligence organization. But then all the powerful figures at the N.S.A. were feeling put-upon and pathetic today, all of them apart from Needham, that is.
Needham was not in a good mood either. He waved his arms around and was sweaty and bilious. But he exuded all his usual authority. It was obvious that even O’Connor was afraid of him. Needham had come back from Stockholm with real dynamite, and had caused a huge row and insisted on a complete shake-up throughout the organization. The head of the N.S.A. was not going to thank him for that; he probably felt like sending Needham to Siberia — immediately and for ever.
But there was nothing he could do. He looked small as he approached Needham, who did not even bother to turn in his direction. Needham ignored the head of the N.S.A. in the same way he ignored all the other poor bastards he had no time for, and plainly nothing improved for O’Connor once the conversation got going.
For the most part Needham seemed dismissive and, even though Casales could not hear what was going on, she could imagine what was being said, or rather, what was not being said. Over the course of her own long conversations with Needham he refused to say one word about the way he had got hold of the information. He was not, even on a single point, going to compromise, and she respected that.
Now he seemed determined to exploit the situation for all it was worth, and Casales solemnly swore that she would stand up for integrity in the agency and give Needham as much backing as she could if he ran into any problems. She also swore to herself that she would call Gabriella Grane in a final bid to ask her out, if the rumour was true that she was on her way over here.
Needham was not in fact deliberately ignoring the N.S.A. head. But nor was he going to interrupt what he was doing — yelling at two of his controllers — just because the admiral was standing at his desk. Only after about a minute did he address him and then in fact he said something quite friendly, not to ingratiate himself or compensate for his nonchalance, but because he really meant it.
“You did a good job at the press conference.”
“Did I?” the admiral said. “It was hell.”
“Well, you can thank me then, for giving you time to prepare.”
“Thank you? Are you kidding? Every news site around the world is posting pictures of Ingram and me together. I’m guilty by association.”
“In that case for Christ’s sake keep your own people in line from now on.”
“How dare you talk to me like that?”
“I’ll talk however the hell I want. We’re in the middle of a crisis and I’m responsible for security. I don’t get paid for being polite.”