The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest

Stieg Larsson

Translated from the Swedish by Reg Keeland

First published in Great Britain in 2009

MacLehose Press
an imprint of Quercus Publishing Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

Originally published in Sweden as Luftslottet Som Sprängdes
(The castle of air that was blown up)
by Norstedts, Stockholm, in 2007
Text published with agreement of Norstedts Agency
Copyright © 2007 by Norstedts Agency

English translation copyright © 2009 by Reg Keeland
Maps © Emily Faccini

The moral right of Stieg Larsson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 90669 441 8
Print ISBN (MMP) 978 0 85705 405 0
Print ISBN (OME) 978 0 85705 411 1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk

“Larsson has produced a coup de foudre, a novel that is complex, satisfying, clever, moral . . . This is a grown-up novel for grown-up readers, who want something more than a quick fix and a car chase. And it’s why the Millennium trilogy is rightly a publishing phenomenon all over the world.”

KATE MOSSE, Guardian

“If fans of the first two of Stieg Larsson’s mega-selling Millennium trilogy feared that his tales of dark doings in Sweden might not delight to the last, they need not have worried. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest begins where its predecessors left off, gripping the reader in a relentlessly fast narrative. Some novels claim to be page turners, this trilogy is the real deal.”

TONY TASSELL, Financial Times

“Solves the mysteries set up in the first two novels and explains how Salander became what she is . . . confirms Larsson as one of the great talents of contemporary crime fiction.”

JOAN SMITH, Sunday Times

“So this is it. The final instalment in Stieg Larsson’s enthralling Millennium crime trilogy . . . If you’re a fan of the first two, you won’t be disappointed by the stunning ending. If you haven’t a clue about all the fuss, buy all three, clear a weekend and savour a master storyteller at work.”

News of the World

“Larsson’s work is original, inventive, shocking, disturbing and challenging . . . [he has] brought a much-needed freshness into the world of crime fiction.”

MARCEL BERLINS, The Times

“I was completely enthralled by The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest, the tense and almost apocalyptic conclusion to Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy.”

ANTHONY HOROWITZ, Daily Telegraph

“Encompasses brilliant storytelling, vivid and pacey action, a ‘whydunnit’ and political polemic as well as a detection thriller, and features a couple of fictional characters who are as memorable in their own way as Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson . . . The conclusion to the Millennium trilogy is just as fine as the preceding two volumes.”

MARTIN HANNAN, Scotland on Sunday

“Fans will not be disappointed: this is another roller-coaster ride that keeps you reading far too late into the night. Intricate but flawlessly plotted, it has complex characters as well as a satisfying, clear moral thrust.”

ANDREW NEATHER, Evening Standard

“Hits the ground running and the pace rarely lets up. It’s an exhilarating read as well as something very special in the world of crime thrillers . . . This is a strong and satisfying conclusion to a massively ambitious, richly textured trilogy.”

BARRY FORSHAW, Daily Express

“My choice of book of the year is not original, for the Swedish journalist Stieg Larsson has become a worldwide bestseller, and the publication of the finale to his Millennium trilogy is an exciting literary event.”

JESSICA MANN, Literary Review

“As a just avenger, Lisbeth Salander is a worthy successor to Edmund Dantès in The Count of Monte Cristo, because Larsson was certain of the righteousness of her cause . . . tens of millions of readers all around the world agree.”

NICK COHEN, Observer

Description

Black and white illustrated map of Sweden. Stockholm is labelled in the North East, with a box illustrating that the map is enlarged elsewhere. Other key areas labelled in the country are Gothenburg in the West, Lake Siljan in the North and Lake Vänern, Lake Vättern, Södermanland and Östergötland in the centre. A portion of Norway is visible in the top left hand corner of the map, as well as Denmark in the bottom. The Kattegat sea area is labelled off the Western coast of Sweden, as is the Baltic sea off the Eastern coast. The islands of Gotland and Öland are labelled in the Baltic Sea.

Description

Black and white illustrated map of Stokholm district, with Stockholm city in the centre. To the West of Stockholm city lies Lake Malaren, with the Baltic Sea to the East. In the bottom left corner of the image there is a compass, and a caption below the image reads ‘there are places on this map that do not exist on other maps’. There are labelled place names: Lake Yngern and Jarna in the South, Saltsjöbaden, Sickla, Nacka, Sunbyberg, Vallholmen and Taby in the centre, and Uppsala, Vadabosjon, Vidakra Norrtalje and Arholma in the North.

Description

Black and white illustrated map of the centre of Stockholm. Riddarholmen is in the centre, with Lake Malaren in the West and Saltsjon in the East. Several points in the city are noted: Gamlstan is in the centre, with Södermalm in the South and Östermalm in the North. There is a compass in the bottom right corner of the image, and under it a key labelling key parts of the city which are mentioned in the book. These are:

• Rådhuset - Court House

• Konserthuset – Concert Hall

• Stadshuset – City Hall

• Handelshögskolan – School of Economics

• Observatorielurden – Observatory Park

• Riddarhuset – House of Nobility

• Dramaten – Royal Dramatic Theatre

• Kulturhuset – House of Culture

• Riksdaghuset – Parliament House

• Stadsarkivet – Stockholm City Archives

Part 1

Intermezzo in a Corridor

8 – 12.iv

It is estimated that some six hundred women served during the American Civil War. They had signed up disguised as men. Hollywood has missed a significant chapter of cultural history here – or is this history ideologically too difficult to deal with? Historians have often struggled to deal with women who do not respect gender distinctions, and nowhere is that distinction more sharply drawn than in the question of armed combat. (Even today, it can cause controversy having a woman on a typical Swedish elk hunt.)

But from antiquity to modern times, there are many stories of female warriors, of Amazons. The best known find their way into the history books as warrior queens, rulers as well as leaders. They have been forced to act as any Churchill, Stalin or Roosevelt: Semiramis from Nineveh, who shaped the Assyrian Empire, and Boudicca, who led one of the bloodiest English revolts against the Roman forces of occupation, to cite just two. Boudicca is honoured with a statue on the Thames at Westminster Bridge, right opposite Big Ben. Be sure to say hello to her if you happen to pass by.

On the other hand, history is quite reticent about women who were common soldiers, who bore arms, belonged to regiments, and played their part in battle on the same terms as men. Hardly a war has been waged without women soldiers in the ranks.

Chapter 1

Friday, 8.iv

Dr Jonasson was woken by Nurse Nicander five minutes before the helicopter was expected to land. It was just before 1.30 in the morning.

“What?” he said, confused.

“Rescue Service helicopter coming in. Two patients. An injured man and a younger woman. The woman has a gunshot wound.”

“Alright,” Jonasson said wearily.

He felt groggy although he had slept for only half an hour. He was on the night shift in A. & E. at Sahlgrenska hospital in Göteborg. It had been a strenuous evening. Since he had come on duty at 6.00 p.m., the hospital had received four victims of a head-on collision outside Lindome. One was pronounced D.O.A. He had treated a waitress whose legs had been scalded in an accident at a restaurant on Avenyn, and he had saved the life of a four-year-old boy who arrived at the hospital with respiratory failure after swallowing the wheel of a toy car. He had patched up a girl who had ridden her bike into a ditch that the road-repair department had chosen to dig close to the end of a cycle path; the warning barriers had been tipped into the hole. She had fourteen stitches in her face and would need two new front teeth. Jonasson had also sewn part of a thumb back on to an enthusiastic carpenter who had managed to slice it off.

By 12.30 the steady flow of emergency cases had eased off. He had made a round to check on the state of his patients, and then gone back to the staff bedroom to try to rest for a while. He was on duty until 6.00 in the morning, and seldom got the chance to sleep even if no emergency patients came in. But this time he had fallen asleep almost as soon as he turned out the light.

Nurse Nicander handed him a cup of tea. She had not been given any details about the incoming cases.

Jonasson saw lightning out over the sea. He knew that the helicopter was coming in in the nick of time. All of a sudden a heavy downpour lashed at the window. The storm had moved in over Göteborg.

He heard the sound of the chopper and watched as it banked through the storm squalls down towards the helipad. For a second he held his breath when the pilot seemed to have difficulty controlling the aircraft. Then it vanished from his field of view and he heard the engine slowing to land. He took a hasty swallow of his tea and set down the cup.

*

Jonasson met them in the emergency admissions area. The other doctor on duty, Katarina Holm, took on the first patient who was wheeled in – an elderly man with his head bandaged, apparently with a serious wound to the face. Jonasson was left with the second patient, the woman who had been shot. He did a quick visual examination: it looked like she was a teenager, very dirty and bloody, and severely wounded. He lifted the blanket that the Rescue Service had wrapped round her body and saw that the wounds to her hip and shoulder were bandaged with duct tape, which he considered a pretty clever idea. The tape kept bacteria out and the blood in. One bullet had entered the outer side of her hip and gone straight through the muscle tissue. Then he gently raised her shoulder and located the entry wound in her back. There was no exit wound: the round was still inside her shoulder. He hoped it had not penetrated her lung, and since he did not see any blood in the woman’s mouth he concluded that probably it had not.

“Radiology,” he told the nurse in attendance. That was all he needed to say.

Then he cut away the bandage that the emergency team had wrapped round her skull. He froze when he saw another entry wound. The woman had been shot in the head and there was no exit wound there either.

Dr Jonasson paused for a second, looking down at the girl. He felt dejected. He had often described his job as being like that of a goalkeeper. Every day people came to his place of work in varying conditions but with one objective: to get help. It could be an old woman who had collapsed from a heart attack in the Nordstan galleria, or a fourteen-year-old boy whose left lung had been pierced by a screwdriver, or a teenage girl who had taken ecstasy and danced for eighteen hours straight before collapsing, blue in the face. They were victims of accidents at work or of violent abuse at home. They were tiny children savaged by dogs on Vasaplatsen, or Handy Harrys, who only meant to saw a few planks with their Black & Deckers and in some mysterious way managed to slice right into their wristbones.

So Dr Jonasson was the goalkeeper who stood between the patient and Fonus Funeral Service. His job was to decide what to do. If he made the wrong decision, the patient might die or perhaps wake up disabled for life. Most often he made the right decision, because the vast majority of injured people had an obvious and specific problem. A stab wound to the lung or broken bones after a car crash were both particular and recognizable problems that could be dealt with. The survival of the patient depended on the extent of the damage and on Dr Jonasson’s skill.

There were two kinds of injury that he hated. One was a serious burn case, because no matter what measures he took it would almost inevitably result in a lifetime of suffering. The second was an injury to the brain.

The girl on the gurney could live with a piece of lead in her hip and a piece of lead in her shoulder. But a piece of lead inside her brain was a trauma of a wholly different magnitude. He was suddenly aware of Nurse Nicander saying something.

“Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

“It’s her.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Lisbeth Salander. The girl they’ve been hunting for the past few weeks, for the triple murder in Stockholm.”

Jonasson looked again at the unconscious patient’s face. He realized at once that Nurse Nicander was right. He and the whole of Sweden had seen her passport photograph on billboards outside every newspaper kiosk for weeks. And now the murderer herself had been shot, which was surely poetic justice of a sort.

But that was not his concern. His job was to save his patient’s life, irrespective of whether she was a triple murderer or a Nobel Prize winner. Or both.

*

Then the efficient chaos, the same in every A. & E. the world over, erupted. The staff on Jonasson’s shift set about their appointed tasks. Salander’s clothes were cut away. A nurse reported on her blood pressure – 100/70 – while the doctor put his stethoscope to her chest and listened to her heartbeat. It was surprisingly regular, but her breathing was not quite normal.

Jonasson did not hesitate to classify Salander’s condition as critical. The wounds in her shoulder and hip could wait until later with a compress on each, or even with the duct tape that some inspired soul had applied. What mattered was her head. Jonasson ordered tomography with the new and improved C.T. scanner that the hospital had lately acquired.

Dr Anders Jonasson was blond and blue-eyed, originally from Umeå in northern Sweden. He had worked at Sahlgrenska and Eastern hospitals for twenty years, by turns as researcher, pathologist, and in A. & E. He had achieved something that astonished his colleagues and made the rest of the medical staff proud to work with him; he had vowed that no patient would die on his shift, and in some miraculous way he had indeed managed to hold the mortality rate at zero. Some of his patients had died, of course, but it was always during subsequent treatment or for completely different reasons that had nothing to do with his interventions.

He had a view of medicine that was at times unorthodox. He thought doctors often drew conclusions that they could not substantiate. This meant that they gave up far too easily; alternatively they spent too much time at the acute stage trying to work out exactly what was wrong with the patient so as to decide on the right treatment. This was correct procedure, of course. The problem was that the patient was in danger of dying while the doctor was still doing his thinking.

But Jonasson had never before had a patient with a bullet in her skull. Most likely he would need a brain surgeon. He had all the theoretical knowledge required to make an incursion into the brain, but he did not by any means consider himself a brain surgeon. He felt inadequate but all of a sudden realized that he might be luckier than he deserved. Before he scrubbed up and put on his operating clothes he sent for Nurse Nicander.

“There’s an American professor from Boston called Frank Ellis, working at the Karolinska hospital in Stockholm. He happens to be in Göteborg tonight, staying at the Radisson on Avenyn. He’s just given a lecture on brain research. He’s a good friend of mine. Could you get the number?”

While Jonasson was still waiting for the X-rays, Nurse Nicander came back with the number of the Radisson. Jonasson picked up the telephone. The night porter at the Radisson was very reluctant to wake a guest at that time of night and Jonasson had to come up with a few choice phrases about the critical nature of the situation before his call was put through.

“Good morning, Frank,” Jonasson said when the call was finally answered. “It’s Anders. Do you feel like coming over to Sahlgrenska to help out in a brain op.?”

“Are you bullshitting me?” Ellis had lived in Sweden for many years and was fluent in Swedish – albeit with an American accent – but when Jonasson spoke to him in Swedish, Ellis always replied in his mother tongue.

“I’m sorry I missed your lecture, Frank, but I hoped you might be able to give me private lessons. I’ve got a young woman here who’s been shot in the head. Entry wound just above the left ear. I badly need a second opinion, and I don’t know of a better person to ask.”

“So it’s serious?” Ellis sat up and swung his feet out of bed. He rubbed his eyes.

“She’s mid-twenties, entry wound, no exit.”

“And she’s alive?”

“Weak but regular pulse, less regular breathing, blood pressure is 100/70. She also has a bullet wound in her shoulder and another in her hip. But I know how to handle those two.”

“Sounds promising,” Ellis said.

“Promising?”

“If somebody has a bullet in their head and they’re still alive, that points to hopeful.”

“I understand . . . Frank, can you help me out?”

“I spent the evening in the company of good friends, Anders. I got to bed at 1.00 and no doubt I have an impressive blood-alcohol content.”

“I’ll make the decisions and do the surgery. But I need somebody to tell me if I’m doing anything stupid. Even a falling-down drunk Professor Ellis is several classes better than I could ever be when it comes to assessing brain damage.”

“O.K. I’ll come. But you’re going to owe me one.”

“I’ll have a taxi waiting outside by the time you get down to the lobby. The driver will know where to drop you, and Nurse Nicander will be there to meet you and get you kitted out.”

*

Ellis had raven-black hair with a touch of grey, and a dark five-o’clock shadow. He looked like a bit player in E.R. The tone of his muscles testified to the fact that he spent a number of hours each week at the gym. He pushed up his glasses and scratched the back of his neck. He focused his gaze on the computer screen, which showed every nook and cranny of the patient Salander’s brain.

Ellis liked living in Sweden. He had first come as an exchange researcher in the late ’70s and stayed for two years. Then he came back regularly, until one day he was offered a permanent position at the Karolinska in Stockholm. By that time he had won an international reputation.

He had first met Jonasson at a seminar in Stockholm fourteen years earlier and discovered that they were both fly-fishing enthusiasts. They had kept in touch and had gone on fishing trips to Norway and elsewhere. But they had never worked together.

“I’m sorry for chasing you down, but . . .”

“Not a problem.” Ellis gave a dismissive wave. “But it’ll cost you a bottle of Cragganmore the next time we go fishing.”

“O.K., that’s a fee I’ll gladly pay.”

“I had a patient a number of years ago, in Boston – I wrote about the case in the New England Journal of Medicine. It was a girl the same age as your patient here. She was walking to the university when someone shot her with a crossbow. The arrow entered at the outside edge of her left eyebrow and went straight through her head, exiting from almost the middle of the back of her neck.”

“And she survived?”

“She looked like nothing on earth when she came in. We cut off the arrow shaft and put her head in a C.T. scanner. The arrow went straight through her brain. By all known reckoning she should have been dead, or at least suffered such massive trauma that she would have been in a coma.”

“And what was her condition?”

“She was conscious the whole time. Not only that; she was terribly frightened, of course, but she was completely rational. Her only problem was that she had an arrow through her skull.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, I got the forceps and pulled out the arrow and bandaged the wounds. More or less.”

“And she lived to tell the tale?”

“Obviously her condition was critical, but the fact is we could have sent her home the same day. I’ve seldom had a healthier patient.”

Jonasson wondered whether Ellis was pulling his leg.

“On the other hand,” Ellis went on, “I had a 42-year-old patient in Stockholm some years ago who banged his head on a windowsill. He began to feel sick immediately and was taken by ambulance to A. & E. When I got to him he was unconscious. He had a small bump and a very slight bruise. But he never regained consciousness and died after nine days in intensive care. To this day I have no idea why he died. In the autopsy report, we wrote brain haemorrhage resulting from an accident, but not one of us was satisfied with that assessment. The bleeding was so minor and located in an area that shouldn’t have affected anything else at all. And yet his liver, kidneys, heart and lungs shut down one after the other. The older I get, the more I think it’s like a game of roulette. I don’t believe we’ll ever figure out precisely how the brain works.” He tapped on the screen with a pen. “What do you intend to do?”

“I was hoping you would tell me.”

“Let’s hear your diagnosis.”

“Well, first of all, it seems to be a small-calibre bullet. It entered at the temple, and then stopped about four centimetres into the brain. It’s resting against the lateral ventricle. There’s bleeding there.”

“How will you proceed?”

“To use your terminology – get some forceps and extract the bullet by the same route it went in.”

“Excellent idea. I would use the thinnest forceps you have.”

“It’s that simple?”

“What else can we do in this case? We could leave the bullet where it is, and she might live to be a hundred, but it’s also a risk. She might develop epilepsy, migraines, all sorts of complaints. And one thing you really don’t want to do is drill into her skull and then operate a year from now when the wound itself has healed. The bullet is located away from the major blood vessels. So I would recommend that you extract it . . . but . . .”

“But what?”

“The bullet doesn’t worry me so much. She’s survived this far and that’s a good omen for her getting through having the bullet removed too. The real problem is here.” He pointed at the screen. “Around the entry wound you have all sorts of bone fragments. I can see at least a dozen that are a couple of millimetres long. Some are embedded in the brain tissue. That’s what could kill her if you’re not careful.”

“Isn’t that part of the brain associated with numbers and mathematical capacity?” Jonasson said.

Ellis shrugged. “Mumbo jumbo. I have no idea what these particular grey cells are for. You can only do your best. You operate. I’ll look over your shoulder.”

*

Mikael Blomkvist looked up at the clock and saw that it was just after 3.00 in the morning. He was handcuffed and increasingly uncomfortable. He closed his eyes for a moment. He was dead tired but running on adrenaline. He opened them again and gave the policeman an angry glare. Inspector Thomas Paulsson had a shocked expression on his face. They were sitting at a kitchen table in a white farmhouse called Gosseberga, somewhere near Nossebro. Blomkvist had heard of the place for the first time less than twelve hours earlier.

There was no denying the disaster that had occurred.

“Imbecile,” Blomkvist said.

“Now, you listen here—”

“Imbecile,” Blomkvist said again. “I warned you he was dangerous, for Christ’s sake. I told you that you would have to handle him like a live grenade. He’s murdered at least three people with his bare hands and he’s built like a tank. And you send a couple of village policemen to arrest him as if he were some Saturday-night drunk.”

Blomkvist shut his eyes again, wondering what else could go wrong that night.

He had found Salander just after midnight. She was very badly wounded. He had sent for the police and the Rescue Service.

The only thing that had gone right was that he had persuaded them to send a helicopter to take the girl to Sahlgrenska hospital. He had given them a clear description of her injuries and the bullet wound in her head, and some bright spark at the Rescue Service got the message.

Even so, it had taken over half an hour for the Puma from the helicopter unit in Säve to arrive at the farmhouse. Blomkvist had got two cars out of the barn. He switched on their headlights to illuminate a landing area in the field in front of the house.

The helicopter crew and two paramedics had proceeded in a routine and professional manner. One of the medics tended to Salander while the other took care of Alexander Zalachenko, known locally as Karl Axel Bodin. Zalachenko was Salander’s father and her worst enemy. He had tried to kill her, but he had failed. Blomkvist had found him in the woodshed at the farm with a nasty-looking gash – probably from an axe – in his face and some shattering damage to one of his legs which he did not trouble to investigate.

*

While he waited for the helicopter, he did what he could for Salander. He took a clean sheet from a linen cupboard and cut it up to make bandages. The blood had coagulated at the entry wound in her head, and he did not know whether he dared to put a bandage on it or not. In the end he fixed the fabric very loosely round her head, mostly so that the wound would not be exposed to bacteria or dirt. But he had stopped the bleeding from the wounds in her hip and shoulder in the simplest possible way. He had found a roll of duct tape and this he had used to close the wounds. The medics remarked that this, in their experience, was a brand-new form of bandage. He had also bathed Salander’s face with a wet towel and done his best to wipe off the dirt.

He had not gone back to the woodshed to tend to Zalachenko. He honestly did not give a damn about the man. But he did call Erika Berger on his mobile and told her the situation.

“Are you alright?” Berger asked him.

“I’m O.K.,” Blomkvist said. “Lisbeth is the one who’s in real danger.”

“That poor girl,” Berger said. “I read Björck’s Säpo report this evening. How should I deal with it?”

“I don’t have the energy to think that through right now,” Blomkvist said. Security Police matters were going to have to wait until the next day.

As he talked to Berger, he sat on the floor next to the bench and kept a watchful eye on Salander. He had taken off her shoes and her trousers so that he could bandage the wound to her hip, and now his hand rested on the trousers that he had dropped on the floor next to the bench. There was something in one of the pockets. He pulled out a Palm Tungsten T3.

He frowned and looked long and hard at the hand-held computer. When he heard the approaching helicopter he stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket and then went through all her other pockets. He found another set of keys to the apartment in Mosebacke and a passport in the name of Irene Nesser. He put these swiftly into a side pocket of his laptop case.

*

The first patrol car with Torstensson and Ingemarsson from the station in Trollhättan arrived a few minutes after the helicopter landed. Next to arrive was Inspector Paulsson, who took charge immediately. Blomkvist began to explain what had happened. He very soon realized that Paulsson was a pompous, rigid drill-sergeant type. He did not seem to take in anything that Blomkvist said. It was when Paulsson arrived that things really started to go awry.

The only thing he seemed capable of grasping was that the badly injured girl being cared for by the medics on the floor next to the kitchen bench was the triple murderer Lisbeth Salander. And above all it was important that he make the arrest. Three times Paulsson had asked the urgently occupied medical orderly whether the girl could be arrested on the spot. In the end the medic stood up and shouted at Paulsson to keep the bloody hell out of his way.

Paulsson had then turned his attention to the wounded man in the woodshed, and Blomkvist heard the inspector report over his radio that Salander had evidently attempted to kill yet another person.

By now Blomkvist was so infuriated with Paulsson, who had obviously not paid attention to a word he had said, that he yelled at him to call Inspector Bublanski in Stockholm without delay. Blomkvist had even taken out his mobile and offered to dial the number for him, but Paulsson was not interested.

Blomkvist then made two mistakes.

First, he patiently but firmly explained that the man who had committed the murders in Stockholm was Ronald Niedermann, who was built like a heavily armoured robot and suffered from a disease called congenital analgesia, and who at that moment was sitting in a ditch on the road to Nossebro tied to a traffic sign. Blomkvist told Paulsson exactly where Niedermann was to be found, and urged him to send a platoon armed with automatic weapons to pick him up. Paulsson finally asked how Niedermann had come to be in that ditch, and Blomkvist freely admitted that he himself had put him there, and had managed only by holding a gun on him the whole time.

“Assault with a deadly weapon,” was Paulsson’s immediate response.

At this point Blomkvist should have realized that Paulsson was dangerously stupid. He should have called Bublanski himself and asked him to intervene, to bring some clarity to the fog in which Paulsson was apparently enveloped. Instead he made his second mistake: he offered to hand over the weapon he had in his jacket pocket – the Colt .45 1911 Government model that he had found earlier that day at Salander’s apartment in Stockholm. It was the weapon he had used to disarm and disable Niedermann – not a straightforward matter with that giant of a man.

At which Paulsson swiftly arrested Blomkvist for possession of an illegal weapon. He then ordered his two officers, Torstensson and Ingemarsson, to drive over to the Nossebro road. They were to find out if there was any truth to Blomkvist’s story that a man was sitting in a ditch there, tied to an ELK CROSSING sign. If this was the case, the officers were to handcuff the person in question and bring him to the farm at Gosseberga.

Blomkvist had objected at once, pointing out that Niedermann was not a man who could be arrested and handcuffed just like that: he was a maniacal killer, for God’s sake. When Blomkvist’s objections were ignored by Paulsson, the exhaustion of the day made him reckless. He told Paulsson he was an incompetent fool and yelled at him that Torstensson and Ingemarsson should fucking forget about untying Niedermann until they had called for back-up. As a result of this outburst, he was handcuffed and pushed into the back seat of Paulsson’s car. Cursing, he watched as Torstensson and Ingemarsson drove off in their patrol car. The only glimmer of light in the darkness was that Salander had been carried to the helicopter, which was even now disappearing over the treetops in the direction of Göteborg. Blomkvist felt utterly helpless: he could only hope that she would be given the very best care. She was going to need it, or die.

*

Jonasson made two deep incisions all the way down to the cranium and peeled back the skin round the entry wound. He used clamps to secure the opening. A theatre nurse inserted a suction tube to remove any blood. Then came the awkward part, when he had to use a drill to enlarge the hole in the skull. The procedure was excruciatingly slow.

Finally he had a hole big enough to give access to Salander’s brain. With infinite care he inserted a probe into the brain and enlarged the wound channel by a few millimetres. Then he inserted a thinner probe and located the bullet. From the X-ray he could see that the bullet had turned and was lying at an angle of forty-five degrees to the entry channel. He used the probe cautiously to prise at the edge of the bullet, and after a few unsuccessful attempts he managed to lift it very slightly so that he could turn it in the right direction.

Finally he inserted narrow forceps with serrated jaws. He gripped the base of the bullet, got a good hold on it, then pulled the forceps straight out. The bullet emerged with almost no resistance. He held it up to the light for a few seconds and saw that it appeared intact; then he dropped it into a bowl.

“Swab,” he said, and his request was instantly met.

He glanced at the E.C.G., which showed that his patient still had regular heart activity.

“Forceps.”

He pulled down the powerful magnifying glass hanging overhead and focused on the exposed area.

“Careful,” Ellis said.

Over the next forty-five minutes Jonasson picked out no fewer than thirty-two tiny bone chips from round the entry wound. The smallest of these chips could scarcely be seen with the naked eye.

*

As Blomkvist tried in frustration to manoeuvre his mobile out of the breast pocket of his jacket – it proved to be an impossible task with his hands cuffed behind his back, nor was it clear to him how he was going to be able to use it – several more vehicles containing both uniformed officers and technical personnel arrived at the Gosseberga farm. They were detailed by Paulsson to secure forensic evidence in the woodshed and to do a thorough examination of the farmhouse, from which several weapons had already been confiscated. By now resigned to his futility, Blomkvist had observed their comings and goings from his vantage point in Paulsson’s vehicle.

An hour passed before it dawned on Paulsson that Torstensson and Ingemarsson had not yet returned from their mission to retrieve Niedermann. He had Blomkvist brought into the kitchen, where he was required once more to provide precise directions to the spot.

Blomkvist closed his eyes.

He was still in the kitchen with Paulsson when the armed response team sent to relieve Torstensson and Ingemarsson reported back. Ingemarsson had been found dead with a broken neck. Torstensson was still alive, but he had been savagely beaten. The men had been discovered near an ELK CROSSING sign by the side of the road. Their service weapons and the marked police car were gone.

Inspector Paulsson had started out with a relatively manageable situation; now he had a murdered policeman and an armed killer on the run.

“Imbecile,” Blomkvist said again.

“It won’t help to insult the police.”

“That certainly seems to be true in your case. But I’m going to report you for dereliction of duty and you won’t even know what hit you. Before I’m through with you, you’re going to be celebrated as the dumbest policeman in Sweden on every newspaper billboard in the country.”

The notion of being the object of public ridicule appeared at last to have an effect on Inspector Paulsson. His face was lined with anxiety.

“What do you propose?”

“I don’t propose, I demand that you call Inspector Bublanski in Stockholm. This minute. His number’s on my mobile in my breast pocket.”

*

Inspector Modig woke with a start when her mobile rang at the other end of the bedroom. She saw to her dismay that it was just after 4.00 in the morning. Then she looked at her husband, who was snoring peacefully. He would probably sleep through an artillery barrage. She staggered out of bed, unplugged her mobile from the charger, and fumbled for the talk button.

Jan Bublanski, she thought. Who else?

“Everything has gone to hell down in Trollhättan,” her senior officer said without bothering to greet her or apologize. “The X2000 to Göteborg leaves at 5.10. Take a taxi.”

“What’s happened?”

“Blomkvist found Salander, Niedermann and Zalachenko. Got himself arrested for insulting a police officer, resisting arrest, and for possession of an illegal weapon. Salander was taken to Sahlgrenska with a bullet in her head. Zalachenko is there too with an axe wound to his skull. Niedermann got away. And he killed a policeman tonight.”

Modig blinked twice, registering how exhausted she felt. Most of all she wanted to crawl back into bed and take a month’s holiday.

“The X2000 at 5.10. O.K. What do you want me to do?”

“Meet Jerker Holmberg at Central Station. You’re to contact an Inspector Thomas Paulsson at the Trollhättan police. He seems to be responsible for much of the mess tonight. Blomkvist described him as an Olympic-class idiot.”

“You’ve talked to Blomkvist?”

“Apparently he’s been arrested and cuffed. I managed to persuade Paulsson to let me talk to him for a moment. I’m on my way to Kungsholmen right now, and I’ll try to work out what’s going on. We’ll keep in touch by mobile.”

Modig looked at the time again. Then she called a taxi and jumped into the shower for a minute. She brushed her teeth, pulled a comb through her hair, and put on long black trousers, a black T-shirt and a grey jacket. She put her police revolver in her shoulder bag and picked out a dark-red leather coat. Then she shook enough life into her husband to explain where she was off to, and that he had to deal with the kids in the morning. She walked out of the front door just as the taxi drew up.

She did not have to search for her colleague, Criminal Inspector Holmberg. She assumed that he would be in the restaurant car and that is where she found him. He had already bought coffee and sandwiches for her. They sat in silence for five minutes as they ate their breakfast. Finally Holmberg pushed his coffee cup aside.

“Maybe I should get training in some other field,” he said.

*

Some time after 4.00 in the morning, Criminal Inspector Marcus Erlander from the Violent Crimes Division of the Göteborg police arrived in Gosseberga and took over the investigation from the overburdened Paulsson. Erlander was a short, round man in his fifties with grey hair. One of the first things he did was to have Blomkvist released from his handcuffs, and then he produced rolls and coffee from a thermos. They sat in the living room for a private conversation.

“I’ve spoken with Bublanski,” Erlander said. “Bubble and I have known each other for many years. We are both of us sorry that you were subjected to Paulsson’s rather primitive way of operating.”

“He succeeded in getting a policeman killed tonight,” Blomkvist said.

Erlander said, “I knew Officer Ingemarsson personally. He served in Göteborg before he moved to Trollhättan. He has a three-year-old daughter.”

“I’m sorry. I tried to warn him.”

“So I heard. You were quite emphatic, it seems, and that’s why you were cuffed. You were the one who exposed Wennerström last year. Bublanski says that you’re a shameless journalist bastard and an insane private investigator, but that you just might know what you’re talking about. Can you bring me up to speed so I can get the hang of what’s going on?”

“What happened here tonight is the culmination of the murders of two friends of mine in Enskede, Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson. And the murder of a person who was no friend of mine . . . a lawyer called Bjurman, also Lisbeth Salander’s guardian.”

Erlander made notes between taking sips of his coffee.

“As you no doubt know, the police have been looking for Salander since Easter. She was a suspect in all three murders. First of all, you have to realize that Salander is not only not guilty of these murders, she has been a victim in the whole affair throughout.”

“I haven’t had the least connection to the Enskede business, but after everything that was in the media about her it seems a bit hard to swallow that Salander could be completely innocent.”

“Nonetheless, that’s how it is. She’s innocent. Full stop. The killer is Ronald Niedermann, the man who murdered your officer tonight. He works for Karl Axel Bodin.”

“The Bodin who’s in Sahlgrenska with an axe in his skull?”

“The axe isn’t still in his head. I assume it was Salander who nailed him. His real name is Alexander Zalachenko and he’s Lisbeth’s father. He was a hit man for Russian military intelligence. He defected in the ’70s, and was then on the books of Säpo until the collapse of the Soviet Union. He’s been running his own criminal network ever since.”

Erlander scrutinized the man opposite him. Blomkvist’s face was shiny with sweat, but he looked both frozen and deathly tired. Until now he had sounded perfectly rational, but Paulsson – whose opinion had little influence on Erlander – had warned him that Blomkvist had been babbling on about Russian agents and German hit men – hardly routine elements in Swedish police work. Blomkvist had apparently reached the point in his story at which Paulsson had decided to ignore everything else he might say. But there was one policeman dead and another severely wounded on the road to Nossebro, so Erlander was willing to listen. But he could not keep a trace of incredulity out of his voice.

“O.K. A Russian agent.”

Blomkvist smiled weakly, only too aware of how odd his story sounded.

“A former Russian agent. I can document every one of my claims.”

“Go on.”

“Zalachenko was a top spy in the ’70s. He defected and was granted asylum by Säpo. In his old age he became a gangster. As far as I understand it, it’s not a unique situation in the wake of the Soviet Union’s collapse.”

“O.K.”

“As I said, I don’t know exactly what happened here tonight, but Lisbeth tracked down her father whom she hadn’t seen for fifteen years. Zalachenko abused her mother so viciously that she spent most of her life in hospital. He tried to murder Lisbeth, and through Niedermann he was the architect of the murders of Svensson and Johansson. Plus, he was behind the kidnapping of Salander’s friend Miriam Wu – you probably heard of Paolo Roberto’s title bout in Nykvarn, as a result of which Wu was rescued from certain death.”

“If Salander hit her father in the head with an axe she isn’t exactly innocent.”

“She has been shot three times. I think we could assume her actions were on some level self-defence. I wonder . . .”

“Yes?”

“She was so covered with dirt, with mud, that her hair was one big lump of dried clay. Her clothes were full of sand, inside and out. It looked as though she might have been buried during the night. Niedermann is known to have a habit of burying people. The police in Södertälje have found two graves in the place that’s owned by Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club, outside Nykvarn.”

“Three, as a matter of fact. They found one more late last night. But if Salander was shot and buried, how was she able to climb out and start wandering around with an axe?”

“Whatever went on here tonight, you have to understand that Salander is exceptionally resourceful. I tried to persuade Paulsson to bring in a dog unit—”

“It’s on its way now.”

“Good.”

“Paulsson arrested you for insulting a police officer . . .”

“I will dispute that. I called him an imbecile and an incompetent fool. Under the circumstances neither of these epithets could be considered wide of the mark.”

“Hmm. It’s not a wholly inaccurate description. But you were also arrested for possession of an illegal weapon.”

“I made the mistake of trying to hand over a weapon to him. I don’t want to say anything more about that until I talk to my lawyer.”

“Alright. We’ll leave it at that. We have more serious issues to discuss. What do you know about this Niedermann?”

“He’s a murderer. And there’s something wrong with him. He’s over two metres tall and built like a tank. Ask Paolo Roberto, who boxed with him. He suffers from a disease called congenital analgesia, which means the transmitter substance in his nerve synapses doesn’t function. He feels no pain. He’s German, was born in Hamburg, and in his teens he was a skinhead. Right now he’s on the run and he’ll be seriously dangerous to anyone he runs into.”

“Do you have an idea where he might be heading?”

“No. I only know that I had him neatly trussed, all ready to be arrested, when that idiot from Trollhättan took charge of the situation.”

*

Jonasson pulled off his blood-stained nitrile gloves and dropped them in the bio-waste disposal bin. A theatre nurse was applying bandages to the gunshot wound on Salander’s hip. The operation had lasted three hours. He looked at the girl’s shaved and damaged head, which was already wrapped in bandages.

He felt a sudden tenderness, as he often did for patients after an operation. According to the newspapers, she was a psychopathic mass murderer, but to him she looked more like an injured sparrow.

“You’re an excellent surgeon,” Ellis said, looking at him with amused affection.

“Can I buy you breakfast?”

“Can one get pancakes and jam anywhere round here?”

“Waffles,” Jonasson said. “At my house. Let me call my wife to warn her, then we can take a taxi.” He stopped and looked at the clock. “On second thoughts, it might be better if we didn’t call.”

*

Annika Giannini woke with a start. She saw that it was 5.58 a.m. . . . She had her first client meeting at 8.00. She turned to look at Enrico, who was sleeping peacefully and probably would not be awake before 8.00. She blinked hard a few times and got up to turn on the coffeemaker before she took her shower. She dressed in black trousers, a white polo neck, and a muted brick-red jacket. She made two slices of toast with cheese, orange marmalade and a sliced avocado, and carried her breakfast into the living room in time for the 6.30 television news. She took a sip of coffee and had just opened her mouth to take a bite of toast when she heard the headlines.

One policeman killed and another seriously wounded. Drama last night as triple murderer Lisbeth Salander is finally captured.

At first she could not make any sense of it. Was it Salander who had killed a policeman? The news item was sketchy, but bit by bit she gathered that a man was being sought for the killing. A nationwide alert had gone out for a man in his mid-thirties, as yet unnamed. Salander herself was critically injured and at Sahlgrenska hospital in Göteborg.

She switched to the other channel, but she learned nothing more about what had happened. She reached for her mobile and called her brother, Mikael Blomkvist. She only got his voicemail. She felt a small twinge of fear. He had called on his way to Göteborg. He had been tracking Salander. And a murderer who called himself Ronald Niedermann.

*

As it was growing light an observant police officer found traces of blood on the ground behind the woodshed. A police dog followed the trail to a narrow trench in a clearing in a wood about four hundred metres north-east of the farmhouse.

Blomkvist went with Inspector Erlander. Grimly they studied the site. Much more blood had obviously been shed in and around the trench.

They found a damaged cigarette case that seemed to have been used as a scoop. Erlander put it in an evidence bag and labelled the find. He also gathered samples of blood-soaked clumps of dirt. A uniformed officer drew his attention to a cigarette butt – a filterless Pall Mall – some distance from the hole. This too was saved in an evidence bag and labelled. Blomkvist remembered having seen a pack of Pall Malls on the kitchen counter in Zalachenko’s house.

Erlander glanced up at the lowering rain clouds. The storm that had ravaged Göteborg earlier in the night had obviously passed to the south of the Nossebro area, but it was only a matter of time before the rain came. He instructed one of his men to get a tarpaulin to cover the trench and its immediate surroundings.

“I think you’re right,” Erlander said to Blomkvist as they walked back to the farmhouse. “An analysis of the blood will probably establish that Salander was buried here, and I’m beginning to expect that we’ll find her fingerprints on the cigarette case. She was shot and buried here, but somehow she managed to survive and dig herself out and—”

“And somehow got back to the farm and swung an axe into Zalachenko’s skull,” Blomkvist finished for him. “She can be a moody bitch.”

“But how on earth did she handle Niedermann?”

Blomkvist shrugged. He was as bewildered as Erlander on that score.

Chapter 2

Friday, 8.iv

Modig and Holmberg arrived at Göteborg Central Station just after 8.00 a.m. Bublanski had called to give them new instructions. They could forget about finding a car to take them to Gosseberga. They were to take a taxi to police headquarters on Ernst Fontells Plats, the seat of the County Criminal Police in West Götaland. They waited for almost an hour before Inspector Erlander arrived from Gosseberga with Blomkvist. Blomkvist said hello to Modig, having met her before, and shook hands with Holmberg, whom he did not know. One of Erlander’s colleagues joined them with an update on the hunt for Niedermann. It was a brief report.

“We have a team working under the auspices of the County Criminal Police. An A.P.B. has gone out, of course. The missing patrol car was found in Alingsås early this morning. The trail ends there for the moment. We have to suppose that he switched vehicles, but we’ve had no report of a car being stolen thereabouts.”

“Media?” Modig asked, with an apologetic glance at Blomkvist.

“It’s a police killing and the press is out in force. We’ll be holding a press conference at 10.00.”

“Does anyone have any information on Lisbeth Salander’s condition?” Blomkvist said. He felt strangely uninterested in everything to do with the hunt for Niedermann.

“She was operated on during the night. They removed a bullet from her head. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

“Is there any prognosis?”

“As I understand it, we won’t know anything until she wakes up. But the surgeon says he has high hopes that she’ll survive, barring unforeseen complications.”

“And Zalachenko?”

“Who?” Erlander’s colleague said. He had not yet been brought up to date with all the details.

“Karl Axel Bodin.”

“I see . . . yes, he was operated on last night too. He had a very deep gash across his face and another just below one kneecap. He’s in bad shape, but the injuries aren’t life-threatening.”

Blomkvist absorbed this news.

“You look tired,” Modig said.

“You got that right. I’m into my third day with hardly any sleep.”

“Believe it or not, he actually slept in the car coming down from Nossebro,” Erlander said.

“Could you manage to tell us the whole story from the beginning?” Holmberg said. “It feels to us as though the score between the private investigators and the police investigators is about 3-0.”

Blomkvist gave him a wan smile. “That’s a line I’d like to hear from Officer Bubble.”

They made their way to the police canteen to have breakfast. Blomkvist spent half an hour explaining step by step how he had pieced together the story of Zalachenko. When he had finished, the detectives sat in silence.

“There are a few holes in your account,” Holmberg said at last.

“That’s possible,” Blomkvist said.

“You didn’t say, for example, how you came to be in possession of the Top Secret Säpo report on Zalachenko.”

“I found it yesterday at Lisbeth Salander’s apartment when I finally worked out where she was. She probably found it in Bjurman’s summer cabin.”

“So you’ve discovered Salander’s hideout?” Modig said.

Blomkvist nodded.

“And?”

“You’ll have to find out for yourselves where it is. Salander put a lot of effort into establishing a secret address for herself, and I have no intention of revealing its whereabouts.”

Modig and Holmberg exchanged an anxious look.

“Mikael . . . this is a murder investigation,” Modig said.

“You still haven’t got it, have you? Lisbeth Salander is in fact innocent and the police have violated her and destroyed her reputation in ways that beggar belief. ‘Lesbian Satanist gang’ . . . where the hell do you get this stuff? Not to mention her being sought in connection with three murders she had nothing to do with. If she wants to tell you where she lives, then I’m sure she will.”

“But there’s another gap I don’t really understand,” Holmberg said. “How does Bjurman come into the story in the first place? You say he was the one who started the whole thing by contacting Zalachenko and asking him to kill Salander. Why would he do that?”

“I reckon he hired Zalachenko to get rid of Salander. The plan was for her to end up in that warehouse in Nykvarn.”

“He was her guardian. What motive would he have had to get rid of her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I can do complicated.”

“He had a hell of a good motive. He had done something that Salander knew about. She was a threat to his entire future and wellbeing.”

“What had he done?”

“I think it would be best if you gave Salander a chance to explain the story herself.” He looked Holmberg steadily in the eye.

“Let me guess,” Modig said. “Bjurman subjected his ward to some sort of sexual assault . . .”

Blomkvist shrugged and said nothing.

“You don’t know about the tattoo Bjurman had on his abdomen?”

“What tattoo?” Blomkvist was taken aback.

“An amateurish tattoo across his belly with a message that said: I am a sadistic pig, a pervert and a rapist. We’ve been wondering what that was about.”

Blomkvist burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ve always wondered what she did to get her revenge. But listen . . . I don’t want to discuss this, for the reason I’ve already given. She’s the real victim here. She’s the one who has to decide what she is willing to tell you. Sorry.”

He looked almost apologetic.

“Rapes should always be reported to the police,” Modig said.

“I’m with you on that. But this rape took place two years ago, and Lisbeth still hasn’t talked to the police about it. Which means that she doesn’t intend to. It doesn’t matter how much I disagree with her about the matter; it’s her decision. Anyway . . .”

“Yes?”

“She had no good reason to trust the police. The last time she tried explaining what a pig Zalachenko was, she was locked up in a mental hospital.”

*

Richard Ekström, the leader of the preliminary investigation, had butterflies in his stomach as he asked his team leader Inspector Bublanski to take a seat opposite him. Ekström straightened his glasses and stroked his well-groomed goatee. He felt that the situation was chaotic and ominous. For several weeks they had been hunting Lisbeth Salander. He himself had proclaimed her far and wide to be mentally unbalanced, a dangerous psychopath. He had leaked information that would have backed him up in an upcoming trial. Everything had looked so good.

There had been no doubt in his mind that Salander was guilty of three murders. The trial should have been a straightforward matter, a pure media circus with himself centre stage. Then everything had gone haywire, and he found himself with a completely different murderer and a chaos that seemed to have no end in sight. That bitch Salander.

“Well, this is a fine mess we’ve landed in,” he said. “What have you come up with this morning?”

“A nationwide A.P.B. has been sent out on this Ronald Niedermann, but there’s no sign of him. At present he’s being sought only for the murder of Officer Gunnar Ingemarsson, but I anticipate we’ll have grounds for charging him with the three murders here in Stockholm. Maybe you should call a press conference.”

Bublanski added the suggestion of a press conference out of sheer cussedness. Ekström hated press conferences.

“I think we’ll hold off on the press conference for the time being,” he snapped.

Bublanski had to stop himself from smiling.

“In the first instance, this is a matter for the Göteborg police,” Ekström said.

“Well, we do have Modig and Holmberg on the scene in Göteborg, and we’ve begun to co-operate—”

“We’ll hold off on the press conference until we know more,” Ekström repeated in a brittle tone. “What I want to know is: how certain are you that Niedermann really is involved in the murders in Stockholm?”

“My gut feeling? I’m 100 per cent convinced. On the other hand, the case isn’t exactly rock solid. We have no witnesses to the murders, and there is no satisfactory forensic evidence. Lundin and Nieminen of the Svavelsjö M.C. are refusing to say anything – they’re claiming they’ve never heard of Niedermann. But he’s going to go to prison for the murder of Officer Ingemarsson.”

“Precisely,” said Ekström. “The killing of the police officer is the main thing right now. But tell me this: is there anything at all to even suggest that Salander might be involved in some way in the murders? Could she and Niedermann have somehow committed the murders together?”

“I very much doubt it, and if I were you I wouldn’t voice that theory in public.”

“So how is she involved?”

“This is an intricate story, as Mikael Blomkvist claimed from the very beginning. It revolves around this Zala . . . Alexander Zalachenko.”

Ekström flinched at the mention of the name Blomkvist.

“Go on,” he said.

“Zala is a Russian hit man – apparently without a grain of conscience – who defected in the ’70s, and Lisbeth Salander was unlucky enough to have him as her father. He was sponsored or supported by a faction within Säpo that tidied up after any crimes he committed. A police officer attached to Säpo also saw to it that Salander was locked up in a children’s psychiatric clinic. She was twelve and had threatened to blow Zalachenko’s identity, his alias, his whole cover.”

“This is a bit difficult to digest. It’s hardly a story we can make public. If I understand the matter correctly, all this stuff about Zalachenko is highly classified.”

“Nevertheless, it’s the truth. I have documentation.”

“Could I see it?”

Bublanski pushed across the desk a folder containing a police report dated 1991. Ekström surreptitiously scanned the stamp, which indicated that the document was Top Secret, and the registration number, which he at once identified as belonging to the Security Police. He leafed rapidly through the hundred or so pages, reading paragraphs here and there. Eventually he put the folder aside.

“We have to try to tone this down, so that the situation doesn’t get completely out of our control. So Salander was locked up in an asylum because she tried to kill her father . . . this Zalachenko. And now she has attacked him with an axe. By any interpretation that would be attempted murder. And she has to be charged with shooting Magge Lundin in Stallarholmen.”

“You can arrest whoever you want, but I would tread carefully if I were you.”

“There’s going to be an almighty scandal if Säpo’s involvement gets leaked.”

Bublanski shrugged. His job was to investigate crimes, not to clean up after scandals.

“This bastard from Säpo, this Gunnar Björck. What do you know about his role?”

“He’s one of the major players. He’s on sick leave for a slipped disc and lives in Smådalarö at present.”

“O.K. . . . we’ll keep the lid on Säpo’s involvement for the time being. The focus right now is to be on the murder of a police officer.”

“It’s going to be hard to keep this under wraps.”

“What do you mean?”

“I sent Andersson to bring in Björck for a formal interrogation. That should be happening . . .” – Bublanski looked at his watch – “. . . yes, about now.”

“You what?”

“I was rather hoping to have the pleasure of driving out to Smådalarö myself, but the events surrounding last night’s killing took precedence.”

“I didn’t give anyone permission to arrest Björck.”

“That’s true. But it’s not an arrest. I’m just bringing him in for questioning.”

“Whichever, I don’t like it.”

Bublanski leaned forward, almost as if to confide in the other man.

“Richard . . . this is how it is. Salander has been subjected to a number of infringements of her rights, starting when she was a child. I have no intention of letting this continue on my watch. You have the option to remove me as leader of the investigation . . . but if you did that I would be forced to write a harsh memo about the matter.”

Ekström looked as if he had just swallowed something very sour.

*

Gunnar Björck, on sick leave from his job as assistant chief of the Immigration Division of the Security Police, opened the door of his summer house in Smådalarö and looked up at a powerfully built blond man with a crewcut who wore a black leather jacket.

“I’m looking for Gunnar Björck.”

“That’s me.”

“Curt Andersson, County Criminal Police.” The man held up his I.D.

“Yes?”

“You are requested to accompany me to Kungsholmen to assist the police in their investigations into the case involving Lisbeth Salander.”

“Uh . . . there must be some sort of misunderstanding.”

“There’s no misunderstanding,” Andersson said.

“You don’t understand. I’m a police officer myself. Save yourself making a big mistake: check it out with your superior officers.”

“My superior is the one who wants to talk to you.”

“I have to make a call and—”

“You can make your call from Kungsholmen.”

Björck felt suddenly resigned. It’s happened. I’m going to be arrested. That goddamn fucking Blomkvist. And fucking Salander.

“Am I being arrested?” he said.

“Not for the moment. But we can arrange for that if you like.”

“No . . . no, of course I’ll come with you. Naturally I’d want to assist my colleagues in the police force.”

“Alright, then,” Andersson said, walking into the hallway to keep a close eye on Björck as he turned off the coffee machine and picked up his coat.

*

In the late morning it dawned on Blomkvist that his rental car was still at the Gosseberga farm, but he was so exhausted that he did not have the strength or the means to get out there to fetch it, much less drive safely for any distance. Erlander kindly arranged for a crime scene tech to take the car back on his way home.

“Think of it as compensation for the way you were treated last night.”

Blomkvist thanked him and took a taxi to City Hotel on Lorensbergsgatan. He booked in for the night for 800 kronor and went straight to his room and undressed. He sat naked on the bed and took Salander’s Palm Tungsten T3 from the inside pocket of his jacket, weighing it in his hand. He was still amazed that it had not been confiscated when Paulsson frisked him, but Paulsson presumably thought it was Blomkvist’s own, and he had never been formally taken into custody and searched. He thought for a moment and then slipped it into a compartment of his laptop case where he had also put Salander’s D.V.D. marked “Bjurman”, which Paulsson had also missed. He knew that technically he was withholding evidence, but these were the things that Salander would no doubt prefer not to have fall into the wrong hands.

He turned on his mobile and saw that the battery was low, so he plugged in the charger. He made a call to his sister, Advokat Giannini.

“Hi, Annika.”

“What did you have to do with the policeman’s murder last night?” she asked him at once.

He told her succinctly what had happened.

“O.K., so Salander is in intensive care.”

“Correct, and we won’t know the extent or severity of her injuries until she regains consciousness, but now she’s really going to need a lawyer.”

Giannini thought for a moment. “Do you think she’d want me for her lawyer?”

“Probably she wouldn’t want any lawyer at all. She isn’t the type to ask anyone for help.”

“Mikael . . . I’ve said this before, it sounds like she might need a criminal lawyer. Let me look at the documentation you have.”

“Talk to Erika and ask her for a copy.”

As soon as Blomkvist disconnected, he called Berger himself. She did not answer her mobile, so he tried her number at the Millennium offices. Henry Cortez answered.

“Erika’s out somewhere,” he said.

Blomkvist briefly explained what had happened and asked Cortez to pass the information to Millennium’s editor-in-chief.

“Will do. What do you want us to do?” Cortez said.

“Nothing today,” Blomkvist said. “I have to get some sleep. I’ll be back in Stockholm tomorrow if nothing else comes up. Millennium will have an opportunity to present its version of the story in the next issue, but that’s almost a month away.”

He flipped his mobile shut and crawled into bed. He was asleep within thirty seconds.

*

Assistant County Police Chief Carina Spångberg tapped her pen against her glass of water and asked for quiet. Nine people were seated round the conference table in her office at police headquarters. Three women and six men: the head of the Violent Crimes Division and his deputy head; three criminal inspectors including Erlander and the Göteborg police press officers; preliminary investigation leader Agneta Jervas from the prosecutor’s office, and lastly Inspectors Modig and Holmberg from the Stockholm police. They were included as a sign of goodwill and to demonstrate that Göteborg wished to co-operate with their colleagues from the capital. Possibly also to show them how a real police investigation should be run.

Spångberg, who was frequently the lone woman in a male landscape, had a reputation for not wasting time on formalities or mere courtesies. She explained that the county police chief was at the Europol conference in Madrid, that he had broken off his trip as soon as he knew that one of his police officers had been murdered, but that he was not expected back before late that night. Then she turned directly to the head of the Violent Crimes Division, Anders Pehrzon, and asked him to brief the assembled company.

“It’s been about ten hours since our colleague was murdered on Nossebrovägen. We know the name of the killer, Ronald Niedermann, but we still don’t have a picture of him.”

“In Stockholm we have a photograph of him that’s about twenty years old. Paolo Roberto got it through a boxing club in Germany, but it’s almost unusable,” Holmberg said.

“Alright. The patrol car that Niedermann is thought to have driven away was found in Alingsås this morning, as you all know. It was parked on a side street 350 metres from the railway station. We haven’t had a report yet of any car thefts in the area this morning.”

“What’s the status of the search?”

“We’re keeping an eye on all trains arriving in Stockholm and Malmö. There is a nationwide A.P.B. out and we’ve alerted the police in Norway and Denmark. Right now we have about thirty officers working directly on the investigation, and of course the whole force is keeping their eyes peeled.”

“No leads?”

“No, nothing yet. But someone with Niedermann’s distinctive appearance is not going to go unnoticed for long.”

“Does anyone know about Torstensson’s condition?” asked one of the inspectors from Violent Crime.

“He’s at Sahlgrenska. His injuries seem to be similar to those of a car-crash victim – it’s hardly credible that anyone could do such damage with his bare hands: a broken leg, ribs crushed, cervical vertebrae injured, plus there’s a risk that he may be paralysed.”

They all took stock of their colleague’s plight for a few moments until Spångberg turned to Erlander.

“Marcus . . . tell us what really happened at Gosseberga.”

“Thomas Paulsson happened at Gosseberga.”

A ripple of groans greeted this response.

“Can’t someone give that man early retirement? He’s a walking catastrophe.”

“I know all about Paulsson,” Spångberg interrupted. “But I haven’t heard any complaints about him in the last . . . well, not for the past two years. In what way has he become harder to handle?”

“The police chief up there is an old friend of Paulsson’s, and he’s probably been trying to protect him. With all good intentions, of course, and I don’t mean to criticize him. But last night Paulsson’s behaviour was so bizarre that several of his people mentioned it to me.”

“In what way bizarre?”

Erlander glanced at Modig and Holmberg. He was embarrassed to be discussing flaws in their organization in front of the visitors from Stockholm.

“As far as I’m concerned, the strangest thing was that he detailed one of the techs to make an inventory of everything in the woodshed – where we found the Zalachenko guy.”

“An inventory of what in the woodshed?” Spångberg wanted to know.

“Yes . . . well . . . he said he needed to know exactly how many pieces of wood were in there. So that the report would be accurate.”

There was a charged silence round the conference table before Erlander went on.

“And this morning it came out that Paulsson has been taking at least two different antidepressants. He should have been on sick leave, but no-one knew about his condition.”

“What condition?” Spångberg said sharply.

“Well, obviously I don’t know what’s wrong with him – patient confidentiality and all that – but the drugs he’s taking are strong ataractics on the one hand, and stimulants. He was high as a kite all night.”

“Good God,” said Spångberg emphatically. She looked like the thundercloud that had swept over Göteborg that morning. “I want Paulsson in here for a chat. Right now.”

“He collapsed this morning and was admitted to the hospital suffering from exhaustion. It was just our bad luck that he happened to be on rotation.”

“May I ask . . . Paulsson, did he arrest Mikael Blomkvist last night?”

“He wrote a report citing offensive behaviour, aggressive resistance to police officers, and illegal possession of a weapon. That’s what he put in the report.”

“What does Blomkvist say?”

“He concedes that he was insulting, but he claims it was in self-defence. He says that the resistance consisted of a forceful verbal attempt to prevent Torstensson and Ingemarsson from going to pick up Niedermann alone, without back-up.”

“Witnesses?”

“Well, there is Torstensson. I don’t believe Paulsson’s claim of aggressive resistance for a minute. It’s a typical pre-emptive retaliation to undermine potential complaints from Blomkvist.”

“But Blomkvist managed to overpower Niedermann all by himself, did he not?” Prosecutor Jervas said.

“By holding a gun to him.”

“So Blomkvist had a gun. Then there was some basis for his arrest after all. Where did he get the weapon?”

“Blomkvist won’t discuss it without his lawyer being there. And Paulsson arrested Blomkvist when he was trying to hand in the weapon to the police.”

“Could I make a small, informal suggestion?” Modig said cautiously.

Everyone turned to her.

“I have met Mikael Blomkvist on several occasions in the course of this investigation. I have found him quite likeable, even though he is a journalist. I suppose you’re the one who has to make the decision about charging him . . .” She looked at Jervas, who nodded. “All this stuff about insults and aggressive resistance is just nonsense. I assume you will ignore it.”

“Probably. Illegal weapons are more serious.”

“I would urge you to wait and see. Blomkvist has put the pieces of this puzzle together all by himself; he’s way ahead of us on the police force. It will be to our advantage to stay on good terms with him and ensure his co-operation, rather than unleash him to condemn the entire police force in his magazine and elsewhere in the media.”

After a few seconds, Erlander cleared his throat. If Modig dared to stick her neck out, he could do the same.

“I agree with Sonja. I too think Blomkvist is a man we could work with. I’ve apologized to him for the way he was treated last night. He seems ready to let bygones be bygones. Besides, he has integrity. He somehow tracked down where Salander was living but he won’t give us the address. He’s not afraid to get into a public scrap with the police . . . and he’s most certainly in a position where his voice will carry just as much weight in the media as any report from Paulsson.”

“But he refuses to give the police any information about Salander.”

“He says that we’ll have to ask her ourselves, if that time ever comes. He says he absolutely won’t discuss a person who is not only innocent but who also has had her rights so severely violated.”

“What kind of weapon is it?” Jervas said.

“It’s a Colt 1911 Government. Serial number unknown. Forensics have it, and we don’t know yet whether it is connected to any known crime in Sweden. If it is, that will put the matter in a rather different light.”

Spångberg raised her pen.

“Agneta . . . it’s up to you to decide whether you want to initiate a preliminary investigation against Blomkvist. But I advise that you wait for the report from forensics. So let’s move on. This character Zalachenko . . . what can our colleagues from Stockholm tell us about him?”

“The truth is,” Modig said, “that until yesterday afternoon we had never heard of either Zalachenko or Niedermann.”

“I thought you were busy looking for a lesbian Satanist gang in Stockholm. Was I wrong?” one of the Göteborg policemen said. His colleagues all frowned. Holmberg was studying his fingernails. Modig had to take the question.

“Within these four walls, I can tell you that we have our equivalent of Inspector Paulsson, and all that stuff about a lesbian Satanist gang is probably a smokescreen originating mainly from him.”

Modig and Holmberg then described in detail the investigation as it had developed. When they had finished there was a long silence around the table.

“If all this about Gunnar Björck is true and it comes out, Säpo’s ears are going to be burning,” the assistant chief of the Violent Crimes Division concluded.

Jervas raised her hand. “It sounds to me as though your suspicions are for the most part based on assumptions and circumstantial evidence. As a prosecutor I would be uneasy about the lack of incontrovertible evidence.”

“We’re aware of that,” Holmberg said. “We think we know what happened in broad outline, but there are questions that still have to be answered.”

“I gather you’re still busy with excavations in Nykvarn,” Spångberg said. “How many killings do you reckon this case involves?”

Holmberg rubbed his eyes wearily. “We started with two, then three murders in Stockholm. Those are the ones that prompted the hunt for Salander: the deaths of Advokat Bjurman, the journalist Dag Svensson, and Mia Johansson, an academic. In the area around the warehouse in Nykvarn we have so far found three graves, well, three bodies. We’ve identified a known dealer and petty thief who was found dismembered in one trench. We found a woman’s body in a second trench – she’s still unidentified. And we haven’t dug up the third yet. It appears to be older than the others. Furthermore, Blomkvist has made a connection to the murder several months ago of a prostitute in Södertälje.”

“So, with Gunnar Ingemarsson dead in Gosseberga, we’re talking about at least eight murders. That’s a horrendous statistic. Do we suspect this Niedermann of all of them? If so, he has to be treated as a madman, a mass murderer.”

Modig and Holmberg exchanged glances. It was now a matter of how far they wanted to align themselves with such assertions. Finally Modig spoke up.

“Even though crucial evidence is lacking, my superior, Inspector Bublanski, and I are tending towards the belief that Blomkvist is correct in claiming that the first three murders were committed by Niedermann. That would require us to believe that Salander is innocent. With respect to the graves in Nykvarn, Niedermann is linked to the site through the kidnapping of Salander’s friend Miriam Wu. There is a strong likelihood that she too would have been his victim. But the warehouse is owned by a relative of the president of Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club, and until we’re able to identify the remains, we won’t be able to draw any conclusions.”

“That petty thief you identified . . .”

“Kenneth Gustafsson, forty-four, dealer, and delinquent in his youth. Offhand I would guess it’s to do with an internal shake-up of some sort. Svavelsjö M.C. is mixed up in several kinds of criminal activity, including the distribution of methamphetamine. Nykvarn may be a cemetery in the woods for people who crossed them, but . . .”

“Yes?”

“This young prostitute who was murdered in Södertälje . . . her name is Irina Petrova. The autopsy revealed that she died as a result of a staggeringly vicious assault. She looked as if she had been beaten to death. But the actual cause of her injuries could not be established. Blomkvist made a pretty acute observation. Petrova had injuries that could very well have been inflicted by a man’s bare hands . . .”

“Niedermann?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption. But there’s no proof yet.”

“So how do we proceed?” Spångberg wondered.

“I have to confer with Bublanski,” Modig said. “But a logical step would be to interrogate Zalachenko. We’re interested in hearing what he has to say about the murders in Stockholm, and for you it’s a matter of finding out what was Niedermann’s role in Zalachenko’s business. He might even be able to point you in the direction of Niedermann.”

One of the detectives from Göteborg said, “What have we found at the farm in Gosseberga?”

“We found four revolvers. A Sig Sauer that had been dismantled and was being oiled on the kitchen table. A Polish P-83 Wanad on the floor next to the bench in the kitchen. A Colt 1911 Government – that’s the pistol that Blomkvist tried to hand in to Paulsson. And finally a .22 calibre Browning, which is pretty much a toy gun alongside the others. We think that was the weapon used to shoot Salander, given that she’s still alive with a slug in her brain.”

“Anything else?”

“We found and confiscated a bag containing about 200,000 kronor. It was in an upstairs room used by Niedermann.”

“How do you know it was his room?”

“Well, he does wear a size XXL. Zalachenko is at most a medium.”

“Do you have anything on Zalachenko or Bodin in your records?” Holmberg said.

Erlander shook his head.

“Of course it depends on how we interpret the confiscated weapons. Apart from the more sophisticated weaponry and an unusually sophisticated T.V. surveillance of the farm, we found nothing to distinguish it from any other farmhouse. The house itself is spartan, no frills.”

Just before noon there was a knock on the door and a uniformed officer delivered a document to Spångberg.

“We’ve received a call,” she said, “about a missing person in Alingsås. A dental nurse by the name of Anita Kaspersson left her home by car at 7.30 this morning. She took her child to day care and should have arrived at her place of work by 8.00. But she never did. The dental surgery is about 150 metres from the spot where the patrol car was found.”

Erlander and Modig both looked at their wristwatches.

“Then he has a four-hour head start. What kind of car is it?”

“A dark-blue 1991 Renault. Here’s the registration number.”

“Send out an A.P.B. on the vehicle at once. He could be in Oslo by now, or Malmö, or maybe even Stockholm.”

They brought the conference to a close by deciding that Modig and Erlander would together interrogate Zalachenko.

*

Cortez frowned and followed Berger with his gaze as she cut across the hall from her office to the kitchenette. She returned moments later with a cup of coffee, went back into her office and closed the door.

Cortez could not put his finger on what was wrong. Millennium was the kind of small office where co-workers were close. He had worked part-time at the magazine for four years, and during that time the team had weathered some phenomenal storms, especially during the period when Blomkvist was serving a three-month sentence for libel and the magazine almost went under. Then their colleague Dag Svensson was murdered, and his girlfriend too.

Through all these storms Berger had been the rock that nothing seemed capable of shifting. He was not surprised that she had called to wake him early that morning and put him and Lottie Karim to work. The Salander affair had cracked wide open, and Blomkvist had somehow got himself involved in the killing of a policeman in Göteborg. So far, everything was under control. Karim had parked herself at police headquarters and was doing her best to get some solid information out of someone. Cortez had spent the morning making calls, piecing together what had happened overnight. Blomkvist was not answering his telephone, but from a number of sources Cortez had a fairly clear picture of the events of the night before.

Berger, on the other hand, had been distracted all morning. It was rare for her to close the door to her office. That usually happened only when she had a visitor or was working intently on some problem. This morning she had not had a single visitor, and she was not – so far as he could judge – working. On several occasions when he had knocked on the door to relay some news, he had found her sitting in the chair by the window. She seemed lost in thought, as she listlessly watched the stream of people walking down below on Götgatan. She had paid scant attention to his reports.

Something was wrong.

The doorbell interrupted his ruminations. He went to open it and found the lawyer Annika Giannini. Cortez had met Blomkvist’s sister a few times, but he did not know her well.

“Hello, Annika,” he said. “Mikael isn’t here today.”

“I know. I want to talk to Erika.”

Berger barely looked up from her position by the window, but she quickly pulled herself together when she saw who it was.

“Hello,” she said. “Mikael isn’t here today.”

Giannini smiled. “I know. I’m here for Björck’s Säpo report. Micke asked me to take a look at it in case it turns out that I represent Salander.”

Berger nodded. She got up, took a folder from her desk and handed it to Giannini.

Giannini hesitated a moment, wondering whether to leave the office. Then she made up her mind and, uninvited, sat down opposite Berger.

“O.K. . . . what’s up?”

“I’m about to resign from Millennium, and I haven’t been able to tell Mikael. He’s been so tied up in this Salander mess that there hasn’t been the right opportunity, and I can’t tell the others before I tell him. Right now I just feel like shit.”

Giannini bit her lower lip. “So you’re telling me instead. Why are you leaving?”

“I’m going to be editor-in-chief of Svenska Morgon-Posten.”

“Jesus. Well, in that case, congratulations seem to be in order rather than any weeping or gnashing of teeth.”

“Annika . . . this isn’t the way I had planned to end my time at Millennium. In the middle of bloody chaos. But the offer came like a bolt from the blue, and I can’t say no. I mean . . . it’s the chance of a lifetime. But I got the offer just before Dag and Mia were shot, and there’s been such turmoil here that I buried it. And now I have the world’s worst guilty conscience.”

“I understand. But now you’re afraid of telling Micke.”

“It’s an utter disaster. I haven’t told anybody. I thought I wouldn’t be starting at S.M.P. until after the summer, and that there would still be time to tell everyone. But now they want me to start asap.”

She fell silent and stared at Annika. She looked on the verge of tears.

“This is, in point of fact, my last day at Millennium. Next week I’ll be on a trip, and then . . . I need about a fortnight off to recharge my batteries. I start at S.M.P. on the first of May.”

“Well, what would have happened if you’d been run over by a bus? Then they would have been without an editor-in-chief with only a moment’s notice.”

Erika looked up. “But I haven’t been run over by a bus. I’ve been deliberately keeping quiet about my decision for weeks now.”

“I can see this is a difficult situation, but I’ve got a feeling that Micke and Christer Malm and the others will be able to work things out. I think you ought to tell them right away.”

“Alright, but your damned brother is in Göteborg today. He’s asleep and has turned off his mobile.”

“I know. There aren’t many people who are as stubborn as Mikael about not being available when you need him. But Erika, this isn’t about you and Micke. I know that you’ve worked together for twenty years or so and you’ve had your ups and downs, but you have to think about Christer and the others on the staff too.”

“I’ve been keeping it under wraps all this time – Mikael’s going to—”

“Micke’s going to go through the roof, of course he is. But if he can’t handle the fact that you screwed up one time in twenty years, then he isn’t worth the time you’ve put in for him.”

Berger sighed.

“Pull yourself together,” Giannini told her. “Call Christer in, and the rest of the staff. Right now.”

*

Malm sat motionless for a few seconds. Berger had gathered her colleagues into Millennium’s small conference room with only a few minutes’ notice, just as he was about to leave early. He glanced at Cortez and Karim. They were as astonished as he was. Malin Eriksson, the assistant editor, had not known anything either, nor had Monika Nilsson, the reporter, or the advertising manager Magnusson. Blomkvist was the only one absent from the meeting. He was in Göteborg being his usual Blomkvist self.

Good God. Mikael doesn’t know anything about it either, thought Malm. How on earth is he going to react?

Then he realized that Berger had stopped talking, and it was as silent as the grave in the conference room. He shook his head, stood up, and spontaneously gave Berger a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Congrats, Ricky,” he said. “Editor-in-chief of S.M.P. That’s not a bad step up from this sorry little rag.”

Cortez came to life and began to clap. Berger held up her hands.

“Stop,” she said. “I don’t deserve any applause today.” She looked around at her colleagues in the cramped editorial office. “Listen . . . I’m terribly sorry that it had to be this way. I wanted to tell you so many weeks ago, but the news sort of got drowned out by all the turmoil surrounding Dag and Mia. Mikael and Malin have been working like demons, and . . . it just didn’t ever seem like the right time or place. And that’s how we’ve arrived at this point today.”

Eriksson realized with terrible clarity how understaffed the paper was, and how empty it was going to seem without Berger. No matter what happened, or whatever problem arose, Berger had been a boss she could always rely on. Well . . . no wonder the biggest morning daily had recruited her. But what was going to happen now? Erika had always been a crucial part of Millennium.

“There are a few things we have to get straight. I’m perfectly aware that this is going to create difficulties in the office. I didn’t want it to, but that’s the way things are. First of all: I won’t abandon Millennium. I’m going to stay on as a partner and will attend board meetings. I won’t, of course, have any influence in editorial matters.”

Malm nodded thoughtfully.

“Secondly, I officially leave on the last day of April. But today is my last day of work. Next week I’ll be travelling, as you know. It’s been planned for a long time. And I’ve decided not to come back here to put in any days during the transition period.” She paused for a moment. “The next issue of the magazine is ready in the computer. There are a few minor things that need tweaking. It will be my final issue. A new editor-in-chief will have to take over. I’m clearing my desk tonight.”

There was absolute silence in the room.

“The selection of a new editor-in-chief will have to be discussed and made by the board. It’s something that you all on the staff will have to talk through.”

“Mikael,” Malm said.

“No. Never Mikael. He’s surely the worst possible editor-in-chief you could pick. He’s perfect as publisher and damned good at editing articles and tying up loose ends in work that is going to be published. He’s the fixer. The editor-in-chief has to be the one who takes the initiative. Mikael also has a tendency to bury himself in his own stories and be totally off the radar for weeks at a time. He’s at his best when things heat up, but he’s incredibly bad at routine work. You all know that.”

Malm muttered his assent and then said, “Millennium functioned because you and Mikael were a good balance for each other.”

“That’s not the only reason. You remember when Mikael was up in Hedestad sulking for almost a whole bloody year. Millennium functioned without him precisely the way the magazine is going to have to function without me now.”

“O.K. What’s your plan?”

“My choice would be for you, Christer, to take over as editor-in-chief.”

“Not on your life.” Malm threw up his hands.

“But since I knew that’s what you would say, I have another solution. Malin. You can start as acting editor-in-chief as from today.”

“Me?” Eriksson said. She sounded shocked.

“Yes, you. You’ve been damned good as assistant editor.”

“But I—”

“Give it a try. I’ll be out of my office tonight. You can move in on Monday morning. The May issue is done – we’ve already worked hard on it. June is a double issue, and then you have a month off. If it doesn’t work, the board will have to find somebody else for August. Henry . . . you’ll have to go full-time and take Malin’s place as assistant editor. Then we’ll need to hire a new employee. But that will be up to all of you, and to the board.”

She studied the group thoughtfully.

“One more thing. I’ll be starting at another publication. For all practical purposes, S.M.P. and Millennium are not competitors, but nevertheless I don’t want to know any more than I already do about the content of the next two issues. All such matters should be discussed with Malin, effective immediately.”

“What should we do about this Salander story?” Cortez said.

“Discuss it with Mikael. I know something about Salander, but I’m putting what I know in mothballs. I won’t take it to S.M.P.”

Berger suddenly felt an enormous wave of relief. “That’s about it,” she said, and she ended the meeting by getting up and going back to her office without another word.

Millennium’s staff sat in silence.

It was not until an hour later that Eriksson knocked on Berger’s door.

“Hello there.”

“Yes?” said Berger.

“The staff would like to have a word.”

“What is it?”

“Out here.”

Berger got up and went to the door. They had set a table with cake and Friday afternoon coffee.

“We think we should have a party and give you a real send-off in due course,” Malm said, “but for now, coffee and cake will have to do.”

Berger smiled, for the first time in a long while.