“You’d hire the Devil himself if he was any good in I.T.”
“I can respect just about any enemy, if he knows what he’s doing. Does that make sense to you?”
“It does.”
“As I’m sure you’ve heard, a rootkit’s been used to access our server and install a R.A.T., and that program, Alona, is like pure music. So compact and beautifully written.”
“You’ve met a worthy opponent.”
“Without a doubt, and my guys feel the same way. They’re putting on this outraged patriotic act or whatever the hell it is we’re supposed to do. But actually they want nothing more than to meet that hacker and pit their skills against his, and for a while I thought: O.K., get over it! Maybe the damage isn’t so great after all. This is just one genius hacker who wants to show off, and maybe there’s a silver lining. I mean, we’ve already learned a lot about our vulnerability chasing after this clown. But then I began to wonder if maybe I was being conned — maybe the whole performance on my mail server was just a smokescreen, hiding something altogether different.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a search for certain pieces of information.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“You should be. We’ve identified which areas the hacker was checking out and basically it’s all related to the same thing, the network you’ve been working on, Alona. They call themselves the Spiders, don’t they?”
“The Spider Society, to be precise. But I think it’s some kind of joke.”
“The hacker was looking for information on that group and their connections to Solifon and that made me think, maybe he’s with them and wants to find out how much we know about them.”
“That sounds possible. They know how to hack.”
“But then I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because it looks like the hacker also wanted to show us something. You know, he got himself superuser status which gave him access to documents maybe even you haven’t seen, highly classified stuff. But actually the file he uploaded is so heavily encrypted that neither he nor we have the slightest chance of reading it unless the fucker who wrote it gives us the private keys. Anyway...”
“What?”
“The hacker revealed through our own system that we cooperate with Solifon too, the same way the Spiders do. Did you know that?”
“No, my God, I did not.”
“I didn’t think so. But unfortunately what Solifon does for the Spiders, it also does for us. It’s part of our own industrial-espionage efforts. That must be why your project is such low priority. They’re worried your investigation will drop us in the shit.”
“Idiots.”
“I’d have to agree with you there. Probably now you’ll be taken off the job completely.”
“That would be outrageous.”
“Relax, there’s a loophole. And that’s why I dragged my sorry ass all the way over to your desk. Start working for me instead.”
“What do you mean?”
“This goddamn hacker knows things about the Spiders, and if we can crack his identity we’ll both get a break and then you’ll be able to see your investigation through.”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“So it’s a yes?”
“It’s a sort of,” she said. “I want to focus on finding out who shot Frans Balder.”
“And you’ll keep me informed?”
“O.K.”
“Good.”
“Tell me,” she said, “if this hacker is so clever, won’t he have covered his tracks?”
“No need to worry about that. No matter how smart he’s been, we’ll find him and we’ll flay him alive.”
“What happened to all that respect for your opponent?”
“It’s still there, my friend. But we’ll crush him all the same and lock him up for life. No fucker breaks into my system.”
Chapter 13
Once again Blomkvist did not get much sleep. He could not get the events of the night out of his head and at 11.15 he gave up.
He went into the kitchen where he made himself two sandwiches with cheddar and prosciutto and a bowl of yoghurt and muesli. But he did not eat much of it. He opted instead for coffee and water and some headache pills. He drank five glasses of Ramlösa, swallowed two Alvedon, took out a notebook and tried to write a summary of what had happened. He did not get far before the telephone started ringing.
The news was out: “Star reporter Mikael Blomkvist and T.V. star Lasse Westman” had found themselves at the centre of a “mysterious” murder drama, mysterious because no-one was able to work out why Westman and Blomkvist of all people, together or separately, had been on the scene when a Swedish professor was shot in the head. The questions seemed to be insinuating something sinister and that was why Blomkvist quite candidly said that he had gone there, despite the lateness of the hour, because Balder had asked to speak to him urgently.
“I was there because of my job.”
He was being more defensive than he needed to be. He wanted to provide an explanation for the accusations out there, although that might prompt more reporters to dig into the story. Apart from that he said “No comment”, and if that was not the ideal response it was at least straightforward and unambiguous. After that he turned off his mobile, put his father’s old fur coat back on again and set out in the direction of Götgatan.
So much was going on at the office that it reminded him of the old days. All over the place, in every corner, there were colleagues sitting and working with concentration. Berger was bound to have made one or two impassioned speeches and everybody must have been aware of the significance of the moment. The deadline was just ten days away. There was also the threat from Ove Levin and Serner hanging over them and the whole team seemed up for the fight. They all jumped to their feet when they saw him and asked to hear about Balder and the night, and his reaction to the Norwegians’ proposal. But he wanted to follow their good example.
“Later, later,” he said, and went to Andrei Zander’s desk.
Zander was twenty-six years old, the youngest person in the office. He had done his time as an intern at the magazine and had stayed on, sometimes as a temp, as now, and sometimes as a freelancer. It pained Blomkvist that they had not been able to give him a permanent job, especially since they had hired Emil Grandén and Sofie Melker. He would have preferred to take on Zander. But Zander had not yet made a name for himself, and he still had a lot to learn.
He was a superb team player, and that was good for the magazine, but not necessarily good for him. Not in this cynical business. The boy was not conceited enough, although he had every reason to be. He looked like a young Antonio Banderas, and was quicker on the uptake than most. But he did not go to any lengths to promote himself. He just wanted to be a part of it all and produce good journalism and he thought the world of Millennium. Blomkvist suddenly felt that he loved everyone who loved Millennium. One fine day he would do something big for young Zander.
“Hi, Andrei,” he said. “How are things?”
“Not bad. Busy.”
“I expected nothing less. What have you managed to dig up?”
“Quite a bit. It’s on your desk, and I’ve also written a summary. But can I give you some advice?”
“Good advice is exactly what I need.”
“In that case go straight to Zinkens väg, to see Farah Sharif.”
“Who?”
“A seriously gorgeous professor of computer science. She’s taken the whole day off.”