The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

CHAPTER 8

Berger took a deep breath as the lift door opened and she walked into the editorial offices of Svenska Morgon-Posten. It was 10.15 in the morning. She was dressed for the office in black trousers, a red jumper and a dark jacket. It was glorious May 1 weather, and on her way through the city she noticed that the workers’ groups had begun to gather. It dawned on her that she had not been part of such a parade in more than twenty years.

For a moment she stood, alone and invisible, next to the lift doors. First day on the job. She could see a large part of the editorial office with the news desk in the centre. She saw the glass doors of the editor-in-chief’s office, which was now hers.

She was not at all sure right now that she was the person to lead the sprawling organization that comprised S.M.P. It was a gigantic step up from Millennium with a staff of five to a daily newspaper with eighty reporters and another ninety people in administration, with I.T. personnel, layout artists, photographers, advertising reps, and all else it takes to publish a newspaper. Add to that a publishing house, a production company and a management company. More than 230 people.

As she stood there she asked herself whether the whole thing was not a hideous mistake.

Then the older of the two receptionists noticed who had just come into the office. She got up and came out from behind the counter and extended her hand.

“Fru Berger, welcome to S.M.P.”

“Call me Erika. Hello.”

“Beatrice. Welcome. Shall I show you where to find Editor-in-Chief Morander? I should say ‘outgoing editor-in-chief’?”

“Thank you, I see him sitting in the glass cage over there,” said Berger with a smile. “I can find my way, but thanks for the offer.”

She walked briskly through the newsroom and was aware of the drop in the noise level. She felt everyone’s eyes upon her. She stopped at the half-empty news desk and gave a friendly nod.

“We’ll introduce ourselves properly in a while,” she said, and then walked over to knock on the door of the glass cubicle.

The departing editor-in-chief, Håkan Morander, had spent twelve years in the glass cage. Just like Berger, he had been head-hunted from outside the company – so he had once taken that very same first walk to his office. He looked up at her, puzzled, and then stood up.

“Hello, Erika,” he said. “I thought you were starting Monday.”

“I couldn’t stand sitting at home one more day. So here I am.”

Morander held out his hand. “Welcome. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re taking over.”

“How are you feeling?” Berger said.

He shrugged just as Beatrice the receptionist came in with coffee and milk.

“It feels as though I’m already operating at half speed. Actually I don’t want to talk about it. You walk around feeling like a teenager and immortal your whole life, and suddenly there isn’t much time left. But one thing is for sure – I don’t mean to spend the rest of it in this glass cage.”

He rubbed his chest. He had heart and artery problems, which was the reason for his going and why Berger was to start several months earlier than originally announced.

Berger turned and looked out over the landscape of the newsroom. She saw a reporter and a photographer heading for the lift, perhaps on their way to cover the May Day parade.

“Håkan… if I’m being a nuisance or if you’re busy today, I’ll come back tomorrow or the day after.”

“Today’s task is to write an editorial on the demonstrations. I could do it in my sleep. If the pinkos want to start a war with Denmark, then I have to explain why they’re wrong. If the pinkos want to avoid a war with Denmark, I have to explain why they’re wrong.”

“Denmark?”

“Correct. The message on May Day has to touch on the immigrant integration question. The pinkos, of course, no matter what they say, are wrong.”

He burst out laughing.

“Always so cynical?”

“Welcome to S.M.P.”

Erika had never had an opinion about Morander. He was an anonymous power figure among the elite of editors-in-chief. In his editorials he came across as boring and conservative. Expert in complaining about taxes, and a typical libertarian when it came to freedom of the press. But she had never met him in person.

“Do you have time to tell me about the job?”

“I’m gone at the end of June. We’ll work side by side for two months. You’ll discover positive things and negative things. I’m a cynic, so mostly I see the negative things.”

He got up and stood next to her to look through the glass at the newsroom.

“You’ll discover that – it comes with the job – you’re going to have a number of adversaries out there – daily editors and veterans among the editors who have created their own little empires. They have their own club that you can’t join. They’ll try to stretch the boundaries, to push through their own headlines and angles. You’ll have to fight hard to hold your own.”

Berger nodded.

“Your night editors are Billinger and Karlsson… they’re a whole chapter unto themselves. They hate each other and, importantly, they don’t work the same shift, but they both act as if they’re publishers and editors-in-chief. Then there’s Anders Holm, the news editor – you’ll be working with him a lot. You’ll have your share of clashes with him. In point of fact, he’s the one who gets S.M.P. out every day. Some of the reporters are prize primadonnas, and some of them should really be put out to grass.”

“Have you got any good colleagues?”

Morander laughed again.

“Oh yes, but you’re going to have to decide for yourself which ones you can get along with. Some of the reporters out there are seriously good.”

“How about management?”

“Magnus Borgsjö is chairman of the board. He was the one who recruited you. He’s charming. A bit old school and yet at the same time a bit of a reformer, but he’s above all the one who makes the decisions. Some of the board members, including several from the family which owns the paper, mostly seem to sit and kill time, while others flutter around, professional board-member types.”

“You don’t seem to be exactly enamoured of your board.”

“There’s a division of labour. We put out the paper. They take care of the finances. They’re not supposed to interfere with the content, but situations do crop up. To be honest, Erika, between the two of us, this is going to be tough.”

“Why’s that?”

“Circulation has dropped by nearly 150,000 copies since the glory days of the ’60s, and there may soon come a time when S.M.P. is no longer profitable. We’ve reorganized, cut more than 180 jobs since 1980. We went over to tabloid format – which we should have done twenty years sooner. S.M.P. is still one of the big papers, but it wouldn’t take much for us to be regarded as a second-class paper. If it hasn’t already happened.”

“Why did they pick me then?” Berger said.

“Because the median age of our readers is fifty-plus, and the growth in readers in their twenties is almost zero. The paper has to be rejuvenated. And the reasoning among the board was to bring in the most improbable editor-in-chief they could think of.”

“A woman?”

“Not just any woman. The woman who crushed Wennerström’s empire, who is considered the queen of investigative journalism, and who has a reputation for being the toughest. Picture it. It’s irresistible. If you can’t rejuvenate this paper, nobody can. S.M.P. isn’t just hiring Erika Berger, we’re hiring the whole mystique that goes with your name.”

When Blomkvist left Café Copacabana next to the Kvarter cinema at Hornstull, it was just past 2.00 p.m. He put on his dark glasses and turned up Bergsundsstrand on his way to the tunnelbana. He noticed the grey Volvo at once, parked at the corner. He passed it without slowing down. Same registration, and the car was empty.

It was the seventh time he had seen the same car in four days. He had no idea how long the car had been in his neighbourhood. It was pure chance that he had noticed it at all. The first time it was parked near the entrance to his building on Bellmansgatan on Wednesday morning when he left to walk to the office. He happened to read the registration number, which began with KAB, and he paid attention because those were the initials of Zalachenko’s holding company, Karl Axel Bodin Inc. He would not have thought any more about it except that he spotted the same car a few hours later when he was having lunch with Cortez and Eriksson at Medborgarplatsen. That time the Volvo was parked on a side street near the Millennium offices.

He wondered whether he was becoming paranoid, but when he visited Palmgren the same afternoon at the rehabilitation home in Ersta, the car was in the visitors’ car park. That could not have been chance. Blomkvist began to keep an eye on everything around him. And when he saw the car again the next morning he was not surprised.

Not once had he seen its driver.

A call to the national vehicle register revealed that the car belonged to a Göran Mårtensson of Vittangigaten in Vällingby. An hour’s research turned up the information that Mårtensson held the title of business consultant and owned a private company whose address was a P.O. box on Fleminggatan in Kungsholmen. Mårtensson’s C.V. was an interesting one. In 1983, at eighteen, he had done his military service with the coast guard, and then enrolled in the army. By 1989 he had advanced to lieutenant, and then he switched to study at the police academy in Solna. Between 1991 and 1996 he worked for the Stockholm police. In 1997 he was no longer on the official roster of the external service, and in 1999 he had registered his own company.

So – Säpo.

An industrious investigative journalist could get paranoid on less than this. Blomkvist concluded that he was under surveillance, but it was being carried out so clumsily that he could hardly have helped but notice.

Or was it clumsy? The only reason he first noticed the car was the registration number, which just happened to mean something to him. But for the KAB, he would not have given the car a second glance.

On Friday KAB was conspicuous by its absence. Blomkvist could not be absolutely sure, but he thought he had been tailed by a red Audi that day. He had not managed to catch the registration number. On Friday the Volvo was back.

Exactly twenty seconds after Blomkvist left Café Copacabana, Malm raised his Nikon in the shadows of Café Rosso’s awning across the street and took a series of twelve photographs of the two men who followed Blomkvist out of the café and past the Kvarter cinema.

One of the men looked to be in his late thirties or early forties and had blond hair. The other seemed a bit older, with thinning reddish-blond hair and sunglasses. Both were dressed in jeans and leather jackets.

They parted company at the grey Volvo. The older man got in, and the younger one followed Blomkvist towards Hornstull tunnelbana station.

Malm lowered the camera. Blomkvist had given him no good reason for insisting that he patrol the neighbourhood near the Copacabana on Sunday afternoon looking for a grey Volvo with a registration beginning KAB. Blomkvist told him to position himself where he could photograph whoever got into the car, probably just after 3.00. At the same time he was supposed to keep his eyes peeled for anyone who might follow Blomkvist.

It sounded like the prelude to a typical Blomkvist adventure. Malm was never quite sure whether Blomkvist was paranoid by nature or if he had paranormal gifts. Since the events in Gosseberga his colleague had certainly become withdrawn and hard to communicate with. Nothing unusual about this, though. But when Blomkvist was working on a complicated story – Malm had observed the same obsessive and secretive behaviour in the weeks before the Wennerström story broke – it became more pronounced.

On the other hand, Malm could see for himself that Blomkvist was indeed being tailed. He wondered vaguely what new nightmare was in the offing. Whatever it was, it would soak up all of Millennium’s time, energy and resources. Malm did not think it was a great idea for Blomkvist to set off on some wild scheme just when the magazine’s editor-in-chief had deserted to the Big Daily, and now Millennium’s laboriously reconstructed stability was suddenly hanging once again in the balance.

But Malm had not participated in any parade – apart from Gay Pride – in at least ten years. He had nothing better to do on this May Day Sunday than humour his wayward publisher. He sauntered after the man tailing Blomkvist even though he had not been instructed to do so, but he lost sight him on Långholmsgatan.

One of the first things Blomkvist did when he realized that his mobile was bugged was to send Cortez out to buy some used handsets. Cortez bought a job lot of Ericsson T10s for a song. Blomkvist then opened some anonymous cash-card accounts on Comviq and distributed the mobiles to Eriksson, Cortez, Giannini, Malm and Armansky, also keeping one for himself. They were to be used only for conversations that absolutely must not be overheard. Day-to-day stuff they could and should do on their own mobiles. Which meant that they all had to carry two mobiles with them.

Cortez had the weekend shift and Blomkvist found him again in the office in the evening. Since the murder of Zalachenko, Blomkvist had devised a 24/7 roster, so that Millennium’s office was always staffed and someone slept there every night. The roster included himself, Cortez, Eriksson and Malm. Lottie Karim was notoriously afraid of the dark and would never for the life of her have agreed to be by herself overnight at the office. Nilsson was not afraid of the dark, but she worked so furiously on her projects that she was encouraged to go home when the day was done. Magnusson was getting on in years and as advertising manager had nothing to do with the editorial side. He was also about to go on holiday.

“Anything new?”

“Nothing special,” Cortez said. “Today is all about May 1, naturally enough.”

“I’m going to be here for a couple of hours,” Blomkvist told him. “Take a break and come back around 9.00.”

After Cortez left, Blomkvist got out his anonymous mobile and called Daniel Olsson, a freelance journalist in Göteborg. Over the years Millennium had published several of his articles and Blomkvist had great faith in his ability to gather background material.

“Hi, Daniel. Mikael Blomkvist here. Can you talk?”

“Sure.”

“I need someone for a research job. You can bill us for five days, and you don’t have to produce an article at the end of it. Well, you can write an article on the subject if you want and we’ll publish it, but it’s the research we’re after.”

“Fine. Tell me.”

“It’s sensitive. You can’t discuss this with anyone except me, and you can communicate with me only via hotmail. You must not even mention that you’re doing research for Millennium.”

“This sounds fun. What are you looking for?”

“I want you to do a workplace report on Sahlgrenska hospital. We’re calling the report ‘E.R.’, and it’s to look at the differences between reality and the T.V. series. I want you to go to the hospital and observe the work in the emergency ward and the intensive care unit for a couple of days. Talk with doctors, nurses and cleaners – everybody who works there in fact. What are their working conditions like? What do they actually do? That sort of stuff. Photographs too, of course.”

“Intensive care?” Olsson said.

“Exactly. I want you to focus on the follow-up care given to severely injured patients in corridor 11C. I want to know the whole layout of the corridor, who works there, what they look like, and what sort of background they have.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, a certain Lisbeth Salander is a patient on 11C.”

Olsson was not born yesterday.

“How interesting,” Blomkvist said. “Find out which room she’s in, who’s in the neighbouring rooms, and what the routines are in that section.”

“I have a feeling that this story is going to be about something altogether different,” Olsson said.

“As I said… all I want is the research you come up with.”

They exchanged hotmail addresses.

Salander was lying on her back on the floor when Nurse Marianne came in.

“Hmm,” she said, thereby indicating her doubts about the wisdom of this style of conduct in the intensive care unit. But it was, she accepted, her patient’s only exercise space.

Salander was sweating. She had spent thirty minutes trying to do arm lifts, stretches and sit-ups on the recommendation of her physiotherapist. She had a long list of the movements she was to perform each day to strengthen the muscles in her shoulder and hip in the wake of her operation three weeks earlier. She was breathing hard and felt wretchedly out of shape. She tired easily and her left shoulder was tight and hurt at the very least effort. But she was on the path to recovery. The headaches that had tormented her after surgery had subsided and came back only sporadically.

She realized that she was sufficiently recovered now that she could have walked out of the hospital, or at any rate hobbled out, if that had been possible, but it was not. First of all, the doctors had not yet declared her fit, and second, the door to her room was always locked and guarded by a fucking hit-man from Securitas, who sat on his chair in the corridor.

She was healthy enough to be moved to a normal rehabilitation ward, but after going back and forth about this, the police and hospital administration had agreed that Salander should remain in room eighteen for the time being. The room was easier to guard, there was round-the-clock staff close by, and the room was at the end of an L-shaped corridor. And in corridor 11C the staff were security-conscious after the killing of Zalachenko; they were familiar with her situation. Better not to move her to a new ward with new routines.

Her stay at Sahlgrenska was in any case going to come to an end in a few more weeks. As soon as the doctors discharged her, she would be transferred to Kronoberg prison in Stockholm to await trial. And the person who would decide when it was time for that was Dr Jonasson.

It was ten days after the shooting in Gosseberga before Dr Jonasson gave permission for the police to conduct their first real interview, which Giannini viewed as being to Salander’s advantage. Unfortunately Dr Jonasson had made it difficult even for Giannini to have access to her client, and that was annoying.

After the tumult of Zalachenko’s murder and Gullberg’s attempted suicide, he had done an evaluation of Salander’s condition. He took into account that Salander must be under a great deal of stress for having been suspected of three murders plus a damn-near fatal assault on her late father. Jonasson had no idea whether she was guilty or innocent, and as a doctor he was not the least bit interested in the answer to that question. He simply concluded that Salander was suffering from stress, that she had been shot three times, and that one bullet had entered her brain and almost killed her. She had a fever that would not abate, and she had severe headaches.

He had played it safe. Murder suspect or not, she was his patient, and his job was to make sure she got well. So he filled out a “no visitors” form that had no connection whatsoever to the one that was set in place by the prosecutor. He prescribed various medications and complete bedrest.

But Jonasson also realized that isolation was an inhumane way of punishing people; in fact it bordered on torture. No-one felt good when they were separated from all their friends, so he decided that Salander’s lawyer should serve as a proxy friend. He had a serious talk with Giannini and explained that she could have access to Salander for one hour a day. During this hour she could talk with her or just sit quietly and keep her company, but their conversations should not deal with Salander’s problems or impending legal battles.

“Lisbeth Salander was shot in the head and was very seriously injured,” he explained. “I think she’s out of danger, but there is always a risk of bleeding or some other complication. She needs to rest and she has to have time to heal. Only when that has happened can she begin to confront her legal problems.”

Giannini understood Dr Jonasson’s reasoning. She had some general conversations with Salander and hinted at the outline of the strategy that she and Blomkvist had planned, but Salander was simply so drugged and exhausted that she would fall asleep while Giannini was speaking.

Armansky studied Malm’s photographs of the men who had followed Blomkvist from the Copacabana. They were in sharp focus.

“No,” he said. “Never seen them before.”

Blomkvist nodded. They were in Armansky’s office on Monday morning. Blomkvist had come into the building via the garage.

“The older one is Göran Mårtensson, who owns the Volvo. He followed me like a guilty conscience for at least a week, but it could have been longer.”

“And you reckon that he’s Säpo.”

Blomkvist referred to Mårtensson’s C.V. Armansky hesitated.

You could take it for granted that the Security Police invariably made fools of themselves. That was the natural order of things, not for Säpo alone but probably for intelligence services all over the world. The French secret police had sent frogmen to New Zealand to blow up the Greenpeace ship Rainbow Warrior, for God’s sake. That had to be the most idiotic intelligence operation in the history of the world. With the possible exception of President Nixon’s lunatic break-in at Watergate. With such cretinous leadership it was no wonder that scandals occurred. Their successes were never reported. But the media jumped all over the Security Police whenever anything improper or foolish came to light, and with all the wisdom of hindsight.

On the one hand, the media regarded Säpo as an excellent news source, and almost any political blunder gave rise to headlines: “Säpo suspects that …” A Säpo statement carried a lot of weight in a headline.

On the other hand, politicians of various affiliations, along with the media, were particularly diligent in condemning exposed Säpo agents if they had spied on Swedish citizens. Armansky found this entirely contradictory. He did not have anything against the existence of Säpo. Someone had to take responsibility for seeing to it that national-Bolshevist crackpots – who had read too much Bakunin or whoever the hell these neo-Nazis read – did not patch together a bomb made of fertilizer and oil and park it in a van outside Rosenbad. Säpo was necessary, and Armansky did not think a little discreet surveillance was such a bad thing, so long as its objective was to safeguard the security of the nation.

The problem, of course, was that an organization assigned to spy on citizens must remain under strict public scrutiny. There had to be a high level of constitutional oversight. But it was almost impossible for Members of Parliament to have oversight of Säpo, even when the Prime Minister appointed a special investigator who, on paper at least, was supposed to have access to everything. Armansky had Blomkvist’s copy of Lidbom’s book An Assignment, and he was reading it with gathering astonishment. If this were the United States a dozen or so senior Säpo hands would have been arrested for obstruction of justice and forced to appear before a public committee in Congress. In Sweden apparently they were untouchable.

The Salander case demonstrated that something was out of joint inside the organization. But when Blomkvist came over to give him a secure mobile, Armansky’s first thought was that the man was paranoid. It was only when he heard the details and studied Malm’s photographs that he reluctantly admitted that Blomkvist had good reason to be suspicious. It did not bode well, but rather indicated that the conspiracy that had tried to eliminate Salander fifteen years earlier was not a thing of the past.

There were simply too many incidents for this to be coincidence. Never mind that Zalachenko had supposedly been murdered by a nutter. It had happened at the same time that both Blomkvist and Giannini were robbed of the document that was the cornerstone in the burden of proof. That was a shattering misfortune. And then the key witness, Gunnar Björck, had gone and hanged himself.

“Are we agreed that I pass this on to my contact?” Armansky said, gathering up Blomkvist’s documentation.

“And this is a person that you say you can trust?”

“An individual of the highest moral standing.”

“Inside Säpo?” Blomkvist said with undisguised scepticism.

“We have to be of one mind. Both Holger and I have accepted your plan and are co-operating with you. But we can’t clear this matter up all by ourselves. We have to find allies within the bureaucracy if this is not going to end in calamity.”

“O.K.” Blomkvist nodded reluctantly. “I’ve never had to give out information on a story before it’s published.”

“But in this case you already have. You’ve told me, your sister, and Holger.”

“True enough.”

“And you did it because even you recognize that this is far more than just a scoop in your magazine. For once you’re not an objective reporter, but a participant in unfolding events. And as such you need help. You’re not going to win on your own.”

Blomkvist gave in. He had not, in any case, told the whole truth either to Armansky or to his sister. He still had one or two secrets that he shared only with Salander.

He shook hands with Armansky.

CHAPTER 9

Three days after Berger started as acting editor-in-chief of S.M.P., Editor-in-Chief Morander died at lunchtime. He had been in the glass cage all morning, while Berger and assistant editor Peter Fredriksson met the sports editors so that she could get to know her colleagues and find out how they worked. Fredriksson was forty-five years old and also relatively new to the paper. He was taciturn but pleasant, with a broad experience. Berger had already decided that she would be able to depend on Fredriksson’s insights when she took command of the ship. She was spending a good part of her time evaluating the people she might be able to count on and could then make part of her new regime. Fredriksson was definitely a candidate.

When they got back to the news desk they saw Morander get up and come over to the door of the glass cage. He looked startled.

Then he leaned forward, grabbed the back of a chair and held on to it for a few seconds before he collapsed to the floor.

He was dead before the ambulance arrived.

There was a confused atmosphere in the newsroom throughout the afternoon. Chairman of the Board Borgsjö arrived at 2.00 and gathered the employees for a brief memorial to Morander. He spoke of how Morander had dedicated the past fifteen years of his life to the newspaper, and the price that the work of a newspaperman can sometimes exact. Finally he called for a minute’s silence.

Berger realized that several of her new colleagues were looking at her. The unknown quantity.

She cleared her throat and without being invited to, without knowing what she would say, took half a step forward and spoke in a firm voice: “I knew Håkan Morander for all of three days. That’s too short a time, but from even the little I managed to know of him, I can honestly say that I would have wanted very much to know him better.”

She paused when she saw out of the corner of her eye that Borgsjö was staring at her. He seemed surprised that she was saying anything at all. She took another pace forward.

“Your editor-in-chief’s untimely departure will create problems in the newsroom. I was supposed to take over from him in two months, and I was counting on having the time to learn from his experience.”

She saw that Borgsjö had opened his mouth as if to say something himself.

“That won’t happen now, and we’re going to go through a period of adjustment. But Morander was editor-in-chief of a daily newspaper, and this paper will come out tomorrow too. There are now nine hours left before we go to press and four before the front page has to be resolved. May I ask… who among you was Morander’s closest confidant?”

A brief silence followed as the staff looked at each other. Finally Berger heard a voice from the left side of the room.

“That would probably be me.”

It was Gunnar Magnusson, assistant editor of the front page who had worked on the paper for thirty-five years.

“Somebody has to write an obit. I can’t do it… that would be presumptuous of me. Could you possibly write it?”

Magnusson hesitated a moment but then said, “I’ll do it.”

“We’ll use the whole front page and move everything else back.”

Magnusson nodded.

“We need images.” She glanced to her right and met the eye of the pictures editor, Lennart Torkelsson. He nodded.

“We have to get busy on this. Things might be a bit rocky at first. When I need help making a decision, I’ll ask your advice and I’ll depend on your skill and experience. You know how the paper is made and I have a while to go on the school bench.”

She turned to Fredriksson.

“Peter, Morander put a great deal of trust in you. You will have to be something of a mentor to me for the time being, and carry a heavier load than usual. I’m asking you to be my adviser.”

He nodded. What else could he do?

She returned to the subject of the front page.

“One more thing. Morander was writing his editorial this morning. Gunnar, could you get into his computer and see whether he finished it? Even if it’s not quite rounded out, we’ll publish it. It was his last editorial and it would be a crying shame not to print it. The paper we’re making today is still Håkan Morander’s paper.”

Silence.

“If any of you need a little personal time, or want to take a break to think for a while, do it, please. You all know our deadlines.”

Silence. She noticed that some people were nodding their approval.

“Go to work, boys and girls,” she said in English in a low voice.

Holmberg threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. Bublanski and Modig looked dubious. Andersson’s expression was neutral. They were scrutinizing the results of the preliminary investigation that Holmberg had completed that morning.

“Nothing?” Modig said. She sounded surprised.

“Nothing,” Holmberg said, shaking his head. “The pathologist’s final report arrived this morning. Nothing to indicate anything but suicide by hanging.”

They looked once more at the photographs taken in the living room of the summer cabin in Smådalarö. Everything pointed to the conclusion that Gunnar Björck, assistant chief of the Immigration Division of the Security Police, had climbed on to a stool, tied a rope to the lamp hook, placed it around his neck, and then with great resolve kicked the stool across the room. The pathologist was unable to supply the exact time of death, but he had established that it occurred on the afternoon of April 12. The body had been discovered on April 19 by none other than Inspector Andersson. This happened because Bublanski had repeatedly tried to get hold of Björck. Annoyed, he finally sent Andersson to bring him in.

Sometime during that week, the lamp hook in the ceiling came away and Björck’s body fell to the floor. Andersson had seen the body through a window and called in the alarm. Bublanski and the others who arrived at the summer house had treated it as a crime scene from the word go, taking it for granted that Björck had been garrotted by someone. Later that day the forensic team found the lamp hook. Holmberg had been tasked to work out how Björck had died.

“There’s nothing whatsoever to suggest a crime, or that Björck was not alone at the time,” Holmberg said.

“The lamp?”

“The ceiling lamp has fingerprints from the owner of the cabin – who put it up two years ago – and Björck himself. Which says that he took the lamp down.”

“Where did the rope come from?”

“From the flagpole in the garden. Someone cut off about two metres of rope. There was a Mora sheath knife on the windowsill outside the back door. According to the owner of the house, it’s his knife. He normally keeps in a tool drawer underneath the draining board. Björck’s prints were on the handle and the blade, as well as the tool drawer.”

“Hmm,” Modig said.

“What sort of knots?” Andersson said.

“Granny knots. Even the noose was just a loop. It’s probably the only thing that’s a bit odd. Björck was a sailor, he would have known how to tie proper knots. But who knows how much attention a person contemplating suicide would pay to the knots on his own noose?”

“What about drugs?”

“According to the toxicology report, Björck had traces of a strong painkiller in his blood. That medication had been prescribed for him. He also had traces of alcohol, but the percentage was negligible. In other words, he was more or less sober.”

“The pathologist wrote that there were graze wounds.”

“A graze over three centimetres long on the outside of his left knee. A scratch, really. I’ve thought about it, but it could have come about in a dozen different ways… for instance, if he walked into the corner of a table or a bench, whatever.”

Modig held up a photograph of Björck’s distorted face. The noose had cut so deeply into his flesh that the rope itself was hidden in the skin of his neck. The face was grotesquely swollen.

“He hung there for something like twenty-four hours before the hook gave way. All the blood was either in his head – the noose having prevented it from running into his body – or in the lower extremities. When the hook came out and his body fell, his chest hit the coffee table, causing deep bruising there. But this injury happened long after the time of death.”

“Hell of a way to die,” said Andersson.

“I don’t know. The noose was so thin that it pinched deep and stopped the blood flow. He was probably unconscious within a few seconds and dead in one or two minutes.”

Bublanski closed the preliminary report with distaste. He did not like this. He absolutely did not like the fact that Zalachenko and Björck had, so far as they could tell, both died on the same day. But no amount of speculating could change the fact that the crime scene investigation offered no grain of support to the theory that a third party had helped Björck on his way.

“He was under a lot of pressure,” Bublanski said. “He knew that the whole Zalachenko affair was in danger of being exposed and that he risked a prison sentence for sex-trade crimes, plus being hung out to dry in the media. I wonder which scared him more. He was sick, had been suffering chronic pain for a long time… I don’t know. I wish he had left a letter.”

“Many suicides don’t.”

“I know. O.K. We’ll put Björck to one side for now. We have no choice.”

Berger could not bring herself to sit at Morander’s desk right away, or to move his belongings aside. She arranged for Magnusson to talk to Morander’s family so that the widow could come herself when it was convenient, or send someone to sort out his things.

Instead she had an area cleared off the central desk in the heart of the newsroom, and there she set up her laptop and took command. It was chaotic. But three hours after she had taken the helm of S.M.P. in such appalling circumstances, the front page went to press. Magnusson had put together a four-column article about Morander’s life and career. The page was designed around a black-bordered portrait, almost all of it above the fold, with his unfinished editorial to the left and a frieze of photographs along the bottom edge. The layout was not perfect, but it had a strong moral and emotional impact.

Just before 6.00, as Berger was going through the headlines on page two and discussing the texts with the head of revisions, Borgsjö approached and touched her shoulder. She looked up.

“Could I have a word?”

They went together to the coffee machine in the canteen.

“I just wanted to say that I’m really very pleased with the way you took control today. I think you surprised us all.”

“I didn’t have much choice. But I may stumble a bit before I really get going.”

“We understand that.”

“We?”

“I mean the staff and the board. The board especially. But after what happened today I’m more than ever persuaded that you were the ideal choice. You came here in the nick of time, and you took charge in a very difficult situation.”

Berger almost blushed. But she had not done that since she was fourteen.

“Could I give you a piece of advice?”

“Of course.”

“I heard that you had a disagreement about a headline with Anders Holm.”

“We didn’t agree on the angle in the article about the government’s tax proposal. He inserted an opinion into the headline in the news section, which is supposed to be neutral. Opinions should be reserved for the editorial page. And while I’m on this topic… I’ll be writing editorials from time to time, but as I told you I’m not active in any political party, so we have to solve the problem of who’s going to be in charge of the editorial section.”

“Magnusson can take over for the time being,” said Borgsjö.

Erika shrugged. “It makes no difference to me who you appoint. But it should be somebody who clearly stands for the newspaper’s views. That’s where they should be aired… not in the news section.”

“Quite right. What I wanted to say was that you’ll probably have to give Holm some concessions. He’s worked at S.M.P. a long time and he’s been news chief for fifteen years. He knows what he’s doing. He can be surly sometimes, but he’s irreplaceable.”

“I know. Morander told me. But when it comes to policy he’s going to have to toe the line. I’m the one you hired to run the paper.”

Borgsjö thought for a moment and said: “We’re going to have to solve these problems as they come up.”

Giannini was both tired and irritated on Wednesday evening as she boarded the X2000 at Göteborg Central Station. She felt as if she had been living on the X2000 for a month. She bought a coffee in the restaurant car, went to her seat, and opened the folder of notes from her last conversation with Salander. Who was also the reason why she was feeling tired and irritated.

She’s hiding something. That little fool is not telling me the truth. And Micke is hiding something too. God knows what they’re playing at.

She also decided that since her brother and her client had not so far communicated with each other, the conspiracy – if it was one – had to be a tacit agreement that had developed naturally. She did not understand what it was about, but it had to be something that her brother considered important enough to conceal.

She was afraid that it was a moral issue, and that was one of his weaknesses. He was Salander’s friend. She knew her brother. She knew that he was loyal to the point of foolhardiness once he had made someone a friend, even if the friend was impossible and obviously flawed. She also knew that he could accept any number of idiocies from his friends, but that there was a boundary and it could not be infringed. Where exactly this boundary was seemed to vary from one person to another, but she knew he had broken completely with people who had previously been close friends because they had done something that he regarded as beyond the pale. And he was inflexible. The break was for ever.

Giannini understood what went on in her brother’s head. But she had no idea what Salander was up to. Sometimes she thought that there was nothing going on in there at all.

She had gathered that Salander could be moody and withdrawn. Until she met her in person, Giannini had supposed it must be some phase, and that it was a question of gaining her trust. But after a month of conversations – ignoring the fact that the first two weeks had been wasted time because Salander was hardly able to speak – their communication was still distinctly one-sided.

Salander seemed at times to be in a deep depression and had not the slightest interest in dealing with her situation or her future. She simply did not grasp or did not care that the only way Giannini could provide her with an effective defence would be if she had access to all the facts. There was no way in the world she was going to be able to work in the dark.

Salander was sulky and often just silent. When she did say something, she took a long time to think and she chose her words carefully. Often she did not reply at all, and sometimes she would answer a question that Giannini had asked several days earlier. During the police interviews, Salander had sat in utter silence, staring straight ahead. With rare exceptions, she had refused to say a single word to the police. The exceptions were on those occasions when Inspector Erlander had asked her what she knew about Niedermann. Then she looked up at him and answered every question in a perfectly matter-of-fact way. As soon as he changed the subject, she lost interest.

On principle, she knew, Salander never talked to the authorities. In this case, that was an advantage. Despite the fact that she kept urging her client to answer questions from the police, deep inside she was pleased with Salander’s silence. The reason was simple. It was a consistent silence. It contained no lies that could entangle her, no contradictory reasoning that would look bad in court.

But she was astonished at how imperturbable Salander was. When they were alone she had asked her why she so provocatively refused to talk to the police.

“They’ll twist what I say and use it against me.”

“But if you don’t explain yourself, you risk being convicted anyway.”

“Then that’s how it’ll have to be. I didn’t make all this mess. And if they want to convict me, it’s not my problem.”

Salander had in the end described to her lawyer almost everything that had happened at Stallarholmen. All except for one thing. She would not explain how Magge Lundin had ended up with a bullet in his foot. No matter how much she asked and nagged, Salander would just stare at her and smile her crooked smile.

She had also told Giannini what happened in Gosseberga. But she had not said anything about why she had run her father to ground. Did she go there expressly to murder him – as the prosecutor claimed – or was it to make him listen to reason?

When Giannini raised the subject of her former guardian, Nils Bjurman, Salander said only that she was not the one who shot him. And that particular murder was no longer one of the charges against her. And when Giannini reached the very crux of the whole chain of events, the role of Dr Teleborian in the psychiatric clinic in 1991, Salander lapsed into such inexhaustible silence that it seemed she might never utter a word again.

This is getting us nowhere, Giannini decided. If she won’t trust me, we’re going to lose the case.

Salander sat on the edge of her bed, looking out of the window. She could see the building on the other side of the car park. She had sat undisturbed and motionless for an hour, ever since Giannini had stormed out and slammed the door behind her. She had a headache again, but it was mild and it was distant. Yet she felt uncomfortable.

She was irritated with Giannini. From a practical point of view she could see why her lawyer kept going on and on about details from her past. Rationally she understood it. Giannini needed to have all the facts. But she did not have the remotest wish to talk about her feelings or her actions. Her life was her own business. It was not her fault that her father had been a pathological sadist and murderer. It was not her fault that her brother was a murderer. And thank God nobody yet knew that he was her brother, which would otherwise no doubt also be held against her in the psychiatric evaluation that sooner or later would inevitably be conducted. She was not the one who had killed Svensson and Johansson. She was not responsible for appointing a guardian who turned out to be a pig and a rapist.

And yet it was her life that was going to be turned inside out. She would be forced to explain herself and to beg for forgiveness because she had defended herself.

She just wanted to be left in peace. And when it came down to it, she was the one who would have to live with herself. She did not expect anyone to be her friend. Annika Bloody Giannini was most likely on her side, but it was the professional friendship of a professional person who was her lawyer. Kalle Bastard Blomkvist was out there somewhere – Giannini was for some reason reluctant to talk about her brother, and Salander never asked. She did not expect that he would be quite so interested now that the Svensson murder was solved and he had got his story.

She wondered what Armansky thought of her after all that had happened.

She wondered how Holger Palmgren viewed the situation.

According to Giannini, both of them had said they would be in her corner, but that was words. They could not do anything to solve her private problems.

She wondered what Miriam Wu felt about her.

She wondered what she thought of herself, come to that, and came to the realization that most of all she felt indifference towards her entire life.

She was interrupted when the Securitas guard put the key in the door to let in Dr Jonasson.

“Good evening, Fröken Salander. And how are you feeling today?”

“O.K.,” she said.

He checked her chart and saw that she was free of her fever. She had got used to his visits, which came a couple of times a week. Of all the people who touched her and poked at her, he was the only one in whom she felt a measure of trust. She never felt that he was giving her strange looks. He visited her room, chatted a while, and examined her to check on her progress. He did not ask any questions about Niedermann or Zalachenko, or whether she was off her rocker or why the police kept her locked up. He seemed to be interested only in how her muscles were working, how the healing in her brain was progressing, and how she felt in general.

Besides, he had – literally – rootled around in her brain. Someone who rummaged around in your brain had to be treated with respect. To her surprise she found the visits of Dr Jonasson pleasant, despite the fact that he poked at her and fussed over her fever chart.

“Do you mind if I check?”

He made his usual examination, looking at her pupils, listening to her breathing, taking her pulse, her blood pressure, and checking how she swallowed.

“How am I doing?”

“You’re on the road to recovery. But you have to work harder on the exercises. And you’re picking at the scab on your head. You need to stop that.” He paused. “May I ask a personal question?”

She looked at him. He waited until she nodded.

“That dragon tattoo… Why did you get it?”

“You didn’t see it before?”

He smiled all of a sudden.

“I mean I’ve glanced at it, but when you were uncovered I was pretty busy stopping the bleeding and extracting bullets and so on.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Out of curiosity, nothing more.”

Salander thought for a while. Then she looked at him.

“I got it for reasons that I don’t want to discuss.”

“Forget I asked.”

“Do you want to see it?”

He looked surprised. “Sure. Why not?”

She turned her back and pulled the hospital gown off her shoulder. She sat so that the light from the window fell on her back. He looked at her dragon. It was beautiful and well done, a work of art.

After a while she turned her head.

“Satisfied?”

“It’s beautiful. But it must have hurt like hell.”

“Yes,” she said. “It hurt.”

Jonasson left Salander’s room somewhat confused. He was satisfied with the progress of her physical rehabilitation. But he could not work out this strange girl. He did not need a master’s degree in psychology to know that she was not doing very well emotionally. The tone she used with him was polite, but riddled with suspicion. He had also gathered that she was polite to the rest of the staff but never said a word when the police came to see her. She was locked up inside her shell and kept her distance from those around her.

The police had locked her in her hospital room, and a prosecutor intended to charge her with attempted murder and grievous bodily harm. He was amazed that such a small, thin girl had the physical strength for this sort of violent criminality, especially when the violence was directed at full-grown men.

He had asked about her dragon tattoo, hoping to find a personal topic he could discuss with her. He was not particularly interested in why she had decorated herself in such a way, but he supposed that since she had chosen such a striking tattoo, it must have a special meaning for her. He thought simply that it might be a way to start a conversation.

His visits to her were outside his schedule, since Dr Endrin was assigned to her case. But Jonasson was head of the trauma unit, and he was proud of what had been achieved that night when Salander was brought into A.&E. He had made the right decision, electing to remove the bullet. As far as he could see she had no complications in the form of memory lapses, diminished bodily function, or other handicaps from the injury. If she continued to heal at the same pace, she would leave hospital with a scar on her scalp, but with no other visible damage. Scars on her soul were another matter.

Returning to his office he discovered a man in a dark suit leaning against the wall outside his door. He had a thick head of hair and a well-groomed beard.

“Dr Jonasson?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Peter Teleborian. I’m the head physician at St Stefan’s psychiatric clinic in Uppsala.”

“Yes, I recognize you.”

“Good. I’d like to have a word in private with you if you have a moment.”

Jonasson unlocked the door and ushered the visitor in. “How can I help you?”

“It’s about one of your patients, Lisbeth Salander. I need to visit her.”

“You’ll have to get permission from the prosecutor. She’s under arrest and all visitors are prohibited. And any applications for visits must also be referred in advance to Salander’s lawyer.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I thought we might be able to cut through all the red tape in this case. I’m a physician, so you could let me have the opportunity to visit her on medical grounds.”

“Yes, there might be a case for that, but I can’t see what your objective is.”

“For several years I was Lisbeth Salander’s psychiatrist when she was institutionalized at St Stefan’s. I followed up with her until she turned eighteen, when the district court released her back into society, albeit under guardianship. I should perhaps mention that I opposed that action. Since then she has been allowed to drift aimlessly, and the consequences are there for all to see today.”

“Indeed?”

“I feel a great responsibility towards her still, and would value the chance to gauge how much deterioration has occurred over the past ten years.”

“Deterioration?”

“Compared with when she was receiving qualified care as a teenager. I thought we might be able to come to an understanding here, as one doctor to another.”

“While I have it fresh in my mind, perhaps you could help me with a matter I don’t quite understand… as one doctor to another, that is. When she was admitted to Sahlgrenska hospital I performed a comprehensive medical examination on her. A colleague sent for the forensic report on the patient. It was signed by a Dr Jesper H. Löderman.”

“That’s correct. I was Dr Löderman’s assistant when he was in practice.”

“I see. But I noticed that the report was vague in the extreme.”

“Really?”

“It contains no diagnosis. It almost seems to be an academic study of a patient who refuses to speak.”

Teleborian laughed. “Yes, she certainly isn’t easy to deal with. As it says in the report, she consistently refused to participate in conversations with Dr Löderman. With the result that he was bound to express himself rather imprecisely. Which was entirely correct on his part.”

“And yet the recommendation was that she should be institutionalized?”

“That was based on her prior history. We had experience with her pathology compiled over many years.”

“That’s exactly what I don’t understand. When she was admitted here, we sent for a copy of her file from St Stefan’s. But we still haven’t received it.”

“I’m sorry about that. But it’s been classified Top Secret by order of the district court.”

“And how are we supposed to give her the proper care here if we can’t have access to her records? The medical responsibility for her right now is ours, no-one else’s.”

“I’ve taken care of her since she was twelve, and I don’t think there is any other doctor in Sweden with the same insight into her clinical condition.”

“Which is what…?”

“Lisbeth Salander suffers from a serious mental disorder. Psychiatry, as you know, is not an exact science. I would hesitate to confine myself to an exact diagnosis, but she has obvious delusions with distinct paranoid schizophrenic characteristics. Her clinical status also includes periods of manic depression and she lacks empathy.”

Jonasson looked intently at Dr Teleborian for ten seconds before he said: “I won’t argue a diagnosis with you, Dr Teleborian, but have you ever considered a significantly simpler diagnosis?”

“Such as?”

“For example, Asperger’s syndrome. Of course I haven’t done a psychiatric evaluation of her, but if I had spontaneously to hazard a guess, I would consider some form of autism. That would explain her inability to relate to social conventions.”

“I’m sorry, but Asperger’s patients do not generally set fire to their parents. Believe me, I’ve never met so clearly defined a sociopath.”

“I consider her to be withdrawn, but not a paranoid sociopath.”

“She is extremely manipulative,” Teleborian said. “She acts the way she thinks you would expect her to act.”

Jonasson frowned. Teleborian was contradicting his own reading of Salander. If there was one thing Jonasson felt sure about her, it was that she was certainly not manipulative. On the contrary, she was a person who stubbornly kept her distance from those around her and showed no emotion at all. He tried to reconcile the picture that Teleborian was painting with his own image of Salander.

“And you have seen her only for a short period when she has been forced to be passive because of her injuries. I have witnessed her violent outbursts and unreasoning hatred. I have spent years trying to help Lisbeth Salander. That’s why I’m here. I propose a co-operation between Sahlgrenska hospital and St Stefan’s.”

“What sort of co-operation are you talking about?”

“You’re responsible for her medical condition, and I’m convinced that it’s the best care she could receive. But I’m extremely worried about her mental state, and I would like to be included at an early stage. I’m ready to offer all the help I can.”

“I see.”

“So I do need to visit her to do a first-hand evaluation of her condition.”

“There, unfortunately, I cannot help you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“As I said, she’s under arrest. If you want to initiate any psychiatric treatment of her, you’ll have to apply to Prosecutor Jervas here in Göteborg. She’s the one who makes the decisions on these things. And it would have to be done, I repeat, in co-operation with her lawyer, Annika Giannini. If it’s a matter of a forensic psychiatric report, then the district court would have to issue you a warrant.”

“It was just that sort of bureaucratic procedure I wanted to avoid.”

“Understood, but I’m responsible for her, and if she’s going to be taken to court in the near future, we need to have clear documentation of all the measures we have taken. So we’re bound to observe the bureaucratic procedures.”

“Alright. Then I might as well tell you that I’ve already received a formal commission from Prosecutor Ekström in Stockholm to do a forensic psychiatric report. It will be needed in connection with the trial.”

“Then you can also obtain formal access to visit her through the appropriate channels without side-stepping regulations.”

“But while we’re going backwards and forwards with bureaucracy, there is a risk that her condition may continue to deteriorate. I’m only interested in her wellbeing.”

“And so am I,” Jonasson said. “And between us, I can tell you that I see no sign of mental illness. She has been badly treated and is under a lot of pressure. But I see no evidence whatsoever that she is schizophrenic or suffering from paranoid delusions.”

When at long last he realized that it was fruitless trying to persuade Jonasson to change his mind, Teleborian got up abruptly and took his leave.

Jonasson sat for a while, staring at the chair Teleborian had been sitting in. It was not unusual for other doctors to contact him with advice or opinions on treatment. But that usually happened only with patients whose doctors were already managing their treatment. He had never before seen a psychiatrist land like a flying saucer and more or less demand to be given access to a patient, ignoring all the protocols, and a patient, at that, whom he obviously had not been treating for several years. After a while Jonasson glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 7.00. He picked up the telephone and called Martina Karlgren, the psychologist at Sahlgrenska who had been made available to trauma patients.

“Hello. I’m assuming you’ve already left for the day. Am I disturbing you?”

“No problem. I’m at home, but just pottering.”

“I’m curious about something. You’ve spoken to our notorious patient, Lisbeth Salander. Could you give me your impression of her?”

“Well, I’ve visited her three times and offered to talk with her. Every time she declined in a friendly but firm way.”

“What’s your impression of her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Martina, I know that you’re not a psychiatrist, but you’re an intelligent and sensible person. What general impression did you get of her nature, her state of mind?”

After a while Karlgren said: “I’m not sure how I should answer that question. I saw her twice soon after she was admitted, but she was in such wretched shape that I didn’t make any real contact with her. Then I visited her about a week ago, at the request of Helena Endrin.”

“Why did Helena ask you to visit her?”

“Salander is starting to recover. She mainly just lies there staring at the ceiling. Dr Endrin wanted me to look in on her.”

“And what happened?”

“I introduced myself. We chatted for a couple of minutes. I asked how she was feeling and whether she felt the need to have someone to talk to. She said that she didn’t. I asked if I could help her with anything. She asked me to smuggle in a pack of cigarettes.”

“Was she angry, or hostile?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. She was calm, but she kept her distance. I considered her request for cigarettes more of a joke than a serious need. I asked if she wanted something to read, whether I could bring her books of any sort. At first she said no, but later she asked if I had any scientific journals that dealt with genetics and brain research.”

“With what?”

“Genetics.”

“Genetics?”

“Yes. I told her that there were some popular science books on the subject in our library. She wasn’t interested in those. She said she’d read books on the subject before, and she named some standard works that I’d never heard of. She was more interested in pure research in the field.”

“Good grief.”

“I said that we probably didn’t have any more advanced books in the patient library – we have more Philip Marlowe than scientific literature – but that I’d see what I could dig up.”

“And did you?”

“I went upstairs and borrowed some copies of Nature magazine and The New England Journal of Medicine. She was pleased and thanked me for taking the trouble.”

“But those journals contain mostly scholarly papers and pure research.”

“She reads them with obvious interest.”

Jonasson sat speechless for a moment.

“And how would you rate her mental state?”

“Withdrawn. She hasn’t discussed anything of a personal nature with me.”

“Do you have the sense that she’s mentally ill? Manic depressive or paranoid?”

“No, no, not at all. If I thought that, I’d have sounded the alarm. She’s strange, no doubt about it, and she has big problems and is under stress. But she’s calm and matter-of-fact and seems to be able to cope with her situation. Why do you ask? Has something happened?”

“No, nothing’s happened. I’m just trying to take stock of her.”

CHAPTER 10

Blomkvist put his laptop case on the desk. It contained the findings of Olsson, the stringer in Göteborg. He watched the flow of people on Götgatan. That was one of the things he liked best about his office. Götgatan was full of life at all hours of the day and night, and when he sat by the window he never felt isolated, never alone.

He was under great pressure. He had kept working on the articles that were to go into the summer issue, but he had finally realized that there was so much material that not even an issue devoted entirely to the topic would be sufficient. He had ended up in the same situation as during the Wennerström affair, and he had again decided to publish all the articles as a book. He had enough text already for 150 pages, and he reckoned that the final book would run to 320 or 336 pages.

The easy part was done. He had written about the murders of Svensson and Johansson and described how he happened to be the one who came upon the scene. He had dealt with why Salander had become a suspect. He spent a chapter debunking first what the press had written about Salander, then what Prosecutor Ekström had claimed, and thereby indirectly the entire police investigation. After long deliberation he had toned down his criticism of Bublanski and his team. He did this after studying a video from Ekström’s press conference, in which it was clear that Bublanski was uncomfortable in the extreme and obviously annoyed at Ekström’s rapid conclusions.

After the introductory drama, he had gone back in time and described Zalachenko’s arrival in Sweden, Salander’s childhood, and the events that led to her being locked away in St Stefan’s in Uppsala. He was careful to annihilate both Teleborian and the now dead Björck. He rehearsed the psychiatric report of 1991 and explained why Salander had become a threat to certain unknown civil servants who had taken it upon themselves to protect the Russian defector. He quoted from the correspondence between Teleborian and Björck.

He then described Zalachenko’s new identity and his criminal operations. He described his assistant Niedermann, the kidnapping of Miriam Wu, and Paolo Roberto’s intervention. Finally, he summed up the dénouement in Gosseberga which led to Salander being shot and buried alive, and explained how a policeman’s death was a needless catastrophe because Niedermann had already been shackled.

Thereafter the story became more sluggish. Blomkvist’s problem was that the account still had gaping holes in it. Björck had not acted alone. Behind this chain of events there had to be a larger group with resources and political influence. Anything else did not make sense. But he had eventually come to the conclusion that the unlawful treatment of Salander would not have been sanctioned by the government or the bosses of the Security Police. Behind this conclusion lay no exaggerated trust in government, but rather his faith in human nature. An operation of that type could never have been kept secret if it were politically motivated. Someone would have called in a favour and got someone to talk, and the press would have uncovered the Salander affair several years earlier.

He thought of the Zalachenko club as small and anonymous. He could not identify any one of them, except possibly Mårtensson, a policeman with a secret appointment who devoted himself to shadowing the publisher of Millennium.

It was now clear that Salander would definitely go to trial.

Ekström had brought a charge for grievous bodily harm in the case of Magge Lundin, and grievous bodily harm or attempted murder in the case of Karl Axel Bodin.

No date had yet been set, but his colleagues had learned that Ekström was planning for a trial in July, depending on the state of Salander’s health. Blomkvist understood the reasoning. A trial during the peak holiday season would attract less attention than one at any other time of the year.

Blomkvist’s plan was to have the book printed and ready to distribute on the first day of the trial. He and Malm had thought of a paperback edition, shrink-wrapped and sent out with the special summer issue. Various assignments had been given to Cortez and Eriksson, who were to produce articles on the history of the Security Police, the IB affair,[4] and the like.

He frowned as he stared out of the window.

It’s not over. The conspiracy is continuing. It’s the only way to explain the tapped telephones, the attack on Annika, and the doubletheft of the Salander report. Perhaps the murder of Zalachenko is a part of it too.

But he had no evidence.

Together with Eriksson and Malm, he had decided that Millennium Publishing would publish Svensson’s text about sex trafficking, also to coincide with the trial. It was better to present the package all at once, and besides, there was no reason to delay publication. On the contrary – the book would never be able to attract the same attention at any other time. Eriksson was Blomkvist’s principal assistant for the Salander book. Karim and Malm (against his will) had thus become temporary assistant editors at Millennium, with Nilsson as the only available reporter. One result of this increased workload was that Eriksson had had to contract several freelancers to produce articles for future issues. It was expensive, but they had no choice.

Blomkvist wrote a note on a yellow Post-it, reminding himself to discuss the rights to the book with Svensson’s family. His parents lived in Örebro and they were his sole heirs. He did not really need permission to publish the book in Svensson’s name, but he wanted to go and see them to get their approval. He had postponed the visit because he had had too much to do, but now it was time to take care of the matter.

Then there were a hundred other details. Some of them concerned how he should present Salander in the articles. To make the ultimate decision he needed to have a personal conversation with her to get her approval to tell the truth, or at least parts of it. And he could not have that conversation because she was under arrest and no visitors were allowed.

In that respect, his sister was no help either. Slavishly she followed the regulations and had no intention of acting as Blomkvist’s go-between. Nor did Giannini tell him anything of what she and her client discussed, other than the parts that concerned the conspiracy against her – Giannini needed help with those. It was frustrating, but all very correct. Consequently Blomkvist had no clue whether Salander had revealed that her previous guardian had raped her, or that she had taken revenge by tattooing a shocking message on his stomach. As long as Giannini did not mention the matter, neither could he.

But Salander’s being isolated presented one other acute problem. She was a computer expert, also a hacker, which Blomkvist knew but Giannini did not. Blomkvist had promised Salander that he would never reveal her secret, and he had kept his promise. But now he had a great need for her skills in that field.

Somehow he had to establish contact with her.

He sighed as he opened Olsson’s folder again. There was a photocopy of a passport application form for one Idris Ghidi, born 1950. A man with a moustache, olive skin and black hair going grey at the temples.

He was Kurdish, a refugee from Iraq. Olsson had dug up much more on Ghidi than on any other hospital worker. Ghidi had apparently aroused media attention for a time, and appeared in several articles.

Born in the city of Mosul in northern Iraq, he graduated as an engineer and had been part of the “great economic leap forward” in the ’70s. In 1984 he was a teacher at the College of Construction Technology in Mosul. He had not been known as a political activist, but he was a Kurd, and so a potential criminal in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. In 1987 Ghidi’s father was arrested on suspicion of being a Kurdish militant. No elaboration was forthcoming. He was executed in January 1988. Two months later Idris Ghidi was seized by the Iraqi secret police, taken to a prison outside Mosul, and tortured there for eleven months to make him confess. What he was expected to confess, Ghidi never discovered, so the torture continued.

In March 1989, one of Ghidi’s uncles paid the equivalent of 50,000 Swedish kronor, to the local leader of the Ba’ath Party, as compensation for the injury Ghidi had caused the Iraqi state. Two days later he was released into his uncle’s custody. He weighed thirty-nine kilos and was unable to walk. Before his release, his left hip was smashed with a sledgehammer to discourage any mischief in the future.

He hovered between life and death for several weeks. When, slowly, he began to recover, his uncle took him to a farm well away from Mosul and there, over the summer, he regained his strength and was eventually able to walk again with crutches. He would never regain full health. The question was: what was he going to do in the future? In August he learned that his two brothers had been arrested. He would never see them again. When his uncle heard that Saddam Hussein’s police were looking once more for Ghidi, he arranged, for a fee of 30,000 kronor, to get him across the border into Turkey and thence with a false passport to Europe.

Idris Ghidi landed at Arlanda airport in Sweden on 19 October, 1989. He did not know a word of Swedish, but he had been told to go to the passport police and immediately to ask for political asylum, which he did in broken English. He was sent to a refugee camp in Upplands Väsby. There he would spend almost two years, until the immigration authorities decided that Ghidi did not have sufficient grounds for a residency permit.

By this time Ghidi had learned Swedish and obtained treatment for his shattered hip. He had two operations and could now walk without crutches. During that period the Sjöbo debate[5] had been conducted in Sweden, refugee camps had been attacked, and Bert Karlsson had formed the New Democracy Party.

The reason why Ghidi had appeared so frequently in the press archives was that at the eleventh hour he came by a new lawyer who went directly to the press, and they published reports on his case. Other Kurds in Sweden got involved, including members of the prominent Baksi family. Protest meetings were held and petitions were sent to Minister of Immigration Birgit Friggebo, with the result that Ghidi was granted both a residency permit and a work visa in the kingdom of Sweden. In January 1992 he left Upplands Väsby a free man.

Ghidi soon discovered that being a well-educated and experienced construction engineer counted for nothing. He worked as a newspaper boy, a dish-washer, a doorman, and a taxi driver. He liked being a taxi driver except for two things. He had no local knowledge of the streets in Stockholm county, and he could not sit still for more than an hour before the pain in his hip became unbearable.

In May 1998 he moved to Göteborg after a distant relative took pity on him and offered him a steady job at an office-cleaning firm. He was given a part-time job managing a cleaning crew at Sahlgrenska hospital, with which the company had a contract. The work was routine. He swabbed floors six days a week including, as Olsson’s ferreting had revealed, in corridor 11C.

Blomkvist studied the photograph of Idris Ghidi from the passport application. Then he logged on to the media archive and picked out several of the articles on which Olsson’s report was based. He read attentively. He lit a cigarette. The smoking ban at Millennium had soon been relaxed after Berger left. Cortez now kept an ashtray on his desk.

Finally Blomkvist read what Olsson had produced about Dr Anders Jonasson.

Blomkvist did not see the grey Volvo on Monday, nor did he have the feeling that he was being watched or followed, but he walked briskly from the Academic bookshop to the side entrance of N.K. department store, and then straight through and out of the main entrance. Anybody who could keep up surveillance inside the bustling N.K. would have to be superhuman. He turned off both his mobiles and walked through the Galleria to Gustav Adolfs Torg, past the parliament building, and into Gamla Stan. Just in case anyone was still following him, he took a zigzag route through the narrow streets of the old city until he reached the right address and knocked at the door of Black/White Publishing.

It was 2.30 in the afternoon. He was there without warning, but the editor, Kurdo Baksi, was in and delighted to see him.

“Hello there,” he said heartily. “Why don’t you ever come and visit me any more?”

“I’m here to see you right now,” Blomkvist said.

“Sure, but it’s been three years since the last time.”

They shook hands.

Blomkvist had known Baksi since the ’80s. Actually, Blomkvist had been one of the people who gave Baksi practical help when he started the magazine Black/White with an issue that he produced secretly at night at the Trades Union Federation offices. Baksi had been caught in the act by Per-Erik Åström – the same man who went on to be the paedophile hunter at Save the Children – who in the ’80s was the research secretary at the Trades Union Federation. He had discovered stacks of pages from Black/White’s first issue along with an oddly subdued Baksi in one of the copy rooms. Åström had looked at the front page and said: “God Almighty, that’s not how a magazine is supposed to look.” After that Åström had designed the logo that was on Black/White’s masthead for fifteen years before Black/White magazine went to its grave and became the book publishing house Black/White. At the same time Blomkvist had been suffering through an appalling period as I.T. consultant at the Trades Union Federation – his only venture into the I.T. field. Åström had enlisted him to proofread and give Black/White some editorial support. Baksi and Blomkvist had been friends ever since.

Blomkvist sat on a sofa while Baksi got coffee from a machine in the hallway. They chatted for a while, the way you do when you haven’t seen someone for some time, but they were constantly being interrupted by Baksi’s mobile. He would have urgent-sounding conversations in Kurdish or possibly Turkish or Arabic or some other language that Blomkvist did not understand. It had always been this way on his other visits to Black/White Publishing. People called from all over the world to talk to Baksi.

“My dear Mikael, you look worried. What’s on your mind?” he said at last.

“Could you turn off your telephone for a few minutes?”

Baksi turned off his telephone.

“I need a favour. A really important favour, and it has to be done immediately and cannot be mentioned outside this room.”

“Tell me.”

“In 1989 a refugee by the name of Idris Ghidi came to Sweden from Iraq. When he was faced with the prospect of deportation, he received help from your family until he was granted a residency permit. I don’t know if it was your father or somebody else in the family who helped him.”

“It was my uncle Mahmut. I know Ghidi. What’s going on?”

“He’s working in Göteborg. I need his help to do a simple job. I’m willing to pay him.”

“What kind of job?”

“Do you trust me, Kurdo?”

“Of course. We’ve always been friends.”

“The job I need done is very odd. I don’t want to say what it entails right now, but I assure you it’s in no way illegal, nor will it cause any problems for you or for Ghidi.”

Baksi gave Blomkvist a searching look. “You don’t want to tell me what it’s about?”

“The fewer people who know, the better. But I need your help for an introduction – so that Idris will listen to me.”

Baksi went to his desk and opened an address book. He looked through it for a minute before he found the number. Then he picked up the telephone. The conversation was in Kurdish. Blomkvist could see from Baksi’s expression that he started out with words of greeting and small talk before he got serious and explained why he was calling. After a while he said to Blomkvist:

“When do you want to meet him?”

“Friday afternoon, if that would work. Ask if I can visit him at home.”

Baksi spoke for a short while before he hung up.

“Idris lives in Angered,” he said. “Do you have the address?”

Blomkvist nodded.

“He’ll be home by 5.00 on Friday afternoon. You’re welcome to visit him there.”

“Thanks, Kurdo.”

“He works at Sahlgrenska hospital as a cleaner,” Baksi said.

“I know.”

“I couldn’t help reading in the papers that you’re mixed up in this Salander story.”

“That’s right.”

“She was shot.”

“Yes.”

“I heard she’s at Sahlgrenska.”

“That’s also true.”

Baksi knew that Blomkvist was busy planning some sort of mischief, which was what he was famous for doing. He had known him since the ’80s. They might not have been best friends, but they never argued either, and Blomkvist had never hesitated if Baksi asked him a favour.

“Am I going to get mixed up in something I ought to know about?”

“You’re not going to get involved. Your role was only to do me the kindness of introducing me to one of your acquaintances. And, I repeat, I won’t ask him to do anything illegal.”

This assurance was enough for Baksi. Blomkvist stood up. “I owe you one.”

“We always owe each other one.”

Cortez put down the telephone and drummed so loudly with his fingertips on the edge of his desk that Nilsson glared at him. But she could see that he was lost in his own thoughts, and since she was feeling irritated in general she decided not to take it out on him.

She knew that Blomkvist was doing a lot of whispering with Cortez and Eriksson and Malm about the Salander story, while she and Karim were expected to do all the spadework for the next issue of a magazine that had not had any real leadership since Berger left. Eriksson was fine, but she lacked experience and the gravitas of Berger. And Cortez was just a young whippersnapper.

Nilsson was not unhappy that she had been passed over, nor did she want their jobs – that was the last thing she wanted. Her own job was to keep tabs on the government departments and parliament on behalf of Millennium. It was a job she enjoyed, and she knew it inside out. Besides, she had had it up to here with other work, like writing a column in a trade journal every week, or various volunteer tasks for Amnesty International and the like. She was not interested in being editor-in-chief of Millennium and working a minimum of twelve hours a day as well as sacrificing her weekends.

She did, however, feel that something had changed at Millennium. The magazine suddenly felt foreign. She could not put her finger on what was wrong.

As always, Blomkvist was irresponsible and kept vanishing on another of his mysterious trips, coming and going as he pleased. He was one of the owners of Millennium, fair enough, he could decide for himself what he wanted to do, but Jesus, a little sense of responsibility would not hurt.

Malm was the other current part-owner, and he was about as much help as he was when he was on holiday. He was talented, no question, and he could step in and take over the reins when Berger was away or busy, but usually he just followed through with what other people had already decided. He was brilliant at anything involving graphic design or presentations, but he was right out of his depth when it came to planning a magazine.

Nilsson frowned.

No, she was being unfair. What bothered her was that something had happened at the office. Blomkvist was working with Eriksson and Cortez, and the rest of them were somehow excluded. Those three had formed an inner circle and were always shutting themselves in Berger’s office… well, Eriksson’s office, and then they’d all come trooping out in silence. Under Berger’s leadership the magazine had always been a collective.

Blomkvist was working on the Salander story and would not share any part of it. But this was nothing new. He had not said a word about the Wennerström story either – not even Berger had known – but this time he had two confidants.

In a word, Nilsson was pissed off. She needed a holiday. She needed to get away for a while. Then she saw Cortez putting on his corduroy jacket.

“I’m going out for a while,” he said. “Could you tell Malin that I’ll be back in two hours?”

“What’s going on?”

“I think I’ve got a lead on a story. A really good story. About toilets. I want to check a few things, but if this pans out we’ll have a fantastic article for the June issue.”

“Toilets,” Nilsson muttered. “A likely story.”

Berger clenched her teeth and put down the article about the forthcoming Salander trial. It was short, two columns, intended for page five under national news. She looked at the text for a minute and pursed her lips. It was 3.30 on Thursday. She had been working at S.M.P. for exactly twelve days. She picked up the telephone and called Holm, the news editor.

“Hello, it’s Berger. Could you find Johannes Frisk and bring him to my office asap?”

She waited patiently until Holm sauntered into the glass cage with the reporter Frisk in tow. Berger looked at her watch.

“Twenty-two,” she said.

“Twenty-two what?” said Holm.

“Twenty-two minutes. That’s how long it’s taken you to get up from the editorial desk, walk the fifteen metres to Frisk’s desk, and drag yourself over here with him.”

“You said there was no rush. I was pretty busy.”

“I did not say there was no rush. I asked you to get Frisk and come to my office. I said asap, and I meant asap, not tonight or next week or whenever you feel like getting your arse out of your chair.”

“But I don’t think –”

“Shut the door.”

She waited until Holm had closed the door behind him and studied him in silence. He was without doubt a most competent news editor. His role was to make sure that the pages of S.M.P. were filled every day with the correct text, logically organized, and appearing in the order and position they had decided on in the morning meeting. This meant that Holm was juggling a colossal number of tasks every day. And he did it without ever dropping a ball.

The problem with him was that he persistently ignored the decisions Berger made. She had done her best to find a formula for working with him. She had tried friendly reasoning and direct orders, she had encouraged him to think for himself, and generally she had done everything she could think of to make him understand how she wanted the newspaper to be shaped.

Nothing made any difference.

An article she had rejected in the afternoon would appear in the newspaper sometime after she had gone home. We had a hole we needed to fill so I had to put in something.

The headline that Berger had decided to use was suddenly replaced by something entirely different. It was not always a bad choice, but it would be done without her being consulted. As an act of defiance.

It was always a matter of details. An editorial meeting at 2.00 was suddenly moved to 1.30 without her being told, and most of the decisions were already made by the time she arrived. I’m sorry… in the rush I forgot to let you know.

For the life of her, Berger could not see why Holm had adopted this attitude towards her, but she knew that calm discussions and friendly reprimands did not work. Until now she had not confronted him in front of other colleagues in the newsroom. Now it was time to express herself more clearly, and this time in front of Frisk, which would ensure that the exchange was common knowledge in no time.

“The first thing I did when I started here was to tell you that I had a special interest in everything to do with Lisbeth Salander. I explained that I wanted information in advance on all proposed articles, and that I wanted to look at and approve everything that was to be published. I’ve reminded you about this at least half a dozen times, most recently at the editorial meeting on Friday. Which part of these instructions do you not understand?”

“All the articles that are planned or in production are on the daily memo on our intranet. They’re always sent to your computer. You’re always kept informed,” Holm said.

“Bullshit,” Berger said. “When the city edition of the paper landed in my letterbox this morning we had a three-column story about Salander and the developments in the Stallarholmen incident in our best news spot.”

“That was Margareta Orring’s article. She’s a freelancer, she didn’t turn it in until 7.00 last night.”

“Margareta called me with the proposal at 11.00 yesterday morning. You approved it and gave her the assignment at 11.30. You didn’t say a word about it at the two o’clock meeting.”

“It’s in the daily memo.”

“Oh, right… here’s what it says in the daily memo: quote, Margareta Orring, interview with Prosecutor Martina Fransson, re: narcotics bust in Södertälje, unquote.”

“The basic story was an interview with Martina Fransson about the confiscation of anabolic steroids. A would-be Svavelsjö biker was busted for that,” Holm said.

“Exactly. And not a word in the daily memo about Svavelsjö M.C., or that the interview would be focused on Magge Lundin and Stallarholmen, and therefore the investigation of Salander.”

“I assume it came up during the interview –”

“Anders, I don’t know why, but you’re standing here lying to my face. I spoke to Margareta and she said that she clearly explained to you what her interview was going to focus on.”

“I must not have realized that it would centre on Salander. Then I got an article late in the evening. What was I supposed to do, kill the whole story? Orring turned in a good piece.”

“There I agree with you. It’s an excellent story. But that’s now your third lie in about the same number of minutes. Orring turned it in at 3.20 in the afternoon, long before I went home at 6.00.”

“Berger, I don’t like your tone of voice.”

“Great. Then I can tell you that I like neither your tone nor your evasions nor your lies.”

“It sounds as if you think I’m organizing some sort of conspiracy against you.”

“You still haven’t answered the question. And item two: today this piece by Johannes shows up on my desk. I can’t recall having any discussion about it at the two o’clock meeting. Why has one of our reporters spent the day working on Salander without anybody telling me?”

Frisk squirmed. He was bright enough to keep his mouth shut.

“So…,” Holm said. “We’re putting out a newspaper, and there must be hundreds of articles you don’t know about. We have routines here at S.M.P. and we all have to adapt to them. I don’t have time to give special treatment to specific articles.”

“I didn’t ask you to give special treatment to specific articles. I asked you for two things: first, that I be informed of everything that has a bearing on the Salander case. Second, I want to approve everything we publish on that topic. So, one more time… what part of my instructions did you not understand?”

Holm sighed and adopted an exasperated expression.

“O.K.,” Berger said. “I’ll make myself crystal clear. I am not going to argue with you about this. Just let’s see if you understand this message. If it happens again I’m going to relieve you of your job as news editor. You’ll hear bang-boom, and then you’ll find yourself editing the family page or the comics page or something like that. I cannot have a news editor that I can’t trust or work with and who devotes his precious time to undermining my decisions. Understood?”

Holm threw up his hands in a gesture that indicated he considered Berger’s accusations to be absurd.

“Do you understand me? Yes or no?”

“I heard what you said.”

“I asked if you understood. Yes or no?”

“Do you really think you can get away with this? This paper comes out because I and the other cogs in the machinery work our backsides off. The board is going to –”

“The board is going to do as I say. I’m here to revamp this paper. I have a carefully worded agreement that gives me the right to make far-reaching editorial changes at section editors’ level. I can get rid of the dead meat and recruit new blood from outside if I choose. And Holm… you’re starting to look like dead meat to me.”

She fell silent. Holm met her gaze. He was furious.

“That’s all,” Berger said. “I suggest you consider very carefully what we’ve talked about today.”

“I don’t think –”

“It’s up to you. That’s all. Now go.”

He turned on his heel and left the glass cage. She watched him disappear into the editorial sea in the direction of the canteen. Frisk stood up and made to follow.

“Not you, Johannes. You stay here and sit down.”

She picked up his article and read it one more time.

“You’re here on a temporary basis, I gather.”

“Yes. I’ve been here five months – this is my last week.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I apologize for putting you in the middle of a duel between me and Holm. Tell me about this story.”

“I got a tip this morning and took it to Holm. He told me to follow up on it.”

“I see. It’s about the police investigating the possibility that Lisbeth Salander was mixed up in the sale of anabolic steroids. Does this story have any connection to yesterday’s article about Södertälje, in which steroids also appeared?”

“Not that I know of, but it’s possible. This thing about steroids has to do with her connection to boxers. Paolo Roberto and his pals.”

“Paolo Roberto uses steroids?”

“What? No, of course not. It’s more about the boxing world in general. Salander used to train at a gym in Söder. But that’s the angle the police are taking. Not me. And somewhere the idea seems to have popped up that she might have been involved in selling steroids.”

“So there’s no actual substance to this story at all, just a rumour?”

“It’s no rumour that the police are looking into the possibility. Whether they’re right or wrong, I have no idea yet.”

“O.K., Johannes. I want you to know that what I’m discussing with you now has nothing to do with my dealings with Holm. I think you’re an excellent reporter. You write well and you have an eye for detail. In short, this is a good story. My problem is that I don’t believe it.”

“I can assure you that it’s quite true.”

“And I have to explain to you why there’s a fundamental flaw in the story. Where did the tip come from?”

“From a source within the police.”

“Who?”

Frisk hesitated. It was an automatic response. Like every other journalist the world over, he was unwilling to name his source. On the other hand, Berger was editor-in-chief and therefore one of the few people who could demand that information from him.

“An officer named Faste in the Violent Crimes Division.”

“Did he call you or did you call him?”

“He called me.”

“Why do you think he called you?”

“I interviewed him a couple of times during the hunt for Salander. He knows who I am.”

“And he knows you’re twenty-seven and a temp and that you’re useful when he wants to plant information that the prosecutor wants put out.”

“Sure, I understand all that. But I get a tip from the police investigation and go over and have a coffee with Faste and he tells me this. He is correctly quoted. What am I supposed to do?”

“I’m persuaded that you quoted him accurately. What should have happened is that you should have taken the information to Holm, who should have knocked on the door of my office and explained the situation, and together we would have decided what to do.”

“I get it. But I –”

“You left the material with Holm, who’s the news editor. You acted correctly. But let’s analyse your article. First of all, why would Faste want to leak this information?”

Frisk shrugged.

“Does that mean that you don’t know, or that you don’t care?”

“I don’t know.”

“If I were to tell you that this story is untrue, and that Salander doesn’t have a thing to do with anabolic steroids, what do you say then?”

“I can’t prove otherwise.”

“No indeed. But you think we should publish a story that might be a lie just because we have no proof that it’s a lie.”

“No, we have a journalistic responsibility. But it’s a balancing act. We can’t refuse to publish when we have a source who makes a specific claim.”

“We can ask why the source might want this information to get out. Let me explain why I gave orders that everything to do with Salander has to cross my desk. I have special knowledge of the subject that no-one else at S.M.P. has. The legal department has been informed that I possess this knowledge but cannot discuss it with them. Millennium is going to publish a story that I am contractually bound not to reveal to S.M.P., despite the fact that I work here. I obtained the information in my capacity as editor-in-chief of Millennium, and right now I’m caught between two loyalties. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“What I learned at Millennium tells me that I can say without a doubt that this story is a lie, and its purpose is to damage Salander before the trial.”

“It would be hard to do her any more damage, considering all the revelations that have already come out about her.”

“Revelations that are largely lies and distortions. Hans Faste is one of the key sources for the claims that Salander is a paranoid and violence-prone lesbian devoted to Satanism and S.&M. And the media as a whole bought Faste’s propaganda simply because he appears to be a serious source and it’s always cool to write about S.&M. And now he’s trying a new angle which will put her at a disadvantage in the public consciousness, and which he wants S.M.P. to help disseminate. Sorry, but not on my watch.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Good. Then I can sum up everything I said in two sentences. Your job description as a journalist is to question and scrutinize most critically. And never to repeat claims uncritically, no matter how highly placed the sources in the bureaucracy. Don’t ever forget that. You’re a terrific writer, but that talent is completely worthless if you forget your job description.”

“Right.”

“I intend to kill this story.”

“I understand.”

“This doesn’t mean that I distrust you.”

“Thank you.”

“So that’s why I’m sending you back to your desk with a proposal for a new story.”

“Alright.”

“The whole thing has to do with my contract with Millennium. I’m not allowed to reveal what I know about the Salander story. At the same time I’m editor-in-chief of a newspaper that’s in danger of skidding because the newsroom doesn’t have the information that I have. And we can’t allow that to happen. This is a unique situation and applies only to Salander. That’s why I’ve decided to choose a reporter and steer him in the right direction so that we won’t end up with our trousers down when Millennium comes out.”

“And you think that Millennium will be publishing something noteworthy about Salander?”

“I don’t think so, I know so. Millennium is sitting on a scoop that will turn the Salander story on its head, and it’s driving me crazy that I can’t go public with it.”

“You say you’re rejecting my article because you know that it isn’t true. That means there’s something in the story that all the other reporters have missed.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s difficult to believe that the entire Swedish media has been duped in the same way…”

“Salander has been the object of a media frenzy. That’s when normal rules no longer apply, and any drivel can be posted on a billboard.”

“So you’re saying that Salander isn’t exactly what she seems to be.”

“Try out the idea that she’s innocent of these accusations, that the picture painted of her on the billboards is nonsense, and that there are forces at work you haven’t even dreamed of.”

“Is that the truth?”

Berger nodded.

“So what I just handed in is part of a continuing campaign against her.”

“Precisely.”

Frisk scratched his head. Berger waited until he had finished thinking.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go back to your desk and start working on another story. You don’t have to stress out about it, but just before the trial begins we might be able to publish a whole feature that examines the accuracy of all the statements that have been made about Salander. Start by reading through the clippings, list everything that’s been said about her, and check off the allegations one by one.”

“Alright.”

“Think like a reporter. Investigate who’s spreading the story, why it’s being spread, and ask yourself whose interests it might serve.”

“But I probably won’t be at S.M.P. when the trial starts. This is my last week.”

Berger took a plastic folder from a desk drawer and laid a sheet of paper in front of him.

“I’ve extended your assignment by three months. You’ll finish off this week with your ordinary duties and report in here on Monday.”

“Thank you.”

“If you want to keep working at S.M.P., that is.”

“Of course I do.”

“You’re contracted to do investigative work outside the normal editorial job. You’ll report directly to me. You’re going to be a special correspondent assigned to the Salander trial.”

“The news editor is going to have something to say –”

“Don’t worry about Holm. I’ve talked with the head of the legal department and fixed it so there won’t be any hassle there. But you’re going to be digging into the background, not news reporting. Does that sound good?”

“It sounds fantastic.”

“Right then… that’s all. I’ll see you on Monday.”

As she waved him out of the glass cage she saw Holm watching her from the other side of the news desk. He lowered his gaze and pretended that he had not been looking at her.

CHAPTER 11

Blomkvist made sure that he was not being watched when he walked from the Millennium offices early on Friday morning to Salander’s old apartment block on Lundagatan. He had to meet Idris Ghidi in Göteborg. The question was how to travel there without being observed or leaving a trail. He decided against the train, since he did not want to use a credit card. Normally he would borrow Berger’s car, but that was no longer possible. He had thought about asking Cortez or someone else to rent a car for him, but that too would leave a trace.

Finally he lit upon the obvious solution. He withdrew cash from an A.T.M. on Götgatan. He had Salander’s keys to her burgundy Honda. It had been parked outside her building since March. He adjusted the seat and saw that the petrol tank was half full. Then he backed out and headed across Liljeholmsbron towards the E4.

At 2.50 he parked on a side street off Avenyn in Göteborg. He had a late lunch at the first café he saw. At 4.10 he took the tram to Angered and got off in the centre of town. It took twenty minutes to find the address where Idris Ghidi lived. He was about ten minutes late for their meeting.

Ghidi opened the door, shook hands with Blomkvist, and invited him into a living room with spartan furnishings. He had a limp. He asked Blomkvist to take a seat at the table next to a dresser on which were a dozen framed photographs, which Blomkvist studied.

“My family,” Ghidi said.

He spoke with a thick accent. Blomkvist suspected that he would not pass the language test recommended by the People’s Party of Sweden.

“Are those your brothers?”

“My two brothers on the left who were murdered by Saddam in the ’80s. That’s my father in the middle. My two uncles were murdered by Saddam in the ’90s. My mother died in 2000. My three sisters are still alive. Two are in Syria and my little sister is in Madrid.”

Ghidi poured Turkish coffee.

“Kurdo Baksi sends his greetings.”

“Kurdo said you wanted to hire me for a job, but not what it was. I have to tell you, right away, that I won’t take the job if it’s illegal. I don’t dare get mixed up in anything like that.”

“There is nothing illegal in what I am going to ask you to do. But it is unusual. The job itself will last for a couple of weeks. It must be done each day, but it will take only a minute of your time. For this I’m willing to pay you a thousand kronor a week. You will be paid by me, and I won’t report it to the tax authorities.”

“I understand. What is it I have to do?”

“One of your jobs at Sahlgrenska hospital – six days a week, if I understood correctly – is to clean corridor 11C, the intensive care unit.”

Ghidi nodded.

“This is what I want you to do.”

Blomkvist leaned forward and explained his plan.

Prosecutor Ekström took stock of his visitor. It was the third time he had met Superintendent Nyström. He saw a lined face framed by short grey hair. Nyström had first come to see him in the days following the murder of Karl Axel Bodin. He had offered credentials to indicate that he worked for S.I.S. They had had a long, subdued conversation.

“It’s important that you understand this: in no way am I trying to influence how you might act or how you do your job. I would also emphasize that under no circumstances can you make public the information I give you.” Nyström said.

“I understand.”

If truth be told, Ekström did not entirely understand, but he did not want to seem very unclever by asking questions. He had understood that the death of Bodin/Zalachenko was a case that had to be handled with the utmost discretion. He had also understood that Nyström’s visit was off the record, although endorsed by the highest authorities within the Security Police.

“This is most assuredly a matter of life or death,” Nyström had said at their very first meeting. “As far as the Security Police are concerned, everything related to the Zalachenko case is Top Secret. I can tell you that he is a defector, a former agent of Soviet military intelligence, and a key player in the Russians’ offensive against western Europe in the ’70s.”

“That’s what Blomkvist at Millennium is evidently alleging.”

“And in this instance Blomkvist is quite correct. He’s a journalist who happened to stumble upon one of the most secret operations ever conducted by Swedish defence.”

“He’s going to publish the information.”

“Of course. He represents the media, with all the advantages and drawbacks. We live in a democracy and naturally we cannot influence what is written in the press. The problem in this case is that Blomkvist knows only a fraction of the truth about Zalachenko, and much of what he thinks he knows is wrong.”

“I see.”

“What Blomkvist doesn’t grasp is that if the truth about Zalachenko comes out, the Russians will swiftly identify our informants and sources in Russia. People who have risked their lives for democracy will be in danger of being killed.”

“But isn’t Russia a democracy now too? I mean, if this had been during the communist days –”

“That’s an illusion. This is about people who spied formerly within the Soviet Union – no regime in the world would stand for that, even if it happened many years ago. And a number of these sources are still active.”

No such agents existed, but Ekström could not know that. He was bound to take Nyström at his word. And he could not help feeling flattered that he was being given information – off the record, of course – that was among the most secret to be found in Sweden. He was slightly surprised that the Swedish Security Police had been able to penetrate the Russian military to the degree Nyström was describing, and he perfectly understood that this was, of course, information that absolutely could not be disseminated.

“When I was assigned to make contact with you, we did an extensive investigation of your background,” Nyström said.

The seduction always involved discovering someone’s weaknesses. Prosecutor Ekström’s weakness was his conviction as to his own importance. He was like everyone else, he appreciated flattery. The trick was to make him feel that he had been specially chosen.

“And we have been able to satisfy ourselves that you are a man who enjoys enormous respect within the police force… and of course in government circles.”

Ekström looked pleased. That unnamed individuals in government circles had great confidence in him implied that he could count on their gratitude if he played his cards right.

“Simply stated, my assignment is to provide you with background as necessary, and as discreetly as possible. You must understand how improbably complicated this story has become. For one thing, a preliminary investigation is under way, for which you bear the primary responsibility. No-one – not in the government or in the Security Police or anywhere else – can interfere in how you run this investigation. Your job is to ascertain the truth and bring the guilty parties to court. One of the most crucial functions in a democratic state.”

Ekström nodded.

“It would be a national catastrophe if the whole truth about Zalachenko were to leak out.”

“So what exactly is the purpose of your visit?”

“First, to make you aware of the sensitive nature of the situation. I don’t think Sweden has been in such an exposed position since the end of the Second World War. One might say that, to a certain extent, the fate of Sweden rests in your hands.”

“And who is your superior?”

“I regret it, but I cannot reveal the name of anyone working on this case. But I can say that my instructions come from the very highest levels.”

Good Lord. He’s acting on orders from the government. But he can’t say without unleashing a political firestorm.

Nyström saw that Ekström had swallowed the bait.

“What I am able to do, however, is to provide you with information. I have been given the authority to use my own judgement in giving you sight of material that is, some of it, the most highly classified in this country.”

“I see.”

“This means that if you have questions about something, whatever it may be, then you should turn to me. You must not talk to anyone else in the Security Police, only to me. My assignment is to be your guide in this labyrinth, and if clashes between various interests threaten to arise, then we will assist each other in finding solutions.”

“I understand. In that case I should say how grateful I am that you and your colleagues are willing to facilitate matters for me.”

“We want the legal process to take its course even though this is a difficult situation.”

“Good. I assure you that I will exercise the utmost discretion. This isn’t the first time I’ve handled Top Secret information, after all.”

“No, we are quite aware of that.”

Ekström had a dozen questions that Nyström meticulously noted, and then answered as best he could. On this third visit Ekström would be given answers to several of the questions he had asked earlier. Among them, and most crucially: what was the truth surrounding Björck’s report from 1991?

“That is a serious matter.” Nyström adopted a concerned expression. “Since this report surfaced, we have had an analysis group working almost round the clock to discover exactly what happened. We are now close to the point where we can draw conclusions. And they are most unpleasant.”

“I can well imagine. That report alleges that the Security Police and the psychiatrist Peter Teleborian co-operated to place Lisbeth Salander in psychiatric care.”

“If only that were the case,” Nyström said with a slight smile.

“I don’t understand.”

“If that was all there was to it, the matter would be simple. Then a crime would have been committed and led to a prosecution. The difficulty is that this report does not correspond with other reports that we have in our archives.” Nyström took out a blue folder and opened it. “What I have here is the report that Gunnar Björck actually wrote in 1991. Here too are the original documents from the correspondence between him and Teleborian. The two versions do not agree.”

“Please explain.”

“The appalling thing is that Björck has hanged himself. Presumably because of the threat of revelations about his sexual deviations. Blomkvist’s magazine was intending to expose him. That drove him to such depths of despair that he took his own life.”

“Well…”

“The original report is an account of Lisbeth Salander’s attempt to murder her father, Alexander Zalachenko, with a petrol bomb. The first thirty pages of the report that Blomkvist discovered agree with the original. These pages, frankly, contain nothing remarkable. It’s not until page thirty-three, where Björck draws conclusions and makes recommendations, that the discrepancy arises.”

“What discrepancy?”

“In the original version Björck presents five well-argued recommendations. We don’t need to hide the fact that they concern playing down the Zalachenko affair in the media and so forth. Björck proposes that Zalachenko’s rehabilitation – he suffered very severe burns – be carried out abroad. And things similar. He also recommends that Salander should be offered the best conceivable psychiatric care.”

“I see…”

“The problem is that a number of sentences were altered in a very subtle way. On page thirty-four there is a paragraph in which Björck appears to suggest that Salander be branded psychotic, so that she will not be believed if anyone should start asking questions about Zalachenko.”

“And this suggestion is not in the original report.”

“Precisely. Gunnar Björck’s own report never suggested anything of the kind. Quite apart from anything else, that would have been against the law. He warmly recommended that she be given the care she quite clearly needed. In Blomkvist’s copy, this was made out to be a conspiracy.”

“Could I read the original?”

“Certainly you can. I have to take the report with me when I go. And before you read it, let me direct your attention to the appendix containing the subsequent correspondence between Björck and Teleborian. It is almost entirely fabricated. Here it’s not a matter of subtle alterations, but of gross falsifications.”

“Falsifications?”

“I think that’s the only appropriate description. The original shows that Peter Teleborian was assigned by the district court to do a forensic psychiatric examination of Lisbeth Salander. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Salander was twelve years old and had tried to kill her father – it would have been very strange if that shocking event had not resulted in a psychiatric report.”

“That’s true.”

“If you had been the prosecutor, I assume that you would have insisted on both social and psychiatric investigations.”

“Of course.”

“Even then Teleborian was a well-respected child psychiatrist who had also worked in forensic medicine. He was given the assignment, conducted a normal investigation, and came to the conclusion that the girl was mentally ill. I don’t have to use their technical terms.”

“No, no…”

“Teleborian wrote this in a report that he sent to Björck. The report was then given to the district court, which decided that Salander should be cared for at St Stefan’s. Blomkvist’s version is missing the entire investigation conducted by Teleborian. In its place is an exchange between Björck and Teleborian, which has Björck instructing Teleborian to falsify a mental examination.”

“And you’re saying that it’s an invention, a forgery?”

“No question about it.”

“But who would be interested in creating such a thing?”

Nyström put down the report and frowned. “Now you’re getting to the heart of the problem.”

“And the answer is…?”

“We don’t know. That’s the question our analytical group is working very hard to answer.”

“Could it be that Blomkvist made some of it up?”

Nyström laughed. “That was one of our first thoughts too. But we don’t think so. We incline to the view that the falsification was done a long time ago, presumably more or less simultaneously with the writing of the original report. And that leads to one or two disagreeable conclusions. Whoever did the falsification was extremely well informed. In addition, whoever did it had access to the very typewriter that Björck used.”

“You mean…”

“We don’t know where Björck wrote the report. It could have been at his home or at his office or somewhere else altogether. We can imagine two alternatives. Either the person who did the falsification was someone in the psychiatric or forensic medicine departments, who for some reason wanted to involve Teleborian in a scandal. Or else the falsification was done for a completely different purpose by someone inside the Security Police.”

“For what possible reason?”

“This happened in 1991. There could have been a Russian agent inside S.I.S. who had picked up Zalachenko’s trail. Right now we’re examining a large number of old personnel files.”

“But if the K.G.B. had found out… then it should have leaked years ago.”

“You’re right. But don’t forget that this was during the period when the Soviet Union was collapsing and the K.G.B. was dissolved. We have no idea what went wrong. Maybe it was a planned operation that was shelved. The K.G.B. were masters of forgery and disinformation.”

“But why would the K.G.B. want to plant such a forgery?”

“We don’t know that either. But the most obvious purpose would have been to involve the Swedish government in a scandal.”

Ekström pinched his lip. “So what you’re saying is that the medical assessment of Salander is correct?”

“Oh yes. Salander is, to put it in colloquial terms, stark raving mad. No doubt about that. The decision to commit her to an institution was absolutely correct.”

“Toilets?” Eriksson sounded as if she thought Cortez was pulling her leg.

“Toilets,” Cortez repeated.

“You want to run a story on toilets? In Millennium?”

Eriksson could not help laughing. She had observed his ill-concealed enthusiasm when he sauntered into the Friday meeting, and she recognized all the signs of a reporter who had a story in the works.

“Explain.”

“It’s really quite simple,” Cortez said. “The biggest industry in Sweden by far is construction. It’s an industry that in practice cannot be outsourced overseas, even if Skanska Construction opens an office in London and stuff like that. No matter what, the houses have to be built in Sweden.”

“But that’s nothing new.”

“No, but what is new is that the construction industry is a couple of light-years ahead of all other Swedish industries when it comes to competition and efficiency. If Volvo built cars the same way, the latest model would cost about one, maybe even two million kronor. For most of industry, cutting prices is the constant challenge. For the construction industry it’s the opposite. The price per square metre keeps going up. The state subsidizes the cost with taxpayers’ money just so that the prices aren’t prohibitive.”

“Is there a story in that?”

“Wait. It’s complicated. Let’s say the price curve for hamburgers had been the same since the ’70s – so a Big Mac would cost about 150 kronor or more. I don’t want to guess what it would cost with fries and a Coke, but my salary at Millennium might not cover it. How many people around this table would go to McDonald’s and buy a burger for 100 kronor?”

Nobody said a word.

“Understandable. But when N.C.C. bangs together some sheet-metal cubes for exclusive rental at Gåshaga on Lidingö, they ask 10–12,000 kronor a month for a three-cube apartment. How many of you are paying that much?”

“I couldn’t afford it,” Nilsson said.

“No, of course not. But you already live in a one-bedroom apartment by Danvikstull which your father bought for you twenty years ago, and if you were to sell it you’d probably get a million and a half for it. But what does a twenty-year-old do who wants to move out of the family home? They can’t afford to. So they sublet or sub-sublet or they live at home with their mothers until they retire.”

“So where do the toilets come into the picture?” Malm said.

“I’m getting to that. The question is, why are apartments so bloody expensive? Because the people commissioning the buildings don’t know how to set the price. To put it simply, a developer calls up Skanska Construction and says that they want a hundred apartments and asks what it will cost. And Skanska calculates it and comes back and says it’ll cost around 500 million kronor. Which means that the price per square metre will be X kronor and it would cost 10,000 a month if you wanted to move in. But unlike the McDonald’s example, you don’t really have a choice – you have to live somewhere. So you have to pay the going rate.”

“Henry, dear… please get to the point.”

“But that is the point. Why should it cost 10,000 a month to live in those crappy dumps in Hammarbyhamnen? Because the construction companies don’t give a damn about keeping prices down. The customer’s going to have to pay, come what may. One of the big costs is building materials. The trade in building materials goes through wholesalers who set their own prices. Since there isn’t any real competition there, a bathtub retails at 5,000 kronor in Sweden. The same bathtub from the same manufacturer retails at 2,000 kronor in Germany. There is no added cost that can satisfactorily explain the price difference.”

There was impatient muttering around the table.

“You can read about a lot of this in a report from the government’s Construction Cost Delegation, which was active in the late ’90s. Since then not much has happened. No-one is talking to the construction companies about the unreasonable prices. The buyers cheerfully pay what they are told it costs, and in the end the price burden falls on the renters or the taxpayers.”

“Henry, the toilets?”

“The little that has changed since the Construction Cost Delegation’s report has happened at the local level, and primarily outside Stockholm. There are buyers who got fed up with the high construction prices. One example is Karlskrona Homes, which builds houses less expensively than anyone else by buying the materials themselves. And Svensk Handel has also got into the game. They think that the price of construction materials is absurd, so they’ve been trying to make it easier for companies to buy less expensive products that are equally good. And that led to a little clash at the Construction Fair in Älvsjö last year. Svensk Handel had brought in a man from Thailand who was selling toilets for 500 kronor apiece.”

“And what happened?”

“His nearest competitor was a Swedish wholesale outfit called Vitavara Inc., which sells genuine Swedish toilets for 1700 kronor apiece. And shrewd municipal buyers started to scratch their heads and wonder why they were shelling out 1700 kronor when they could get a similar toilet from Thailand for 500.”

“Better quality maybe,” Karim said.

“No. The exact same.”

“Thailand,” Malm said. “That sounds like child labour and stuff like that. Which could explain the low price.”

“Not so,” Cortez said. “Child labour exists mostly in the textile and souvenir industries in Thailand. And the paedophile industry, of course. The United Nations keeps an eye on child labour, and I’ve checked out this company. They’re a reputable manufacturer. It’s a big, modern, respectable operation producing appliances and plumbing goods.”

“Alright… but we’re talking about low-wage countries, and that means that you risk writing an article proposing that Swedish industry should be outbid by Thai industry. Fire the Swedish workers and close the factories here, and import everything from Thailand. You won’t win any points with the Trades Union Federation.”

A smile spread over Cortez’s face. He leaned back and looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

“No again,” he said. “Guess where Vitavara Inc. makes its toilets to sell at 1700 kronor apiece?”

Silence fell over the room.

“Vietnam,” Cortez said.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Eriksson said.

“They’ve been making toilets there for at least ten years. Swedish workers were already out of that race in the ’90s.”

“Oh, shit.”

“But here comes my point. If you imported directly from the factory in Vietnam, the price would be in the order of 390 kronor. Guess how you can explain the price difference between Thailand and Vietnam?”

“Don’t tell me that –”

“Oh, yes. Vitavara Inc. subcontracts the work to an outfit called Fong Soo Industries. They’re on the U.N. list of companies that use child labour, at least they were in an investigation from 2001. But the majority of the workers are convicts.”

Eriksson burst out laughing. “This is great. This is really great. I’m sure you’re going to be a journalist when you grow up. How fast can you have the story ready?”

“Two weeks. I have a lot of international trade stuff to check out. And then we need a bad guy for the story, so I’m going to see who owns Vitavara Inc.”

“Then we could run it in the June issue?”

“No problem.”

Inspector Bublanski listened to Prosecutor Ekström without expression. The meeting had lasted forty minutes, and Bublanski was feeling an intense desire to reach out and grab the copy of The Law of the Swedish Kingdom that lay on the edge of Ekström’s desk and ram it into the prosecutor’s face. He wondered what would happen if he acted on his impulse. There would certainly be headlines in the evening papers and it would probably result in an assault charge. He pushed the thought away. The whole point of the socialized human being was to not give in to that sort of impulse, regardless of how belligerently an opponent might behave. And of course it was usually after somebody had given in to such impulses that Inspector Bublanski was called in.

“I take it that we’re in agreement,” Ekström said.

“No, we are not in agreement,” Bublanski said, getting to his feet. “But you’re the leader of the preliminary investigation.”

He muttered to himself as he turned down the corridor to his office, summoning Andersson and Modig as he went. They were the only colleagues available to him that afternoon as Holmberg had regrettably opted to take a two-week holiday.

“My office,” Bublanski said. “Bring some coffee.”

After they had settled in, Bublanski looked at the notes from his meeting with Ekström.

“As the situation stands, our preliminary investigation leader has dropped all charges against Lisbeth Salander relating to the murders for which she was being sought. She is no longer part of the preliminary investigation so far as we’re concerned.”

“That can be considered a step forward, at any rate,” Modig said.

Andersson, as usual, said nothing.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Bublanski said. “Salander is still suspected of G.B.H. in connection with the events at Stallarholmen and Gosseberga. But we’re no longer involved with those investigations. We have to concentrate on finding Niedermann and working on the graves in the woods at Nykvarn. On the other hand it’s now clear that Ekström is going to bring charges against Salander. The case has been transferred to Stockholm, and an entirely new investigation has been set up for the purpose.”

“Oh, really?” Modig said.

“And who do you think is going to investigate Salander?” Bublanski said.

“I’m fearing the worst.”

“Hans Faste is back on duty, and he’s going to assist Ekström.”

“That’s insane. Faste is grossly unsuited to investigate anything at all to do with Salander.”

“I know that. But Ekström has a good argument. Faste has been out sick since… hmm… he collapsed in April, and this would be the perfect, simple case for him to focus on.”

Silence.

“The long and the short of it is that we’re to hand all our material on Salander over to him this afternoon.”

“And this story about Gunnar Björck and Säpo and the 1991 report…”

“… is going to be handled by Faste and Ekström.”

“I don’t like this,” Modig said.

“Nor do I. But Ekström’s the boss, and he has backing from higher up in the bureaucracy. In other words, our job is still to find the killer. Curt, what’s the situation?”

Andersson shook his head. “Niedermann seems to have been swallowed up by the earth. I have to admit that in all my years on the force I’ve never seen anything like it. We haven’t had any tip-offs, and we don’t have a single informer who knows him or has any idea where he might be.”

“That sounds fishy,” Modig said. “But he’s being sought for the police murder in Gosseberga, for G.B.H on another officer, for the attempted murder of Salander, and for the aggravated kidnapping and assault of the dental nurse Anita Kaspersson, as well as for the murders of Svensson and Johansson. In every instance there’s good forensic evidence.”

“That helps a bit, at least. How’s it going with the case of Svavelsjö M.C.’s treasurer?”

“Viktor Göransson – and his girlfriend, Lena Nygren. Fingerprints and D.N.A. from Göransson’s body. Niedermann must have bloodied his knuckles pretty badly during the beating.”

“Anything new on Svavelsjö M.C.?”

“Nieminen has taken over as club president while Lundin remains in custody, awaiting trial for the kidnapping of Miriam Wu. There’s a whisper that Nieminen has offered a big reward to anyone who could provide information as to Niedermann’s whereabouts.”

“Which makes it even stranger that he hasn’t been found, if the entire underworld is looking for him. What about Göransson’s car?”

“Since we found Kaspersson’s car at Göransson’s place, we’re sure that Niedermann switched vehicles. But we have no trace of the car he took.”

“So we have to ask ourselves, one, is Niedermann still hiding out somewhere in Sweden?; two, if so, with whom?; three, is he out of the country? What do we think?”

“We have nothing to tell us that he has left the country, but really that seems his most logical course.”

“If he has gone, where did he ditch the car?”

Modig and Andersson shook their heads. Nine times out of ten, police work was largely uncomplicated when it came to looking for one specific individual. It was about initiating a logical sequence of inquiries. Who were his friends? Who had he been in prison with? Where does his girlfriend live? Who did he drink with? In what area was his mobile last used? Where is his vehicle? At the end of that sequence the fugitive would generally be found.

The problem with Niedermann was that he had no friends, no girlfriend, no listed mobile, and he had never been in prison.

The inquiries had concentrated on finding Göransson’s car, which Niedermann was presumed to be using. They had expected the car to turn up in a matter of days, probably in some car park in Stockholm. But there was as yet no sign of it.

“If he’s out of the country, where would he be?”

“He’s a German citizen, so the obvious thing would be for him to head for Germany.”

“He seems not to have had any contact with his old friends in Hamburg.”

Andersson waved his hand. “If his plan was to go to Germany… Why would he drive to Stockholm? Shouldn’t he have made for Malmö and the bridge to Copenhagen, or for one of the ferries?”

“I know. And Inspector Erlander in Göteborg has been focusing his search in that direction from day one. The Danish police have been informed about Göransson’s car, and we know for sure that he didn’t take any of the ferries.”

“But he did drive to Stockholm and to Svavelsjö, and there he murdered the club’s treasurer and – we may assume – went off with an unspecified sum of money. What would his next step be?”

“He has to get out of Sweden,” Bublanski said. “The most obvious thing would be to take one of the ferries across the Baltic. But Göransson and his girlfriend were murdered late on the night of April 9. Niedermann could have taken the ferry the next morning. We got the alarm roughly sixteen hours after they died, and we’ve had an A.P.B. out on the car ever since.”

“If he took the morning ferry, then Göransson’s car would have been parked at one of the ports,” Modig said.

“Perhaps we haven’t found the car because Niedermann drove out of the country to the north via Haparanda? A big detour around the Gulf of Bothnia, but in sixteen hours he could have been in Finland.”

“Sure, but soon after he would have had to abandon the car in Finland, and it should have been found by now.”

They sat in silence. Finally Bublanski got up and stood at the window.

“Could he have found a hiding place where he’s just lying low, a summer cabin or –”

“I don’t think it would be a summer cabin. This time of year every cabin owner is out checking their property.”

“And he wouldn’t try anywhere connected to Svavelsjö M.C. They’re the last people he’d want to run into.”

“And the entire underworld should be excluded as well… Any girlfriend we don’t know about?”

They could speculate, but they had no facts.

When Andersson had left for the day, Modig went back to Bublanski’s office and knocked on the door jamb. He waved her in.

“Have you got a couple of minutes?” she said.

“What’s up?”

“Salander. I don’t like this business with Ekström and Faste and a new trial. You’ve read Björck’s report. I’ve read Björck’s report. Salander was unlawfully committed in 1991 and Ekström knows it. What the hell is going on?”

Bublanski took off his reading glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. “I don’t know.”

“Have you got any idea at all?”

“Ekström claims that Björck’s report and the correspondence with Teleborian were falsified.”

“That’s rubbish. If it were a fake, then Björck would have said so when we brought him in.”

“Ekström says Björck refused to discuss it, on the grounds that it was Top Secret. I was given a dressing down because I jumped the gun and brought him in.”

“I’m beginning to have strong reservations about Ekström.”

“He’s getting squeezed from all sides.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“We don’t have a monopoly on the truth, Sonja. Ekström says he’s received evidence that the report is a fake – that there is no real report with that protocol number. He also says that the forgery is a good one and that the content is a clever blend of truth and fantasy.”

“Which part was truth and which part was fantasy, that’s what I need to know,” Modig said.

“The outline story is pretty much correct. Zalachenko is Salander’s father, and he was a bastard who beat her mother. The problem is the familiar one – the mother never wanted to make a complaint so it went on for several years. Björck was given the job of finding out what happened when Salander tried to kill her father. He corresponded with Teleborian – but the correspondence in the form we’ve seen it is apparently a forgery. Teleborian did a routine psychiatric examination of Salander and concluded that she was mentally unbalanced. A prosecutor decided not to take the case any further. She needed care, and she got it at St Stefan’s.”

“And if it is a forgery… who did it and why?”

Bublanski shrugged. As I understand it, Ekström is going to commission one more thorough evaluation of Salander.”

“I can’t accept that.”

“It’s not our case any more.”

“And Faste has replaced us. Jan, I’m going to the media if these bastards piss all over Salander one more time.”

“No, Sonja. You won’t. First of all, we no longer have access to the report, so you have no way of backing up your claims. You’re going to look like a paranoid, and then your career will be over.”

“I still have the report,” Modig said in a low voice. “I made a copy for Curt but I never had a chance to give it to him before the Prosecutor General collected the others.”

“If you leak that report, you’ll not only be fired but you’ll be guilty of gross misconduct.”

Modig sat in silence for a moment and looked at her superior.

“Sonja, don’t do it. Promise me.”

“No, Jan. I can’t promise that. There’s something very sick about this whole story.”

“You’re right, it is sick. But since we don’t know who the enemy is, you’re not going to do anything for the moment.”

Modig tilted her head to one side. “Are you going to do anything?”

“I’m not going to discuss that with you. Trust me. It’s Friday night. Take a break, go home. And… this discussion never took place.”

Niklas Adamsson, the Securitas guard, was studying for a test in three weeks’ time. It was 1.30 on Saturday afternoon when he heard the sound of rotating brushes from the low-humming floor polisher and saw that it was the dark-skinned immigrant who walked with a limp. The man would always nod politely but never laughed if he said anything humorous. Adamsson watched as he took a bottle of cleaning fluid and sprayed the reception counter-top twice before wiping it with a rag. Then he took his mop and swabbed the corners in the reception area where the brushes of the floor polisher could not reach. The guard put his nose back into his book about the national economy and kept reading.

It took ten minutes for the cleaner to work his way over to Adamsson’s spot at the end of the corridor. They nodded to each other. Adamsson stood to let the man clean the floor around his chair outside Salander’s room. He had seen him almost every day since he had been posted outside the room, but he could not remember his name – some sort of foreign name – but Adamsson did not feel the need to check his I.D. For one thing, the nigger was not allowed to clean inside the prisoner’s room – that was done by two cleaning women in the morning – and besides, he did not feel that the cripple was any sort of threat.

When the cleaner had finished in the corridor, he opened the door to the room next to Salander’s. Adamsson glanced his way, but this was no deviation from the daily routine. This was where the cleaning supplies were kept. In the course of the next five minutes he emptied his bucket, cleaned the brushes, and replenished the cart with plastic bags for the wastepaper baskets. Finally he manoeuvred the cart into the cubbyhole.

Ghidi was aware of the guard in the corridor. It was a young blond man who was usually there two or three days a week, reading books. Part-time guard, and part-time student. He was about as aware of his surroundings as a brick.

Ghidi wondered what Adamsson would do if someone actually tried to get into the Salander woman’s room.

He also wondered what Blomkvist was really after. He had read about the eccentric journalist in the newspapers, and he had made the connection to the woman in 11C, expecting that he would be asked to smuggle something in for her. But he did not have access to her room and had never even seen her. Whatever he had expected, it was not this.

He could not see anything illegal about his task. He looked through the crack in the doorway at Adamsson, who was once more reading his book. He checked that nobody else was in the corridor. He reached into the pocket of his smock and took out the Sony Ericsson Z600 mobile. Ghidi had seen in an advertisement that it cost around 3,500 kronor and had all the latest features.

He took a screwdriver from his pocket, stood on tiptoe and unscrewed the three screws in the round white cover of a vent in the wall of Salander’s room. He pushed the telephone as far into the vent as he could, just as Blomkvist had asked him to. Then he screwed on the cover again.

It took him forty-five seconds. The next day it would take less. He was supposed to get down the mobile, change the batteries and put it back in the vent. He would then take the used batteries home and recharge them overnight.

That was all Ghidi had to do.

But this was not going to be of any help to Salander. On her side of the wall there was presumably a similar screwed-on cover. She would never be able to get at the mobile, unless she had a screwdriver and a ladder.

“I know that,” Blomkvist had said. “But she doesn’t have to reach the phone.”

Ghidi was to do this every day until Blomkvist told him it was no longer necessary.

And for this job Ghidi would be paid 1000 kronor a week, straight into his pocket. And he could keep the mobile when the job was over.

He knew, of course, that Blomkvist was up to some sort of funny business, but he could not work out what it was. Putting a mobile telephone into an air vent inside a locked cleaning supplies room, turned on but not uplinked, was so crazy that Ghidi could not imagine what use it could be. If Blomkvist wanted a way of communicating with the patient, he would be better off bribing one of the nurses to smuggle the telephone in to her.

On the other hand, he had no objection to doing Blomkvist this favour – a favour worth 1000 kronor a week. He was better off not asking any questions.

Jonasson slowed his pace when he saw a man with a briefcase leaning on the wrought-iron gates outside his housing association apartment on Hagagatan. He looked somehow familiar.

“Dr Jonasson?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Apologies for bothering you on the street outside your home. It’s just that I didn’t want to track you down at work, and I do need to talk to you.”

“What’s this about, and who are you?”

“My name is Blomkvist, Mikael Blomkvist. I’m a journalist and I work at Millennium magazine. It’s about Lisbeth Salander.”

“Oh, now I recognize you. You were the one who called the paramedics. Was it you who put duct tape on her wounds?”

“Yes.”

“That was a smart thing to have done. But I don’t discuss my patients with journalists. You’ll have to speak to the P.R. department at Sahlgrenska, like everyone else.”

“You misunderstand me. I don’t want information and I’m here in a completely private capacity. You don’t have to say a word or give me any information. Quite the opposite: I want to give you some information.”

Jonasson frowned.

“Please hear me out,” Blomkvist said. “I don’t go around accosting surgeons on the street, but what I have to tell you is very important. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Tell me what it’s about.”

“It’s about Lisbeth Salander’s future and wellbeing. I’m a friend.”

Jonasson thought that if it had been anyone other than Blomkvist he would have refused. But Blomkvist was a man in the public eye, and Jonasson could not imagine that this would be some sort of tomfoolery.

“I won’t under any circumstances be interviewed, and I won’t discuss my patient.”

“Perfectly understood,” Blomkvist said.

Jonasson accompanied Blomkvist to a café nearby.

“So what’s this all about?” he said when they had got their coffee.

“First of all, I’m not going to quote you or mention you even in anything I write. And as far as I’m concerned this conversation never took place. Which said, I am here to ask you a favour. But I have to explain why, so that you can decide whether you can or you can’t.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“All I ask is that you hear me out. It’s your job to take care of Lisbeth’s physical and mental health. As her friend, it’s my job to do the same. I can’t poke around in her skull and extract bullets, but I have another skill that is as crucial to her welfare.”

“Which is?”

“I’m an investigative journalist, and I’ve found out the truth about what happened to her.”

“O.K.”

“I can tell you in general terms what it’s about and you can come to your own conclusions.”

“Alright.”

“I should also say that Annika Giannini, Lisbeth’s lawyer – you’ve met her I think – is my sister, and I’m the one paying her to defend Salander.”

“I see.”

“I can’t, obviously, ask Annika to do this favour. She doesn’t discuss Lisbeth with me. She has to keep her conversations with Lisbeth confidential. I assume you’ve read about Lisbeth in the newspapers.”

Jonasson nodded.

“She’s been described as a psychotic, and a mentally ill lesbian mass murderer. All that is nonsense. Lisbeth Salander is not psychotic. She may be as sane as you and me. And her sexual preferences are nobody’s business.”

“If I’ve understood the matter correctly, there’s been some reassessment of the case. Now it’s this German who’s being sought in connection with the murders.”

“To my certain knowledge, Niedermann is a murderer who has no grain of conscience. But Lisbeth has enemies. Big and nasty enemies. Some of these are in the Security Police.”

Jonasson looked at Blomkvist in astonishment.

“When Lisbeth was twelve, she was put in a children’s psychiatric clinic in Uppsala. Why? Because she had stirred up a secret that Säpo was trying at any price to keep a lid on. Her father, Alexander Zalachenko – otherwise known as Karl Axel Bodin, who was murdered in your hospital – was a Soviet defector, a spy, a relic from the Cold War. He also beat up Lisbeth’s mother year after year. When Lisbeth was twelve, she hit back and threw a Molotov cocktail at him as he sat in his car. That was why she was locked up.”

“I don’t understand. If she tried to kill her father, then surely there was good reason to take her in for psychiatric treatment.”

“My story – which I am going to publish – is that Säpo knew about Zalachenko the wife beater, they knew what had provoked Lisbeth to do what she did, but they chose to protect Zalachenko because he was a source of valuable information. So they faked a diagnosis to make sure that Lisbeth was committed.”

Jonasson looked so sceptical that Blomkvist had to laugh.

“I can document every detail. And I’m going to write a full account in time for Lisbeth’s trial. Believe me – it’s going to cause uproar. You might bear in mind that the beating that provoked Lisbeth’s attack put her mother in hospital for the rest of her life.”

“O.K. Go on.”

“I’m going to expose two doctors who were errand boys for Säpo, and who helped bury Lisbeth in the asylum. I’m going to hang them out to dry. One of these is a well-known and respected person. But, as I said, I have all the documentation.”

“If a doctor were mixed up in something like this, it’s a blot on the entire profession.”

“I don’t believe in collective guilt. It concerns only those directly involved. The same is true of Säpo. I don’t doubt that there are excellent people working in Säpo. This is about a small group of conspirators. When Lisbeth was eighteen they tried to institutionalize her again. This time they failed, and she was instead put under guardianship. In the trial, whenever it is, they’re once again going to try to throw as much shit at her as they can. I – or rather, my sister Annika – will fight to see that she is acquitted, and that her still-extant declaration of incompetence is revoked.”

“I see.”

“But she needs ammunition. So that’s the background for this tactic. I should probably also mention that there are some individuals in the police force who are actually on Lisbeth’s side in all this. But not the prosecutor who brought the charges against her. In short, Lisbeth needs help before the trial.”

“But I’m not a lawyer.”

“No. But you’re Lisbeth’s doctor and you have access to her.”

Jonasson’s eyes narrowed.

“What I’m thinking of asking you is unethical, and it might also be illegal.”

“Indeed?”

“But morally it’s the right thing to do. Her constitutional rights are being violated by the very people who ought to be protecting her. Let me give you an example. Lisbeth is not allowed to have visitors, and she can’t read newspapers or communicate with the outside world. The prosecutor has also pushed through a prohibition of disclosure for her lawyer. Annika has obeyed the rules. However, the prosecutor himself is the primary source of leaks to the reporters who keep writing all the shit about Lisbeth.”

“Is that really so?”

“This story, for example.” Blomkvist held up a week-old evening newspaper. “A source within the investigation claims that Lisbeth is non compos mentis, which prompted the newspaper to speculate about her mental state.”

“I read the article. It’s nonsense.”

“So you don’t think she’s crazy.”

“I won’t comment on that. But I do know that no psychiatric evaluations have been done. Accordingly, the article is nonsense.”

“I can show you chapter and verse to prove that the person who leaked this information is a police officer called Hans Faste. He works for Prosecutor Ekström.”

“Oh.”

“Ekström is going to seek to have the trial take place behind closed doors, so that no outsider will have knowledge of or be able to weigh the evidence against Lisbeth. But what is worse… Because the prosecutor has isolated Lisbeth, she won’t be able to do the research she needs to do to prepare her defence.”

“But isn’t that supposed to be done by her lawyer?”

“As you must have gathered by now, Lisbeth is an extraordinary person. She has secrets I happen to know about, but I can’t reveal them to my sister. But Lisbeth should be able to choose whether she wants to make use of them in her trial.”

“I see.”

“And in order to do that, she needs this.”

Blomkvist laid Salander’s Palm Tungsten T3 hand-held computer and a battery charger on the table between them.

“This is the most important weapon Lisbeth has in her arsenal – she has to have it.”

Jonasson looked suspiciously at the Palm.

“Why not give it to her lawyer?”

“Because Lisbeth is the only one who knows how to get at the evidence.”

Jonasson sat for a while, still not touching the computer.

“Let me tell you one or two things about Dr Peter Teleborian,” Blomkvist said, taking a folder from his briefcase.

It was just after 8.00 on Saturday evening when Armansky left his office and walked to the synagogue of the Söder congregation on St Paulsgatan. He knocked on the door, introduced himself, and was admitted by the rabbi himself.

“I have an appointment to meet someone I know here,” Armansky said.

“One flight up. I’ll show you the way.”

The rabbi offered him a kippa for his head, which Armansky hesitantly put on. He had been brought up in a Muslim family and he felt foolish wearing it.

Bublanski was also wearing a kippa.

“Hello, Dragan. Thanks for coming. I’ve borrowed a room from the rabbi so we can speak undisturbed.”

Armansky sat down opposite Bublanski.

“I presume you have good reason for such secrecy.”

“I’m not going to spin this out: I know that you’re a friend of Salander’s.”

Armansky nodded.

“I need to know what you and Blomkvist have cooked up to help her.”

“Why would we be cooking something up?”

“Because Prosecutor Ekström has asked me a dozen times how much you at Milton Security actually knew about the Salander investigation. It’s not a casual question – he’s concerned that you’re going to spring something that could result in repercussions… in the media.”

“I see.”

“And if Ekström is worried, it’s because he knows or suspects that you’ve got something brewing. Or at least he’s talked to someone who has suspicions.”

“Someone?”

“Dragan, let’s not play games. You know Salander was the victim of an injustice in the early ’90s, and I’m afraid she’s going to get the same medicine when the trial begins.”

“You’re a police officer in a democracy. If you have information to that effect you should take action.”

Bublanski nodded. “I’m thinking of doing just that. The question is, how?”

“Tell me what you want to know.”

“I want to know what you and Blomkvist are up to. I assume you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs.”

“It’s complicated. How do I know I can trust you?”

“There’s a report from 1991 that Blomkvist discovered…”

“I know about it.”

“I no longer have access to the report.”

“Nor do I. The copies that Blomkvist and his sister – now Salander’s lawyer – had in their possession have both disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Blomkvist’s copy was taken during a break-in at his apartment, and Giannini’s was stolen when she was mugged, punched to the ground in Göteborg. All this happened on the day Zalachenko was murdered.”

Bublanski said nothing for a long while.

“Why haven’t we heard anything about this?”

“Blomkvist put it like this: there’s only one right time to publish a story, and an endless number of wrong times.”

“But you two… he’ll publish it?”

Armansky gave a curt nod.

“A nasty attack in Göteborg and a break-in here in Stockholm. On the same day,” Bublanski said. “That means that our adversary is well organized.”

“I should probably also mention that we know Giannini’s telephone is tapped.”

“A whole bunch of crimes.”

“The question is, whose?”

“That’s what I’m wondering. Most likely it’s Säpo – they would have an interest in suppressing Björck’s report. But Dragan… we’re talking about the Swedish Security Police, a government agency. I can’t believe this would be something sanctioned by Säpo. I don’t even believe Säpo has the expertise to do anything like this.”

“I’m having trouble digesting it myself. Not to mention that someone else saunters into Sahlgrenska and blows Zalachenko’s head off. And at the same time, Gunnar Björck, author of the report, hangs himself.”

“So you think there’s a single hand behind all this? I know Inspector Erlander, who did the investigation in Göteborg. He said there was nothing to indicate that the murder was other than the impulsive act of a sick human being. And we did a thorough investigation of Björck’s place. Everything points towards a suicide.”

“Gullberg, seventy-eight years old, suffering from cancer, recently treated for depression. Our operations chief Johan Fräklund has been looking into his background.”

“And?”

“He did his military service in Karlskrona in the ’40s, studied law and eventually became a tax adviser. Had an office here in Stockholm for thirty years: low profile, private clients… whoever they might have been. Retired in 1991. Moved back to his home town of Laholm in 1994. Unremarkable, except –”

“Except what?”

“Except for one or two surprising details. Fräklund cannot find a single reference to Gullberg anywhere. He’s never referred to in any newspaper or trade journal, and there’s no-one who can tell us who his clients were. It’s as if he never actually existed in the professional world.”

“What are you saying?”

“Säpo is the obvious link. Zalachenko was a Soviet defector. Who else but Säpo would have taken charge of him? Then the question of a co-ordinated strategy to get Salander locked away in an institution. Now we have burglaries, muggings and telephone tapping. Personally I don’t think Säpo is behind this. Blomkvist calls them ‘the Zalachenko club’, a small group of dormant Cold-Warmongers who hide out in some dark corridor at Säpo.”

“So what should we do?” Bublanski said.

CHAPTER 12

Superintendent Torsten Edklinth, Director of Constitutional Protection at the Security Police, slowly twirled his glass of red wine and listened attentively to the C.E.O. of Milton Security, who had called out of the blue and insisted on his coming to Sunday dinner at his place on Lidingö. Armansky’s wife Ritva had made a delicious casserole. They had eaten well and talked politely about nothing in particular. Edklinth was wondering what was on Armansky’s mind. After dinner Ritva repaired to the sofa to watch T.V. and left them at the table. Armansky had begun to tell him the story of Lisbeth Salander.

Edklinth and Armansky had known each other for twelve years, ever since a woman Member of Parliament had received death threats. She had reported the matter to the head of her party, and parliament’s security detail had been informed. In due course the matter came to the attention of the Security Police. At that time, Personal Protection had the smallest budget of any unit in the Security Police, but the Member of Parliament was given protection during the course of her official appearances. She was left to her own devices at the end of the working day, the very time when she was obviously more vulnerable. She began to have doubts about the ability of the Security Police to protect her.

She arrived home late one evening to discover that someone had broken in, daubed sexually explicit epithets on her living-room walls, and masturbated in her bed. She immediately hired Milton Security to take over her personal protection. She did not advise Säpo of this decision. The next morning, when she was due to appear at a school in Täby, there was a confrontation between the government security forces and her Milton bodyguards.

At that time Edklinth was acting deputy chief of Personal Protection. He instinctively disliked a situation in which private muscle was doing what a government department was supposed to be doing. He did recognize that the Member of Parliament had reason enough for complaint. Instead of exacerbating the issue, he invited Milton Security’s C.E.O. to lunch. They agreed that the situation might be more serious than Säpo had at first assumed, and Edklinth realized that Armansky’s people not only had the skills for the job, but they were as well trained and probably better equipped too. They solved the immediate problem by giving Armansky’s people responsibility for bodyguard services, while the Security Police took care of the criminal investigation and paid the bill.

The two men discovered that they liked each other a good deal, and they enjoyed working together on a number of assignments in subsequent years. Edklinth had great respect for Armansky, and when he was pressingly invited to dinner and a private conversation, he was willing to listen.

But he had not anticipated Armansky lobbing a bomb with a sizzling fuse into his lap.

“You’re telling me that the Security Police is involved in flagrant criminal activity.”

“No,” Armansky said. “You misunderstand me. I’m saying that some people within the Security Police are involved in such activity. I don’t believe that this activity is sanctioned by the leadership of S.I.S., or that it has government approval.”

Edklinth studied Malm’s photographs of a man getting into a car with a registration number that began with the letters KAB.

“Dragan… this isn’t a practical joke?”

“I wish it were.”

The next morning Edklinth was in his office at police headquarters. He was meticulously cleaning his glasses. He was a grey-haired man with big ears and a powerful face, but for the moment his expression was more puzzled than powerful. He had spent most of the night worrying about how he was going to deal with the information Armansky had given him.

They were not pleasant thoughts. The Security Police was an institution in Sweden that all parties (well, almost all) agreed had an indispensable value. This led each of them to distrust the group and at the same time concoct imaginative conspiracy theories about it. The scandals had undoubtedly been many, especially in the leftist-radical ’70s when a number of constitutional blunders had certainly occurred. But after five governmental – and roundly criticized – Säpo investigations, a new generation of civil servants had come through. They represented a younger school of activists recruited from the financial, weapons and fraud units of the state police. They were officers used to investigating real crimes, and not chasing political mirages. The Security Police had been modernized and the Constitutional Protection Unit in particular had taken on a new, conspicuous role. Its task, as set out in the government’s instruction, was to uncover and prevent threats to the internal security of the nation. i.e. unlawful activity that uses violence, threat or coercion for the purpose of altering our form of government, inducing decision-making political entities or authorities to take decisions in a certain direction, or preventing individual citizens from exercising their constitutionally protected rights and liberties.

In short, to defend Swedish democracy against real or presumed anti-democratic threats. They were chiefly concerned with the anarchists and the neo-Nazis: the anarchists because they persisted in practising civil disobedience; the neo-Nazis because they were Nazis and so by definition the enemies of democracy.

After completing his law degree, Edklinth had worked as a prosecutor and then twenty-one years ago joined the Security Police. He had at first worked in the field in the Personal Protection Unit, and then within the Constitutional Protection Unit as an analyst and administrator. Eventually he became director of the agency, the head of the police forces responsible for the defence of Swedish democracy. He considered himself a democrat. The constitution had been established by the parliament, and it was his job to see to it that it stayed intact.

Swedish democracy is based on a single premise: the Right to Free Speech (R.F.S.). This guarantees the inalienable right to say aloud, think and believe anything whatsoever. This right embraces all Swedish citizens, from the crazy neo-Nazi living in the woods to the rock-throwing anarchist – and everyone in between.

Every other basic right, such as the Formation of Government and the Right to Freedom of Organization, are simply practical extensions of the Right to Free Speech. On this law democracy stands or falls.

All democracy has its limits, and the limits to the R.F.S. are set by the Freedom of the Press regulation (F.P.). This defines four restrictions on democracy. It is forbidden to publish child pornography and the depiction of certain violent sexual acts, regardless of how artistic the originator believes the depiction to be. It is forbidden to incite or exhort someone to crime. It is forbidden to defame or slander another person. It is forbidden to engage in the persecution of an ethnic group.

Press freedom has also been enshrined by parliament and is based on the socially and democratically acceptable restrictions of society, that is, the social contract that makes up the framework of a civilized society. The core of the legislation has it that no person has the right to harass or humiliate another person.

Since R.F.S. and F. P. are laws, some sort of authority is needed to guarantee the observance of these laws. In Sweden this function is divided between two institutions.

The first is the office of the Prosecutor General, assigned to prosecute crimes against F. P. This did not please Torsten Edklinth. In his view, the Prosecutor General was too lenient with cases concerning what were, in his view, direct crimes against the Swedish constitution. The Prosecutor General usually replied that the principle of democracy was so important that it was only in an extreme emergency that he should step in and bring a charge. This attitude, however, had come under question more and more in recent years, particularly after Robert Hårdh, the general secretary of the Swedish Helsinki Committee, had submitted a report which examined the Prosecutor General’s want of initiative over a number of years. The report claimed that it was almost impossible to charge and convict anyone under the law of persecution against an ethnic group.

The second institution was the Security Police division for Constitutional Protection, and Superintendent Edklinth took on this responsibility with the utmost seriousness. He thought that it was the most important post a Swedish policeman could hold, and he would not exchange his appointment for any other position in the entire Swedish legal system or police force. He was the only policeman in Sweden whose official job description was to function as a political police officer. It was a delicate task requiring great wisdom and judicial restraint, since experience from far too many countries has shown that a political police department could easily transform itself into the principal threat to democracy.

The media and the public assumed for the most part that the main function of the Constitutional Protection Unit was to keep track of Nazis and militant vegans. These types of group did attract interest from the Constitutional Protection Unit, but a great many institutions and phenomena also fell within the bailiwick of the division. If the king, for example, or the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, took it into their hearts that parliamentary government had outlived its role and that parliament should be replaced by a dictatorship, the king or the commander-in-chief would very swiftly come under observation by the Constitutional Protection Unit. Or, to give a second example, if a group of police officers decided to stretch the laws so that an individual’s constitutionally guaranteed rights were infringed, then it was the Constitutional Protection Unit’s duty to react. In such serious instances the investigation was also assumed to come under the authority of the Prosecutor General.

The problem, of course, was that the Constitutional Protection Unit had only an analytical and investigative function, and no operations arm. That was why it was generally either the regular police or other divisions within the Security Police who stepped in when Nazis were to be arrested.

In Edklinth’s opinion, this state of affairs was deeply unsatisfactory. Almost every democratic country maintains an independent constitutional court in some form, with a mandate to see to it that authorities do not ride roughshod over the democratic process. In Sweden the task is that of the Prosecutor General or the Parliamentary Ombudsman, who, however, can only pursue recommendations forwarded to them by other departments. If Sweden had a constitutional court, then Salander’s lawyer could instantly charge the Swedish government with violation of her constitutional rights. The court could then order all the documents on the table and summon anyone it pleased, including the Prime Minister, to testify until the matter was resolved. As the situation now stood, the most her lawyer could do was to file a report with the Parliamentary Ombudsman, who did not have the authority to walk into the Security Police and start demanding documents and other evidence.

Over the years Edklinth had been an impassioned advocate of the establishment of a constitutional court. He could then more easily have acted upon the information he had been given by Armansky: by initiating a police report and handing the documentation to the court. With that an inexorable process would have been set in motion.

As things stood, Edklinth lacked the legal authority to initiate a preliminary investigation.

He took a pinch of snuff.

If Armansky’s information was correct, Security Police officers in senior positions had looked the other way when a series of savage assaults were committed against a Swedish woman. Then her daughter was locked up in a mental hospital on the basis of a fabricated diagnosis. Finally, they had given carte blanche to a former Soviet intelligence officer to commit crimes involving weapons, narcotics and sex trafficking. Edklinth grimaced. He did not even want to begin to estimate how many counts of illegal activity must have taken place. Not to mention the burglary at Blomkvist’s apartment, the attack on Salander’s lawyer – which Edklinth could not bring himself to accept was a part of the same pattern – and possible involvement in the murder of Zalachenko.

It was a mess, and Edklinth did not welcome the necessity to get mixed up in it. Unfortunately, from the moment Armansky invited him to dinner, he had become involved.

How now to handle the situation? Technically, that answer was simple. If Armansky’s account was true, Lisbeth Salander had at the very least been deprived of the opportunity to exercise her constitutionally protected rights and liberties. From a constitutional standpoint, this was the first can of worms. Decision-making political bodies had been induced to take decisions in a certain direction. This too touched on the core of the responsibility delegated to the Constitutional Protection Unit. Edklinth, a policeman, had knowledge of a crime and thus he had the obligation to submit a report to a prosecutor. In real life, the answer was not so simple. It was, on the contrary and to put it mildly, decidedly unsimple.

Inspector Monica Figuerola, in spite of her unusual name, was born in Dalarna to a family that had lived in Sweden at least since the time of Gustavus Vasa in the sixteenth century. She was a woman who people usually paid attention to, and for several reasons. She was thirty-six, blue eyed, and one metre eighty-four tall. She had short, light-blonde, naturally curly hair. She was attractive and dressed in a way that she knew made her more so. And she was exceptionally fit.

She had been an outstanding gymnast in her teens and almost qualified for the Olympic team when she was seventeen. She had given up classic gymnastics, but she still worked out obsessively at the gym five nights a week. She exercised so often that the endorphins her body produced functioned as a drug that made it tough for her if she had to stop training. She ran, lifted weights, played tennis, did karate. She had cut back on bodybuilding, that extreme variant of bodily glorification, some years ago. In those days she was spending two hours a day pumping iron. Even so, she trained so hard and her body was so muscular that malicious colleagues still called her Herr Figuerola. When she wore a sleeveless T-shirt or a summer dress, no-one could fail to notice her biceps and powerful shoulders.

Her intelligence, too, intimidated many of her male colleagues. She had left school with top marks, studied to become a police officer at twenty, and then served for nine years in Uppsala police and studied law in her spare time. For fun, she said, she had also studied for a degree in political science.

When she left patrol duty to become a criminal inspector, it was a great loss to Uppsala street safety. She worked first in the Violent Crime Division and then in the unit that specialized in financial crime. In 2000 she applied to the Security Police in Uppsala, and by 2001 she had moved to Stockholm. She first worked in Counter-Espionage, but was almost immediately hand-picked by Edklinth for the Constitutional Protection Unit. He happened to know Figuerola’s father and had followed her career over the years.

When at long last Edklinth concluded that he had to act on Armansky’s information, he called Figuerola into his office. She had been at Constitutional Protection for less than three years, which meant that she was still more of a real police officer than a fully fledged desk warrior.

She was dressed that day in tight blue jeans, turquoise sandals with a low heel, and a navy blue jacket.

“What are you working on at the moment, Monica?”

“We’re following up on the robbery of the grocer’s in Sunne.”

The Security Police did not normally spend time investigating robberies of groceries, and Figuerola was the head of a department of five officers working on political crimes. They relied heavily on computers connected to the incident reporting network of the regular police. Nearly every report submitted in any police district in Sweden passed through the computers in Figuerola’s department. The software scanned every report and reacted to 310 keywords, nigger, for example, or skinhead, swastika, immigrant, anarchist, Hitler salute, Nazi, National Democrat, traitor, Jew-lover, or nigger-lover. If such a keyword cropped up, the report would be printed out and scrutinized.

The Constitutional Protection Unit publishes an annual report, Threats to National Security, which supplies the only reliable statistics on political crime. These statistics are based on reports filed with local police authorities. In the case of the robbery of the shop in Sunne, the computer had reacted to three keywords – immigrant, shoulder patch, and nigger. Two masked men had robbed at gunpoint a shop owned by an immigrant. They had taken 2,780 kronor and a carton of cigarettes. One of the robbers had a mid-length jacket with a Swedish flag shoulder patch. The other had screamed “fucking nigger” several times at the manager and forced him to lie on the floor.

This was enough for Figuerola’s team to initiate the preliminary investigation and to set about enquiring whether the robbers had a connection to the neo-Nazi gang in Värmland, and whether the robbery could be defined as a racist crime. If so, the incident might be included in that year’s statistical compilation, which would then itself be incorporated within the European statistics put together by the E.U.’s office in Vienna.

“I’ve a difficult assignment for you,” Edklinth said. “It’s a job that could land you in big trouble. Your career might be ruined.”

“I’m all ears.”

“But if things go well, it could be a major step forward in your career. I’m thinking of moving you to the Constitutional Protection operations unit.”

“Forgive me for mentioning this, but Constitutional Protection doesn’t have an operations unit.”

“Yes, it does,” Edklinth said. “I established it this morning. At present it consists of you.”

“I see,” said Figuerola hesitantly.

“The task of Constitutional Protection is to defend the constitution against what we call ‘internal threats’, most often those on the extreme left or the extreme right. But what do we do if a threat to the constitution comes from within our own organization?”

For the next half hour he told her what Armansky had told him the night before.

“Who is the source of these claims?” Figuerola said when the story was ended.

“Focus on the information, not the source.”

“What I’m wondering is whether you consider the source to be reliable.”

“I consider the source to be totally reliable. I’ve know this person for many years.”

“It all sounds a bit… I don’t know. Improbable?”

“Doesn’t it? One might think it’s the stuff of a spy novel.”

“How do you expect me to go about tackling it?”

“Starting now, you’re released from all other duties. Your task, your only task, is to investigate the truth of this story. You have to either verify or dismiss the claims one by one. You report directly and only to me.”

“I see what you mean when you say I might land in it up to my neck.”

“But if the story is true… if even a fraction of it is true, then we have a constitutional crisis on our hands.”

“Where do you want me to begin?”

“Start with the simple things. Start by reading the Björck report. Then identify the people who are allegedly tailing this guy Blomkvist. According to my source, the car belongs to Göran Mårtensson, a police officer living on Vittangigaten in Vällingby. Then identify the other person in the pictures taken by Blomkvist’s photographer. The younger blond man here.”

Figuerola was making notes.

“Then look into Gullberg’s background. I had never heard his name before, but my source believes there to be a connection between him and the Security Police.”

“So somebody here at S.I.S. put out a contract on a long-ago spy using a 78-year-old man. It beggars belief.”

“Nevertheless, you check it out. And your entire investigation has to be carried out without a single person other than me knowing anything at all about it. Before you take one single positive action I want to be informed. I don’t want to see any rings on the water or hear of a single ruffled feather.”

“This is one hell of an investigation. How am I going to do all this alone?”

“You won’t have to. You have only to do the first check. You come back and say that you’ve checked and didn’t find anything, then everything is fine. You come back having found that anything is as my source describes it, then we’ll decide what to do.”

Figuerola spent her lunch hour pumping iron in the police gym. Lunch consisted of black coffee and a meatball sandwich with beetroot salad, which she took back to her office. She closed her door, cleared her desk, and started reading the Björck report while she ate her sandwich.

She also read the appendix with the correspondence between Björck and Dr Teleborian. She made a note of every name and every incident in the report that had to be verified. After two hours she got up and went to the coffee machine and got a refill. When she left her office she locked the door, part of the routine at S.I.S.

The first thing she did was to check the protocol number. She called the registrar and was informed that no report with that protocol number existed. Her second check was to consult a media archive. That yielded better results. The evening papers and a morning paper had reported a person being badly injured in a car fire on Lundagatan on the date in question in 1991. The victim of the incident was a middle-aged man, but no name was given. One evening paper reported that, according to a witness, the fire had been started deliberately by a young girl.

Gunnar Björck, the author of the report, was a real person. He was a senior official in the immigration unit, lately on sick leave and now, very recently, deceased – a suicide.

The personnel department had no information about what Björck had been working on in 1991. The file was stamped Top Secret, even for other employees at S.I.S. Which was also routine.

It was a straightforward matter to establish that Salander had lived with her mother and twin sister on Lundagatan in 1991 and spent the following two years at St Stefan’s children’s psychiatric clinic. In these sections at least, the record corresponded with the report’s contents.

Peter Teleborian, now a well-known psychiatrist often seen on T.V., had worked at St Stefan’s in 1991 and was today its senior physician.

Figuerola then called the assistant head of the personnel department.

“We’re working on an analysis here in C.P. that requires evaluating a person’s credibility and general mental health. I need to consult a psychiatrist or some other professional who’s approved to handle classified information. Dr Peter Teleborian was mentioned to me, and I was wondering whether I could hire him.”

It took some while before she got an answer.

“Dr Teleborian has been an external consultant for S.I.S. in a couple of instances. He has security clearance and you can discuss classified information with him in general terms. But before you approach him you have to follow the bureaucratic procedure. Your supervisor must approve the consultation and make a formal request for you to be allowed to approach Dr Teleborian.”

Her heart sank. She had verified something that could be known only to a very restricted group of people. Teleborian had indeed had dealings with S.I.S.

She put down the report and focused her attention on other aspects of the information that Edklinth had given her. She studied the photographs of the two men who had allegedly followed the journalist Blomkvist from Café Copacabana on May 1.

She consulted the vehicle register and found that Göran Mårtensson was the owner of a grey Volvo with the registration number legible in the photographs. Then she got confirmation from the S.I.S. personnel department that he was employed there. Her heart sank again.

Mårtensson worked in Personal Protection. He was a bodyguard. He was one of the officers responsible on formal occasions for the safety of the Prime Minister. For the past few weeks he had been loaned to Counter-Espionage. His leave of absence had begun on April 10, a couple of days after Zalachenko and Salander had landed in Sahlgrenska hospital. But that sort of temporary reassignment was not unusual – covering a shortage of personnel here or there in an emergency situation.

Then Figuerola called the assistant chief of Counter-Espionage, a man she knew and had worked for during her short time in that department. Was Göran Mårtensson working on anything important, or could he be borrowed for an investigation in Constitutional Protection?

The assistant chief of Counter-Espionage was puzzled. Inspector Figuerola must have been misinformed. Mårtensson had not been reassigned to Counter-Espionage. Sorry.

Figuerola stared at her receiver for two minutes. In Personal Protection they believed that Mårtensson had been loaned out to Counter-Espionage. Counter-Espionage said that they definitely had not borrowed him. Transfers of that kind had to be approved by the chief of Secretariat. She reached for the telephone to call him, but stopped short. If Personal Protection had loaned out Mårtensson, then the chief of Secretariat must have approved the decision. But Mårtensson was not at Counter-Espionage, which the chief of Secretariat must be aware of. And if Mårtensson was loaned out to some department that was tailing journalists, then the chief of Secretariat would have to know about that too.

Edklinth had told her: no rings in the water. To raise the matter with the chief of Secretariat might be to chuck a very large stone into a pond.

Berger sat at her desk in the glass cage. It was 10.30 on Monday morning. She badly needed the cup of coffee she had just got from the machine in the canteen. The first hours of her workday had been taken up entirely with meetings, starting with one lasting fifteen minutes in which Assistant Editor Fredriksson presented the guidelines for the day’s work. She was increasingly dependent on Fredriksson’s judgement in the light of her loss of confidence in Anders Holm.

The second was an hour-long meeting with the chairman Magnus Borgsjö, S.M.P.’s C.F.O. Christer Sellberg, and Ulf Flodin, the budget chief. The discussion was about the slump in advertising and the downturn in single-copy sales. The budget chief and the C.F.O. were both determined on action to cut the newspaper’s overheads.

“We made it through the first quarter of this year thanks to a marginal rise in advertising sales and the fact that two senior, highly paid employees retired at the beginning of the year. Those positions have not been filled,” Flodin said. “We’ll probably close out the present quarter with a small deficit. But the free papers, Metro and Stockholm City, are cutting into our ad. revenue in Stockholm. My prognosis is that the third quarter will produce a significant loss.”

“So how do we counter that?” Borgsjö said.

“The only option is cutbacks. We haven’t laid anyone off since 2002. But before the end of the year we will have to eliminate ten positions.”

“Which positions?” Berger said.

“We need to work on the ‘cheese plane’ principle, shave a job here and a job there. The sports desk has six and a half jobs at the moment. We should cut that to five full-timers.”

“As I understand it, the sports desk is on its knees already. What you’re proposing means that we’ll have to cut back on sports coverage.”

Flodin shrugged. “I’ll gladly listen to other suggestions.”

“I don’t have any better suggestions, but the principle is this: if we cut personnel, then we have to produce a smaller newspaper, and if we make a smaller newspaper, the number of readers will drop and the number of advertisers too.”

“The eternal vicious circle,” Sellberg said.

“I was hired to turn this downward trend around,” said Berger. “I see my job as taking an aggressive approach to change the newspaper and make it more attractive to readers. I can’t do that if I have to cut staff.” She turned to Borgsjö. “How long can the paper continue to bleed? How big a deficit can we take before we hit the limit?”

Borgsjö pursed his lips. “Since the early ’90s S.M.P. has eaten into a great many old consolidated assets. We have a stock portfolio that has dropped in value by about 30 per cent compared to ten years ago. A large portion of these funds were used for investments in I.T. We’ve also had enormous expenses.”

“I gather that S.M.P. has developed its own text editing system, the A.X.T. What did that cost?”

“About five million kronor to develop.”

“Why did S.M.P. go to the trouble of developing its own software? There are inexpensive commercial programs already on the market.”

“Well, Erika… that may be true. Our former I.T. chief talked us into it. He persuaded us that it would be less expensive in the long run, and that S.M.P. would also be able to license the program to other newspapers.”

“And did any of them buy it?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, a local paper in Norway bought it.”

“Meanwhile,” Berger said in a dry voice, “we’re sitting here with P.C.s that are five or six years old…”

“It’s simply out of the question that we invest in new computers in the coming year,” Flodin said.

The discussion had gone back and forth. Berger was aware that her objections were being systematically stonewalled by Flodin and Sellberg. For them costcutting was what counted, which was understandable enough from the point of view of a budget chief and a C.F.O., but unacceptable for a newly appointed editor-in-chief. What irritated her most was that they kept brushing off her arguments with patronizing smiles, making her feel like a teenager being quizzed on her homework. Without actually uttering a single inappropriate word, they displayed towards her an attitude that was so antediluvian it was almost comical. You shouldn’t worry your pretty head over complex matters, little girl.

Borgsjö was not much help. He was biding his time and letting the other participants at the meeting say their piece, but she did not sense the same condescension from him.

She sighed and plugged in her laptop. She had nineteen new messages. Four were spam. Someone wanted to sell her Viagra, cybersex with “The Sexiest Lolitas on the Net” for only $4.00 per minute, “Animal Sex, the Juiciest Horse Fuck in the Universe,” and a subscription to fashion.nu. The tide of this crap never receded, no matter how many times she tried to block it. Another seven messages were those so-called “Nigeria letters” from the widow of the former head of a bank in Abu Dhabi offering her ludicrous sums of money if she would only assist with a small sum of start-up money, and other such drivel.

There was the morning memo, the lunchtime memo, three emails from Fredriksson updating her on developments in the day’s lead story, one from her accountant who wanted a meeting to check on the implications of her move from Millennium to S.M.P., and a message from her dental hygienist suggesting a time for her quarterly visit. She put the appointment in her calendar and realized at once that she would have to change it because she had a major editorial conference planned for that day.

Finally she opened the last one, sent from centraled@smpost.se› with the subject line [Attn: Editor-in-Chief]. Slowly she put down her coffee cup.

Berger looked up and searched for the news editor, Holm. He was not at his desk, nor could she see him in the newsroom. She checked the sender and then picked up the telephone and called Peter Fleming, the I.T. manager.

“Good morning, Peter. Who uses the address centraled@smpost.se›?”

“That isn’t a valid address at S.M.P.”

“I just got an email from that address.”

“It’s a fake. Does the message contain a virus?”

“I wouldn’t know. At least, the antivirus program didn’t react.”

“O.K. That address doesn’t exist. But it’s very simple to fake an apparently legitimate address. There are sites on the Net that you can use to send anonymous mail.”

“Is it possible to trace an email like that?”

“Almost impossible, even if the person in question is so stupid that he sends it from his home computer. You might be able to trace the I.P. number to a server, but if he uses an account that he set up at hotmail, for instance, the trail will fizzle out.”

Berger thanked him. She thought for a moment. It was not the first time she had received a threatening email or a message from a crackpot. This one was obviously referring to her new job as editor-in-chief. She wondered whether it was some lunatic who had read about her in connection with Morander’s death, or whether the sender was in the building.

Figuerola thought long and hard as to what she should do about Gullberg. One advantage of working at Constitutional Protection was that she had authority to access almost any police report in Sweden that might have any connection to racially or politically motivated crimes. Zalachenko was technically an immigrant, and her job included tracking violence against persons born abroad to decide whether or not the crime was racially motivated. Accordingly she had the right to involve herself in the investigation of Zalachenko’s murder, to determine whether Gullberg, the known killer, had a connection to any racist organization, or whether he was overheard making racist remarks at the time of the murder. She requisitioned the report. She found the letters that had been sent to the Minister of Justice and discovered that alongside the diatribe and the insulting personal attacks were also the words nigger-lover and traitor.

By then it was 5.00 p.m. Figuerola locked all the material in her safe, shut down her computer, washed up her coffee mug, and clocked out. She walked briskly to a gym at St Eriksplan and spent the next hour doing some easy strength training.

When she was finished she went home to her one-bedroom apartment on Pontonjärgatan, showered, and ate a late but nutritious dinner. She considered calling Daniel Mogren, who lived three blocks down the same street. Mogren was a carpenter and bodybuilder and had been her training partner off and on for three years. In recent months they had also had sex as friends.

Sex was almost as satisfying as a rigorous workout at the gym, but at a mature thirty-plus or, rather, forty-minus, Figuerola had begun to think that maybe she ought to start looking for a steady partner and a more permanent living arrangement. Maybe even children. But not with Mogren.

She decided that she did not feel like seeing anyone that evening. Instead she went to bed with a history of the ancient world.

CHAPTER 13

Figuerola woke at 6.10 on Tuesday morning, took a long run along Norr Mälarstrand, showered, and clocked in at police headquarters at 8.10. She prepared a memorandum on the conclusions she had arrived at the day before.

At 9.00 Edklinth arrived. She gave him twenty minutes to deal with his post, then knocked on his door. She waited while he read her four pages. At last he looked up.

“The chief of Secretariat,” he said.

“He must have approved loaning out Mårtensson. So he must know that Mårtensson is not at Counter-Espionage, even though according to Personal Protection that’s where he is.”

Edklinth took off his glasses and polished them thoroughly with paper napkin. He had met Chief of Secretariat Albert Shenke at meetings and internal conferences on countless occasions, but he could not claim to know the man well. Shenke was rather short, with thin reddish-blond hair, and by now rather stout. He was about fifty-five and had worked at S.I.S. for at least twenty-five years, possibly longer. He had been chief of Secretariat for a decade, and was assistant chief before that. Edklinth thought him taciturn, and a man who could act ruthlessly when necessary. He had no idea what he did in his free time, but he had a memory of having once seen him in the garage of the police building in casual clothes, with a golf bag slung over his shoulder. He had also run into him once at the Opera.

“There was one thing that struck me,” Figuerola said

“What’s that?”

“Evert Gullberg. He did his military service in the ’40s and became an accountant or some such, and then in the ’50s he vanished into thin air.”

“And?”

“When we were discussing this yesterday, we were talking about him as if he were some sort of a hired killer.”

“It sounds far-fetched, I know, but –”

“It struck me that there is so little background on him that it seems almost like a smokescreen. Both IB and S.I.S. established cover companies outside the building in the ’50s and ’60s.”

“I was wondering when you’d think of that,” Edklinth said.

“I’d like permission to go through the personnel files from the ’50s,” Figuerola said.

“No,” Edklinth said, shaking his head. “We can’t go into the archives without authorization from the chief of Secretariat, and we don’t want to attract attention until we have more to go on.”

“So what next?”

“Mårtensson,” Edklinth said. “Find out what he’s working on.”

Salander was studying the vent window in her room when she heard the key turn in the door. In came Jonasson. It was past 10.00 on Tuesday night. He had interrupted her planning how to break out of Sahlgrenska hospital.

She had measured the window and discovered that her head would fit through it and that she would not have much problem squeezing the rest of her body through. It was three storeys to the ground, but a combination of torn sheets and a ten-foot extension cord from a floor lamp would dispose of that problem.

She had plotted her escape step by step. The problem was what she would wear. She had knickers, a hospital nightshirt and a pair of plastic flip-flops that she had managed to borrow. She had 200 kronor in cash from Annika Giannini to pay for sweets from the hospital snack shop. That should be enough for a cheap pair of jeans and a T-shirt at the Salvation Army store, if she could find one in Göteborg. She would have to spend what was left of the money on a call to Plague. Then everything would work out. She planned on landing in Gibraltar a few days after she escaped, and from there she would create a new identity somewhere in the world.

Jonasson sat in the visitor’s chair. She sat on the edge of her bed.

“Hello, Lisbeth. I’m sorry I’ve not come to see you the past few days, but I’ve been up to my eyes in A.&E. and I’ve also been made a mentor for a couple of interns.”

She had not expected Jonasson to make special visits to see her.

He picked up her chart and studied her temperature graph and the record of medications. Her temperature was steady, between 37 and 37.2 degrees, and for the past week she had not taken any headache tablets.

“Dr Endrin is your doctor. Do you get along with her?”

“She’s alright,” Salander said without enthusiasm.

“Is it O.K. if I do an examination?”

She nodded. He took a pen torch out of his pocket and bent over to shine it into her eyes, to see how her pupils contracted and expanded. He asked her to open her mouth and examined her throat. Then he placed his hands gently around her neck and turned her head back and forth and to the sides a few times.

“You don’t have any pain in your neck?” he said.

She shook her head.

“How’s the headache?”

“I feel it now and then, but it passes.”

“The healing process is still going on. The headache will eventually go away altogether.”

Her hair was still so short that he hardly needed to push aside the tufts to feel the scar above her ear. It was healing, but there was still a small scab.

“You’ve been scratching the wound. You shouldn’t do that.”

She nodded. He took her left elbow and raised the arm.

“Can you lift it by yourself?”

She lifted her arm.

“Do you have any pain or discomfort in the shoulder?”

She shook her head.

“Does it feel tight?”

“A little.”

“I think you have to do a bit more physio on your shoulder muscles.”

“It’s hard when you’re locked up like this.”

He smiled at her. “That won’t last. Are you doing the exercises the therapist recommended?”

She nodded.

He pressed his stethoscope against his wrist for a moment to warm it. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and untied the strings of her nightshirt, listened to her heart and took her pulse. He asked her to lean forward and placed the stethoscope on her back to listen to her lungs.

“Cough.”

She coughed.

“O.K., you can do up your nightshirt and get into bed. From a medical standpoint, you’re just about recovered.”

She expected him to get up and say he would come back in a few days, but he stayed, sitting on the bed. He seemed to be thinking about something. Salander waited patiently.

“Do you know why I became a doctor?” he said.

She shook her head.

“I come from a working-class family. I always thought I wanted to be a doctor. I’d actually thought about becoming a psychiatrist when I was a teenager. I was terribly intellectual.”

Salander looked at him with sudden alertness as soon as he mentioned the word “psychiatrist”.

“But I wasn’t sure that I could handle the studies. So when I finished school I studied to be a welder and I even worked as one for several years. I thought it was a good idea to have something to fall back on if the medical studies didn’t work out. And being a welder wasn’t so different from being a doctor. It’s all about patching up things. And now I’m working here at Sahlgrenska and patching up people like you.”

She wondered if he were pulling her leg.

“Lisbeth… I’m wondering…”

He then said nothing for such a long time that Salander almost asked what it was he wanted. But she waited for him to speak.

“Would you be angry with me if I asked you a personal question? I want to ask you as a private individual, not as a doctor. I won’t make any record of your answer and I won’t discuss it with anyone else. And you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“What is it?”

“Since you were shut up at St Stefan’s when you were twelve, you’ve refused to respond when any psychiatrist has tried to talk to you. Why is that?”

Salander’s eyes darkened, but they were utterly expressionless as she looked at Jonasson. She sat in silence for two minutes.

“Why?” she said at last.

“To be honest, I’m not really sure. I think I’m trying to understand something.”

Her lips curled a little. “I don’t talk to crazy-doctors because they never listen to what I have to say.”

Jonasson laughed. “O.K. Tell me… what do you think of Peter Teleborian?”

Jonasson threw out the name so unexpectedly that Salander almost jumped. Her eyes narrowed.

“What the hell is this, ‘Twenty Questions’? What are you after?” Her voice sounded like sandpaper.

Jonasson leaned forward, almost too close.

“Because a… what did you call it… a crazy-doctor by the name of Peter Teleborian, who’s somewhat renowned in my profession, has been to see me twice in the past few days, trying to convince me to let him examine you.”

Salander felt an icy chill run down her spine.

“The district court is going to appoint him to do a forensic psychiatric assessment of you.”

“And?”

“I don’t like the man. I’ve told him he can’t see you. Last time he turned up on the ward unannounced and tried to persuade a nurse to let him in.”

Salander pressed her lips tight.

“His behaviour was a bit odd and a little too eager. So I want to know what you think of him.”

This time it was Jonasson’s turn to wait patiently for Salander’s reply.

“Teleborian is a beast,” she said at last.

“Is it something personal between the two of you?”

“You could say that.”

“I’ve also had a conversation with an official who wants me to let Teleborian see you.”

“And?”

“I asked what sort of medical expertise he thought he had to assess your condition and then I told him to go to hell. More diplomatically than that, of course. And one last question. Why are you talking to me?”

“You asked me a question, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m a doctor and I’ve studied psychiatry. So why are you talking to me? Should I take it to mean that you have a certain amount of trust in me?”

She did not reply.

“Then I’ll choose to interpret it that way. I want you to know this: you are my patient. That means that I work for you and not for anyone else.”

She gave him a suspicious look. He looked back at her for a moment. Then he spoke in a lighter tone of voice.

“From a medical standpoint, as I said, you’re more or less healthy. You don’t need any more weeks of rehab. But unfortunately you’re a bit too healthy.”

“Why ‘unfortunately’?”

He gave her a cheerful smile. “You’re getting better too fast.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that I have no legitimate reason to keep you isolated here. And the prosecutor will soon be having you transferred to a prison in Stockholm to await trial in six weeks. I’m guessing that such a request will arrive next week. And that means that Teleborian will be given the chance to observe you.”

She sat utterly still. Jonasson seemed distracted and bent over to arrange her pillow. He spoke as if thinking out loud.

“You don’t have much of a headache or any fever, so Dr Endrin is probably going to discharge you.” He stood up suddenly. “Thanks for talking to me. I’ll come back and see you before you’re transferred.”

He was already at the door when she spoke.

“Dr Jonasson?”

He turned towards her.

“Thank you.”

He nodded curtly once before he went out and locked the door.

Salander stared for a long time at the locked door. And then she lay back and stared up at the ceiling.

That was when she felt that there was something hard beneath her head. She lifted the pillow and saw to her surprise a small cloth bag that had definitely not been there before. She opened it and stared in amazement at a Palm Tungsten T3 hand-held computer and battery charger. Then she looked more closely at the computer and saw the little scratch on the top left corner. Her heart skipped a beat. It’s my Palm. But how… In amazement she glanced over at the locked door. Jonasson was a catalogue of surprises. In great excitement she turned on the computer at once and discovered that it was password-protected.

She stared in frustration at the blinking screen. It seemed to be challenging her. How the hell did they think I would… Then she looked in the cloth bag and found at the bottom a scrap of folded paper. She unfolded it and read a line written in an elegant script:

You’re the hacker, work it out! / Kalle B.

Salander laughed aloud for the first time in weeks. Touché. She thought for a few seconds. Then she picked up the stylus and wrote the number combination 9277, which corresponded to the letters W-A-S-P on the keyboard. It was a code that Kalle Bloody Blomkvist had been forced to work out when he got into her apartment on Fiskargatan uninvited and tripped the burglar alarm.

It did not work.

She tried 52553, which corresponded to the letters K-A-L–L-E.

That did not work either. Since Blomkvist presumably intended that she should use the computer, he must have chosen a simple password. He had used the signature Kalle, which normally he hated. She free-associated. She thought for a moment. It must be some insult. Then she typed in 74774, which corresponded to the word P-I-P-P-I – Pippi Bloody Longstocking.

The computer started up.

There was a smiley face on the screen with a cartoon speech balloon:

She found the document [Hi Sally] at the top of the list. She clicked on it and read:

Salander read his letter twice, staring in bewilderment at the Palm. After a period of computer celibacy, she was suffering from massive cyber-abstinence. And she wondered which big toe Blomkvist had been thinking with when he smuggled her a computer but forgot that she needed a mobile to connect to the Net.

She was still thinking when she heard footsteps in the corridor. She turned the computer off at once and shoved it under her pillow. As she heard the key in the door she realized that the cloth bag and charger were still in view on the bedside table. She reached out and slid the bag under the covers and pressed the coil of cord into her crotch. She lay passively looking up at the ceiling when the night nurse came in, said a polite hello, and asked how she was doing and whether she needed anything.

Salander told her that she was doing fine and that she wanted a pack of cigarettes. This request was turned down in a firm but friendly tone. She was given a pack of nicotine gum. As the nurse was closing the door Salander glimpsed the guard on his chair out in the corridor. She waited until she heard the nurse’s steps receding before she once again picked up her Palm.

She turned it on and searched for connectivity.

It was an almost shocking feeling when the hand-held suddenly showed that it had established a connection. Contact with the Net. Inconceivable.

She jumped out of bed so fast that she felt a pain in her injured hip. She looked around the room. How? She walked all the way round, examining every nook and cranny. No, there was no mobile in the room. And yet she had connectivity. Then a crooked grin spread across her face. The connection was radio-controlled and locked into a mobile via Bluetooth, which had a range of ten to twelve metres. Her eyes lit upon an air vent just below the ceiling.

Kalle Bloody Blomkvist had somehow planted a mobile just outside her room. That could be the only explanation.

But why not smuggle in the mobile too? Ah, of course. The batteries.

Her Palm had to be recharged only once every three days. A mobile that was connected, if she surfed it hard, would burn out its batteries in much less time. Blomkvist – or more likely somebody he had hired and who was out there – would have to change the batteries at regular intervals.

But he had sent in the charger for her Palm. He isn’t so stupid after all.

Salander began by deciding where to keep the hand-held. She had to find a hiding place. There were plug sockets by the door and in the panel behind the bed, which provided electricity for her bedside lamp and digital clock. There was a recess where a radio had been removed. She smiled. Both the battery charger and the Palm could fit in there. She could use the socket inside the bedside table to charge up the Palm during the day.

Salander was happy. Her heart was pounding hard when she started up the hand-held for the first time in two months and ventured on to the Internet.

Surfing on a Palm hand-held with a tiny screen and a stylus was not the same thing as surfing on a PowerBook with a 17” screen. But she was connected. From her bed at Sahlgrenska she could now reach the entire world.

She started by going on to a website that advertised rather uninteresting pictures by an unknown and not especially skilled amateur photographer called Gil Bates in Jobsville, Pennsylvania. Salander had once checked it out and confirmed that the town of Jobsville did not exist. Nevertheless, Bates had taken more than 200 photographs of the community and created a gallery of small thumbnails. She scrolled down to image 167 and clicked to enlarge it. It showed the church in Jobsville. She put her cursor on the spire of the church tower and clicked. She instantly got a pop-up dialog box that asked for her I.D. and password. She took out her stylus and wrote the word Remarkable on the screen as her I.D. and A(89)Cx#magnolia as the password.

She got a dialog box with the text [ERROR – you have the wrong password] and a button that said [OK – Try again]. Lisbeth knew that if she clicked on [OK – Try again] and tried a different password, she would get the same dialog box again – for years and years, for as long as she kept trying. Instead she clicked on the [O] in [ERROR].

The screen went blank. Then an animated door opened and a Lara Croft-like figure stepped out. A speech bubble materialized with the text [WHO GOES THERE?].

She clicked on the bubble and wrote Wasp. She got the instant reply [PROVE IT – OR ELSE…] as the animated Lara Croft unlocked the safety catch on her gun. Salander knew it was no empty threat. If she wrote the wrong password three times in a row the site would shut down and the name Wasp would be struck from the membership list. Carefully she wrote the password MonkeyBusiness.

The screen changed again and now had a blue background with the text:

She clicked on [(d) Talk] and then went to the menu selection [Who’s online?] and got a list with the names Andy, Bambi, Dakota, Jabba, BuckRogers, Mandrake, Pred, Slip, SisterJen, SixOfOne, and Trinity.

Salander was not sure, but she suspected that Dakota was a woman. The other citizens online, including the one who called himself SisterJen, were guys. Hacker Republic had a total (the last time she was connected) of sixty-two citizens, of whom four were female.

He got abuse from five directions at once.

Of the sixty-two citizens, Wasp had met two face to face. Plague, who for some strange reason was not online, was one. Trinity was the other. He was English and lived in London. Two years earlier she had met him for a few hours when he helped her and Blomkvist in the hunt for Harriet Vanger by doing an illegal tapping of a landline in St Albans. Salander fumbled with the clumsy stylus and wished she had a keyboard.

She punched letters.

Salander summed up her situation in five lines, which were greeted by a worried muttering.

The citizens of Hacker Republic did not generally spread computer viruses. On the contrary – they were hackers and consequently implacable adversaries of those idiots who created viruses whose sole purpose was to sabotage the Net and crash computers. The citizens were information junkies and wanted a functioning Internet that they could hack.

But their proposal to shut down the Swedish government was not an idle threat. Hacker Republic comprised a very exclusive club of the best of the best, an elite force that any defence organization in the world would have paid enormous sums to use for cyber-military purposes, if the citizens could be persuaded to feel any kind of loyalty to any state. Which was not very likely.

But they were every one of them computer wizards, and they were well versed in the art of contriving viruses. Nor did they need much convincing to carry out particular campaigns if the situation warranted. Some years earlier a citizen of Hacker Republic, who in their private life was a software developer in California, had been cheated out of a patent by a hot dot.com company that had the nerve to take the citizen to court. This caused the activists in Hacker Republic to devote a startling amount of energy for six months to hacking and destroying every computer owned by that company. All the company’s secrets and emails – along with some fake documents that might lead people to think that its C.E.O. was involved in tax fraud – were gleefully posted on the Net, along with information about the C.E.O.’s now not-so-secret mistress and pictures from a party in Hollywood in which he could be seen snorting cocaine.

The company went under in six months, and several years later some members of the “people’s militia” in Hacker Republic, who did not easily forget an enemy, were still haunting the former C.E.O.

If fifty of the world’s foremost hackers decided to launch a coordinated attack against an entire country, the country might survive, but not without having serious problems. The costs would certainly run into the billions if Salander gave it the thumbs-up. She thought for a moment.

Salander leaned back against the pillow and followed the conversation with a smile. She wondered why she, who had such difficulty talking about herself with people of flesh and blood, could blithely reveal her most intimate secrets to a bunch of completely unknown freaks on the Internet. The fact was that if Salander could claim to have any sort of family or group affiliation, then it was with these lunatics. None of them actually had a hope of helping her with the problems she had with the Swedish state. But she knew that, if the need arose, they would devote both time and cunning to performing effective demonstrations of their powers. Through this network she could also find herself hideouts abroad. It had been Plague’s contacts on the Net who had provided her with a Norwegian passport in the name of Irene Nesser.

Salander had no idea who the citizens of Hacker Republic were, and she had only a vague notion of what they did when they were not on the Net – the citizens were uniformly vague about their identities. SixOfOne had once claimed that he was a black, male American of Catholic origin living in Toronto. He could just as easily be white, female and Lutheran, and living in Skövde.

The one she knew best was Plague – he had introduced her to the family, and nobody became a member of this exclusive club without very strong recommendations. And for anyone to become a member they had also to be known personally to one other citizen.

On the Net, Plague was an intelligent and socially gifted citizen. In real life he was a severely overweight and socially challenged thirty-year-old living on disability benefit in Sundbyberg. He bathed too seldom and his apartment smelled like a monkey house. Salander visited him only once in a blue moon. She was content to confine her dealings with him to the Net.

As the chat continued, Wasp downloaded mail that had been sent to her private mailbox at Hacker Republic. One was from another member, Poison, and contained an improved version of her program Asphyxia 1.3, which was available in the Republic’s archive for its citizens. Asphyxia was a program that could control other people’s computers via the Internet. Poison said that he had used it successfully, and that his updated version included the latest versions of Unix, Apple and Windows. She emailed him a brief reply and thanked him for the upgrade.

During the next hour, as evening approached in the United States, another half-dozen citizens had come online and welcomed back Wasp before joining the debate. When Salander logged off, the others were discussing to what extent the Swedish Prime Minister’s computer could be made to send civil but crazy emails to other heads of state. A working group had been formed to explore the matter. Salander logged off by writing a brief message:

Everyone sent her hugs and kisses and admonished her to keep the hole in her head warm.

Only when Salander had logged out of Hacker Republic did she go into Yahoo and log on to the private newsgroup [Idiotic_Table]. She discovered that the group had two members – herself and Blomkvist. The mailbox had one message, sent on May 15. It was entitled [Read this first].

Salander thought for a moment. Don’t think so. A half-empty thermos of coffee, some apples, a change of clothes. No problem.

Salander had already discussed all of this with Giannini. That was nothing new. She had told Giannini everything that had happened in Gosseberga, but she had refrained from telling her anything about Bjurman.

All of this she had already worked out for herself. The problem was that she did not know what she should do.

She opened the archive in [Idiotic_Table]. It contained twenty-six documents.

CHAPTER 14

Figuerola got up at 5.00 on Wednesday morning and went for an unusually short run before she showered and dressed in black jeans, a white top, and a lightweight grey linen jacket. She made coffee and poured it into a thermos and then made sandwiches. She also strapped on a shoulder holster and took her Sig Sauer from the gun cabinet. Just after 6.00 she drove her white Saab 9–5 to Vittangigatan in Vällingby.

Mårtensson’s apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building in the suburbs. The day before, she had assembled everything that could be found out about him in the public archives. He was unmarried, but that did not mean that he might not be living with someone. He had no black marks in police records, no great fortune, and did not seem to lead a fast life. He very seldom called in sick.

The one conspicuous thing about him was that he had licences for no fewer than sixteen weapons. Three of them were hunting rifles, the others were handguns of various types. As long as he had a licence, of course, there was no crime, but Figuerola harboured a deep scepticism about anyone who collected weapons on such a scale.

The Volvo with the registration beginning KAB was in the car park about thirty metres from where Figuerola herself parked. She poured black coffee into a paper cup and ate a lettuce and cheese baguette. Then she peeled an orange and sucked each segment to extinction.

At morning rounds, Salander was out of sorts and had a bad headache. She asked for a Tylenol, which she was immediately given.

After an hour the headache had grown worse. She rang for the nurse and asked for another Tylenol. That did not help either. By lunchtime she had such a headache that the nurse called Dr Endrin, who examined her patient briskly and prescribed a powerful painkiller.

Salander held the tablets under her tongue and spat them out as soon as she was alone.

At 2.00 in the afternoon she threw up. This recurred at around 3.00.

At 4.00 Jonasson came up to the ward just as Dr Endrin was about to go home. They conferred briefly.

“She feels sick and she has a strong headache. I gave her Dexofen. I don’t understand what’s going on with her. She’s been doing so well lately. It might be some sort of flu…”

“Does she have a fever?” asked Jonasson.

“No. She had 37.2 an hour ago.”

“I’m going to keep an eye on her overnight.”

“I’ll be going on holiday for three weeks,” Endrin said. “Either you or Svantesson will have to take over her case. But Svantesson hasn’t had much to do with her…”

“I’ll arrange to be her primary care doctor while you’re on holiday.”

“Good. If there’s a crisis and you need help, do call.”

They paid a short visit to Salander’s sickbed. She was lying with the sheet pulled up to the tip of her nose, and she looked miserable. Jonasson put his hand on her forehead and felt that it was damp.

“I think we’ll have to do a quick examination.”

He thanked Dr Endrin, and she left.

At 5.00 Jonasson discovered that Salander had developed a temperature of 37.8, which was noted on her chart. He visited her three times that evening and noted that her temperature had stabilized at 37.8 – too high, certainly, but not so high as to present a real problem. At 8.00 he ordered a cranial X-ray.

When the X-rays came through he studied them intently. He could not see anything remarkable, but he did observe that there was a barely visible darker area immediately adjacent to the bullet hole. He wrote a carefully worded and noncommittal comment on her chart: Radiological examination gives a basis for definitive conclusions but the condition of the patient has deteriorated steadily during the day. It cannot be ruled out that there is a minor bleed that is not visible on the images. The patient should be confined to bedrest and kept under strict observation until further notice.

Berger had received twenty-three emails by the time she arrived at S.M.P. at 6.30 on Wednesday morning.

One of them had the address editorial-sr@swedishradio.com›. The text was short. A single word.

She raised her index finger to delete the message. At the last moment she changed her mind. She went back to her inbox and opened the message that had arrived two days before. The sender was centraled@smpost.se›. So… two emails with the word “whore” and a phoney sender from the world of mass media. She created a new folder called [MediaFool] and saved both messages. Then she got busy on the morning memo.

Mårtensson left home at 7.40 that morning. He got into his Volvo and drove towards the city but turned off to go across Stora Essingen and Gröndal into Södermalm. He drove down Hornsgatan and across to Bellmansgatan via Brännkyrkagatan. He turned left on to Tavastgatan at the Bishop’s Arms pub and parked at the corner.

Just as Figuerola reached the Bishop’s Arms, a van pulled out and left a parking space on Bellmansgatan at the corner with Tavastgatan. From her ideal location at the top of the hill she had an unobstructed view. She could just see the back window of Mårtensson’s Volvo. Straight ahead of her, on the steep slope down towards Pryssgränd, was Bellmansgatan 1. She was looking at the building from the side, so she could not see the front door itself, but as soon as anyone came out on to the street, she would see them. She had no doubt that this particular address was the reason for Mårtensson’s being there. It was Blomkvist’s front door.

Figuerola could see that the area surrounding Bellmansgatan 1 would be a nightmare to keep under surveillance. The only spot from which the entrance door to the building could be observed directly was from the promenade and footbridge on upper Bellmansgatan near the Maria lift and the Laurinska building. There was nowhere there to park a car, and the watcher would stand exposed on the footbridge like a swallow perched on an old telephone wire in the country. The crossroads of Bellmansgatan and Tavastgatan, where Figuerola had parked, was basically the only place where she could sit in her car and have a view of the whole. She had been incredibly lucky. Yet it was not a particularly good place because any alert observer would see her in her car. But she did not want to leave the car and start walking around the area. She was too easily noticeable. In her role as undercover officer her looks worked against her.

Blomkvist emerged at 9.10. Figuerola noted the time. She saw him look up at the footbridge on upper Bellmansgatan. He started up the hill straight towards her.

She opened her handbag and unfolded a map of Stockholm which she placed on the passenger seat. Then she opened a notebook and took a pen from her jacket pocket. She pulled out her mobile and pretended to be talking, keeping her head bent so that the hand holding her telephone hid part of her face.

She saw Blomkvist glance down Tavastgatan. He knew he was being watched and he must have seen Mårtensson’s Volvo, but he kept walking without showing any interest in the car. Acts calm and cool. Somebody should have opened the car door and scared the shit out of him.

The next moment he passed Figuerola’s car. She was obviously trying to find an address on the map while she talked on the telephone, but she could sense Blomkvist looking at her as he passed. Suspicious of everything around him. She saw him in the wing mirror on the passenger side as he went on down towards Hornsgatan. She had seen him on T.V. a couple of times, but this was the first time she had seen him in person. He was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt and a grey jacket. He carried a shoulder bag and he walked with a long, loose stride. A nice-looking man.

Mårtensson appeared at the corner by the Bishop’s Arms and watched Blomkvist go. He had a large sports bag over his shoulder and was just finishing a call on his mobile. Figuerola expected him to follow his quarry, but to her surprise he crossed the street right in front of her car and turned down the hill towards Blomkvist’s building. A second later a man in blue overalls passed her car and caught up with Mårtensson. Hello, where did you spring from?

They stopped outside the door to Blomkvist’s building. Mårtensson punched in the code and they disappeared into the stairwell. They’re checking the apartment. Amateur night. What the hell does he think he’s doing?

Then Figuerola raised her eyes to the rear-view mirror and gave a start when she saw Blomkvist again. He was standing about ten metres behind her, close enough that he could keep an eye on Mårtensson and his buddy by looking over the crest of the steep hill down towards Bellmansgatan 1. She watched his face. He was not looking at her. But he had seen Mårtensson go in through the front door of his building. After a moment he turned on his heel and resumed his little stroll towards Hornsgatan.

Figuerola sat motionless for thirty seconds. He knows he’s being watched. He’s keeping track of what goes on around him. But why doesn’t he react? A normal person would react, and pretty strongly at that… He must have something up his sleeve.

Blomkvist hung up and rested his gaze on the notebook on his desk. The national vehicle register had just informed him that the car he had seen at the top of Bellmansgatan with the blonde woman inside was owned by Monica Figuerola, born in 1969, and living on Pontonjärgatan in Kungsholmen. Since it was a woman in the car, Blomkvist assumed it was Figuerola herself.

She had been talking on her mobile and looking at a map that was unfolded on the passenger seat. Blomkvist had no reason to believe that she had anything to do with the Zalachenko club, but he made a note of every deviation from the norm in his working day, and especially around his neighbourhood.

He called Karim in.

“Who is this woman, Lottie? Dig up her passport picture, where she works… and anything else you can find.”

Sellberg looked rather startled. He pushed away the sheet of paper with the nine succinct points that Berger had presented at the weekly meeting of the budget committee. Flodin looked similarly concerned. Chairman Borgsjö appeared neutral, as always.

“This is impossible,” Sellberg said with a polite smile.

“Why so?” Berger said.

“The board will never go along with this. It defies all rhyme or reason.”

“Shall we take it from the top?” Berger said. “I was hired to make S.M.P. profitable again. To do that I have to have something to work with, don’t you think?”

“Well, yes, but –”

“I can’t wave a magic wand and conjure up the contents of a daily newspaper by sitting in my glass cage and just wishing for things.”

“You don’t quite understand the hard economic facts.”

“That’s quite possible. But I understand making newspapers. And the reality is that over the past fifteen years, S.M.P.’s personnel has been reduced by 118. Half were graphic artists and so on, replaced by new technology… but the number of reporters contributing to copy was reduced by 48 during that period.”

“Those were necessary cuts. If the staff hadn’t been cut, the paper would have folded long since. At least Morander understood the necessity of the reductions.”

“Well, let’s wait and see what’s necessary and what isn’t. In three years, nineteen reporter jobs have disappeared. In addition, we now have a situation in which nine positions at S.M.P. are vacant and are being to some extent covered by temps. The sports desk is dangerously understaffed. There should be nine employees there, and for more than a year two positions have remained unfilled.”

“It’s a question of saving money we’re not going to have. It’s that simple.”

“The culture section has three unfilled positions. The business section has one. The legal desk does not even in practice exist… there we have a chief editor who borrows reporters from the news desk for each of his features. And so on. S.M.P. hasn’t done any serious coverage of the civil service and government agencies for at least eight years. We depend for that on freelancers and the material from the T.T. wire service. And as you know, T.T. shut down its civil service desk some years ago. In other words, there isn’t a single news desk in Sweden covering the civil service and the government agencies.”

“The newspaper business is in a vulnerable position –”

“The reality is that S.M.P. should either be shut down immediately, or the board should find a way to take an aggressive stance. Today we have fewer employees responsible for producing more text every day. The articles they turn out are terrible, superficial, and they lack credibility. That’s why S.M.P. is losing its readers.”

“You don’t understand the situation –”

“I’m tired of hearing that I don’t understand the situation. I’m not some temp. who’s just here for the bus fare.”

“But your proposal is off the wall.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re proposing that the newspaper should not be profitable.”

“Listen, Sellberg, this year you will be paying out a huge amount of money in dividends to the paper’s twenty-three shareholders. Add to this the unforgivably absurd bonuses that will cost S.M.P. almost ten million kronor for nine individuals who sit on S.M.P.’s board.

You’ve awarded yourself a bonus of 400,000 kronor for administering cutbacks. Of course it’s a long way from being a bonus as huge as the ones that some of the directors of Skandia grabbed. But in my eyes you’re not worth a bonus of so much as one single öre. Bonuses should be paid to people who do something to strengthen S.M.P. The plain truth is that your cutbacks have weakened S.M.P. and deepened the crisis we now find ourselves in.”

“That is grossly unfair. The board approved every measure I proposed.”

“The board approved your measures, of course they did, because you guaranteed a dividend each year. That’s what has to stop, and now.”

“So you’re suggesting in all seriousness that the board should decide to abolish dividends and bonuses. What makes you think the shareholders would agree to that?”

“I’m proposing a zero-profit operating budget this year. That would mean savings of almost 21 million kronor and the chance to beef up S.M.P.’s staff and finances. I’m also proposing wage cuts for management. I’m being paid a monthly salary of 88,000 kronor, which is utter insanity for a newspaper that can’t add a job to its sports desk.”

“So you want to cut your own salary? Is this some sort of wage-communism you’re advocating?”

“Don’t bullshit me. You make 112,000 kronor a month, if you add in your annual bonus. That’s off the wall. If the newspaper were stable and bringing in a tremendous profit, then pay out as much as you want in bonuses. But this is no time for you to be increasing your own bonus. I propose cutting all management salaries by half.”

“What you don’t understand is that our shareholders bought stock in the paper because they want to make money. That’s called capitalism. If you arrange that they’re going to lose money, then they won’t want to be shareholders any longer.”

“I’m not suggesting that they should lose money, though it might come to that. Ownership implies responsibility. As you yourself have pointed out, capitalism is what matters here. S.M.P.’s owners want to make a profit. But it’s the market decides whether you make a profit or take a loss. By your reasoning, you want the rules of capitalism to apply solely to the employees of S.M.P., while you and the shareholders will be exempt.”

Sellberg rolled his eyes and sighed. He cast an entreating glance at Borgsjö, but the chairman of the board was intently studying Berger’s nine-point program.

Figuerola waited for forty-nine minutes before Mårtensson and his companion in overalls came out of Bellmansgatan 1. As they started up the hill towards her, she very steadily raised her Nikon with its 300mm telephoto lens and took two pictures. She put the camera in the space under her seat and was just about to fiddle with her map when she happened to glance towards the Maria lift. Her eyes opened wide. At the end of upper Bellmansgatan, right next to the gate to the Maria lift, stood a dark-haired woman with a digital camera filming Mårtensson and his companion. What the hell? Is there some sort of spy convention on Bellmansgatan today?

The two men parted at the top of the hill without exchanging a word. Mårtensson went back to his car on Tavastgatan. He pulled away from the curb and disappeared from view.

Figuerola looked into her rear-view mirror, where she could still see the back of the man in the blue overalls. She then saw that the woman with the camera had stopped filming and was heading past the Laurinska building in her direction.

Heads or tails? She already knew who Mårtensson was and what he was up to. The man in the blue overalls and the woman with the camera were unknown entities. But if she left her car, she risked being seen by the woman.

She sat still. In her rear-view mirror she saw the man in the blue overalls turn into Brännkyrkagatan. She waited until the woman reached the crossing in front of her, but instead of following the man in the overalls, the woman turned 180 degrees and went down the steep hill towards Bellmansgatan 1. Figuerola reckoned that she was in her mid-thirties. She had short dark hair and was dressed in dark jeans and a black jacket. As soon as she was a little way down the hill, Figuerola pushed open her car door and ran towards Brännkyrkagatan. She could not see the blue overalls. The next second a Toyota van pulled away from the kerb. Figuerola saw the man in half-profile and memorized the registration number. But if she got the registration wrong she would be able to trace him anyway. The sides of the van advertised Lars Faulsson Lock and Key Service – with a telephone number.

There was no need to follow the van. She walked calmly back to the top of the hill just in time to see the woman disappear through the entrance door of Blomkvist’s building.

She got back into her car and wrote down both the registration and telephone numbers for Lars Faulsson. There was a lot of mysterious traffic around Blomkvist’s address that morning. She looked up towards the roof of Bellmansgatan 1. She knew that Blomkvist’s apartment was on the top floor, but on the blueprints from the city construction office she knew that it was on the other side of the building, with dormer windows looking out on Gamla Stan and the waters of Riddarfjärden. An exclusive address in a fine old cultural quarter. She wondered whether he was an ostentatious nouveau riche.

Ten minutes later the woman with the camera came out of the building again. Instead of going back up the hill to Tavastgatan, she continued down the hill and turned right at the corner of Pryssgränd. Hmm. If she had a car parked down on Pryssgränd, Figuerola was out of luck. But if she was walking, there was only one way out of the dead end – up to Brännkyrkagatan via Pustegränd and towards Slussen.

Figuerola decided to leave her car behind and turned left in the direction of Slussen on Brännkyrkagatan. She had almost reached Pustegränd when the woman appeared, coming up towards her. Bingo. She followed her past the Hilton on Södermalmstorg and past the Stadsmuseum at Slussen. The woman walked quickly and purposefully without once looking round. Figuerola gave her a lead of about thirty metres. When she went into Slussen tunnelbana Figuerola picked up her pace, but stopped when she saw the woman head for the Pressbyrån kiosk instead of through the turnstiles.

She watched the woman as she stood in the queue at the kiosk. She was about one metre seventy and looked to be in pretty good shape. She was wearing running shoes. Seeing her with both feet planted firmly as she stood by the window of the kiosk, Figuerola suddenly had the feeling that she was a policewoman. She bought a tin of Catch Dry snuff and went back out on to Södermalmstorg and turned right across Katarinavägen.

Figuerola followed her. She was almost certain the woman had not seen her. The woman turned the corner at McDonald’s and Figuerola hurried after her, but when she got to the corner, the woman had vanished without a trace. Figuerola stopped short in consternation. Shit. She walked slowly past the entrances to the buildings. Then she caught sight of a brass plate that read Milton Security.

Figuerola walked back to Bellmansgatan.

She drove to Götgatan where the offices of Millennium were and spent the next half hour walking around the streets in the area. She did not see Mårtensson’s car. At lunchtime she returned to police headquarters in Kungsholmen and spent two hours thinking as she pumped iron in the gym.

“We’ve got a problem,” Cortez said.

Eriksson and Blomkvist looked up from the typescript of the book about the Zalachenko case. It was 1.30 in the afternoon.

“Take a seat,” Eriksson said.

“It’s about Vitavara Inc., the company that makes the 1700 kronor toilets in Vietnam.”

“Alright. What’s the problem?” Blomkvist said.

“Vitavara Inc. is a wholly owned subsidiary of Svea Construction Inc.”

“I see. That’s a very large firm.”

“Yes, it is. The chairman of the board is Magnus Borgsjö, a professional board member. He’s also the chairman of the board of Svenska Morgon-Posten and owns about 10 per cent of it.”

Blomkvist gave Cortez a sharp look. “Are you sure?”

“Yep. Berger’s boss is a bloody crook, a man who exploits child labour in Vietnam.”

Assistant Editor Fredriksson looked to be in a bad mood as he knocked on the door of Berger’s glass cage at 2.00 in the afternoon.

“What is it?”

“Well, this is a little embarrassing, but somebody in the newsroom got an email from you.”

“From me? So? What does it say?

He handed her some printouts of emails addressed to Eva Carlsson, a 26-year-old temp on the culture pages. According to the headers the sender was erika.berger@smpost.se›:

And then two emails on the following days:

“Alright,” Berger said. “And now she’s wondering if it was me that wrote to her, is that it?”

“Not exactly… I mean… geez.”

“Peter, please speak up.”

“She sort of halfway believed the first email although she was quite surprised by it. But then she realized that this isn’t exactly your style and then…”

“Then?”

“Well, she thinks it’s embarrassing and doesn’t quite know what to do. Part of it is probably that she’s very impressed by you and likes you a lot… as a boss, I mean. So she came to me and asked for my advice.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I said that someone had faked your address and is obviously harassing her. Or possibly both of you. And I said I’d talk to you about it.”

“Thank you. Could you please ask her to come to my office in ten minutes?”

In the meantime Berger composed her own email.

She printed a copy of the email and then pressed send so that the message went out to all employees in the company. At that moment, Eva Carlsson knocked on the door.

“Hello, have a seat,” Berger said. “Peter told me that you got an email from me.”

“Well, I didn’t really think it came from you.”

“Thirty seconds ago you did get an email from me. I wrote it all by myself and sent it to everyone in the company.”

She handed Carlsson the printout.

“O.K. I get it,” the girl said.

“I’m really sorry that somebody decided to target you for this ugly campaign.”

“You don’t have to apologize for the actions of some idiot.”

“I just want to make sure that you don’t have one lingering grain of a suspicion that I had anything to do with these emails.”

“I never believed you sent them.”

“Thanks,” Berger said with a smile.

Figuerola spent the afternoon gathering information. She started by ordering passport photographs of Faulsson. Then she ran a check in the criminal records and got a hit at once.

Lars Faulsson, forty-seven years old and known by the nickname Falun, had begun his criminal career stealing cars at seventeen. In the ’70s and ’80s he was twice arrested and charged with breaking and entering, burglary and receiving stolen goods. The first time he was given a light prison sentence; the second time he got three years. At that time he was regarded as “up and coming” in criminal circles and had been questioned as a suspect in three other burglaries, one of which was a relatively complicated and widely reported safecracking heist at a department store in Västerås. When he got out of prison in 1984 he kept his nose clean – or at least he did not pull any jobs that got him arrested and convicted again. But he had retrained himself to be a locksmith (of all professions), and in 1987 he started his own company, the Lock and Key Service, with an address near Norrtull in Stockholm.

Identifying the woman who had filmed Mårtensson and Faulsson proved to be easier than she had anticipated. She simply called Milton Security and explained that she was looking for a female employee she had met a while ago and whose name she had forgotten. She could give a good description of the woman. The switchboard told her that it sounded like Susanne Linder, and put her through. When Linder answered the telephone, Figuerola apologized and said she must have dialled the wrong number.

The public register listed eighteen Susanne Linders in Stockholm county, three of them around thirty-five years old. One lived in Norrtälje, one in Stockholm, and one in Nacka. She requisitioned their passport photographs and identified at once the woman she had followed from Bellmansgatan as the Susanne Linder who lived in Nacka.

She set out her day’s work in a memo and went in to see Edklinth.

Blomkvist closed Cortez’s research folder and pushed it away with distaste. Malm put down the printout of his article, which he had read four times. Cortez sat on the sofa in Eriksson’s office looking guilty.

“Coffee,” Eriksson said, getting up. She came back with four mugs and the coffee pot.

“This is a great sleazy story,” Blomkvist said. “First-class research. Documentation to the hilt. Perfect dramaturgy with a bad guy who swindles Swedish tenants through the system – which is legal – but who is so greedy and so bloody stupid that he outsources to this company in Vietnam.”

“Very well written too,” Malm said. “The day after we publish this, Borgsjö is going to be persona non grata. T.V. is going to pick this up. He’s going to be right up there with the directors of Skandia. A genuine scoop for Millennium. Well done, Henry.”

“But this thing with Erika is a real fly in the ointment,” Blomkvist said.

“Why should that be a problem?” Eriksson said. “Erika isn’t the villain. We have to be free to examine any chairman of the board, even if he happens to be her boss.”

“It’s a hell of a dilemma,” Blomkvist said.

“Erika hasn’t altogether left here,” Malm said. “She owns 30 per cent of Millennium and sits on our board. In fact, she’s chairman of the board until we can elect Harriet Vanger at the next board meeting, and that won’t be until August. Plus Erika is working at S.M.P., where she also sits on the board, and you’re about to expose her chairman.”

Glum silence.

“So what the hell are we going to do?” Cortez said. “Do we kill the article?”

Blomkvist looked Cortez straight in the eye. “No, Henry. We’re not going to kill the article. That’s not the way we do things at Millennium.

But this is going to take some legwork. We can’t just dump it on Erika’s desk as a newspaper billboard.”

Malm waved a finger in the air. “We’re really putting Erika on the spot. She’ll have to choose between selling her share of Millennium and leaving our board… or in the worst case, she could get fired by S.M.P. Either way she would have a fearful conflict of interest. Honestly, Henry… I agree with Mikael that we should publish the story, but we may have to postpone it for a month.”

“Because we’re facing a conflict of loyalties too,” Blomkvist said.

“Should I call her?”

“No, Christer,” Blomkvist said. “I’ll call her and arrange to meet. Say for tonight.”

Figuerola gave a summary of the circus that had sprung up around Blomkvist’s building on Bellmansgatan. Edklinth felt the floor sway slightly beneath his chair.

“An employee of S.I.S. goes into Blomkvist’s building with an ex-safebreaker, now retrained as a locksmith.”

“Correct.”

“What do you think they did in the stairwell?”

“I don’t know. But they were in there for forty-nine minutes. My guess is that Faulsson opened the door and Mårtensson spent the time in Blomkvist’s apartment.”

“And what did they do there?”

“It couldn’t have been to plant bugs, because that takes only a minute or so. Mårtensson must have been looking through Blomkvist’s papers or whatever else he keeps at his place.”

“But Blomkvist has already been warned… they stole Björck’s report from there.”

“Quite right. He knows he’s being watched, and he’s watching the ones who are watching him. He’s calculating.”

“Calculating what?”

“I mean, he has a plan. He’s gathering information and is going to expose Mårtensson. That’s the only reasonable explanation.”

“And then this Linder woman?”

“Susanne Linder, former police officer.”

“Police officer?”

“She graduated from the police academy and worked for six years on the Södermalm crime team. She resigned abruptly. There’s nothing in her file that says why. She was out of a job for several months before she was hired by Milton Security.”

“Armansky,” Edklinth said thoughtfully. “How long was she in the building?”

“Nine minutes.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m guessing – since she was filming Mårtensson and Faulsson on the street – that she’s documenting their activities. That means that Milton Security is working with Blomkvist and has placed surveillance cameras in his apartment or in the stairwell. She probably went in to collect the film.”

Edklinth sighed. The Zalachenko story was beginning to get tremendously complicated.

“Thank you. You go home. I have to think about this.”

Figuerola went to the gym at St Eriksplan.

Blomkvist used his second mobile when he punched in Berger’s number at S.M.P. He interrupted a discussion she was having with her editors about what angle to give an article on international terrorism.

“Oh, hello, it’s you… wait a second.”

Berger put her hand over the mouthpiece.

“I think we’re done,” she said, and gave them one last instruction. When she was alone she said: “Hello, Mikael. Sorry not to have been in touch. I’m just so swamped here. There are a thousand things I’ve got to learn. How’s the Salander stuff going?”

“Good. But that’s not why I called. I have to see you. Tonight.”

“I wish I could, but I have to be here until 8.00. And I’m dead tired. I’ve been at it since dawn. What’s it about?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. But it’s not good.”

“I’ll come to your place at 8.30.”

“No. Not at mine. It’s a long story, but my apartment is unsuitable for the time being. Let’s meet at Samir’s Cauldron for a beer.”

“I’m driving.”

“Then we’ll have a light beer.”

Berger was slightly annoyed when she walked into Samir’s Cauldron. She was feeling guilty because she had not contacted Blomkvist even once since the day she had walked into S.M.P.

Blomkvist waved from a corner table. She stopped in the doorway. For a second he seemed a stranger. Who’s that over there? God, I’m so tired. Then he stood and kissed her on the cheek, and she realized to her dismay that she had not even thought about him for several weeks and that she missed him terribly. It was as though her time at S.M.P. had been a dream and she might suddenly wake up on the sofa at Millennium. It felt unreal.

“Hello, Mikael.”

“Hello, editor-in-chief. Have you eaten?”

“It’s 8.30. I don’t have your disgusting eating habits.”

Samir came over with the menu and, she realised she was hungry. She ordered a beer and a small plate of calamari with Greek potatoes. Blomkvist ordered couscous and a beer.

“How are you?” she said.

“These are interesting times we’re living in. I’m swamped too.”

“And Salander?”

“She’s part of what makes it so interesting.”

“Micke, I’m not going to steal your story.”

“I’m not trying to evade your question. The truth is that right now everything is a little confused. I’d love to tell you the whole thing, but it would take half the night. How do you like being editor-in-chief?”

“It’s not exactly Millennium. I fall asleep like a blown-out candle as soon as I get home, and when I wake up, I see spreadsheets before my eyes. I’ve missed you. Can’t we go back to your place and sleep? I don’t have the energy for sex, but I’d love to curl up and sleep next to you.”

“I’m sorry, Ricky. The apartment isn’t a good place right now.”

“Why not? Has something happened?”

“Well, some spooks have bugged the place and they listen, presumably, to every word I say. I’ve had cameras installed to record what happens when I’m not home. I don’t think we should let the state archives have footage of your naked self.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. But that wasn’t why I had to see you tonight.”

“What is it? Tell me.”

“Well, I’ll be very direct. We’ve come across a story that will sink your chairman. It’s about using child labour and exploiting political prisoners in Vietnam. We’re looking at a conflict of interest.”

Berger put down her fork and stared at him. She saw at once that he was not being funny.

“This is how things stand,” he said. “Borgsjö is chairman and majority shareholder of a company called Svea Construction, which in turn is sole owner of a subsidiary called Vitavara Inc. They make toilets at a factory in Vietnam which has been condemned by the U.N. for using child labour.”

“Run that by me again.”

Blomkvist told her the details of the story that Cortez had compiled. He opened his laptop bag and took out a copy of the documentation. Berger read slowly through the article. Finally she looked up and met Blomkvist’s eyes. She felt unreasoning panic mixed with disbelief.

“Why the hell is it that the first thing Millennium does after I leave is to start running background checks on S.M.P.’s board members?”

“That’s not what happened, Ricky.” He explained how the story had developed.

“And how long have you known about this?”

“Since today, since this afternoon. I feel deeply uncomfortable about how this has unfolded.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. We have to publish. We can’t make an exception just because it deals with your boss. But not one of us wants to hurt you.” He threw up his hands. “We are all extremely unhappy about the situation. Henry especially.”

“I’m still a member of Millennium’s board. I’m a part-owner… it’s going to be viewed as –”

“I know exactly how it’s going to be viewed. You’re going to land in a shitload of trouble at S.M.P.”

Berger felt weariness settling over her. She clenched her teeth and stifled an impulse to ask Blomkvist to sit on the story.

“God damn it,” she said. “And there’s no doubt in your mind…”

Blomkvist shook his head. “I spent the whole afternoon going over Henry’s documentation. We have Borgsjö ready for the slaughter.”

“So what are you planning, and when?”

“What would you have done if we’d uncovered this story two months ago?”

Berger looked intently at her friend, who had also been her lover over the past twenty years. Then she lowered her eyes.

“You know what I would have done.”

“This is a disastrous coincidence. None of it is directed at you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. That’s why I insisted on seeing you at once. We have to decide what to do.”

“We?”

“Listen… the story was slated to run in the July issue. I’ve killed that idea. The earliest it could come out is August, and it can be postponed for longer if you need more time.”

“I understand.” Her voice took on a bitter tone.

“I suggest we don’t decide anything now. Take the documentation and go home and think it over. Don’t do anything until we can agree a strategy. We’ve got time.”

“A common strategy?”

“You either have to resign from Millennium’s board before we publish, or resign from S.M.P. You can’t wear both hats.”

She nodded. “I’m so linked to Millennium that no-one will believe I didn’t have a finger in this, whether I resign or not.”

“There is an alternative. You could take the story to S.M.P. and confront Borgsjö and demand his resignation. I’m quite sure Henry would agree to that. But don’t do anything until we all agree.”

“So I start by getting the person who recruited me fired.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He isn’t a bad person.”

“I believe you. But he’s greedy.”

Berger got up. “I’m going home.”

“Ricky, I –”

She interrupted him. “I’m just dead tired. Thanks for warning me. I’ll let you know.”

She left without kissing him, and he had to pay the bill.

Berger had parked two hundred metres from the restaurant and was halfway to her car when she felt such strong heart palpitations that she had to stop and lean against a wall. She felt sick.

She stood for a long time breathing in the mild May air. She had been working fifteen hours a day since May 1. That was almost three weeks. How would she feel after three years? Was that how Morander had felt before he dropped dead in the newsroom?

After ten minutes she went back to Samir’s Cauldron and ran into Blomkvist as he was coming out of the door. He stopped in surprise.

“Erika…”

“Mikael, don’t say a word. We’ve been friends so long – nothing can destroy that. You’re my best friend, and this feels exactly like the time you disappeared to Hedestad two years ago, only vice versa. I feel stressed out and unhappy.”

He put his arms around her. She felt tears in her eyes.

“Three weeks at S.M.P. have already done me in,” she said.

“Now now. It takes more than that to do in Erika Berger.”

“Your apartment is compromised. And I’m too tired to drive home. I’d fall asleep at the wheel and die in a crash. I’ve decided. I’m going to walk to the Scandic Crown and book a room. Come with me.”

“It’s called the Hilton now.”

“Same difference.”

They walked the short distance without talking. Blomkvist had his arm around her shoulders. Berger glanced at him and saw that he was just as tired as she was.

They went straight to the front desk, took a double room, and paid with Berger’s credit card. When they got to the room they undressed, showered, and crawled into bed. Berger’s muscles ached as though she had just run the Stockholm marathon. They cuddled for a while and then both fell asleep in seconds.

Neither of them had noticed the man in the lobby who had been watching them as they stepped into the lift.

CHAPTER 15

Salander spent most of Wednesday night and early Thursday morning reading Blomkvist’s articles and the chapters of the Millennium book that were more or less finished. Since Prosecutor Ekström had tentatively referred to a trial in July, Blomkvist had set June 20 as his deadline for going to press. That meant that Blomkvist had about a month to finish writing and patching up all the holes in his text.

She could not imagine how he could finish in time, but that was his problem, not hers. Her problem was how to respond to his questions.

She took her Palm and logged on to the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] to check whether he had put up anything new in the past twenty-four hours. He had not. She opened the document that he had called [Central questions]. She knew the text by heart already, but she read through it again anyway.

He outlined the strategy that Giannini had already explained to her. When her lawyer spoke to her she had listened with only half an ear, almost as though it had nothing to do with her. But Blomkvist, knowing things about her that Giannini did not, could present a more forceful strategy. She skipped down to the fourth paragraph.

She disconnected and looked up at the ceiling. Blomkvist was asking her for permission to tell the truth in his book. He was not going to mention the fact of Bjurman raping her, and he had already written that section. He had filled in the gaps by saying that Bjurman had made a deal with Zalachenko which collapsed when Bjurman lost control. Therefore Niedermann was obliged to kill him. Blomkvist did not speculate about Bjurman’s motives.

Kalle Bloody Blomkvist was complicating life for her.

At 2.00 in the morning she opened the word processing program on her Palm. She clicked on New Document, took out the stylus and began to tap on the letters on the digital keypad.

It was a slow process, writing with the stylus on the keypad. She thought through each sentence before she tapped it in. She did not make a single revision to the text she had written. She worked until 4.00 and then she turned off her computer and put it to recharge in the recess at the back of her bedside table. By that time she had produced a document corresponding to two single-spaced A4 pages.

Twice since midnight the duty nurse had put her head around the door, but Salander could hear her a long way off and even before she turned the key the computer was hidden and the patient asleep.

Berger woke at 7.00. She felt far from rested, but she had slept uninterrupted for eight hours. She glanced at Blomkvist, still sleeping soundly beside her.

She turned on her mobile to check for messages. Greger Beckman, her husband, had called eleven times. Shit. I forgot to call. She dialled the number and explained where she was and why she had not come home. He was angry.

“Erika, don’t do that again. It has nothing to do with Mikael, but I’ve been worried sick all night. I was terrified that something had happened. You know you have to call and tell me if you’re not coming home. You mustn’t ever forget something like that.”

Beckman was completely O.K. with the fact that Blomkvist was his wife’s lover. Their affair was carried on with his assent. But every time she had decided to sleep at Blomkvist’s, she had called her husband to tell him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just collapsed in exhaustion last night.”

He grunted.

“Try not to be furious with me, Greger. I can’t handle it right now. You can give me hell tonight.”

He grunted some more and promised to scold her when she got home. “O.K. How’s Mikael doing?”

“He’s dead to the world.” She burst out laughing. “Believe it or not, we were fast asleep moments after we got here. That’s never happened.”

“This is serious, Erika. I think you ought to see a doctor.”

When she hung up she called the office and left a message for Fredriksson. Something had come up and she would be in a little later than usual. She asked him to cancel a meeting she had arranged with the culture editor.

She found her shoulder bag, ferreted out a toothbrush and went to the bathroom. Then she got back into the bed and woke Blomkvist.

“Hurry up – go and wash and brush your teeth.”

“What… huh?” He sat up and looked around in bewilderment. She had to remind him that he was at the Slussen Hilton. He nodded.

“So. To the bathroom with you.”

“Why the hurry?”

“Because as soon as you come back I need you to make love to me.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting at 11.00 that I can’t postpone. I have to look presentable, and it’ll take me at least half an hour to put on my face. And I’ll have to buy a new shift dress or something on the way to work. That gives us only two hours to make up for a whole lot of lost time.”

Blomkvist headed for the bathroom.

Holmberg parked his father’s Ford in the drive of former Prime Minister Thorbjörn Fälldin’s house in Ås just outside Ramvik in Härnösand county. He got out of the car and looked around. At the age of seventy-nine, Fälldin could hardly still be an active farmer, and Holmberg wondered who did the sowing and harvesting. He knew he was being watched from the kitchen window. That was the custom in the village. He himself had grown up in Hälledal outside Ramvik, very close to Sandöbron, which was one of the most beautiful places in the world. At any rate Holmberg thought so.

He knocked at the front door.

The former leader of the Centre Party looked old, but he seemed alert still, and vigorous.

“Hello, Thorbjörn. My name is Jerker Holmberg. We’ve met before but it’s been a few years. My father is Gustav Holmberg, a delegate for the Centre in the ’70s and ’80s.”

“Yes, I recognize you, Jerker. Hello. You’re a policeman down in Stockholm now, aren’t you? It must be ten or fifteen years since I last saw you.”

“I think it’s probably longer than that. May I come in?”

Holmberg sat at the kitchen table while Fälldin poured them some coffee.

“I hope all’s well with your father. But that’s not why you came, is it?”

“No. Dad’s doing fine. He’s out repairing the roof of the cabin.”

“How old is he now?”

“He turned seventy-one two months ago.”

“Is that so?” Fälldin said, joining Holmberg at the kitchen table. “So what’s this visit all about then?”

Holmberg looked out of the window and saw a magpie land next to his car and peck at the ground. Then he turned to Fälldin.

“I am sorry for coming to see you without warning, but I have a big problem. It’s possible that when this conversation is over, I’ll be fired from my job. I’m here on a work issue, but my boss, Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski of the Violent Crimes Division in Stockholm, doesn’t know I’m here.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Just to say that I’d be on very thin ice if my superiors found out about this visit.”

“I understand.”

“On the other hand I’m afraid that if I don’t do something, there’s a risk that a woman’s rights will be shockingly violated, and to make matters worse, it’ll be the second time it’s happened.”

“You’d better tell me the whole story.”

“It’s about a man named Alexander Zalachenko. He was an agent for the Soviets’ G.R.U. and defected to Sweden on Election Day in 1976. He was given asylum and began to work for Säpo. I have reason to believe that you know his story.”

Fälldin regarded Holmberg attentively.

“It’s a long story,” Holmberg said, and he began to tell Fälldin about the preliminary investigation in which he had been involved for the past few months.

Erika Berger finally rolled over on to her stomach and rested her head on her fists. She broke out in a big smile.

“Mikael, have you ever wondered if the two of us aren’t completely nuts?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s true for me, at least. I’m smitten by an insatiable desire for you. I feel like a crazy teenager.”

“Oh yes?”

“And then I want to go home and go to bed with my husband.”

Blomkvist laughed. “I know a good therapist.”

She poked him in the stomach. “Mikael, it’s starting to feel like this thing with S.M.P. was a seriously big mistake.”

“Nonsense. It’s a huge opportunity for you. If anyone can inject life into that dying body, it’s you.”

“Maybe so. But that’s just the problem. S.M.P. feels like a dying body. And then you dropped that bombshell about Borgsjö.”

“You’ve got to let things settle down.”

“I know. But the thing with Borgsjö is going to be a real problem. I don’t have the faintest idea how to handle it.”

“Nor do I. But we’ll think of something.”

She lay quiet for a moment.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“How much would it take for you to come to S.M.P. and be the news editor?”

“I wouldn’t do it for anything. Isn’t what’s-his-name, Holm, the news editor?”

“Yes. But he’s an idiot.”

“You got him in one.”

“Do you know him?”

“I certainly do. I worked for him for three months as a temp in the mid-’80s. He’s a prick who plays people off against each other. Besides…”

“Besides what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Some girl, Ulla something, who was also a temp, claimed that he sexually harassed her. I don’t know how much was true, but the union did nothing about it and her contract wasn’t extended.”

Berger looked at the clock and sighed. She got up from the bed and made for the shower. Blomkvist did not move when she came out, dried herself, and dressed.

“I think I’ll doze for a while,” he said.

She kissed his cheek and waved as she left.

Figuerola parked seven cars behind Mårtensson’s Volvo on Luntmakargatan, close to the corner of Olof Palmes Gata. She watched as Mårtensson walked to the machine to pay his parking fee. He then walked on to Sveavägen.

Figuerola decided not to pay for a ticket. She would lose him if she went to the machine and back, so she followed him. He turned left on to Kungsgatan, and went into Kungstornet. She waited three minutes before she followed him into the café. He was on the ground floor talking to a blond man who looked to be in very good shape. A policeman she thought. She recognized him as the other man Malm had photographed outside the Copacabana on May Day.

She bought herself a coffee and sat at the opposite end of the café and opened her Dagens Nyheter. Mårtensson and his companion were talking in low voices. She took out her mobile and pretended to make a call, although neither of the men were paying her any attention. She took a photograph with the mobile that she knew would be only 72 dpi – low quality, but it could be used as evidence that the meeting had taken place.

After about fifteen minutes the blond man stood up and left the café. Figuerola cursed. Why had she not stayed outside? She would have recognized him when he came out. She wanted to leap up and follow him. But Mårtensson was still there, calmly nursing his coffee. She did not want to draw attention to herself by leaving so soon after his unidentified companion.

And then Mårtensson went to the toilet. As soon as he closed the door Figuerola was on her feet and back out on Kungsgatan. She looked up and down the block, but the blond man was gone.

She took a chance and hurried to the corner of Sveavägen. She could not see him anywhere, so she went down to the tunnelbana concourse, but it was hopeless.

She turned back towards Kungstornet, feeling stressed. Mårtensson had left too.

Berger swore when she got back to where she had parked her B.M.W. the night before.

The car was still there, but during the night some bastard had punctured all four tyres. Infernal bastard piss rats, she fumed.

She called the vehicle recovery service, told them that she did not have time to wait, and put the key in the exhaust pipe. Then she went down to Hornsgaten and hailed a taxi.

Lisbeth Salander logged on to Hacker Republice and saw that Plague was online. She pinged him.

Plague went quiet for a few seconds.

She explained what she needed to have done.

On Friday morning Jonasson was faced with an obviously irritated Inspector Faste on the other side of his desk.

“I don’t understand this,” Faste said. “I thought Salander had recovered. I came to Göteborg for two reasons: to interview her and to get her ready to be transferred to a cell in Stockholm, where she belongs.”

“I’m sorry for your wasted journey,” Jonasson said. “I’d be glad to discharge her because we certainly don’t have any beds to spare here. But –”

“Could she be faking?”

Jonasson smiled politely. “I really don’t think so. You see, Lisbeth Salander was shot in the head. I removed a bullet from her brain, and it was 50/50 whether she would survive. She did survive and her prognosis has been exceedingly satisfactory… so much so that my colleagues and I were getting ready to discharge her. Then yesterday she had a setback. She complained of severe headaches and developed a fever that has been fluctuating up and down. Last night she had a temperature of 38 and vomited on two occasions. During the night the fever subsided; she was almost back down to normal and I thought the episode had passed. But when I examined her this morning her temperature had gone up to almost 39. That is serious.”

“So what’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know, but the fact that her temperature is fluctuating indicates that it’s not flu or any other viral infection. Exactly what’s causing it I can’t say, but it could be something as simple as an allergy to her medication or to something else she’s come into contact with.”

He clicked on an image on his computer and turned the screen towards Faste.

“I had a cranial X-ray done. There’s a darker area here, as you can see right next to her gunshot wound. I can’t determine what it is. It could be scar tissue as a product of the healing process, but it could also be a minor haemorrhage. And until we’ve found out what’s wrong, I can’t release her, no matter how urgent it may be from a police point of view.”

Faste knew better than to argue with a doctor, since they were the closest things to God’s representatives here on earth. Policemen possibly excepted.

“What is going to happen now?”

“I’ve ordered complete bedrest and put her physiotherapy on hold – she needs therapeutic exercise because of the wounds in her shoulder and hip.”

“Understood. I’ll have to call Prosecutor Ekström in Stockholm. This will come as a bit of a surprise. What can I tell him?”

“Two days ago I was ready to approve a discharge, possibly for the end of this week. As the situation is now, it will take longer. You’ll have to prepare him for the fact that probably I won’t be in a position to make a decision in the coming week, and that it might be two weeks before you can move her to Stockholm. It depends on her rate of recovery.”

“The trial has been set for July.”

“Barring the unforeseen, she should be on her feet well before then.”

Bublanski cast a sceptical glance at the muscular woman on other side of the table. They were drinking coffee in the pavement area of a café on Norr Mälarstrand. It was Friday, May 20, and the warmth of summer was in the air. Inspector Monica Figuerola, her I.D. said, S.I.S. She had caught up with him just as he was leaving for home; she had suggested a conversation over a cup of coffee, just that.

At first he had been almost hostile, but she had very straightforwardly conceded that she had no authority to interview him and that naturally he was perfectly free to tell her nothing at all if he did not want to. He asked her what her business was, and she told him that she had been assigned by her boss to form an unofficial picture of what was true and what not true in the so-called Zalachenko case, also in some quarters known as the Salander case. She vouchsafed that it was not absolutely certain whether she had the right to question him. It was entirely up to him to decide whether he would talk to her or not.

“What would you like to know?” Bublanski said at last.

“Tell me what you know about Salander, Mikael Blomkvist, Gunnar Björck, and Zalachenko. How do the pieces fit together?”

They talked for more than two hours.

Edklinth thought long and hard about how to proceed. After five days of investigations, Figuerola had given him a number of indisputable indications that something was rotten within S.I.S. He recognized the need to move very carefully until he had enough information. He found himself, furthermore, on the horns of a constitutional dilemma: he did not have the authority to conduct secret investigations, and most assuredly not against his colleagues.

Accordingly he had to contrive some cause that would legitimize what he was doing. If the worst came to the worst, he could always fall back on the fact that it was a policeman’s duty to investigate a crime – but the breach was now so sensitive from a constitutional standpoint that he would surely be fired if he took a single wrong step. So he spent the whole of Friday brooding alone in his office.

Finally he concluded that Armansky was right, no matter how improbable it might seem. There really was a conspiracy inside S.I.S., and a number of individuals were acting outside of, or parallel to, regular operations. Because this had been going on for many years – at least since 1976, when Zalachenko arrived in Sweden – it had to be organized and sanctioned from the top. Exactly how high up the conspiracy went he had no idea.

He wrote three names on a pad:

Göran Mårtensson, Personal Protection. Criminal Inspector.

Gunnar Björck, assistant chief of Immigration Division. Deceased (Suicide?).

Albert Shenke, chief of Secretariat, S.I.S.

Figuerola was of the view that the chief of Secretariat at least must have been calling the shots when Mårtensson in Personal Protection was supposedly moved to Counter-Espionage, although he had not in fact been working there. He was too busy monitoring the movements of the journalist Mikael Blomkvist, and that did not have anything at all to do with the operations of Counter-Espionage.

Some other names from outside S.I.S. had to be added to the list:

Peter Teleborian, psychiatrist

Lars Faulsson, locksmith

Teleborian had been hired by S.I.S. as a psychiatric consultant on specific cases in the late ’80s and early ’90s – on three occasions, to be exact, and Edklinth had examined the reports in the archive. The first had been extraordinary – Counter-Espionage had identified a Russian informer inside the Swedish telecom industry, and the spy’s background indicated that he might be inclined to suicide in the event that his actions were exposed. Teleborian had done a strikingly good analysis, which helped them turn the informer so that he could become a double agent. His other two reports had involved less significant evaluations: one was of an employee inside S.I.S. who had an alcohol problem, and the second was an analysis of the bizarre sexual behaviour of an African diplomat.

Neither Teleborian nor Faulsson – especially not Faulsson – had any position inside S.I.S. And yet through their assignments they were connected to… to what?

The conspiracy was intimately linked to the late Alexander Zalachenko, the defected G.R.U. agent who had apparently turned up in Sweden on Election Day in 1976. A man no-one had ever heard of before. How was that possible?

Edklinth tried to imagine what reasonably would have happened if he had been sitting at the chief’s desk at S.I.S. in 1976 when Zalachenko defected. What would he have done? Absolute secrecy. It would have been essential. The defection could only be known to a small group without risking that the information might leak back to the Russians and… How small a group?

An operations department?

An unknown operations department?

If the affair had been appropriately handled, Zalachenko’s case should have ended up in Counter-Espionage. Ideally he should have come under the auspices of the military intelligence service, but they had neither the resources nor the expertise to run this sort of operational activity. So, S.I.S. it was.

But Counter-Espionage had not ever had him. Björck was the key; he had been one of the people who handled Zalachenko. And yet Björck had never had anything to do with Counter-Espionage. Björck was a mystery. Officially he had held a post in the Immigration Division since the ’70s, but in reality he had scarcely been seen in the department before the ’90s, when suddenly he became assistant director.

And yet Björck was the primary source of Blomkvist’s information. How had Blomkvist been able to persuade Björck to reveal such explosive material? And to a journalist at that.

Prostitutes. Björck messed around with teenage prostitutes and Millennium were going to expose him. Blomkvist must have blackmailed Björck.

Then Salander came into the picture.

The deceased lawyer Nils Bjurman had worked in the Immigration Division at the same time as the deceased Björck. They were the ones who had taken care of Zalachenko. But what did they do with him?

Somebody must have made the decision. With a defector of such provenance the order must have come from the highest level.

From the government. It must have been backed by the government. Anything else would be unthinkable.

Surely?

Edklinth felt cold shivers of apprehension. This was all conceivable in practice. A defector of Zalachenko’s status would have to be handled with the utmost secrecy. He would have decided as much himself. That was what Fälldin’s administration must have decided too. It made sense.

But what happened in 1991 did not make sense. Björck had hired Teleborian effectively to lock Salander up in a psychiatric hospital for children on the – false – pretext that she was mentally deranged. That was a crime. That was such a monstrous crime that Edklinth felt yet more apprehensive.

Somebody must have made that decision. It simply could not have been the government. Ingvar Carlsson had been Prime Minister at the time, and then Carl Bildt.[6] But no politician would dare to be involved in such a decision, which contradicted all law and justice and which would result in a disastrous scandal if it were ever discovered.

If the government was involved, then Sweden was not one iota better than any dictatorship in the entire world.

It was impossible.

And what about the events of April 12? Zalachenko was conveniently murdered at Sahlgrenska hospital by a mentally ill fanatic at the same time as a burglary was committed at Blomkvist’s apartment and Advokat Giannini was mugged. In both latter instances, copies of Björck’s strange report dating from 1991 were stolen. Armansky had contributed this information, but it was completely off the record. No police report was ever filed.

And at the same time, Björck hangs himself – a person with whom Edklinth wished he could have had a serious talk.

Edklinth did not believe in coincidence on such a grand scale. Inspector Bublanski did not believe in such coincidence either. And Blomkvist did not believe it. Edklinth took up his felt pen once more:

Evert Gullberg, seventy-eight years old. Tax specialist.???

Who the hell was Evert Gullberg?

He considered calling up the chief of S.I.S., but he restrained himself for the simple reason that he did not know how far up in the organization the conspiracy reached. He did not know whom he could trust.

For a moment he considered turning to the regular police. Jan Bublanski was the leader of the investigation concerning Ronald Niedermann, and obviously he would be interested in any related information. But from a purely political standpoint, it was out of the question.

He felt a great weight on his shoulders.

There was only one option left that was constitutionally correct, and which might provide some protection if he ended up in political hot water. He would have to turn to the chief to secure political support for what he was working on.

It was just before 4.00 on Friday afternoon. He picked up the telephone and called the Minister of Justice, whom he had known for many years and had dealings with at numerous departmental meetings. He got him on the line within five minutes.

“Hello, Torsten. It’s been a long time. What’s the problem?”

“To tell you the truth… I think I’m calling to check how much credibility I have with you.”

“Credibility? That’s a peculiar question. As far as I’m concerned you have absolute credibility. What makes you ask such a dramatic question?”

“It’s prompted by a dramatic and extraordinary request. I need to have a meeting with you and the Prime Minister, and it’s urgent.”

“Whoa!”

“If you’ll forgive me, I’d rather explain when we can talk in private. Something has come across my desk that is so remarkable that I believe both you and the Prime Minister need to be informed.”

“Does it have anything to do with terrorists and threat assessments –”

“No. It’s more serious than that. I’m putting my reputation and career on the line by calling you with this request.”

“I see. That’s why you asked about your credibility. How soon do you need the meeting with the P.M.?”

“This evening if possible.”

“Now you’ve got me worried.”

“Unhappily, there’s good reason for you to be worried.”

“How long will the meeting take?”

“It’ll probably take an hour.”

“Let me call you back.”

The Minister of Justice called back ten minutes later and said that the Prime Minister would meet with Edklinth at his residence at 9.30 that evening. Edklinth’s palms were sweating when he put down the telephone. By tomorrow morning my career could be over.

He called Figuerola.

“Hello, Monica. At 9.00 tonight you have to report for duty. You’d better dress nicely.”

“I always dress nicely,” Figuerola said.

The Prime Minister gave the Director of Constitutional Protection a long, wary look. Edklinth had a sense that cogs were whirring at high speed behind the P.M.’s glasses.

The P.M. shifted his gaze to Figuerola, who had not said a word during the presentation. He saw an unusually tall and muscular woman looking back at him with a polite, expectant expression. Then he turned to the Minister of Justice, who had paled in the course of the presentation.

After a while the P.M. took a deep breath, removed his glasses, and stared for a moment into the distance.

“I think we need a little more coffee,” he said.

“Yes, please,” Figuerola said.

Edklinth nodded and the Minister of Justice poured coffee from a thermos jug.

“I’ll sum up so that I am absolutely certain that I understood you correctly,” the Prime Minister said. “You suspect that there’s a conspiracy within the Security Police that is acting outside its constitutional mandate, and that over the years this conspiracy has committed what could be categorized as serious criminal acts.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re coming to me because you don’t trust the leadership of the Security Police?”

“No, not exactly,” Edklinth said. “I decided to turn directly to you because this sort of activity is unconstitutional. But I don’t know the objective of the conspiracy, or whether I have possibly misinterpreted something. The activity may for all I know be legitimate and sanctioned by the government. Then I risk proceeding on faulty or misunderstood information, thereby compromising some secret operation.”

The Prime Minister looked at the Minister of Justice. Both understood that Edklinth was covering his back.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this. Do you know anything about it?”

“Absolutely not,” the Minister of Justice said. “There’s nothing in any report that I’ve seen from the Security Police that could have a bearing on this matter.”

“Blomkvist thinks there’s a faction within Säpo. He refers to it as the Zalachenko club,” Edklinth said.

“I’d never even heard that Sweden had taken in and protected a Russian defector of such importance,” the P.M. said. “He defected during the Fälldin administration, you say?”

“I don’t believe Fälldin would have covered up something like this,” the Minister of Justice said. “A defection like this would have been given the highest priority, and would have been passed over to the next administration.”

Edklinth cleared his throat. “Fälldin’s conservative government was succeeded by Olof Palme’s. It’s no secret that some of my predecessors at S.I.S. had a certain opinion of Palme –”

“You’re suggesting that somebody forgot to inform the social democratic government?”

Edklinth nodded. “Let’s remember that Fälldin was in power for two separate mandates. Each time the coalition government collapsed. First he handed over to Ola Ullsten, who had a minority government in 1979. The government collapsed again when the moderates jumped ship, and Fälldin governed together with the People’s Party. I’m guessing that the government secretariat was in turmoil during those transition periods. It’s also possible that knowledge of Zalachenko was confined to so small a circle that Prime Minister Fälldin had no real oversight, so he never had anything to hand over to Palme.”

“In that case, who’s responsible?” the P.M. said.

All except Figuerola shook their heads.

“I assume that this is bound to leak to the media,” the P.M. said.

“Blomkvist and Millennium are going to publish it. In other words, we’re caught between the proverbial rock and hard place.” Edklinth was careful to use the word “we”.

The P.M. nodded. He realized the gravity of the situation. “Then I’ll have to start by thanking you for coming to me with this matter as soon as you did. I don’t usually agree to this sort of unscheduled meeting, but the minister here said that you were a prudent person, and that something serious must have happened if you wanted to see me outside all normal channels.”

Edklinth exhaled a little. Whatever happened, the wrath of the Prime Minister was not going to come down on him.

“Now we just have to decide how we’re going to handle it. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Perhaps,” Edklinth said tentatively.

He was silent for so long that Figuerola cleared her throat. “May I say something?”

“Please do,” the P.M. said.

“If it’s true that the government doesn’t know about this operation, then it’s illegal. The person responsible in such a case is the criminal civil servant – or civil servants – who overstepped his authority. If we can verify all the claims Blomkvist is making, it means that a group of officers within S.I.S. have been devoting themselves to criminal activity for a long time. The problem would then unfold in two parts.”

“How do you mean?”

“First we have to ask the question: how could this have been possible? Who is responsible? How did such a conspiracy develop within the framework of an established police organization? I myself work for S.I.S., and I’m proud of it. How can this have gone on for so long? How could this activity have been both concealed and financed?”

“Go on,” the P.M. said.

“Whole books will probably be written about this first part. It’s clear that there must have been financing, at least several million kronor annually I’d say. I looked over the budget of the Security Police and found nothing resembling an allocation for the Zalachenko club. But, as you know, there are a number of hidden funds controlled by the chief of Secretariat and chief of Budget that I have no access to.”

The Prime Minister nodded grimly. Why did Säpo always have to be such a nightmare to administer?

“The second part is: who is involved? And very specifically, which individuals should be arrested? From my standpoint, all these questions depend on the decision you make in the next few minutes,” she said to the P.M.

Edklinth was holding his breath. If he could have kicked Figuerola in the shin he would have done so. She had cut through all the rhetoric and intimated that the Prime Minister himself was responsible. He had considered coming to the same conclusion, but not before a long and diplomatic circumlocution.

“What decision do you think I should make?”

“I believe we have common interests. I’ve worked at Constitutional Protection for three years. I consider this office of central importance to Swedish democracy. The Security Police has worked satisfactorily within the framework of the constitution in recent years. Naturally I don’t want the scandal to affect S.I.S. For us it’s important to bear in mind that this is a case of criminal activity perpetrated by a small number of individuals.”

“Activity of this kind is most definitely not sanctioned by the government,” the Minister of Justice said.

Figuerola nodded and thought for a few seconds. “It is, in my view, essential that the scandal should not implicate the government – which is what would happen if the government tried to cover up the story.”

“The government does not cover up criminal activity,” the Minister of Justice said.

“No, but let’s assume, hypothetically, that the government might want to do so. There would be a scandal of enormous proportions.”

“Go on,” the P.M. said.

“The situation is complicated by the fact that we in Constitutional Protection are being forced to conduct an operation which is itself against regulations in order to investigate this matter. So we want everything to be legitimate and in keeping with the constitution.”

“As do we all,” the P.M. said.

“In that case I suggest that you – in your capacity as Prime Minister – instruct Constitutional Protection to investigate this mess with the utmost urgency,” Figuerola said. “Give us a written order and the authority we need.”

“I’m not sure that what you propose is legal,” the Minister of Justice said.

“It is legal. The government has the power to adopt a wide range of measures in the event that breaches of the constitution are threatened. If a group from the military or police starts pursuing an independent foreign policy, a de facto coup has taken place in Sweden.”

“Foreign policy?” the Minister of Justice said.

The P.M. nodded all of a sudden.

“Zalachenko was a defector from a foreign power,” Figuerola said. “The information he contributed was supplied, according to Blomkvist, to foreign intelligence services. If the government was not informed, a coup has taken place.”

“I follow your reasoning,” the P.M. said. “Now let me say my piece.”

He got up and walked once around the table before stopping in front of Edklinth.

“You have a very talented colleague. She has hit the nail on the head.”

Edklinth swallowed and nodded. The P.M. turned to the Minister of Justice.

“Get on to the Undersecretary of State and the head of the legal department. By tomorrow morning I want a document drawn up granting the Constitutional Protection Unit extraordinary authority to act in this matter. Their assignment is to determine the truth behind the assertions we have discussed, to gather documentation about its extent, and to identify the individuals responsible or in any way involved. The document must not state that you are conducting a preliminary investigation – I may be wrong, but I think only the Prosecutor General could appoint a preliminary investigation leader in this situation. But I can give you the authority to conduct a one-man investigation. What you are doing is therefore an official public report. Do you understand?”

“Yes. But I should point out that I myself am a former prosecutor.”

“We’ll have to ask the head of the legal department to take a look at this and determine exactly what is formally correct. In any case, you alone are responsible for your investigation. You will choose the assistants you require. If you find evidence of criminal activity, you must turn this information over to the P.G., who will decide on the charges.”

“I’ll have to look up exactly what applies, but I think you’ll have to inform the speaker of parliament and the constitutional committee… This is going to leak out fast,” the Minister of Justice said.

“In other words, we have to work faster,” the P.M. said.

Figuerola raised a hand.

“What is it?” the P.M. said.

“There are two problems remaining. First, will Millennium’s publication clash with our investigation, and second, Lisbeth Salander’s trial will be starting in a couple of weeks.”

“Can we find out when Millennium’s going to publish?”

“We could ask,” Edklinth said. “The last thing we want to do is to interfere with the press.”

“With regard to this girl Salander…” the Minister of Justice began, and then he paused for a moment. “It would be terrible if she really has been subjected to the injustices that Millennium claims. Could it really be possible?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Edklinth said.

“In that case we have to see to it that she is given redress for these wrongs, and above all that she is not subjected to new injustices,” the P.M. said.

“And how would that work?” asked the Minister of Justice. “The government cannot interfere in an ongoing prosecution case. That would be against the law.”

“Could we talk to the prosecutor?”

“No,” Edklinth said. “As Prime Minister you may not influence the judicial process in any way.”

“In other words, Salander will have to take her chances in court,” the Minister of Justice said. “Only if she loses the trial and appeals to the government can the government step in and pardon her or require the P.G. to investigate whether there are grounds for a new trial. But this applies only if she’s sentenced to prison. If she’s sentenced to a secure psychiatric facility, the government cannot do a thing. Then it’s a medical matter, and the Prime Minister has no jurisdiction to determine whether or not she is sane.”

At 10.00 on Friday night, Salander heard the key turn in the door. She instantly switched off her Palm and slipped it under the mattress. When she looked up she saw Jonasson closing the door.

“Good evening, Fröken Salander,” he said. “And how are you doing this evening?”

“I have a splitting headache and I feel feverish.”

“That doesn’t sound so good.”

Salander looked to be not particularly bothered by either the fever or the headache. Jonasson spent ten minutes examining her. He noticed that over the course of the evening her fever had again risen dramatically.

“It’s a shame that you should be having this setback when you’ve been recovering so well over the past few weeks. Unfortunately I won’t now be able to discharge you for at least two more weeks.”

“Two weeks should be sufficient.”

The distance by land from London to Stockholm is roughly 1900 kilometres, or 1180 miles. In theory that would be about twenty hours’ driving. In fact it had taken almost twenty hours to reach the northern border of Germany with Denmark. The sky was filled with leaden thunderclouds, and when the man known as Trinity found himself on Sunday in the middle of the Öresundsbron, there was a downpour. He slowed and turned on his windscreen wipers.

Trinity thought it was sheer hell driving in Europe, since everyone on the Continent insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road. He had packed his van on Friday morning and taken the ferry from Dover to Calais, then crossed Belgium by way of Liege. He crossed the German border at Aachen and then took the Autobahn north towards Hamburg and on to Denmark.

His companion, Bob the Dog, was asleep in the back. They had taken it in turns to drive, and apart from a couple of hour-long stops along the way, they had maintained a steady ninety kilometres an hour. The van was eighteen years old and was not able to go much faster anyway.

There were easier ways of getting from London to Stockholm, but it was not likely that he would be able to take thirty kilos of electronic gear on a normal flight. They had crossed six national borders but they had not been stopped once, either by customs or by passport control. Trinity was an ardent fan of the E.U., whose regulations simplified his visits to the Continent.

Trinity was born in Bradford, but he had lived in north London since childhood. He had had a miserable formal education, and then attended a vocational school and earned a certificate as a trained telecommunications technician. For three years after his nineteenth birthday he had worked as an engineer for British Telecom. Once he had understood how the telephone network functioned and realized how hopelessly antiquated it was, he switched to being a private security consultant, installing alarm systems and managing burglary protection. For special clients he would also offer his video surveillance and telephone tapping services.

Now thirty-two years old, he had a theoretical knowledge of electronics and computer science that allowed him to knock spots off any professor in the field. He had lived with computers since he was ten, and he hacked his first computer when he was thirteen.

It had whetted his appetite, and when he was sixteen he had advanced to the extent that he could compete with the best in the world. There was a period in which he spent every waking minute in front of his computer screen, writing his own programs and planting insidious tendrils on the Internet. He infiltrated the B.B.C., the Ministry of Defence and Scotland Yard. He even managed – for a short time – to take command of a nuclear submarine on patrol in the North Sea. It was as well that Trinity belonged to the inquisitive rather than the malicious type of computer marauder. His fascination was extinguished the moment he had cracked a computer, gained access, and appropriated its secrets.

He was one of the founders of Hacker Republic. And Wasp was one of its citizens.

It was 7.30 on Sunday evening as he and Bob the Dog were approaching Stockholm. When they passed Ikea at Kungens Kurva in Skärholmen, Trinity flipped open his mobile and dialled a number he had memorized.

“Plague,” Trinity said.

“Where are you guys?”

“You said to call when we passed Ikea.”

Plague gave him directions to the youth hostel on Långholmen where he had booked a room for his colleagues from England. Since Plague hardly ever left his apartment, they agreed to meet at his place at 10.00 the next morning.

Plague decided to make an exceptional effort and washed the dishes, generally cleaned up, and opened the windows in anticipation of his guests’ arrival.