The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (42 page)

Kalle Fucking Blomkvist was complicating life for her.

At 2:00 in the morning she opened the word-processing programme on her Palm. She clicked on New Document, took out the stylus, and began to tap on the letters on the digital keypad.

It was a slow process, writing with the stylus on the keypad. She thought through each sentence before she tapped it in. She did not make a single change to what she had written. She worked until 4:00, then turned off her computer and put it in the charger in the recess at the back of her bedside table. By that time she had produced a document corresponding to two single-spaced pages.

Twice since midnight the duty nurse had put her head around the door, but Salander could hear her a long way off, and even before she turned the key the computer was hidden and the patient asleep.

•    •    •

Berger woke at 7:00. She felt far from rested, but she had slept uninterrupted for eight hours. She glanced at Blomkvist, who was still sleeping soundly beside her.

She turned on her mobile to check for messages. Greger Beckman, her husband, had called eleven times.
Shit. I forgot to call
. She dialled the number and explained where she was and why she had not come home. He was angry.

“Erika, don’t do that again. It has nothing to do with Mikael, but I’ve been worried sick all night. I was terrified that something had happened. You know you have to call and tell me if you’re not coming home. You can’t ever forget something like that.”

Beckman was completely OK with the fact that Blomkvist was his wife’s lover. Their affair was carried on with his assent. But every time she had decided to sleep at Blomkvist’s, she had called her husband to tell him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just collapsed in exhaustion last night.”

He grunted.

“Try not to be furious with me, Greger. I can’t handle it right now. You can give me hell tonight.”

He grunted some more and promised to scold her when she got home.

“OK. How’s Mikael doing?”

“He’s dead to the world.” She burst out laughing. “Believe it or not, we were fast asleep moments after we got here. That’s never happened.”

“This is serious, Erika. I think you ought to see a doctor.”

When she hung up she called the office and left a message for Fredriksson. Something had come up and she would be in a little later than usual. She asked him to cancel a meeting she had arranged with the culture editor.

She found her shoulder bag, ferreted out a toothbrush, and went to the bathroom. Then she got back into bed and woke Blomkvist.

“Hurry up—go and wash your face and brush your teeth.”

“What . . . Huh?” He sat up and looked around in bewilderment. She had to remind him that he was at the Slussen Hilton. He nodded.

“So. To the bathroom with you.”

“Why the hurry?”

“Because as soon as you come back I need you to make love to me.” She glanced at her watch. “I have a meeting at 11:00 that I can’t postpone. I have to look presentable, and it’ll take me at least half an hour to put on my face. And I’ll have to buy a new shift dress or something on the way to work. That gives us only two hours to make up for a whole lot of lost time.”

Blomkvist headed for the bathroom.

•    •    •

Holmberg parked his father’s Ford in the drive of former prime minister Thorbjörn Fälldin’s house in Ås just outside Ramvik in Härnösand county. He got out of the car and looked around. At the age of seventy-nine, Fälldin could hardly still be an active farmer, and Holmberg wondered who did the sowing and harvesting. He knew he was being watched from the kitchen window. That was the custom in the village. He himself had grown up in Hälledal outside Ramvik, very close to Sandöbron, which was one of the most beautiful places in the world. At least Holmberg thought so.

He knocked on the front door.

The former leader of the Centre Party looked old, but he seemed alert, and vigorous.

“Hello, Thorbjörn. My name is Jerker Holmberg. We’ve met before but it’s been a few years. My father is Gustav Holmberg, a delegate for the Centre in the seventies and eighties.”

“Yes, I recognize you, Jerker. Hello. You’re a policeman down in Stockholm now, aren’t you? It must be ten or fifteen years since I last saw you.”

“I think it’s probably longer than that. May I come in?”

Holmberg sat at the kitchen table while Fälldin poured them some coffee.

“I hope all’s well with your father. But that’s not why you came, is it?”

“No. Dad’s doing fine. He’s out repairing the roof of the cabin.”

“How old is he now?”

“He turned seventy-one two months ago.”

“Is that so?” Fälldin said, joining Holmberg at the kitchen table. “So what’s this visit all about then?”

Holmberg looked out the window and saw a magpie land next to his car and peck at the ground. Then he turned to Fälldin.

“I am sorry for coming to see you without warning, but I have a big problem. It’s possible that when this conversation is over, I’ll be fired from my job. I’m here on a work issue, but my boss, Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski of the violent crimes division in Stockholm, doesn’t know I’m here.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Just say that I’d be on very thin ice if my superiors found out about this visit.”

“I understand.”

“On the other hand, I’m afraid that if I don’t do something, there’s a risk
that a woman’s rights will be shockingly violated, and to make matters worse, it’ll be the second time it’s happened.”

“You’d better tell me the whole story.”

“It’s about a man named Alexander Zalachenko. He was an agent for the Soviets’ GRU and defected to Sweden on Election Day in 1976. He was given asylum and began to work for Säpo. I have reason to believe that you know his story.”

Fälldin regarded Holmberg attentively.

“It’s a long story,” Holmberg said, and he began to tell Fälldin about the preliminary investigation in which he had been involved for the past few months.

Erika Berger finally rolled over onto her stomach and rested her head on her fists. She broke out in a big smile.

“Mikael, have you ever wondered if the two of us aren’t completely nuts?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s true for me, at least. I’m smitten by an insatiable desire for you. I feel like a crazy teenager.”

“Oh, yes?”

“And then I want to go home and go to bed with my husband.”

Blomkvist laughed. “I know a good therapist.”

She poked him in the stomach. “Mikael, it’s starting to feel like this thing with
SMP
was one big fucking mistake.”

“Bullshit. It’s a huge opportunity for you. If anyone can inject life into that dying body, it’s you.”

“Maybe so. But that’s just the problem.
SMP
feels like a cadaver. And then you dropped that bombshell about Borgsjö.”

“You have to let things settle down.”

“I know. But the thing with Borgsjö is going to be a real problem. I don’t have the faintest idea how to handle it.”

“Nor do I. But we’ll think of something.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“How much would it take for you to come to
SMP
and be the news editor?”

“I wouldn’t do it for anything. Isn’t what’s-his-name, Holm, the news editor?”

“Yes. But he’s an idiot.”

“You got that right.”

“Do you know him?”

“I certainly do. I worked for him for three months as a temp in the mid-eighties. He’s a prick who plays people off against each other. Besides . . .”

“Besides what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Some girl, Ulla something, who was also a temp, claimed that he sexually harassed her. I don’t know how much was true, but the union did nothing about it and her contract wasn’t extended.”

Berger looked at the clock and sighed. She got up from the bed and made for the shower. Blomkvist did not move when she came out, dried herself, and dressed.

“I think I’ll doze for a while,” he said.

She kissed his cheek and waved as she left.

Figuerola parked seven cars behind Mårtensson’s Volvo on Luntmakargatan, close to the corner of Olof Palmes Gata. She watched as Mårtensson walked to the machine to pay his parking fee. He then walked onto Sveavägen.

Figuerola decided not to pay for a ticket. She would lose him if she went to the machine and back, so she followed him. He turned left onto Kungsgatan, and went into Kungstornet. She waited three minutes before she followed him into the café. He was on the ground floor talking to a blond man who looked to be in very good shape. A policeman, she thought. She recognized him as the other man Malm had photographed outside the Copacabana on May Day.

She bought herself a coffee and sat at the opposite end of the café and opened her
Dagens Nyheter
. Mårtensson and his companion were talking in low voices. She took out her mobile and pretended to make a call, although neither of the men was paying her any attention. She took a photograph with the mobile that she knew would be only 72 dpi—low quality, but it could be used as evidence that the meeting had taken place.

After about fifteen minutes the blond man stood up and left the café. Figuerola cursed. Why had she not stayed outside? She would have recognized him when he came out. She wanted to leap up and follow him. But Mårtensson was still there, calmly nursing his coffee. She did not want to draw attention to herself by leaving so soon after his unidentified companion.

And then Mårtensson went to the toilet. As soon as he closed the door Figuerola was on her feet and back out on Kungsgatan. She looked up and down the block, but the blond man was gone.

She took a chance and hurried to the corner of Sveavägen. She could not see him anywhere, so she went down to the tunnelbana concourse, but it was hopeless.

She turned back towards Kungstornet, feeling stressed. Mårtensson had left too.

Berger swore when she got back to where she had parked her BMW the night before.

The car was still there, but during the night some bastard had punctured all four tyres.
Goddamn fucking piss rats
, she fumed.

She called the vehicle recovery service, told them that she did not have time to wait, and put the key in the exhaust pipe. Then she went down to Hornsgatan and hailed a taxi.

Lisbeth Salander logged on to Hacker Republic and saw that Plague was online. She pinged him.

On Friday morning Jonasson was faced with an obviously irritated Inspector Faste on the other side of his desk.

“I don’t understand this,” Faste said. “I thought Salander had recovered. I came to Göteborg for two reasons: to interview her and to get her ready to be transferred to a cell in Stockholm, where she belongs.”

“I’m sorry for your wasted journey,” Jonasson said. “I’d be glad to discharge her because we certainly don’t have any beds to spare here. But—”

“Could she be faking?”

Jonasson smiled politely. “I really don’t think so. You see, Lisbeth Salander was shot in the head. I removed a bullet from her brain, and it was fifty-fifty whether she would survive. She did survive, and her prognosis has been exceedingly satisfactory . . . so much so that my colleagues and I were getting ready to discharge her. Then yesterday she had a setback. She complained of severe headaches and developed a fever that has been fluctuating up and down. Last night she had a temperature of 100 and vomited on two occasions. During the night the fever subsided; she was almost back down to normal and I thought the episode had passed. But when I examined her this morning her temperature had gone up to over 102. That is serious.”

“So what’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know, but the fact that her temperature is fluctuating indicates that it’s not flu or any other viral infection. Exactly what’s causing it I can’t say—it could be something as simple as an allergy to her medication or to something else she’s come into contact with.”

He clicked on an image on his computer and turned the screen towards Faste.

“I had a cranial X-ray done. There’s a darker area here, as you can see, right next to her gunshot wound. I can’t determine what it is. It could be scar tissue as a product of the healing process, but it could also be a minor haemorrhage. And until we’ve found out what’s wrong, I can’t release her, no matter how urgent it may be from a police point of view.”

Faste knew better than to argue with a doctor, since they were the closest things to God’s representatives here on earth. Policemen possibly excepted.