The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

CHAPTER 23

Two weeks before the trial of Lisbeth Salander began, Malm finished the layout of the 352-page book tersely entitled The Section. The cover was blue with yellow type. Malm had positioned seven postage-stamp-sized black-and-white images of Swedish Prime Ministers along the bottom. Over the top of them hovered a photograph of Zalachenko. He had used Zalachenko’s passport photograph as an illustration, increasing the contrast so that only the darkest areas stood out like a shadow across the whole cover. It was not a particularly sophisticated design, but it was effective. Blomkvist, Cortez and Eriksson were named as the authors.

It was 5.00 in the morning and he had been working all night. He felt slightly sick and had badly wanted to go home and sleep. Eriksson had sat up with him doing final corrections page by page as Malm O.K.’d them and printed them out. By now she was asleep on the sofa.

Malm put the entire text plus illustrations into a folder. He started up the Toast program and burned two C.D.s. One he put in the safe. The other was collected by a sleepy Blomkvist just before 7.00.

“Go and get some rest,” Blomkvist said.

“I’m on my way.”

They left Eriksson asleep and turned on the door alarm. Cortez would be in at 8.00 to take over.

Blomkvist walked to Lundagatan, where he again borrowed Salander’s abandoned Honda without permission. He drove to Hallvigs Reklam, the printers near the railway tracks in Morgongåva, west of Uppsala. This was a job he would not entrust to the post.

He drove slowly, refusing to acknowledge the stress he felt, and then waited until the printers had checked that they could read the C.D. He made sure that the book would indeed be ready to distribute on the first day of the trial. The problem was not the printing but the binding, which could take time. But Jan Köbin, Hallvigs’ manager, promised to deliver at least five hundred copies of the first printing of ten thousand by that day. The book would be a trade paperback.

Finally, Blomkvist made sure that everyone understood the need for the greatest secrecy, although this reminder was probably unnecessary. Two years earlier Hallvigs had printed Blomkvist’s book about Hans-Erik Wennerström under very similar circumstances. They knew that books from this peculiar publisher Millennium always promised something extra.

Blomkvist drove back to Stockholm in no particular hurry. He parked outside Bellmansgatan 1 and went to his apartment to pack a change of clothes and a wash bag. He drove on to Stavsnäs wharf in Värmdö, where he parked the Honda and took the ferry out to Sandhamn.

It was the first time since Christmas that he had been to the cabin. He unfastened the window shutters to let in the air and drank a Ramlösa. As always when a job was finished and at the printer, and nothing could be changed, he felt empty.

He spent an hour sweeping and dusting, scouring the shower tray, switching on the fridge, checking the water pipes and changing the bedclothes up in the sleeping loft. He went to the grocery and bought everything he would need for the weekend. Then he started up the coffeemaker and sat outside on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and not thinking about anything in particular.

Just before 5.00 he went down to the steamboat wharf and met Figuerola.

“I thought you said you couldn’t take time off,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“That’s what I thought too. But I told Edklinth I’ve been working every waking minute for the past few weeks and I’m starting to burn out. I said I needed two days off to recharge my batteries.”

“In Sandhamn?”

“I didn’t tell him where I was going,” she said with a smile.

Figuerola ferreted around in Blomkvist’s 25-square-metre cabin. She subjected the kitchen area, the bathroom and the loft to a critical inspection before she nodded in approval. She washed and changed into a thin summer dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce and set the table on the veranda. They ate in silence as they watched the parade of sailing boats on their way to or from the marina. They shared the rest of the bottle of wine.

“It’s a wonderful cabin. Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?” Figuerola said.

“Just the important ones.”

“Has Erika Berger been here?”

“Many times.”

“And Salander?”

“She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the book about Wennerström. And we spent Christmas here two years ago.”

“So both Berger and Salander are important in your life?”

“Erika is my best friend. We’ve been friends for twenty-five years. Lisbeth is a whole different story. She’s certainly unique, and she the most antisocial person I’ve ever known. You could say that she made a big impression on me when we first met. I like her. She’s a friend.”

“You don’t feel sorry for her?”

“No. She has herself to blame for a lot of the crap that’s happened to her. But I do feel enormous sympathy and solidarity with her.”

“But you aren’t in love either with her or with Berger?”

He shrugged. Figuerola watched an Amigo 23 coming in late with its navigation lights glowing as it chugged past a motorboat on the way to the marina.

“If love is liking someone an awful lot, then I suppose I’m in love with several people,” Blomkvist said.

“And now with me?”

Blomkvist nodded. Figuerola frowned and looked at him.

“Does it bother you?”

“That you’ve brought other women here? No. But it does bother me that I don’t really know what’s happening between us. And I don’t think I can have a relationship with a man who screws around whenever he feels like it…”

“I’m not going to apologize for the way I’ve led my life.”

“And I guess that in some way I’m falling for you because you are who you are. It’s easy to sleep with you because there’s no bullshit and you make me feel safe. But this all started because I gave in to a crazy impulse. It doesn’t happen very often, and I hadn’t planned it. And now we’ve got to the stage where I’ve become just another one of the girls you invite out here.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“Yes, I did. Oh, Mikael…”

“I know.”

“I’m unhappy. I don’t want to fall in love with you. It’ll hurt far too much when it’s over.”

“Listen, I’ve had this cabin for twenty-five years, since my father died and my mother moved back to Norrland. We shared out the property so that my sister got our apartment and I got the cabin. Apart from some casual acquaintances in the early years, there are five women who have been here before you: Erika, Lisbeth and my ex-wife, who I was together with in the ’80s, a woman I was in a serious relationship with in the late ’90s, and someone I met two years ago, whom I still see occasionally. It’s sort of special circumstances…”

“I bet it is.”

“I keep this cabin so that I can get away from the city and have some quiet time. I’m mostly here on my own. I read books, I write, and I relax and sit on the wharf and look at the boats. It’s not a secret love nest.”

He stood up to get the bottle of wine he had put in the shade.

“I won’t make any promises. My marriage broke up because Erika and I couldn’t keep away from each other,” he said, and then he added in English, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”

He filled their glasses.

“But you’re the most interesting person I’ve met in a long time. It’s as if our relationship took off at full speed from a standing start. I think I fell for you the moment you picked me up outside my apartment. The few times I’ve slept at my place since then, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night needing you. I don’t know if I want a steady relationship, but I’m terrified of losing you.” He looked at her. “So what do you think we should do?”

“Let’s think about things,” Figuerola said. “I’m badly attracted to you too.”

“This is starting to get serious,” Blomkvist said.

She suddenly felt a great sadness. They did not say much for a long time. When it got dark they cleared the table, went inside and closed the door.

On the Friday before the week of the trial, Blomkvist stopped at the Pressbyrån news-stand at Slussen and read the billboards for the morning papers. Svenska Morgon-Posten’s C.E.O. and chairman of the board Magnus Borgsjö had capitulated and tendered his resignation. Blomkvist bought the papers and walked to Java on Hornsgatan to have a late breakfast. Borgsjö cited family reasons as the explanation for his unexpected resignation. He would not comment on claims that Berger had also resigned after he ordered her to cover up a story about his involvement in the wholesale enterprise Vitavara Inc. But in a sidebar it was reported that the chair of Svenskt Näringsliv, the confederation of Swedish enterprise, had decided to set up an ethics committee to investigate the dealings of Swedish companies with businesses in South East Asia known to exploit child labour.

Blomkvist burst out laughing, and then he folded the morning papers and flipped open his Ericsson to call the woman who presented She on T.V.4, who was in the middle of a lunchtime sandwich.

“Hello, darling,” Blomkvist said. “I’m assuming you’d still like dinner sometime.”

“Hi, Mikael,” she laughed. “Sorry, but you couldn’t be further from my type.”

“Still, how about coming out with me this evening to discuss a job?”

“What have you got going?”

“Erika Berger made a deal with you two years ago about the Wennerström affair. I want to make a similar deal that will work just as well.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I can’t tell you about it until we’ve agreed on the terms. I’ve got a story in the works. We’re going to publish a book and a themed issue of the magazine, and it’s going to be huge. I’m offering you an exclusive look at all the material, provided you don’t leak anything before we publish. This time the publication is extra complicated because it has to happen on a specific day.”

“How big is the story?”

“Bigger than Wennerström,” Blomkvist said. “Are you interested?”

“Are you serious? Where shall we meet?”

“How about Samir’s Cauldron? Erika’s going to sit in on the meeting.”

“What’s going with on her? Is she back at Millennium now that she’s been thrown out of S.M.P.?”

“She didn’t get thrown out. She resigned because of differences of opinion with Magnus Borgsjö.”

“He seems to be a real creep.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Blomkvist said.

Clinton was listening to Verdi through his earphones. Music was pretty much the only thing left in life that could take him away from dialysis machines and the growing pain in the small of his back. He did not hum to the music. He closed his eyes and followed the notes with his right hand, which hovered and seemed to have a life of its own alongside his disintegrating body.

That is how it goes. We are born. We live. We grow old. We die. He had played his part. All that remained was the disintegration.

He felt strangely satisfied with life.

He was playing for his friend Evert Gullberg.

It was Saturday, July 9. Only four days until the trial, and the Section could set about putting this whole wretched story behind them. He had had the message that morning. Gullberg had been tougher than almost anyone he had known. When you fire a 9 mm full-metal-jacketed bullet into your own temple you expect to die. Yet it was three months before Gullberg’s body gave up at last. That was probably due as much to chance as to the stubbornness with which the doctors had waged the battle for Gullberg’s life. And it was the cancer, not the bullet, that had finally determined his end.

Gullberg’s death had been painful, and that saddened Clinton. Although incapable of communicating with the outside world, he had at times been in a semi-conscious state, smiling when the hospital staff stroked his cheek or grunting when he seemed to be in pain. Sometimes he had tried to form words and even sentences, but nobody was able to understand anything he said.

He had no family, and none of his friends came to his sickbed. His last contact with life was an Eritrean night nurse by the name of Sara Kitama, who kept watch at his bedside and held his hand as he died.

Clinton realized that he would soon be following his former comrade-in-arms. No doubt about that. The likelihood of his surviving a transplant operation decreased each day. His liver and intestinal functions appeared to have declined at each examination.

He hoped to live past Christmas.

Yet he was contented. He felt an almost spiritual, giddy satisfaction that his final days had involved such a sudden and surprising return to service.

It was a boon he could not have anticipated.

The last notes of Verdi faded away just somebody opened the door to the small room in which he was resting at the Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan.

Clinton opened his eyes. It was Wadensjöö.

He had come to the conclusion that Wadensjöö was a dead weight. He was entirely unsuitable as director of the most important vanguard of Swedish national defence. He could not conceive how he and von Rottinger could ever have made such a fundamental miscalculation as to imagine that Wadensjöö was the appropriate successor.

Wadensjöö was a warrior who needed a fair wind. In a crisis he was feeble and incapable of making a decision. A timid encumbrance lacking steel in his backbone who would most likely have remained in paralysis, incapable of action, and let the Section go under.

It was this simple. Some had it. Others would always falter when it came to the crunch.

“You wanted a word?”

“Sit down,” Clinton said.

Wadensjöö sat.

“I’m at a stage in my life when I can no longer waste time. I’ll get straight to the point. When all this is over, I want you to resign from the management of the Section.”

“You do?”

Clinton tempered his tone.

“You’re a good man, Wadensjöö. But unfortunately you’re completely unsuited to shouldering the responsibility after Gullberg. You should not have been given that responsibility. Von Rottinger and I were at fault when we failed to deal properly with the succession after I got sick.”

“You’ve never liked me.”

“You’re wrong about that. You were an excellent administrator when von Rottinger and I were in charge of the Section. We would have been helpless without you, and I have great admiration for your patriotism. It’s your inability to make decisions that lets you down.”

Wadensjöö smiled bitterly. “After this, I don’t know if I even want to stay in the Section.”

“Now that Gullberg and von Rottinger are gone, I’ve had to make the crucial decisions myself,” Clinton said. “And you’ve obstructed every decision I’ve made during the past few months.”

“And I maintain that the decisions you’ve made are absurd. It’s going to end in disaster.”

“That’s possible. But your indecision would have guaranteed our collapse. Now at least we have a chance, and it seems to be working. Millennium don’t know which way to turn. They may suspect that we’re somewhere out here, but they lack documentation and they have no way of finding it – or us. And we know at least as much as they do.”

Wadensjöö looked out of the window and across the rooftops.

“The only thing we still have to do is to get rid of Zalachenko’s daughter,” Clinton said. “If anyone starts burrowing about in her past and listening to what she has to say, there’s no knowing what might happen. But the trial starts in a few days and then it’ll be over. This time we have to bury her so deep that she’ll never come back to haunt us.”

Wadensjöö shook his head.

“I don’t understand your attitude,” Clinton said.

“I can see that. You’re sixty-eight years old. You’re dying. Your decisions are not rational, and yet you seem to have bewitched Nyström and Sandberg. They obey you as if you were God the Father.”

“I am God the Father in everything that has to do with the Section. We’re working according to a plan. Our decision to act has given the Section a chance. And it is with the utmost conviction that I say that the Section will never find itself in such an exposed position again. When all this is over, we’re going to put in hand a complete overhaul of our activities.”

“I see.”

“Nyström will be the new director. He’s really too old, but he’s the only choice we have, and he’s promised to stay on for six years at least. Sandberg is too young and – as a direct result of your management policies – too inexperienced. He should have been fully trained by now.”

“Clinton, don’t you see what you’ve done? You’ve murdered a man. Björck worked for the Section for thirty-five years, and you ordered his death. Do you not understand –”

“You know quite well that it was necessary. He betrayed us, and he would never have withstood the pressure when the police closed in.”

Wadensjöö stood up.

“I’m not finished.”

“Then we’ll have to take it up later. I have a job to do while you lie here fantasizing that you’re the Almighty.”

“If you’re so morally indignant, why don’t you go to Bublanski and confess your crimes?”

“Believe me, I’ve considered it. But whatever you may think, I’m doing everything in my power to protect the Section.”

He opened the door and met Nyström and Sandberg on their way in.

“Hello, Fredrik,” Nyström said. “We have to talk.”

“Wadensjöö was just leaving.”

Nyström waited until the door had closed. “Fredrik, I’m seriously worried.”

“What’s going on?”

“Sandberg and I have been thinking. Things are happening that we don’t understand. This morning Salander’s lawyer lodged her autobiographical statement with the prosecutor.”

“What?”

Inspector Faste scrutinized Advokat Giannini as Ekström poured coffee from a thermos jug. The document Ekström had been handed when he arrived at work that morning had taken both of them by surprise. He and Faste had read the forty pages of Salander’s story and discussed the extraordinary document at length. Finally he felt compelled to ask Giannini to come in for an informal chat.

They were sitting at the small conference table in Ekström’s office.

“Thank you for agreeing to come in,” Ekström said. “I have read this… hmm, account that arrived this morning, and there are a few matters I’d like to clarify.”

“I’ll do what I can to help” Giannini said.

“I don’t know exactly where to start. Let me say from the outset that both Inspector Faste and I are profoundly astonished.”

“Indeed?”

“I’m trying to understand what your objective is.”

“How do you mean?”

“This autobiography, or whatever you want to call it… What’s the point of it?”

“The point is perfectly clear. My client wants to set down her version of what has happened to her.”

Ekström gave a good-natured laugh. He stroked his goatee, an oft-repeated gesture that was beginning to irritate Giannini.

“Yes, but your client has had several months to explain herself. She hasn’t said a word in all her interviews with Faste.”

“As far as I know there is no law that forces my client to talk simply when it suits Inspector Faste.”

“No, but I mean… Salander’s trial will begin in four days’ time, and at the eleventh hour she comes up with this. To tell the truth, I feel a responsibility here which is beyond my duties as prosecutor.”

“You do?”

“I do not in the very least wish to sound offensive. That is not my intention. But we have a procedure for trials in this country. You, Fru Giannini, are a lawyer specialising in women’s rights, and you have never before represented a client in a criminal case. I did not charge Lisbeth Salander because she is a woman, but on a charge of grievous bodily harm. Even you, I believe, must have realized that she suffers from a serious mental illness and needs the protection and assistance of the state.”

“You’re afraid that I won’t be able to provide Lisbeth Salander with an adequate defence,” Giannini said in a friendly tone.

“I do not wish to be judgemental,” Ekström said, “and I don’t question your competence. I’m simply making the point that you lack experience.”

“I do understand, and I completely agree with you. I am woefully inexperienced when it comes to criminal cases.”

“And yet you have all along refused the help that has been offered by lawyers with considerably more experience –”

“At the express wish of my client. Lisbeth Salander wants me to be her lawyer, and accordingly I will be representing her in court.” She gave him a polite smile.

“Very well, but I do wonder whether in all seriousness you intend to offer the content of this statement to the court.”

“Of course. It’s her story.”

Ekström and Faste glanced at one another. Faste raised his eyebrows. He could not see what Ekström was fussing about. If Giannini did not understand that she was on her way to sinking her client, then that certainly was not the prosecutor’s fault. All they needed to do was to say thank you, accept the document, and put the issue aside.

As far as he was concerned, Salander was off her rocker. He had employed all his skills to persuade her to tell them, at the very least, where she lived. But in interview after interview that damn girl had just sat there, silent as a stone, staring at the wall behind him. She had refused the cigarettes he offered, and had never so much as accepted a coffee or a cold drink. Nor had she registered the least reaction when he pleaded with her, or when he raised his voice in moments of extreme annoyance. Faste had never conducted a more frustrating set of interviews.

“Fru Giannini,” Ekström said at last, “I believe that your client ought to be spared this trial. She is not well. I have a psychiatric report from a highly qualified doctor to fall back on. She should be given the psychiatric care that for so many years she has badly needed.”

“I take it that you will be presenting this recommendation to the district court.”

“That’s exactly what I’ll be doing. It’s not my business to tell you how to conduct her defence. But if this is the line you seriously intend to take, then the situation is, quite frankly, absurd. This statement contains wild and unsubstantiated accusations against a number of people… in particular against her guardian, Advokat Bjurman, and Dr Peter Teleborian. I hope you do not in all seriousness believe that the court will accept an account that casts suspicion on Dr Teleborian without offering a single shred of evidence. This document is going to be the final nail in your client’s coffin, if you’ll pardon the metaphor.”

“I hear what you’re saying.”

“In the course of the trial you may claim that she is not ill and request a supplementary psychiatric assessment, and then the matter can be submitted to the medical board. But to be honest her statement leaves me in very little doubt that every other forensic psychiatrist will come to the same conclusion as Dr Teleborian. Its very existence confirms all documentary evidence that she is a paranoid schizophrenic.”

Giannini smiled politely. “There is an alternative view,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“That her account is in every detail true and that the court will elect to believe it.”

Ekström looked bewildered by the notion. Then he smiled and stroked his goatee.

Clinton was sitting at the little side table by the window in his office. He listened attentively to Nyström and Sandberg. His face was furrowed, but his peppercorn eyes were focused and alert.

“We’ve been monitoring the telephone and email traffic of Millennium’s key employees since April,” Clinton said. “We’ve confirmed that Blomkvist and Eriksson and this Cortez fellow are pretty downcast on the whole. We’ve read the outline version of the next issue. It seems that even Blomkvist has reversed his position and is now of the view that Salander is mentally unstable after all. There is a socially linked defence for her – he’s claiming that society let her down, and that as a result it’s somehow not her fault that she tried to murder her father. But that’s hardly an argument. There isn’t one word about the break-in at his apartment or the fact that his sister was attacked in Göteborg, and there’s no mention of the missing reports. He knows he can’t prove anything.”

“That is precisely the problem,” Sandberg said. “Blomkvist must know that someone has their eye on him. But he seems to be completely ignoring his suspicions. Forgive me, but that isn’t Millennium’s style. Besides, Erika Berger is back in editorial and yet this whole issue is so bland and devoid of substance that it seems like a joke.”

“What are you saying? That it’s a decoy?”

Sandberg nodded. “The summer issue should have come out in the last week of June. According to one of Malin Eriksson’s emails, it’s being printed by a company in Södertälje, but when I rang them this morning, they told me they hadn’t even got the C.R.C. All they’d had was a request for a quote about a month ago.”

“Where have they printed before?” Clinton said.

“At a place called Hallvigs in Morgongåva. I called to ask how far they had got with the printing – I said I was calling from Millennium. The manager wouldn’t tell me a thing. I thought I’d drive up there this evening and take a look.”

“Makes sense. Georg?”

“I’ve reviewed all the telephone traffic from the past week,” Nyström said. “It’s bizarre, but the Millennium staff never discuss anything to do with the trial or Zalachenko.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No. They mention it only when they’re talking with someone outside Millennium. Listen to this, for instance. Blomkvist gets a call from a reporter at Aftonbladet asking whether he has any comment to make on the upcoming trial.”

He put a tape recorder on the table.

“Sorry, but I have no comment.”

“You’ve been involved with the story from the start. You were the one who found Salander down in Gosseberga. And you haven’t published a single word since. When do you intend to publish?”

“When the time is right. Provided I have anything to say.”

“Do you?”

“Well, you can buy a copy of Millennium and see for yourself.”

He turned off the recorder.

“We didn’t think about this before, but I went back and listened to bits at random. It’s been like this the entire time. He hardly discusses the Zalachenko business except in the most general terms. He doesn’t even discuss it with his sister, and she’s Salander’s lawyer.”

“Maybe he really doesn’t have anything to say.”

“He consistently refuses to speculate about anything. He seems to live at the offices round the clock; he’s hardly ever at his apartment. If he’s working night and day, then he ought to have come up with something more substantial than whatever’s going to be in the next issue of Millennium.”

“And we still haven’t been able to tap the phones at their offices?”

“No,” Sandberg said. “There’s been somebody there twenty-four hours a day – and that’s significant – ever since we went into Blomkvist’s apartment the first time. The office lights are always on, and if it’s not Blomkvist it’s Cortez or Eriksson, or that faggot… er, Christer Malm.”

Clinton stroked his chin and thought for a moment.

“Conclusions?”

Nyström said: “If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were putting on an act for us.”

Clinton felt a cold shiver run down the back of his neck. “Why hasn’t this occurred to us before?”

“We’ve been listening to what they’ve been saying, not to what they haven’t been saying. We’ve been gratified when we’ve heard their confusion or noticed it in an email. Blomkvist knows damn well that someone stole copies of the 1991 Salander report from him and his sister. But what the hell is he doing about it?”

“And they didn’t report her mugging to the police?”

Nyström shook his head. “Giannini was present at the interviews with Salander. She’s polite, but she never says anything of any weight. And Salander herself never says anything at all.”

“But that will work in our favour. The more she keeps her mouth shut, the better. What does Ekström say?”

“I saw him a couple of hours ago. He’d just been given Salander’s statement.” He pointed to the pages in Clinton’s lap.

“Ekström is confused. It’s fortunate that Salander is no good at expressing herself in writing. To an outsider this would look like a totally insane conspiracy theory with added pornographic elements. But she still shoots very close to the mark. She describes exactly how she came to be locked up at St Stefan’s, and she claims that Zalachenko worked for Säpo and so on. She says she thinks everything is connected with a little club inside Säpo, pointing to the existence of something corresponding to the Section. All in all it’s fairly accurate. But as I said, it’s not plausible. Ekström is in a dither because this also seems to be the line of defence Giannini is going to use at the trial.”

“Shit,” Clinton said. He bowed his head and thought intently for several minutes. Finally he looked up.

“Jonas, drive up to Morgongåva this evening and find out if anything is going on. If they’re printing Millennium, I want a copy.”

“I’ll take Falun with me.”

“Good. Georg, I want you to see Ekström this afternoon and take his pulse. Everything has gone smoothly until now, but I can’t ignore what you two are telling me.”

Clinton sat in silence for a moment more.

“The best thing would be if there wasn’t any trial…” he said at last.

He raised his eyes and looked at Nyström. Nyström nodded. Sandberg nodded.

“Nyström, can you investigate our options?”

Sandberg and the locksmith known as Falun parked a short distance from the railway tracks and walked through Morgongåva. It was 8.30 in the evening. It was too light and too early to do anything, but they wanted to reconnoitre and get a look at the place.

“If the building is alarmed, I’m not doing it,” Falun said. “It would be better to have a look through the window. If there’s anything lying around, you can just chuck a rock through, jump in, grab what you need and run like hell.”

“That’ll work,” Sandberg said.

“If you only need one copy of the magazine, we can check the dustbins round the back. There must be overruns and test printings and things like that.”

Hallvigs Reklam printing factory was in a low, brick building. They approached from the south on the other side of the street. Sandberg was about to cross when Falun took hold of his elbow.

“Keep going straight,” he said.

“What?”

“Keep going straight, as if we’re out for an evening stroll.”

They passed Hallvigs and made a tour of the neighbourhood.

“What was all that about?” Sandberg said.

“You’ve got to keep your eyes peeled. The place isn’t just alarmed. There was a car parked alongside the building.”

“You mean somebody’s there?”

“It was a car from Milton Security. The factory is under surveillance, for Christ’s sake.”

“Milton Security?” Clinton felt the shock hit him in the gut.

“If it hadn’t been for Falun, I would have walked right into their arms,” Sandberg said.

“There’s something fishy going on,” Nyström said. “There is no rationale for a small out-of-town printer to hire Milton Security for 24-hour surveillance.”

Clinton’s lips were pressed tight. It was after 11.00 and he needed to rest.

“And that means Millennium really is up to something,” Sandberg said.

“I can see that,” Clinton said. “O.K. Let’s analyse the situation. What’s the worst-case scenario? What could they know?” He gave Nyström an urgent look.

“It has to be the Salander report,” he said. “They beefed up their security after we lifted the copies. They must have guessed that they’re under surveillance. The worst case is that they still have a copy of the report.”

“But Blomkvist was at his wits’ end when it went missing.”

“I know. But we may have been duped. We can’t shut our eyes to that possibility.”

“We’ll work on that assumption,” Clinton said. “Sandberg?”

“We do know what Salander’s defence will be. She’s going to tell the truth as she sees it. I’ve read this autobiography of hers. In fact it plays right into our hands. It’s full of such outrageous accusations of rape and violation of her civil rights that it will come across as the ravings of a paranoid personality.”

Nyström said: “Besides, she can’t prove a single one of her claims. Ekström will use the account against her. He’ll annihilate her credibility.”

“O.K. Teleborian’s new report is excellent. There is, of course, the possibility that Giannini will call in her own expert who’ll say that Salander isn’t crazy, and the whole thing will end up before the medical board. But again – unless Salander changes tactics, she’s going to refuse to talk to them too, and then they’ll conclude that Teleborian is right. She’s her own worst enemy.”

“The best thing would still be if there was no trial,” Clinton said.

Nyström shook his head. “That’s virtually impossible. She’s in Kronoberg prison and she has no contact with other prisoners. She gets an hour’s exercise each day in the little area on the roof, but we can’t get to her up there. And we have no contacts among the prison staff.”

“There may still be time.”

“If we’d wanted to dispose of her, we should have done it when she was at Sahlgrenska. The likelihood that a hit man would do time is almost 100 per cent. And where would we find a gun who’d agree to that? And at such short notice it would be impossible to arrange a suicide or an accident.”

“I was afraid of that. And unexpected deaths have a tendency to invite questions. O.K., we’ll have to see how the trial goes. In reality, nothing has changed. We’ve always anticipated that they would make some sort of counter-move, and it seems to be this so-called autobiography.”

“The problem is Millennium,” Sandberg said.

“Millennium and Milton Security,” Clinton said pensively. “Salander has worked for Armansky, and Blomkvist once had a thing with her. Should we assume that they’ve joined forces?”

“It doesn’t seem unreasonable that Milton Security is watching the factory where Millennium is being printed. And it can’t be a coincidence.”

“When are they going to publish? Sandberg, you said that they’re almost two weeks behind schedule. If we assume that Milton is keeping an eye on the printer’s to make sure that nobody gets hold of a copy, that means either that they’re publishing something that they don’t want to leak, or that the magazine has already been printed.”

“To coincide with the opening of the trial,” Sandberg said. “That’s the only reasonable explanation.”

Clinton nodded. “O.K. What’s going to be in the magazine?”

They thought for a while, until Nyström broke the silence.

“In the worst case they have a copy of the 1991 report, as we said.”

Clinton and Sandberg had reached the same conclusion.

“But what can they do with it?” Sandberg said. “The report implicates Björck and Teleborian. Björck is dead. They can press hard with Teleborian, but he’ll claim that he was doing a routine forensic psychiatric examination. It’ll be their word against his.”

“And what can we do if they publish the report?” Nyström said.

“I think we’re holding the trump card,” Clinton said. “If there’s a ruckus over the report, the focus will be on Säpo, not the Section. And when reporters start asking questions, Säpo will just pull it out of the archive…”

“And it won’t be the same report,” Sandberg said.

“Shenke has put the modified version in the archive, that is, the version Ekström was given to read. It was assigned a case number. So we could swiftly present a lot of disinformation to the media… We have the original, which Bjurman got hold of, and Millennium only has a copy. We could even spread information to suggest that it was Blomkvist himself who falsified the original.”

“Good. What else could Millennium know?”

“They can’t know anything about the Section. That wouldn’t be possible. They’ll have to focus on Säpo, and that would mean Blomkvist being cast as a conspiracy theorist.”

“By now he’s rather well known,” Clinton said slowly. “Since the resolution of the Wennerström affair he’s been taken pretty seriously.”

“Could we somehow reduce his credibility?” Sandberg said.

Nyström and Clinton exchanged glances. Clinton looked at Nyström.

“Do you think you could put your hands on… let’s say, fifty grams of cocaine?”

“Maybe from the Yugos.”

“Give it a try. And get a move-on. The trial starts in three days.”

“I don’t get it,” Sandberg said.

“It’s a trick as old as the profession. But still extremely effective.”

“Morgongåva?” Edklinth said with a frown. He was sitting in his dressing gown on the sofa at home, reading through Salander’s autobiography for the third time, when Figuerola called. Since it was after midnight, he assumed that something was up.

“Morgongåva,” Figuerola repeated. “Sandberg and Lars Faulsson were there at 8.30 this evening. They were tailed by Inspector Andersson from Bublanski’s gang, and we had a radio transmitter planted in Sandberg’s car. They parked near the old railway station, walked around for a while, and then returned to the car and drove back to Stockholm.”

“I see. Did they meet anyone, or –”

“No. That was the strange thing. They just got out of the car and walked around a little, then drove straight back to Stockholm, so Andersson told me.”

“I see. And why are you calling me at 12.30 at night to tell me this?”

“It took a little while to work it out. They walked past Hallvigs printers. I talked to Blomkvist about it. That’s where Millennium’s being printed.”

“Oh shit,” Edklinth said. He saw the implications immediately.

“Since Falun was along, I have to suppose that they were intending to pay the printer’s a late-night visit, but they abandoned the expedition,” Figuerola said.

“Why?”

“Because Blomkvist asked Armansky to keep an eye on the factory until the magazine was distributed. They probably saw the car from Milton Security. I thought you’d want to know straightaway.”

“You’re right. It means that they’ve begun to smell a rat.”

“Alarm bells must have gone off in their heads when they saw the car. Sandberg dropped Faulsson off in town and then went back to Artillerigatan. We know that Clinton is there. Nyström arrived at about the same time. The question is, what are they going to do?”

“The trial starts on Wednesday… Can you reach Blomkvist and urge him to double up on security at Millennium? Just in case.”

“They already have good security. And they blew smoke rings round their tapped telephones – like old pros. Blomkvist is so paranoid already that he’s using diversionary tactics we could learn from.”

“I’m happy to hear it, but call him anyway.”

Figuerola closed her mobile and put it on the bedside table. She looked up and studied Blomkvist as he lay naked with his head against the foot of the bed.

“I’m to call you and tell you to beef up security at Millennium,” she said.

“Thanks for the suggestion,” he said wryly.

“I’m serious. If they start to smell a rat, there’s a danger that they’ll go and do something without thinking. They might break in.”

“Henry’s sleeping there tonight. And we have a burglar alarm that goes straight to Milton Security, three minutes away.”

He lay in silence with his eyes shut.

“Paranoid,” he muttered.

CHAPTER 24

It was 6.00 on Monday morning when Linder from Milton Security called Blomkvist on his T10.

“Don’t you people ever rest?” Blomkvist said, drunk with sleep.

He glanced at Figuerola. She was up already and had changed into jogging shorts, but had not yet put on her T-shirt.

“Sure. But the night duty officer woke me. The silent alarm we installed at your apartment went off at 3.00.”

“Did it?”

“I drove down to see what was going on. This is a bit tricky. Could you come to Milton this morning? As soon as possible, that is.”

“This is serious,” Armansky said.

It was just after 8.00 when Armansky, Blomkvist and Linder were gathered in front of a T.V. monitor in a conference room at Milton Security. Armansky had also called in Johan Fräklund, a retired criminal inspector in the Solna police, now chief of Milton’s operations unit, and the former inspector Sonny Bohman, who had been involved in the Salander affair from the start. They were pondering the surveillance video that Linder had just shown them.

“What we see here is Säpo officer Jonas Sandberg opening the door to Mikael’s apartment at 3.17. He has his own keys. You will recall that Faulsson the locksmith made copies of the spare set when he and Göran Mårtensson broke in several weeks ago.”

Armansky nodded sternly.

“Sandberg is in the apartment for approximately eight minutes. During that time he does the following things. First, he takes a small plastic bag from the kitchen, which he fills. Then he unscrews the back plate of a loudspeaker which you have in the living room, Mikael. That’s where he places the bag. The fact that he takes a bag from your kitchen is significant.”

“It’s a Konsum bag,” Blomkvist said. “I save them to put cheese and stuff in.”

“I do the same. What matters, of course, is that the bag has your fingerprints on it. Then he takes a copy of S.M.P. from the recycling bin in the hall. He tears off a page to wrap up an object which he puts on the top shelf of your wardrobe. Same thing there: the paper has your fingerprints on it.”

“I get you,” Blomkvist said.

“I drive to your apartment at around 5.00,” Linder said. “I find the following items: in your loudspeaker there are now approximately 180 grams of cocaine. I’ve taken a sample which I have here.”

She put a small evidence bag on the conference table.

“What’s in the wardrobe?” Blomkvist said.

“About 120,000 kronor in cash.”

Armansky motioned to Linder to turn off the T.V. He turned to Fräklund.

“So Mikael Blomkvist is involved in cocaine dealing,” Fräklund said good-naturedly. “Apparently they’ve started to get a little worried about what Blomkvist is working on.”

“This is a counter-move,” Blomkvist said.

“A counter-move to what?”

“They ran into Milton’s security patrol in Morgongåva last night.”

He told them what he had heard from Figuerola about Sandberg’s expedition to the printing factory.

“That busy little rascal,” Bohman said.

“But why now?”

“They must be nervous about what Millennium might publish when the trial starts,” Fräklund said. “If Blomkvist is arrested for dealing cocaine, his credibility will drop dramatically.”

Linder nodded. Blomkvist looked sceptical.

“How are we going to handle this?” Armansky said.

“We should do nothing,” Fräklund said. “We hold all the cards. We have crystal-clear evidence of Sandberg planting the stuff in your apartment. Let them spring the trap. We can prove your innocence in a second, and besides, this will be further proof of the Section’s criminal activities. I would so love to be prosecutor when those guys are brought to trial.”

“I don’t know,” Blomkvist said slowly. “The trial starts the day after tomorrow. The magazine is on the stands on Friday, day three of the trial. If they plan to frame me for dealing cocaine, I’ll never have the time to explain how it happened before the magazine comes out. I risk sitting in prison and missing the beginning of the trial.”

“So, all the more reason for you to stay out of sight this week,” Armansky said.

“Well… I have to work with T.V.4 and I’ve got a number of other things to do. It would be enormously inconvenient –”

“Why right now?” Linder said suddenly.

“How do you mean?” Armansky said.

“They’ve had three months to smear Blomkvist. Why do it right now? Whatever happens they’re not going to be able to prevent publication.”

They all sat in silence for a moment.

“It might be because they don’t have a clue what you’re going to publish, Mikael,” Armansky said. “They have to suppose that you have something in the offing… but they might think all you have is Björck’s report. They have no reason to know that you’re planning on rolling up the whole Section. If it’s only about Björck’s report, then it’s certainly enough to blacken your reputation. Any revelations you might come up with would be drowned out when you’re arrested and charged. Big scandal. The famous Mikael Blomkvist arrested on a drugs charge. Six to eight years in prison.”

“Could I have two copies of the video?” Blomkvist said.

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Lodge one copy with Edklinth. And in three hours I’m going to be at T.V.4. I think it would be prudent to have this ready to run on T.V. if or when all hell breaks loose.”

Figuerola turned off the D.V.D. player and put the remote on the table. They were meeting in the temporary office on Fridhemsplan.

“Cocaine,” Edklinth said. “They’re playing a very dirty game here.”

Figuerola looked thoughtful. She glanced at Blomkvist.

“I thought it best to keep all of you up to date,” he said with a shrug.

“I don’t like this,” Figuerola said. “It implies a recklessness. Someone hasn’t really thought this through. They must realize that you wouldn’t go quietly and let yourself be thrown into Kumla bunker under arrest on a drugs charge.”

“I agree,” Blomkvist said.

“Even if you were convicted, there’s still a strong likelihood that people would believe what you have to say. And your colleagues at Millennium wouldn’t keep quiet either.”

“Furthermore, this is costing them a great deal,” Edklinth said. “They have a budget that allows them to distribute 120,000 kronor here and there without blinking, plus whatever the cocaine costs them.”

“I know, but the plan is actually not bad,” Blomkvist said. “They’re counting on Salander landing back in the asylum while I disappear in a cloud of suspicion. They’re also assuming that any attention would be focused on Säpo – not on the Section.”

“But how are they going to convince the drug squad to search your apartment? I mean, an anonymous tip will hardly be enough for someone to kick in the door of a star journalist. And if this is going to work, suspicion would have to be cast on you within forty-eight hours.”

“Well, we don’t really know anything about their schedule,” Blomkvist said.

He felt exhausted and longed for all this to be over. He got up.

“Where are you off to?” Figuerola said. “I’d like to know where you’re going to be for the next few days.”

“I have a meeting with T.V.4 at lunchtime. And at 6.00 I’m going to catch up with Erika Berger over a lamb stew at Samir’s. We’re going to fine-tune the press release. The rest of the afternoon and evening I’ll be at Millennium, I imagine.”

Figuerola’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Berger.

“I need you to stay in touch during the day. I’d prefer it if you stayed in close contact until the trial starts.”

“Maybe I could move in with you for a few days,” Blomkvist said with a playful smile.

Figuerola’s face darkened. She cast a hasty glance at Edklinth.

“Monica’s right,” Edklinth said. “I think it would be best if you stay more or less out of sight for the time being.”

“You take care of your end,” Blomkvist said, “and I’ll take care of mine.”

The presenter of She on T.V.4 could hardly conceal her excitement over the video material that Blomkvist had delivered. Blomkvist was amused at her undisguised glee. For a week they had worked like dogs to put together coherent material about the Section that they could use on T.V. Her producer and the news editor at T.V.4 were in no doubt as to what a scoop the story would be. It was being produced in the utmost secrecy, with only a very few people involved. They had agreed to Blomkvist’s insistence that the story be the lead on the evening of the third day of the trial. They had decided to do an hour-long news special.

Blomkvist had given her a quantity of still photographs to work with, but on television nothing compares to the moving image. She was simply delighted when he showed her the video – in razor-sharp definition – of an identifiable police officer planting cocaine in his apartment.

“This is great T.V.,” she said. “Camera shot: Here is Säpo planting cocaine in the reporter’s apartment.”

“Not Säpo… the Section,” Blomkvist corrected her. “Don’t make the mistake of muddling the two.”

“Sandberg works for Säpo, for God’s sake,” she said.

“Sure, but in practice he should be regarded as an infiltrator. Keep the boundary line very clear.”

“Understood. It’s the Section that’s the story here. Not Säpo. Mikael, can you explain to me how it is that you keep getting mixed up in these sensational stories? And you’re right. This is going to be bigger than the Wennerström affair.”

“Sheer talent, I guess. Ironically enough this story also begins with a Wennerström. The spy scandal of the ’60s, that is.”

Berger called at 4.00. She was in a meeting with the newspaper publishers’ association sharing her views on the planned cutbacks at S.M.P., which had given rise to a major conflict in the industry after she had resigned. She would not be able to make it to their dinner before 6.30.

Sandberg helped Clinton move from the wheelchair to the daybed in the room that was his command centre in the Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton had just returned from a whole morning spent in dialysis. He felt ancient, infinitely weary. He had hardly slept the past few days and wished that all this would soon come to an end. He had managed to make himself comfortable, sitting up in the bed, when Nyström appeared.

Clinton concentrated his energy. “Is it ready?”

“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Nikolich brothers,” Nyström said. “It’s going to cost 50,000.”

“We can afford it,” Clinton said.

Christ, if only I were young again.

He turned his head and studied Nyström and Sandberg in turn.

“No qualms of conscience?” he said.

They shook their heads.

“When?” Clinton said.

“Within twenty-four hours,” Nyström said. “It’s difficult to pin down where Blomkvist is staying, but if the worst comes to the worst they’ll do it outside Millennium’s offices.”

“We have a possible opportunity tonight, two hours from now,” said Sandberg.

“Oh, really?”

“Erika Berger called him a while ago. They’re going to have dinner at Samir’s Cauldron. It’s a restaurant near Bellmansgatan.”

“Berger…” Clinton said hesitantly.

“I hope for God’s sake that she doesn’t –” Nyström said.

“That wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Sandberg said.

Clinton and Nyström both stared at him.

“We’re agreed that Blomkvist is our greatest threat, and that he’s going to publish something damaging in the next issue of Millennium. We can’t prevent publication, so we have to destroy his credibility. If he’s killed in what appears to be a typical underworld hit and the police then find drugs and cash in his apartment, the investigators will draw certain conclusions. They won’t initially be looking for conspiracies involving the Security Police.”

“Go on,” Clinton said.

“Erika Berger is actually Blomkvist’s lover,” Sandberg said with some force. “She’s unfaithful to her husband. If she too were to be a victim, that would lead to further speculation.”

Clinton and Nyström exchanged glances. Sandberg had a natural talent when it came to creating smokescreens. He learned fast. But Clinton and Nyström felt a surge of anxiety. Sandberg was too cavalier about life-and-death decisions. That was not good. Extreme measures were not to be employed just because an opportunity had presented itself. Murder was no easy solution; it should be resorted to only when there was no alternative.

Clinton shook his head.

Collateral damage, he thought. He suddenly felt disgust for the whole operation.

After a lifetime in service to the nation, here we sit like primitive mercenaries. Zalachenko was necessary. Björck was… regrettable, but Gullberg was right: Björck would have caved in. Blomkvist is… possibly necessary. But Erika Berger could only be an innocent bystander.

He looked steadily at Sandberg. He hoped that the young man would not develop into a psychopath.

“How much do the Nikolich brothers know?”

“Nothing. About us, that is. I’m the only one they’ve met. I used another identity and they can’t trace me. They think the killing has to do with trafficking.”

“What happens to them after the hit?”

“They leave Sweden at once,” Nyström said. “Just like after Björck. If the murder investigation yields no results, they can very cautiously return after a few weeks.”

“And the method?”

“Sicilian style. They walk up to Blomkvist, empty a magazine into him, and walk away.”

“Weapon?”

“They have an automatic. I don’t know what type.”

“I do hope they won’t spray the whole restaurant –”

“No danger of that. They’re cold-blooded, they know what they have to do. But if Berger is sitting at the same table –”

Collateral damage.

“Look here,” Clinton said. “It’s important that Wadensjöö doesn’t get wind of this. Especially not if Berger becomes a victim. He’s stressed to breaking point as it is. I’m afraid we’re going to have to put him out to pasture when this is over.”

Nyström nodded.

“Which means that when we get word that Blomkvist has been shot, we’re going to have to put on a good show. We’ll call a crisis meeting and act thunderstruck by the development. We can speculate who might be behind the murder, but we’ll say nothing about the drugs until the police find the evidence.”

Blomkvist took leave of the presenter of She just before 5.00. They had spent the afternoon filling in the gaps in the material. Then Blomkvist had gone to make-up and subjected himself to a long interview on film.

One question had been put to him which he struggled to answer in a coherent way, and they had to film that section several times.

How is it possible that civil servants in the Swedish government will go so far as to commit murder?

Blomkvist had brooded over the question long before She’s presenter had asked it. The Section must have considered Zalachenko an unacceptable threat, but it was still not a satisfactory answer. The reply he eventually gave was not satisfactory either:

“The only reasonable explanation I can give is that over the years the Section developed into a cult in the true sense of the word. They became like Knutby, or the pastor Jim Jones or something like that. They write their own laws, within which concepts like right and wrong have ceased to be relevant. And through these laws they imagine themselves isolated from normal society.”

“It sounds like some sort of mental illness, don’t you think?”

“That wouldn’t be an inaccurate description.”

Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Slussen. It was too early to go to Samir’s Cauldron. He stood on Södermalmstorg for a while. He was worried still, yet all of a sudden life felt right again. It was not until Berger came back to Millennium that he realized how terribly he had missed her. Besides, her retaking of the helm had not led to any internal strife; Eriksson had reverted happily to the position of assistant editor, indeed was almost ecstatic – as she put it – that life would now return to normal.

Berger’s coming back had also meant that everyone discovered how incredibly understaffed they had been during the past three months. Berger had had to resume her duties at Millennium at a run, and she and Eriksson managed to tackle together some of the organizational issues that had been piling up.

Blomkvist decided to buy the evening papers and have coffee at Java on Hornsgatan to kill time before he was to meet Berger.

Prosecutor Ragnhild Gustavsson of the National Prosecutors’ Office set her reading glasses on the conference table and studied the group. She had a lined but apple-cheeked face and short, greying hair. She had been a prosecutor for twenty-five years and had worked at the N.P.O. since the early ’90s. She was fifty-eight. Only three weeks had passed since she had been without warning summoned to the N.P.O. to meet Superintendent Edklinth, Director of Constitutional Protection. That day she had been busily finishing up one or two routine matters so she could begin her six-week leave at her cabin on the island of Husarö with a clear conscience. Instead she had been assigned to lead the investigation of a group of civil servants who went by the name of “the Section”. Her holiday plans had quickly to be shelved. She had been advised that this would be her priority for the foreseeable future, and she had been given a more or less free hand to shape her operational team and take the necessary decisions.

“This may prove one of the most sensational criminal investigations this country has witnessed,” the Prosecutor General had told her.

She was beginning to think he was right.

She had listened with increasing amazement to Edklinth’s summary of the situation and the investigation he had undertaken at the instruction of the Prime Minister. The investigation was not yet complete, but he believed that his team had come far enough to be able to present the case to a prosecutor.

First of all Gustavsson had reviewed all the material that Edklinth had delivered. When the sheer scope of the criminal activity began to emerge, she realized that every decision she made would some day be pored over by historians and their readers. Since then she had spent every waking minute trying to get to grips with the numerous crimes. The case was unique in Swedish law, and since it involved charting criminal activity that had gone on for at least thirty years, she recognized the need for a very particular kind of operational team. She was reminded of the Italian government’s anti-Mafia investigators who had been forced in the ’70s and ’80s to work almost underground in order to survive. She knew why Edklinth himself had been bound to work in secret. He did not know whom he could trust.

Her first action was to call in three colleagues from the N.P.O. She selected people she had known for many years. Then she hired a renowned historian who had worked on the Crime Prevention Council to help with an analysis of the growth of Security Police responsibilities and powers over the decades. She formally appointed Inspector Figuerola head of the investigation.

At this point the investigation of the Section had taken on a constitutionally valid form. It could now be viewed like any other police investigation, even though its operation would be conducted in absolute secrecy.

Over the past two weeks Prosecutor Gustavsson had summoned a large number of individuals to official but extremely discreet interviews. As well as with Edklinth and Figuerola, interviews had been conducted with Criminal Inspectors Bublanski, Modig, Andersson and Holmberg. She had called in Mikael Blomkvist, Malin Eriksson, Henry Cortez, Christer Malm, Advokat Giannini, Dragan Armansky and Susanne Linder, and she had herself gone to visit Lisbeth Salander’s former guardian, Holger Palmgren. Apart from the members of Millennium’s staff who on principle did not answer questions that might reveal the identity of their sources, all had readily provided detailed answers, and in some cases supporting documentation as well.

Prosecutor Gustavsson had not been at all pleased to have been presented with a timetable that had been determined by Millennium. It meant that she would have to order the arrest of a number of individuals on a specific date. She knew that ideally she would have had several months of preparation before the investigation reached its present stage, but she had no choice. Blomkvist had been adamant. Millennium was not subject to any governmental ordinances or regulations, and he intended to publish the story on day three of Salander’s trial. Gustavsson was thus compelled to adjust her own schedule to strike at the same time, so that those individuals who were under suspicion would not be given a chance to disappear along with the evidence. Blomkvist received a surprising degree of support from Edklinth and Figuerola, and the prosecutor came to see that Blomkvist’s plan had certain clear advantages. As prosecutor she would get just the kind of fully focused media back-up she needed to push forward the prosecution. In addition, the whole process would move ahead so quickly that this complex investigation would not have time to leak into the corridors of the bureaucracy and thus risk being unearthed by the Section.

“Blomkvist’s first priority is to achieve justice for Salander. Nailing the Section is merely a by-product,” Figuerola said.

The trial of Lisbeth Salander was to commence on Wednesday, in two days’ time. The meeting on Monday involved doing a review of the latest material available to them and dividing up the work assignments.

Thirteen people participated in the meeting. From N.P.O., Ragnhild Gustavsson had brought her two closest colleagues. From Constitutional Protection, Inspector Monica Figuerola had come with Bladh and Berglund. Edklinth, as Director of Constitutional Protection, was sitting in as an observer.

But Gustavsson had decided that a matter of this importance could not credibly be restricted to S.I.S. She had therefore called in Inspector Bublanski and his team, consisting of Modig, Holmberg and Andersson from the regular police force. They had, after all, been working on the Salander case since Easter and were familiar with all the details. Gustavsson had also called in Prosecutor Jervas and Inspector Erlander from the Göteborg police. The investigation of the Section had a direct connection to the investigation of the murder of Alexander Zalachenko.

When Figuerola mentioned that former Prime Minister Thorbjörn Fälldin might have to take the stand as a witness, Holmberg and Modig were scarcely able to conceal their discomfort.

For five hours they examined one individual after another who had been identified as an activist in the Section. After that they established the various crimes that could be linked to the apartment on Artillerigatan. A further nine people had been identified as being connected to the Section, although they never visited Artillerigatan. They worked primarily at S.I.S. on Kungsholmen, but had met with some of the Section’s activists.

“It is still impossible to say how widespread the conspiracy is. We do not know under what circumstances these people meet with Wadensjöö or with anyone else. They could be informers, or they may have been given the impression that they’re working for internal affairs or something similar. So there is some uncertainty about the degree of their involvement, and that can be resolved only after we’ve had a chance to interview them. Furthermore, these are merely those individuals we have observed during the weeks the surveillance has been in effect; there could be more that we do not yet know about.”

“But the chief of Secretariat and the chief of Budget –”

“We have to assume that they’re working for the Section.”

It was 6.00 on Monday when Gustavsson gave everyone an hour’s break for dinner, after which they would reconvene.

It was just as everyone had stood up and begun to move about that Jesper Thoms, Figuerola’s colleague from C.P.’s operations unit, drew her aside to report on what had developed during the last few hours of surveillance.

“Clinton has been in dialysis for most of the day and got back to Artillerigatan at 3.00. The only one who did anything of interest was Nyström, although we aren’t quite sure what it was he did.”

“Tell me,” said Figuerola.

“At 1.30 he drove to Central Station and met up with two men. They walked across to the Sheraton and had coffee in the bar. The meeting lasted for about twenty minutes, after which Nyström returned to Artillerigatan.”

“O.K. So who were they?”

“They’re new faces. Two men in their mid-thirties who seem to be of eastern European origin. Unfortunately our observer lost them when they went into the tunnelbana.”

“I see,” Figuerola said wearily.

“Here are the pictures,” Thoms said. He handed her a series of surveillance photographs.

She glanced at the enlargements of two faces she had never set eyes on before.

“Thanks,” she said, laying out the photographs on the conference table. She picked up her handbag to go and find something to eat.

Andersson, who was standing nearby, bent to look more closely at the pictures.

“Oh shit,” he said. “Are the Nikolich brothers involved in this?”

Figuerola stopped in her tracks. “Who did you say?”

“These two are seriously rotten apples,” Andersson said. “Tomi and Miro Nikolich.”

“Have you had dealings with them?”

“Sure. Two brothers from Huddinge. Serbs. We had them under observation several times when they were in their twenties and I was in the gangs unit. Miro is the dangerous one. He’s been wanted for about a year for G.B.H. I thought they’d both gone back to Serbia to become politicians or something.”

“Politicians?”

“Right. They went down to Yugoslavia in the early ’90s and helped carry out ethnic cleansing. They worked for a Mafia leader, Arkan, who was running some sort of private fascist militia. They got a reputation for being shooters.”

“Shooters?”

“Hit men. They’ve been flitting back and forth between Belgrade and Stockholm. Their uncle has a restaurant in Norrmalm, and they’ve apparently worked there once in a while. We’ve had reports that they were mixed up in at least two of the killings in what was known as the ‘cigarette war’, but we never got close to charging them with anything.”

Figuerola gazed mutely at the photographs. Then suddenly she turned pale as a ghost. She stared at Edklinth.

“Blomkvist,” she cried with panic in her voice. “They’re not just planning to involve him in a scandal, they’re planning to murder him. Then the police will find the cocaine during the investigation and draw their own conclusions.”

Edklinth stared back at her.

“He’s supposed to be meeting Erika Berger at Samir’s Cauldron,” Figuerola said. She grabbed Andersson by the shoulder. “Are you armed?”

“Yes…”

“Come with me.”

Figuerola rushed out of the conference room. Her office was three doors down. She ran in and took her service weapon from the desk drawer. Against all regulations she left the door to her office unlocked and wide open as she raced off towards the lifts. Andersson hesitated for a second.

“Go,” Bublanski told him. “Sonja, you go with them too.”

Blomkvist got to Samir’s Cauldron at 6.20. Berger had just arrived and found a table near the bar, not far from the entrance. He kissed her on the cheek. They both ordered lamb stew and strong beers from the waiter.

“How was the She woman?” Berger said.

“Cool, as usual.”

Berger laughed. “If you don’t watch out you’re going to become obsessed by her. Imagine, a woman who can resist the famous Blomkvist charm.”

“There are in fact several women who haven’t fallen for me over the years,” Blomkvist said. “How has your day been?”

“Wasted. But I accepted an invitation to be on a panel to debate the whole S.M.P. business at the Publicists’ Club. That will be my final contribution.”

“Great.”

“It’s just such a relief to be back at Millennium.”

“You have no idea how good it is that you’re back. I’m still elated.”

“It’s fun to be at work again.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m happy.”

“And I have to go to the gents’,” Blomkvist said, getting up.

He almost collided with a man who had just walked in. Blomkvist noticed that he looked vaguely eastern European and was staring at him. Then he saw the sub-machine gun.

As they passed Riddarholmen, Edklinth called to tell them that neither Blomkvist nor Berger were answering their mobiles. They had presumably turned them off for dinner.

Figuerola swore and passed Södermalmstorg at a speed of close to eighty kilometres an hour. She kept her horn pressed down and made a sharp turn on to Hornsgatan. Andersson had to brace himself against the door. He had taken out his gun and checked the magazine. Modig did the same in the back seat.

“We have to call for back-up,” Andersson said. “You don’t play games with the Nikolich boys.”

Figuerola ground her teeth.

“This is what we’ll do,” she said. “Sonja and I will go straight into the restaurant and hope they’re sitting inside. Curt, you know what these guys look like, so you stay outside and keep watch.”

“Right.”

“If all goes well, we’ll take Blomkvist and Berger straight out to the car and drive them down to Kungsholmen. If we suspect anything’s wrong, we stay inside the restaurant and call for back-up.”

“O.K.,” Modig said.

Figuerola was nearly at the restaurant when the police radio crackled beneath the dashboard.

All units. Shots fired on Tavastgatan on Södermalm. Samir’s Cauldron restaurant.

Figuerola felt a sudden lurch in her chest.

Berger saw Blomkvist bump into a man as he was heading past the entrance towards the gents’. She frowned without really knowing why. She saw the other man stare at Blomkvist with a surprised expression. She wondered if it was somebody he knew.

Then she saw the man take a step back and drop a bag to the floor. At first she did not know what she was seeing. She sat paralysed as he raised some kind of gun and aimed it at Blomkvist

Blomkvist reacted without stopping to think. He flung out his left hand, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and twisted it up towards the ceiling. For a microsecond the muzzle passed in front of his face.

The burst of fire from the sub-machine gun was deafening in the small room. Mortar and glass from the overhead lights rained down on Blomkvist as Miro Nikolich squeezed off eleven shots. For a moment Blomkvist looked directly into the eyes of his attacker.

Then Nikolich took a step back and yanked the gun towards him. Blomkvist was unprepared and lost his grip on the barrel. He knew at once that he was in mortal danger. Instinctively he threw himself at the attacker instead of crouching down or trying to take cover. Later he realized that if he had ducked or backed away, he would have been shot on the spot. He got a new grip on the barrel of the sub-machine gun and used his entire weight to drive the man against the wall. He heard another six or seven shots go off and tore desperately at the gun to direct the muzzle at the floor.

Berger instinctively took cover when the second series of shots was fired. She stumbled and fell, hitting her head on a chair. As she lay on the floor she looked up and saw that three holes had appeared in the wall just behind where she had been sitting.

In shock she turned her head and saw Blomkvist struggling with the man by the door. He had fallen to his knees and was gripping the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it loose. She saw the attacker struggling to get free. He kept smashing his fist over and over into Blomkvist’s face and temple.

Figuerola braked hard opposite Samir’s Cauldron, flung open the car door and ran across the road towards the restaurant. She had her Sig Sauer in her hand with the safety off when she noticed the car parked right outside the restaurant.

She saw one of the Nikolich brothers behind the wheel and pointed her weapon at his face behind the driver’s door

“Police. Hands up,” she screamed.

Tomi Nikolich held up his hands.

“Get out of the car and lie face down on the pavement,” she roared, fury in her voice. She turned and glanced at Andersson and Modig beside her. “The restaurant,” she said.

Modig was thinking of her children. It was against all police protocol to gallop into a building with her weapon drawn without first having back-up in place and without knowing the exact situation.

Then she heard the sound of more shots from inside.

Blomkvist had his middle finger between the trigger and the trigger guard as Miro Nikolich tried to keep shooting. He heard glass shattering behind him. He felt a searing pain as the attacker squeezed the trigger again and again, crushing his finger. As long as his finger was in place the gun could not be fired. But as Nikolich’s fist pummelled again and again on the side of his head, it suddenly occurred to him that he was too old for this sort of thing.

Have to end it, he thought.

That was his first rational thought since he had become aware of the man with the sub-machine gun.

He clenched his teeth and shoved his finger further into the space behind the trigger.

Then he braced himself, rammed his shoulder into the attacker’s body and forced himself back on to his feet. He let go of the gun with his right hand and raised elbow up to protect his face from the pummelling. Nikolich switched to hitting him in the armpit and ribs. For a second they stood eye to eye again.

The next moment Blomkvist felt the attacker being pulled away from him. He felt one last devastating pain in his finger and became aware of Andersson’s huge form. The police officer literally picked up Nikolich with a firm grip on his neck and slammed his head into the wall by the door. Nikolich collapsed to the ground.

“Get down! This is the police. Stay very still,” he heard Modig yell.

He turned his head and saw her standing with her legs apart and her gun held in both hands as she surveyed the chaos. At last she raised her gun to point it at the ceiling and looked at Blomkvist.

“Are you hurt?” she said.

In a daze Blomkvist looked back at her. He was bleeding from his eyebrows and nose.

“I think I broke a finger,” he said, sitting down on the floor.

Figuerola received back-up from the Södermalm armed response team less than a minute after she forced Tomi Nikolich on to the pavement at gunpoint. She showed her I.D. and left the officers to take charge of the prisoner. Then she ran inside. She stopped in the entrance to take stock of the situation.

Blomkvist and Berger were sitting side by side. His face was bloodied and he seemed to be in shock. She sighed in relief. He was alive. Then she frowned as Berger put her arm around his shoulders. At least her face was bruised.

Modig was squatting down next to them, examining Blomkvist’s hand. Andersson was handcuffing Nikolich, who looked as though he had been hit by a truck. She saw a Swedish Army model M/45 submachine gun on the floor.

Figuerola looked up and saw shocked restaurant staff and terrorstricken patrons, along with shattered china, overturned chairs and tables, and debris from the rounds that had been fired. She smelled cordite. But she was not aware of anyone dead or wounded in the restaurant. Officers from the armed response team began to squeeze into the room with their weapons drawn. She reached out and touched Andersson’s shoulder. He stood up.

“You said that Miro Nikolich was on our wanted list?”

“Correct. G.B.H. About a year ago. A street fight down in Hallunda.”

“O.K. Here’s what we’ll do,” Figuerola said. “I’ll take off as fast as I can with Blomkvist and Berger. You stay here. The story is that you and Modig came here to have dinner and you recognized Nikolich from your time in the gangs unit. When you tried to arrest him he pulled a weapon and started shooting. So you sorted him out.”

Andersson looked completely astonished. “That’s not going to hold up. There are witnesses.”

“The witnesses will say that somebody was fighting and shots were fired. It only has to hold up until tomorrow’s evening papers. The story is that the Nikolich brothers were apprehended by sheer chance because you recognized them.”

Andersson surveyed the shambles all around him.

Figuerola pushed her way through the knot of police officers out on the street and put Blomkvist and Berger in the back seat of her car. She turned to the armed response team leader and spoke in a low voice with him for half a minute. She gestured towards the car in which Blomkvist and Berger were now sitting. The leader looked puzzled but at last he nodded. She drove to Zinkensdamm, parked, and turned around to her passengers.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“I took a few punches. I’ve still got all my teeth, but my middle finger’s hurt.”

“I’ll take you to A.&E. at St Göran’s.”

“What happened?” Berger said. “And who are you?”

“I’m sorry,” Blomkvist said. “Erika, this is Inspector Monica Figuerola. She works for Säpo. Monica, this is Erika Berger.”

“I worked that out all by myself,” Figuerola said in a neutral tone. She did not spare Berger a glance.

“Monica and I met during the investigation. She’s my contact at S.I.S.”

“I understand,” Berger said, and she began to shake as suddenly the shock set in.

Figuerola stared hard at Berger.

“What went wrong?” Blomkvist said.

“We misinterpreted the reason for the cocaine,” Figuerola said. “We thought they were setting a trap for you, to create a scandal. Now we know they wanted to kill you. They were going to let the police find the cocaine when they went through your apartment.”

“What cocaine?” Berger said.

Blomkvist closed his eyes for a moment.

“Take me to St Göran’s,” he said.

“Arrested?” Clinton barked. He felt a butterfly-light pressure around his heart.

“We think it’s alright,” Nyström said. “It seems to have been sheer bad luck.”

“Bad luck?”

“Miro Nikolich was wanted on some old assault story. A policeman from the gangs unit happened to recognize him when he went into Samir’s Cauldron and wanted to arrest him. Nikolich panicked and tried to shoot his way out.”

“And Blomkvist?”

“He wasn’t involved. We don’t even know if he was in the restaurant at the time.”

“This cannot be fucking true,” Clinton said. “What do the Nikolich brothers know?”

“About us? Nothing. They think Björck and Blomkvist were both hits that had to do with trafficking.”

“But they know that Blomkvist was the target?”

“Sure, but they’re hardly going to start blabbing about being hired to do a hit. They’ll keep their mouths shut all the way to district court. They’ll do time for possession of illegal weapons and, as like as not, for resisting arrest.”

“Those damned fuck-ups,” Clinton said.

“Well, they seriously screwed up. We’ve had to let Blomkvist give us the slip for the moment, but no harm was actually done.”

It was 11.00 by the time Linder and two hefty bodyguards from Milton Security’s personal protection unit collected Blomkvist and Berger from Kungsholmen.

“You really do get around,” Linder said.

“Sorry,” Berger said gloomily.

Berger had been in a state of shock as they drove to St Göran’s. It had dawned on her all of a sudden that both she and Blomkvist had very nearly been killed.

Blomkvist had spent an hour in A.&E. having his head X-rayed and his face bandaged. His left middle finger was put in a splint. The end joint of his finger was badly bruised and he would lose the fingernail. Ironically the main injury was caused when Andersson came to his rescue and pulled Nikolich off him. Blomkvist’s middle finger had been caught in the trigger guard of the M/45 and had snapped straight across. It hurt a lot but was hardly life-threatening.

For Blomkvist the shock did not set in until two hours later, when he had arrived at Constitutional Protection at S.I.S. and reported to Inspector Bublanski and Prosecutor Gustavsson. He began to shiver and felt so tired that he almost fell asleep between questions. At that point a certain amount of palavering ensued.

“We don’t know what they’re planning and we have no idea whether Mikael was the only intended victim,” Figuerola said. “Or whether Erika here was supposed to die too. We don’t know if they will try again or if anyone else at Millennium is being targeted. And why not kill Salander? After all, she’s the truly serious threat to the Section.”

“I’ve already rung my colleagues at Millennium while Mikael was being patched up,” Berger said. “Everyone’s going to lie extremely low until the magazine comes out. The office will be left unstaffed.”

Edklinth’s immediate reaction had been to order bodyguard protection for Blomkvist and Berger. But on reflection he and Figuerola decided that it would not be the smartest move to contact S.I.S.’s Personal Protection unit. Berger solved the problem by declining police protection. She called Armansky to explain what had happened, which was why, later that night, Linder was called in for duty.

Blomkvist and Berger were lodged on the top floor of a safe house just beyond Drottningholm on the road to Ekerö. It was a large ’30s villa overlooking Lake Mälaren. It had an impressive garden, outbuildings and extensive grounds. The estate was owned by Milton Security, but Martina Sjögren lived there. She was the widow of their colleague of many years, Hans Sjögren, who had died in an accident on assignment fifteen years earlier. After the funeral, Armansky had talked with Fru Sjögren and then hired her as housekeeper and general caretaker of the property. She lived rent-free in a wing of the ground floor and kept the top floor ready for those occasions, a few times each year, when Milton Security at short notice needed to hide away individuals who for real or imagined reasons feared for their safety.

Figuerola went with them. She sank on to a chair in the kitchen and allowed Fru Sjögren to serve her coffee, while Berger and Blomkvist installed themselves upstairs and Linder checked the alarm and electronic surveillance equipment around the property.

“There are toothbrushes and so on in the chest of drawers outside the bathroom,” Sjögren called up the stairs.

Linder and Milton’s bodyguards installed themselves in rooms on the ground floor.

“I’ve been on the go ever since I was woken at 4.00,” Linder said. “You can put together a watch rota, but let me sleep till at least 5.00.”

“You can sleep all night. We’ll take care of this,” one of the bodyguards said.

“Thanks,” Linder said, and she went straight to bed.

Figuerola listened absent-mindedly as the bodyguards switched on the motion detector in the courtyard and drew straws to see who would take the first watch. The one who lost made himself a sandwich and went into the T.V. room next to the kitchen. Figuerola studied the flowery coffee cups. She too had been on the go since early morning and was feeling fairly exhausted. She was just thinking about driving home when Berger came downstairs and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat down opposite Figuerola.

“Mikael went out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow.”

“Reaction to the adrenaline,” Figuerola said.

“What happens now?”

“You’ll have to lie low for a few days. Within a week this will all be over, whichever way it ends. How are you feeling?”

“So-so. A bit shaky still. It’s not every day something like this happens. I just called my husband to explain why I wouldn’t be coming home.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m married to –”

“I know who you’re married to.”

Silence. Figuerola rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“I have to go home and get some sleep,” she said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, stop talking rubbish and go and lie down with Mikael,” Berger said.

Figuerola looked at her.

“Is it that obvious?” she said.

Berger nodded.

“Did Mikael say anything –”

“Not a word. He’s generally rather discreet when it comes to his lady friends. But sometimes he’s an open book. And you’re clearly hostile every time you even look at me. The pair of you obviously have something to hide.”

“It’s my boss,” Figuerola said.

“Where does he come into it?”

“He’d fly off the handle if he knew that Mikael and I were –”

“I can quite see that.”

Silence.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m not your rival,” Berger said.

“You’re not?”

“Mikael and I sleep together now and then. But I’m not married to him.”

“I heard that you two had a special relationship. He told me about you when we were out at Sandhamn.”

“So you’ve been to Sandhamn? Then it is serious.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Monica, I hope that you and Mikael… I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

“And if you can’t?”

Berger shrugged. “His ex-wife flipped out big time when Mikael was unfaithful with me. She threw him out. It was my fault. As long as Mikael is single and available, I would have no compunction. But I promised myself that if he was ever serious about someone, then I’d keep my distance.”

“I don’t know if I dare count on him.”

“Mikael is special. Are you in love with him?”

“I think so.”

“Alright, then. Just don’t tell him too soon. Now go to bed.”

Figuerola thought about it for a moment. Then she went upstairs, undressed and crawled into bed next to Blomkvist. He mumbled something and put his arm around her waist.

Berger sat alone in the kitchen for a long time. She felt deeply unhappy.

CHAPTER 25

Blomkvist had always wondered why the loudspeakers in the district court were so faint, discreet almost. He could hardly make out the words of the announcement that the trial vs Lisbeth Salander would begin in courtroom 5 at 10.00. But he had arrived in plenty of time and positioned himself to wait right by the entrance to the courtroom. He was one of the first to be let in. He chose a seat in the public gallery on the left-hand side of the room, where he would have the best view of the defence table. The seats filled up fast. Media interest had steadily increased in the weeks leading up to the trial, and over the past week Prosecutor Ekström had been interviewed daily.

Lisbeth Salander was charged with assault and grievous bodily harm in the case of Carl-Magnus Lundin; with unlawful threats, attempted murder and grievous bodily harm in the case of Karl Axel Bodin, alias Alexander Zalachenko, now deceased; with two counts of breaking and entering – the first at the summer cabin of the deceased lawyer Nils Erik Bjurman in Stallarholmen, the second at Bjurman’s home on Odenplan; with the theft of a vehicle – a Harley-Davidson owned by one Sonny Nieminen of Svavelsjö M.C.; with three counts of possession of illegal weapons – a canister of Mace, a taser and a Polish P-83 Wanad, all found in Gosseberga; with the theft of or withholding of evidence – the formulation was imprecise but it referred to the documentation she had found in Bjurman’s summer cabin; and with a number of further misdemeanours. In all, sixteen charges had been filed against Lisbeth Salander.

Ekström had been busy.

He had also leaked information indicating that Salander’s mental state was cause for alarm. He cited first the forensic psychiatric report by Dr Jesper H. Löderman that had been compiled at the time of her eighteenth birthday, and second, a report which, in accordance with a decision by the district court at a preliminary hearing, had been written by Dr Peter Teleborian. Since the mentally ill girl had, true to form, refused categorically to speak to psychiatrists, the analysis was made on the basis of “observations” carried out while she was detained at Kronoberg prison in Stockholm during the month before her trial. Teleborian, who had many years of experience with the patient, had determined that Salander was suffering from a serious mental disturbance and employed words such as psychopathy, pathological narcissism, paranoid schizophrenia, and similar.

The press had also reported that seven police interviews had been conducted with Salander. At each of these interviews the defendant had declined even to say good morning to those who were leading the interrogation. The first few interviews had been conducted by the Göteborg police, the remainder had taken place at police headquarters in Stockholm. The tape recordings of the interview protocol revealed that the police had used every means of persuasion and repeated questioning, but had not received the favour of a single reply.

She had not even bothered to clear her throat.

Occasionally Advokat Giannini’s voice could be heard on the tapes, at such points as she realized that her client evidently was not going to answer any questions. The charges against Salander were accordingly based exclusively on forensic evidence and on whatever facts the police investigation had been able to determine.

Salander’s silence had at times placed her defence lawyer in an awkward position, since she was compelled to be almost as silent as her client. What Giannini and Salander discussed in private was confidential.

Ekström made no secret of the fact that his primary objective was secure psychiatric care for the defendant; of secondary interest to him was a substantial prison sentence. The normal process was the reverse, but he believed that in her case there were such transparent mental disturbances and such an unequivocal forensic psychiatric assessment that he was left with no alternative. It was highly unusual for a court to decide against a forensic psychiatric assessment.

He also believed that Salander’s declaration of incompetence should be rescinded. In an interview he had explained with a concerned expression that in Sweden there were a number of sociopaths with such grave mental disturbances that they presented a danger to themselves as well as to others, and modern medicine could offer no alternative to keeping these individuals safely locked up. He cited the case of a violent girl, Anette, who in the ’70s had been a frequent focus of attention in the media, and who thirty years on was still in a secure psychiatric institution. Every endeavour to ease the restrictions had resulted in her launching reckless and violent attacks on relatives and carers, or in attempts to injure herself. Ekström was of the view that Salander suffered from a similar form of psychopathic disturbance.

Media interest had also increased for the simple reason that Salander’s defence lawyer, Advokat Giannini, had made not a single statement to the press. She had refused all requests to be interviewed so that the media were, as they many times put it, “unable to have an opportunity to present the views of the other side of the case”. Journalists were therefore in a difficult situation: the prosecution kept on shovelling out information while the defence, uncharacteristically, gave not the slightest hint of Salander’s reaction to the charges against her, nor of what strategy the defence might employ.

This state of affairs was commented on by the legal expert engaged to follow the trial in one of the evening newspapers. The expert had stated in his column that Advokat Giannini was a respected women’s rights lawyer, but that she had absolutely no experience in criminal law outside this case. He concluded that she was unsuitable for the purpose of defending Salander. From his sister Blomkvist had also learned that several distinguished lawyers had offered their services. Giannini had, on behalf of her client, courteously turned down every such proposal.

As he waited for the trial to begin, Blomkvist glanced around at the other spectators. He caught sight of Armansky sitting near the exit and their eyes met for a moment.

Ekström had a large stack of papers on his table. He greeted several journalists.

Giannini sat at her table opposite Ekström. She had her head down and was sorting through her papers. Blomkvist thought that his sister looked a bit tense. Stage fright, he supposed.

Then the judge, assessor and lay assessors entered the courtroom. Judge Jörgen Iversen was a white-haired, 57-year-old man with a gaunt face and a spring in his step. Blomkvist had researched Iversen’s background and found that he was an exacting judge of long experience who had presided over many high-profile cases.

Finally Salander was brought into the courtroom.

Even though Blomkvist was used to Salander’s penchant for shocking clothing, he was amazed that his sister had allowed her to turn up to the courtroom in a black leather miniskirt with frayed seams and a black top – with the legend I am annoyed – which barely covered her many tattoos. She had ten piercings in her ears and rings through her lower lip and left eyebrow. Her head was covered in three months’ worth of uneven stubble after her surgery. She wore grey lipstick and heavily darkened eyebrows, and had applied more black mascara than Blomkvist had ever seen her wear. In the days when he and Salander had spent time together, she had shown almost no interest in make-up.

She looked a bit vulgar, to put it mildly. It was almost a Goth look. She reminded him of a vampire in some pop-art movie from the ’60s. Blomkvist was aware of some of the reporters in the press gallery catching their breath in astonishment or smiling broadly. They were at last getting a look at the scandal-ridden young woman they had written so much about, and she was certainly living up to all their expectations.

Then he realized that Salander was in costume. Usually her style was sloppy and rather tasteless. Blomkvist had assumed that she was not really interested in fashion, but that she tried instead to accentuate her own individuality. Salander always seemed to mark her private space as hostile territory, and he had thought of the rivets in her leather jacket as a defence mechanism, like the quills of a hedgehog. To everyone around her it was as good a signal as any: Don’t try to touch me – it will hurt.

But here in the district court she had exaggerated her style to the point of parody.

It was no accident, it was part of Giannini’s strategy.

If Salander had come in with her hair smoothed down and wearing a twin-set and pearls and sensible shoes, she would have came across as a con artist trying to sell a story to the court. It was a question of credibility. She had come as herself and no-one else. Way over the top – for clarity. She was not pretending to be someone she was not. Her message to the court was that she had no reason to be ashamed or to put on a show. If the court had a problem with her appearance, it was no concern of hers. The state had accused her of a multitude of things, and the prosecutor had dragged her into court. With her very appearance she had already indicated that she intended to brush aside the prosecutor’s accusations as nonsense.

She moved with confidence and sat down next to her lawyer. She surveyed the spectators. There was no curiosity in her gaze. She seemed instead defiantly to be observing and registering those who had already convicted her in the press.

It was the first time Blomkvist had seen her since she lay like a bloody rag doll on the bench in that kitchen in Gosseberga, and a year and a half or more since he had last seen her under normal circumstances. If the term “normal circumstances” could ever be used in connection with Salander. For a matter of seconds their eyes met. Hers lingered on him, but she betrayed no sign of recognition. Yet she did seem to study the bruises that covered Blomkvist’s cheek and temple and the surgical tape over his right eyebrow. Blomkvist thought he discerned the merest hint of a smile in her eyes but could not be sure he had not imagined it. Then Judge Iversen pounded his gavel and called the court to order.

The spectators were allowed to be present in the courtroom for all of thirty minutes. They listened to Ekström’s introductory presentation of the case.

Every reporter except Blomkvist was busily taking notes even though by now all of them knew the charges Ekström intended to bring. Blomkvist had already written his story.

Ekström’s introductory remarks went on for twenty-two minutes. Then it was Giannini’s turn. Her presentation took thirty seconds. Her voice was firm.

“The defence rejects all the charges brought against her except one. My client admits to possession of an illegal weapon, that is, one spray canister of Mace. To all other counts, my client pleads not guilty of criminal intent. We will show that the prosecutor’s assertions are flawed and that my client has been subjected to grievous encroachment of her civil rights. I will demand that my client be acquitted of all charges, that her declaration of incompetence be revoked, and that she be released.”

There was a murmuring from the press gallery. Advokat Giannini’s strategy had at last been revealed. It was obviously not what the reporters had been expecting. Most had speculated that Giannini would in some way exploit her client’s mental illness to her advantage. Blomkvist smiled.

“I see,” Judge Iversen said, making a swift note. He looked at Giannini. “Are you finished?”

“That is my presentation.”

“Does the prosecutor have anything to add?” Judge Iversen said.

It was at this point that Ekström requested a private meeting in the judge’s chambers. There he argued that the case hinged upon one vulnerable individual’s mental state and welfare, and that it also involved matters which, if explored before the public in court, could be detrimental to national security.

“I assume that you are referring to what may be termed the Zalachenko affair,” Judge Iversen said.

“That is correct. Alexander Zalachenko came to Sweden as a political refugee and sought asylum from a terrible dictatorship. There are elements in the handling of his situation, personal connections and the like, that are still classified, even though Herr Zalachenko is now deceased. I therefore request that the deliberations be held behind closed doors and that a rule of confidentiality be applied to those sections of the deliberations that are particularly sensitive.”

“I believe I understand your point,” Judge Iversen said, knitting his brows.

“In addition, a large part of the deliberations will deal with the defendant’s guardianship. This touches on matters which in all normal cases become classified almost automatically, and it is out of respect for the defendant that I am requesting a closed court.”

“How does Advokat Giannini respond to the prosecutor’s request?”

“For our part it makes no difference.”

Judge Iversen consulted his assessor and then announced, to the annoyance of the reporters present, that he had accepted the prosecutor’s request. So Blomkvist left the courtroom.

Armansky waited for Blomkvist at the bottom of the stairs in the courthouse. It was sweltering in the July heat and Blomkvist could feel sweat in his armpits. His two bodyguards joined him as he emerged from the courthouse. Both nodded to Armansky and then they busied themselves studying the surroundings.

“It feels strange to be walking around with bodyguards,” Blomkvist said. “What’s all this going to cost?”

“It’s on the firm. I have a personal interest in keeping you alive. But, since you ask, we’ve spent roughly 250,000 kronor on pro bono work in the past few months.”

“Coffee?” Blomkvist said, pointing to the Italian café on Bergsgatan.

Blomkvist ordered a latte and Armansky a double espresso with a teaspoon of milk. They sat in the shade on the pavement outside. The bodyguards sat at the next table drinking Cokes.

“Closed court,” Armansky said.

“That was expected. And it’s O.K., since it means that we can control the news flow better.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t matter to us, but my opinion of Prosecutor Ekström is sinking fast,” Armansky said.

They drank their coffee and contemplated the courthouse in which Salander’s future would be decided.

“Custer’s last stand,” Blomkvist said.

“She’s well prepared,” Armansky said. “And I must say I’m impressed with your sister. When she began planning her strategy I thought it made no sense, but the more I think about it, the more effective it seems.”

“This trial won’t be decided in there,” Blomkvist said. He had been repeating these words like a mantra for several months.

“You’re going to be called as a witness,” Armansky said.

“I know. I’m ready. But it won’t happen before the day after tomorrow. At least that’s what we’re counting on.”

Ekström had left his reading glasses at home and had to push his glasses up on to his forehead and squint to be able to read the last-minute handwritten additions to his text. He stroked his blond goatee before once more he readjusted his glasses and surveyed the room.

Salander sat with her back ramrod straight and gave the prosecutor an unfathomable look. Her face and eyes were impassive and she did not appear to be wholly present. It was time for the prosecutor to begin questioning her.

“I would like to remind Fröken Salander that she is speaking under oath,” Ekström said at last.

Salander did not move a muscle. Prosecutor Ekström seemed to be anticipating some sort of response and waited for a few seconds. He looked at her expectantly.

“You are speaking under oath,” he said.

Salander tilted her head very slightly. Giannini was busy reading something in the preliminary investigation protocol and seemed unconcerned by whatever Prosecutor Ekström was saying. Ekström shuffled his papers. After an uncomfortable silence he cleared his throat.

“Very well then,” Ekström said. “Let us proceed directly to the events at the late Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin outside Stallarholmen on April 6 of this year, which was the starting point of my presentation of the case this morning. We shall attempt to bring clarity to how it happened that you drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin.”

Ekström gave Salander a challenging look. Still she did not move a muscle. The prosecutor suddenly seemed resigned. He threw up his hands and looked pleadingly at the judge. Judge Iversen seemed wary. He glanced at Giannini who was still engrossed in some papers, apparently unaware of her surroundings.

Judge Iversen cleared his throat. He looked at Salander. “Are we to interpret your silence to mean that you don’t want to answer any questions?” he asked.

Salander turned her head and met Judge Iversen’s eyes.

“I will gladly answer questions,” she said.

Judge Iversen nodded.

“Then perhaps you can answer the question,” Ekström put in.

Salander looked at Ekström and said nothing.

“Could you please answer the question?” Judge Iversen urged her.

Salander looked back at the judge and raised her eyebrows. Her voice was clear and distinct.

“Which question? Until now that man there” – she nodded towards Ekström – “has made a number of unverified statements. I haven’t yet heard a question.”

Giannini looked up. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand with an interested expression.

Ekström lost his train of thought for few seconds.

“Could you please repeat the question?” Judge Iversen said.

“I asked whether… you drove down to Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin in Stallarholmen with the intention of shooting Carl-Magnus Lundin.”

“No. You said that you were going to try to bring clarity to how it happened that I drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin. That was not a question. It was a general assertion in which you anticipated my answer. I’m not responsible for the assertions you are making.”

“Don’t quibble. Answer the question.”

“No.”

Silence.

“No what?”

“No is my answer to the question.”

Prosecutor Ekström sighed. This was going to be a long day. Salander watched him expectantly.

“It might be best to take this from the beginning,” he said. “Were you at the late Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin in Stallarholmen on the afternoon of April 6 this year?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get there?”

“I went by shuttle train to Södertälje and took the Strängnäs bus.”

“What was your reason for going to Stallarholmen? Had you arranged a meeting there with Carl-Magnus Lundin and his friend Sonny Nieminen?”

“No.”

“How was it that they showed up there?”

“You’ll have to ask them that.”

“I’m asking you.”

Salander did not reply.

Judge Iversen cleared his throat. “I presume that Fröken Salander is not answering because – purely semantically – you have once again made an assertion,” the judge said helpfully.

Giannini suddenly sniggered just loud enough to be heard. She pulled herself together at once and studied her papers again. Ekström gave her an irritated glance.

“Why do you think Lundin and Nieminen went to Bjurman’s summer cabin?”

“I don’t know. I suspect that they went there to commit arson. Lundin had a litre of petrol in a plastic bottle in the saddlebag of his Harley-Davidson.”

Ekström pursed his lips. “Why did you go to Advokat Bjurman’s summer cabin?”

“I was looking for information.”

“What sort of information?”

“The information that I suspect Lundin and Nieminen were there to destroy, and which could contribute to clarifying who murdered the bastard.”

“Is it your opinion that Advokat Bjurman was a bastard? Is that correctly construed?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think that?”

“He was a sadistic pig, a pervert, and a rapist – and therefore a bastard.”

She was quoting the text that had been tattooed on the late Advokat Bjurman’s stomach and thus indirectly admitting that she was responsible for it. This affray, however, was not included in the charges against Salander. Bjurman had never filed a report of assault, and it would be impossible now to prove whether he had allowed himself to be tattooed or whether it had been done against his will.

“In other words, you are alleging that your guardian forced himself on you. Can you tell the court when these assaults are supposed to have taken place?”

“They took place on Tuesday, February 18, 2003 and again on Friday, March 7 of the same year.”

“You have refused to answer every question asked by the police in their attempts to interview you. Why?”

“I had nothing to say to them.”

“I have read the so-called ‘autobiography’ that your lawyer delivered without warning a few days ago. I must say it is a strange document, and we’ll come back to it in more detail later. But in it you claim that Advokat Bjurman allegedly forced you to perform oral sex on the first occasion, and on the second subjected you to an entire night of repeated and consummated rape and severe torture.”

Lisbeth did not reply.

“Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you report the rapes to the police?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The police never listened before when I tried to tell them something. So there seemed no point in reporting anything to them then.”

“Did you discuss these assaults with any of your acquaintances? A girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s none of their business.”

“Did you try to contact a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Did you go to a doctor to be treated for the injuries you claim to have sustained?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t go to any women’s crisis centre either.”

“Now you’re making an assertion again.”

“Excuse me. Did you go to any women’s crisis centre?”

“No.”

Ekström turned to the judge. “I want to make the court aware that the defendant has stated that she was subjected to sexual assaults on two occasions, the second of which should be considered exceptionally severe. The person she claims committed these rapes was her guardian, the late Advokat Nils Bjurman. The following facts should be taken into account at this juncture…” Ekström pointed at the text in front of him. “In the investigation carried out by the Violent Crimes Division, there was nothing in Advokat Bjurman’s past to support the credibility of Lisbeth Salander’s account. Bjurman was never convicted of any crime. He has never been reported to the police or been the subject of an investigation. He had previously been a guardian or trustee to several other young people, none of whom have claimed that they were subjected to any sort of attack. On the contrary, they assert that Bjurman invariably behaved correctly and kindly towards them.”

Ekström turned a page.

“It is also my duty to remind the court that Lisbeth Salander has been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. This is a young woman with a documented violent tendency, who since her early teens has had serious problems in her interactions with society. She spent several years in a children’s psychiatric institution and has been under guardianship since the age of eighteen. However regrettable this may be, there are reasons for it. Lisbeth Salander is a danger to herself and to those around her. It is my conviction that she does not need a prison sentence. She needs psychiatric care.”

He paused for effect.

“Discussing a young person’s mental state is an innately disagreeable task. So much is an invasion of privacy, and her mental state becomes the subject of interpretation. In this case, however, we have Lisbeth Salander’s own confused world view on which to base our decision. It becomes manifestly clear in what she has termed her ‘autobiography’. Nowhere is her want of a foothold in reality as evident as it is here. In this instance we need no witnesses or interpretations to invariably contradict one another. We have her own words. We can judge for ourselves the credibility of her assertions.”

His gaze fell on Salander. Their eyes met. She smiled. She looked malicious. Ekström frowned.

“Does Advokat Giannini have anything to say?” Judge Iversen said.

“No,” Giannini said. “Other than that Prosecutor Ekström’s conclusions are nonsensical.”

The afternoon session began with the cross-questioning of witnesses. The first was Ulrika von Liebenstaahl from the guardianship agency. Ekström had called her to the stand to establish whether complaints had ever been lodged against Advokat Bjurman. This was strongly denied by von Liebenstaahl. Such assertions were defamatory.

“There exists a rigorous supervision of guardianship cases. Advokat Bjurman had been active on behalf of the guardianship agency for almost twenty years before he was so shockingly murdered.”

She gave Salander a withering look, despite the fact that Salander was not accused of murder; it had already been established that Bjurman was murdered by Ronald Niedermann.

“In all these years there has not been a single complaint against Advokat Bjurman. He was a conscientious person who evidenced a deep commitment to his wards.”

“So you don’t think it’s plausible that he would have subjected Lisbeth Salander to aggravated sexual assault?”

“I think that statement is ridiculous. We have monthly reports from Advokat Bjurman, and I personally met him on several occasions to go over the assignment.”

“Advokat Giannini has presented a request that Lisbeth Salander’s guardianship be rescinded, effective immediately.”

“No-one is happier than we who work at the agency when a guardianship can be rescinded. Unfortunately we have a responsibility, which means that we have to follow the appropriate regulations. For the agency’s part, we are required in accordance with normal protocol to see to it that Lisbeth Salander is declared fit by a psychiatric expert before there can be any talk of changes to her legal status.”

“I understand.”

“This means that she has to submit to a psychiatric examination. Which, as everyone knows, she has refused to do.”

The questioning of Ulrika von Liebenstaahl lasted for about forty minutes, during which time Bjurman’s monthly reports were examined.

Giannini asked only one question before Ulrika von Liebenstaahl was dismissed.

“Were you in Advokat Bjurman’s bedroom on the night of 7 to 8 March, 2003?”

“Of course not.”

“In other words, you haven’t the faintest idea whether my client’s statement is true or not?”

“The accusation against Advokat Bjurman is preposterous.”

“That is your opinion. Can you give him an alibi or in any other way document that he did not assault my client?”

“That’s impossible, naturally. But the probability –”

“Thank you. That will be all,” Giannini said.

Blomkvist met his sister at Milton’s offices near Slussen at around 7.00 to go through the day’s proceedings.

“It was pretty much as expected,” Giannini said. “Ekström has bought Salander’s autobiography.”

“Good. How’s she holding up?”

Giannini laughed.

“She’s holding up very well, coming across as a complete psychopath. She’s merely being herself.”

“Wonderful.”

“Today has mostly been about what happened at the cabin in Stallarholmen. Tomorrow it’ll be about Gosseberga, interrogations of people from forensics and so forth. Ekström is going to try to prove that Salander went down there intending to murder her father.”

“Well…”

“But we may have a technical problem. This afternoon Ekström called Ulrika von Liebenstaahl from the guardianship agency. She started going on about how I had no right to represent Lisbeth.”

“Why so?”

“She says that Lisbeth is under guardianship and therefore isn’t entitled to choose her own lawyer. So, technically, I may not be her lawyer if the guardianship agency hasn’t rubber-stamped it.”

“And?”

“Judge Iversen is to decide tomorrow morning. I had a brief word with him after today’s proceedings. I think he’ll decide that I can continue to represent her. My point was that the agency has had three whole months to raise the objection – to show up with that kind of objection after proceedings have started is an unwarranted provocation.”

“Teleborian will testify on Friday, I gather. You have to be the one who cross-examines him.”

On Thursday Prosecutor Ekström explained to the court that after studying maps and photographs and listening to extensive technical conclusions about what had taken place in Gosseberga, he had determined that the evidence indicated that Salander had gone to her father’s farmhouse at Gosseberga with the intention of killing him. The strongest link in the chain of evidence was that she had taken a weapon with her, a Polish P-83 Wanad.

The fact that Alexander Zalachenko (according to Salander’s account) or possibly the police murderer Ronald Niedermann (according to testimony that Zalachenko had given before he was murdered at Sahlgrenska) had in turn attempted to kill Salander and bury her in a trench in woods nearby could in no way be held in mitigation of the fact that she had tracked down her father to Gosseberga with the express intention of killing him. Moreover, she had all but succeeded in that objective when she struck him in the face with an axe. Ekström demanded that Salander be convicted of attempted murder or premeditation with the intent to kill and, in that case, grievous bodily harm.

Salander’s own account stated that she had gone to Gosseberga to confront her father, to persuade him to confess to the murders of Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson. This statement was of dramatic significance in the matter of establishing intent.

When Ekström had finished questioning the witness Melker Hansson from the technical unit of the Göteborg police, Advokat Giannini had asked some succinct questions.

“Herr Hansson, is there anything at all in your investigation or in all the technical documentation that you have compiled which could in any way establish that Lisbeth Salander is lying about her intent regarding the visit to Gosseberga? Can you prove that she went there with the intention of murdering her father?”

Hansson thought for a moment.

“No,” he said at last.

“Do you have anything to say about her intent?”

“No.”

“Prosecutor Ekström’s conclusion, eloquent and extensive as it is, is therefore speculation?”

“I believe so.”

“Is there anything in the forensic evidence that contradicts Lisbeth Salander’s statement that she took with her the Polish weapon, a P-83 Wanad, by chance simply because it was in her bag, and she didn’t know what she should do with the weapon having taken it the day before from Sonny Nieminen in Stallarholmen?”

“No.”

“Thank you,” Giannini said and sat down. Those were her only words throughout Hansson’s testimony, which had lasted one hour.

Wadensjöö left the Section’s apartment on Artillerigatan at 6.00 on Thursday evening with a feeling that he was hedged about by ominous clouds of turmoil, of imminent ruin. For several weeks he had known that his title as director, that is, the chief of the Section for Special Analysis, was but a meaningless label. His opinions, protests and entreaties carried no weight. Clinton had taken over all decision-making. If the Section had been an open and public institution, this would not have been a problem – he would merely have gone to his superior and lodged his protests.

As things stood now, there was no-one he could protest to. He was alone and subject to the mercy or disfavour of a man whom he regarded as insane. And the worst of it was that Clinton’s authority was absolute. Snot-nosed kids like Sandberg and faithful retainers like Nyström… they all seemed to jump into line at once and obey the fatally ill lunatic’s every whim.

No question that Clinton was a soft-spoken authority who was not working for his own gain. He would even acknowledge that Clinton was working in the best interests of the Section, or at least in what he regarded as its best interests. The whole organization seemed to be in free fall, indulging in a collective fantasy in which experienced colleagues refused to admit that every movement they made, every decision that was taken and implemented, only led them one step closer to the abyss.

Wadensjöö felt a pressure in his chest as he turned on to Linnégatan, where he had found a parking spot earlier that day. He disabled the alarm and was about to open the car door when he heard a movement behind him. He turned around, squinting against the sun. It was a few seconds before he recognized the stately man on the pavement before him.

“Good evening, Herr Wadensjöö,” Edklinth said. “I haven’t been out in the field in ten years, but today I felt that my presence might be appropriate.”

Wadensjöö looked in confusion at the two plain-clothes policemen flanking Edklinth. Bublanski he knew, but not the other man.

Suddenly he guessed what was going to happen.

“It is my unenviable duty to inform you that the Prosecutor General has decided that you are to be arrested for such a long string of crimes that it will surely take weeks to compile a comprehensive catalogue of them.”

“What’s going on here?” Wadensjöö said indignantly.

“What is going on at this moment is that you are being arrested, suspected of being an accessory to murder. You are also suspected of extortion, bribery, illegal telephone tapping, several counts of criminal forgery, criminal embezzlement of funds, participation in breaking and entering, misuse of authority, espionage and a long list of other lesser but that’s not to say insignificant offences. The two of us are going to Kungsholmen to have a very serious talk in peace and quiet.”

“I haven’t committed murder,” Wadensjöö said breathlessly.

“That will have to be established by the investigation.”

“It was Clinton. It was always Clinton,” Wadensjöö said.

Edklinth nodded in satisfaction.

Every police officer knows that there are two classic ways to conduct the interrogation of a suspect. The bad cop and the good cop. The bad cop threatens, swears, slams his fist on the table and generally behaves aggressively with the intent of scaring the suspect into submission and confession. The good cop, often a small, grey-haired, elderly man, offers cigarettes and coffee, nods sympathetically, and speaks in a reasonable tone.

Many policemen – though not all – also know that the good cop’s interrogation technique is by far a superior way of getting results. The tough-as-nails veteran thief will be least impressed by the bad cop. And the uncertain amateur, who might be frightened into a confession by a bad cop, would in all likelihood have confessed everything anyway, regardless of the technique used.

Blomkvist listened to the questioning of Birger Wadensjöö from an adjoining room. His presence had been the topic of a good deal of internal argument before Edklinth decided that he would probably have use for Blomkvist’s observation.

Blomkvist noticed that Edklinth was using a third variant on the police interrogator, the uninterested cop, which in this particular case seemed to be working even better. Edklinth strolled into the interrogation room, served coffee in china cups, turned on the tape recorder and leaned back in his chair.

“This is how it is: we already have every conceivable forensic evidence against you. We have, accordingly, no interest whatsoever in hearing your story save as confirmation of what we already know. But the question we might want an answer to is: why? Or how could you be so idiotic as to decide to begin liquidating individuals in Sweden just as we saw happen in Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship? The tape is rolling. If you have anything to say, now is the time. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll turn off the tape recorder and then we’ll remove your tie and shoelaces and accommodate you in a cell upstairs while we wait for a lawyer, a trial, and in due course, sentencing.”

Edklinth then took a sip of coffee and sat in silence. When nothing was said for two minutes, he reached out and turned off the tape recorder. He stood up.

“I’ll see that you’re taken upstairs in a few minutes. Good evening.”

“I didn’t murder anyone,” Wadensjöö said when Edklinth had already opened the door. Edklinth paused on the threshold.

“I’m not interested in having a general discussion with you. If you want to explain yourself, then I’ll sit down and turn the tape recorder back on. All of Swedish officialdom – and the Prime Minister in particular – is eagerly waiting to hear what you have to say. If you tell me, then I can go and see the Prime Minister tonight to give him your version of events. If you don’t tell me, you will be charged and convicted anyway.”

“Please sit down,” Wadensjöö said.

It was evident to everyone that he was resigned to it already. Blomkvist exhaled. He was there with Figuerola, Prosecutor Gustavsson, the otherwise anonymous Säpo officer Stefan, and two other altogether nameless individuals. Blomkvist suspected that one of them at least was there to represent the Minister of Justice.

“I had nothing to do with the murders,” Wadensjöö said when Edklinth started the tape recorder again.

“Murders?” Blomkvist whispered to Figuerola.

“Ssshh,” she said.

“It was Clinton and Gullberg. I had no idea what they intended. I swear it. I was utterly shocked when I heard that Gullberg had shot Zalachenko. I couldn’t believe it… I simply couldn’t believe it. And when I heard about Björck I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

“Tell me about Björck’s murder,” Edklinth said without altering his tone. “How was it carried out?”

“Clinton hired some people. I don’t even know how it happened, but it was two Yugoslavs. Serbs, if I’m not mistaken. Georg Nyström gave them the contract and paid them afterwards. When I found out, I knew it would end in disaster.”

“Should we take this from the beginning?” Edklinth said. “When did you first start working for the Section?”

Once Wadensjöö had begun to talk he could not be stopped. The interview lasted for almost five hours.

CHAPTER 26

Teleborian’s appearance inspired confidence as he sat in the witness box in the courtroom on Friday morning. He was questioned by Prosecutor Ekström for some ninety minutes and he replied with calm authority to every question. The expression on his face was sometimes concerned and sometimes amused.

“To sum up…” Ekström said, leafing through his sheaf of papers. “It is your judgement as a psychiatrist of long standing that Lisbeth Salander suffers from paranoid schizophrenia?”

“I have said that it is unusually difficult to make a precise evaluation of her condition. The patient is, as you know, almost autistic in her relation to doctors and other figures of authority. My assessment is that she suffers from a serious mental disorder, but that at the present time I cannot give an exact diagnosis. Nor can I determine what stage of the psychosis she is in without more extensive study.”

“At any rate, you don’t consider her to be sane.”

“Indeed her entire history presents most compelling proof that she is not sane.”

“You have been allowed to read what Lisbeth Salander has termed her ‘autobiography’, which she has presented to the district court. What are your comments on this?”

Teleborian threw up his hands and shrugged.

“How would you judge the credibility of her account?”

“There is no credibility. It is a series of assertions about various individuals, one story more fantastical than the other. Taken as a whole, her written explanation confirms our suspicions that she suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.”

“Could you give an instance?”

“The most obvious is of course the description of the alleged rape by her guardian Advokat Bjurman.”

“Could you expand on that?”

“The description is extremely detailed. It is a classic example of the sort of grotesque fantasy that children are capable of. There are plenty of parallel examples from familial incest cases in which the child gives an account which falls through due to its utter improbability, and for which there is no forensic evidence. These are erotic fantasies which even children of a very young age can have… Almost as if they were watching a horror film on television.”

“But Lisbeth Salander is not a child, she is a grown woman,” Ekström said.

“That is correct. Although it remains to be seen exactly what her mental level may be. But basically you are correct. She is a grown woman, and presumably she believes in the account she has presented.”

“So you’re saying it is all lies.”

“No. If she believes what she says, then it is not a lie. It’s a story which shows that she cannot distinguish fantasy from reality.”

“So she was not raped by Advokat Bjurman?”

“No. There is no likelihood of that at all. She needs expert care.”

“You yourself appear in Lisbeth Salander’s account –”

“Yes, and that is rather intriguing. But once again, it’s a figment of her imagination. If we are to believe the poor girl, then I’m something approximate to a paedophile…” He smiled and continued. “But this is all just another expression of what I was speaking of before. In Salander’s autobiography we are told that she was abused by being placed in restraints for long spells at St Stefan’s. And that I came to her room at night… This is a classic manifestation of her inability to interpret reality, or rather, she is giving reality her own interpretation.”

“Thank you. I leave it to the defence, if Fru Giannini has any questions.”

Since Giannini had not had any questions or objections on the first two days of the trial, those in the courtroom expected that she would once again ask some obligatory questions and then bring the questioning to an end. This really is an embarrassingly deficient effort by the defence, Ekström thought.

“Yes, I do,” Giannini said. “I do in fact have a number of questions, and they may take some time. It’s 11.30 now. May I propose that we break for lunch, and that I be allowed to carry out my cross-examination of the witness after lunch without interval?”

Judge Iversen agreed that the court should adjourn for lunch.

Andersson was accompanied by two uniformed officers when he placed his huge hand on Superintendent Nyström’s shoulder outside the Mäster Anders restaurant on Hantverkargatan at noon precisely. Nyström looked up in amazement at the man who was shoving his police I.D. right under his nose.

“Hello. You’re under arrest, suspected of being an accessory to murder and attempted murder. The charges will be explained to you by the Prosecutor General at a hearing this afternoon. I suggest that you come along peacefully,” he said.

Nyström did not seem to comprehend the language Andersson was speaking in, but he could see that he was a man you went along with without protest.

Inspector Bublanski was accompanied by Modig and seven uniformed officers when Stefan Bladh of the Constitutional Protection Unit admitted them at noon precisely into the locked section that comprised the domain of the Security Police at Kungsholmen. They walked through the corridors behind Bladh until he stopped and pointed at an office door. The chief of Secretariat’s assistant looked up and was utterly perplexed when Bublanski held up his I.D.

“Kindly remain where you are. This is a police action.”

He strode to the inner door. Chief of Secretariat Albert was on the telephone.

“What is this interruption?” Shenke said.

“I am Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski. You are under arrest for violation of the Swedish constitution. There is a long list of specific points in the charge, all of which will be explained to you this afternoon.”

“This is outrageous,” Shenke said.

“It most certainly is,” Bublanski said.

He had Shenke’s office sealed and then placed two officers on guard outside the door, with instructions to let no-one cross the threshold. They had permission to use their batons and even draw their service weapons if anyone tried to enter the sealed office by force.

They continued their procession down the corridor until Bladh pointed to another door, and the procedure was repeated with chief of Budget, Gustav Atterbom.

Inspector Holmberg had the Södermalm armed response team as backup when at exactly noon he knocked on the door of an office rented temporarily on the fourth floor just across the street from Millennium’s offices on Götgatan.

Since no-one opened the door, Holmberg ordered the Södermalm police to force the lock, but the door was opened a crack before the crowbar was used.

“Police,” Holmberg said. “Come out with your hands up.”

“I’m a policeman myself,” Inspector Mårtensson said.

“I know. And you have licences for a great many guns.”

“Yes, well… I’m an officer on assignment.”

“I think not,” Holmberg said.

He accepted the assistance of his colleagues in propping Mårtensson against the wall so he could confiscate his service weapon.

“You are under arrest for illegal telephone tapping, gross dereliction of duty, repeated break-ins at Mikael Blomkvist’s apartment on Bellmansgatan, and additional counts. Handcuff him.”

Holmberg took a swift look around the room and saw that there was enough electronic equipment to furnish a recording studio. He detailed an officer to guard the premises, but told him to sit still on a chair so he would not leave any fingerprints.

As Mårtensson was being led through the front door of the building, Cortez took a series of twenty-two photographs with his Nikon. He was, of course, no professional photographer, and the quality left something to be desired. But the best images were sold the next day to an evening newspaper for an obscene sum of money.

Figuerola was the only police officer participating in the day’s raids who encountered an unexpected incident. She had back-up from the Norrmalm team and three colleagues from S.I.S. when at noon she walked through the front door of the building on Artillerigatan and went up the stairs to the top-floor apartment, registered in the name of Bellona Inc.

The operation had been planned at short notice. As soon as the group was assembled outside the door of the apartment, she gave the go-ahead. Two burly officers from the Norrmalm team raised a forty-kilo steel battering ram and opened the door with two well-aimed blows. The team, equipped with bulletproof vests and assault rifles, took control of the apartment within ten seconds of the door being forced.

According to surveillance carried out at dawn that morning, five individuals identified as members of the Section had arrived at the apartment that morning. All five were apprehended and put in handcuffs.

Figuerola was wearing a protective vest. She went through the apartment, which had been the headquarters of the Section since the ’60s, and flung open one door after another. She was going to need an archaeologist to sort through the reams and reams of paper that filled the rooms.

A few seconds after she entered the apartment, she opened the door to a small room towards the back and discovered that it was used for overnight stays. She found herself eye to eye with Jonas Sandberg. He had been a question mark during that morning’s assignment of tasks, as the surveillance officer detailed to watch him had lost track of him the evening before. His car had been parked on Kungsholmen and he had not been home to his apartment during the night. This morning they had not expected to locate and apprehend him.

They man the place at night for security reasons. Of course. And Sandberg sleeps over after the night shift.

Sandberg had on only his underpants and seemed to be dazed with sleep. He reached for his service weapon on the bedside table, but Figuerola bent over and swept the weapon away from him on to the floor.

“Jonas Sandberg… you are under arrest as a suspect and accessory to the murders of Gunnar Björck and Alexander Zalachenko, and as an accomplice in the attempted murders of Mikael Blomkvist and Erika Berger. Now get your trousers on.”

Sandberg threw a punch at Figuerola. She blocked it instinctively.

“You must be joking,” she said. She took hold of his arm and twisted his wrist so hard that he was forced backwards to the floor. She flipped him over on to his stomach and put her knee in the small of his back. She handcuffed him herself. It was the first time she had used handcuffs on an assignment since she began at S.I.S.

She handed Sandberg over to one of the back-up team and continued her passage through the apartment until she opened the last door at the very back. According to the blueprints, this was a small cubbyhole looking out on to the courtyard. She stopped in the doorway and looked at the most emaciated figure she had ever seen. She did not for one second doubt that here was a person who was mortally ill.

“Fredrik Clinton, you are under arrest as an accomplice to murder, attempted murder, and for a long list of further crimes,” she said. “Stay where you are in bed. We’ve called an ambulance to take you to Kungsholmen.”

Malm was stationed immediately outside the building on Artillerigatan. Unlike Cortez, he knew how to handle his digital Nikon. He used a short telephoto lens and the pictures he took were of excellent quality.

They showed the members of the Section, one by one, being led out through the front door and down to the police cars. And finally the ambulance that arrived to pick up Clinton. His eyes were fixed on the lens as the shutter clicked. Clinton looked nervous and confused.

The photograph later won the Picture of the Year award.

CHAPTER 27

Judge Iversen banged his gavel at 12.30 and decreed that district court proceedings were thereby resumed. He noticed that a third person had appeared at Advokat Giannini’s table. It was Holger Palmgren in a wheelchair.

“Hello, Holger,” Judge Iversen said. “I haven’t seen you in a courtroom in quite a while.”

“Good day to you, Judge Iversen. Some cases are so complicated that these younger lawyers need a little assistance.”

“I thought you had retired.”

“I’ve been ill. But Advokat Giannini engaged me as assistant counsel in this case.”

“I see.”

Giannini cleared her throat.

“It is germane to the case that Advokat Palmgren was until his illness Lisbeth Salander’s guardian.”

“I have no intention of commenting on that matter,” Judge Iversen said.

He nodded to Giannini to begin and she stood up. She had always disliked the Swedish tradition of carrying on court proceedings informally while sitting around a table, almost as though the occasion were a dinner party. She felt better when she could speak standing up.

“I think we should begin with the concluding comments from this morning. Dr Teleborian, what leads you so consistently to dismiss as untrue everything that Lisbeth Salander says?”

“Because her statements so obviously are untrue,” replied Teleborian.

He was relaxed. Giannini turned to the judge.

“Judge Iverson, Dr Teleborian claims that Lisbeth Salander tells lies and that she fantasizes. The defence will now demonstrate that every word in her autobiography is true. We will present copious documentation, both visual and written, as well as the testimony of witnesses. We have now reached the point in this trial when the prosecutor has presented the principal elements of his case… We have listened and we now know the exact nature of the accusations against Lisbeth Salander.”

Giannini’s mouth was suddenly dry and she felt her hands shake. She took a deep breath and sipped her mineral water. Then she placed her hands in a firm grip on the back of the chair so that they would not betray her nervousness.

“From the prosecutor’s presentation we may conclude that he has a great many opinions but a woeful shortage of evidence. He believes that Lisbeth Salander shot Carl-Magnus Lundin in Stallarholmen. He claims that she went to Gosseberga to kill her father. He assumes that my client is a paranoid schizophrenic and mentally ill in every sense. And he bases this assumption on information from a single source, to wit, Dr Peter Teleborian.”

She paused to catch her breath and forced herself to speak slowly.

“As it now stands, the case presented by the prosecutor rests on the testimony of Dr Teleborian. If he is right, then my client would be best served by receiving the expert psychiatric care that both he and the prosecutor are seeking.”

Pause.

“But if Dr Teleborian is wrong, this prosecution case must be seen in a different light. Furthermore, if he is lying, then my client is now, here in this courtroom, being subjected to a violation of her civil rights, a violation that has gone on for many years.”

She turned to face Ekström.

“What we shall do this afternoon is to show that your witness is a false witness, and that you as prosecutor have been deceived into accepting these false testimonies.”

Teleborian flashed a smile. He held out his hands and nodded to Giannini, as if applauding her presentation. Giannini now turned to the judge.

“Your honour. I will show that Dr Teleborian’s so-called forensic psychiatric investigation is nothing but a deception from start to finish. I will show that he is lying about Lisbeth Salander. I will show that my client has in the past been subjected to a gross violation of her rights. And I will show that she is just as sane and intelligent as anyone in this room.”

“Excuse me, but –” Ekström began.

“Just a moment.” She raised a finger. “I have for two days allowed you to talk uninterrupted. Now it’s my turn.”

She turned back to Judge Iversen.

“I would not make so serious an accusation before the court if I did not have ample evidence to support it.”

“By all means, continue,” the judge said. “But I don’t want to hear any long-winded conspiracy theories. Bear in mind that you can be charged with slander for statements that are made before a court.”

“Thank you. I will bear that in mind.”

She turned to Teleborian. He still seemed entertained by the situation.

“The defence has repeatedly asked to be allowed to examine Lisbeth Salander’s medical records from the time when she, in her early teens, was committed to your care at St Stefan’s. Why have we not been shown those records?”

“Because a district court decreed that they were classified. That decision was made out of solicitude for Lisbeth Salander, but if a higher court were to rescind that decision, I would naturally hand them over.”

“Thank you. For how many nights during the two years that Lisbeth Salander spent at St Stefan’s was she kept in restraints?”

“I couldn’t recall that offhand.”

“She herself claims that it was 380 out of the total of 786 days and nights she spent at St Stefan’s.”

“I can’t possibly answer as to the exact number of days, but that is a fantastic exaggeration. Where do those figures come from?”

“From her autobiography.”

“And you believe that today she is able to remember accurately each night she was kept in restraints? That’s preposterous.”

“Is it? How many nights do you recall?”

“Lisbeth Salander was an extremely aggressive and violence-prone patient, and undoubtedly she was placed in a stimulus-free room on a number of occasions. Perhaps I should explain the purpose of a stimulus-free room –”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary. According to theory, it is a room in which a patient is denied any sensory input that might provoke agitation. For how many days and nights did thirteen-year-old Lisbeth Salander lie strapped down in such a room?”

“It would be… I would estimate perhaps on thirty occasions during the time she was at the hospital.”

“Thirty. Now that’s only a fraction of the 380 that she claims.”

“Undeniably.”

“Not even 10 per cent of her figure.”

“Yes…”

“Would her medical records perhaps give us more accurate information?”

“It’s possible.”

“Excellent,” Giannini said, taking out a large sheaf of paper from her briefcase. “Then I ask to be allowed to hand over to the court a copy of Lisbeth Salander’s medical records from St Stefan’s. I have counted the number of notes about the restraining straps and find that the figure is 381, one more than my client claims.”

Teleborian’s eyes widened.

“Stop… this is classified information. Where did you get that from?”

“I got it from a reporter at Millennium magazine. It can hardly be classified if it’s lying around a newspaper’s offices. Perhaps I should add that extracts from these medical records were published today in Millennium. I believe, therefore, that even this district court should have the opportunity to look at the records themselves.”

“This is illegal –”

“No, it isn’t. Lisbeth Salander has given her permission for the extracts to be published. My client has nothing to hide.”

“Your client has been declared incompetent and has no right to make any such decision for herself.”

“We’ll come back to her declaration of incompetence. But first we need to examine what happened to her at St Stefan’s.”

Judge Iversen frowned as he accepted the papers that Giannini handed to him.

“I haven’t made a copy for the prosecutor. On the other hand, he received a copy of this privacy-invading document more than a month ago.”

“How did that happen?” the judge said.

“Prosecutor Ekström got a copy of these classified records from Teleborian at a meeting which took place in his office at 5.00 p.m. on Saturday, June 4 this year.”

“Is that correct?” Judge Iversen said.

Ekström’s first impulse was to deny it. Then he realized that Giannini might somehow have evidence.

“I requested permission to read parts of the records if I signed a confidentiality agreement,” Ekström said. “I had to make sure that Salander had the history she was alleged to have.”

“Thank you,” Giannini said. “This means that we now have confirmation that Dr Teleborian not only tells lies but also broke the law by disseminating records that he himself claims are classified.”

“Duly noted,” said the judge.

Judge Iversen was suddenly very alert. In a most unorthodox way, Giannini had launched a serious attack on a witness, and she already made mincemeat of an important part of his testimony. And she claims that she can document everything she says. Judge Iversen adjusted his glasses.

“Dr Teleborian, based on these records which you yourself wrote… could you now tell me how many days Lisbeth Salander was kept in restraints?”

“I have no recollection that it could have been so extensive, but if that’s what the records say, then I have to believe it.”

“A total of 381 days and nights. Does that not strike you as excessive?”

“It is unusually long… yes.”

“How would you perceive it if you were thirteen years old and someone strapped you to a steel-framed bed for more than a year? Would it feel like torture?”

“You have to understand that the patient was dangerous to herself as well as to others –”

“O.K. Let’s look at dangerous to herself. Has Lisbeth Salander ever injured herself?”

“There were such misgivings –”

“I’ll repeat the question: has Lisbeth Salander ever injured herself? Yes or no?”

“As psychiatrists we must teach ourselves to interpret the overall picture. With regard to Lisbeth Salander, you can see on her body, for example, a multitude of tattoos and piercings, which are also a form of self-destructive behaviour and a way of damaging one’s own body. We can interpret that as a manifestation of self-hate.”

Giannini turned to Salander.

“Are your tattoos a manifestation of self-hate?” she said.

“No,” Salander said.

Giannini turned back to Teleborian. “So you believe that I am also dangerous to myself because I wear earrings and actually have a tattoo in a private place?”

Palmgren sniggered, but he managed to transform the snigger into a clearing of his throat.

“No, not at all… tattoos can also be part of a social ritual.”

“Are you saying that Lisbeth Salander is not part of this social ritual?”

“You can see for yourself that her tattoos are grotesque and extend over large parts of her body. That is no normal measure of fetishism or body decoration.”

“What percentage?”

“Excuse me?”

“At what percentage of tattooed body surface does it stop being fetishism and become a mental illness?”

“You’re distorting my words.”

“Am I? How is it that, in your opinion, it is part of a wholly acceptable social ritual when it applies to me or to other young people, but it becomes dangerous when it’s a matter of evaluating my client’s mental state?”

“As a psychiatrist I have to look at the whole picture. The tattoos are merely an indicator. As I have already said, it is one of many indicators which need to be taken into account when I evaluate her condition.”

Giannini was silent for a few seconds as she fixed Teleborian with her gaze. She now spoke very slowly.

“But Dr Teleborian, you began strapping down my client when she was twelve years old, going on thirteen. At that time she did not have a single tattoo, did she?”

Teleborian hesitated and Giannini went on.

“I presume that you did not strap her down because you predicted that she would begin tattooing herself sometime in the future.”

“Of course not. Her tattoos had nothing to do with her condition in 1991.”

“With that we are back to my original question. Did Lisbeth Salander ever injure herself in a way that would justify keeping her bound to a bed for a whole year? For example, did she cut herself with a knife or a razor blade or anything like that?”

Teleborian looked unsure for a second.

“No… I used the tattoos as an example of self-destructive behaviour.”

“And we have just agreed that tattoos are a legitimate part of a social ritual. I asked why you restrained her for a year and you replied that it was because she was a danger to herself.”

“We had reason to believe that she was a danger to herself.”

“Reason to believe. So you’re saying that you restrained her because you guessed something?”

“We carried out assessments.”

“I have now been asking the same question for about five minutes. You claim that my client’s self-destructive behaviour was one reason why she was strapped down for a total of more than a year out of the two years she was in your care. Can you please finally give me some examples of the self-destructive behaviour she evidenced at the age of twelve?”

“The girl was extremely undernourished, for example. This was partially due to the fact that she refused food. We suspected anorexia.”

“I see. Was she anorexic? As you can see, my client is even today uncommonly thin and fine-boned.”

“Well, it’s difficult to answer that question. I would have to observe her eating habits for quite a long time.”

“You did observe her eating habits – for two years. And now you’re suggesting that you confused anorexia with the fact that my client is small and thin. You say that she refused food.”

“We were compelled to force-feed her on several occasions.”

“And why was that?”

“Because she refused to eat, of course.”

Giannini turned to her client.

“Lisbeth, is it true that you refused to eat at St Stefan’s?”

“Yes.”

“And why was that?”

“Because that bastard was mixing psychoactive drugs into my food.”

“I see. So Dr Teleborian wanted to give you medicine. Why didn’t you want to take it?”

“I didn’t like the medicine I was being given. It made me sluggish. I couldn’t think and I was sedated for most of the time I was awake. And the bastard refused to tell me what the drugs contained.”

“So you refused to take the medicine?”

“Yes. Then he began putting the crap in my food instead. So I stopped eating. Every time something had been put in my food, I stopped eating for five days.”

“So you had to go hungry.”

“Not always. Several of the attendants smuggled sandwiches in to me on various occasions. One in particular gave me food late at night. That happened quite often.”

“So you think that the nursing staff at St Stefan’s saw that you were hungry and gave you food so that you would not have to starve?”

“That was during the period when I was battling with this bastard over psychoactive drugs.”

“Tell us what happened.”

“He tried to drug me. I refused to take his medicine. He started putting it in my food. I refused to eat. He started force-feeding me. I began vomiting up the food.”

“So there was a completely rational reason why you refused the food.”

“Yes.”

“It was not because you didn’t want food?”

“No. I was often hungry.”

“And since you left St Stefan’s… do you eat regularly?”

“I eat when I’m hungry.”

“Would it be correct to say that a conflict arose between you and Dr Teleborian?”

“You could say that.”

“You were sent to St Stefan’s because you had thrown petrol at your father and set him on fire.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because he abused my mother.”

“Did you ever explain that to anyone?”

“Yes.”

“And who was that?”

“I told the police who interviewed me, the social workers, the children’s care workers, the doctors, a pastor, and that bastard.”

“By ‘that bastard’ you are referring to…?”

“That man.” She pointed at Dr Teleborian.

“Why do you call him a bastard?”

“When I first arrived at St Stefan’s I tried to explain to him what had happened.”

“And what did Dr Teleborian say?”

“He didn’t want to listen to me. He claimed that I was fantasizing. And as punishment I was to be strapped down until I stopped fantasizing. And then he tried to force-feed me psychoactive drugs.”

“This is nonsense,” Teleborian said.

“Is that why you won’t speak to him?”

“I haven’t said a word to the bastard since the night I turned thirteen. I was strapped to the bed. It was my birthday present to myself.”

Giannini turned to Teleborian. “This sounds as if the reason my client refused to eat was that she did want the psychoactive drugs you were forcing upon her.”

“It’s possible that she views it that way.”

“And how do you view it?”

“I had a patient who was abnormally difficult. I maintain that her behaviour showed that she was a danger to herself, but this might be a question of interpretation. However, she was violent and exhibited psychotic behaviour. There is no doubt that she was dangerous to others. She came to St Stefan’s after she tried to murder her father.”

“We’ll get to that later. For 381 of those days you kept her in restraints. Could it have been that you used strapping as a way to punish my client when she didn’t do as you said?”

“That is utter nonsense.”

“Is it? I notice that according to the records the majority of the strapping occurred during the first year… 320 of 381 instances. Why was the strapping discontinued?”

“I suppose the patient changed her behaviour and became less agitated.”

“Is it not true that your measures were considered unnecessarily brutal by other members of staff?”

“How do you mean?”

“Is it not true that the staff lodged complaints against the forcefeeding of Lisbeth Salander, among other things?”

“Inevitably people will arrive at differing evaluations. This is nothing unusual. But it became a burden to force-feed her because she resisted so violently –”

“Because she refused to take psychoactive drugs which made her listless and passive. She had no problem eating when she was not being drugged. Wouldn’t that have been a more reasonable method of treatment than resorting to forcible measures?”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Fru Giannini, I am actually a physician. I suspect that my medical expertise is rather more extensive than yours. It is my job to determine what medical treatments should be employed.”

“It’s true, I’m not a physician, Doctor Teleborian. However, I am not entirely lacking in expertise. Besides my qualifications as lawyer I was also trained as a psychologist at Stockholm University. This is necessary background training in my profession.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the courtroom. Both Ekström and Teleborian stared in astonishment at Giannini. She continued inexorably.

“Is it not correct that your methods of treating my client eventually resulted in serious disagreements between you and your superior, Dr Johannes Caldin, head physician at the time?”

“No, that is not correct.”

“Dr Caldin passed away several years ago and cannot give testimony. But here in the court we have someone who met Dr Caldin on several occasions. Namely my assistant counsel, Holger Palmgren.”

She turned to him.

“Can you tell us how that came about?”

Palmgren cleared his throat. He still suffered from the after-effects of his stroke and had to concentrate to pronounce the words.

“I was appointed as trustee for Lisbeth Salander after her mother was so severely beaten by Lisbeth’s father that she was disabled and could no longer take care of her daughter. She suffered permanent brain damage and repeated brain haemorrhages.”

“You’re speaking of Alexander Zalachenko, I presume.” Ekström was leaning forward attentively.

“That’s correct,” Palmgren said.

Ekström said: “I would ask you to remember that we are now into a subject which is highly classified.”

“It’s hardly a secret that Alexander Zalachenko persistently abused Lisbeth’s mother,” Giannini said.

Teleborian raised his hand.

“The matter is probably not quite as self-evident as Fru Giannini is presenting it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Giannini said.

“There is no doubt that Lisbeth Salander witnessed a family tragedy… that something triggered a serious beating in 1991. But there is no documentation to suggest that this was a situation that went on for many years, as Fru Giannini claims. It could have been an isolated incident or a quarrel that got out of hand. If truth be told, there is not even any documentation to point towards Herr Zalachenko as Lisbeth’s mother’s aggressor. We have been informed that she was a prostitute, so there could have been a number of other possible perpetrators.”

Giannini looked in astonishment at Teleborian. She seemed to be speechless for a moment. Then her eyes bored into him.

“Could you expand on that?” she said.

“What I mean is that in practice we have only Lisbeth Salander’s assertions to go on.”

“And?”

“First of all, there were two sisters, twins in fact. Camilla Salander has never made any such claims, indeed she has denied that such a thing occurred. And if there was abuse to the extent your client maintains, then it would naturally have been noted in social welfare reports and so forth.”

“Is there an interview with Camilla Salander that we might examine?”

“Interview?”

“Do you have any documentation to show that Camilla Salander was even asked about what occurred at their home?”

Salander squirmed in her seat at the mention of her sister. She glanced at Giannini.

“I presume that the social welfare agency filed a report –”

“You have just stated that Camilla Salander never made any assertions that Alexander Zalachenko abused their mother, that on the contrary she denied it. That was a categorical statement. Where did you get that information?”

Teleborian sat in silence for several seconds. Giannini could see that his eyes changed when he realized that he had made a mistake. He could anticipate what it was that she wanted to introduce, but there was no way to avoid the question.

“I seem to remember that it appeared in the police report,” he said at last.

“You seem to remember… I myself have searched high and low for police reports about the incident on Lundagatan during which Alexander Zalachenko was severely burned. The only ones available are the brief reports written by the officers at the scene.”

“That’s possible –”

“So I would very much like to know how it is that you were able to read a police report that is not available to the defence.”

“I can’t answer that,” Teleborian said. “I was shown the report in 1991 when I wrote a forensic psychiatric report on your client after the attempted murder of her father.”

“Was Prosecutor Ekström shown this report?”

Ekström squirmed. He stroked his goatee. By now he knew that he had underestimated Advokat Giannini. However, he had no reason to lie.

“Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“Why wasn’t the defence given access to this material?”

“I didn’t consider it of interest to the trial.”

“Could you please tell me how you were allowed to see this report? When I asked the police, I was told only that no such report exists.”

“The report was written by the Security Police. It’s classified.”

“So Säpo wrote a report on a case involving grievous bodily harm on a woman and decided to make the report classified.”

“It’s because of the perpetrator… Alexander Zalachenko. He was a political refugee.”

“Who wrote the report?”

Silence.

“I don’t hear anything. What name was on the title page?”

“It was written by Gunnar Björck from the Immigration Division of S.I.S.”

“Thank you. Is that the same Gunnar Björck who my client claims worked with Doctor Teleborian to fabricate the forensic psychiatric report about her in 1991?”

“I assume it is.”

Giannini turned her attention back to Teleborian.

“In 1991 you committed Lisbeth Salander to the secure ward of St Stefan’s children’s psychiatric clinic –”

“That’s not correct.”

“Is it not?”

“No. Lisbeth Salander was sentenced to the secure psychiatric ward. This was the outcome of an entirely routine legal action in a district court. We’re talking about a seriously disturbed minor. That was not my own decision –”

“In 1991 a district court decided to lock up Lisbeth Salander in a children’s psychiatric clinic. Why did the district court make that decision?”

“The district court made a careful assessment of your client’s actions and mental condition – she had tried to murder her father with a petrol bomb, after all. This is not an activity that a normal teenager would engage in, whether they are tattooed or not.” Teleborian gave her a polite smile.

“And what did the district court base their judgement on? If I’ve understood correctly, they had only one forensic medical assessment to go on. It was written by yourself and a policeman by the name of Gunnar Björck.”

“This is about Fröken Salander’s conspiracy theories, Fru Giannini. Here I would have to –”

“Excuse me, but I haven’t asked a question yet,” Giannini said and turned once again to Palmgren. “Holger, we were talking about your meeting Dr Teleborian’s superior, Dr Caldin.”

“Yes. In my capacity as trustee for Lisbeth Salander. At that stage I had met her only very briefly. Like everyone else, I got the impression that she had a serious mental illness. But since it was my job, I undertook to research her general state of health.”

“And what did Dr Caldin say?”

“She was Dr Teleborian’s patient, and Dr Caldin had not paid her any particular attention except in routine assessments and the like. It wasn’t until she had been there for more than a year that I began to discuss how she could be rehabilitated back into society. I suggested a foster family. I don’t know exactly what went on internally at St Stefan’s, but after about a year Dr Caldin began to take an interest in her.”

“How did that manifest itself?”

“I discovered that he had arrived at an opinion that differed from Dr Teleborian’s,” Palmgren said. “He told me once that he had decided to change the type of care she was receiving. I did not understand until later that he was referring to the strap restraints. Dr Caldin had decided that she should not be restrained. He didn’t think there was any reason for it.”

“So he went against Dr Teleborian’s directives?”

Ekström interrupted. “Objection. That’s hearsay.”

“No,” Palmgren said. “Not entirely. I asked for a report on how Lisbeth Salander was supposed to re-enter society. Dr Caldin wrote that report. I still have it today.”

He handed a document to Giannini.

“Can you tell us what it says?”

“It’s a letter from Dr Caldin to me dated October 1992, which is when Lisbeth had been at St Stefan’s for twenty months. Here Dr Caldin expressly writes that, I quote, My decision for the patient not to be restrained or force-fed has also produced the noticeable effect that she is now calm. There is no need for psychoactive drugs. However, the patient is extremely withdrawn and uncommunicative and needs continued supportive therapies. End quote.”

“So he expressly writes that it was his decision,” Giannini said.

“That is correct. It was also Dr Caldin himself who decided that Lisbeth should be able to re-enter society by being placed with a foster family.”

Salander nodded. She remembered Dr Caldin the same way she remembered every detail of her stay at St Stefan’s. She had refused to talk to Dr Caldin… He was a “crazy-doctor,” another man in a white coat who wanted to rootle around in her emotions. But he had been friendly and good-natured. She had sat in his office and listened to him when he explained things to her.

He had seemed hurt when she did not want to speak to him. Finally she had looked him in the eye and explained her decision: I will never ever talk to you or any other crazy-doctor. None of you listen to what I have to say. You can keep me locked up here until I die. That won’t change a thing. I won’t talk to any of you. He had looked at her with surprise and hurt in his eyes. Then he had nodded as if he understood.

“Dr Teleborian,” Giannini said, “we have established that you had Lisbeth Salander committed to a children’s psychiatric clinic. You were the one who furnished the district court with the report, and this report constituted the only basis for the decisions that were made. Is this correct?”

“That is essentially correct. But I think –”

“You’ll have plenty of time to explain what you think. When Lisbeth Salander was about to turn eighteen, you once again interfered in her life and tried to have her locked up in a clinic.”

“This time I wasn’t the one who wrote the forensic medical report –”

“No, it was written by Dr Jesper H. Löderman. And he just happened to be a doctoral candidate at that time. You were his supervisor. So it was your assessments that caused the report to be approved.”

“There’s nothing unethical or incorrect in these reports. They were done according to the proper regulations of my profession.”

“Now Lisbeth Salander is twenty-seven years old, and for the third time we are in a situation in which you are trying to convince a district court that she is mentally ill and must be committed to a secure psychiatric ward.”

Teleborian took a deep breath. Giannini was well prepared. She had surprised him with a number of tricky questions and she had succeeded in distorting his replies. She had not fallen for his charms, and she completely ignored his authority. He was used to having people nod in agreement when he spoke.

How much does she know?

He glanced at Prosecutor Ekström but realized that he could expect no help from that quarter. He had to ride out the storm alone.

He reminded himself that, in spite of everything, he was an authority.

It doesn’t matter what she says. It’s my assessment that counts.

Giannini picked up his forensic psychiatric report.

“Let’s take a closer look at your latest report. You expend a great deal of energy analysing Lisbeth Salander’s emotional life. A large part deals with your interpretation of her personality, her behaviour and her sexual habits.”

“In this report I have attempted to give a complete picture.”

“Good. And based on this complete picture you came to the conclusion that Lisbeth suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.”

“I prefer not to restrict myself to a precise diagnosis.”

“But you have not reached this conclusion through conversations with my client, have you?”

“You know very well that your client resolutely refuses to answer questions that I or any other person in authority might put to her. This behaviour is in itself particularly telling. One can conclude that the patient’s paranoid traits have progressed to such an extent that she is literally incapable of having a simple conversation with anyone in authority. She believes that everyone is out to harm her and feels so threatened that she shuts herself inside an impenetrable shell and goes mute.”

“I notice that you’re expressing yourself very carefully. You say, for example, that one can conclude…”

“Yes, that’s right. I am expressing myself carefully. Psychiatry is not an exact science, and I must be careful with my conclusions. At the same time it is not true that we psychiatrists sit around making assumptions that have no basis in fact.”

“What you are being very precise about is protecting yourself. The literal fact is that you have not exchanged one single word with my client since the night of her thirteenth birthday because she has refused to talk to you.”

“Not only to me. She appears unable to have a conversation with any psychiatrist.”

“This means that, as you write here, your conclusions are based on experience and on observations of my client.”

“That’s right.”

“What can you learn by studying a girl who sits on a chair with her arms crossed and refuses to talk to you?”

Teleborian sighed as though he thought it was irksome to have to explain the obvious. He smiled.

“From a patient who sits and says nothing, you can learn only that this is a patient who is good at sitting and saying nothing. Even this is disturbed behaviour, but that’s not what I’m basing my conclusions upon.”

“Later this afternoon I will call upon another psychiatrist. His name is Svante Brandén and he’s senior physician at the Institute of Forensic Medicine and a specialist in forensic psychiatry. Do you know him?”

Teleborian felt confident again. He had expected Giannini to call upon another psychiatrist to question his own conclusions. It was a situation for which he was ready, and in which he would be able to dismiss every objection without difficulty. Indeed, it would be easier to handle an academic colleague in a friendly debate than someone like Advokat Giannini who had no inhibitions and was bent on distorting his words. He smiled.

“He is a highly respected and skilled forensic psychiatrist. But you must understand, Fru Giannini, that producing a report of this type is an academic and scientific process. You yourself may disagree with my conclusions, and another psychiatrist may interpret an action or an event in a different way. You may have dissimilar points of view, or perhaps it would be a question purely of how well one doctor or another knows the patient. He might arrive at a very different conclusion about Lisbeth Salander. That is not at all unusual in psychiatry.”

“That’s not why I’m calling him. He has not met or examined Lisbeth Salander, and he will not be making any evaluations about her mental condition.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“I have asked him to read your report and all the documentation you have produced on Lisbeth Salander and to look at her medical records from St Stefan’s. I have asked him to make an assessment, not about the state of my client’s health, but about whether, from a purely scientific point of view, there is adequate foundation for your conclusions in the material you recorded.”

Teleborian shrugged.

“With all due respect, I think I have a better understanding of Lisbeth Salander than any other psychiatrist in the country. I have followed her development since she was twelve, and regrettably my conclusions were always confirmed by her actions.”

“Very well,” Giannini said. “Then we’ll take a look at your conclusions. In your statement you write that her treatment was interrupted when she was placed with a foster family at the age of fifteen.”

“That’s correct. It was a serious mistake. If we had been allowed to complete the treatment we might not be here in this courtroom today.”

“You mean that if you had had the opportunity to keep her in restraints for another year she might have become more tractable?”

“That is unworthy.”

“I do beg your pardon. You cite extensively the report that your doctoral candidate Jesper Löderman put together when she was about to turn eighteen. You write that, quote, Lisbeth Salander’s self-destructive and antisocial behaviour is confirmed by drug abuse and the promiscuity which she has exhibited since she was discharged from St Stefan’s, unquote. What did you mean by this statement?”

Teleborian sat in silence for several seconds.

“Well… now I’ll have to go back a bit. After Lisbeth Salander was discharged from St Stefan’s she developed, as I had predicted, problems with alcohol and drug abuse. She was repeatedly arrested by the police. A social welfare report also determined that she had had profligate sexual relations with older men and that she was very probably involved in prostitution.”

“Let’s analyse this. You say that she abused alcohol. How often was she intoxicated?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Was she drunk every day from when she was released until she turned eighteen? Was she drunk once a week?”

“Naturally I can’t answer that.”

“But you have just stated that she had problems with alcohol abuse.”

“She was a minor and arrested repeatedly by the police for drunkenness.”

“That’s the second time you have said that she was arrested repeatedly. How often did this occur? Was it once a week or once every other week?”

“No, it’s not a matter of so many individual occasions…”

“Lisbeth Salander was arrested on two occasions for drunkenness, once when she was sixteen, once when she was seventeen. On one of those occasions she was so blind drunk that she was taken to hospital. These are the repeatedly you refer to. Was she intoxicated on more than these occasions?”

“I don’t know, but one might fear that her behaviour was –”

“Excuse me, did I hear you correctly? You do not know whether she was intoxicated on more than two occasions during her teenage years, but you fear that this was the case. And yet you write reports maintaining that Lisbeth Salander was engaged in repeated alcohol and drug abuse?”

“That is the social service’s information, not mine. It has to do with Lisbeth Salander’s whole lifestyle. Not surprisingly her prognosis was dismal after her treatment was interrupted, and her life became a round of alcohol abuse, police intervention, and uncontrolled promiscuity.”

“You say ‘uncontrolled promiscuity’.”

“Yes. That’s a term which indicates that she had no control over her own life. She had sexual relations with older men.”

“That’s not against the law.”

“No, but it’s abnormal behaviour for a sixteen-year-old girl. The question might be asked as to whether she participated in such encounters of her own free will or whether she was in a situation of uncontrollable compulsion.”

“But you said that she was very probably a prostitute.”

“That may have been a natural consequence of the fact that she lacked education, was incapable of completing school or continuing to higher education, and therefore could not get a job. It’s possible that she viewed older men as father figures and that financial remuneration for sexual favours was simply a convenient spin-off. In which case I perceive it as neurotic behaviour.”

“So you think that a sixteen-year-old girl who has sex is neurotic?”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“But you do not know whether she ever took money for sexual favours.”

“She was never arrested for prostitution.”

“And she could hardly be arrested for it since prostitution is not a crime in our country.”

“Well, yes, that’s right. In her case this has to do with compulsive neurotic behaviour.”

“And you did not hesitate to conclude that Lisbeth Salander is mentally ill based on these unverifiable assumptions? When I was sixteen years old, I drank myself silly on half a bottle of vodka which I stole from my father. Do you think that makes me mentally ill?”

“No, of course not.”

“If I may be so bold, is it not a fact that when you were seventeen you went to a party and got so drunk that you all went out on the town and smashed the windows around the square in Uppsala? You were arrested by the police, detained until you were sober, and then let off with a fine.”

Teleborian looked shocked.

“Is that not a fact, Dr Teleborian?”

“Well, yes. People do so many stupid things when they’re seventeen. But –”

“But that doesn’t lead you – or anyone else – to believe that you have a serious mental illness?”

Teleborian was angry. That infernal lawyer kept twisting his words and homing in on details. She refused to see the larger picture. And his own childish escapade… How the hell had she got hold of that information?

He cleared his throat and spoke in a raised voice.

“The reports from social services were unequivocal. They confirmed that Lisbeth Salander had a lifestyle that revolved around alcohol, drugs and promiscuity. Social services also said that she was a prostitute.”

“No, social services never said that she was a prostitute.”

“She was arrested at –”

“No. She was not arrested,” Giannini said. “She was searched in Tantolunden at the age of seventeen when she was in the company of a much older man. That same year she was arrested for drunkenness. Also in the company of a much older man. Social services feared that she might be engaged in prostitution. But no evidence was ever presented.”

“She had very loose sexual relations with a large number of individuals, both male and female.”

“In your own report, you dwell on my client’s sexual habits. You claim that her relationship with her friend Miriam Wu confirms the misgivings about a sexual psychopathy. Why does it confirm any such thing?”

Teleborian made no answer.

“I sincerely hope that you are not thinking of claiming that homosexuality is a mental illness,” Giannini said. “That might even be an illegal statement.”

“No, of course not. I’m alluding to the elements of sexual sadism in the relationship.”

“You think that she’s a sadist?”

“I –”

“We have Miriam Wu’s statement here. There was, it says, no violence in their relationship.”

“They engaged in S.&M. sex and –”

“Now I’m beginning to think you’ve been reading too many evening newspapers. Lisbeth Salander and her friend Miriam Wu engaged in sexual games on some occasions which involved Miriam Wu tying up my client and giving her sexual satisfaction. That is neither especially unusual nor is it against the law. Is that why you want to lock up my client?”

Teleborian waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.

“When I was sixteen and still at school I was intoxicated on a good many occasions. I have tried drugs. I have smoked marijuana, and I even tried cocaine on one occasion about twenty years ago. I had my first sexual experience with a schoolfriend when I was fifteen, and I had a relationship with a boy who tied my hands to the bedstead when I was twenty. When I was twenty-two I had a relationship with a man who was forty-seven that lasted several months. Am I, in your view, mentally ill?”

“Fru Giannini, you joke about this, but your sexual experiences are irrelevant in this case.”

“Why is that? When I read your so-called psychiatric assessment of Lisbeth Salander, I find point after point which, taken out of context, would apply to myself. Why am I healthy and sound while Lisbeth Salander is considered a dangerous sadist?”

“These are not the details that are relevant. You didn’t twice try to murder your father –”

“Dr Teleborian, the reality is that it’s none of your business who Lisbeth Salander wants to have sex with. It’s none of your business which gender her partner is or how they conduct their sexual relations. And yet in her case you pluck out details from her life and use them as the basis for saying that she is sick.”

“Lisbeth Salander’s whole life – from the time she was in junior school – is a document of unprovoked and violent outbursts of anger against teachers and other pupils.”

“Just a moment.” Giannini’s voice was suddenly like an ice scraper on a car window. “Look at my client.”

Everyone looked at Salander.

“My client grew up in abominable family circumstances. Over a period of years her father persistently abused her mother.”

“That’s –”

“Let me finish. Lisbeth Salander’s mother was mortally afraid of Alexander Zalachenko. She did not dare to protest. She did not dare to go to a doctor. She did not dare to go to a women’s crisis centre. She was ground down and eventually beaten so badly that she suffered irreversible brain damage. The person who had to take responsibility, the only person who tried to take responsibility for the family long before she reached her teens even, was Lisbeth Salander. She had to shoulder that burden all by herself, since Zalachenko the spy was more important to the state and its social services than Lisbeth’s mother.”

“I cannot –”

“The result, excuse me, was a situation in which society abandoned Lisbeth’s mother and her two children. Are you surprised that Lisbeth had problems at school? Look at her. She’s small and skinny. She has always been the smallest girl in her class. She was introverted and eccentric and she had no friends. Do you know how children tend to treat fellow pupils who are different?”

Teleborian sighed.

Giannini continued. “I can go back to her school records and examine one situation after another in which Lisbeth turned violent. They were always preceded by some kind of provocation. I can easily recognize the signs of bullying. Let me tell you something.”

“What?”

“I admire Lisbeth Salander. She’s tougher than I am. If I had been strapped down for a year when I was thirteen, I would probably have broken down altogether. She fought back with the only weapon she had available – her contempt for you.”

Her nervousness was long gone. She felt that she was in control.

“In your testimony this morning you spoke a great deal about fantasies. You stated, for instance, that Lisbeth’s Salander’s account of her rape by Advokat Bjurman is a fantasy.”

“That’s correct.”

“On what do you base your conclusion?”

“On my experience of the way she usually fantasizes.”

“On your experience of the way she usually fantasizes? How do you decide when she is fantasizing? When she says that she was strapped to a bed for 380 days and nights, then in your opinion it’s a fantasy, despite the fact that your very own records tell us that this was indeed the case.”

“This is something entirely different. There is not a shred of evidence that Bjurman committed rape against Lisbeth Salander. I mean, needles through her nipples and such gross violence that she unquestionably should have been taken by ambulance to hospital? It’s obvious that this could not have taken place.”

Giannini turned to Judge Iversen. “I asked to have a projector available today…”

“It’s in place,” the judge said.

“Could we close the curtains, please?”

Giannini opened her PowerBook and plugged in the cables to the projector. She turned to her client.

“Lisbeth. We’re going to look at the film. Are you ready for this?”

“I’ve lived through it,” Salander said dryly.

“And I have your approval to show it here?”

Salander nodded. She fixed her eyes on Teleborian.

“Can you tell us when the film was made?”

“On 7 March, 2003.”

“Who shot the film?”

“I did. I used a hidden camera, standard equipment at Milton Security.”

“Just one moment,” Prosecutor Ekström shouted. “This is beginning to resemble a circus act.”

“What is it we are about to see?” Judge Iversen said with a sharp edge to his voice.

“Dr Teleborian claims that Lisbeth Salander’s account of her rape by Advokat Bjurman is a fantasy. I am going to show you evidence to the contrary. The film is ninety minutes long, but I will only show a few short excerpts. I warn you that it contains some very unpleasant scenes.”

“Is this some sort of trick?” Ekström said.

“There’s a good way to find out,” said Giannini and started the D.V.D. in her laptop.

“Haven’t you even learned to tell the time?” Advokat Bjurman greets her gruffly. The camera enters his apartment.

After nine minutes Judge Iversen banged his gavel. Advokat Bjurman was being shown violently shoving a dildo into Lisbeth Salander’s anus. Giannini had turned up the volume. Salander’s half-stifled screams through the duct tape that covered her mouth were heard throughout the courtroom.

“Turn off the film,” Judge Iversen said in a very loud and commanding voice.

Giannini pressed stop and the ceiling lights were turned back on. Judge Iversen was red in the face. Prosecutor Ekström sat as if turned to stone. Teleborian was as pale as a corpse.

“Advokat Giannini… How long is this film, did you say?”

“Ninety minutes. The rape itself went on in stages for about five or six hours, but my client only has a vague sense of the violence inflicted upon her in the last few hours.” Giannini turned to Teleborian. “There is a scene, however, in which Bjurman pushes a needle through my client’s nipple, something that Doctor Teleborian maintains is an expression of Lisbeth Salander’s wild imagination. It takes place in minute seventy-two, and I’m offering to show the episode here and now.”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary,” the judge said. “Fröken Salander…”

For a second he lost his train of thought and did not know how to proceed.

“Fröken Salander, why did you record this film?”

“Bjurman had already subjected me to one rape and was demanding more. The first time he made me suck him off, the old creep. I thought it was going to be a repeat. I thought I’d be able to get such good evidence of what he did that I could then blackmail him into staying away from me. I misjudged him.”

“But why did you go not to the police when you have such… irrefutable evidence?”

“I don’t talk to policemen,” Salander said flatly.

Palmgren stood up from his wheelchair. He supported himself by leaning on the edge of the table. His voice was very clear.

“Our client on principle does not speak to the police or to other persons of authority, and least of all to psychiatrists. The reason is simple. From the time she was a child she tried time and again to talk to police and social workers to explain that her mother was being abused by Alexander Zalachenko. The result in every instance was that she was punished because government civil servants had decided that Zalachenko was more important than she was.”

He cleared his throat and continued.

“And when she eventually concluded that nobody was listening to her, her only means of protecting her mother was to fight Zalachenko with violence. And then this bastard who calls himself a doctor” – he pointed at Teleborian – “wrote a fabricated psychiatric diagnosis which described her as mentally ill, and it gave him the opportunity to keep her in restraints at St Stefan’s for 380 days. What a bastard.”

Palmgren sat down. Judge Iversen was surprised by this outburst. He turned to Salander.

“Would you perhaps like to take a break…”

“Why?” Salander said.

“Alright, then we’ll continue. Advokat Giannini, the recording will be examined, and I will require a technical opinion to verify its authenticity. But I cannot tolerate seeing any more of these appalling scenes at present. Let’s proceed.”

“Gladly. I too find them appalling,” said Giannini. “My client has been subjected to multiple instances of physical and mental abuse and legal misconduct. And the person most to blame for this is Dr Peter Teleborian. He betrayed his oath as a physician and he betrayed his patient. Together with a member of an illegal group within the Security Police, Gunnar Björck, he patched together a forensic psychiatric assessment for the purpose of locking up an inconvenient witness. I believe that this case must be unique in Swedish jurisprudence.”

“These are outrageous accusations,” Teleborian said. “I have done my best to help Lisbeth Salander. She tried to murder her father. It’s perfectly obvious that there’s something wrong with her –”

Giannini interrupted him.

“I would now like to bring to the attention of the court Dr Teleborian’s second forensic psychiatric assessment of my client, presented at this trial today. I maintain that it is a lie, just as the report from 1991 was a lie.”

“Well, this is simply –” Teleborian spluttered.

“Judge Iversen, could you please ask the witness to stop interrupting me?”

“Herr Teleborian…”

“I will be quiet. But these are outrageous accusations. It’s not surprising that I’m upset –”

“Herr Teleborian, please be quiet until a question is directed at you. Do go on, Advokat Giannini.”

“This is the forensic psychiatric assessment that Dr Teleborian has presented to the court. It is based on what he has termed ‘observations’ of my client which were supposed to have taken place after she was moved to Kronoberg prison on June 5. The examination was supposed to have been concluded on July 5.”

“Yes, so I have understood,” Judge Iversen said.

“Dr Teleborian, is it the case that you did not have the opportunity to examine or observe my client before June 6? Before that she was at Sahlgrenska hospital in Göteborg, where she was being kept in isolation, as we know.”

“Yes.”

“You made attempts on two separate occasions to gain access to my client at Sahlgrenska. Both times you were denied admittance.”

Giannini opened her briefcase and took out a document. She walked around her table and handed it to Judge Iversen.

“I see,” the judge said. “This appears to be a copy of Dr Teleborian’s report. What is your point?”

“I would like to call upon two witnesses. They are waiting outside the courtroom now.”

“Who are these witnesses?”

“They are Mikael Blomkvist from Millennium magazine, and Superintendent Torsten Edklinth, Director of the Constitutional Protection Unit of the Security Police.”

“And they are outside?”

“Yes.”

“Show them in,” Judge Iversen said.

“This is highly irregular,” Prosecutor Ekström said.

Ekström had watched in extreme discomfort as Giannini shredded his key witness. The film had been devastating evidence. The judge ignored Ekström and gestured to the bailiff to open the door to admit Blomkvist and Edklinth.

“I would first like to call upon Mikael Blomkvist.”

“Then I would ask that Herr Teleborian stand down for a while,” Judge Iverson said.

“Are you finished with me?” Teleborian said.

“No, not by any means,” Giannini said.

Blomkvist replaced Teleborian in the witness box. Judge Iversen swiftly dealt with the formalities, and Blomkvist took the oath.

“Mikael,” Giannini said, and then she smiled. “I would find it difficult, if your honour will forgive me, to call my brother Herr Blomkvist, so I will settle for his first name.”

She went to Judge Iversen’s bench and asked for the forensic psychiatric report which she had just handed to him. She then gave it to Blomkvist.

“Have you seen this document before?”

“Yes, I have. I have three versions in my possession. The first I acquired on May 12, the second on May 19, and the third – this one – on June 3.”

“Can you tell us how you acquired the copies?”

“I received them in my capacity as a journalist from a source I do not intend to name.”

Salander stared at Teleborian. He was once more deathly pale.

“What did you do with the report?”

“I gave it to Torsten Edklinth at Constitutional Protection.”

“Thank you, Mikael. Now I’d like to call Torsten Edklinth,” Giannini said, taking back the report. She handed it to Judge Iversen and the procedure with the oath was repeated.

“Superintendent Edklinth, is it correct that you received a forensic psychiatric report on Lisbeth Salander from Mikael Blomkvist?”

“Yes, it is.”

“When did you receive it?”

“It was logged in at S.I.S. on June 4.”

“And this is the same report I have just handed to Judge Iversen?”

“If my signature is on the back, then it’s the same one.”

The judge turned over the document and saw Edklinth’s signature there.

“Superintendent Edklinth, could you explain how you happened to have a forensic psychiatric report in your possession which claims have analysed a patient who was still in isolation at Sahlgrenska?”

“Yes, I can. Herr Teleborian’s report is a sham. It was put together with the help of a person by the name of Jonas Sandberg, just as he produced a similar document in 1991 with Gunnar Björck.”

“That’s a lie,” Teleborian said in a weak voice.

“Is it a lie?” Giannini said.

“No, not at all,” Edklinth said. “I should perhaps mention that Jonas Sandberg is one of a dozen or so individuals who were arrested today by order of the Prosecutor General. Sandberg is being held as an accomplice to the murder of Gunnar Björck. He is part of a criminal unit operating within the Security Police which has been protecting Alexander Zalachenko since the ’70s. This same group of officers was responsible for the decision to lock up Lisbeth Salander in 1991. We have incontrovertible evidence, as well as a confession from the unit’s director.”

The courtroom was hushed, transfixed.

“Would Herr Teleborian like to comment on what has just been said?” Judge Iversen said.

Teleborian shook his head.

“In that case it is my duty tell you that you risk being charged with perjury and possibly other counts in addition,” Judge Iversen said.

“If you’ll excuse me, your honour,” Blomkvist said.

“Yes?”

“Herr Teleborian has bigger problems than this. Outside the courtroom are two police officers who would like to bring him for questioning.”

“I see,” the judge said. “Is it a matter which concerns this court?”

“I believe it is, your honour.”

Judge Iversen gestured to the bailiff, who admitted Inspector Modig and a woman Prosecutor Ekström did not immediately recognize. Her name was Lisa Collsjö, criminal inspector for the Special Investigations Division, the unit within the National Police Board responsible for investigating cases of child pornography and sexual assault on children.

“And what is your business here?” Judge Iversen said.

“We are here to arrest Peter Teleborian with your permission, and without wishing to disturb the court’s proceedings.”

Judge Iversen looked at Advokat Giannini.

“I’m not quite finished with him… but the court may have heard enough of Herr Teleborian.”

“You have my permission,” Judge Iversen said to the police officers.

Collsjö walked across to the witness box. “Peter Teleborian, you are under arrest for violation of the law on child pornography.”

Teleborian sat still, hardly breathing. Giannini saw that all light seemed to have been extinguished in his eyes.

“Specifically, for possession of approximately eight thousand pornographic photographs of children found on your computer.”

She bent down to pick up his laptop case, which he had brought with him.

“This is confiscated as evidence,” she said.

As he was being led from the courtroom, Salander’s blazing eyes bored into Teleborian’s back.

CHAPTER 28

Judge Iversen tapped his pen on the edge of his table to quell the murmuring that had arisen in the wake of Teleborian’s departure. He seemed unsure how to proceed. Then he turned to Prosecutor Ekström.

“Do you have any comment to make to the court on what has been seen and heard in the past hour?”

Ekström stood up and looked at Judge Iversen and then at Edklinth before he turned his head and met Salander’s unwavering gaze. He understood that the battle was lost. He glanced over at Blomkvist and realized with sudden terror that he too risked being exposed to Millennium’s investigators… Which could ruin his career.

He was at a loss to comprehend how this had happened. He had come to the trial convinced that he knew everything about the case.

He had understood the delicate balance sought by national security after his many candid talks with Superintendent Nyström. It had been explained to him that the Salander report from 1991 had been fabricated. He had received the inside information he needed. He had asked questions – hundreds of questions – and received answers to all of them. A deception in the national interest. And now Nyström had been arrested, according to Edklinth. He had believed in Teleborian, who had, after all, seemed so… so competent. So convincing.

Good Lord. What sort of a mess have I landed in?

And then, How the hell am I going to get out of it?

He stroked his goatee. He cleared his throat. Slowly he removed his glasses.

“I regret to say that it seems I have been misinformed on a number of essential points in this investigation.”

He wondered if he could shift the blame on to the police investigators. Then he had a vision of Inspector Bublanski. Bublanski would never back him up. If Ekström made one wrong move, Bublanski would call a press conference and sink him.

Ekström met Salander’s gaze. She was sitting there patiently, and in her eyes he read both curiosity and vengeance.

No compromises.

He could still get her convicted of grievous bodily harm in Stallarholmen. And he could probably get her convicted for the attempted murder of her father in Gosseberga. That would mean changing his strategy immediately; he would drop everything that had anything to do with Teleborian. All claims that she was a psychopath had to go, but that meant that her story would be strengthened all the way back to 1991. The whole declaration of incompetence was bogus, and with that…

Plus she had that blasted film…

Then it struck him.

Good God. She’s a victim, pure and simple.

“Judge Iverson… I believe I can no longer rely on the documents I have here in my hand.”

“I suppose not,” Judge Iversen said.

“I’m going to have to ask for a recess, or that the trial be suspended until I am able to make certain adjustments to my case.”

“Advokat Giannini?” the judge said.

“I request that my client be at once acquitted on all counts and be released immediately. I also request that the district court take a definite position on the question of Fröken Salander’s declaration of incompetence. Moreover, I believe that she should adequately be compensated for the violations of her rights that have occurred.”

Lisbeth Salander turned towards Judge Iversen.

No compromises.

Judge Iversen looked at Salander’s autobiography. He then looked over at Prosecutor Ekström.

“I too believe we would be wise to investigate exactly what has happened that brings us to this sorry pass. I fear that you are probably not the right person to conduct that investigation. In all my years as a jurist and judge, I have never been party to anything even approaching the legal dilemma in this case. I confess that I am at a loss for words. I have never even heard of a case in which the prosecutor’s chief witness is arrested during a court in session, or of a quite convincing argument turning out to be an utter fabrication. I honestly do not see what is left of the prosecutor’s case.”

Palmgren cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Iversen said.

“As a representative for the defence, I can only share your feelings. Sometimes one must step back and allow common sense to guide the formal procedures. I’d like to state that you, in your capacity as judge, have seen only the first stage of a scandal that is going to rock the whole establishment. Today ten police officers from within Säpo have been arrested. They will be charged with murder and a list of crimes so long that it will take quite some time to draw up the report.”

“I presume that I must decide on a suspension of this trial.”

“If you’ll excuse me for saying so, I think that would be an unfortunate decision.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lisbeth Salander is innocent. Her ‘fantastical’ autobiography, as Herr Ekström so contemptuously dismissed it, is in fact true. And it can all be proven. She has suffered an outrageous violation of her rights. As a court we could now stick with formal procedure and continue with the trial until finally we arrive at an acquittal, but there is an obvious alternative: to let a new investigation take over everything concerning Lisbeth Salander. An investigation is already underway to sort out an integral part of this mess.”

“I see what you mean.”

“As the judge of this case you have a choice. The wise thing to do would be to reject the prosecutor’s entire preliminary investigation and request that he does his homework.”

Judge Iversen looked long and hard at Ekström.

“The just thing to do would be to acquit our client at once. She deserves in addition an apology, but the redress will take time and will depend upon the rest of the investigation.”

“I understand the points you’re making, Advokat Palmgren. But before I can declare your client innocent I will have to have the whole story clear in my mind. That will probably take a while…”

He hesitated and looked at Giannini.

“If I decide that the court will adjourn until Monday and accommodate your wishes insofar as I see no reason to keep your client in custody any longer – which would mean that you could expect that, no matter what else happens, she will not be given a prison sentence – can you guarantee that she will appear for continued proceedings when summoned?”

“Of course,” Palmgren said quickly.

“No,” Salander said in a sharp voice.

Everyone’s eyes turned to the person who was at the heart of the entire drama.

“What do you mean by that?” Judge Iversen said.

“The moment you release me I’m going to leave the country. I do not intend to spend one more minute of my time on this trial.”

“You would refuse to appear?”

“That is correct. If you want me to answer more questions, then you’ll have to keep me in prison. The moment you release me, this story is settled as far as I’m concerned. And that does not include being available for an indefinite time to you, to Ekström, or to any police officers.”

Judge Iversen sighed. Palmgren looked bewildered.

“I agree with my client,” Giannini said. “It is the government and the authorities who have committed crimes against Lisbeth Salander, not the other way around. At the very least she deserves to be able to walk out of that door with an acquittal and the chance to put this whole story behind her.”

No compromises.

Judge Iversen glanced at his watch.

“It is 3.00. That means that you’re going to force me to keep your client in custody.”

“If that’s your decision, then we accept it. As Fröken Salander’s representative I request that she be acquitted of the charges brought by Prosecutor Ekström. I request that you release my client without restrictions, and without delay. And I request that her previous declaration of incompetence be rescinded and that her civil rights be immediately restored.”

“The matter of the declaration of incompetence is a significantly longer process. I would have to get statements from psychiatric experts after she has been examined. I cannot simply make a snap decision about that.”

“No,” Giannini said. “We do not accept that.”

“Why not?”

“Lisbeth Salander must have the same civil rights as any other citizen of Sweden. She has been the victim of a crime. She was falsely declared incompetent. We have heard evidence of that falsification. The decision to place her under guardianship therefore lacks a legal basis and must be unconditionally rescinded. There is no reason whatsoever for my client to submit to a psychiatric examination. No-one else has to prove that they are not mentally ill if they are the victim of a crime.” Judge Iversen considered the matter for a moment. “Advokat Giannini, I realize that this is an exceptional situation. I’m calling a recess of fifteen minutes so that we can stretch our legs and gather our thoughts. I have no wish that your client be kept in custody tonight if she is innocent, but that means that this trial will have to continue today until we are done.”

“That sounds good to me,” said Giannini.

Blomkvist hugged his sister. “How did it go?”

“Mikael, I was brilliant against Teleborian. I annihilated him.”

“I told you you’d be unbeatable. When it comes down to it, this story is not primarily about spies and secret government agencies; it’s about violence against women, and the men who enable it. From what little I heard and saw, you were phenomenal. She’s going to be acquitted.”

“You’re right. There’s no longer any doubt”

Judge Iversen banged his gavel.

“Could you please sum up the facts from beginning to end, so that I can get a clear picture of what actually happened?”

“Let’s begin,” Giannini said, “with the astounding story of a group within the Security Police who call themselves ‘the Section’, and who got hold of a Soviet defector in the mid-’70s. The story is published today in Millennium magazine. I imagine it will be the lead story on all the news broadcasts this evening…”

At 6.00 that evening Judge Iversen decided to release Salander and to revoke her declaration of incompetence.

But the decision was made on one condition: Judge Iversen demanded that Salander submit to an interview in which she would formally testify to her knowledge of the Zalachenko affair. At first she refused. This refusal brought about a moment’s wrangling until Judge Iversen raised his voice. He leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Salander.

“Fröken Salander, if I rescind your declaration of incompetence, that will mean that you have exactly the same rights as all other citizens. It also means that you have the same obligations. It is therefore your duty to manage your finances, pay taxes, obey the law, and assist the police in investigations of serious crimes. So I am summoning you to be questioned like any other citizen who has information that might be vital to an investigation.”

The force of this logic seemed to sink in. She pouted and looked cross, but she stopped arguing.

“When the police have interviewed you, the leader of the preliminary investigation – in this case the Prosecutor General – will decide whether you will be summoned as a witness in any future legal proceedings. Like any other Swedish citizen, you can refuse to obey such a summons. How you act is none of my concern, but you do not have carte blanche. If you refuse to appear, then like any other adult you may be charged with obstruction of justice or perjury. There are no exceptions.”

Salander’s expression darkened yet more.

“So, what is your decision?” Judge Iversen said.

After thinking it over for a minute, Salander gave a curt nod.

O.K. A little compromise.

During her summary of the Zalachenko affair that evening, Giannini launched a savage attack on Prosecutor Ekström. Eventually Ekström admitted that the course of events had proceeded more or less as Giannini had described them. He had been helped during the preliminary investigation by Superintendent Nyström, and had received his information from Dr Teleborian. In Ekström’s case there was no conspiracy. He had gone along with the Section in good faith in his capacity as leader of the preliminary investigation. When the whole extent of the conspiracy finally dawned on him, he decided to withdraw all charges against Salander, and that decision meant that a raft of bureaucratic formalities could be set aside. Judge Iversen looked relieved.

Palmgren was exhausted after his day in court, the first in many years. He needed to go back to the Ersta rehabilitation home and go to bed. He was driven there by a uniformed guard from Milton Security. As he was leaving, he put a hand on Salander’s shoulder. They looked at each other, saying nothing. After a moment she nodded.

Giannini called Blomkvist at 7.00 to tell him that Salander had been acquitted of all charges, but that she was going to have to stay at police headquarters for what might be another couple of hours for her interview.

The news came as the entire staff of Millennium were gathered at the office. The telephones had been ringing incessantly since the first copies of the magazine had been distributed by messenger that lunchtime to other newsrooms across the city. In the early evening T.V.4 had broadcast its first special program on Zalachenko and the Section. The media were having a field day.

Blomkvist walked into the main office, stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.

“Great news. Salander has been acquitted on all counts.”

Spontaneous applause broke out. Then everyone went back to talking on their telephones as if nothing had happened.

Blomkvist looked up at the television that had been turned on in the editorial office. The news on T.V.4 was just starting. The trailer was a brief clip of the film showing Sandberg planting cocaine in his apartment on Bellmansgatan.

“Here we can clearly see a Säpo officer planting what we later learn is cocaine at the apartment of Mikael Blomkvist, journalist at Millennium magazine.”

Then the anchorman came on the screen.

“Twelve officers of the Security Police were today arrested on a range of criminal charges, including murder. Welcome to this extended news broadcast.”

Blomkvist turned off the sound when She came on, and he saw himself sitting in a studio armchair. He already knew what he had said. He looked over at the desk where Svensson had sat. All his research documents on the sex-trafficking industry were gone, and the desk was once more home to stacks of newspapers and piles of unsorted paper that nobody had time to deal with.

For Blomkvist, it was at that desk that the Zalachenko affair had begun. He wished that Svensson had been able to see the conclusion of it. A pile of copies of his just-published book was on the table next to Blomkvist’s own about the Section.

You would have loved this moment, Dag.

He heard the telephone in his office ringing, but he could not face picking it up. He pulled the door shut and went into Berger’s office and sank into a comfortable chair by the window. Berger was on the telephone. He looked about. She had been back a month, but had not yet got around to putting up the paintings and photographs that she had taken away when she left in April. The bookshelves were still bare.

“How does it feel?” she said when she hung up.

“I think I’m happy,” he said.

She laughed. “The Section is going to be a sensation. Every newsroom is going crazy for it. Do you feel like appearing on Aktuellt at 9.00 for an interview?”

“I think not.”

“I suspected as much.”

“We’re going to be talking about this for several months. There’s no rush.”

She nodded.

“What are you doing later this evening?” Berger said.

“I don’t know.” He bit his lip. “Erika… I…”

“Figuerola,” Berger said with a smile.

He nodded.

“So it’s serious?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s terribly in love with you.”

“I think I’m in love with her too,” he said.

“I promise I’ll keep my distance until, you know… well, maybe,” she said.

At 8.00 Armansky and Linder appeared at Millennium’s offices. They thought the occasion called for champagne, so they had brought over a crate from the state liquor store. Berger hugged Linder and introduced her to everyone. Armansky took a seat in Blomkvist’s office.

They drank their champagne. Neither of them said anything for quite a while. It was Armansky who broke the silence.

“You know what, Blomkvist? The first time we met, on that job in Hedestad, I didn’t much care for you.”

“You don’t say.”

“You came over to sign a contract when you hired Lisbeth as a researcher.”

“I remember.”

“I think I was jealous of you. You’d known her only for a couple of hours, yet she was laughing with you. For some years I’d tried to be Lisbeth’s friend, but I have never once made her smile.”

“Well… I haven’t really been that successful either.”

They sat in silence once again.

“Great that all this is over,” Armansky said.

“Amen to that,” Blomkvist said, and they raised their glasses in salute.

Inspectors Bublanski and Modig conducted the formal interview with Salander. They had both been at home with their families after a particularly taxing day but were immediately summoned to return to police headquarters.

Salander was accompanied by Giannini. She gave precise responses to all the questions that Bublanski and Modig asked, and Giannini had little occasion to comment or intervene.

Salander lied consistently on two points. In her description of what had happened in Stallarholmen, she stubbornly maintained that it was Nieminen who had accidentally shot “Magge” Lundin in the foot at the instant that she nailed him with the taser. Where had she got the taser? She had confiscated it from Lundin, she explained.

Bublanski and Modig were both sceptical, but there was no evidence and no witnesses to contradict her story. Nieminen was no doubt in a position to protest, but he refused to say anything about the incident; in fact he had no notion of what had happened in the seconds after he was stunned with the taser.

As far as Salander’s journey to Gosseberga was concerned, she claimed that her only objective had been to convince her father to turn himself in to the police.

Salander looked completely guileless; it was impossible to say whether she was telling the truth or not. Giannini had no reason to arrive at an opinion on the matter.

The only person who knew for certain that Salander had gone to Gosseberga with the intention of terminating any relationship she had with her father once and for all was Blomkvist. But he had been sent out of the courtroom shortly after the proceedings were resumed. No-one knew that he and Salander had carried on long conversations online by night while she was confined to Sahlgrenska.

The media missed altogether her release from custody. If the time of it had been known, a huge contingent would have descended on police headquarters. But many of the reporters were exhausted after the chaos and excitement that had ensued when Millennium reached the news-stands and certain members of the Security Police were arrested by other Security Police officers.

The presenter of She at T.V.4 was the only journalist who knew what the story was all about. Her hour-long broadcast became a classic, and some months later she won the award for Best T.V. News Story of the Year.

Modig got Salander away from police headquarters by very simply taking her and Giannini down to the garage and driving them to Giannini’s office on Kungholm’s Kyrkoplan. There they switched to Giannini’s car. When Modig had driven away, Giannini headed for Södermalm. As they passed the parliament building she broke the silence.

“Where to?” she said.

Salander thought for a few seconds.

“You can drop me somewhere on Lundagatan.”

“Miriam isn’t there.”

Salander looked at her.

“She went to France quite soon after she came out of hospital. She’s staying with her parents if you want to get hold of her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked. She said she needed some space. This morning Mikael gave me these and said you’d probably like to have them back.”

She handed her a set of keys. Salander took it and said: “Thanks. Could you drop me somewhere on Folkungagatan instead?”

“You don’t even want to tell me where you live?”

“Later. Right now I want to be left in peace.”

“O.K.”

Giannini had switched on her mobile when they left police headquarters. It started beeping as they were passing Slussen. She looked at the display.

“It’s Mikael. He’s called every ten minutes for the past couple of hours.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Tell me… Could I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes.”

“What did Mikael do to you that you hate him so much? I mean, if it weren’t for him, you’d probably be back on a secure ward tonight.”

“I don’t hate Mikael. He hasn’t done anything to me. I just don’t want to see him right now.”

Giannini glanced across at her client. “I don’t mean to pry, but you fell for him, didn’t you?”

Salander looked out of the window and did not answer.

“My brother is completely irresponsible when it comes to relationships. He screws his way through life and doesn’t seem to grasp how much it can hurt those women who think of him as more than a casual affair.”

Salander met her gaze. “I don’t want to discuss Mikael with you.”

“Right,” Giannini said. She pulled into the kerb just before the junction with Erstagatan. “Is this O.K.?”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Salander made no move to open the door. Then Giannini turned off the engine.

“What happens now?” Salander said at last.

“What happens now is that as from today you are no longer under guardianship. You can live your life however you want. Even though we won in the district court, there’s still a whole mass of red tape to get through. There will be reports on accountability within the guardianship agency and the question of compensation and things like that. And the criminal investigation will continue.”

“I don’t want any compensation. I want to be left in peace.”

“I understand. But what you want won’t play much of a role here. This process is beyond your control. I suggest that you get yourself a lawyer to represent you.”

“Don’t you want to go on being my lawyer?”

Giannini rubbed her eyes. After all the stress of the day she felt utterly drained. She wanted to go home and have a shower. She wanted her husband to massage her back.

“I don’t know. You don’t trust me. And I don’t trust you. I have no desire to be drawn into a long process during which I encounter nothing but frustrating silence when I make a suggestion or want to discuss something.”

Salander said nothing for a long moment. “I… I’m not good at relationships. But I do trust you.”

It sounded almost like an apology.

“That may be. And it needn’t be my problem if you’re bad at relationships. But it does become my problem if I have to represent you.”

Silence.

“Would you want me to go on being your lawyer?”

Salander nodded. Giannini sighed.

“I live at Fiskargatan 9. Above Mosebacke Torg. Could you drive me there?”

Giannini looked at her client and then she started the engine. She let Salander direct her to the address. They stopped short of the building.

“O.K.,” Giannini said. “We’ll give it a try. Here are my conditions. I agree to represent you. When I need to get hold of you I want you to answer. When I need to know what you want me to do, I want clear answers. If I call you and tell you that you have to talk to a policeman or a prosecutor or anything else that has to do with the criminal investigation, then I have already decided that it’s necessary. You will have to turn up at the appointed place, on time, and not make a fuss about it. Can you live with that?”

“I can.”

“And if you start playing up, I stop being your lawyer. Understood?”

Salander nodded.

“One more thing. I don’t want to get involved in a big drama between you and my brother. If you have a problem with him, you’ll have to work it out. But, for the record, he’s not your enemy.”

“I know. I’ll deal with it. But I need some time.”

“What do you plan to do now?”

“I don’t know. You can reach me on email. I promise to reply as soon as I can, but I might not be checking it every day –”

“You won’t become a slave just because you have a lawyer. O.K., that’s enough for the time being. Out you get. I’m dead tired and I want to go home and sleep.”

Salander opened the door and got out. She paused as she was about to close the car door. She looked as though she wanted to say something but could not find the words. For a moment she appeared to Giannini almost vulnerable.

“That’s alright, Lisbeth,” Giannini said. “Go and get some sleep. And stay out of trouble for a while.”

Salander stood at the curb and watched Giannini drive away until her tail lights disappeared around the corner.

“Thanks,” she said at last.

CHAPTER 29

Salander found her Palm Tungsten T3 on the hall table. Next to it were her car keys and the shoulder bag she had lost when Lundin attacked her outside the door to her apartment building on Lundagatan. She also found both opened and unopened post that had been collected from her P.O. Box on Hornsgatan. Mikael Blomkvist.

She took a slow tour through the furnished part of her apartment. She found traces of him everywhere. He had slept in her bed and worked at her desk. He had used her printer, and in the wastepaper basket she found drafts of the manuscript of The Section along with discarded notes.

He had bought a litre of milk, bread, cheese, caviar and a jumbo pack of Billy’s Pan Pizza and put them in the fridge.

On the kitchen table she found a small white envelope with her name on it. It was a note from him. The message was brief. His mobile number. That was all.

She knew that the ball was in her court. He was not going to get in touch with her. He had finished the story, given back the keys to her apartment, and he would not call her. If she wanted something then she could call him. Bloody pig-headed bastard.

She put on a pot of coffee, made four open sandwiches, and went to sit in her window seat to look out towards Djurgården. She lit a cigarette and brooded.

It was all over, and yet now her life felt more claustrophobic than ever.

Miriam Wu had gone to France. It was my fault that you almost died. She had shuddered at the thought of having to see Mimmi, but had decided that that would be her first stop when she was released. But she had gone to France.

All of a sudden she was in debt to people.

Palmgren. Armansky. She ought to contact them to say thank you. Paolo Roberto. And Plague and Trinity. Even those damned police officers, Bublanski and Modig, who had so obviously been in her corner. She did not like feeling beholden to anyone. She felt like a chess piece in a game she could not control.

Kalle Bloody Blomkvist. And maybe even Erika Bloody Berger with the dimples and the expensive clothes and all that self-assurance.

But it was over, Giannini had said as they left police headquarters. Right. The trial was over. It was over for Giannini. And it was over for Blomkvist. He had published his book and would end up on T.V. and probably win some bloody prize too.

But it was not over for Lisbeth Salander. This was only the first day of the rest of her life.

At 4.00 in the morning she stopped thinking. She discarded her punk outfit on the floor of her bedroom and went to the bathroom and took a shower. She cleaned off all the make-up she had worn in court, put on loose, dark linen trousers, a white top and a thin jacket. She packed an overnight bag with a change of underwear and a couple of tops and put on some simple walking shoes.

She picked up her Palm and called a taxi to collect her from Mosebacke Torg. She drove out to Arlanda Airport and arrived just before 6.00. She studied the departure board and booked a ticket to the first place that took her fancy. She used her own passport in her own name. She was surprised that nobody at the ticket desk or at the check-in counter seemed to recognize her or react to her name.

She had a seat on the morning flight to Málaga and landed in the blazing midday heat. She stood inside the terminal building for a moment, feeling uncertain. At last she went and looked at a map and thought about what she might do now that she was in Spain. A minute later she decided. She did not waste time trying to figure out bus routes or other means of transportation. She bought a pair of sunglasses at an airport shop, went out to the taxi stand and climbed into the back seat of the first taxi.

“Gibraltar. I’m paying with a credit card.”

The trip took three hours via the new motorway along the coast. The taxi dropped her off at British passport control and she walked across the border and over to the Rock Hotel on Europa Road, partway up the slope of the 425-metre monolith. She asked if they had a room and was told there was a double room available. She booked it for two weeks and handed over her credit card.

She showered and sat on the balcony wrapped up in a bath towel, looking out over the Straits of Gibraltar. She could see freighters and a few yachts. She could just make out Morocco in the haze on the other side of the straits. It was peaceful.

After a while she went in and lay down and slept.

The next morning Salander woke at 5.00. She got up, showered and had a coffee in the hotel bar on the ground floor. At 7.00 she left the hotel and set out to buy mangos and apples. She took a taxi to the Peak and walked over to the apes. She was so early that few tourists had yet appeared, and she was practically alone with the animals.

She liked Gibraltar. It was her third visit to the strange rock that housed an absurdly densely populated English town on the Mediterranean. Gibraltar was a place that was not like anywhere else. The town had been isolated for decades, a colony that obstinately refused to be incorporated into Spain. The Spaniards protested the occupation, of course. (But Salander thought that the Spaniards should keep their mouths shut on that score so long as they occupied the enclave of Ceuta on Moroccan territory across the straits.) It was a place that was comically shielded from the rest of the world, consisting of a bizarre rock, about three quarters of a square mile of town and an airport that began and ended in the sea. The colony was so small that every square inch of it was used, and any expansion had to be over the sea. Even to get into the town, visitors had to walk across the landing strip at the airport.

Gibraltar gave the concept of “compact living” a whole new meaning.

Salander watched a big male ape climb up on to a wall next to the path. He glowered at her. He was a Barbary ape. She knew better than to try to stroke any of the animals.

“Hello, friend,” she said. “I’m back.”

The first time she visited Gibraltar she had not even heard about these apes. She had gone up to the top just to look at the view, and she was surprised when she followed some tourists and found herself in the midst of a group of apes climbing and scrambling on both sides of the pathway.

It was a peculiar feeling to be walking along a path and suddenly have two dozen apes around you. She looked at them with great wariness. They were not dangerous or aggressive, but they were certainly capable of giving you a bad bite if they got agitated or felt threatened.

She found one of the guards and showed him her bag of fruit and asked if she could give it to the apes. He said that it was O.K.

She took out a mango and put it on the wall a little way away from the male ape.

“Breakfast,” she said, leaning against the wall and taking a bite of an apple.

The male ape stared at her, bared his teeth, and contentedly picked up the mango.

In the middle of the afternoon five days later, Salander fell off her stool in Harry’s Bar on a side street off Main Street, two blocks from her hotel. She had been drunk almost continuously since she left the apes on the rock, and most of her drinking had been done with Harry O’Connell, who owned the bar and spoke with a phoney Irish accent, having never in his life set foot in Ireland. He had been watching her anxiously.

When she had ordered her first drink several days earlier, he had asked to see her I.D. Her name was Lisbeth, he knew, and he called her Liz. She would come in after lunch and sit on a high stool at the far end of the bar with her back leant against the wall. Then she would drink an impressive number of beers or shots of whisky.

When she drank beer she did not care about what brand or type it was; she accepted whatever he served her. When she ordered whisky she always chose Tullamore Dew, except on one occasion when she studied the bottles behind the bar and asked for Lagavulin. When the glass was brought to her, she sniffed at it, stared at it for a moment, and then took a tiny sip. She set down her glass and stared at it for a minute with an expression that seemed to indicate that she considered its contents to be a mortal enemy.

Finally she pushed the glass aside and asked Harry to give her something that could not be used to tar a boat. He poured her another Tullamore Dew and she went back to her drinking. Over the past four days she had consumed almost a whole bottle. He had not kept track of the beers. Harry was surprised that a young woman with her slender build could hold so much, but he took the view that if she wanted alcohol she was going to get it, whether in his bar or somewhere else.

She drank slowly, did not talk to any of the other customers, and did not make any trouble. Her only activity apart from the consumption of alcohol seemed to be to play with a hand-held computer which she connected to a mobile now and then. He had several times tried to start a conversation but was met with a sullen silence. She seemed to avoid company. Sometimes, when there were too many people in the bar, she had moved outside to a table on the pavement, and at other times she had gone two doors down to an Italian restaurant and had dinner. Then she would come back to Harry’s and order another Tullamore Dew. She usually left the bar at around 10.00 and made her way unsteadily off, always to the north.

Today she had drunk more and at a faster rate than on the other days, and Harry had kept a watchful eye on her. When she had put away seven glasses of Tullamore Dew in a little over two hours, he decided not to give her any more. It was then that he heard the crash as she fell off the bar stool.

He put down the glass he was drying and went around the counter to pick her up. She seemed offended.

“I think you’ve had enough, Liz,” he said.

She looked at him, bleary-eyed.

“I believe you’re right,” she said in a surprisingly lucid voice.

She held on to the bar with one hand as she dug some notes out of her top pocket and then wobbled off towards the door. He took her gently by the shoulder.

“Hold on a minute. Why don’t you go to the toilet and throw up the last of that whisky and then sit at the bar for a while? I don’t want to let you go in this condition.”

She did not object when he led her to the toilet. She stuck her fingers down her throat. When she came back out to the bar he had poured her a large glass of club soda. She drank the whole glass and burped. He poured her another.

“You’re going to feel like death in the morning,” Harry said.

She nodded.

“It’s none of my business, but if I were you I’d sober up for a couple of days.”

She nodded. Then she went back to the toilet and threw up again.

She stayed at Harry’s Bar for another hour until she looked sober enough to be turned loose. She left the bar on unsteady legs, walked down to the airport and followed the shoreline around the marina. She walked until after 8.00, when the ground at last stopped swaying under her feet. Then she went back to the hotel. She took the lift to her room, brushed her teeth and washed her face, changed her clothes, and went back down to the hotel bar to order a cup of black coffee and a bottle of mineral water.

She sat there, silent and unnoticed next to a pillar, studying the people in the bar. She saw a couple in their thirties engaged in quiet conversation. The woman was wearing a light-coloured summer dress, and the man was holding her hand under the table. Two tables away sat a black family, the man with the beginnings of grey at his temples, the woman wearing a lovely, colourful dress in yellow, black and red. They had two young children with them. She studied a group of businessmen in white shirts and ties, their jackets hung over the backs of their chairs. They were drinking beer. She saw a group of elderly people, without a doubt American tourists. The men wore baseball caps, polo shirts and loose-fitting trousers. She watched a man in a light-coloured linen jacket, grey shirt and dark tie come in from the street and pick up his room key at the front desk before he headed over to the bar and ordered a beer. He sat down three metres away from her. She gave him an expectant look as he took out his mobile and began to speak in German.

“Hello, is that you?… Is everything alright?… It’s going fine, we’re having our next meeting tomorrow afternoon… No, I think it’ll work out… I’ll be staying here five or six days at least, and then I go to Madrid… No, I won’t be home before the end of next week… Me too. I love you… Sure… I’ll call you later in the week… Kiss kiss.”

He was a little over one metre eighty-five tall, about fifty years old maybe fifty-five, blond hair that was turning grey and was a bit on the long side, a weak chin, and too much weight around the middle. But still reasonably well preserved. He was reading the Financial Times. When he finished his beer and headed for the lift, Salander got up and followed him.

He pushed the button for the sixth floor. Salander stood next to him and leaned her head against the side of the lift.

“I’m drunk,” she said.

He smiled down at her. “Oh, really?”

“It’s been one of those weeks. Let me guess. You’re a businessman of some sort, from Hanover or somewhere in northern Germany. You’re married. You love your wife. And you have to stay here in Gibraltar for another few days. I gathered that much from your telephone call in the bar.”

The man looked at her, astonished.

“I’m from Sweden myself. I’m feeling an irresistible urge to have sex with somebody. I don’t care if you’re married and I don’t want your phone number.”

He looked startled.

“I’m in room 711, the floor above yours. I’m going to go up to my room, take a bath and get into bed. If you want to keep me company, knock on the door within half an hour. Otherwise I’ll be asleep.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” he said as the lift stopped.

“No. It’s just that I can’t be bothered to go out to some pick-up bar. Either you knock on my door or you don’t.”

Twenty-five minutes later there was a knock on the door of Salander’s room. She had a bath towel around her when she opened the door.

“Come in,” she said.

He stepped inside and looked around the room suspiciously.

“I’m alone here,” she said.

“How old are you, actually?”

She reached for her passport on top of a chest of drawers and handed it to him.

“You look younger.”

“I know,” she said, taking off the bath towel and throwing it on to a chair. She went over to the bed and pulled off the bedspread.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was staring at her tattoos.

“This isn’t a trap. I’m a woman, I’m single, and I’ll be here for a few days. I haven’t had sex for months.”

“Why did you choose me?”

“Because you were the only man in the bar who looked as if you were here alone.”

“I’m married –”

“And I don’t want to know who she is or even who you are. And I don’t want to discuss sociology. I want to fuck. Take off your clothes or go back down to your room.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes. Why not? You’re a grown man – you know what you’re supposed to do.”

He thought about it for all of thirty seconds. He looked as if he was going to leave. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited. He bit his lip. Then he took off his trousers and shirt and stood hesitantly in his boxer shorts.

“Take it all off,” Salander said. “I don’t intend to fuck somebody in his underwear. And you have to use a condom. I know where I’ve been, but I don’t know where you’ve been.”

He took off his shorts and went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. Salander closed her eyes when he bent down to kiss her. He tasted good. She let him tip her back on to the bed. He was heavy on top of her.

Jeremy Stuart MacMillan, solicitor, felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as soon as he tried to unlock the door to his office at Buchanan House on Queensway Quay above the marina. It was already unlocked. He opened it and smelled tobacco smoke and heard a chair creak. It was just before 7.00, and his first thought was that he had surprised a burglar.

Then he smelled the coffee from the machine in the kitchenette. After a couple of seconds he stepped hesitantly over the threshold and walked down the corridor to look into his spacious and elegantly furnished office. Salander was sitting in his desk chair with her back to him and her feet on the windowsill. His P.C. was turned on. Obviously she had not had any problem cracking his password. Nor had she had any problem opening his safe. She had a folder with his most private correspondence and bookkeeping on her lap.

“Good morning, Miss Salander,” he said at last.

“Ah, there you are,” she said. “There’s freshly brewed coffee and croissants in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” he said, sighing in resignation.

He had, after all, bought the office with her money and at her request, but he had not expected her to turn up without warning. What is more, she had found and apparently read a gay porn magazine that he had kept hidden in a desk drawer.

So embarrassing.

Or maybe not.

When it came to Salander, he felt that she was the most judgemental person he had ever met. But she never once raised an eyebrow at people’s weaknesses. She knew that he was officially heterosexual, but his dark secret was that he was attracted to men; since his divorce fifteen years ago he had been making his most private fantasies a reality. It’s funny, but I feel safe with her.

Since she was in Gibraltar anyway, Salander had decided to visit MacMillan, the man who handled her finances. She had not been in touch with him since just after New Year, and she wanted to know if he had been busy ruining her ever since.

But there had not been any great hurry, and it was not for him that she had gone straight to Gibraltar after her release. She did it because she felt a burning desire to get away from everything, and in that respect Gibraltar was an excellent choice. She had spent almost a week getting drunk, and then a few days having sex with the German businessman, who eventually introduced himself as Dieter. She doubted it was his real name but had not bothered to check. He spent the days sitting in meetings and the evenings having dinner with her before they went back to his or her room.

He was not at all bad in bed, Salander thought, although he was a bit out of practice and sometimes needlessly rough.

Dieter seemed genuinely astonished that on sheer impulse she had picked up an overweight German businessman who was not even looking for it. He was indeed married, and he was not in the habit of being unfaithful or seeking female company on his business trips. But when the opportunity was presented on a platter in the form of a thin, tattooed young woman, he could not resist the temptation. Or so he said.

Salander did not care much what he said. She had not been looking for anything more than recreational sex, but she was gratified that he actually made an effort to satisfy her. It was not until the fourth night, their last together, that he had a panic attack and started going on about what his wife would say. Salander thought he should keep his mouth shut and not tell his wife a thing.

But she did not tell him what she thought.

He was a grown man and could have said no to her invitation. It was not her problem if he was now attacked by feelings of guilt, or if he confessed anything to his wife. She had lain with her back to him and listened for fifteen minutes, until finally she rolled her eyes in exasperation, turned over and straddled him.

“Do you think you could take a break from the worryguts stuff and get me off again?” she said.

Jeremy MacMillan was a very different story. He held zero erotic attraction for her. He was a crook. Amusingly enough, he looked a lot like Dieter. He was forty-eight, a bit overweight, with greying, dark-blond curly hair that he combed straight back from a high forehead. He wore thin gold-rimmed glasses.

He had once been a Cambridge-educated business lawyer and stockbroker in London. He had had a promising future and was a partner in a law firm that was engaged by big corporations and wealthy yuppies interested in real estate and tax planning. He had spent the go-go ’80s hanging out with nouveau riche celebrities. He had drunk hard and snorted coke with people that he really did not want to wake up with the next morning. He had never been charged with anything, but he did lose his wife and two kids along with his job when he mismanaged several transactions and tottered drunk into a mediation hearing.

Without thinking too much about it, he sobered up and fled London with his tail between his legs. Why he picked Gibraltar he did not know, but in 1991 he went into partnership with a local solicitor and opened a modest back-street law office which officially dealt with much less glamorous matters: estate planning, wills and such like. Unofficially, MacMillan&Marks also helped to set up P.O. Box companies and acted as gatekeepers for a number of shady figures in Europe. The firm was barely making ends meet when Salander selected Jeremy MacMillan to administer the $2.4 billion she had stolen from the collapsing empire of the Swedish financier Hans-Erik Wennerström.

MacMillan was a crook, no doubt about it, but she regarded him as her crook, and he had surprised himself by being impeccably honest in his dealings with her. She had first hired him for a simple task. For a modest fee he had set up a string of P.O. Box companies for her to use; she put a million dollars into each of them. She had contacted him by telephone and had been nothing more than a voice from afar. He never tried to discover where the money came from. He had done what she asked and took 5 per cent commission. A little while later she had transferred a large sum of money that he was to use to set up a corporation, Wasp Enterprises, which then acquired a substantial apartment in Stockholm. His dealings with Salander were becoming quite lucrative, even if it was still only quite modest pickings.

Two months later she had paid a visit to Gibraltar. She had called him and suggested dinner in her room at the Rock Hotel, which was, if not the biggest hotel in Gibraltar, then certainly the most famous. He was not sure what he had expected, but he could not believe that his client was this doll-like girl who looked as if she were in her early teens. He thought he was the butt of some outlandish practical joke.

He soon changed his mind. The strange young woman talked with him impersonally, without ever smiling or showing any warmth. Or coolness, for that matter. He had sat paralysed as, over the course of a few minutes, she obliterated the professional facade of sophisticated respectability that he was always so careful to maintain.

“What is it that you want?” he had asked.

“I’ve stolen a sum of money,” she replied with great seriousness. “I need a crook who can administer it.”

He had stared at her, wondering whether she was deranged, but politely he played along. She might be a possible mark for a con game that could bring in a small income. Then he had sat as if struck by lightning when she explained who she had stolen the money from, how she did it, and what the amount was. The Wennerström affair was the hottest topic of conversation in the world of international finance.

“I see.”

The possibilities flew through his head.

“You’re a skilled business lawyer and stockbroker. If you were an idiot you would never have got the jobs you did in the ’80s. However, you behaved like an idiot and managed to get yourself fired.”

He winced.

“In the future I will be your only client.”

She had looked at him with the most ingenuous expression he had ever seen.

“I have two conditions. The first is that you never ever commit a crime or get mixed up in anything that could create problems for us and focus the authorities’ attention on my companies and accounts. The second is that you never lie to me. Never ever. Not a single time. And not for any reason. If you lie to me, our business relationship will terminate instantly, and if you make me cross enough I will ruin you.”

She poured him a glass of wine.

“There’s no reason to lie to me. I already know everything worth knowing about your life. I know how much you make in a good month and a bad month. I know how much you spend. I know that you never really have enough money. I know that you owe £120,000 in both long-term and short-term debts, and that you always have to take risks and skim some money to make the loan payments. You wear expensive clothes and try to keep up appearances, but in reality you’ve gone to the dogs and haven’t bought a new sports jacket in several months. But you did take an old jacket in to have the lining mended two weeks ago. You used to collect rare books but have been gradually selling them off. Last month you sold an early edition of Oliver Twist for £760.”

She stopped talking and fixed him with her gaze. He swallowed hard.

“Last week you actually made a killing. A quite clever fraud perpetrated against that widow you represent. You ripped her off £6,000, which she’ll probably never miss.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“I know that you were married, that you have two children in England who don’t want to see you, and that you’ve taken the big leap since your divorce and now have primarily homosexual relationships. You’re probably ashamed of that and avoid the gay clubs, and you avoid being seen in town with any of your male friends. You regularly cross the border into Spain to meet men.”

MacMillan was shaken to the core. And he was suddenly terrified. He had no idea how she had come by all this information, but she knew enough to destroy him.

“And I’m only going to say this one time. I don’t give a shit who you have sex with. It’s none of my business. I want to know who you are, but I will never use what I know. I won’t threaten you or blackmail you.”

MacMillan was no fool. He was perfectly aware, of course, that her knowledge of all that information about him constituted a threat. She was in control. For a moment he had considered picking her up and throwing her over the edge of the terrace, but he restrained himself. He had never in his life been so scared.

“What do you want?” he managed to say.

“I want to have a partnership with you. You will bring to a close all the other business you’re working on and will work exclusively for me. You will make more money from my company than you could ever dream of making any other way.”

She explained what she required him to do, and how she wanted the arrangements to be made.

“I want to be invisible,” she said. “And I want you to take care of my affairs. Everything has to be legitimate. Whatever money I make on my own will not have any connection to our business together.”

“I understand.”

“You have one week to phase out your other clients and put a stop to all your little schemes.”

He also realized that he had been given an offer that would never come round again. He thought about it for sixty seconds and then accepted. He had only one question.

“How do you know that I won’t swindle you?”

“Don’t even think about it. You’d regret it for the rest of your miserable life.”

He had no reason to cook the books. Salander had made him an offer that had the potential of such a silver lining that it would have been idiotic to risk it for bits of change on the side. As long as he was relatively discreet and did not get involved in any financial chicanery, his future would be assured.

Accordingly he had no thought of swindling Ms Salander.

So he went straight, or as straight as a burned-out lawyer could go who was administering an astronomical sum of stolen money.

Salander was simply not interested in the management of her finances. MacMillan’s job was to invest her money and see to it that there were funds to cover the credit cards she used. She told him how she wanted her finances to be handled. His job was to make sure it was done.

A large part of the money had been invested in gilt-edged funds that would provide her with economic independence for the rest of her life, even if she chose to live it recklessly and dissolutely. It was from these funds that her credit card bills were paid.

The rest of the money he could play with and invest as he saw fit, provided that he did not invest in anything that might cause problems with the police in any way. She forbade him to engage in stupid petty crimes and cheap con games which – if he was unlucky – might prompt investigations which in turn could put her under scrutiny.

All that remained was to agree on how much he would make on the transactions.

“I’ll pay you £500,000 as a retainer. With that you can pay off all your debts and have a good deal left over. After that you’ll earn money for yourself. You will start a company with the two of us as partners. You get 20 per cent of all the profits generated. I want you to be rich enough that you won’t be tempted to try it on, but not so rich that you won’t make an effort.”

He had started his new job on February 1 the year before. By the end of March he had paid off all his debts and stabilized his personal finances. Salander had insisted that he make cleaning up his own affairs a priority so that he would be solvent. In May he dissolved the partnership with his alcoholic colleague George Marks. He felt a twinge of conscience towards his former partner, but getting Marks mixed up in Salander’s business was out of the question.

He discussed the matter with Salander when she returned to Gibraltar on another unheralded visit in early July and discovered that MacMillan was working out of his apartment instead of from the office he had previously occupied.

“My partner’s an alcoholic and wouldn’t be able to handle this. And he would be an enormous risk factor. At the same time, fifteen years ago he saved my life when he took me into his business.”

She pondered this a while as she studied MacMillan’s face.

“I see. You’re a crook who’s loyal. That could be a commendable quality. I suggest you set up a small account that he can play around with. See to it that he makes a couple of thousand a month so he gets by.”

“Is that O.K. with you?”

She nodded and looked around his bachelor pad. He lived in a studio apartment with a kitchen nook on one of the alleys near the hospital. The only pleasant thing about the place was the view. On the other hand, it was a view that was hard to avoid in Gibraltar.

“You need an office and a nicer place to live,” she said.

“I haven’t had time,” he said.

Then she went out and found an office for him, choosing a 130-square-metre place with a little balcony facing the sea in Buchanan House on Queensway Quay, which was definitely upmarket in Gibraltar. She hired an interior decorator to renovate and furnish it.

MacMillan recalled that while he had been busy shuffling papers, Salander had personally supervised the installation of an alarm system, computer equipment, and the safe that she had already rummaged through by the time he entered the office that morning.

“Am I in trouble?” he said.

She put down the folder with the correspondence she had been perusing.

“No, Jeremy. You’re not in trouble.”

“That’s good,” he said as he poured himself some coffee. “You have a way of popping up when I least expect it.”

“I’ve been busy lately. I just wanted to get an update on what’s been happening.”

“I believe you were suspected of killing three people, you got shot in the head, and you were charged with a whole assortment of crimes. I was pretty worried for a while. I thought you were still in prison. Did you break out?”

“No. I was acquitted of all the charges and released. How much have you heard?”

He hesitated a moment. “Well, when I heard that you were in trouble, I hired a translation agency to comb the Swedish press and give me regular updates. I’m au fait with the details.”

“If you’re basing your knowledge on what you read in the papers, then you’re not au fait at all. But I dare say you discovered a number of secrets about me.”

He nodded.

“What’s going to happen now?” he said.

She gave him a surprised look. “Nothing. We keep on exactly as before. Our relationship has nothing to do with my problems in Sweden. Tell me what’s been happening since I’ve been away. Have you been doing alright?”

“I’m not drinking, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. Your private life doesn’t concern me so long as it doesn’t encroach on our business. I mean, am I richer or poorer than I was a year ago?”

He pulled out the visitor’s chair and sat down. Somehow it did not matter to him that she was sitting in his chair.

“You turned over $2.4 billion to me. We put $200 million into personal funds for you. You gave me the rest to play with.”

“And?”

“Your personal funds haven’t grown by much more than the amount of interest. I could increase the profit if –”

“I’m not interested in increasing the profit.”

“O.K. You’ve spent a negligible amount. The principal expenses have been the apartment I bought for you and the fund you started for that lawyer Palmgren. Otherwise you’ve just had normal expenses. The interest rate has been favourable. You’re running about even.”

“Good.”

“The rest I invested. Last year we didn’t make very much. I was a little rusty and spent the time learning the market again. We’ve had expenses. We didn’t really start generating income until this year. Since the start of the year we’ve taken about 7 million. Dollars, that is.”

“Of which 20 per cent goes to you.”

“Of which 20 per cent goes to me.”

“Are you satisfied with that?”

“I’ve made more than a million dollars in six months. Yes, I’m satisfied.”

“You know… you shouldn’t get too greedy. You can cut back on your hours when you’re satisfied. Just make sure you spend a few hours on my affairs every so often.”

“Ten million dollars,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“When I get ten million together I’ll pack it in. It was good that you turned up in my life. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Fire away.”

He threw up his hands.

“This is so much money that it scares the shit out of me. I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know the purpose of the company besides making more money. What’s all the money going to be used for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither. But money can become an end in itself. It’s crazy. That’s why I’ve decided to call it quits when I’ve earned ten million for myself. I don’t want the responsibility any longer.”

“Fair enough.”

“But before I call it a day I want you to decide how this fortune is to be administered in the future. There has to be a purpose and guidelines and some kind of organization that can take over.”

“Mmm.”

“It’s impossible to conduct business this way. I’ve divided up the sum into long-term fixed investments – real estate, securities and so forth. There’s a complete list on the computer.”

“I’ve read it.”

“The other half I’ve put into speculation, but it’s so much money to keep track of that I can’t keep up. So I set up an investment company on Jersey. At present you have six employees in London. Two talented young brokers and some clerical staff.”

“Yellow Ballroom Ltd? I was wondering what that could be.”

“Our company. Here in Gibraltar I’ve hired a secretary and a promising young lawyer. They’ll be here in half an hour, by the way.”

“I know. Molly Flint, forty-one, and Brian Delaney, twenty-six.”

“Do you want to meet them?”

“No. Is Brian your lover?”

“What? No.” He looked shocked. “I don’t mix –”

“Good.”

“By the way, I’m not interested in young guys… inexperienced ones, I mean.”

“No… you’re more attracted to men with a tough attitude than to some snot-nosed kid. But it’s still none of my business. But Jeremy…”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

Salander had not planned to stay in Gibraltar for more than two weeks, just long enough, she thought, to get her bearings. But she suddenly discovered that she had no idea what she was going to do or where she should go. She stayed for three months. She checked her email once a day and replied promptly to messages from Giannini on the few occasions her lawyer got in touch. She did not tell her where she was. She did not answer any other email.

She still went to Harry’s Bar, but now she came in only for a beer or two in the evenings. She spent large parts of her days at the Rock Hotel, either on her balcony or in bed. She got together with a thirty-year-old Royal Navy officer, but it was a one-night stand and all in all an uninteresting experience.

She was bored.

Early in October she had dinner with MacMillan. They had met up only a few times during her stay. It was dark and they drank a fruity white wine and discussed what they should use her billions for. And then he surprised her by asking what was upsetting her.

She studied his face for a long time and pondered the matter. Then she had, just as surprisingly, told him about her relationship with Miriam Wu, and how Mimmi had been beaten and almost killed. And she, Lisbeth, was to blame. Apart from one greeting sent by way of Giannini, Salander had not heard a word from Mimmi. And now she was in France.

MacMillan listened in silence.

“Are you in love with her?” he said at last.

Salander shook her head.

“No. I don’t think I’m the type who falls in love. She was a friend. And we had good sex.”

“Nobody can avoid falling in love,” he said. “They might want to deny it, but friendship is probably the most common form of love.”

She looked at him in astonishment.

“Will you get cross if I say something personal?”

“No.”

“Go to Paris, for God’s sake,” he said.

She landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at 2.30 in the afternoon, took the airport bus to the Arc de Triomphe and spent two hours wandering around the nearby neighbourhoods trying to find a hotel room. She walked south towards the Seine and finally found a room at a small hotel, the Victor Hugo on rue Copernic.

She took a shower and called Miriam Wu. They met that evening at a bar near Notre Dame. Mimmi was dressed in a white shirt and jacket. She looked fabulous. Salander instantly felt shy. They kissed each other on the cheek.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called, and that I didn’t come to the trial,” Mimmi said.

“That’s O.K. The trial was behind closed doors anyway.”

“I was in hospital for three weeks, and then it was chaos when I got home to Lundagatan. I couldn’t sleep. I had nightmares about that bastard Niedermann. I called my mother and told her I wanted to come here, to Paris.”

Salander said she understood.

“Forgive me,” Mimmi said.

“Don’t be such an idiot. I’m the one who’s come here to ask you to forgive me.”

“For what?”

“I wasn’t thinking. It never occurred to me that I was putting you in such danger by turning over my old apartment to you. It was my fault that you were almost murdered. You’d have every right to hate me.”

Mimmi looked shocked. “Lisbeth, I never even gave it a thought. It was Ronald Niedermann who tried to murder me, not you.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“Alright,” Salander said finally.

“Right,” Mimmi said.

“I didn’t follow you here because I’m in love with you,” Salander said.

Mimmi nodded.

“We had great sex, but I’m not in love with you.”

“Lisbeth, I think…”

“What I wanted to say was that I hope you… damn.”

“What?”

“I don’t have many friends…”

Mimmi nodded. “I’m going to be in Paris for a while. My studies at home were a mess so I signed up at the university here instead. I’ll probably stay at least one academic year. After that I don’t know. But I’m going to come back to Stockholm. I’m still paying the service charges on Lundagatan and I mean to keep the apartment. If that’s O.K. with you.”

“It’s your apartment. Do what you want with it.”

“Lisbeth, you’re a very special person,” Mimmi said. “I’d still like to be your friend.”

They talked for two hours. Salander did not have any reason to hide her past from Miriam Wu. The Zalachenko business was familiar to everyone who had access to a Swedish newspaper, and Mimmi had followed the story with great interest. She gave Salander a detailed account of what had happened in Nykvarn the night Paolo Roberto saved her life.

Then they went back to Mimmi’s student lodgings near the university.